Prophet of Moonshae - Douglas Niles [103]
The six guardsmen quailed in the face of his rage, but none of them preferred a return to the onslaught of the giant bees, which had become hornets in their slightly exaggerated version of the incident.
"My lord!" objected a burly veteran, Backar. "They were the size of eagles, and they set upon us unnaturally!"
"Indeed, lord!" protested another. "And we fought like heroes, but the venom dripped from their stingers! They numbered in the hundreds, to be sure!"
"Only when we fled the vale altogether did the bewitchment cease!" Still a third guardsman spoke up, striving to divert the nobleman's rage.
Gwyeth stalked back and forth in the earldom's hall. He was glad that his brother was absent, but he desired his father's counsel. Unfortunately, the earl had ridden to Callidyrr several days ago, and thus his son would have to make the decision.
Then he remembered: Pryat Wentfeld, the cleric of Helm who had tended his arm. He barked an order to summon the good priest, and then he sat before the great fireplace and fumed while he waited for the man to attend him.
"Your lordship requested my presence?" asked the cleric less than an hour later, as he humbly bowed and entered the Great Hall. He wore a rich gown of gold-embroidered silk, and his round face was clean-shaven and well scrubbed. His eyes were small, but they sparkled with curiosity as he regarded the young heir to the duchy.
"Indeed. First I thank you for the skills you employed in tending my wound."
"It is always an honor to serve the house of Blackstone," replied the Pryat smoothly. Gwyeth knew full well that, after Wentfeld's second visit, his father had sent the cleric away with a bulging sack of gold. "I trust your shoulder has returned to full strength, or will soon?"
"Aye," grunted Gwyeth, raising his arm and passing it through a swing forward and rear. "As good as ever, I'll swear."
"Splendid!" The priest waited, sensing that the young nobleman had other business on his mind.
"I would speak with you on a matter you brought up with my father the night you first tended my wound."
"Indeed." The cleric smiled thinly. "You speak, I presume, of the pond, the so-called 'Moonwell' that has undergone some kind of-obviously illusionary-transformation?"
"Yes, precisely." Gwyeth was relieved that the cleric understood, and he poured out his frustrating tale. "I sent six veteran guardsmen there to begin the destruction as my father ordered-orders grown from your suggestion, to be sure. They were to fell the cedars and form a pile of the brush, burning what was not useful and sending horses to drag the good lumber back to the cantrev. I know them all to be steady men, courageous in battle.
"They reached the pond and encountered pilgrims who, as you suspected, accredited the place with some kind of miracle. The rabble did not stand in their way."
"Naturally not."
"However," Gwyeth continued, his tone dropping grimly, "the guardsmen claim to have been set upon by a giant swarm of stinging insects, creatures that drove them from the valley with great violence, though none of the cowards could show me so much as a bee sting!"
"There must be some germ of truth to the tale," observed the cleric, "else they would not have invented it, knowing there to be witnesses."
"That thought had occurred to me as well," Gwyeth agreed unhappily.
"But that proves nothing, save that magic is at work in that mountain vale," continued the pryat, undaunted.
"And how can we combat such a presence?" demanded the lord, exasperated.
"I'll prepare a salve that will render the men proof against the attacks of insects and like creatures," mused the cleric. "Though who knows if they will be threatened in a similar manner again…" His voice trailed off and his face tightened, as if he was deep in thought.
"I was hoping that you could accompany a band of men, led by myself, to the place," suggested Gwyeth.
Wentfeld looked shocked. "Begging my