Prophet of Moonshae

9

Brandon Olafsson, Prince of Gnarhelm, wearing the royal horned helm of his clan, led two hundred brawny northmen on the march to Callidyrr. Normally, though the distance between capitals was eight times as great, they would have made the journey to the neighboring kingdom by sea. To these seafaring people, the length of the shoreline was no deterrent compared to the rugged barrier of mountains that crossed the waist of Alaron.

Now, however, the constant gales and cyclones of late spring made sea travel exceptionally hazardous. Also, in this age of peace, a good road connected the two cities, excepting some steep and narrow stretches through the Fairheight Mountains.

The prince marched at the head of the long file as they started up these approaches to the high pass. Behind him trailed Knaff the Younger, Brandon's best friend since boyhood. Knaff's father, Knaff the Elder, had been Brandon's mentor in all matters of weaponry and seamanship. That veteran warrior now brought up the rear of the column, constantly alert for treachery and ambush.

"I'd rather sail into the maw of the storm god himself than to pretend I'm some kind of accursed mountain goat," grumbled the youthful Knaff. As Brand's chief lieutenant, he had leave to gripe when other men would hold their tongues. Complaints seemed well deserved now as rainwater trickled down the cloaks of the shaggy raiders and made the rocks and trail slick under their feet.

Brandon laughed. "I share your feeling, my friend. I wish we had a pitching deck beneath us instead of these steel-edged rocks!"

Knaff looked suddenly serious. "If it is in fact the Ffolk who make war upon us, we set ourselves at their mercy by this open approach. If they have watchmen on the heights, they'll observe our approach for two days!"

"Indeed," agreed Brandon. "We have to keep our eyes alert and mind our backs."

"Either a man can be trusted to guard your back or he is a threat to it," said Knaff, reciting the proverb of the north as if he read Brandon's mind.

"Would that we knew which place to set the Ffolk."

The prince knew, in fact, that this suspicion was one reason for the overland march. His father had wanted them to provide a tempting target to a potentially hostile foe, the better to understand the Ffolk's intentions. Should Brandon arrive suddenly in Callidyrr, it was too likely that the ambassador would get bogged down in tedious discussion and sly, masked propositions and threats.

Far better to a northman to face his enemy with nothing but the keen edge of steel between them. This open march, in plain sight when they were not showered by rain, would give the Ffolk time to prepare a response. If they wanted war, the King of Gnarhelm hoped they would choose to begin it on what they thought were favorable terms.

"Strange people, the Ffolk," said Knaff. "They let their women rule them and counsel them-even fight for them. The men must be very weak!"

"Fight beside them," corrected Brandon. "My father sailed with Grunnarch the Red and has many tales of battles against the Ffolk, and with them as allies as well, united against the fish-men!"

Knaff shuddered, and Brandon shared his apprehension. Of all creatures in the Realms, it was the fish-men, the sahuagin, who most terrified the northman warrior. All other enemies could be seen coming, could be fairly met in battle and then chased back to their fortresses or lairs.

Not so with the green-scaled, razor-taloned humanoids who swept upward from the depths, often swarming across a vessel before its crew suspected attack, and then vanishing back into the blue-black fathoms of their homeland.

"Best think about the foes we might meet on land," cautioned the prince. "Even if the Ffolk are friendly, there are firbolgs and trolls in these hills-and bandits, as well, who owe fealty to no monarch, northman or Ffolk."

"Suppose we get to Callidyrr without a sign of threat?" growled Knaff. "I suppose that means we welcome the Ffolk into our arms like brothers!"

"Not only brothers," Brand laughed, remembering their earlier words. "We'll probably have to treat them like sisters as well!"

"A scheme of the northmen!" bellowed Blackstone, hammering his fist on the table. "By the gods, on my own lands, as well! I'll see the bastards burn for this!"

His voice, to Alicia, didn't match the fervor of his words. Indeed, the earl had been slow to greet the three companions upon their arrival at his house, leaving them to wait in his Great Hall for more than half an hour before coming to greet them, then offering his deep sympathies and apologies as soon as they had confronted him with the facts.

