Darkwell - Douglas Niles [0]
Moonshae 3 - DARKWELL
Douglas Niles
What as gone
Tristan Kendrick, Prince of Corwell, stood upon the brink of manhood when the Beast, Kazgoroth, emerged from its fetid pool to savage the land. The insidious monster, often disguised in the flesh of a man, engaged the help of firbolg giants and savage northmen to attack the Ffolk of Corwell.
The prince came of age during this, the Darkwalker War. He returned a lost artifact, the Sword of Cymrych Hugh, to his people. He led them to ultimate victory against the Beast. And he found his life's love in the person of Robyn, a maiden who had been raised with him as the king's ward.
Also during the war, Robyn discovered her own deep powers as a druid, harnessing the forces of the earth to work magic and miracles. She loved the prince but faced a deeper calling after the war. She journeyed to pastoral Myrloch Vale to study the ways of her order under the Great Druid of the isles, Genna Moonsinger.
But there she found that the influence of Kazgoroth was not altogether banished. An unnatural army of corpses invaded the vale, and Robyn alone of the druids escaped. The others were imprisoned as stone statues around the scene of their last stand, and as Robyn departed, the vale was turned into a wasteland behind her.
His father murdered, Tristan Journeyed to the neighboring island of Callidyrr to confront the High King of all the Ffolk. Caught in a rebellion and finally joined by Robyn, Tristan found himself once more victorious, receiving the royal Crown of the Isles. He was crowned High King by the Ffolk, then prepared to return to Corwell.
But still the evil lurked in Myrloch Vale…
The goddess Earthmother wept, her wound a gaping slash across her flesh. The cut was deep, perhaps mortal, but there was none to know her suffering.
She cried out in pain from the scar of black magic, where her body lay torn and ripped from the assault of evil. Though the last convulsion of her power had excised the rot, tearing it from herself and allowing the cool sea to wash the wound, still the pain continued.
The goddess cried out for her servants, her devoted druids. These human caretakers were trapped in a prison of the mother's own invention. They stood frozen as stone statues around the blasted scene of their final defeat. The protection of the goddess had imprisoned them thus, saving them at least from death. One druid, and one alone, had escaped petrification.
And the goddess wept for the Ffolk, her people. War ravaged their fair land relentlessly, striking each of the four kingdoms with cruel force. Many Ffolk died while resisting the attack of northman or foul beast, but still peace eluded them.
Now her grief manifested itself in the glowering clouds that hung low over the isles, and the unnatural chill that sucked the summer's warmth from the land and, though the season was but early autumn, brought a winterlike frost. Her pain sent whirlwinds exploding from her soul, twisting funnels of violence that tore at the land, unmindful of the hurt they caused.
Yet the land was not altogether without hope. For the first time in many decades, the king of the Ffolk was a true hero, as was right and proper. And though one lone druid remained free, she was a druid of great faith and steadily growing might.
But they were both very young, and the goddess was very old. She doubted that she could live long enough to see them prevail.
Or fail.
I
The Obscene
Heavy breakers assaulted the stone barrier protecting Llewellyn Harbor. They crashed against the rocky rampart, sending clouds of spray through the air, roaring in frustration as the eternal power of the sea dispersed against the fundamental strength of stone.
A lone figure stood near the end of the breakwater. The man was heavily wrapped in oilskins and ignored the salty shower that doused him each time a fresh wave expended itself. If anything, he relished the bracing cold of the water.
The man was young, but he was a king of many lands. He had bested creatures foul and wizards of might, yet he felt unsure