Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [99]
“Groth,” grunted the creature, chucking a squat thumb at its barrel chest. “Corwell,” he added, pointing to the southwest.
“I am Grunnarch the Red, commander of this force,” the king declared. The Firbolg only looked curious, spreading his hands.
“Grunnarch,” grunted the king, pointing to himself, and then turned to the druid for help. “Can you talk to him?”
“I can try,” Trahern said, sounding reluctant. He grunted something short and harsh at the Firbolg, and the creature replied loudly, making violent gestures in the air. Then the Firbolg turned its back and stalked away.
“He says they had some trouble with humans,” explained the druid. “He also says not to bother him.”
“That’s great!” Grunnarch spat. “A lot of help they’ll be, I’m sure!”
Trahern shrugged. “We cannot know the nature of their role in the Iron King’s plan. It is better not to question.” The druid walked slowly back to his seat by the fire.
Grunnarch cast an angry look after the druid. He wondered, briefly, how Thelgaar had convinced the man to betray his land and his goddess. He looked back at the Firbolgs, who were claiming a great section of the lakeshore as their own. His army was demoralized – nervous about the presence of both the Bloodriders and the Firbolgs. This land – Myrloch Vale – seemed to sap their spirit. The king grimaced as he remembered his own nightmares. Nevertheless, Grunnarch knew that he had passed the point of no return. His force was committed to the plan, and he would do his best to lead it into the battle that Thelgaar had described to him so long ago.
Grunnarch and his army slept that night on defiled ground, haunted by bad dreams. Many struggled to remain awake, no matter how many hours till the dawn.
The next morning, a serpentine column of troops snaked away from the lakeshore toward the low pass that Trahern indicated. If they could make good time, the druid assured Grunnarch, they would be astride the Corwell Road by nightfall. Above the marching army, the day started ominously. Heavy clouds gathered along their route of march. Even before the last troops marched out of the camp, the rain began to fall.
*****
Genna Moonsinger, Great Druid of Gwynneth, knew of the army violating the sacred protectorate of Myrloch Vale. She watched, broken-hearted, as her animals died before the merciless invaders. She noted with revulsion that a band of Firbolgs had joined the northmen. She felt the earth itself recoil from the tread of the Bloodriders.
Genna had no army to send against the invaders. In the body of a little sparrow she observed the sprawling encampment along the lakeshore. She was not emotional, but part of her wanted to rain a shower of rage against the enemy.
Yet the great druid was not without recourse. In another guise, that of the tiniest of mammals, the shrew, she slipped into the camp at nightfall. Seeking the tent of the leader, she listened carefully for several hours to meaningless and offensive debate. Finally, however, she learned what she sought: Grunnarch’s objective.
The northmen would march south, into Corwell, instead of continuing their sacrilegious march through Myrloch.
The Great Druid resolved that the raiders would be hampered every step. The rest of the night was spent in preparations, as she raced with dawn to work her own brand of sorcery. Steam climbed from the surface of every body of water within the radius of her power. Winds bent from their natural path, seeking and collecting clouds in the sky.
All night, her powers increased the weight of water vapor hanging above the camp, and the path, of the northmen. Gray clouds dropped low over the mountain valley, and the pressure of heavier clouds above forced them lower still.
As morning began to gray the eastern sky, Genna finished her spell. As the northmen broke their camp and began their march as yet unaffected, the great druid smiled patiently, for hers was not the magic that