Darkwell - Douglas Niles [54]
Canthus never hesitated for a moment as he trotted through the twists and turns of the path. Somehow Daryth had followed the trail through the thick of the night, and the king marveled at this evidence of his friend's nocturnal skills.
The trail suddenly dropped into a rocky gorge, and here Tristan called Canthus to slow as the horses made their way carefully down the steep and gravelly path. The moorhound sprinted ahead and then waited impatiently. He pranced in a circle in agitation, then dashed forward as soon as Avalon drew near.
Tristan lost sight of the hound as Canthus leaped around a bend in the gorge wall. As always, the moorhound hunted silently, so the king heard no barking to help locate his dog.
Spurring Avalon into an easy trot, the fastest gait he dared on this rough ground, he came around the same bend. The stallion reared back in surprise, his nostrils flaring, and Tristan's hand darted instinctively to his blade.
But the shock before them was in its tale, not in its terror. Canthus had stopped at the bottom of the sheer granite wall of the gorge. The hound stood up on his hind legs, his forelegs reaching up the wall higher than the height of a man's head.
Following the gaze of his dog, the king looked up to see a garish streak of blood across the face of the rock. The stuff had dried to a reddish brown color, but its nature was unmistakable. Tristan raised his eyes and saw bloodstains running down the entire side of the gorge.
Robyn came around the bend then, and he saw her face grow pale. She looked first to the right, and then to the left. "Back up the trail! We can get out of the gorge and come around on top!" No sooner had she spoken than she whirled the mare around and sent it racing up the trail.
Canthus dashed between Avalon's legs and raced up the gorge past Robyn. Daryth had been the dog's trainer and beloved teacher, and Tristan sensed dire urgency in the dog's manner. The gnawing dread he himself had experienced all morning broke into cold terror. Pawldo and Tavish, bringing up the rear, turned quickly and led the column out of the gorge. They raced along the rim, dreading what they would find.
* * * * *
Hobarth walked among villages of leather-covered huts huddled in glens among the great fir forests of northern Gwynneth. This land contrasted sharply to Corwell, which lay upon the southern shore of this same island. While Corwell was pastoral and open, a place of farmers and fields, this was a place of hunters and warriors. While the Ffolk of Corwell looked to the land for their sustenance, the northmen looked to the sea. But they would die just the same, mused the cleric. And their dying would give as much pleasure to his god as would the passing of the more peaceful Ffolk to the south.
Finally the cleric reached the shore and saw the work of Bhaal in all its glory. The northern shore of Gwynneth was separated from Oman's Isle by the Strait of Oman. Upon Oman's Isle was the great fortress known as the Iron Keep, former palace of the northman king Thelgaar Ironhand. Oman, and especially Iron Keep and its sheltered bay, were the focal points of northmen power in the Moonshaes.
But this focus, already dimmed by the catastrophic Darkwalker War, was about to be diffused.
Already the waters of the strait lay heavy and dark in the channel. The cleric could see the rocky bulk of Oman's Isle, but his attention was drawn instead to the sea itself.
Great patches of brown scum and thick foam floated across the water. Hobarth, invisible to man, observed the distress in the northmen villages as sleek hulls began to show signs of early rot and a putrid odor rose from the waves and wafted ashore.
He witnessed the consternation of fishermen as they pulled bloated, rotting