The Druid Queen - Douglas Niles [21]
"The Chariot of Sustarre," explained the patriarch proudly. "It will carry us in royal fashion."
"Indeed," Keane agreed, more awed than he would have liked to admit.
Now the inquisitor turned to Harmanius, and the bishou passed the silk-wrapped package to his master. Carrying the object in one hand, Hyath stepped into the chariot, turning once to beckon to Keane.
The mage hesitated a bare moment, then climbed in beside the inquisitor. Fire crackled all around him, but he felt no unusual heat, though the chill of the morning air had been fully dispersed.
Then, before he could catch his breath, the cleric shouted another word and the chariot took to the air.
* * * * *
Deirdre finally let herself go, giving up the resistance, the panicked flight and terrified evasions that never allowed her to elude the darkness. With her surrender came a sense of impending destiny, and as she faced her own image, she found that her slumber again restored her, revitalizing and empowering nerve and muscle and mind.
She sensed many things as she looked into her eyes. Certainly the fear, the dark, shrouded terror, still lingered there, but no longer did these emotions boil to the surface. Instead, they lay deep within her, fueling the flames of other things… of might and power, greatness and control.
And even more.
* * * * *
Talos the Destructor sensed the growing power of the woman, and he knew well that she was more than she had been now, more than any human was. The soul of his own immortal might had entered her, and now, with each passing evening, that presence sealed its grip upon her will and her soul.
His presence stirred evil and chaos throughout the Moonshae Islands, nourished by the woman's spirit, driven by a growing reality of vengeance. As the power of Talos swelled, others began to take notice-others who included not only mortals but also gods.
3
Clash at Cambro
Thurgol saw with pleasure that, during every step of the march from Blackleaf, all evidence indicated that the dwarves remained as set in their peaceful ways as he had hoped they would. The chieftain had led a rude column of more than a hundred firbolgs and half that many trolls through the fertile bottomland of Myrloch Vale, but not once had he encountered sign of a dwarven watch post. Even the wide-ranging wolfdogs, sniffing and snarling in a pack as they accompanied the humanoids on the march, had failed to identify any spoor of dwarven activity. Now, approaching Cambro, Thurgol saw that their foolish complacency continued.
Though he was no moralist, the giant couldn't entirely vanquish a small measure of unease over the attack he now contemplated. After all, twenty years of peace was no mean accomplishment. Yet now, after all those years, things were not as good as they once had been. Perhaps peace was the mistake he had made. In the end, he could see no alternative to attacking the dwarves. Doing nothing meant dying by starvation, and death in battle was an infinitely preferable alternative.
There was also the matter of the Silverhaft Axe. At first Thurgol had felt that the axe made a handy incentive for his less broad-minded fellows, giving them a clear reason to march against the dwarves. But during the march-indeed, beginning with Garisa's powerful recounting of the legend on the night before their departure-the ancient blade had come to mean more to Thurgol.
Now it seemed only right and proper to him that the giant-kin regain the lost artifact of their maker. And the only way to do that, he understood, was to wage war. With the battle looming imminent, the prospects of a victory seemed better than even Thurgol had dared to hope possible. His ragged army had reached the very periphery of the dwarves' village, and the wily chieftain concealed