Douglas Niles - Forgotten Realms - Moonshae 01 - Darkwalker On Moonshae

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DARKWALKER

ON MOONSHAE

Douglas Niles

PRELUDE

THE GODDESS AWAKENED slowly from her cold sleep, awareness returning as the

chill blanket of the passing season fell away. Turning with imperial grace,

she sought the life-giving force of the renewed sun.

Soon she felt its warmth upon the long and gravelly beaches of her coastlines,

and upon the stagnant expanses of her low, flat marshes. Slowly, the sun drove

winter's blanket from the rolling moors and tilled fields.

The white mantle remained thick and heavy among the forests and glens of the

goddess, and the highlands still showed no sign of acknowledging winter's end.

This was all as it should be, and the goddess rejoiced in the growing vitality

of her body, the earth.

She had grown smaller, of late, but her strength was great. Her lands, though

threatened, were in the capable care of her druids, and even the harbingers of

the new gods treated her with a certain deference. In the Moonwells - places

where her power flowed directly from her spirit to her body - water of high

magic lay clear and pristine among thick pines, and in rocky clefts.

Cool seas bathed her lands, cleansing the debris and decay left by the passing

of winter. The goddess saw that her children still slept peacefully. They

could, she hoped, sleep long years still before she needed to call them.

Through the Moonwells, she saw the clearing skies. No longer did the heavy,

iron-gray stormclouds oppress her. The Ffolk were active, preparing for a new

season of growth. The druids moved among the trees and mountains of her wild

reaches, restoring places where winter had disrupted the Balance.

Yet, as she threw off her blanket, she felt a sudden, stabbing pain,

penetrating deep within her. Hot and threatening, the injury seemed ready to

spread like a cancer through her self.

One of the Moonwells was the source of the pain. Instead of providing a window

into the world, full of cool and healthy power, the well burned like a

poisoned wound. Very black, it blocked the light and absorbed her power,

instead of nourishing it. As she awakened, the goddess felt fear.

And she knew that, once again, the Beast would stalk the land.

BOOK I

EQUINOX

THE FIELDS AROUND Caer Corwell beckoned brightly, as colored tents, proud

banners, and gay costumes all competed for the eye of the fairgoer. The

Festival of the Spring Equinox signaled the end of winter, and the beginning

of a season of new hope and promise. To such an event, the Ffolk would come

from throughout the Kingdom of Corwell, and even beyond, to join the

celebration.

The deep harbor at the terminus of Corwell Firth bristled with masts. The

deep, sturdy coracles of the Ffolk bobbed next to sleek longships of the

northmen, and both were dwarfed by the looming decks of Calishite trading

galleons.

Tristan Kendrick, Prince of Corwell, forced his way through the crowd eagerly,

barely absorbing the sights and sounds all around him. A troop of Calishite

jugglers stood among the crowd, each deftly controlling a ring of glittering

scimitars. Tristan, impatient, passed around the jugglers without seeing them.

He ignored the hawkers of bright silk, though the oily Calishite trader sold

colors never before imagined in Corwell. In his haste, he even passed the

booths where the skilled armorsmiths of Caer Calidyrr displayed shining steel

swords.

"Hello, Tristan!" called one of the farmers, arranging jugs of milk on a table

before him.

"Good morning," added a fisherman from the village.

And so it went as he passed through the crowd, receiving polite and friendly

greetings from most of the Ffolk. As usual, Tristan felt a brief flash of

annoyance, for no one addressed him by his title.

Just once, he would like to hear "Hello, my prince!" or something equally

appropriate.

But then he shrugged these thoughts away, just as he shrugged away all serious

thought of his rank, and the responsibilities of his name. One day, perhaps,

he would give some thought to the duties he would eventually face as king, but

today... today he had a mission here at the fair!

His step speeded up, and pretty country maids, in fresh gowns of light linen,

smiled coyly at him. The prince felt very dashing, reflexively stroking the

new coat of hair upon his chin. His first beard had grown in full and curling,

slightly darker in color than his wavy brown hair. His new woolen cloak and

leather trousers looked clean and shiny against his black leather boots.

He felt alert and alive, full of spring fever.

Passing from the tents and stalls of the goods merchants, Tristan moved

between corrals and pens, ignoring the sheep, the cattle, and even the horses.

