Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [124]
“I’d like to talk to my son.”
*****
A waterfall tinkled across a sunlit face of rock to splash musically into a clear pool. A brook, alive with trout, foamed from the pool, through a broad clearing bright with wildflowers. A surrounding forest of pine and aspen provided security and shelter.
The power of the goddess flowed here, and this was where the Great Druid of Gwynneth brought Canthus, the moorhound, to recuperate. For days, the great dog rested on the grass or upon a thick shelf of moss on the bank of the pool.
The old druid chattered pleasantly to the dog, surprising Canthus by speaking his language. The hound would lie peacefully for hours as she talked of hunting, and chasing, and running – things Canthus understood very well.
“And how is my puppy today?” she greeted him, one morning, after he had spent many days under her care.
The huge tail thumped Canthus’s response, as he sniffed to see what she had brought him. This morning, however, the druid offered him nothing to eat.
Her mood seemed unusually serious.
“See how strong you have grown,” she told him, stroking the smoothly mended skull, and the scarless spot where the Bloodrider’s sword had cut him.
“And your coat, and your eyes – how shiny they are!” Lovingly, she brushed her fingers through his long coat, picking out a few last tangles.
“My puppy, you must help me,” she began finally, speaking very slowly, For a long time, she very carefully explained to him the task he needed to perform, keeping her glittering, clear blue eyes upon the dog.
Canthus returned her stare. He waited for the command. But she paused, a tear growing in the corner of her old eye, and she fumbled within her baggy pouch. Finally, she found what she sought, bringing a silvery band of metal into the sunlight.
“But wait. Let me put this on.” She held in her hands a silver torque, such as a great warrior might wear into combat. Stretching the springy metal apart, she placed it over Canthus’s head to lock firmly about his sturdy neck. The thin strip of silver vanished beneath the studded iron collar.
“There,” Genna said, “that might help – anyway, it certainly can’t hurt. Now, begone with you! Get busy, do you hear?”
If Canthus understood that he had just received the benign blessing of the goddess herself, he did not give any indication. He sprang up, bounded across the field, and disappeared.
*****
“How are you, Father?” Tristan asked awkwardly after Robyn had touched his arm lightly and left.
“I fear I shall live,” replied the king hoarsely. His manner was brusque.
“So you’ve found the Sword of Cymrych Hugh,” continued the monarch. “Let me see it.”
Tristan slid the blade from its scabbard and showed his father the gleaming weapon. The king’s one good eye widened, and he reached a hand forward to stroke the silver sword, lightly tracing the runes inscribed into the metal.
“Where did you find it?” There was sudden energy and life in his voice.
“In a Firbolg stronghold, in Myrloch Vale. It was the same place Keren was held – we rescued him as well!” The memory gave Tristan more confidence.
The king leaned back, and closed his eye. For a moment the prince wondered if he had fallen asleep, but then the wounded man sighed heavily and again looked at his son.
“How I searched for that blade! My entire youth, and much of my manhood, was devoted to discovering the Sword of Cymrych Hugh. All across Gwynneth, and Alaron, and Moray, and all the rest of the isles. Twenty years – no, more than that – I spent on that quest. And you find it by accident!” The prince could not tell if the irony amused or angered his father.
“The goddess wants you to have it, that’s certain,” continued the king. “And these other reports I’ve heard… Do you really have dwarves and Llewyrr elven knights fighting with you?”
“And a company from the Eastern Cantrevs – more than five hundred strong.”