Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [53]
The pines provided enough wood for a small fire, and a three-sided niche among the boulders gave respite from the persistent wind. They ate without enthusiasm, and sat quietly staring into the fire.
Finally, Daryth broke the silence. “What is it about this Myrloch Vale? Why do I feel you all just oozing apprehension? It’s as if you don’t expect to come out of it again!” His bluntness took the party by surprise.
Tristan thought back to the tales he had learned as a child, surprised to realize that he had taken them so seriously. “Well, it’s more legend than fact,” he said. “When humans first came to the Moonshaes, the Llewyrr – the elvenfolk – lived on all of the islands. As humankind spread, the Llewyrr retreated eventually to the valley just beyond this final ridge – Myrloch Vale.”
“The Llewyrr do not brook trespassers lightly,” added Pawldo. “The small folk have tales that’ll shrivel your ears – the Llewyrr have a ring of magic around the place that’ll fry anyone trying to pass it. Their wizards! No one knows what dark secrets of sorcery they practice! They’ll turn us into snails, or worse – if the barrier leaves any parts of us to turn!”
Robyn laughed – the first laughter any of them had heard this long day. “It’s really a little less harmful than all of that!”
“Since when are you such an expert?” Pawldo shot back, insulted that the veracity of his exaggerations had been questioned.
Robyn looked surprised. “I don’t know where I became such an expert, but I don’t think we have much to worry about – not from the Llewyrr, anyway.”
“What should we worry about?” asked the prince.
“That I’m not so sure of… although Firbolgs come to mind, as a place to start.”
“At least Firbolgs we can see!” grumbled Pawldo, turning his back to the fire and curling up to sleep. “I’ll take the middle watch,” he added.
“I’ll take the first,” volunteered Tristan, climbing stiffly to his feet and poking into the trees for more firewood. The others soon slept, and the prince stood a lonely vigil. Soon Canthus joined him, and the two paced steadily around the camp. They seemed to be the only living creatures in this barren stretch of highlands – at least Tristan hoped they were.
The moorhound never seemed to sleep. He paced with Tristan as the prince paced, or sat alertly next to him when he rested. Canthus sat as an equal, however – he never rested his head upon the prince’s knee, or flopped carelessly at his feet, as would any other dog. His posture erect, he perked his ears at any faint sound, and constantly sniffed the faint breeze for information.
Tristan sighed, and turned to look at Robyn. She slept soundly, nearly buried by a massive fur blanket, her black hair spread like a veil across her face. Then the prince’s gaze shifted to the slender, swarthy Calishite, tossing unevenly on the other side of the fire.
What did that wonderful girl – woman! – think of these men, her closest friends? Which did she prefer? Desperately, Tristan wanted to know. Robyn stretched, luxuriously, and slowly rolled over, and for a moment Tristan was tempted to wake her and take her in his arms. He chuckled wryly as he pictured her reaction, and turned away to resume his watch.
Each of them took their turn at the watch, and Canthus accompanied them all, but the night passed without incident. They broke camp with the dawn, picking their way slowly up the last treacherous slopes leading to the pass. Fortunately, the slope faced primarily south, and the snow had long since melted away. Though the path was still treacherous, at least they had the security of walking along solid ground.
“We’d better dismount and walk the horses over this part,” called Tristan.
Robyn reined in and turned, as if to argue, but then she studied the terrain before them.
“All right,