Finally, he reached an expanse of clustered pens, and here he found his

objective.

"Greetings, my liege," piped a cheerful voice, and Tristan smiled at the

advancing form of Pawldo, the halfling.

"It's good to see you, my friend," the prince said sincerely, clasping the

diminutive man's hand. "I'm glad you made it back from your winter voyages

safely."

Pawldo beamed at the greeting, but his eyes held a hint of avarice. The

halfling was a stout and sturdy little man, perhaps an inch or two over three

feet in height. He wore a weathered leather jacket and old, but well-oiled

boots. His gray hair hung over his ears and collar, and his smiling face was

clean-shaven and free of wrinkles, though Pawldo was over sixty years old.

Halflings lived on all the Isles of the Moonshaes, mostly as neighbors to

human settlements. Although they were one of the original races, along with

the dwarves and the Llewyrr elves, to inhabit the islands, they had adapted

well to the coming of humans. Now, they profited from business dealings with

the Ffolk, and benefited from the protection afforded by nearby castles.

"And how are you, old crook?" asked the prince.

"Very well, and better soon, when I've had a chance to part you from your

purse!" responded Pawldo. The halfling, shrewdly eyeing the leather pouch

hanging from Tristan's belt, quickly concealed a smile of satisfaction.

Tristan could not suppress a surge of affection for his old companion. Pawldo

ostensibly lived in Lowhill, the community of halfling burrows a mere mile

from Caer Corwell. The hardy old adventurer, however, spent most of the year

traveling about the Moonshae Islands and the rest of the world in pursuit of

profit, so the prince saw very little of him. Unlike most halflings, who were

content to enjoy the pastoral comforts of their burrows, pantries, and wine

cellars, Pawldo lived a life of excitement and travel.

"I've spent the winter scouring the Sword Coast and the Moonshaes, collecting

the finest lot of dogs you've ever seen. And I found the one for you, just to

the west of here - on the Isle of Moray. You won't be able to resist him!"

Again Pawldo smiled, with a slight twist to the corners of his mouth.

"Let's have a look at him," said Tristan, directing his attention to the small

pen behind Pawldo.

This year Pawldo was a dealer in hounds, and as usual, his goods were offered

in an assortment of styles, for a variety of purses. Even as his eyes passed

quickly over the collection of bored dogs lying in the sun, Tristan saw the

one magnificent animal, caught his breath, and whistled.

Trying to sound casual, he said, "Not a bad-looking dog."

"As if you had cause to doubt..." Pawldo started to retort, but Tristan was

not listening.

The animal was a moorhound - one of the savage hunting dogs bred exclusively

on the Moonshae Islands. This was not remarkable - Trstan already owned a

dozen of the large dogs. But this moorhound was a large and powerful specimen

with a proud bearing quite unusual for its kind.

Among the terriers, racers, and wolfhounds in Pawldo's collection, this great

brown moorhound stood out like a princess among scullery maids. His brown coat

gleamed, thick and smooth, over broad shoulders and long, slender legs. Even

for a moorhound, he was huge. His eyes were riveted on Tristan, just as the

prince studied him.

"Where did you find him?" Tristan asked.

"Came across with me from Norland, he did. Rode in the bow like he was born to

the sea. I've never seen him take any notice of a man - until now that is."

Tristan strode to the dog's side, and knelt on the muddy grass, his eyes level

with the dog's. He thought of his hounds. Already they were fierce and loyal

hunters - but with a dog such as this to lead them, they would be the finest

pack of dogs in the Isles! Tristan slowly took the great head in his hands.

The shaggy tail flickered slightly, swaying from side to side.

The prince stared into the moorhound's eyes and whispered, "We shall be the

greatest hunters on Gwynneth - no, on all the Moonshaes! Even the Firbolgs of

the Highlands will tremble in fear at your cry.

"Your name will be Canthus." The dog regarded the prince keenly, brown eyes

shining. His mouth opened slightly as he panted, and Tristan noted teeth the

size of his little finger.

A number of onlookers had gathered to observe the prince, and Tristan felt a

quick rush of pride as he realized that they looked with equal admiration upon

his dog. A pair of savage, yellow-bearded northmen stood behind Pawldo,

jabbering in their strange tongue full of yerg and url sounds. Several

fisherffolk, a woodsman, and two young boys also watched. A crimson cloak,

among the plain garb of the villagers, marked a young Calishite trader,

staring in wonderment.

