Prophet of Moonshae

Thus it was that when Sigurd the fisherman returned from a voyage that had taken him far beyond the sheltered waters of Salmon Bay, frantically racing ashore and shouting an alarm, Brandon had been among the first to gather in his father's great lodge. Soon the rest of the warriors gathered, and the king had taken his great oaken throne, the chair that was cloaked in bearskins and stood beneath the head of the sea dragon Svenyird had slain in his younger days. Heavy beams supported the wood-shingled roof, and thick traces of smoke curled eternally among the rafters. This was a dark and sweat-stained place, a manly place.

The northmen waited impatiently as Sigurd cleared his throat, timing the opening of his tale with meticulous care.

'I set sail, near a fortnight hence now, to catch the salmon schools,' Sigurd began, finally satisfied that he had his audience's attention. 'Followed the coast north, I did-but the gales! They came and they swept me from the bay! My friends, I fought those waves as our great king must once have struggled with yon sea dragon!'

The fisherman paused to allow his listeners to look at the mounted dragon head. He waited, allowing the heroic image to form in their minds.

'I ran before the storm-used nothin' more than a coupla scraps of canvas on my mast. Before I knew it, the rocks of the archipelago loomed ahead of me-gray death, as you all well know! But if I passed them, nothing but two thousand miles of ice-flecked water waited for me.

'Well, my brave friends, my choice was simple, and it was no choice at all. I ran for the lee side of one of them rockpiles and just managed to slip into a tiny cove. There, I tell you true, I thought my troubles were over!'

Once again Sigurd paused, his last words hanging in the air. Now the northmen leaned forward with almost palpable tension.

'I know the isle. So do many of you. We have kin there, and I thought sure someone would come to meet me. But no one did, and at last I set out to look around. Near to where I touched shore were several huts, and these I went to visit.' Sigurd looked full into the eyes of the king.

'I approached with caution, sire, feeling the presence of a great evil lurking somewhere within the mist and fog,' Sigurd explained carefully.

'Yes, man-tell the tale!' barked the king, sharing the tension that had spread about the room like a smoky incense.

'Strangely, the door of the hut stood open. I entered, calling aloud for one who might live there, but there was no answer.'

Sigurd cast his pale eyes, set in the midst of a face weathered for many years by the lashing of the sea, around the room. The northmen's attention was rapt.

'Each of the houses, sire, I entered-and found no one. Finally I came upon a dwelling-I had previously thought it to be a pile of wreckage-and discovered charred timbers. Within, there were four bodies-a man, a woman, two children.'

A growl passed around the lodge, rumbled from a hundred warlike hearts. Sigurd paused again, his expression smug.

'Well, my lord, caring little for my own safety, I pressed onward. I found another village-a dozen houses by a larger cove. These, too, were empty, several destroyed. I noticed other things, then. Their boats were still there, apparently at rest along the shore. When I looked closely, I found that the hull of each had been holed. They were useless!

'Here, too, I found bodies in the burned huts. But more-at one of them, I found these!'

Now Sigurd raised the pouch he had worn at his side throughout his tale. Reaching within, he pulled forth an object of steel and several circular shapes of bronze.

'A broken sword, sire-and see, here? The hilt bears the mark of Callidyrr!'

The growls surged upward in force, becoming hoarse cries of outrage. Some warriors stamped their feet, while others shouted their fury.

'Treachery!'

'Betrayal!'

'War!'

'Aye!' Sigurd continued, raising the bronze circles. He had one other bracelet, of gold, but that he would keep hidden from the eyes of all the others, knowing his king would claim it as his due if he but saw it.

The fisherman concluded with a dramatic flourish. 'A neck torque and a warrior's bracelet. They bear the symbols of the Ffolk!'

Now Brandon of Gnarhelm stood on his feet. In his hand, he held his keen steel axe, raised high over his head. 'Northmen of Gnarhelm!' he cried. 'We cannot let this treachery pass unavenged! Follow me to war! We shall take this butchery of the Ffolk and return it to Callidyrr tenfold!'

The rest of his words vanished, lost in the thunderous accolade of his warrior kin.

Earl Blackstone led them into the mountains on horseback, up a winding and rock-strewn trail. Alicia, Tavish, and Keane accompanied the nobleman and his second son, Sir Hanrald, as well as a squad of mounted men-at- arms. Sir Gwyeth, the elder son, had not ventured into the hall that morning. Alicia thought that the bluff knight still suffered from the humiliation of the previous night. In any event, she had not minded his absence in the slightest.

The day was chill, the sky leaden, but at least there was no rain.

'Why such protection?' Alicia had asked, indicating the dozen swordsmen.

'Gold,' the earl replied simply. 'It does strange things to men. Though we carry none with us, the effects of its presence in these hills cannot be ignored. The hills aren't safe from bandits now that there is wealth about.'

'Besides,' Hanrald added, with a gruff look at Keane, 'despite my brother's boasts, a few trolls and the like remain at large in these hills.'

'Yes, well-that bit of knowledge should keep me from slumbering in my saddle,' Keane said, acknowledging the obscure apology. Alicia decided that perhaps Hanrald was not quite the boor that his brother was.

She rode beside the earl's son on the trail, and as the horses carried them easily along, she turned to him. 'Your father told us in Callidyrr about the madman that came to your estate. I wonder-had he ever been seen around here before?'

Hanrald shook his gruff, black-maned head. 'Not before that night. The raving fool was some dark sorcerer, I think. May the gods curse his. .' He stopped suddenly. 'Forgive me, Princess. I am not used to polite conversation.'

'You don't offend me,' Alicia told him. 'I know, too, that your brother perished on that night.'

'Aye. Currag and I had our differences, but he didn't deserve that! I believe it was the stranger's sorcery that drove him to his death!'

Alicia thought Hanrald's remark about his brother a curious one. She remembered the young noble's earlier answer. 'You said he hadn't been seen before that night. Do you mean that he was seen prior to his arrival at the estate?'

'Indeed, Princess.' Hanrald gave her a gruff smile. 'In the cantrev itself-Blackstone, as we learned later. He shuffled along the main street and went into each of the taverns there. Got himself thrown out of each one, too!'

'What did he do to bring that about?'

'The same thing he did at Caer Blackstone-he threatened everyone with doom, told them they were all going to die. Called these miners 'corrupters of the land,' or some such nonsense. I don't know if you've seen the men and dwarves who work our mines, Lady, but they're a rough and snarly lot. Talking to them like that is asking for a beating, or worse.'

'Did they? Beat him, that is-or just throw him into the street?' Alicia was curious about this mysterious stranger, and Hanrald seemed to know more about him than anyone else she had talked to.

'Kind of funny, that. From what I hear, no one hurt him-just 'encouraged' him to move on. You know, it never struck me before how odd that is, but some of those fellows would just as soon slit a man's throat as talk to him.'

'Does anyone know where he came from?'