himself to the king. 'I can remain but a short time. However, if you decide to acknowledge the clear will of Helm, I shall make every effort to assist you so that we can complete the matter which has brought me here in the first place.'
'There is no war-no army of monsters!' Robyn protested. 'You'll be wasting your time!'
Tristan looked up at her, and she saw the distress in his eyes, the despair at the notion that he, a proud warrior-king, would remain a cripple for the rest of his life. She also saw the stubborn determination that had brought him to his throne and held him so securely to the wise course the two of them had plotted for the Ffolk.
'Are you absolutely sure?' he asked. 'That there's no threat, no danger out there?'
She was sure, in her own mind, but again she saw that look of fear on her husband's face. It was a look she had seen very rarely, and now, as always before, it frightened her to think that Tristan was afraid. She couldn't increase that fear with a curt rejection of his hope.
'I don't know how it could be otherwise,' she said gently. 'But in order to make certain, I'll journey to the vale and see for myself. I hope your schedule will allow you to remain a day or two until my return,' she added in an icy tone to the Exalted Inquisitor.
'Of course,' he bowed, ignoring her manner. 'But isn't this valley some distance away? Can you journey there and back in two days?'
'Patriarchs of Helm,' Robyn concluded pointedly, 'are not the only persons of faith who can travel with speed.'
Her preparations were simple, and ten minutes later the High Queen bid her family farewell. She quickly climbed the steps of the high tower, acknowledging a tiny voice of alarm inside her, a voice that warned that the cleric of Helm might just possibly be right.
No! She would know if some evil disturbed the vale! Wouldn't she? Angrily but unsuccessfully, she tried to dispel the nagging doubt.
She reached the platform atop the tower and paused for a moment. Again the sweep of moor and firth spread below, but now the scene did not soothe her. Too many questions disturbed her mood as she stepped to the rim of the parapet.
Spreading her arms out wider, she toppled into the air.
Then a white hawk soared from the high tower, catching a powerful updraft and rising swiftly into the sky. The bird's course remained constantly northward, toward the wide valley of Myrloch.
Almost holding his breath in tense anticipation, Thurgol watched Garisa prepare for her foretelling. She had before her a smooth copper bowl, half filled with clear water. She sprinkled some dark dust into the bowl and stirred it with a grimy finger, smiling with satisfaction as the water dimmed to a murky brown.
She had placed the bowl beside the gleaming form of the Silverhaft Axe, explaining that the nearness of the artifact could only help the accuracy of the foretelling. In this she was right, for she had already decided what the prophecy was to be, and the weight of evidence provided by such a potent artifact, she knew, would make it virtually impossible for the thick-skulled firbolgs to dispute her.
'Now the gold,' she declared, holding out a hand behind her. Several young firbolgs hastened to drop shining coins in her hands, coins that had just been liberated from dwarven treasuries.
Beyond the bunch of eager giant-kin, a sullen group of trolls, naturally centered around Baatlrap, looked on in rank skepticism. Thurgol was relieved that his firbolgs outnumbered the gangly beasts. It would be just like trolls, he thought, to ignore the clear will of the gods, the will that Garisa would certainly reveal to them. Wolfdogs skulked restlessly around the periphery of the gathering, nervously sensing the giants' agitation. Growls and snarls accompanied their anxious pacing, the smaller dogs staying well out of the paths of their larger kin.
Before the fire, the shaman spun her fingers around the bowl, bringing the water into a swirling whirlpool that washed up the insides of the bowl without losing a drop over the edge. Eagerly the firbolg chieftain watched the coins plop, one by one, into the water.
'I see …' Garisa mumbled after three coins had plunked into the bowl.
'What? What?' Thurgol pressed, before his comrades rudely hushed him. To the chieftain, the water had seemed relatively unchanged, still dark in color but quickly swallowing the coins without any display of pyrotechnics or, so far as he could see, any message from a god.
Another coin plopped into the water, then another. 'More!' hissed Garisa, and her hand was once again filled with coins. She reached back into the water, stirring it faster and faster, dropping gold piece after gold piece into the swirling liquid until, by Thurgol's best estimate, perhaps twenty pieces of the precious metal lined the bottom of the bowl.
This was a small fortune by any firbolg's estimate, and he became increasingly worried about whatever command of the gods would require so much payment. And still Garisa stirred, while the trolls looked on with obvious scorn and secretly growing curiosity.
Finally all the second batch of coins had been dropped into the water, but this time the shaman did not demand more. Instead, she placed both hands in the water, stirring more diligently than ever, yet still taking great care to spill none of the enchanted liquid.
'I see the Silverhaft Axe-again!' she hissed, her voice taut with wonder. 'It glows like a beacon before us! It is the summoning agent of the gods, making their will known in the Realms. And beyond the great weapon, rising to the heavens themselves, I see the pristine summit of the Icepeak!'
Thurgol squinted. He, personally, could see nothing even vaguely resembling a weapon or a landform in the murky water, but he wasn't about to challenge his shaman over the clear will of the gods. Furiously he tried to consider the implications of Garisa's words, but he could fathom no meaning there.
Abruptly, in a sweeping gesture, the old female picked up the bowl and tossed the water over her shoulder, in the direction-no doubt inadvertently-of the skeptical trolls. Baatlrap cursed as he was thoroughly doused, but all other eyes remained fixed on Garisa.
The water was the only thing that had flown from the bowl! The gold coins remained in the bottom, lined up in a passable imitation of an arrow. The sign pointed in a clear direction, after Garisa set the bowl down on the ground, and even the dimmest troll or firbolg could understand its import.
For the arrow pointed straight north. There, across the stormy Strait of Oman, they all knew, rose the highland ridge and its crowning glory, the Icepeak.
'Grond Peaksmasher …' Garisa said slowly, so that her words rang in the ears of all who were present. 'He summons us northward in his hour of need.'
'Northward? Where?' mumbled Thurgol, scratching his head as he looked at the golden arrow. It certainly looked like an arrow, and no one could doubt the fact that it pointed to the north. But still there was much he didn't understand.
'We must journey to the Icepeak, bearing the Silverhaft Axe before us!' Garisa proclaimed. 'There we will find the Forger of Giants, frozen in the ice. Our task can only be to break him free!'
Even in the peaceful forest, Hanrald and Brigit noticed that Finellen's dwarves took careful precautions with their camp. For one thing, it was screened on all sides, concealed in a shallow, bowl-shaped depression and protected by thick stands of pines. Even a large blaze would have been well shielded, yet the dwarves burned small fires, feeding just enough fuel to build up a solid bed of coals for cooking and, later, to produce such warmth as the summer wilderness required.
Dwarves were common enough in the mining cantrev of Blackstone, Hanrald's home, but the young earl found the warriors of Finellen's band to be quite different from those familiar and cantankerous folk. The dwarves of Myrloch moved through the woods like beings who belonged there. They left little sign of their passage, and even their camp was a neatly arranged gathering, organized so as not to destroy several gardenlike clumps of columbine and bluebells.
'Is this just routine, or are you worried about something?' Hanrald asked Finellen, gesturing to the pairs of crossbow-armed lookouts posted around the camp.
'I just like to be careful,' replied the gruff commander, whose manner had begun to soften under the influence of a good meal-exceptionally tender venison, Hanrald had been pleased to discover-and the flask of sour rum that the earl and the dwarf had begun to share.