Tristan tried to conceal his eagerness as he stood and turned back to Pawldo,

but his palms were sweating. He must have this dog! Trying to look

disinterested, he opened the bidding. "He is indeed a fine animal. I'll give

you ten gold for him!"

With a wail of anguish, Pawldo staggered backward. "The sea swelled over the

bows," he cried in his high, squeaking voice. "Bold sailors grew pale with

fear, and would have retreated, but I pressed on! I knew, I told myself, of a

prince who would sacrifice his kingdom for such a dog - a prince who would

reward well the steadfastness of an erstwhile friend... who would -"

"Hold!" cried Tristan, raising his hand and looking the halfling in the eye

while trying to keep from laughing. "You shall have twenty, but no m -"

"Twenty!" The halfling's voice squealed in outrage. He turned to the listeners

and threw out his hands, a picture of wounded innocence. The two northmen

chuckled at his posturing.

"The sails hung in tatters from the beam! We nearly capsized a dozen times.

Waves the size of mountains smashed us... and he offers me twenty gold!"

Pawldo turned back to the prince, whose smile was growing thin. "Why a dog

like this, to one who knew such creatures, would fetch a hundred gold in an

instant - in any civilized port in the world!"

The halfling smiled disarmingly. "Still, we are friends, and so I would

remain. He is yours.... For eighty gold!" Pawldo bowed with a flourish to the

gasps of the growing crowd. Never had a dog been sold for half of that asking

price!

"You overestimate the size of my purse," retorted the prince, knowing full

well that the price was going to stretch the limits of his allowance.

Ruefully, Tristan groped for a bargaining strategy, but his purse felt very

vulnerable. Pawldo knew him too well; the prince could not resist such a

magnificent dog.

"I can offer you forty, but that is all I -"

"Forty gold," pronounced Pawldo, still playing the crowd. "A respectable sum,

for a dog. If we talked of a normal dog, I would say yes in an instant."

"Fifty," declared the prince, starting to get annoyed at the high cost of

doing business with Pawldo.

"Sold!"

"Well done! Bravo!"

The praise was accompanied by hearty handclapping and a delighted, feminine

laugh.

"Thank you, my dear Lady Robyn," acknowledged Pawldo, with a theatrical bow.

"And you - I'm surprised you got that crooked halfling down from a hundred,"

Robyn said to Tristan. The young woman's black hair gleamed in the sunlight,

and her green eyes sparkled. Unlike most of the young ladies at the festival,

she was clad in practical garb - green leggings and a cape the color of bright

rust. Yet her beauty outshone that of the most daintily dressed maidens.

The prince returned Robyn's bright smile, pleased to encounter her. The

festival would be even more fun if he could enjoy it with her on his arm.

"Are you here to buy a dog?" he asked, ignoring Pawldo's outstretched hand.

"No. I just came down here to see the animals. The castle was too dark and

cold for such a lovely day!"

"Did you talk to my father this morning?" Tristan asked, and immediately

wished he hadn't when he saw the flash of pain on her face.

"No," she said quietly, turning her head to the side.

"The king... wanted to be alone."

"I understand," replied Tristan. He looked at the mass of Caer Corwell,

towering above the commonsfield on its rocky knoll, and thought briefly of his

father. If the king would not even see Robyn - his beloved ward - then he

would have nothing to do with anyone.

"Never mind. Let the old coot sit and brood if he wants to!" Tristan ignored

the hurt look upon Robyn's face. "Did you see my new prize?"

"He's a fine animal," admitted Robyn somewhat coldly. "But so was his price!"

"Yes, indeed,"chuckled Pawldo. The halfling thrust out his hand again.

Tristan reached for his coin purse. He took minor notice of a crimson flash to

the side - the passing of the Calishite in his bright cloak. And then his hand

closed upon air, where the fat pouch had been.

He looked toward the ground, suddenly alarmed, but then turned and stared. The

red cloak was nowhere to be seen.

"Thief!" Tristan cursed loudly, and sprinted in the direction he had last seen

the flash of crimson. Robyn and Pawldo, momentarily surprised, started after

him.

Darting around a tent, and barely avoiding a tall stack of kegs, Tristan saw

the flash of red some distance away. He caught a glimpse of dark eyes, and

then his quarry disappeared.

