Prophet of Moonshae

'Fools! Imbeciles! I send you to do a simple task, and you fail because of pestering insects!' Gwyeth sputtered at his men-at-arms, his fury flecking spittle from his lips.

The six guardsmen quailed in the face of his rage, but none of them preferred a return to the onslaught of the giant bees, which had become hornets in their slightly exaggerated version of the incident.

'My lord!' objected a burly veteran, Backar. 'They were the size of eagles, and they set upon us unnaturally!'

'Indeed, lord!' protested another. 'And we fought like heroes, but the venom dripped from their stingers! They numbered in the hundreds, to be sure!'

'Only when we fled the vale altogether did the bewitchment cease!' Still a third guardsman spoke up, striving to divert the nobleman's rage.

Gwyeth stalked back and forth in the earldom's hall. He was glad that his brother was absent, but he desired his father's counsel. Unfortunately, the earl had ridden to Callidyrr several days ago, and thus his son would have to make the decision.

Then he remembered: Pryat Wentfeld, the cleric of Helm who had tended his arm. He barked an order to summon the good priest, and then he sat before the great fireplace and fumed while he waited for the man to attend him.

'Your lordship requested my presence?' asked the cleric less than an hour later, as he humbly bowed and entered the Great Hall. He wore a rich gown of gold-embroidered silk, and his round face was clean-shaven and well scrubbed. His eyes were small, but they sparkled with curiosity as he regarded the young heir to the duchy.

'Indeed. First I thank you for the skills you employed in tending my wound.'

'It is always an honor to serve the house of Blackstone,' replied the Pryat smoothly. Gwyeth knew full well that, after Wentfeld's second visit, his father had sent the cleric away with a bulging sack of gold. 'I trust your shoulder has returned to full strength, or will soon?'

'Aye,' grunted Gwyeth, raising his arm and passing it through a swing forward and rear. 'As good as ever, I'll swear.'

'Splendid!' The priest waited, sensing that the young nobleman had other business on his mind.

'I would speak with you on a matter you brought up with my father the night you first tended my wound.'

'Indeed.' The cleric smiled thinly. 'You speak, I presume, of the pond, the so-called 'Moonwell' that has undergone some kind of-obviously illusionary-transformation?'

'Yes, precisely.' Gwyeth was relieved that the cleric understood, and he poured out his frustrating tale. 'I sent six veteran guardsmen there to begin the destruction as my father ordered-orders grown from your suggestion, to be sure. They were to fell the cedars and form a pile of the brush, burning what was not useful and sending horses to drag the good lumber back to the cantrev. I know them all to be steady men, courageous in battle.

'They reached the pond and encountered pilgrims who, as you suspected, accredited the place with some kind of miracle. The rabble did not stand in their way.'

'Naturally not.'

'However,' Gwyeth continued, his tone dropping grimly, 'the guardsmen claim to have been set upon by a giant swarm of stinging insects, creatures that drove them from the valley with great violence, though none of the cowards could show me so much as a bee sting!'

'There must be some germ of truth to the tale,' observed the cleric, 'else they would not have invented it, knowing there to be witnesses.'

'That thought had occurred to me as well,' Gwyeth agreed unhappily.

'But that proves nothing, save that magic is at work in that mountain vale,' continued the pryat, undaunted.

'And how can we combat such a presence?' demanded the lord, exasperated.

'I'll prepare a salve that will render the men proof against the attacks of insects and like creatures,' mused the cleric. 'Though who knows if they will be threatened in a similar manner again…' His voice trailed off and his face tightened, as if he was deep in thought.

'I was hoping that you could accompany a band of men, led by myself, to the place,' suggested Gwyeth.

Wentfeld looked shocked. 'Begging my lord's pardon, but a day away from my ministries is a burden to impose upon my apprentices,' he explained, shaking his head firmly. 'And a costly one, since the oafs do little more than to squander the donations that I strive so diligently to collect.' The pryat sighed heavily, the picture of dejection.

'Perhaps the loss to your coffers could be … compensated,' Gwyeth said, galled but pragmatic.

He gritted his teeth to hide his anger as he saw the cleric's aspect brighten. Someday, he vowed silently, when the earldom was his, he would see that this gross imbalance of power was rectified. The clerics should serve their lords, not extort from them. Trying to keep his face blank, he listened.

'Oh, my lord-of course it is not necessary, but if in fact the financial health of my temple could be maintained, I should be only too willing to embark upon this task with you and remain until the work has been done.'

'Very well,' said the young lord, relieved in spite of himself to have the cleric's help. 'Go and make your arrangements. We'll journey to the well tomorrow-myself, you, and half a hundred of my men-at-arms!'

The war-horse trotted up the mountain track. Each huge, white-fetlocked hoof plodded forward with strength and determination, as if the great steed did not acknowledge the hampering effects of weather or terrain. Astride the deep saddle, the knight held his lance high and cast his dark eyes this way and that, in search of any sign of the princess or her companions. The blue silk trappings of both horse and rider were now muddy and soaked, dripping with the steady rain that continued to drench them.

Hanrald had ridden for two days, combing the most rugged country on Alaron. Alas for him, he was no ranger. He crossed the trail of the princess and her escort of two hundred northmen on several occasions, but in each case, he mistook the spoor for a goat track.

For hours, the huge stallion cantered along high crests or thundered through wide, shallow valleys. Hanrald reined in at the highest places, and, his visor raised, peered into the distance in all directions, searching to the limits of his vision across the mist-obscured highland. When nothing moved within his field of view, he spurred the steed onward, lumbering through the next valley at an easy gait and then charging up another ridge, where he paused and again searched the land to the far horizons.

Finally, atop a grassy rise that dropped gradually into a pastoral vale, Hanrald caught a glimpse of something moving. A greenish shape dropped behind a rock, as if something had caught sight of the knight at the same time as the rider looked below. Bordering the grassy expanse, a shallow stream meandered with bucolic contentment.

Urging the horse into a gallop, he lowered his lance and set it to rest in the crook of his arm. The hackles of his neck bristled with an instinctive sense of warning. He felt an unspeakable menace in this hulking shape that had so swiftly taken shelter.

Nearing the rock, he reined in, and as the horse reared backward, he shouted at the mass of granite. 'Ho, varlet! Come out from there or face the steel of my lance!'

The knight didn't flinch at the horror that arose from behind the rock, but he recognized immediately that he was about to fight for his life. The thing stood more than eight feet tall, covered all over in green skin that was slick with slime in some places, in others grotesque with patches of great, hairy warts. Vaguely humanoid in shape, though the arms and legs were unnaturally long and gnarled, the beast glared at Hanrald, its visage grotesque. Two eyes, sunk deep into shadowed sockets of black, stared outward at him, as emotionless as the gaze of an adder.

A troll! The vicious predator was worthy prey for any knight. Hanrald's heart pumped with the prospect of action.

Raising its two hands, each of which ended in four long, wickedly curving claws, the creature stepped from behind the rock. Its jaw gaped slightly, a caricature of a gleeful grin, revealing rows of needlelike fangs.

'Come, monster!' shouted Hanrald, flipping his visor down to cover his face. 'Come and face your death!'