The Druid Queen - Douglas Niles [74]
Tristan's mind sharpened until the king felt a keen pulse of mental power tingling through him. For a moment, he drifted again. Why was he here?
"The Darkwalker is abroad," he announced loudly, the words ringing as an alien sound through the pastoral wood of Myrloch Vale. He saw a momentary image of that looming, reptilian form, but it quickly faded into the mists and disappeared.
Did he campaign against the sahuagin? An image of the spine-backed fish creatures filled his mind, rank upon rank of them emerging from the sea to pillage and slay. Did they lurk in the woods, among the trees? Then, in another burst of lucidity, he knew that he wouldn't be seeking his aquatic enemies in an inland valley. No, it must be the Darkwalker.
Somehow, that thought didn't seem right either. He had a clear picture of a young prince pursuing the unnatural horror that stalked the land. Yet for some reason, he felt like a very old king.
What was the purpose of his grand quest? The sun rose higher, and after a while he even began to doubt the accuracy of his direction. Eastward didn't seem right, after all.
"Tristan! Hey, King, wait for me!"
The voice took him by surprise but brought a welcoming surge of joy to his heart at the same time.
"Newt!" cried the High King, spinning about as much as possible in the tall saddle. "By the goddess, fellow, it's good to see you!" The blunt, tiny snout widened in Newt's unmistakable smile, while his butterfly wings buzzed easily to keep him in a steady hover.
"Hey, what a great horse! And that dog-why, you'd think Canthus was here!"
Chattering delightedly, the little faerie dragon buzzed through the air, circling Tristan and shifting through colors of red, orange, and violet.
"Canthus?" For a moment, the king was puzzled. "He is-" Then he remembered. The great, shaggy moorhound was called Ranthal. Canthus, Ranthal's grandsire, was long dead.
But Newt was here. "Come take a rest, my friend," the king said, raising his gloved hand. Delighted, Newt came to rest on the man's wrist, allowing himself to be lowered to the pommel of the deep saddle.
"Are you out here on a hunt?" asked the faerie dragon, propping himself up on his haunches.
"No, no. I ride because…" Awkwardly, Tristan's voice trailed off. Suddenly the appalling state of his mind came driving home with vengeful force. "I don't know why I'm here," he concluded miserably.
"I'll bet it's the firbolgs again," Newt said, with a conspiratorial look into the woods on either side. "They sacked Cambro, you kn-Hey, what is it?"
Tristan bolted upright in his saddle and then shouted aloud in combined relief and outrage. The king seized the tiny dragon around his belly and squeezed the air from Newt's lungs.
"Firbolgs! That's it!" he cried as the full wealth of his memory came flooding back.
He squinted into the rising sun. "And not east-I should be riding north!"
Abruptly the grim strength of his delusion became clear. Something worked against him, striving to steal his memory, his very mind! The forest around him suddenly seemed a darker, more menacing place. He quickly yanked Shallot's reins to the side, starting the great horse onto a northerly course.
How long had he wandered? He realized, to his further distress, that he had no idea as to the answer.
"When, Newt?" he pressed. "When did the firbolgs sack Cambro?"
"Well, before." The faerie dragon squinted up at the king as Shallot broke into a loping canter. "I mean, before I saw you…Oh, and I saw Robyn, too!"
"You did?" Tristan had ridden out of Corwell too quickly to hear the full tale of Robyn's experiences on her mission of reconnaissance. He bit back a question about the timing of Newt's encounter with the queen, fearing he had already overloaded the tiny serpent's recollection. "But Cambro-how many days ago was it that the firbolgs came?"
"Oh, lots," Newt said breezily. "But I knew you'd be coming along."
The king realized that the faerie dragon was being as specific as he could. Newt wasn't the one to provide precise details or painstaking answers