The prince dashed through a wine tent, leaping several low benches and

scattering several early imbibers. Stumbling from the canvas structure back

into the aisle between tents, he looked for the thief.

Again the flash of red, and this time the prince closed the distance. The

Calishite sprang away with renewed speed, pushing roughly through groups of

people, and once spilling a stack of pots and pans into the prince's path. The

thief ran well, but Tristan's legs carried him quickly over the ground,

springing over obstacles or cutting sharply around corners. Often Arlen, the

prince's frustrated teacher, had forced his student to run across the moors

for hours at a time, developing his endurance and, incidentally, using up

boyish energy. That training now paid off as Tristan picked up speed down a

straight aisle.

People turned to gape in astonishment at the two runners. Quickly, the chase

drew the attention of the festival-goers. Many of the Ffolk, recognizing

Tristan and thinking it was some sort of merry game, gave shouts and laughter

of encouragement; soon the prince was followed by an enthusiastic throng

urging him on.

Finally the prince closed the gap; with a desperate dive, he grabbed the

crimson cloak and jerked the thief to the ground. Tristan fell heavily over

him, rolling once and then springing to his feet. The thief also recovered,

but by the time he stood, the pair were surrounded by a mob of festival-goers.

Whirling, the swarthy Calishite confronted the prince with a long, curved

dagger. Tristan quickly snatched his own hunting blade from its sheath and

stopped ten feet from the Calishite. For several seconds, the pair observed

and judged each other.

The thief, about Tristan's size and not much older, began to grin in

anticipation, though it was mixed with grudging respect for his opponent. The

black eyes flashed with humor, and danger, and the thief 's stance beckoned.

As Tristan paused, the curved dagger flashed outward and up. The prince

instinctively blocked the blow with his own knife, but he was shocked by the

swiftness of the hissing blade.

The thief, too, looked surprised at the quickness of the parry. "You use it

well," he acknowledged in heavily accented Commonspeech, indicating the heavy

knife.

The crowd grew rapidly, but stood well back from the fight. Their mood was

tense and quiet now, as they sensed the danger. But no one dared to

intervene.

For the first time, Tristan felt a flash of worry. The thief was so cool, even

pleasant, yet he must know that he had been caught. Why did he not simply

surrender?

Suddenly, catlike, the man sprang. The attack almost caught Tristan off guard,

but his keyed instincts sent him darting to the side. He grasped the thief's

wrist as his attacker's momentum carried him past. Then, kicking out sharply

to the side, the prince knocked the Calishite to the ground.

But suddenly the grip in which Tristan held his foe reversed itself, and the

prince felt himself being flung backward. The wind exploded from his lungs as

he landed heavily on his back. Like lightning, the thief sprang toward his

chest, curved dagger flashing toward the prince's neck.

Ignoring the pain in his chest, Tristan thrust his knife to block the attack,

then grasped his attacker's wrist with his free hand. In a dizzying roll, they

tumbled across the muddy grass, first one, then the other holding the

advantage. Giving a wrenching twist, the thief suddenly broke free and stood.

Before he could step clear, however, Tristan swept his leg through a circular

kick. His foot landed behind the thief 's knee, and the man dropped heavily.

Tristan leaped onto him, holding his knife to the stranger's throat.

Slowly, the Calishite relaxed and then, amazingly, began to laugh. Tristan

wondered if the man was crazy, then he realized he was nodding toward

Tristan's stomach. The prince looked down to see the curved dagger poised a

scant hairsbreadth from his gut. As the prince tried to keep from gasping, the

thief relaxed his hold, dropping the dagger to the ground.

"I had no wish to hurt you," he announced, in a heavy accent. I only wanted to

see if I could best you." He laughed again with unmistakable good humor.

"Stand aside! Make way!" A squeaking voice parted the crowd, and Pawldo burst

through the ring of onlookers. With him came Erian, a great bear of a man and

one of Caer Corwell's veteran men-at-arms. Robyn trailed behind.

"Are you all right, my prince?" inquired the halfling.

Tristan was about to answer when he noticed, with some annoyance, that Robyn

was not looking at him, nor did she seem in the least bit worried about him.

Instead, she stared at the Calishite thief with a curiosity the prince found

strangely objectionable.

Suddenly she flashed a look at him, and grinned. "That was a neat trick. Did

you ever see a blade move so fast?"

