Darkwell - Douglas Niles [71]
Once again they dared light no fire to drive back the darkness. They all felt the presence of some sinister, nameless aura in the vale, and they did not want to call attention to themselves.
Tristan looked uneasily at the firbolg, wondering if it had been a mistake to bring him along. During the Darkwalker War, the firbolgs had been among their most implacable and hated foes. For all his life, he had known them as the natural enemies of humans, dwarves, and Llewyrr.
But now there seemed an unspoken bond that had developed between this monster and themselves. Perhaps it was because they all belonged here on the isles. They were a natural part of this world. As such, they made natural allies in the fight against a supernatural foe. The creature had shuffled along with them for the entire afternoon, occasionally calmed by a trill of the lute. After its courage in the fight against the owlbear, none of them wanted to send it away.
"You know, speaking of the firbolg lair, this isn't far from where we first met Newt," remarked the king. Tristan and Pawldo had made a brief reconnaissance of the area before dark. "The gulch out in back of our shelter drops directly into a swamp, and I think it's the Fens of the Fallon."
The firbolg looked up, blinking his oddly small eyes. "Fall-Ion?" he grunted.
"And where you found the Sword of Cymrych Hugh? That's what it says in the Song of Keren." Tavish strummed a few chords of the ballad, as if to remind them.
Tristan nodded. "Yes, in the stronghold of the firbolgs."
"I wonder what's left of that place?" mused Pawldo. "It was quite a fortress. But then, we burned most of it down before we left!" The halfling's eyes suddenly glinted at a secret memory, and he turned his face away from the others to hide his sly smile.
"I'm sure there's quite a mass of ruins remaining," mused the king. "After all, most of the place was made out of stone."
"Fall-Ion," grunted the firbolg again, pointing at himself.
"Firbolg." The bard pointed at the giant.
"Fall-Ion. Firr-bowlgg." The creature was obviously pleased with himself.
"Human," offered the bard, pointing to herself, then Tristan and Robyn.
"Hu-mann! Firr-bowlgg!"
"He's smarter than I thought!" Tavish began to enjoy the lesson. She taught him more words, and he absorbed lute, sword, hand, head, and fist in rapid succession, "Tavish," she offered, pointing to herself.
"Hu-mann?"
"No… I mean, yes, but humans, that's all of us. Me, I'm Tavish!"
"Taff-ish?" The giant blinked, and then his face brightened. "Taff-ish," he said, pointing at her and then at himself. "Yak!"
"You're Yak? That's wonderful!" She proceeded to teach him the names of the others, and soon "Triss-tun," "Robb-inn," "Pawll-doo," and "Noot" had been formally introduced to their new companion. The firbolg stumbled on "Yaz-lick… Yoos-oo-Iuk, Yizz-ill," and finally settled on "Yuz," much to Newt's amusement and the sprite's discomfiture.
They chatted idly for a time, trying to avoid the pain lurking very near the surface of their awareness. All of them keenly felt the loss of Daryth. Tristan's own guilt tore ruthlessly at him though he tried, quite unsuccessfully, to bury it. The Calishite was dead, in large part because of Tristan's own stupidity in sending him out of their camp. It was an act performed in anger, resulting in tragedy.
All he could offer, and it was very little solace, was a prayer for Daryth's soul and a silent plea for his forgiveness. And he had his own determination to succeed and, by doing so, atone for his mistake.
Tavish once again pulled one of her wineskins from her pack, though the king declined the proffered drink. The others took small sips, but the sack remained mostly full.
The bard offered to take the first watch and continue the language lesson, so the others retired,