The earl's face, the princess saw, was haggard, with great, dark circles gaping under his eyes. Those same eyes darted wildly about, as if the man was terribly afraid of something. Yet she was surprised that the prospect of an enemy attack, while dire, would cause him to display such horror. They had just brought him the news moments ago, yet his face had the look of one who had known real terror through a very long, very dark night.

Penetrating his words to the attitudes of the man himself, the princess sensed that Blackstone was lying. She wanted to get away from him, to confer with Tavish and Keane and see if they had drawn the same conclusion, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of witnessing her discomfort.

"We don't know it was the northmen," she objected, her voice cold and, though she did not know this, powerful. "We cannot bring the kingdom into a war based on unfounded suspicions."

You did it, she thought. You treacherous serpent! You're a traitor to your king!

But she could not voice her anger, for she had only her own suspicions at this point, though she felt them very strongly. Still, a charge of treason wasn't one that could be discussed without some modicum of proof. And even the iron creature that had so nearly killed them was now vanished, gone somewhere beyond the depths of the Moonwell!

Hanrald and Gwyeth, the earl's sons, had entered the hall during this exchange. The earl silently bade them to sit, which they did, several feet behind their father. He turned back to the trio of visitors.

"But you yourselves have described this thing's horned helm, such as the men of the north wear! What other explanation can there be?" Blackstone blurted the question, then suddenly scowled. Obviously he didn't desire a great deal of searching for other explanations.

"This is a matter for the High Queen to decide," Alicia announced, unaware of the depth of her mother's malaise. Her tone indicated that the discussion had reached its conclusion. "We shall ride for Callidyrr at once-and, no, we shall not require an escort of your men-at-arms," she added pointedly.

At that instant, the door to Blackstone's Great Hall burst open and a bearded man, covered with the dust and grime of the trail, stumbled into the great chamber to kneel before the earl. He wore a short sword and horseman's boots, and the weariness of a long ride seemed to cling to him like another layer of dirt.

"Your lordship," he gasped. "A column of Northmen march toward the Fairheight Pass! They are armed, and look to be a war party!"

Alicia's first reaction was mildly amused skepticism. How far would this earl go in order to lend credence to his false claim? But a look at Blackstone's face, gone slack with shock, forced her to wonder at her conclusion.

"How-how many? Did you get a count, man? And where, for the sake of the gods? How far from the pass are they?" The earl blurted his questions, and the princess realized that either he was a splendid actor, or he was genuinely stunned.

"Two days' march from the summit-perhaps more. About tenscore of them come, led by a great warrior, one who wears the Horned Helm!"

The earl turned back to the princess. Alicia felt the eyes of her companions on her as well. Suddenly she felt very young, very aware of her own inexperience. Yet she was the voice of the High Crown now.

"Well, my lady-perhaps this is the proof!" Blackstone crowed.

"How far is the pass from here?" she asked.

"A day's ride. It is the only good gap through the crest of the range for forty miles in either direction-if we are to meet them in battle, it must be there! If we let them come through the pass, all of the duchy lies open to them!"

"My lady, my lord," Tavish spoke quietly. The bard's voice, it seemed, was a soothing salve laid over the tension that had been building in the room. "While this is a worrisome development, well deserving of investigation, it does not seem that the northmen would commence an invasion of Callidyrr with a mere two hundred men."

"Quite right," Keane chimed in. "I would wager that the earl here could muster a militia that is easily twice that size. Am I correct, sir?"

"Perhaps," growled Blackstone. "Though my men are miners and herdsmen, not the bloodthirsty berserkers that would make up a northman raiding force! If they come through the pass, I daresay they could ransack the cantrev before we could stop them!"

Hanrald, who had observed the conversation silently, raised his head as if he stood ready to dispute his father, but after a moment's pause, he held his tongue.

"Then they shall not do so." Alicia had begun to see the solution. "Summon your militia and post them at the summit, there to stand as need be."

Blackstone looked pleased, but then his face darkened again, his natural suspicions taking over. "Shall we ambush them there? Or does my lady care to meet them with words of peace and kindness?"

