Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [19]
They talked little. Tristan felt a personal gray cloud hanging over his head, following his father’s rebuke. In addition, he sensed a remote but forbidding sense of menace in the gray day. For a moment, he recalled the druid’s prophecy at the spring festival.
Robyn, too, seemed lost in thought. Every so often, she would start abruptly, and peer into the gray, misty distance. As if expecting to see something. Then she would slump again in the saddle, staring at the gray mane before her.
Arlen rode ahead, naturally assuming the role of the prince’s bodyguard. He and Tristan accepted this as normal, and the prince barely noticed the old soldier, riding slowly along ahead of them. Only Daryth and Pawldo seemed inclined to talk, and the two quietly rode at the rear of the group, exchanging boasts and stories. The dogs paced along, not interested in running.
At dusk, they arrived at Dynnatt, a small farming community, and found shelter at a cozy inn. In the morning, they would strike southward into the forest, and then turn east. The terrain was rugged, and the tracks were few, so the companions realized that it would probably be several days before they again slept with a roof over their heads.
“Here, have the good table,” wheezed the old innkeeper, hobbling toward a large oaken table before a friendly fire. “Haven’t had many visitors this spring – you’ll probably have the place to yourselves tonight.”
Tristan had never visited this inn before, and the innkeeper made no sign that he recognized the prince. Clad as he was in plain hunting garb, he felt no desire to call attention to his rank.
They sat down, grateful to escape the damp and cool mist. After several tankards of ale and some tender venison, the prince felt his spirits lifting.
“What business brings you through Dynnatt?” grunted the proprietor, as he cleared away the dirty dishes.
“A hunt!” declared Tristan, raising his mug. “The deer in Llyrath Forest have had their last good night’s sleep for the next week!”
“The hunting ground is not safe,” muttered the old man. “This is not a time to be abroad in Llyrath.”
Tristan started to laugh at the old man’s warning, but Arlen held up a cautioning hand. “What do ye mean? What have ye seen?”
“Seen? I’ve seen nothing, but I’ve heard tales. All winter there’s been sheep disappearing in the place. And more than one shepherd has gone in there alooking for his flock, and never come out again!”
“Surely, old man, you talk like a woman!” objected the prince. “There’ll be nothing in the forest to offer a threat to a well-armed band of hunters!”
The old man shrugged, said “So you say, sir,” and turned away. Robyn flashed Tristan an angry look, and he felt a moment of guilt. He should not have insulted the innkeeper, he knew. Why did this foolish sense of bravado impel him to make himself look foolish?
Arlen got up, stretched, and walked to his room. Robyn swiftly followed, taking the single room they had hired for her. Pawldo and Daryth, too, slipped away quietly. They all felt the discomfort and general gloominess of the day, renewed and strengthened by the innkeeper’s warning.
At least the following day dawned clear, with the promise of more warmth than the previous day had offered. Again the party was off before sunrise, but now they had no road to follow, “This track should take us to the edge of Llaryth,” announced Arlen, as he led the group along a narrow, winding trail. The terrain was rocky and barren, with small lakes and an occasional shepherd’s cottage about the only features worthy of notice. Even the cottages disappeared as they moved farther southward. They finally camped in a sheltered niche, surrounded by high rocks that would keep away the knife-edged bite of the wind.
Tristan forged into a thicket of scrub oak, seeking firewood. He gathered several good limbs, and then froze as he heard a rustling behind him. Slowly, he turned, relaxing as Daryth emerged from a thicket, also gathering wood.
“Tristan,” asked the houndmaster,