Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [93]
The Red King also noticed that the horses of Laric, and all the Bloodriders, had grown gaunt and skeletal. Their ribs showed clearly against their black skins, and their eyes seemed clouded with some mysterious ailment. These signs of exhaustion, however, did not carry over into the mounts’ endurance. If anything, the black steeds of the Bloodriders seemed immune to fatigue, pain, and fear. They plodded stolidly along with their masters, seeming to care little for their surroundings or their condition.
At last, Grunnarch could stand it no longer, and he paused by the trail as the file of Bloodriders slowly marched past. All of the men had the same dying look of Laric’s countenance which had so chilled him. Although he could not quite accept the fact, in the back of his mind Grunnarch knew that the Bloodriders, the pride of his army, had slipped from his control into the clutches of something far mightier, and even more menacing. Something that he might need to fear.
After the Bloodriders had passed, Grunnarch stepped into the column and marched at the head of the footsoldiers. Cursing his reluctance to confront Laric, to accuse him of double-dealing, the Red King marched fiercely, kicking at any stone that stood in his path, tugging mercilessly on the trailing reins of his unfortunate horse.
Thus, Laric was the first of the northmen to come upon the summit of Dynloch Pass, and see the long, descending route into Myrloch Vale. Here, the trail opened enough for the men to mount, and the black horses and red-robed warriors filed through the barren and windswept rocks.
Night closed in before the bulk of the army reached the summit. Grunnarch, new to mountain tactics, had not ordered the column into camp early enough. Confusion and accidents resulted from the late bivouac in the hostile environment. Still, the moon shown brightly, and for the most part the men were able to find shelter from the howling wind. Nevertheless, the raiders suffered a very uncomfortable night.
Under the harsh light of the full moon, Grunnarch sat before a small fire and worried about his army. Frustrated by the time lost climbing the pass, he pondered with deep foreboding the strange sense of sorcery that now separated him from his Bloodriders.
A shadowy figure emerged from a crack in the rocks and approached. The brown robe muffling his features testified that he did not belong to the army, yet he had somehow managed to pass the pickets without raising an alarm. Grunnarch resolved that some guard would pay for his negligence, and his hand came to rest upon the stubby shortsword beneath his own robe.
The figure sat down on the other side of the fire, and the king saw that he wore simple, woodland garb. A deep hood cloaked his face, but two eyes gleamed wickedly from within the hood. Suppressing a shudder, Grunnarch looked the figure in the face.
“Who are you?”
“I am Trahern, a druid of Myrloch Vale. I am here to show you the path.”
*****
The ring of knightly riders slowly closed about the prince, and he saw fine, shining armor protecting each of them. Even in bulky plate mail, the riders seemed small atop the huge horses. They carried themselves and their weapons with the smooth competence of professionals.
“Who are you?” The accusing voice shot at him from one of the riders before him. Startled, the prince realized that the speaker was female. She had a high, almost musical voice that seemed oddly distorted by her rude question.
“Silence, Carina!” spoke another, in the voice of command. This one, too, was a woman.
Tristan sat still astride the great stallion, watching the knights close in. The Sword of Cymrych Hugh lay in its scabbard