"I will meet them before the pass," announced Alicia. "And there find out what they intend."

"What? No!" Tavish, Keane, and the earl all blurted their objections together. Finally the bard made herself heard.

"The risks, my princess, are too great! If this is indeed a war party, what better hostage could they ask for than the daughter of the enemy's king?"

"Indeed, you'll serve their purposes only too well," added Keane strenuously.

"If this is a war party, I am certain that you will be able to see to our safety," she told her teacher, mindful of his magical powers. "But I am not convinced of that fact, and if my suspicions are confirmed, then the appearance of such a small party before them will do much to allay their suspicions."

After his initial objection, the Earl of Fairheight had quieted. Now he watched the discussion with a sly smile playing across his features.

Keane noticed that smile and spoke directly to the earl. "Perhaps your lordship would be good enough to provide us with one more man."

Blackstone smiled magnanimously. "I fail to see the improvement. Four against two hundred is little better than three, but, of course. I shall send-"

"Your son," Keane finished, cutting Blackstone off and at the same time wiping the smile off his face.

"My son?" inquired the earl, shocked.

"I should be delighted to accompany the princess and her party," announced Sir Hanrald, standing and stepping forth from his brother's side.

Blackstone choked on his objections, but he couldn't banish the scowl from his face as he agreed to the arrangement.

"We'll need fresh horses," said Alicia. "And rations for several days. Sir Hanrald, I presume, knows the path?"

"Naturally, my lady."

"Very well." Alicia turned, relishing her sudden sense of command. Around her stood an earl, two knights, a wizard, and a bard. All of them stood poised for action, sent into motion by her commands. It was a heady sensation she had never known before.

"We ride within the hour," she concluded.

The Earl of Fairheight spoke to his older son in a hushed tone, reluctant to broach even this much of his plans. Yet he needed to take someone into his confidence, and he was glad it would be Gwyeth and not Hanrald.

The princess and her three companions had just ridden from the manor gate, on the road to Fairheight Pass. The earl and his son had retired to the noble's private chambers, where he had chased the housekeepers from their chores so they could have the rooms to themselves.

He had begun by telling Gwyeth of the iron golem and the attempt against the life of the princess. The younger man already knew of the threat posed to the Blackstone fortune by Alicia's insistence that the Moonwell be spared. It didn't take much thinking for the ambitious knight to see the necessity of his father's plans.

"For a moment, it seemed that all lay in disaster," Blackstone explained. "But now-the coming of these northmen is like a gift from the gods! Now all depends upon you."

"I am ready, my father!"

"Pay careful attention, and obey my commands to the letter," the earl stressed. "Assemble two dozen of your most trusted archers. Tell them they will be well rewarded. Take crossbows and gather bolts from the armory-bolts from the royal stock, feathered in the king's colors."

Gwyeth nodded, knowing that his father's arsenal, like the arms of all King Kendrick's vassal lords, included an extensive supply of arrows in the royal colors, for use when the earl's men-at-arms were outfitted for a mission of the king's business.

"Ride along the shepherds' trail. Bring yourself through the pass in good haste, ahead of the High Princess," continued Blackstone. "It shouldn't be difficult. Your party will be young warriors, while they ride with two women!"

"Aye. And then what, Father?" growled Gwyeth. The memory of his humiliation at Keane's hands still burned fiercely within him, and he sensed the approaching moment of his vengeance.

"Find this body of northmen, while yourselves remaining concealed. You'll have the high ground and can look downward from the heights to espy them."

"And when they're discovered?" Gwyeth had begun to perceive the earl's plan.

"You attack from ambush. Remain hidden, and use your horses to escape-but only after several of them have been slain. Do I make myself clear?"

"Indeed, my father!" Gwyeth smiled, his beard split by a cruel leer. "The princess and her companions shall ride into the face of a force enraged by the death of their comrades!" Suddenly his expression darkened. "But, Father, Hanrald rides with them!"

"Aye." Blackstone sighed and straightened his back as if to relieve an ache in his spine. Then he shook his head. "Damn that wench! A keen ruse, to take my son with her. He's all but hostage!"

