Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [157]
XXII
MIST-WREATHED MOOR
ATRAILING PLUME OF black hair caught Tristan’s eye, and he whirled in time to see the Bloodrider’s stallion clatter across the courtyard. For a second, his mind did not grasp the full impact of the scene – then he saw the pale face and limp body draped across the horse’s withers.
“Robyn!” The name caught in his throat. Without thinking, he leaped toward the stables to get Avalon.
But already the Rider had streaked through the gatehouse and raced down castle road. With a feeling of revulsion, Tristan looked at the shining longsword in his hand, and knew that the weapon would not let him leave as long as the Beast remained here.
Tristan tried to throw the weapon to the ground. He must rescue Robyn! But the hilt of the sword remained, as if glued securely in his palm. Despite the strongest efforts of his will, he could not drop the sword.
“Damn you,” he snarled, turning toward the Beast that had recoiled toward the edge of the courtyard. Even as Tristan had watched the racing Rider, so now he saw that the monster also eyed the Bloodrider and his captive. The Beast’s eyes flamed, and its face twisted into a grotesque mask.
He lifted the Sword of Cymrych Hugh and advanced toward the towering creature.
The northmen fell away from the Beast in droves, turning to roll or tumble down the slopes of the knoll in their eagerness to escape.
With a shattering howl of frustration, the great scaled head turned from the Prince of Corwell to follow the blackened trail across the moor left by Laric’s stallion. Before the prince could attack, the monster slipped over the crest and sprang like a huge cat down the steep slope. In moments, it too disappeared across the rolling expanse of the moors.
The monster followed the Bloodrider’s trail.
*****
Canthus’s jaws coursed with the red blood of the northmen, and his shaggy coat bore cuts and nicks from a dozen wounds. But the press of the Pack had been too much for the northmen, and the last vestiges of the raiding army now fled the snarling attackers.
They abandoned their siege of Caer Corwell, running through the streets of the town toward the familiar security of the longships, still safely beached a mile away.
The pace of the wolves’ attack gradually lightened as weariness and wounds took their tolls. The field around them ran red with the blood of slain northmen.
But now, as the wolves paused, the bloodlust slowly passed from their eyes. Suspiciously, and curiously, they looked around. The Pack ignored the last few fleeing raiders as they realized, as a group, that they had entered a human settlement.
Slinking and growling nervously, the wolves left the town, hurrying to reach the moors. A dozen wolves raced to the south, followed by a score, and then a few more in a small band. Several score loped to the east, and others ran to the north. The Pack dispersed to the points of the compass.
The call of the goddess no longer bound them together. Instead, they heard the voice of the Mother telling them of dens, and forest glens, and smooth clear pools of crystalline water.
The wolves thought of deer and rabbits, and their bellies stirred with their natural hunger. None stopped to eat of the meat that their merciless attack had left behind. Instead, no longer the Pack, the wolves returned to the wilds.
*****
The huge, malign shape moved with an easy grace across the moors, racing down the black, smoldering trail left by the Bloodrider and his captive.
Upon Caer Corwell’s knoll, Tristan and the rest of the defenders watched the monster run, and slowly felt the heat of combat fade.
The prince’s eyes stung with tears. He looked about the castle – the home of his family for generations – and saw the death and debris wrought by the Beast and its minions. And he looked across the rolling moor, to the disappearing shape of the Beast, and then to the mass of northmen retreating beyond Corwell Town.
The sword’s possession of Tristan diminished, as the Beast moved farther and farther away. Finally, the prince turned