Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [14]
“Prince of Corwell,” spoke the tallest of the robed figures. His voice was rich and deep, but unpracticed, as if he spoke but little. “We have expected you.”
“But how…” Tristan began, confused.
“I knew it!” Robyn interjected. “It wasn’t accident that I felt compelled to enter the grove. And I brought you here!” she said to Tristan, proud of herself.
Daryth had jerked around at the appearance of the figures, his body shaking. “Who are you?” he demanded.
“These are the druids,” explained Robyn calmly. “And please, keep your voice down!”
“And you, my child,” said another figure. Tristan was startled to see a pleasantly rounded older woman. Unlike the other druids, her hood was thrown back to reveal a plump, lined face, and a warm smile. She looked kindly at Robyn. “My, how time…” her voice trailed off, and she cleared her throat.
The other druids remained silent as she looked the trio over. Then she stepped back, nodding slightly to the druid who had spoken first.
“Know this, Prince of the Ffolk,” said the tall man in a serious voice, “the images in the well foretell a summer of peril, and an autumn of tragedy. You will earn the right to rule, in this summer, or the tragedy will be upon your shoulders.”
“Why? What peril? What are you -”
“The Moonshaes face a dire threat – a menace that thwarts even the power of the goddess. Whether you are the means to end that threat, or will become an agent of its triumph, we cannot yet see.”
The woman interrupted the druid, and Tristan noticed that the man quickly deferred to her.
“Oh, such stuff!” she exclaimed. “Yes, of course it will be unpleasant. You might even get killed. But you might not, too! And, my word, it’s time someone drew the Sword of Cymrych Hugh again. Just,” she concluded, her voice growing tender, “be very careful, please!”
She turned away, and the prince caught the sparkle of moisture in her eyes. Something in the way she looked at Robyn as she moved away caught his interest. And the girl, he saw, watched the departing druidess with an expression of awe.
Then the male druid caught Tristan’s attention again.
“Beware, Prince of Corwell, and care well for your companions. The shadow of a mighty evil falls across your path. You must decide whether to drive it back, with light, or be swallowed by its darkness!” The voice rose with power and urgency, until it finally rang throughout the grove like the thrumming of a heavy drum.
“Wait… ” The prince wanted to question the mysterious figure, but suddenly he saw nothing before him but shifting shadows, rippling fantastically in the white aura from the Moonwell.
*****
The Beast, still walking upright in the body of the woman, left the festival throng and moved across the moor, its strength rekindled by its recent feast.
Day or night meant nothing to Kazgoroth. The monster walked always northward as moors gave way to craggy hills. Even the deep snow which still lay among these jagged and stony obstacles proved undaunting. Kazgoroth, with a weight much greater than a woman’s, sank through the snow to the ground beneath. Unflinchingly, the female human body plowed a furrow through the deepest drifts.
Finally the monster reached the crest of the low range, and saw the rolling terrain of central Gwynneth spread before it. The crisp spring sunshine glinted off hundreds of rocky peaks, which stretched to the far horizon around a vast, tree-filled bowl. In the center of the bowl, the deep waters of Myrloch also glinted brightly in the sunshine. The flickering ripples of the lake struck pain into the monster’s eyes, and it looked away.
Myrloch, Kazgoroth’s dim consciousness realized that the lake was still the preserve of the goddess. Central Gwynneth had always been her strongest domain. It was here that the remnants of the Llewyrr fled when they lost their hopeless struggle against the humans for the realms of Moonshae.
The Ffolk believed