Meanwhile, the thief regarded the prince, the guards, and Robyn with slowly

dawning understanding.

"Prince?" he questioned, looking toward Pawldo for confirmation. "So I stole

the purse of a prince!" The thief gave a rueful chuckle. "Luck of a

she-camel," he declared in disgust, spitting into the grass. "What do we do

now?"

"Your luck will only get worse;' grunted Erian as he grabbed the Calishite by

the scruff of his neck. Lifting the thief easily, the huge man roughly frisked

his body.

"Here," grunted the thief, awkwardly reaching into his boot. He tossed the

pouch of coins to Tristan. "You'll probably want these back," and he gave that

rueful chuckle again. Against his will, Tristan felt himself liking the

bravado of the young thief.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"My name is Daryth - of Calimshan."

"Come along, now!" ordered Erian, forcefully pushing the thief forward. "Let's

see what the king has to say about this." Daryth stumbled, and the surly guard

cuffed his head.

Robyn tugged at the prince's arm as the guard led the thief away. "If Erian

takes him to the king," she whispered, "he'll be executed for certain!" Her

eyes were wide with concern.

Thstan looked at the departing thief, and once again felt that strange pang of

jealousy. Still, he had his purse back and the incident was over; it was not

enough to warrant a death sentence.

"Come on," he grunted. "I don't know what good it'll do, but we might as well

go along with them." He was glad he had said it when Robyn squeezed his hand

in gratitude.

* * * * *

Black waters swirled and parted, and the form of the Beast rose from the still

coolness of the Darkwell. Massive and tight-knit trailing vines crowded close,

but the broad, scaly body thrust the interfering plants aside like blades of

grass.

Kazgoroth moved slowly, reveling in this new freedom. Yet the Darkwell had

served its purpose, for the monster felt power coursing hotly through its body

as never before in its long centuries of existence.

The goddess - the Beast's ancient enemy - must be vulnerable. The Beast

allowed a trickle of acidic saliva to drool from its widespread jaws, Turning

its hot, fiery eyes to the pool, it watched the thick waters of the Darkwell

bubble in its wake.

Pulling its feet from the sucking mud, the creature pushed its way into the

fens, Tree trunks snapped like brittle twigs as broad shoulders pushed them

from its path. A heavy, clawed foot squashed flowers, insects, and rodents

with equal lack of note. The sounds of cracking limbs, crushed vegetation, and

sticky mud slurping with each mighty footfall shot violently through the wood.

Wildlife shrank from the path of the Beast, racing in terror or cowering in

abject fear until the monster passed.

As the Beast walked, the Firbolg were called to serve their ancient master -

and serve it, they did.

Those misshapen giants - cousins of the Beast itself - ran fearfully at its

approach. It took considerable coaxing, and a certain amount of potent

enchantment, before the Beast could draw the chief of the Firbolgs to itself.

The ugly giant cringed in fear. His bulbous nose covered with sweat, the

Firbolg scratched nervously at a wart, and bobbed his head in mute

understanding.

The Firbolg were the first spawn of the Beast, brought by Kazgoroth to the

Isles of Moonshae in the dim recesses of the past. Pulling the ancestors of

the Firbolg from the sea, the Beast had taken them to Myrlock Vale. Here they

lived in isolation, becoming sullen, bored, and lazy.

Emerging eventually from the muck and mire of the fens, the Beast roamed

through wilderness for many days. Finally, the monster passed from the

wilderness into farmland, and soon came upon a herd of cattle, sheltering in a

remote glen.

The fat cows made a fine feast. Blood-spattered jaws gaping, the Beast again

moved, this time cautiously. It knew instinctively that it neared the realms

of men. The Beast felt no fear, but preferred to avoid detection for as long

as possible.

Its mind grew sharper with the fresh blood of its kill and the life-giving

oxygen of the spring air flowing through the giant body. The monster realized

that its present shape was the wrong one for the Task. What form should the

new body take?

Kazgoroth recalled its bovine feast, and was pleased. Slowly, its scaly

shoulders shrank, and its lizardlike head shifted into a broad snout. Horns

sprouted, and claws and scaly legs became hooves and knobby legs supporting

the wide, hairy body.

Soon, Kazgoroth concealed itself in the body of a huge bull. The glittering

redness of the Beast's eyes seemed to fit the new guise naturally.

