Brigit's initial hostility had relaxed to something like guarded neutrality. Still, she said little during the meal and did not partake of the potent beverage.
'Actually,' Finellen continued, 'we haven't had any trouble for quite some time now. Old habits die hard, I guess. Why, back when I was young, there were bands of firbolgs in these heights that would get together and attack every few years. Life was interesting, then….'
'My father told the same kind of stories about the Fairheight Mountains,' Hanrald agreed.
'Now we're lucky if we find an outlaw troll or two during the course of a year. Why, it's getting so a dwarf can't find an honest fight within a hundred miles!'
'I should think that would be cause for celebration,' Brigit said acidly, the memories of the Elf-Eater's rampage still fresh in her mind.
'Oh, I suppose it is,' Finellen agreed, without any trace of irritation. 'Still, a gal who would like to keep her hand in things needs a little practice. Unless you think our friend Tristan's going to live forever.'
'You know the High King?' asked Hanrald, astounded. He had never seen a dwarf anywhere near the Kendrick court.
'Knew him, I did,' Finellen replied. 'Let me see that flask. I don't want you to warm it too much with your big human hands.' She took the bottle and swallowed a long, gurgling draft. 'There, that's better.'
'Finellen commanded the dwarves who served your king during the Darkwalker War,' Brigit explained, less hostile than before. 'Their services were quite … useful in determining the final outcome.'
'Useful?' Finellen almost sputtered out a mouthful of sour, catching herself just in time to swallow before her outrage exploded. 'Why, we cut down more firbolgs than you see trees in this forest!' she proclaimed. 'And who stood in the trenches, holding the line, while the fancy-saddled riders pranced about on their horses and waited to steal all the glory?'
'I've heard tales of your valor,' Hanrald said soothingly, though Finellen was right about the glory. In the histories of the campaign as the earl had learned them, the Sisters of Synnoria, clad in silver armor and mounted on their white steeds, played a far more dramatic role than had the stolid dwarves.
'I didn't expect anything else, really,' Finellen groused good-naturedly. 'And I'll swear to this very day, it was worth putting up with our pointy-eared allies in order to put King Tristan on the throne! He's the best thing that's happened to these islands in four generations-that's four generations of dwarves!' the bearded warrior concluded pointedly. Hanrald understood that she meant a good four centuries.
'That he's been, for Ffolk and northman too,' the earl agreed. 'The Treaty of Oman has lasted for twenty years!'
'A brief spark of time,' Brigit noted, joining them beside the fire and finally taking a taste from Finellen's flask. 'Can his peace last a hundred years, or two hundred, when his life must end in mere decades?'
'Yes!' Hanrald pressed. 'Through his family, a dynasty that will carry the weight of his will and his wisdom, as well as that of his queen!'
'But who's to say that the ruler who follows will wield that might well?' countered the elf. It seemed to Hanrald as if she tried to debate contradictions within her own mind as much as with him.
'In Alicia, I believe the first-' Hanrald broke off in mid-sentence as a shadow of movement off to the side distracted him. He turned in astonishment to see a man standing at the very edge of their fireside.
Finellen cursed and sputtered, this time spitting the rum onto the fire so that it flashed brightly.
'Where did-how did you get here!' she demanded, bouncing to her feet and reaching for the axe at her side. Other dwarves shouted indignantly and reached for weapons, while the guards at the fringe of the camp began cursing each other for the lapse in diligence.
'Peace,' said the man, holding up his hands so that they could see he held no weapon. 'I come to speak with you, not to attack.'
'How did you get past my guards?' demanded the dwarven captain, still indignant.
'With the help of the goddess,' the fellow said quietly. 'I am Danrak, druid of Myrloch.'
The priest of nature was a nondescript man with long, carelessly tossed hair that was nevertheless full- grown and clean. No more than average size of frame, his shoulders were as broad as a wrestler's, and an unspoken grace and strength lurked in his body, visible even as he walked the few steps to the fire.
'It's all right,' Finellen assured her warriors, and the members of the band grudgingly returned to their own fires. She kept her eyes on the druid, however. 'Why was this necessary?'
'I had thought, under the circumstances, that your guards might be a little edgy. I preferred to speak with their captain before taking an arrow through any part of me.'
'Circumstances?' demanded Finellen. 'What circumstances?'
The druid's eyes widened in surprise-and something else. Sadness, Hanrald realized with a strong sense of foreboding.
'I–I'm sorry,' Danrak said, faltering for the first time.
'What is it, by the goddess?' stormed Finellen, trying unsuccessfully to keep her voice to a low hiss. The dwarven captain shared the earl's dire sensation of threat, Hanrald could tell.
'It's Cambro,' the druid said quietly. 'It was attacked yesterday by an army of firbolgs and trolls.'
Finellen sat in absolute silence for a moment, a silence that was as painful to Hanrald as a consuming explosion of temper. Finally she exhaled, a long, drawn-out breath that seemed to continue for the better part of a minute.
'How bad was it?' she asked, in a voice like the dull rasp of a saw.
'Many dwarves escaped-most, I think,' Danrak said. 'Though they left the village in the hands of the attackers. When I last observed the brutes, the night before yesterday, they were engaged in a bit of victory celebration.'
'I can imagine,' growled Finellen. 'We'd just poured the last three years' vintage from their aging to their storage casks. I'd guess they would have found plenty of them. Any prisoners?'
'None that I saw,' Danrak replied. 'And as I told you, many dwarves escaped with their lives-though not much more. I met a number of them in the woods.'
'Where are the dwarves now?'
'One of our order, Isolde, has taken them to various shelters in the Winterglen. They are safe there and have plenty of food and drink. Naturally they desire to return to their homes.'
'Why did I let myself get drawn away?' groaned Finellen, lowering her head dejectedly into her hands. 'I take the best warriors in the village and go off on some wild-goose chase, while the real threat is right in our own back yards!'
'It wasn't a wild-goose chase!' Hanrald interjected. 'I saw that Elf-Eater, and if it had gotten out of Synnoria, you'd have desperately needed fair notice!'
'He's right,' Brigit agreed, surprisingly sympathetic. 'You were wise to examine the threat that menaced Synnoria, just as I have every intention now of finding out about this so-called 'army' of firbolgs and trolls.'
'Are the bastards still in Cambro?' inquired the dwarf, only the deadly gleam in her eyes revealing her grim determination.
'I don't know. I was able to eavesdrop on some of their celebration. It seems that they plan to march north,' Danrak declared.
'Why, that'll take them right into the Winterglen!' barked Finellen, perceiving the peril to the refugee dwarves.
The druid, however, raised a calming hand. 'Your village-mates are well hidden-for the most part, in caves and the like. You don't need to worry about them, even if the beasts march within a dozen feet. More to the point, why do they go north?'
'There's nothing in their path except for a few tiny villages of Ffolk and northmen,' Brigit pictured, remembering Gwynneth's geography. 'Then they'll reach the Strait of Oman.'
'Perhaps they want to go for a swim,' Hanrald suggested wryly.
'Whatever it is, they've got to be hunted down and destroyed. I've got fifty brave dwarves here who've got just the axes for the job!'
Hanrald looked at Brigit with a raised eyebrow. 'As a loyal subject of my king, I'm duty-bound to find out what this is all about,' he declared.
'Better get some sleep, then,' warned Finellen. 'We'll be down the trail before first light.'
