The Druid Queen - Douglas Niles [40]
"With the help of the goddess," the fellow said quietly. "I am Danrak, druid of Myrloch."
The priest of nature was a nondescript man with long, carelessly tossed hair that was nevertheless full-grown and clean. No more than average size of frame, his shoulders were as broad as a wrestler's, and an unspoken grace and strength lurked in his body, visible even as he walked the few steps to the fire.
"It's all right," Finellen assured her warriors, and the members of the band grudgingly returned to their own fires. She kept her eyes on the druid, however. "Why was this necessary?"
"I had thought, under the circumstances, that your guards might be a little edgy. I preferred to speak with their captain before taking an arrow through any part of me."
"Circumstances?" demanded Finellen. "What circumstances?"
The druid's eyes widened in surprise-and something else. Sadness, Hanrald realized with a strong sense of foreboding.
"I-I'm sorry," Danrak said, faltering for the first time.
"What is it, by the goddess?" stormed Finellen, trying unsuccessfully to keep her voice to a low hiss. The dwarven captain shared the earl's dire sensation of threat, Hanrald could tell.
"It's Cambro," the druid said quietly. "It was attacked yesterday by an army of firbolgs and trolls."
Finellen sat in absolute silence for a moment, a silence that was as painful to Hanrald as a consuming explosion of temper. Finally she exhaled, a long, drawn-out breath that seemed to continue for the better part of a minute.
"How bad was it?" she asked, in a voice like the dull rasp of a saw.
"Many dwarves escaped-most, I think," Danrak said. "Though they left the village in the hands of the attackers. When I last observed the brutes, the night before yesterday, they were engaged in a bit of victory celebration."
"I can imagine," growled Finellen. "We'd just poured the last three years' vintage from their aging to their storage casks. I'd guess they would have found plenty of them. Any prisoners?"
"None that I saw," Danrak replied. "And as I told you, many dwarves escaped with their lives-though not much more. I met a number of them in the woods."
"Where are the dwarves now?"
"One of our order, Isolde, has taken them to various shelters in the Winterglen. They are safe there and have plenty of food and drink. Naturally they desire to return to their homes."
"Why did I let myself get drawn away?" groaned Finellen, lowering her head dejectedly into her hands. "I take the best warriors in the village and go off on some wild-goose chase, while the real threat is right in our own back yards!"
"It wasn't a wild-goose chase!" Hanrald interjected. "I saw that Elf-Eater, and if it had gotten out of Synnoria, you'd have desperately needed fair notice!"
"He's right," Brigit agreed, surprisingly sympathetic. "You were wise to examine the threat that menaced Synnoria, just as I have every intention now of finding out about this so-called 'army' of firbolgs and trolls."
"Are the bastards still in Cambro?" inquired the dwarf, only the deadly gleam in her eyes revealing her grim determination.
"I don't know. I was able to eavesdrop on some of their celebration. It seems that they plan to march north," Danrak declared.
"Why, that'll take them right into the Winterglen!" barked Finellen, perceiving the peril to the refugee dwarves.
The druid, however, raised a calming hand. "Your village-mates are well hidden-for the most part, in caves and the like. You don't need to worry about them, even if the beasts march within a dozen feet. More to the point, why do they go north?"
"There's nothing in their path except for a few tiny villages of Ffolk and northmen," Brigit pictured, remembering Gwynneth's geography. "Then they'll reach the Strait of Oman."
"Perhaps they want to go for a swim," Hanrald suggested wryly.
"Whatever it is, they've got to be hunted down and destroyed. I've got fifty brave dwarves here who've got just the axes for the job!"
Hanrald looked at Brigit with a raised eyebrow. "As