And the change was timely, for the monster now felt a disturbance. Humans! Two

of them, emerging from woods into the glen. A man and a woman, running to the

carcasses of the herd, making strange, keening noises.

Kazgoroth liked this body. This was flesh of power and speed... killing flesh.

The great head lowered, heavy horns swinging. The charge was swift, the deaths

satisfying. The Beast reveled in the human blood, knowing that the slaying of

lesser creatures could not compare to this sensual gratification.

The great bull moved majestically from the glen, following a wide track toward

the setting sun. The monster knew, without understanding, that it would find

many more people in that direction.

As the twilight faded to night, the Beast saw many people quickly shuttering

windows, and saw others run in fear at its approach. The crude brain, becoming

more adept with each passing second, realized that the body of the bull would

attract too much attention from humans in these settled reaches. Something

more subtle was necessary.

The monster recalled its human victims. One, the female, had a body that was

rounded, and supple, and strangely pleasing. A body that would blend well

here. Deep in shadow, the creature again shifted, gradually rising and walking

on two smooth, shapely legs. Arms and a face, soft and white, adorned the

rounded torso.

This type of body would serve admirably. Instinct guided the monster to make

several alterations. Hair, the color of ripe wheat, spilled down its back.

Teeth straightened, and the small nose tilted slightly toward the sky. The

body became slimmer at the waist and thighs, but other places the Beast kept

plump and rounded.

Clothing, the Beast perceived, would be necessary for the disguise to be

complete. The night grew darker, and Kazgoroth slipped silently into a small

building, where it sensed many humans were asleep. The necessary garments lay

within a large trunk. For a moment, Kazgoroth considered with longing the

fresh blood coursing through the bodies of the sleeping humans, Caution

prevailed and the monster left, allowing these humans to live.

Dawn colored the sky as Kazgoroth again moved west. Now the chill reflection

of the sea came into sight, stretching away to the horizon and beyond. But the

monster's goal was much closer than the horizon, or even the sea.

Before the waters stood a small castle, and Kazgoroth knew that humans in

abundance would lair here. Before the castle spread broad fields, covered with

tents and banners and stirring with activity and life.

To this field, Kazgoroth moved.

* * * * *

Enjoying flexing his muscle at his prisoner's expense, Erian firmly propelled

the thief toward the castle. Although a capable man-at-arms, the huge fighter

had little patience for peacetime, and obviously relished the opportunity for

violence. Robyn and Tristan walked behind Erian and his prisoner, who still

retained his sense of good cheer. They started up the paved roadway leading to

the castle's gatehouse.

Caer Corwell loomed above the festival, and the town and harbor of Corwell,

from high upon a rocky knoll. The castle's outer wall - a high, timber

palisade - ran along the circumference of the knoll, broken only by the high

stone edifice of the gatehouse. The top of the knoll was mainly devoted to the

courtyard but the tops of some castle buildings, particularly the three towers

of the keep, jutted above the spiked parapet.

The broad parapet of the tallest of the three towers was visible as the

highest point for miles in all directions. Fluttering boldly from this

platform streamed the black banner emblazoned with the silver bear - the Great

Bear of the Kendricks.

If the three Ffolk moving up the castle road had been less familiar with the

sight, they might have marveled at the panorama opening around them as they

climbed higher. The commonsfield, sparkling with the colorful tents and

banners of the festival, immediately caught the eye, its commotion contrasting

with the calm, blue waters of Corwell Firth stretching off to the west. In the

center of the commonsfield, the green and pastoral circle of the Druid's Grove

remained pristine, dignified and natural.

The village of Corwell lay next to the firth on the far side of the festival

grounds. Made up mainly of small wooden cottages and shops, the little

community was nearly empty now, as the villagers were all at the festival. A

low wall, more a symbol of a border than a real bastion of defense, surrounded

the village on three sides. The wooden docks of the waterfront created the

fourth side.

These docks reached into a placid circle of blue, formed by a high stone

breakwater. Within the circle were anchored the dozens of vessels of the

Corwellian fisherffolk, as well as the larger vessels of the visiting traders.

The little party neared the castle, their steps slowing from the steepness of

the climb. The castle road spiraled around the steep knoll, making a long

curve to the gatehouse. To the walkers' left, the side of the knoll itself

dropped rapidly to the commonsfield below. To their right, the same slope rose

steeply to the base of the wooden palisade.

