Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [72]
None of them heard the clattering of hooves, but suddenly the advancing Firbolg gasped and tumbled forward. A great ivory horn erupted from its chest in a shower of gore, and now they saw the proud form of the unicorn, extracting itself from the mortally pierced Firbolg.
For several seconds the companions regarded the unicorn. The great beast returned their stares impassively. Its snowy flanks were lathered and flecked with blood, although the unicorn did not seem to be wounded.
“Thank you, ancient one,” said Robyn, very quietly.
The eyes of the unicorn softened, and it tossed its proud head. With a short whinny, it turned and looked back the way it had come.
“Let’s follow it,” cried Robyn.
“Wait,” said Keren, in an urgent whisper. His eyes were fixed upon the prince. “Tristan, where did you get that sword?”
“I found it, in the same room where we found your bow.”
“Let me see it, please.”
Tristan instantly handed the weapon to the bard, who peered quickly at the script on the blade. When he looked back at the prince, Tristan saw that his eyes held a new emotion. It could have been respect, or even awe.
“Can you read it?” the prince asked.
“My prince,” said the bard. It was the first time he had ever used the honorific in speaking to Tristan. “You have found the Sword of Cymrych Hugh!”
Robyn gasped and stared, wide-eyed, back and forth between the prince and the weapon. Tristan, stunned, could think only of the mighty weapon he held in his hand. Slayer of Firbolgs, and bane of the enemies of the Ffolk, the Sword of Cymrych Hugh was certainly the most fabled weapon in his people’s history. Tristan still recalled Keren’s long ballad about the hero that he had played at Arlen’s funeral.
“What’s going on?” Daryth asked. “Who was Kimrick Hue? I’m not from these parts, remember?”
“‘Cymrych Hugh’ was the first of the High Kings – the man who united all of the Moonshae Islands under a single strong, wise rule,” Tristan explained, recalling his most basic history lessons. “Never before or since have the Ffolk been as strongly united. I remember fables telling of his death, at the hand of some nightmarish beast. At the same time, his sword was lost…”
“It is said,” Keren interjected, “that his sword will be found again, so that the wielder can challenge the beast that slayed him!”
Tristan looked at the weapon in Keren’s hand, and thought of the bard’s fighting prowess. He felt frightened and weak by comparison. “You keep it,” he said. “You can do it -”
“The sword must be wielded by he who finds it,” said the bard with a shake of his head. “And besides, you are more fit to carry that weapon than you know.”
Tristan wanted to argue, but the weapon seemed to beckon him to take it. “I don’t know,” he replied, but nonetheless reached for the simple leather hilt and took the sword.
As they continued down the long passage, Tristan saw the others glancing at him and the sword occasionally. He hoped they weren’t as puzzled – and amazed – as he was. Why had fate decreed that he should be the one to pick it up? And what was he going to do with it now that he had it?
Tristan was paying little attention to their surroundings, as the little party moved cautiously forward, soon passing several wooden doors but no branching corridors. Suddenly Finellen called out.
“Wait a minute!” She turned to regard a huge pair of oaken doors. They noticed that one of them was slightly ajar. “I smell fresh air – let’s have a look in here!”
Before anyone could disagree, she pushed the slightly opened door with the point of her dagger, and it swung freely inward. Before them they saw a huge room – by far the largest chamber they had yet seen in the Firbolgs’ complex. In the center of the room, towering perhaps forty feet into the air, rose a black, hulking mass, like a small mountain.
Sunlight streamed into the room from cracks in a pair of massive wooden doors at the far end. They noticed that no torches burned here.