Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [85]
“They are beautiful, these mountains,” agreed the prince, wishing he had paid more attention to his surroundings during their flight.
“But again,” the smith continued, looking eagerly toward the low ridge that would be their first landmark of the morning’s journey, “there’s nothin’ like getting home again afterward. And with any luck, we’ll be there in time for lunch!”
A pleasantly warm breeze rose from the lowlands, and the sun smiled from a cloudless sky. Light of heart, the five of them set off down the road. The smith led his string of donkeys on foot, but he had no difficulty matching the pace of the others, who were mounted. As they rode, Keren worked some more with his tune, finally developing it into a delightful melody.
“What is that?” asked Robyn.
“Just a sort of a ballad I’m working on. Perhaps I’ll play it for you when I’ve finished.”
“I’d like that,” she answered, humming a piece of the tune as he went back to work. The hounds bounded through the fields and forests to either side with energy Tristan had not seen in them since their flight from the Firbolg’s lair.
The road wound easily up the low ridge, with a scarcely noticeable grade, and soon they came upon a wide, grassy field at the crest. Before them, the ground dropped gently through a series of broad valleys.
Narrow streams sparkled amid orchards and pastures. The horizon vanished into the haze, where, Tristan knew, the sea lay about thirty miles to the east.
But all of this detail faded into insignificance as they perceived one stark and painful fact: columns of smoke rose into the sky from several places – thick pillars of darkness, each marking a cantrev of the Ffolk, a burning cantrev.
Gavin groaned – a strangled, inhuman sound incongruously emerging from the smith’s barrel chest. Tristan knew, without asking, that the nearest of the columns marked Cantrev Myrrdale.
*****
“Blast and damn! You are all idiots!” Grunnarch the Red ordered his men to assemble outside the ruined cantrev. Food, drink, and wenching seemed to have driven most of the worthless scum to the brink of unconsciousness. Those who did not stir readily enough felt the thud of the Red King’s solid boot.
Stomping among the wreckage of people and homes, he cursed with renewed vengeance as he considered the true reason for his irritation.
Where were the damned Bloodriders?
For a week he had had no direct word from Laric, the captain of the Riders. Rumors trickled back, about villages scourged until they were nothing more than black splotches on the ground, about acts of unspeakable cruelty.
Grunnarch recalled, uneasily, his last meeting with Laric. The man had seemed determined to go his own way. He had barely listened to Grunnarch talk, yet something forbidding in his simmering gaze had stopped the king’s rebuke before it reached his lips.
Now, it seemed that Laric’s negligence was jeopardizing the whole plan.
The Bloodriders were to have met the rest of the army here, at Cantrev Macsheehan, three days ago.
Macsheehan was a large and wealthy cantrev, and the army had been able to provision an entire supply train for the march on Corwell.
As Thelgaar had predicted, the tide of refugees flowing westward had grown to a flood. If the army could be ready to march within another day, they could strike through Myrloch across the refugees’ route of retreat, and massacre them.
A dull thundering finally caught Grunnarch’s attention, and he looked down the road. His anger vied with relief, for the Bloodriders were thundering into the great field at full gallop. The black horses gleamed with sweat, their flanks and legs caked with dust. The fur cloaks of the Riders were also travelstained.
Laric reined in before Grunnarch and leaped from the saddle. The king prepared a rebuke for his henchman, but the oaths died on his lips, as his eyes locked with horror on the face of the approaching man.
The Bloodrider’s skin had lightened to a pasty gray hue, and his bright