Prophet of Moonshae - Douglas Niles [99]
Silently, reverently, the druid-gull descended through a series of wide circles. Now that he had reached his goal, Danrak was reluctant to land and abandon the magic of Isolde's talisman, for the feather had vanished in the casting of his shape-change, and like the eye of direction, it could not be used again.
Instead, for a time, Danrak soared and watched. His keen gull's eyes allowed him to see details in the vale: the blossoming violets and daisies in the meadows, the lush lilies along the shore. He looked into water as clear as glass and saw plump trout swimming lazily below the surface.
Only then did he notice the people. Several of them knelt by the pool, their hands clenched in prayer. He saw several more humans walking steadily up the dusty track that led to the vale. Some of these hobbled on crutches, and one wore a bandage across his face, concealing his blinded eyes. A slowly growing band collected around the restored well, here to share the miracle of the Moonwell's rebirth.
Danrak himself felt a choking swell of emotion. He could no longer doubt the vision that had gathered the druids and had sent him on this quest, for here was the proof before him. A small, subtle sign it was, but it gave clear indication that the power of the Great Mother was not entirely gone from the world. He squawked, the only noise he could make in his current form, but it was a profound cry of joy.
Finally he came to rest on a rock, well up the valley side, away from the pool. As his human form returned, Danrak dropped prone behind the rock and continued to watch the humans he had spied around the shore of the well.
The druid felt a surprising vitality in his arms and legs as his body nestled in the scant shelter. He clenched and unclenched his fingers, relishing their wiry strength. Stretching, he felt the power in his wrists and his shoulders. Indeed, Danrak felt more alive than he ever had before.
A commotion caught his eye, and he looked down the rude trail that began, or ended, at the shore of the well and followed the descending stream, eventually, Danrak assumed, to flow past some mountain community of the Ffolk. Now he saw a party of men-at-arms ascending that trail, roughly pushing the hobbling pilgrims out of the way.
A half dozen of the warriors marched toward the Moonwell, each wearing a black tunic over his chain mail shirt. On the breast of the tunics was emblazoned a crest, and as the men drew closer, Danrak identified the symbol as a shield, with a pair of crossed swords below it. But then something else caught his eye, and his blood chilled: Each of the armed men wore a sword but carried over his shoulder a stout double-bladed axe-not a battle-axe.
A woodsman's axe.
Shuddering in fright, the druid looked at the massive cedars that towered above the pool. Instinctively he knew that these were the targets of the axemen.
As he watched, some of the pilgrims tried to stand in the way of the men-at-arms. The leading warrior bashed them aside with his steel-gauntleted fist, while drawn swords encouraged the unarmed pilgrims to stay back.
Now the druid's mind raced. He had to do something! Stealthily he crawled from behind his boulder and darted to a nearby shrub. From here, he advanced another twenty feet to the concealment of a great pile of boulders. As he moved, however, he saw the men approach the nearest of the great cedars. The pilgrims watched in horror, gathered in a circle but fearing to intervene.
In moments, the crack-crack of sharp blades biting into wood echoed through the vale as three of the men wielded their axes in fast cadence. The other three stood, with swords drawn, warily watching the bedraggled onlookers. The latter, Danrak saw, numbered more than twenty, but most were very old or crippled, and a few were children.
Chips flew from the broad trunk in a yellow shower, swiftly gathering in a pile surrounding the foot of the tree.