Robyn finally broke the awkward silence among the four. She fell in step with

the thief, caught his eye, and, with a bold smile, spoke.

"I'm Robyn, and this is Tristan."

Daryth looked at the prince quizzically. "Your... sister?" he asked,

indicating Robyn.

"No. Robyn was raised as my father's ward," explained Tristan, suddenly eager

to clarify the relationship.

He remembered, momentarily, how annoyed he had been at the way Robyn had

looked at the thief after the fight. She was looking at him that way again,

something more than curiosity in her eyes.

"The pleasure is all mine," offered the thief. "I'm afraid circumstances

prevent me from - urf!" Erian gave a sharp tug to Daryth's cloak, cutting him

off in mid-sentence.

"Not so rough, Erian," Tristan told the guard. "He offers no resistance."

Erian almost sneered at the prince, but settled for turning his back in

disgust.

"Very perceptive," muttered Daryth, nodding his appreciation. "As a matter of

fact, I hope to convince you that this is all a giant misunderstanding. In

truth, I like this little town, and intend to stay here - for a while anyway.

"You see," he continued as if in confidence, "I'm really no sailor. I came

here on the Silver Crescent, working my way.

"I, a master trainer of dogs, forced to such... Well, anyway, your little town

seemed like a convenient location. I was going to settle down, start an honest

business -"

"But temptation got the better of you," concluded the prince.

"Er, I am really very sorry about that. Rather mischievous of me. If I had

known then what I do now... but I suppose there's no sense crying about it."

The group reached the gatehouse, and the bulk of Caer Corwell towered above

them. The great wooden palisade stretched to the right and left until it

curved out of sight around the crest of the knoll. The gatehouse, which stood

astride the road at the top of the steep, rocky knoll, consisted of a large

stone building with four squat towers at the corners. Since the road allowed

the only easy access from the coastal plain to the knoll, it was the most

heavily defended approach. As usual, however, the heavy wooden gates stood

open, and the sturdy portcullis beyond was raised out of the way.

Daryth stopped for a moment and cast a hurried glance back at the festival

grounds and the harbor. For a second, his eyes scanned the scene, as if

seeking something.

"Move, you," ordered Erian, giving Daryth a shove through the open archway in

the gatehouse. Tristan stepped forward to rebuke the guard, but paused at the

pressure of Robyn's hand on his arm.

"What can we do?" she whispered, urgently. "Surely he doesn't deserve to die!"

Her tone brooked no argument, and in any event, Tristan shared her sentiment.

"He seems like a decent fellow," he said in a low voice. "But the king will

look harshly on any thief who has preyed on festival-goers. What can I do?"

"I don't know," she replied, irritated. "Think of something, for once!" Before

he could reply, she dashed forward and caught up with the guard and his

prisoner as they entered the sunlit courtyard. Cursing under his breath,

Tristan followed.

A dozen moorhounds came racing from the kennel at the far end of the

courtyard. Sniffing and wagging, they swarmed around Tristan, investigating

Daryth and Robyn as well. They kept their distance from Erian, since the big

guard's heavy boots were well known to dogs who ventured too close.

Daryth looked surprised at the savage appearance but friendly dispositions of

the large dogs. He talked to them, and stroked their shaggy necks. Soon they

all crowded around him, following him as he walked along, prodded by Erian.

Reaching the doors to the great hall, the prince, suddenly inspired, turned to

the man-at-arms. "You are dismissed, Erian," he announced. "Tell my father we

wish to see him!" Robyn flashed him a look of surprise.

The guard opened his mouth to protest, but Tristan cut him off with a stern

gesture. "Very well," the big man shrugged, then turned and moved across the

courtyard.

Apparently Daryth, busy scratching the chin of Angus, Tristan's oldest hound,

did not notice the exchange. He was absorbed in the veteran hunting dog, which

wrinkled his brown face in pleasure, and swung his tail slowly in a circle.

"These are beautiful dogs," declared the awed Calishite. "They are yours, are

they not?"

Tristan felt a flush of pride. His hounds were the passion of his life, and he

was always pleased to have them complimented.

"Indeed," he said. "Are you familiar with the hounds of the Moonshaes?"

