Brigit shuddered at the memory, even as she felt a measure of relief. The Ityak-Ortheel, the Elf-Eater, had been a nightmarish intrusion into Synnoria, but it had finally been vanquished-with the help of her human companions. 'You're too late,' she said sharply. 'The matter was settled without the necessity of dwarven intervention!'
The dwarf shrugged. 'Well, it's been a long time since we marched on the war trail. You could say that we needed the practice-after all, it's been twenty years… Brigit.'
'Finellen?' The elfwoman's eyes narrowed suspiciously. 'I might have known it would be you!'
The dwarf laughed heartily. 'You might have, but you didn't! Ho-there's a good joke! We march against the Darkwalker together, practically put King Kendrick on his throne, and you don't even remember your old axemate!'
Brigit's attitude remained carefully aloof, but Hanrald sensed that the danger of immediate battle had passed. Indeed Finellen chuckled again, slinging her axe from her belt. 'We've got a camp a little ways away from here. That's where we were when we heard you coming, though we thought it might be a troop of giants, judging from the noise you made! Why don't you come and enjoy the hospitality of our fire?'
'That's the best invitation I've heard since the ambush!' Hanrald declared, with sincere relief. The two riders dismounted, and within a few minutes had been welcomed into the rude comfort of the dwarven camp.
The Exalted Inquisitor, as it turned out, hadn't been killed by the reaction to his spell-casting, but he had been very thoroughly stunned. Robyn was the first to realize that he still breathed, though she discovered this only after tending to her husband, who was dazed but apparently unhurt.
Five castle guardsmen were required to carry the hefty cleric to a bed, but finally he was situated comfortably, observed by a watchful maidservant, and covered against the evening's chill. The Kendricks and their companions returned to the library, where the High King lay on the couch, tended by anxious servants.
Tristan slowly recovered his tongue and his memories. 'All I remember,' he told his wife and daughter, 'is a very drowsy feeling. Hyath's chanting seemed like it was going to put me right under. Quite relaxing, too. I was having some very pleasant memories.
'The next thing I remember, it seemed as though I was trapped in the middle of a thunderstorm. I saw lightning and heard the pounding-in fact, the flash was so bright that I was blinded for a moment. The next thing I remember, you were both standing there, and the priest was stretched out on the floor.'
'But how?' demanded Alicia, frustrated. 'What happened?'
'That's what I want to know!' the king added, with a look at Robyn. 'What do you think?'
'This power, regeneration, is a thing of the New Gods,' Robyn said slowly and carefully. Suddenly her voice grew tight, and her eyes shone with unshed tears as she looked her husband full in the face. 'I was worried before, but now I'm terrified! This is a dangerous thing you try to do! Even the cleric of Helm doesn't have the power to control this magic. Please!' The plea was in her face as well as her words. 'Don't venture into these realms. Accept your wound in the name of the Balance!'
'It is not the 'cleric' who lacks power to control this magic!' The stern voice, barked from the doorway, drew their attention in an instant.
The Exalted Inquisitor entered the room, his gold-trimmed robe trailing behind him like a full rank of attendants. He fixed Robyn with a fast, icy glare, an expression she returned in full, before stepping to the side of the king's bed and kneeling.
'Your Majesty, I understand now. During my slumber, Helm blessed me with a vision. I know what must be done!'
'Wait a minute!' blurted Alicia. 'After what happened before? You don't mean you're going to try again?'
'Not immediately, no,' replied Hyath, smiling benignly at the princess-like a forgiving schoolteacher to a dull student, Alicia thought angrily. 'First there is something that must be done.'
'What? What is it?' demanded Tristan, flinging aside the covers. 'By the goddess, I don't need a sickbed!' he roared, climbing to his feet and crossing to one of the chairs before the hearth. 'Sit down and tell me what you want,' he said to the patriarch of Helm.
Robyn remained frozen in place, her face gone white with fear. Alicia crossed to her, angry with the priest but not understanding her mother's dire reaction. She sat beside her, taking her mother's hand.
'First there is a matter of honor and gratitude I would address.' He raised the silk-wrapped package that Keane had seen him carry into the flying chariot. 'It is a gift, if you will allow, from myself and, with your permission, from my god. It would please me greatly if it meets with your approval.'
Curious, Tristan took the long shape and rested it across his knees. Awkwardly, limited by his one hand, he pulled the silk away, unrolling it through several layers before he revealed a splendid sword and a smooth leather scabbard.
'By the Great Mother, this is a weapon worthy of a king,' Tristan breathed, his tone hushed and awestruck. He seized the gold-embossed hilt, which was narrow and sleek, sized for a single hand. Pulling slowly, he revealed inch after inch of silvery blade until the full expanse of keen steel, fully four feet long, came free of its leather sheath.
'I thank you, Patriarch,' Tristan said softly. He stood and flourished the blade, relishing the smooth balance, the slender length and deadly edge, as sharp as any razor. 'It is a blade I shall wear with pride.'
'And with which, no doubt, you'll strive to do what is right for your people and your land. That will is yours alone. I shall tell you only that the blade is blessed by the gods, and only through its use will their will be known.'
'A potent protection indeed,' Tristan said, turning back to regard the cleric shrewdly. 'Now tell me, priest, what is the nature of your vision?' asked the king, settling himself to listen.
'There is evil in your realm!' the cleric intoned firmly. 'My god requires-nay, demands-that this evil be rooted out and destroyed!'
'Name this evil!' snapped Tristan, not at all happy about anyone demanding anything from him. He slapped the sword back into its scabbard, though he still held the weapon comfortably across his knees.
'It is a force on this very island, marching to war through a valley around a great lake-'
'Myrloch!' Robyn whispered, her pulse quickening.
'Already they ravage the dwarves. Soon they will turn against humans, elves-all who would live in peace!' The cleric spoke intensely, staring into Tristan's eyes. 'It is an army that must be destroyed-destroyed by you!'
'What nonsense is this?' demanded the king, though his tone showed a trace of doubt. 'Who would dare disturb the peace of Myrloch Vale?'
'The vision showed me great, misshapen creatures-giants, with gnarled tree-trunk legs and low, sloping foreheads. They carried clubs and hurled boulders.'
'Firbolgs?' Tristan all but gasped. Since their defeat in the Darkwalker War twenty years ago, the few surviving giant-kin had withdrawn peacefully to their remote lairs, offering no disturbance. He stood in agitation, pacing to one end of the library before turning back to hear the Exalted Inquisitor continue detailing his vision.
'And other creatures were there, too-greenish of skin, with great noses and wicked talons. They, too, are monstrous, standing far taller than a man.'
'Trolls?' The king shook his head in amazement. 'It-it's preposterous!'
The cleric sat back and regarded the monarch silently.
'Why has there been no word? How long has this destruction been going on?'
Hyath shrugged. 'I have no way of knowing. Is this 'Myrloch Vale' a remote place? Perhaps there have been no survivors following the rampages of such villages as can be found there.'
'Not even any villages,' the king admitted with a shake of his head.
'But there are druids!' Robyn snapped, rising and crossing the room to confront the two men. She felt confident now that the discussion had turned to Myrloch Vale. After all, she had received her training in the druidic arts there, and no place was more sacred to the worship of the goddess Earthmother. It was a place that was more than a second home to her; it was the heart and soul of her goddess's spirit. 'And furthermore, if something threatened the sanctity of the vale, I would know it!'
The cleric didn't try to dispute her. Instead, he shrugged, a maddeningly casual expression, and directed
