Then came the summer storm, boiling upward in the late afternoon, forming looming black thunderheads, dark and ominous even as the slanting rays of the sun outlined them in detailed relief. Within fifteen minutes the air whipped itself into a fury, howling down at them from the north with sudden rage and irresistible force. Winds lashed the formerly placid sea into a frothing maelstrom of angry, white-capped swells. Spray stung the young captain's eyes, blinding his crewmen too as the veteran sailors crouched in the hull. With the sail trimmed to a small square of canvas, Brandon squinted to the east.
He knew that the rocky shore of Oman's Isle lay somewhere in the murk, but he didn't know how close-so quickly had the waves and wind enclosed and blinded them. Yet he well remembered that this stretch of coast had few sheltered bays, and many long expanses of fang-toothed boulders and precipitous granite cliffs. They would find only disaster if they drew too close to the island.
'We've got to turn and run with the wind!' bellowed Knaff the Elder, Brandon's veteran helmsman. Now he clenched the tiller in his muscular hands as spray lashed his long gray hair back from his head, plastering his beard to his broad chest. He grinned in savage delight at nature's wrath, yet he was too good a sailor to want to risk the ship and crew in such an unequal contest.
Brandon's eyes swung to the north, bitterly reflecting the slow pace of their advance. An hour or two of running before this storm would cost them more than a day's worth of progress. He saw the stocky figure of Tavish, crouched behind the figurehead and staring at the spuming sea. If the bard hadn't been forced to take cover, the gods curse him if Brandon Olafsson would do so!
'Ride her out!' he commanded, squinting into the wind as if to prove that the gale was no match for a northman's determination.
Waves climbed before them, looming like mountains on the horizon, then crashing along the sleek hull. Skillfully Knaff steered between the crests wherever possible, and when the longship had to take a wave full upon her prow he guided her with stoic courage straight into the foaming teeth of the breakers.
The Princess of Moonshae wallowed up a steeply sloping wave, barely cresting the summit before a chaotic swirl of spray thundered around them, over the gunwales and washing down the length of the hull. Northman sailors, already bailing frantically, redoubled their efforts. Many cast wary eyes at their prince, wondering whether their captain's grim determination to proceed would prove the death of them all.
But even Brandon eventually had to face the inevitable. The wind drove at them too hard, the waves loomed too high, for the ship to maintain the steady northward course. Cursing silently against the gods that thwarted him, he shook his head in fury.
'All right!' he assented grimly. 'Bring her around as soon as you can!'
A series of rolling crests tumbled past them and Knaff held the Princess steady through the succession of powerful blows. Then, spotting a momentary lull, he heeled hard on the rudder, bringing the sleek longship through a slashing turn on the inside of a rolling trough of seawater. The vessel lurched sickeningly on her beam, but then a quick adjustment by Knaff righted her atop a breaking crest.
Meanwhile, Tavish had backed away from the prow and settled herself on one of the rowing benches, keeping a secure grasp around a nearby thwart. The seas must have gotten too rough for her, the captain mused, deriving some satisfaction from the fact. He realized, then, that his rash course had been a foolish mistake, brought on by his own desire to confront the feelings that stormed within him. Just as well we turned, Brandon grunted to himself-imagine risking the lives of his crew, the survival of his ship, out of the brooding and longing for a Ffolkwoman!
But now the ship rode with the storm, not against it, and the waves rolled away from beneath the sturdy hull. Sliding forward with dizzying speed, the ship raced southward, propelled by the wind and the storm and careening across the choppy surface.
Full dark settled around them, and the storm's fury lasted for several more hours-hours during which the Princess of Moonshae raced with the wind, riding the pitching waves with elegant grace. For a time the strains of Tavish's harp accompanied them through the night, but finally the bard fell into a deep slumber. The ship raced on, surrounded now only by the sounds of the crashing sea.
Yet, as Brandon had feared, the miles swept by with dizzying speed. Though the storm faded into a stiff blow during the middle of the night, there was no longer any question of turning and challenging the wind-in the inky darkness, that would almost certainly prove to be a suicidal course.
Finally a gray light began to diffuse through the mist. A break in the clouds came with the dawn, and Brandon cursed when he saw the Icepeak, now laying far to the stern as it emerged from a low-hanging blanket of clouds. And still the wind blew from the north, blocking any serious attempt to return to their original course.
'The sea stands against us,' Knaff noted, with a grunted acknowledgement of the prince's frustration.
'Aye,' Brand muttered bitterly. He knew these isles, and knew that the direct route home was not a good path for this trip.
'Mark a course to the east,' he said after a few moments consideration. 'We'll take her through the Strait of Oman.'
That route, known from many voyages to each of the veteran sailors, offered good shelter from a northerly gale, and although it represented an increase in distance, the overall time of the voyage could be reduced.
'Wise choice,' Knaff announced in hearty acknowledgment.
Since the Princess of Moonshae had already passed the southern terminus of Oman's Isle, the helmsman immediately veered her to an easterly bearing. Within a few minutes, the swells around them grew noticeably smaller, with tops of steely gray or green rather than the angry whitecaps of the storm.
Only then did the crewmen breathe a collective sigh of relief, knowing they had at last entered the sheltered waters of the Strait of Oman.
In the night, Deirdre grew restless, rising and pacing her rooms like a caged animal. She cast a spell of silence around her, for she knew that her mother slept lightly in the next room. That was part of her tension, she knew. She felt trapped by the overweening presence of the druid queen.
Again she thought of her father, riding alone across Gwynneth against the forces of chaos. She felt like one of those forces, a powerful instrument, perhaps even a weapon, poised and ready for use.
And in the spirit of chaos, she had no idea of which way her weapon-herself-would strike.
'Now, my deadly blade. . now you grow finely honed, almost ready to strike….'
Talos chortled, sound gurgling like the seething of a volcanic caldron. The god of chaos and evil saw that his vengeance was near, yet for once, his attention was not directed at the princess who slowly prepared to serve him.
Instead, his delight was fixed upon a darkened forest clearing. There, repeating a ritual he had begun to master, a hulking troll raised a great axe and deliberately sliced off the fingers of his two hands.
7
Thurgol stood atop the same low hill from which he had first observed the human town and its sheltered bay. Though he stood in plain sight of the town, all the firbolgs of his army were gathered close behind, concealed from view and lolling in the morning shade as they awaited their chieftain's command.
Below Thurgol, spreading into six broad columns of about two dozen apiece, Baatlrap's trolls marched steadily toward the village. On his lofty vantage, the giant chieftain was stunned by the multitude of his green- skinned allies. Where had they all come from? They crossed green swaths of crops, leaving great brown trails in the dirt as their clawed feet chewed up the moist dirt and mashed wheat, alfalfa, and corn into mud. The wolfdogs paced eagerly at their heels.
The humans in the village, he saw, reacted predictably to the appearance of the trolls. With no wall to protect them, they gathered into companies and advanced quickly to meet the approaching trolls. The giant-kin saw people scrambling through the streets, racing this way and that. The knights stumbled to their horses and mounted,
