Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [35]
“Let’s see to your friend,” the bard said, nodding toward Daryth, who was beginning to stir. “And the other one?” Keren indicated Arlen’s body, lying in a pool of blood.
Tristan had not considered the problem, but knew instantly that he could not leave the old warrior’s body to the enemy. “We’ll have to strap him over one of the horses. He was the captain of my father’s guard, and a loyal soldier who died a warrior’s death. He shall be buried in Corwell, in the royal barrow.”
The bard helped Tristan secure the body over Arlen’s horse. At the same time, Robyn splashed cold water over Daryth’s face, and the Calishite slowly regained consciousness. Soon he climbed to his feet, but he could not move his left arm.
Daryth’s horse stood nearby, and Robyn, after strapping his arm with her scarf, helped him into the saddle. As Keren finished helping with Arlen’s body, he saw the Firbolg, helplessly entangled in the branches of the trees. The monster had given up struggling, but looked dumbly and suspiciously at the humans and halfling before him.
“How did that happen?” the bard asked, surprised.
“Robyn did it,” responded the prince, sounding surprised even to himself. “She told me that she doesn’t know how, but it happened when she cried out for him to stop!”
Keren turned and regarded Robyn with renewed interest, looking from the trapped Firbolg to the lass, and back again. Robyn just lowered her eyes and said nothing. Tristan inspected his hounds, two of which had fallen beneath the Firbolg’s club. The others seemed healthy, however, and milled around expectantly.
Preparations finished, Keren, Robyn, Pawldo, and Tristan mounted their horses, Tristan in front of Arlen’s body on the dead warrior’s horse. Just then, a thundering shout announced that a fresh band of Firbolgs had crested the pass. With bellows of rage, the monsters raced downhill. Several stopped to throw boulders which fell far short of the companions, who were speeding on their way.
“Too bad we didn’t have a chance to bring their heads with us,” called the bard to Tristan, referring to an old battle custom of some Ffolk clans. “They make splendid trophies, Firbolg heads!”
“Indeed,” replied Tristan, a little sickened at the thought.
Urging the steeds forward, with the hounds loping easily beside them, the little party moved down the valley as quickly as they safely could. Riding hard, they pulled slowly away from the lumbering Firbolgs, who soon dropped out of sight behind them.
“Could they have stopped?” asked Robyn, hopefully, glancing back.
“They might. I don’t know,” answered Tristan. Suddenly he desperately wanted his teacher’s advice and realized how much he would miss Arlen. “We can’t afford to find out,” he finally said, forcing himself to make the decision. “We must move on.”
Daryth moaned, slumping weakly on his horse. Tristan, wondering if the Calishite would survive the ride, thought they might stop… but would they all die in a Firbolg ambush?… Oh, why did Arlen have to die?
The questions brought a weight of misery onto the prince’s shoulders. To add to his depression, it soon began to rain.
*****
The hours after dawn brought Ffolk bustling into the streets and fields of Corwell. Fishermen took their vessels from the little harbor with the dawn, and farmers busied themselves with a dozen chores. Even the craftsmen were about, tidying and puttering as they prepared for the day’s work.
A mile away, the halfling community of Lowhill slumbered on as the sun climbed toward the zenith. Only in the late morning hours did a few stumbling, bleary-eyed halflings venture forth from their snug burrows. The halflings knew how to enjoy life, and getting up with the dawn was not recommended.
But finally the day brought its quotient of activity to Lowhill – today more than the usual.
Allian, a young maiden of fifty-two years, emerged from her burrow. She was alarmed to feel a sense of urgency running through the community. She saw her fellow halflings hastening to and fro, all looking very concerned. What could