He turned his dark eyes on his other son, and the hardened determination there was obvious to Gwyeth. The earl grunted awkwardly, clearing his throat, and continued. "Hanrald will have to take care of himself. If he dies, it will be in cause of his family's destiny. No warrior could ask for better."

For a moment, Blackstone's mind wandered back to a night twenty years before. His wife had perished on that night, and the third Blackstone son had been born. Yet even then, he had questions about Hanrald-questions that the woman's untimely death had prevented him from having answered. And as the years had passed, he had seen Hanrald grow, becoming a different sort of person than the earl or either of his older sons.

Indeed, as he thought about it, he was glad that it was Hanrald with the princess and not Gwyeth-Gwyeth, his son who would one day rule as earl!

His mind returned to the present as that same young nobleman rose to his feet and bade his father farewell.

"Aye-good riding, Son," Blackstone said, his voice husky. "And good luck."

"I feel the presence of something up there in the hills." Alicia indicated the high, rock-bound ridges that rose to either side of the steep and winding trail, occasionally visible through the blowing wisps of cloud. The rain varied from drizzle to full downpour, never ceasing entirely, and served to further mask their surroundings.

The cantrev of Blackstone had disappeared several hours before, masked by the enclosing shoulders of mountain and thickening cloud. Now the four riders huddled under their cloaks, yet tried to remain alert.

"You noticed it, too," said Tavish with a frown. "It doesn't seem to be a menace, but I have a sense of eyes watching me."

"There's nothing there!" objected Sir Hanrald, squinting upward and running his eyes across the rocks.

"Always trust a bard when she has a suspicion," warned Keane lightly, and Hanrald laughed.

"True. Indeed, lady, I would apologize for my father's oversight three nights past. Beyond politeness, it would have been a rare delight to hear the music of your harp fill our hall."

"It's nothing," Tavish said with a wave. She looked on the young man with new appraisal, however. "Your father strikes me as a man who has little care for music."

"Aye, or gentleness of any sort, I fear," agreed Hanrald. "Since my mother's passing, at the time of my birth, Caer Blackstone has been a house of manly habits. It could use the brightening of a woman's touch or voice."

"It's hard for me to think of music as a womanly art," objected Alicia. "Have you forgotten the great Keren, who perished during the Darkwalker War yet sent his song to the harp of every bard in the land?"

Hanrald laughed again defensively. "I am corrected, my lady! But, in truth, there is a sound to a woman's voice that can be far more pleasant than any man's, at least in a house that is home to a father and his sons alone."

Alicia, too, laughed, feeling at ease with the good-natured young nobleman. Indeed, she enjoyed a sense of mission and comradeship with these three Ffolk that cast a pleasant shade of adventure over their mission.

"Perhaps I spoke too quickly," the princess replied. "But I rejoice in the fact that we are a people whose women can make themselves warriors, or bards, or farmers, as they will."

"Not like the men of the north," agreed Tavish. "There they place a woman beside the hearth and keep her there lest she cease bearing babes-sons, it is to be hoped!"

"Are there women in Callidyrr-women of the Ffolk? — who practice sorcery?" inquired Hanrald.

Keane answered the question. "There are a few, just as only a few Ffolkmen study the arcane arts."

"How long have you possessed such mastery?" asked Alicia. "Those weren't the spells of an apprentice that you hurled at the iron golem!"

Keane shook his head modestly, and once again the princess sensed that talking about his ability made the mage uncomfortable. Nevertheless, the lanky tutor offered some explanation.

"I began my apprenticeship very young, working for the palace alchemist in Callidyrr. He noted that I seemed to have some aptitude and brought me to your father. That was shortly after you were born," he told Alicia.

"But how did you progress so far?" she wondered. "I didn't think we had masters in the Moonshaes capable of such teaching!"

"We don't," Keane admitted. "But on my journeys to Waterdeep-those periods you and Deirdre refer to as 'days of freedom'-I studied with some of the greatest wizards of the Sword Coast."

Alicia blushed, embarrassed to hear that Keane knew about the sisters' relief when they received respite from their lessons.

