Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [88]
“So tell me,” he said calmly. “What do you want me to do?”
*****
“Would you care for some pudding?” The thin but sturdy old woman held out the wooden bowl with almost childish eagerness. Her visitor looked up, smacking his lips with the last of the quail, and nodded.
Gwendolynn, druid of Dynloch Pass, got few visitors to her remote grove, high in the Synnorian Mountains. Thus, when Trahern of Oakvale had arrived, she had persuaded him to join her for hot tea, then dinner. Now, of course, it was far too late for him to begin a journey home.
Oakvale was a distant grove, but Trahern was known to Gwendolynn from councils over many decades. She felt girlishly pleased at his visit.
Dynloch Pass lay so high in the mountains, with approaches so convoluted, that few besides the Llewyrr, dwarves, and druids knew of its existence. Gwendolynn had tended this region for more than half a century. Trahern must have some purpose for his trip, but she asked nothing, being respectful of the druid’s privacy.
She chattered happily into the evening as they sat before the hearth, talking of the wild places that were her mountains. Finally, rocking cozily in her favorite chair, she nodded off before the fire. She did not see the fiery glow that consumed her guest’s eyes. Nor did she see him rise as she dreamed of eagles, loftiest of her flock.
Nor did she see the steely dagger or the treacherous thrust that, together, ended her life.
Trahern wiped the blade clean, and then lay down to sleep. The next morning, he left the old druid’s body to the scavengers, as he started across the secret trailways of Dynloch Pass. His progress was slow, for every fifty paces he stopped to build a large cairn, clearly marking the trail.
*****
The twenty or so northmen marched wearily toward the wreckage of Cantrev Myrrdale. Tristan saw that these men had no wounded with them, nor did their clothing show signs of recent battle. Nor did these northmen have horses. They were certainly not the band that had ravaged the village.
Yet they were here, deep within the borders of the kingdom of Corwell, and they were outfitted for war. The prince had no doubt that they were the enemy.
He saw the trudging column move wearily among the smoldering buildings as it entered the village. Suddenly, from the swirling smoke, what seemed a shower of arrows struck them, as Pawldo and Keren fired one after another with rapid precision.
The northman in the lead pitched forward, killed instantly by an arrow in the back of his neck. Another gasped and died with a feathered shaft sticking through his chest. In an instant, another pair screamed and stumbled to the ground, One of the northmen shouted something, and the survivors charged toward the archers. Several cursed or bellowed animal noises as they attacked.
As they advanced, however, five snarling moorhounds burst from the smoke on their left flank. The dogs were led by a great hound that ripped out a man’s throat with its first leap, an iron collar deflecting a thrust of the dying man’s sword.
“Let’s go!” cried Tristan.
With a grunt, Gavin spurred the gray gelding forward, and thudded toward the northmen.
Tristan, Gavin, and Daryth surged from the smoke to strike the northmen from behind. Mounted, they held their formidable weapons high. The Sword of Cymrych Hugh, gleaming in Tristan’s hand, smashed an enemy’s sword as if it were an icicle, and clove the warrior from forehead to collarbone.
Gavin’s long-hafted hammer crashed about him vengefully, and the raiders fell back in fear from its deadly blows.
Daryth rode quickly at the enemy, slashing with his cutlass and leaving gaping wounds before his nimble mare sprang away.
Tristan, Daryth, and Gavin each struck a northmen dead, and the rest began to flee madly through the smoke, taking the only path between dogs, riders, and archers.
The dogs snapped and snarled in pursuit, and Daryth and Gavin lunged after them as well. Tristan reined in to look around