before the firbolg finally lowered the weapon to the dock. No sound emerged from the unseen form at his feet. In fact, Tavish couldn't imagine that the troll was anything more than a gory pulp.
At once, the firbolg stumbled, and several of his fellows dashed forward to support him. Tavish saw a stooped old female firbolg, who nevertheless stood at least eight feet tall, step forward to dab something at the giant's wound. Red blood continued to gush from the small slice, and finally the healer insisted that the warrior lie down.
Tavish drew back into her niche, intrigued enough by the scene she had witnessed to forget momentarily the painful cramps that had once again started to numb her legs. There seemed to be precious little unity in this monstrous army, for unless her guess was way off the mark, she had just observed a battle between the leaders of separate factions.
She wondered what would happen next. The possibility of waiting until dark and then trying to slip onto the dock began to have its appeal. Perhaps she could get ashore and disappear into the night.
Sunset was still many hours away, however, when firbolg after firbolg began to climb into the ship. As the bard drew back from clumping, intrusive feet, she hardly dared to breathe, cringing against the backbreaking thwart and pressing as far as she could under the low overhanging bench. She forced herself to be absolutely silent. At the same time, she wanted to scream her dismay, for she had no doubt as to what was going on.
And in fact, a few minutes later, her suspicions proved correct. The firbolgs pushed the Princess of Moonshae away from the dock and floated toward the rolling waters of the Strait of Oman.
Princess Deirdre stalked through Corwell Town in the dark of the night, wearing the guise of her magic as an impenetrable disguise. Those who passed her saw nothing save a ripple in the blackness. Perhaps they felt a shiver of disquiet as they hurried on their way, rationally certain that there was nothing there, yet spiritually unconvinced.
Thus undiscovered, she entered the hutch of a farmyard, finding a proud rooster slumbering peacefully on his roost nearby. With a sharp twist of her hands, she wrung the bird's neck, quickly dropping the feathered body into her large leather sack.
Next she came upon a dog, slumbering before its master's doorstep. The screen of nothingness was so impermeable that the hound didn't sense the young woman's approach, nor did it see the keen dagger that slit the coarse fur of its throat. Withdrawing the dripping blade, the princess lowered a small cup, collecting the blood that flowed from the severed artery.
She repeated the ritual with a great draft horse that stood slumbering in a livery yard, gathering the dying steed's blood in a larger container. Finally, then, she was ready to return to the castle on the knoll, which she did on the wings of her magic, disdaining the winding road that climbed toward the gatehouse and fortress walls.
Settling her feet on the lofty parapet of those walls, she searched for the final element of her brew. Undisguised now, she came upon a pacing guard. The man bowed respectfully, so he didn't see the still-crimson blade dart outward. He fell silently, staring mute and uncomprehending at the young woman who stood over his bleeding corpse.
Her eyes shining in the darkness, Deirdre knelt and gathered the last sample of blood. Then, in a swirl of her dark cloak, she passed through a door and entered the darkened hallways of the keep.
'Splendid. . the components of might are in your hands, my daughter.' The immortal form of Talos twisted and heaved in anticipation. The princess of the Moonshaes was his now! He well knew that, with the striking of her dagger, she had forever turned her back on her people and their dying faith.
In his struggles, Talos had learned an important lesson-that the Earthmother must be struck away from the heart of her power, away from Myrloch Vale. Deirdre had begun that attack, gathering the vital tools of destruction. She would become a powerful agent of the New Gods, bringing the goddess to her knees in final defeat.
For that purpose, she would be linked to another tool. That one still slumbered to the north, but soon he would be awakened, emerging for his vengeance from the very shadow of the Icepeak.
The ultimate sword of chaos would be the demigod, Grond Peaksmasher, finally freed from his goddess- imposed confinement.
10
The muscular steed galloped like a pale ghost along the open floor of the forest, carrying her silver-armored rider beneath overhanging limbs and around large, moss-covered boulders. Brigit gave the fleet war-horse free rein, and the white Synnorian mare flew through misty meadows and dank, overgrown thickets.
Sensing, after several miles, the nearness of her destination, the elfwoman exerted slight pressure with her knees, bringing the mare's headlong race to a gentle, cautious trot. In another moment, a small figure emerged from the brush, and the horse, grown used to dwarves over the past week on the trail, reared back only slightly.
'We're too late,' Brigit announced tersely as Finellen and Hanrald came up behind the lead dwarf. 'They've taken Codscove even more quickly than we thought possible.'
The dwarven column gradually came into view behind the leaders. Hanrald led his great war-horse, while the dwarves, on foot, marched steadily along behind.
'What are they doing now?' asked the dwarven captain.
'It looks like they've started along the shore to the east. There are several small villages and at least one good-sized town in their path.'
'Damn!' spat Hanrald. 'We can't let them run wild!'
'Just what I've been sayin' for a week now,' grumbled Finellen. 'Weren't you the one who told me to wait for King Kendrick?'
Hanrald spun away in irritation. His mind whirled through conflicting pictures of his duty. On the one hand, the king was sure to come, with sufficient men-at-arms to confront the horde with a reasonable chance of success. As it was, they had a mere fourscore dwarves or so, coupled with a human earl and an elven sister knight-not a great prospect of victory in any thoughtful analysis.
Yet they had no indication of how long it would take the king's army to arrive on the scene, or how much damage the monstrous horde could inflict in the meantime. Indeed, they had expected Codscove to delay the beasts for several days, and instead, that prosperous hamlet had been ravaged in a few short hours.
'You're right-now, in any event,' muttered the proud earl, turning back to the stubborn dwarfwoman. 'I don't think we can afford to wait any longer.'
'Did you catch sight of the Silverhaft Axe?' Finellen queried.
'No-as much as I could see, they didn't have it with them.'
'Damn! What did a bunch of firbolgs want it for? Where did they take it?' the dwarf demanded.
'Speaking of firbolgs, I was surprised to see that there aren't that many giants in this horde-mostly trolls,' Brigit noted. 'The firbolgs are only a small fraction of the total army.'
'I don't care who took the axe,' Finellen snorted impatiently. 'I just want it back!'
'I'll ride toward the town and see if I can confirm their movements,' Brigit volunteered quickly. 'If they continue along the coast to the east, it might be that you can angle through Winterglen and gain some ground on them.'
'That would be too much of a risk-and besides, it's not necessary,' Finellen replied with a firm shake of her head. 'They've got to go east from Codscove. A march in the other direction would take them right into the middle of the biggest swamp on Gwynneth.'
'I remember,' Brigit agreed. 'At the mouth of Codsrun Creek, isn't it?'
'Yup. That little stream just disappears when it gets within fifteen miles of the shore. It turns into a morass of mud flat and fen. Not a road or track through the whole thing, and not good, open forest like this, either,' Finellen concluded.
