The Druid Queen - Douglas Niles [75]
"So-we're going to thump those firbolgs, I bet!" Newt chirped, raising his neck to look forward past Shallot's streaming mane. Then, in a moment of puzzlement, he squinted and looked to the rear. "Didn't you bring an army with you?" he asked.
Another wave of chagrin washed over Tristan. "No," he admitted. "I came alone."
The faerie dragon's eyes widened in awe. "Wow! This is going to be some battle!"
Tristan shook his head. The fierce determination that had seized him following Robyn's report seemed like a strange dementia now. What had he been thinking? For a moment, he considered spinning the horse about, thundering back to Corwell, and mustering his army, but he immediately discarded that course of action as too time-consuming. He must be near the northern fringes of the vale by now, and he couldn't admit that all this time had been wasted.
Another reason nagged at him as well-pure, royal pride. It shamed him to think of his irrational behavior, and if he returned to Corwell, he would be forced to admit his realization before all the Ffolk of his kingdom. That wasn't something he could bring himself to do.
But why had he made this mistake? That question skirted the realm of his brain but wouldn't come into focus-at least, not now.
He tried to imagine the monster that had led the humanoids on their destructive course. A burning, almost mindless hatred seized the king as he pondered this unknown firbolg. What restless arrogance propelled him onto this destructive path? The lord of the marauding band became a focus of his rage, and Tristan forged an iron determination-one day that brute would die on his sword.
"Where's Cambro-how far away?" he asked, trying a different tack on the scatterbrained faerie dragon.
Again Newt looked at him, squinting like a tutor regarding a particularly thick-skulled pupil. "Cambro's in Myrloch Vale," he said precisely. "And you're in Myrloch Vale, too!"
"I know that!" declared the king, unable to entirely squelch his impatience. "But where in Myrloch Vale-how far from right here?"
"Oh, I don't know. It's over there somewhere." Newt gestured vaguely, but it was enough for the king. The faerie dragon had pointed to the southeast. Tristan realized that he had indeed traveled almost to the northern fringe of the vale. Perhaps he hadn't lost as much time as he'd feared.
"And the firbolgs?" the king pressed. "Do you know where they went from Cambro?"
"Nope," Newt replied, with a firm shake of his head. "Though I heard the humans talking about Winterglen."
That information, at least, was no less than the High Queen had reported when she returned from Myrloch Vale to the castle. "Which humans?" he asked, to confirm his suspicions.
"The ones Robyn talked to-the ones with the dwarves! Don't you pay attention at all?"
Tristan grimaced. He'd forgotten what a painstaking process it was to gain information from the scatterbrained faerie dragon, but-for now, at least-it proved well worth it.
"What about wolves-a wolf, anyway? Have you seen him?"
"I've seen lots of wolves!" Newt boasted. "Remember when the Darkwalker came to Corwell, and so did the wolves? Why, there were at least a thousand of them! The whole pack came running out of-"
"No! I mean wolves here, now!" blurted Tristan.
Newt looked around, his tiny eyes squinting. "Nope!" he announced, full of certainty. The king decided not to press the issue.
"We're riding to Winterglen," he announced casually. "Though I'd like to camp on Codsrun Creek tonight."
"Well, why didn't you say so?" huffed Newt. "That's way over there!" he added, pointing to the west. "Say, is that Corwellian cheese I smell?" inquired the little dragon, with a meaningful look at the king's bulging saddlebags.
With his position more or less triangulated, the king chuckled with a small measure of relief. Reaching back, he managed to pull a small morsel out of his saddlebag for Newt. "That'll have to last you until we stop for the night," he warned, knowing