Keane continued, smiling thinly at her discomfort. "Because of my, er, aptitude, I have been able to progress smoothly through the studies that, so I am told, generally are the province only of much older magic-users."

They rode along in easy comradeship, concentrating again on the trail as it began to cross back and forth along a steep slope, leading in this zigzag fashion to a notch between two summits high above them.

"There!" Alicia spoke suddenly, twisting in her saddle to look behind them. "I saw something move this time. I'm certain of it!"

"And over there!" Tavish pointed upward, and this time they all saw it: A dark shape moved along a bare slope of rock before darting out of sight.

"Four-legged, I'm certain," Keane announced.

"A wolf?" inquired Alicia, her hand going to the hilt of her sword. She had been weaned on tales of the dire wolves that had long inhabited the wild places of the Moonshaes.

"Can't be." Tavish actually sounded wistful. "The only place they live anymore is the Island of Gwynneth, and even there hunters have killed most of them. They've been rare for many years."

"There's another one-and another," added Keane, pointing to the slope below them. "Why, they're hounds!"

"More of them down there," Tavish added. "I should say dozens, and those are only the ones I can see!"

"The hounds of Blackstone!" Hanrald cried, surprised.

"What do you mean?" asked Alicia.

Hanrald turned to them, raising his eyebrows. "I would have thought my father had told you. It began the night the madman appeared at Caer Blackstone. He sent the hounds-a goodly pack-running into the hills. They were never seen again."

"But this is more than one pack-even a large one," objected Alicia.

"I said it began there. Since then, dogs have run off from their homesteads all through the heights."

For a moment, the young lord remembered the appearance of the lunatic in his own family's hall. He wanted to tell his companions of that incident, but he had vowed to his father that it would remain secret.

"But why do they gather here, in these remote heights?" asked the princess.

"That's only the least of the mysterious occurrences over the last few days," Keane ventured.

The hounds did not close in, nor did they seem to threaten them. Nevertheless, it was disquieting to ride along with the constant silent escort.

Even as the four riders approached the very pass itself, with its steep-sided slopes of rock-studded ground rising to either side of them like watchtowers over a gate, the silent shapes raced and bounded across the dizzying heights above.

"The bastards-to hit from ambush and flee!" Brandon nearly choked on his rage, staring through tear-blinded eyes at the looming crags above them. He cradled Knaff the Younger's head in his arms, holding the body of his childhood friend even as it grew steadily colder.

The arrow that had pierced Knaff's heart still jutted outward from the dead man's chest. For a time, Brand had feared to remove it, sensing that it would inflict further damage to what was already a gory wound.

Now, after the fountain of blood had slowly ceased its steady geyser, it didn't seem to matter anymore. Rain spattered the rocks, already thinning the crimson liquid that had soaked the ground, rinsing it away with a casual ease that further infuriated Brandon.

"See, my prince?" said Knaff the Elder, indicating the feathered shaft protruding so grotesquely through the body of his only son. Brandon shuddered as he heard the cold dispassion in the old warrior's voice. "It is the arrow of the Great Bear, sigil of the Kings of the Ffolk."

"Aye. And a treacherous attack it was, not worthy of a grub-eaten bandit, not to mention a company of king's archers!"

The attack had occurred with shocking, fatal abruptness. The column of northmen had been working its way through a narrow, twisting canyon, still many miles below the summit of Fairheight Pass. The walls to right and left weren't terribly lofty, averaging perhaps forty feet in height, but their precipitous nature guaranteed the failure of any scaling attempt.

Then silently a shower of arrows had fallen among them from the rim of the narrow chasm. A hundred missiles, or maybe more, sliced downward with random accuracy, slaying five of Brand's men and wounding a score more. The northmen caught only quick glimpses of the assailants, and Brandon's two dozen bowmen had barely gotten off one useless volley before the attackers faded back from the canyon's rim and vanished into the twisting maze of slopes, ridges, gorges, and peaks that made up the crest of the Fairheight Range.

