The Druid Queen - Douglas Niles [87]
"Baatlrap won't be happy," the chieftain remarked with a deep chuckle. Then he shook his head in regret. "Still, I only wish he'd stay dead. When we get back, he'll be trouble."
Garisa looked intently at the sturdy firbolg who was the chieftain of her lifelong village. He still seemed a callow youth in some ways, but she had to admit that his leadership had been steady and forthright in bringing them this far. She honestly liked Thurgol-liked him enough that she couldn't bring herself to tell him that she didn't think they'd ever be going home again.
That feeling had been growing steadily in her mind, solidifying, it seemed, with each night's sleep, each day's progress in their march to the north. It wasn't a feeling that she sought or desired. More to the point, as they had left Myrloch Vale behind, she had been possessed by a sense of melancholy, as if a powerful voice within told her that she looked on the trees and blossoms of that favored place for the last time.
Now, as the coastline of Gwynneth itself fell away, as she took the first waterborne voyage of her life, Garisa couldn't suppress this wistful conclusion. Of course, if she was right, that meant that Baatlrap wouldn't be a problem for them at any time in the foreseeable future, and that was a fact she could welcome with something like genuine enthusiasm.
"Trolls are no good for us anyway. More trouble than they're worth," she observed. "They make the humans too mad. You wait. Soon comes an army to chase them down."
"What army?" growled Thurgol, looking at the shore behind them. He had begun to assume that his force was the greatest army in the Moonshaes, but Garisa's reminder made him remember that was not the case.
"King's army, probably. Maybe dwarves. Who knows?" Garisa said with a shrug.
"Northmen, too," observed Thurgol. For the first time, he wondered about the odd chance that had brought the crew of this vessel to the aid of Codscove. Twenty years earlier, the firbolgs had allied themselves with the long-haired raiders of the sea, both groups waging war against the Ffolk. Yet here were the sons of those same men, sailing up to a battle and joining in on the side of their former enemies against their allies of that same campaign!
"Northmen come after us," Garisa suggested. "We got their ship. They won't like it."
"Yup," Thurgol agreed.
He wondered what kinds of men-what nature of enemy-they would find upon Oman's Isle. Looking forward, he saw that the sunset now cloaked the Icepeak in a mantle of rich purple light, while the lands below it and the sea around them had all fallen into shadow.
The moving scene seemed heavy with promise, certainly magical in its potential. The picture lingered before his eyes for almost another hour, until the last rays of sunlight vanished from the world, and the outline of the Icepeak was silhouetted only by the stars.
* * * * *
Once more Robyn stood atop the high tower of Corwell, watching the stars break into the clear night sky. She longed to take wing, to fly across the isle and find her husband. His strange quest had unsettled her more with each passing day, until she could hardly stand to think about it.
Yet she had to content herself with the knowledge that Alicia and Keane rode on the king's trail, and the hope that they would reach him in time for… in time for what?
In time to save his life. A flicker of guilt rose within her as she realized that Tristan's life did loom as the most important thing. Her husband, her daughters, the people, and the cantrevs-these were the true joys of life. All of them, but most strongly her own family, formed for the queen the boundaries of her life, the factors that caused her joy and gave her purpose.
Yet there was still that guilt. Couldn't she serve her goddess and serve a family as well? She tried