Darkwell - Douglas Niles [34]
Tristan glanced awkwardly at the others when they gathered before the gate. They were all acutely aware of Robyn's absence, he felt certain. His embarrassment caused his voice to grow harsh as they started out.
"Robyn's gone. I'm certain she's headed for Myrloch Vale, to the grove of the great druid. We will follow and find her" He nudged Avalon with his knees, and the great stallion started into a brisk trot, passing through the gatehouse as the other companions fell in behind.
Tristan unwillingly recalled in vivid detail the events of the previous night. How could he have hurt Robyn like that? What could have gone through his mind? A part of him still wanted to claim that the woman had bewitched him somehow, used foul enchantment to beguile him with her charms. But he suspected that this was not the truth.
Tristan remained constantly aware of Robyn's absence, though he tried to ignore his role in her sudden departure. His father's chain mail armor rested heavily on his shoulders, and he quickly grew saddle sore. Nevertheless, he would find her. Of that he was certain. The others could come with him or remain behind. He didn't really care.
* * * * *
Now the north wind howled with the threat of approaching winter, but the lone longship of Grunnarch the Red sliced through each mountainous crest as if it could smell the security of its home port. Manned by thirty brawny northmen, several of whom Grunnarch had recruited in Corwell's taverns and one whom he had liberated from the town gaol, the sleek vessel raced northward.
"Hold steady!" the king ordered his helmsman as he made his way into the bow. The gray water rolled on all sides as far as he could see. Dusk settled over the Sea of Moonshae, and the Red King's thoughts turned to the cookfires of home, the great smoky council lodge near the shore, and the welcoming embrace of his woman.
It would not be long before those things were his again, and this knowledge brought him a keen pleasure. Truly, homecoming was always sweet, but this one would be sweeter than most.
Still, his eyes fell, unbidden, on the gray swells that slowly turned to black with the vanishing light. He recalled the sahuagin that had boiled upward from the mysterious depths to claim the lives of so many of his countrymen.
The fish-men still lurked down there, he knew. He couldn't be certain, but he suspected that their depredations were not finished. Grunnarch did not even suspect that the horrors of the sahuagin had barely begun.
* * * * *
The great dog led the way unerringly, selecting the easiest path up the rocky defile. Tristan followed, leading Avalon by the great stallion's bridle. The wind picked up, and he pulled his cloak tightly about him with his free hand.
As they climbed through the foothills into the highlands, progress slowed for the first time in the four days of the journey. From his previous venture into Myrloch Vale, Tristan knew that this was the roughest part of the trip.
"Let's hunt some firbolgs!"
The suggestion came from the back of Avalon's saddle, where Newt rested comfortably. Tristan ignored the faerie dragon, but the top popped from one of the saddlebags to reveal Yazilliclick.
"Are you c-crazy?" he stammered, his tiny antennae quivering in agitation. "W-We've got to find Robyn – Robyn!"
"Well, maybe she's been captured by a firbolg! I mean, that's as likely as anything, if you ask -"
"Shut up!" growled Tristan, whirling to face the dragon. Newt dropped his head and sulked as the king glared at him for a moment. Beyond the dragon, Tristan could see the figures of Tavish and Pawldo, each leading his mount up the trail behind him. Daryth's tiny figure, occasionally disappearing around some bend in the trail, brought up the rear to guard against surprise.
"Or perhaps to avoid my presence," mumbled Tristan. In truth, the Calishite had avoided his gaze and made no offer to converse with him. As they had made camp each of the last three nights, Daryth had found an excuse