Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [161]
Only the black trail stood out from the pale green grass and the perpetual whiteness of the mist. They followed in single file, Canthus leading, with Tristan behind, then Keren, and Pawldo and Daryth bringing up the rear on a large gelding.
Always beside the trail of the Bloodrider ran the huge prints left by Kazgoroth the Beast in its constant lope of pursuit. The heavy rear feet sank deeply into the soft loam and left a clear, claw-studded outline.
Early in the morning they reached a parting, where Kazgoroth turned east, while Laric and his captive had continued north.
Tristan looked at the fork, for a moment uncertain. The others stopped silently and watched as his face suddenly twisted into a grimace of indecision. To follow the Beast – the deadliest creature to walk the Moonshaes – and slay it?
Or to hasten to the rescue of the woman he loved, if she was still alive?
He thought of the sword at his side, sensing that if he grasped its hilt he would be compelled to follow Kazgoroth. Yet, could he responsibly do otherwise?
The Sword of Cymrych Hugh had been forged centuries ago, for the purpose of slaying that very Beast. If he did not follow its trail, the monster would soon vanish into the vastness of Myrloch Vale, and the Ffolk would have to suffer its evil once again.
Should Robyn be abandoned to her fate?
“I must go after her. The Beast will have to wait,” he finally said, dropping his eyes to avoid meeting their gazes. He was sickened at his own words, and felt he had betrayed his companions, his Ffolk, and the Sword of Cymrych Hugh.
The chirping of a swallow, diving close overhead, distracted him. As the bird settled to the ground, its shape shifted quickly in the curling mist. Tristan started to reach for his sword, thinking the Beast had come among them, but suddenly an old woman stood before them. Her eyes sparkled, and she smiled wisely at the prince. Slowly, her expression turned sorrowful.
“You know what you must do, Prince of Corwell. If you do not seek the Beast now, and destroy it before it can rekindle its power, you will never have another chance.” Her voice was cool and forceful, much like a younger woman’s.
“I know you, druid,” said the prince, remembering. “You spoke to me that night at the Spring Festival! But how can you command me, when Robyn – a druid! – may still be alive?”
“She lives,” said the druid, and his heart leaped involuntarily, “and she is not forsaken.”
“But -”
“She is a favored daughter, smiled upon by the goddess! Can it be that you do not know this?” Her voice now rose indignantly. “We shall do everything in our power to save her.”
“I cannot -” Tristan prickled at the rebuke, about to argue. Something within the druid’s eyes made him hold his tongue.
“You are a worthy prince of the Ffolk,” said the druid, more kindly. “One day soon you will be king, if you can succeed in your final task. Now go, and do what you must!”
Miserably, Tristan knew that she was right – the Beast must be slain, and it was his duty to accomplish that. He turned away slowly, and then he remembered the staff.
“Wait!” he cried, untying the wooden rod from its position behind his saddle. The druid smiled and stepped closer as he held it out to her. “It’s hers. I hope you can give it to her.”
“I will try,” she promised, and her smile soothed Tristan’s torment.
With a whirl of her woolen cloak, she disappeared. This time, a little bat darted through the mist, its tiny wings straining in desperation. For all her brave talk, Genna Moonsinger knew she had precious little time.
*****
Robyn grew more alert through the long, fog-bound day, but her body still seemed gripped by a paralyzing weakness, She could raise her head and look around, but she could not turn to see behind her. She had lost all feeling in her hands, for the numbing