"Any man who enjoys dogs has heard of the moorhound. I have trained many types

of dogs in my life. For many years, in Calimshan, I worked with desert racers.

I had thought no dog could compare to the racer as a hunter, but these hounds

are superior in size and power! Oh, for a chance to train such as these!"

Robyn looked warmly at Daryth, then turned to Tristan, a mute appeal shining

from her dark eyes. Again the prince felt that surge of jealousy.

The doors to the great hall swung open, and a maid emerged to escort them in,

for Caer Corwell had no heralds. "The king awaits you," she announced with a

polite nod.

The trio entered the shadowy hall. They walked between a pair of huge oaken

tables toward the great fireplace at the far end of the hall. Before that

fireplace, in a heavy wooden chair, sat King Kendrick of Corwell.

The king looked up at their approach, but said nothing. Tristan could not help

but feel an irrational flicker of guilt at the sight of the deep lines of

sorrow etched into his father's face. He steeled himself for the encounter.

King Bryon Kendrick's hair was black grown heavily streaked with gray. Among

the lines on his face, one could see strength and determination, as well as

pain and grief. The king's beard, like his hair a mass of black salted with

patches of gray and white, flowed down his chest.

As usual, King Kendrick looked bored at the prince's approach. It was no

secret to anyone that the prince of Corwell was something of a disappointment

to the king. Tristan hoped the king would not harangue him with sarcasm in

front of Robyn and the others.

To Tristans relief, the king turned to smile at Robyn, and his eyes, briefly,

flashed a spark of warmth. Then, cold again, they regarded the approaching

Calishite.

Next to the king sat Arlen, captain of the king's guard and Tristan's lifelong

teacher. The grizzled warhorse looked at Tristan speculatively as he and his

companions reached the seated men.

"Hello, Father, Arlen," began Tristan, while Robyn curtseyed quickly.

The prince looked again at Daryth, and the Calishite responded to the glance

with a fast smile. And with that smile, Tristan felt the beginning of a deep

and true friendship, something stalwart and fine that would last between the

two of them for the rest of their lives. His mind made up, he quickly settled

upon a strategy to save the Calishite's life.

"Father," Tristan said again, turning to the king, "I would like us to hire

this man as the royal houndmaster."

* * * * *

Grunnarch the Red stood boldly upon the rolling deck of his longship as the

sleek vessel pitched and rocked through looming swells. All around him, like a

forest of tall trees, the masts of longships jutted proudly from the Sea of

Moonshae. The northmen sailed to war!

Grunnarch, and dozens of the ships of his henchmen - the lesser lords of

Norland who owed fealty to him, their king - had taken to sea a week earlier

than caution dictated. A late winter storm could have caught his fleet

unawares, and wreaked fearful havoc.

But the King of Norland was a gambling man, and a fearless one. He had never

shirked from risking his own life, and would not tolerate a follower unwilling

to do the same. So his men, by the thousand, had followed him to sea.

The gods of war had thundered in Grunnarch's mind throughout the winter, and

he had paced his gray fortress like a raging Firbolg. The tension, he knew,

had been felt throughout Norland. Thus, even before the weather had broken

completely, the northmen had provisioned their longships, bade farewell to

their homes, and taken to sea.

The long summer before him beckoned like a seductive woman, and Grunnarch's

mind roamed happily over prospects of raiding and stealing, capturing slaves,

and fighting glorious battles in the months ahead.

Grunnarch sailed to the Iron Keep, fortress of Thelgaar Ironhand on Oman's

isle. Central among the Moonshae Islands, the keep had a fine deep harbor and,

more importantly, the fortress of the northmen's most powerful king, Thelgaar

Ironhand. From Iron Keep, the northmen could reach Moray, Gwynneth, or

Callidyr - all the lands of the Ffolk. The divided kingdoms of the Ffolk

practically begged to be raided. If Thelgaar, with his huge fleet and

battle-hardened army, decided to join the campaign, there would be no limit to

the summer's potential.

And indeed, two days before landfall, masts were sighted upon the northern

horizon. In a matter of hours, Grunnarch recognized the blue whale insignia of

Raag Hammerstaad, king of the Norheim Isles. Raag also sailed with many ships.

Grunnarch wondered how many other kingdoms might decide to join the warlike

throng this summer.

The two fleets merged, and the wind freshened. A hundred ships coursed through

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