Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [34]
*****
Even as the Firbolg’s lifeless body crashed to the ground, Tristan sprinted across the rocky ground to kneel beside his friend and teacher. No second glance was needed to tell him that Arlen was dead.
The Prince of Corwell stood and stared numbly at the body of his old friend and mentor. He felt curiously unmoved – as if he should react strongly, but could not summon the tears.
“Look!” cried Robyn, and the prince followed her pointing finger. A scarlet cloak billowed from a clump of trees across the valley. With a closer look, the prince saw it was worn by a rider on a huge black horse. The mighty steed galloped toward them, and when Tristan saw the huge longbow across the rider’s lap, he knew that this was their benefactor. Quickly the prince stole a look at the rocky notch above them. There was still no sign of the other band of Firbolgs.
The rider drew closer, and the companions saw that he was tall and very handsome. His black hair and beard were trimmed neatly. The scarlet cloak, as well as his blue tunic and black leggings, were of the finest silk, and the bow he carried was heavier and longer than any Tristan had ever seen.
The man’s face smiled from beneath a wide-brimmed hat. The brim of the hat sported several brightly colored feathers – one each to match the rider’s cape, tunic, and leggings. The garish costume looked strangely out of place in the wilderness of Llyrath Forest. Though travel-worn, the man’s clothing was clean. His demeanor, as he rode nearer, seemed friendly.
To complete the astonishing picture, a great black falcon swooped low over the rider, gliding in a circle about him. As the rider pulled up before Tristan, Robyn, and Pawldo, the falcon settled to his broad shoulder.
“Ho!” he cried, cheerfully. “’Twas a fight to make a stirring verse!” For the first time, Tristan noticed the smoothly curved harp slung over the man’s shoulder.
The rider leaped to the ground, startling the falcon into an abrupt flight, and bowed with a flourish. He glanced around the scene of the battle, his gray eyes seemingly absorbing every detail. Turning back, he spoke to the companions.
“Keren Donnell, bard of the harp, at your service.”
Tristan and Robyn exchanged a look of surprise at the name of the greatest bard among the Ffolk.
“I am Tristan Kendrick, Prince of Corwell. This is my father’s ward, Robyn, and our friend, Pawldo.” Pawldo nodded his head, studying the man’s bow with considerable interest, and Robyn curtseyed quickly.
The prince continued. “Thank you for your help – you saved our lives.”
“’Tis a delight to find I have aided a prince and a lady!” smiled the bard, shrugging off his accomplishment. “And it is always a pleasure to meet one of the small folk,” he added, bowing low to Pawldo.
“Your fame has preceded you, sir,” added Tristan. “It is an honor to meet the most famous bard among the kingdoms of the Ffolk! But what could bring you from the court of the High King to the wilds of Gwynneth?”
“Ah, Gwynneth – fairest of the Moonshaes, in my own opinion. Your island also holds a wealth of the Ffolk’s ancient history. Why, did you know that the Sword of Cymrych Hugh itself is rumored to be hidden somewhere on Gwynneth?”
“It is a fair place, indeed,” agreed the prince, “And no, I didn’t know that Cymrych Hugh’s sword was supposed to be here somewhere – though that is an intriguing thought, I’ll admit.” Cymrych Hugh, as every child of the Ffolk learned, was the hero who had first united their race under one rule. “Do you travel for your pleasure, then?”
“Alas, no – I’m here on the High King’s business. I journey to Caer Corwell. Am I correct in guessing that is your home?” Tristan and Robyn nodded.
“If my falcon, Sable, and I may be allowed to accompany you?” the bard raised his eyebrows.
“Of course!” Suddenly the prince remembered their surroundings. “But we are not out of danger!” Quickly he explained that there were more Firbolgs in the vicinity. Nervously, he glanced up at the summit of the pass, but as yet