Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [83]
Bloodlust seemed to pound in his temples as the Red King bellowed his challenge. An old woman turned to face him, giving her daughters a chance to escape, but Grunnarch, giving a sharp laugh, cut off her head in a single stroke. Others of his men grabbed the daughters – barely young women – and dragged them screaming into the cottage.
For a moment Grunnarch looked around, realizing that his vision had grown hazy and red. Panting, he gradually became aware of a pounding headache.
He watched numbly as two children running in terror were spitted by his men upon a long spear, first one, then the other, and cast casually aside. The Red King felt suddenly nauseous at the sight, and turned to vomit against the cottage.
He turned again to regard the scene of battle, and he could barely recall its details. Bodies, most belonging to the Ffolk, lay scattered throughout his field of vision.
Somehow, the war seemed to have lost its thrill.
*****
For two more days they continued the journey to the east, finally entering the pastoral cantrevs of Eastern Corwell. Tristan had rarely visited this part of the kingdom, connected as it was to the rest of the realm by a narrow corridor of land between Myrloch Vale and Llyrath Forest – a corridor which could be traveled only with difficulty.
In fact, the prince was not altogether certain that they had, in fact, reentered the kingdom until late one afternoon when they finally stumbled across an actual road.
“We’ll certainly come upon a fishing cantrev soon,” said Tristan to Keren. “And there you should have no trouble finding passage to Callidyrr. We’ll accompany you until then.”
The bard looked wistful. “It galls that I’ve been ordered to return to the High King, for it seems certain that the adventure, and hence the tales, of this summer will occur here on Gwynneth.”
Idly, the bard strummed a few notes upon his harp. He tried several variations on the tune, until he found one that he liked. He repeated this one several times, and gradually a look of contentment grew upon his face.
As darkness began to creep into the eastern sky, they came upon a small hollow where a little campfire twinkled cheerfully, and a string of donkeys stood patiently nearby. A figure shuffled slowly around the fire, silhouetted in its glow, and from its size the prince worried that they had stumbled across a renegade Firbolg.
Then a booming voice, unmistakably human, rumbled up the road to them.
“Well met, travelers! Would you come and sup with me? A fire is always warmer with the kindling of conversation to feed it!”
The silhouette turned into a great bear of a man as he moved into the dusky clearing, greeting them with exaggeratedly widespread arms and a huge, ear-splitting grin. He certainly was the largest human the prince had ever seen. A flowing black beard combined with thick, curling hair of the same color all but concealed his broad face. His smile, which made his eyes sparkle, revealed an array of chipped and broken teeth. His garments were heavy and serviceable, albeit worn and grimy.
“I am Gavin, smith of Cantrev Myrrdale,” explained the stranger, in a voice that thundered through the night.
“Thanks for your welcome,” responded Tristan, dismounting before the smith. The prince introduced himself and his companions. If the smith recognized the Kendrick name as his king’s, he gave no notice of the fact.
The companions relieved their horses of the burdens of saddles and bridles. Tristan noticed the hounds gathering eagerly around the fire, and he saw for the first time a large kettle, bubbling and steaming in the coals. A truly delightful odor rose from the pot. Even considering the size of the cook, the pot held far more than one man could eat.
“Now, won’t you join me for a bite?” called the smith, when their horses had been tended. “There’s plenty for all!”
“Why did you cook such a large batch?” asked Robyn, looking at the simmering stew. “Did you know we were coming?” Her question, Tristan sensed, was only half facetious.