Even as arrows still flew, the war chief of the northmen had sent parties of his men racing up the canyon in search of a route to the top. These men had not yet returned, as others of Brandon's warriors tended the wounded or kept lookout against the rock-edged wall above them. Three clerics, followers of Tempus the Foehammer, performed what healing magic they could, concentrating their powers upon those men who could be returned to battle-readiness with a minor spell.

"Prince Brandon! Up here!" a warrior called down from above. He had obviously discovered a route to the top. "The spoor of horses!"

"And this!" Another man came into sight beside the first. "One of them dropped a dagger as he fled. It bears the Royal Seal of Callidyrr!"

"Damned treachery!" spat Brandon, standing and pacing back and forth before his men. "We'll march with pickets on the heights to right and left."

He cursed himself for not thinking of this elementary precaution beforehand. Though the march would be grueling for those warriors elected to guard the flanks, it would prevent a similar ambush. Before this attack, however, he realized that he hadn't really believed the Ffolk intended to go to war with his people.

The dead were laid to rest in rock biers. On the return march, they would be carried to Gnarhelm for proper burial at sea. Two of the injured, leg-wounded and unable to march, remained behind to hobble as best they could back to the lowlands.

"Any Ffolk we see are to be treated as the enemy," Brandon announced, his grim voice underscoring the mood of his embittered warriors. "Now we march as warriors-warriors on the road to battle!"

No characteristic battle cheer erupted from his men at the prince's words. The campaign had begun in ignominy, and they would not voice their pride until the deaths of their comrades had been avenged.

Slowly now, the column resumed the climb up the long trail. For the men on the heights, the strain increased tenfold, since they had to work their way across rough terrain, often descending from one granite-topped crest merely to pass through a valley and ascend another. Nevertheless, they probed and explored, making certain that no further ambush could menace the column.

The sun drifted into the west, casting the trail in shadow by midafternoon, but the northmen marched grimly onward. Finally the steepness of the grade mitigated somewhat, and they came into a region of high, rolling meadows of heather, broken here and there by copses of cedars and pines.

Here Brandon's caution paid off as one of his scouts came loping back to the main column, having investigated a ridge just ahead.

"Four people coming," he reported. "Two men and two women. They're on horseback, and the men wear beards like the Ffolk. One of the women, the younger one, is a comely wench."

Brandon heard only the one word: "Ffolk." He digested the news and made his own decision. "Prepare an ambush. Slay the men and bring the women to me."

His men, war lust surging in their hearts, hastened to obey.

"All the gods curse this ill luck!" groaned Gwyeth, son of the Earl of Fairheight. He gritted his teeth against the pain as two of his men grasped the haft of the northman arrow that jutted from his shoulder. He couldn't avoid a brief gasp of pain as they pulled the missile free.

"Clumsy oafs! You wish to wound me further?" he demanded, struggling to clench his jaws against a scream of pain.

In truth, it had been poor fortune that had sent this one arrow, blindly aimed against his ambushing force, arcing through the sky overhead to plummet downward and strike the young warrior in the shoulder. Why could it not have been one of his men? Any of the scoundrels should have been glad to offer his life in the name of their earl's cause!

But instead, it was the earl's son who was wounded. Now the blunt-fingered warriors tried to stem the blood that spurted from Gwyeth's shoulder and to lift him back into the saddle for the long ride back to the manor.

When they got there, Gwyeth knew, his father would make ready for war.

Musings of the Harpist

I watch the princess, flanked by the two men, and wonder if she senses her effect upon them. She is a beautiful woman, and bright, but I begin to suspect she may have a blind spot reserved for them.

Hanrald follows her like an eager puppy. Every glance she bestows upon him seems to cause his tail to wag, and should she grace him with a smile or a laugh, it seems the bold knight is ready to perform handstands!

Keane, of course, is quieter in his affections and more aloof. Nevertheless, I have seem him look at her when Alicia's attention is distracted. Unless he is very careful, the true depth of his affection is revealed by the rapt focus of his eyes, the taut set of his shoulders.

And Alicia leads us on, embarked upon what, to her, is a grand adventure. Perhaps it shall fall to me to remind her that we have serious tasks ahead.