Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [27]
“This explains a lot!” Pawldo interjected. “The sheep disappearing – everybody nervous about something.”
“Yes, but it raises more questions than it answers. What could the Firbolg be after in Llyrath Forest?”
“They move, sometimes,” explained Pawldo, with unusual solemnity. “At least, that’s what the old legends say.” As a halfling, Pawldo’s roots were much closer to the original faerie inhabitants of the isles – roots he shared with the Llewyrr, and the Firbolg.
“The Firbolg are held in Myrloch Vale by the firm hand of the goddess, and when her power wanes, the Firbolg can leave the vale. It is,” Pawldo concluded needlessly, “a very bad sign.”
“We must warn the king,” declared Arlen. “We shall return to the castle at once.”
“Not yet,”argued the prince, to whom the Firbolg seemed like a remote and adventurous challenge. “We should follow these tracks, find out if there’s more than one, and what they are doing here.”
Arlen started to argue, but saw the set of Tristan’s jaw and knew that the prince would not change his mind. “All right,” he grunted. “But one of us must ride back with the lass.”
“Forget that idea!” snapped Robyn. “I’m coming with you!” Tristan could not suppress a smile at Arlen’s chagrin. As in childhood, the two of them usually managed to manipulate the old warrior into doing what they wanted.
“Then ye’ll all do as you’re told,” grunted Arlen. “We’ll move slowly and quietly – if yer seen, yer lives won’t be worth a copper piece!”
Daryth had circled the group as they talked, and now called from a short distance away. “Here! I’ve found another track – and here’s another. They went this way!”
Daryth pointed to the southeast, toward a low notch in the rolling terrain of the forest. The land climbed steeply to the south, toward a crest of rock that ran for dozens of miles, high above the surrounding pine, oak, and aspens. Among the ridges nestled numerous swales and valleys, containing hundreds of lakes and many small, isolated pockets of thick woods.
The companions swiftly gathered their gear and scattered any signs of their camp. Tristan felt a thrill in anticipation of battle. He stroked the hilt of the longsword hanging at his side, and examined the mounting of his lance. The thin wooden shaft was smooth and flawless, the head of hard steel razor-sharp.
As the riders mounted, the hounds gathered eagerly, as if they, too, could scent battle. Daryth indicated the spoor, then he gestured sharply downward as the hounds were about to take up the cry, and the canine jaws snapped silently shut. Quietly, as ordered by the houndmaster, the dogs took up the spoor of the Firbolg.
“How old is the sign?” Tristan asked Robyn, whose knowledge of the wild included tracking animals. “Can you tell?”
“No more than a day,” she estimated. They started after the monsters, and for a few hours had no difficulty following the spoor. Huge footprints, careless destruction of plants, and, occasionally, offal clearly marked the path of the Firbolgs.
Then the trail crossed a region of smooth rock, and the keen noses of the hounds became the only guide. Shortly, the Firbolgs had again entered woodlands, and the trail grew plain.
For two days the companions rode along the giants’ trail, stopping only for brief rests. They pursued long into the night, under the brilliant light of the full moon.
Shortly after they left the lakeshore, the trail dropped into a stream bed, and the dogs lost the scent. It was Robyn who noticed, a hundred paces upstream, the scuffed bark of a pine tree, indicating where the monsters had climbed from the stream.
Then, later, as a small storm washed out a portion of the spoor, it was Robyn again who saw the faint impressions in the sodden grass that indicated the passage of heavy bodies. It was as if the ground itself spoke to her, revealing hidden knowledge of those who had passed.
“There seem to be a dozen or more of them,” she observed, and Tristan and the others grew silent for a moment. The almost invisible path she followed led them deep into the Llyrath Highlands