Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [101]
By late afternoon, they left the higher elevation permanently behind. Their trail followed a meandering river through many flat, flower-filled meadows.
“This is the place Aileen described,” cried Brigit, pointing to a jagged finger of rock jutting from a small clearing. “She’ll meet us here at sunset.”
They broke to form a small camp there. Shortly after dark, the green-clad scout slipped into camp.
“There’s no sign of them in front of us,” she reported. “They must be farther north. It’s strange – I saw an awful thunderstorm up there. It just hung over one place for the whole day. If they got caught in that, they’ll be moving very slowly tomorrow!”
“Excellent!” said Tristan. “With a good day tomorrow we should beat the northmen to Corwell Road. We can at least warn the refugees!”
“Yes,” agreed Robyn. “But then how do we stop the northmen?”
Grimly, the prince acknowledged that he, as yet, had no plan. And none of his companions had any ready solutions either.
For a moment they lapsed into silence, glumly realizing the depth of the problem. Suddenly, a bush rustled across the camp, and they saw a faint movement.
“I mightta known I’d find you here!” The gruff voice, bursting from the darkness, brought the group to its feet. Canthus, with a growl, leaped from the fireside to face an approaching figure.
“Finellen!” cried Robyn, as the others gaped at the approaching dwarf. “What are you doing here?”
“Those dolts did you a big favor when they invaded Myrloch Vale,” Finellen replied, pointing in the general direction of the northmen’s army.
“How did they that?” asked the prince, confused.
“They made the dwarves mad!” answered another gruff voice, this time male, from the darkness. Suddenly Tristan noticed a number of figures, all roughly similar to Finellen in size and shape, emerge from the forest and join them in the clearing. Perhaps fifty or sixty stout figures – all with bushy beards, darkened metal armor, and shorthafted battleaxes – soon stood around the fringes of the camp. The Sisters of Synnoria, the prince saw, regarded the newcomers suspiciously.
“I see you’re not too particular about the company you keep,” grunted Finellen to Tristan, nodding across the fire at Brigit.
“Dwarven scum!” The fiery Carina leapt to her feet, and her slim sword snaked from its sheath to dart toward Finellen’s beard.
But its strike rebounded from a broad axehead that somehow had appeared in Finellen’s gnarled hands. For a second the two stood, frozen, sending currents of tension through the gathering. Then Tristan leaped to his feet.
“Stop it!” he cried, stepping between the two women. “Our homeland is in jeopardy. We cannot afford to fight among ourselves – our enemy is far stronger than we to begin with! Do you understand?”
Carina glared at the dwarf, and Finellen sneered at the Llewyrr warrior. Slowly, the two relaxed and backed away from each other, continuing to glare until they had seated themselves.
“We welcome your help,” said Tristan to Finellen and the rest of the dwarves. “Why don’t you establish a camp, right over there?” He indicated a smooth, grassy expanse, well removed from the sisters.
Finellen hawked and spat noisily into the fire. “By the way, them Firbolgs we got mixed up with, they joined up with the humans. Quite an ugly lot of ’em there are.”
Digesting this unpleasant bit of news, Tristan asked, “Are your friends as good at killing Firbolgs as you are?”
Finellen’s eyes sparkled with pleasure, but she gruffly cleared her throat and spat again. “Well, we kind of like to make a hobby of it.”
*****
The Pack watched the monster racing down the hill. Fear convulsed the wolves, but something more powerful prevented them from fleeing. The big male, grizzled and scarred from countless battles, moved forward to meet the threat.
He had led the Pack for many centuries, as had his sire before