Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [28]
Tristan rode alert and ready for action. The sight of the giants’ tracks inflamed him with excitement. Over and over, he pictured one of the ugly creatures before him, cowering before the deadly thrust of his lance. Then he saw himself, longsword raised, bobbing and ducking with dashing calm through the pitch of battle.
Riding before his prince, Arlen was watchful, leading the party as long as the spoor was visible. Behind him paced the hounds, followed by Daryth and Pawldo.
Tristan walked his horse slowly beside Robyn, at the rear of the party. She had borrowed his knife, and now finished carving a stout oaken cudgel. Her strong hands held the staff firmly as she inspected it for rough spots.
“I don’t think it’ll be much use against Firbolgs,” she admitted. “But it makes me feel a little better to have it.”
“We’ll see that you don’t need to use it,” Tristan boasted, enjoying the role of the cavalier adventurer. “How far ahead are they?” he asked. “Can you tell?”
“I don’t know,” replied Robyn, giving him a sideways look. He thought he saw an emotion strange to her eyes – was it fear? “Tristan, what can it mean? The Firbolg, so far from Myrloch. And the prophecy of the druids – a summer of peril, an autumn of tragedy. I can’t get that out of my mind.”
The prince smiled, reassuringly he hoped. “I’m sure these are just a few renegades out on some kind of raid. As soon as we find them out, and get home, Father’ll send out a band of men-at-arms, and that will be that!” For a moment, the prince thought of that war party. He wanted desperately to be a part of it, but would his father let him?
“Remember what Pawldo said a few days ago?” persisted Robyn, still worried. She looked before them, at their companions. “Could he be right about the power of the goddess waning? What if it’s true, and the evil creatures take over Gwynneth?”
Tristan turned his gaze to the ground. He groped for words that would calm Robyn’s fears, but instead found his own apprehensions growing.
“They can’t be more than a few hours ahead of us now,” observed Robyn, as they climbed among a series of rocky knobs. “We must be gaining on them fast.”
Toward evening of the second day of their pursuit, the trail followed the crest of a long, winding ridge. The rocky spur was the backbone of the Llaryth Forest, although the nearest trees were a thousand feet below the crest. The path was steep, with sheer precipices commonly dropping to one side or another. In places, the slopes dropped away steeply to both sides, offering a craggy path only a few feet wide.
“This is madness!” Arlen finally exclaimed. “We can be seen for miles! I cannot allow us to proceed any farther.”
“We must find out what their purpose is!” argued Tristan.
“If they haven’t spied us by now, they’re even stupider than I think they are! We’re walking into an ambush, I tell you!”
“Then we’ll just have to be more careful,” announced Tristan, fondling the haft of his lance.
“We’ll be ready if they find us!” Secretly, he hoped they would find the Firbolgs. He yearned to fight one of the brutes.
Finally the path dropped between a number of rocky peaks, and the party relaxed. At least they could not be observed as easily as upon the exposed ridge. They could see ahead of them to where the trail led through a narrow notch between two small mountains, and beyond into a region of tall pines and open meadows.
Arlen scouted the notch, seeking safe passage, while the others waited tensely behind him. A clattering of rock to their rear caught Robyn’s attention, and she turned.
“Firbolgs!” she cried in alarm, although her voice was steady. “They’re coming.”
Whirling, the others saw four of the huge, ugly creatures approaching from a clump of rock that they had passed minutes earlier. The gross figures loomed eight or nine feet tall. Each had a headful of black, shaggy hair and a receding forehead that sloped down to a large nose. They had surprisingly small chins,