Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [41]
*****
The passage of Myrloch Vale proved to be no more than a minor nuisance as the Beast made its way northward. Soon it left the realms of the dwarves, Firbolgs, and Llewyrr behind, without encountering any of the Vale’s occupants. Sometime later, it paused at the rocky shore of a gray and stormtossed strait.
For a moment the Beast reflected. It had gained, already, a potent ally with the perversion of the druid. Trahern of Oakvale would have much to do in following the orders of his master, Kazgoroth. Also, the Firbolgs could be counted upon to perform their special tasks, as the Beast had commanded them. Doubtless, they had already begun. And even the guard, Erian, could prove to be a useful tool, if his own stupidity did not get him killed first.
But these allies would not be enough to carry the attack to the heart of the goddess’s strength. The Beast would need more help. Whether it was instinct or distant memory that told Kazgoroth such help could be found across the stormy strait, who can say?
The Beast knew that it would gain its most powerful allies among the northmen, and to this end it now moved.
The waters presented Kazgoroth with no more obstacle than had the magic of the Llewyrr. The creature’s shape changed as it entered the water, and in the body of a large shark, it swam easily from Gwynneth to Oman. When it reached its destination, it rose again from the water and walked onto the land. This time, it did not use the guise of a woman, but instead took the form of a tall, blond-bearded warrior, striding forward with all the arrogant confidence of a northman passing through his own domain. Indeed, reflected the monster, this island – as with all of the Moonshaes – would one day be part of its domain.
In time, Kazgoroth reached the northern shore of Oman, there to see the harbor filled with longships, and the tents stretching for miles along the coastal plane and inland valleys. Ignoring the tents and the ships, the warrior strode to the looming fortress that commanded the hill rising above the harbor. It passed through the gates, unnoticed, and moved freely among the dark and drafty halls of the fortress. It knew whom it sought.
The old king, Thelgaar Ironhand, having spoken for peace, rested easily, knowing that what he had done was right. Thelgaar did not know what entered his chamber, that dark and moonless night. He was barely aware of drooling jaws striking at his throat, tearing his heart, still pumping, from his lifeless body.
The monster feasted on the gruesome corpse, licking blood from wherever it had spattered. It then adjusted its shape to match that of the king it had slain. This body, it knew, would serve for a long time.
After dawn had broken upon the camps of the northmen, Kazgoroth emerged from the king’s chamber in the body of the slain king. It spoke to the heralds of Thelgaar, and summoned the other kings of the northmen to council.
Word spread fast throughout the camps and across the harbor. The spirits of the northmen soared, as the news brought fresh confidence, and jubilant awareness of their own might.
By noon there was not a single warrior in that vast encampment that did not know that Thelgaar Ironhand had changed his mind. The pennant of the red dragon would fly alongside those of the other northern kings. The fleet, and the army, would march in all its supreme power for the subjugation of Gwynneth.
Thelgaar Ironhand would lead the northmen to war.
*****
The funeral feast had been a grand success. Broken platters, spilled mugs, and sleeping revelers lay strewn about Caer Corwell’s great hall. The music of pipe and cymbal wailed through the air, and many dancers still caroused about the hall. Tristan spun Robyn through a wild circle, catching her as she bent back almost to the floor. He thought that the maiden had never looked so lovely as she now did.
Her black hair flowed freely as she spun, before settling down her back as far as her hips. Her slender waist, beneath his