The Druid Queen - Douglas Niles [55]
"Of course," murmured the priest, with a polite nod toward Alicia.
The queen picked up a small bell on the table and chimed it firmly. In another moment a soft knock sounded at the door, and she called "Enter."
The portal opened to reveal a pair of burly men-at-arms, one mustachioed and bow-legged while the other sported a fully bearded face atop a tall, muscular frame.
"You know, I believe, Sergeants-Major Sands and Parsallas," the queen said as the two men entered and knelt. Alicia and Keane recognized them both as veteran and well-respected members of the garrison.
"Greetings, my queen… and princess, too," said Sands, the bow-legged officer, speaking for his companion as well. "The muster has gone out and we stand ready for your commands."
Robyn turned back to the princess. "These two men are loyal in all respects, solid veterans and wise soldiers. I suggest you give their advice some heed during the march." She turned back to the gruff-looking officers. "The Princess Alicia will command the expedition," she concluded.
"Very good, Your Majesty," said Parsallas, winking at Alicia. She remembered him as a good-humored and avuncular warrior, and the presence of the two veterans she found strongly heartening.
"Now," announced the High Queen, rising and speaking with a tone of finality that clearly ended the meeting. "You'd best start making your preparations. I expect you'll want to march with tomorrow's dawn."
* * * * *
The Princess of Moonshae encountered the storm on the fourth day out from Corwell, as she sailed steadily northward into the Sea of Moonshae. The hulking mass of Oman's Isle, gathered around the crowning summit of the Icepeak, had lain off the starboard horizon for more than a day. To port, though invisible in the distance, lay the northman-populated isle of Norland.
Prior to the gale the weather had been, if anything, exceptionally mild, with sporadic and unpredictable winds that kept the longship tacking for long hours with little forward progress. They had come through the Strait of the Leviathan in short order, but now that the sea had opened they couldn't seem to get a helpful wind. If it hadn't been for Tavish, who had amused the captain and crew with a wide assortment of musical tales, Brandon felt they might have all gone mad from boredom.
The Prince of Gnarhelm had begun to chafe at the delay, longing to see the great lodges of his home and to share the fellowship of his father's great hall. Too, the memory of the green-eyed princess he had left behind caused him constant agitation. Every little delay seemed, to Brandon Olafsson, a matter of damning frustration.
Then came the summer storm, boiling upward in the late afternoon, forming looming black thunderheads, dark and ominous even as the slanting rays of the sun outlined them in detailed relief. Within fifteen minutes the air whipped itself into a fury, howling down at them from the north with sudden rage and irresistible force. Winds lashed the formerly placid sea into a frothing maelstrom of angry, white-capped swells. Spray stung the young captain's eyes, blinding his crewmen too as the veteran sailors crouched in the hull. With the sail trimmed to a small square of canvas, Brandon squinted to the east.
He knew that the rocky shore of Oman's Isle lay somewhere in the murk, but he didn't know how close-so quickly had the waves and wind enclosed and blinded them. Yet he well remembered that this stretch of coast had few sheltered bays, and many long expanses of fang-toothed boulders and precipitous granite cliffs. They would find only disaster if they drew too close to the island.
"We've got to turn and run with the wind!" bellowed Knaff the Elder, Brandon's veteran helmsman. Now he clenched the tiller in his muscular hands as spray lashed his long gray hair back from his head, plastering his beard to his broad chest. He grinned in savage delight at nature's wrath, yet he was too good a sailor to want to risk the ship and crew in such an unequal