guards came lumbering back to Thurgol, panting with excitement.
'Humans! Houses! Cows!' he gasped, his meaty face flushing as he came to a skidding stop before his chieftain.
'Slow down! Where? How many? Did they see you?' demanded Thurgol, fingering his club in agitation.
'Up ahead-we not seen! Hide in bushes to watch. Some men plow in fields. One bangs a hammer against metal.'
'How many houses?' pressed the chieftain.
'Dunno. Maybe five or eight.'
'Good they didn't see you,' he told the young giant, clapping him on the shoulder. Thurgol considered the options. Obviously they had passed from Myrloch Vale into the fringes of populated country. He knew that there weren't any large towns in this part of Gwynneth, but he didn't know how many villages they'd be likely to encounter. Since they hadn't yet been discovered, it seemed logical to skirt this village and try to put off the initial encounter as long as possible. After all, their goal wasn't to plunder and kill, but to cross the Strait of Oman and return the Silverhaft Axe to the Icepeak. It seemed sensible to delay their initial encounters with humankind for as long as possible. Yes, he decided firmly, this was a wise decision: They could circumvent this settlement by passing around it in the forest.
His self-congratulations were interrupted just then by shrill screams, terrified human voices raised in wails of ultimate horror. In the seconds that followed, the screaming voices ceased one by one, each abruptly silenced.
Bellowing inarticulately in his rage, Thurgol lumbered forward, quickly breaking into a plowed field. Before him, he saw the quaint wooden houses, surrounded by gardens and a few tall trees. Among the trees, large figures moved.
Trolls!
Most of the monsters were hunched over motionless figures on the ground, though a few raised bloodstained muzzles to regard the ranting firbolg charging toward them with impassive eyes.
At first glance, Thurgol counted a dozen of the brutes, and then he understood. The company of trolls that had ranged freely through the woods had come upon these humans and attacked, without waiting to report their discovery to Thurgol, or even Baatlrap.
'Good quick fight, huh?' grunted the latter as he loped up to Thurgol's side. 'Good eats.' Unlike the firbolgs, trolls commonly devoured the flesh of their human and demihuman victims.
But Thurgol was in no mood to debate differences in dietary etiquette. 'Stupid fools! We don't need war with humans-just to carry axe through here!'
Baatlrap stopped in his tracks. The shadowy spots of eyes, beneath the overhanging brows of knobby green skin, seemed to smolder at the firbolg chieftain. 'We fight-and kill-when we find enemies!' he snarled.
Furiously Thurgol swung his club at the troll, but Baatlrap blocked the blow with his hands. The force of the attack shoved the monster back several steps, and Thurgol heard bones snap. But Baatlrap still faced the giant-kin boldly. The two creatures stood eye to eye, and for a moment, Thurgol trembled with an almost irresistible desire to savagely attack the arrogant troll.
He noticed that several more of the gangly predators had collected around the pair of them, however. A few firbolgs had followed him from the forest, but they were significantly outnumbered at the moment. Forcing his muscles to obey his will, Thurgol lowered his club.
The plaintive bleating of sheep came to the chieftain's ears. Now the trolls butchered the farm animals! 'Save cows and horses!' he shouted as a pair of trolls pursued a lumbering draft horse through the field. At least they could use some of the unfortunate creatures as beasts of burden, instead of killing them all and gaining far more fresh meat than they could possibly carry along.
With grudging satisfaction, he saw the two trolls seize the horse around the neck and drag the kicking creature toward the barn. At least he had some authority left.
Trying unsuccessfully to regard that small triumph as a victory, he turned his back on the scene of massacre and returned to his troops.
As soon as she reached the skies over the great lake, Robyn sensed that something was indeed wrong in Myrloch Vale. The High Queen soared almost effortlessly in the body of the great white hawk. Her eyes, keen beyond human conception, studied each leaf, each shady bower and rock-bound grotto in the valley sprawled around her.
The vista below appeared to be as pristine, as vibrantly healthful, as she could have hoped. Crystalline lake waters glistened in the light of the sun, and even the dank fenlands lay beneath a dense blanket of verdure. Tall pines waved their crowns proudly in a fresh breeze, and in places where the forest opened into meadow, dazzling wildflowers gleamed like priceless gems in a carefully crafted setting.
Yet something intangible, invisible to sight and sound and even smell, lingered in the air around her, telling her that violence had indeed invaded this place. As distressing as the discovery itself was the knowledge that she had not realized this fact earlier, even though Corwell was but a short distance-as the goddess reckoned distance- from this, the heartland of the Earthmother's realm.
She dove, building up tremendous speed and skimming within a few feet of the water's surface. Huge lake trout dove away from her shadow, but she ignored the prey, intent upon her mission. Nothing unnatural disturbed the waters, and soon she soared upward to crest the woodlands at the lake's northern shore. For hours she swept across the vast wilderness, still tormented by her earlier sense of distress and even more agitated by the fact that she could not more specifically identify it.
The coming of darkness surprised her and finally drew her down to the earth, where she landed in a forest of shadow. Shifting her shape as she touched the ground, she stood once again as a human woman, feet planted firmly beneath her.
But more than merely human, she was a druid-a druid who stood upon the most sacred earth known to her faith. The land welcomed her, and she felt strongly the blessings of the goddess. Yet still the sense of danger lingered, though with no more precise indication than before.
Guiding herself by scent and touch more than sight, since the forest was nearly fully dark around her, she found several ripe apples. She had brought some aged cheese, but preferred to save that for an emergency. The druid made a pleasant supper of the fruit, and finally she curled in a grassy bower to sleep until dawn.
She awakened before then, however, sitting upright with a start. An irresistible feeling came over her, a feeling that she was not alone.
'Who is it?' she hissed into the darkness, sniffing the air and listening for any sound. She heard a faint fluttering sound, as of wings beating quickly in the air.
'I get to ask that! Who is it?' The squeaking voice brought a wave of relief washing over Robyn, even as she wanted to reach out and strangle a scrawny neck for the fright she had felt.
'Newt!' she cried with a laugh, giving up her irritation in an instant. 'How did you find me?'
'How many white hawks do you think we have out here, anyway? And how many humans camping on a pile of Corwellian sharp cheese? Downwind, I could smell it from miles away! Say, that's the aged one, isn't it? I remember the taste … a nice bite, just a little aftertaste….'
'Here!' Robyn said, still laughing. She reached into her pouch and pulled out a block of the cheese. 'But first I have to see you!'
Immediately a soft light diffused Robyn's bower, coming from no place in particular. In another instant, a small, lizard-like creature popped into sight, hovering in the air before the druid queen.
The first thing Robyn saw about Newt, as always, was that wide, toothy grin that always seemed to extend farther to the sides than the width of his head. The faerie dragon was bright pink in color, reflecting his happiness at meeting his old friend, his hummingbird wings buzzing audibly now as he slowly settled to the ground.
No more than three feet in length, and nearly half of that was tail, Newt's body was nevertheless a reasonable approximation, in miniature, of a dragon's. Tiny scales coated him, except for his gossamer wings, and his face-perhaps in part because of its size-consistently bore a far more cheerful expression than one typically associated with the greater wyrms.
Now, resting on his haunches so that he could hold the cheese with both his forepaws, Newt busily stuffed the food into his mouth. Soon his cheeks bulged outward, and then he paused to chew contentedly. Robyn, relaxing again, let her old friend enjoy his repast. She had many questions for him, but she knew better than to press Newt
