Darkwalker on moonshae, p.1
Darkwalker on Moonshae, page 1
THE FIRST FORGOTTEN REALMS® NOVEL
The Darkwell emanated death—a black hole in the sunlight. Like a giant sponge, it sucked rays from the sky, holding them for its own evil purposes.
The earthmother tried to marshal her strength, but the beast had grown so strong …
She called to her favorite creatures—the Leviathan, the Unicorn, and the Pack.
But as Kazgoroth and its blood-drenched minions surrounded Caer Corwell, and the Ffolk of Moonshae Isles rallied for a courageous last stand, the goddess feared her utmost efforts would be to no avail.
IN AN ALL NEW EDITION
THE
MOONSHAE TRILOGY
BOOK ONE
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
BOOK TWO
BLACK WIZARDS
BOOK THREE
DARKWELL
The Moonshae Trilogy • Book One
DARKWALKER ON MOONSHAE
©1987 TSR, Inc.
©2004 Wizards of the Coast LLC
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.
Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC.
FORGOTTEN REALMS, WIZARDS OF THE COAST, and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries.
All Wizards of the Coast characters and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.
Cover art by J. P. Targete
Text Restored by Dale Donovan and Anne Brown
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2004106766
eISBN: 978-0-7869-5958-7
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v3.1
DEDICATION
For Christine,
with all my heart
Contents
Cover
Other Books in the Series
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Introduction
Book One
Prelude
1 - Equinox
2 - A Prophecy
3 - The Hunt
4 - Bloodletting
5 - A Bard of the Harp
Book Two
6 - Message At Midnight
7 - The Fens of the Fallon
8 - The Big Cave
9 - The Legacy of Cymrych Hugh
10 - Flight
Book Three
11 - Gavin
12 - Avalon
13 - Synnorian Rhapsody
14 - Corwell Road
15 - Freeman’s Down
Book Four
16 - Home
17 - Identity
18 - The Attack
19 - Besieged
Book Five
20 - A Contest of Might
21 - A Fortress Fallen
22 - Mist-Wreathed Moor
23 - The Song of Keren
remember the day when Mary Kirchoff, then Senior Editor at TSR, told me that she couldn’t accept the manuscript of my first novel, Echoes of the Fourth Magic, because TSR only had room on its schedule for a FORGOTTEN REALMS® novel.
“Would you like to audition to do a novel in the FORGOTTEN REALMS?” Mary asked.
“What are the FORGOTTEN REALMS?” came my response.
You see, the boxed set wasn’t even out yet. In fact, TSR only had one printed FORGOTTEN REALMS product: this one, Doug Niles’s novel Darkwalker on Moonshae. They sent me the book and I dove in to find out what this FORGOTTEN REALMS world was all about.
To say I was blown away would be an understatement. I still look back very fondly on this novel. Reading it was one of those too-rare experiences, where the characters of a book become like friends and when it ends you feel this special sense of loss and regret. This was pure, fun adventure—exactly the kind of thing for which I play DUNGEONS & DRAGONS® in the first place. These were friends to walk beside, to do battle beside, to vanquish evil beside. These were heroes to salute and to mourn. It amazes me that to this day, I still remember the characters from this book—I never remember books weeks after I read them, let alone more than sixteen years!
Daryth is still a friend to me. In fact, I’d be lying if I said that Doug’s book wasn’t more than a passing influence on my own first venture into the Realms. In doing my proposal to win the second FORGOTTEN REALMS novel, I had to submit a story outline and a sample chapter. Since the only product I had seen on the Realms was this book, with a map that included only the Moonshae Isles, I thought the Moonshae Isles were the FORGOTTEN REALMS. Not a large place, it seemed obvious to me that any book of importance set in this tiny world would have to include some of the major players in Doug’s book. I didn’t want to use anyone else’s characters, but I didn’t see a way around it, so in my sample chapter, “Biggrin’s Lair,” I used one of Doug’s characters, Daryth (well, two, if you count Daryth’s dog, Canthus the Moorhound), to introduce Wulfgar son of Beornegar, the expected hero of my tale. I figured that Daryth would set up the story, then turn it over to Wulfgar.
Well, soon afterward, I found out the truth of the Realms, the vast scope and size of this enormous continent to the east of the Moonshae Isles. After I won the audition to write The Crystal Shard, we reset the tale far, far from Doug’s work. The only problem was that I still had Daryth and Canthus in the sample chapter. I replaced them, giving birth to a rogue drow ranger named Drizzt Do’Urden and his loyal panther companion Guenhwyvar.
So thank you, Doug, for inspirational characters and a most memorable book. To this day, after all these years and novels, when people ask me my favorite FORGOTTEN REALMS novel, I point to Darkwalker on Moonshae. In fact, after all these years, this book remains one of my very favorite fantasy novels, period, alongside works like A Canticle for Liebowitz, Master of the Five Magics, Elfstones of Shannara, and Lord Foul’s Bane. The FORGOTTEN REALMS could not have gotten off to a better start, and I know that I owe a large part of my own success in that world to the fact that Doug Niles gave the curious audience a wonderful introduction into this gigantic shared world. Simply put, if Doug’s book hadn’t been so wonderful, I doubt people would have still been around to read my books and all the other FORGOTTEN REALMS novels that followed.
And here we are, sixteen years removed, and Wizards of the Coast has asked me to write an introduction for Darkwalker on Moonshae. A very easy assignment, to be sure, and it’s a good feeling to be able to lift my mug in toast to Doug Niles and to this wonderful, wonderful book.
Even if the guy is a Packers fan (who rubs it in when they beat my Patriots in the Super Bowl)!
—R.A. Salvatore
May 10, 2004
BOOK
ONE
he goddess awakened slowly from her cold sleep, awareness returning as the chill blanket of the passing season fell away. Turning with imperial grace, she sought the lifegiving force of the renewed sun.
Soon she felt its warmth upon the long and gravelly beaches of her coastlines, and upon the stagnant expanses of her low, flat marshes. Slowly, the sun drove winter’s blanket from the rolling moors and tilled fields.
The white mantle remained thick and heavy among the forests and glens of the goddess, and the highlands still showed no sign of acknowledging winter’s end This was all as it should be, and the goddess rejoiced in the growing vitality of her body, the earth.
She had grown smaller, of late, but her strength was great. Her lands, though threatened, were in the capable care of her druids, and even the harbingers of the new gods treated her with a certain deference. In the Moonwells—places where her power flowed directly from her spirit to her body—water of high magic lay clear and pristine among thick pines, and in rocky clefts.
Cool seas bathed her lands, cleansing the debris and decay left by the passing of winter. The goddess saw that her children still slept peacefully. They could, she hoped, sleep long years still before she needed to call them.
Through the Moonwells, she saw the clearing skies. No longer did the heavy, iron-gray stormclouds oppress her. The Ffolk were active, preparing for a new season of growth. The druids moved among the trees and mountains of her wild reaches, restoring places where winter had disrupted the Balance. Yet, as she threw off her blanket, she felt a sudden, stabbing pain, penetrating deep within her. Hot and threatening, the injury seemed ready to spread like a cancer through her self.
One of the Moonwells was the source of the pain. Instead of providing a window into the world, full of cool and healthy power, the well burned like a poisoned wound. Very black, it blocked the light and absorbed her power, instead of nourishing it. As she awakened, the goddess felt fear.
And she knew that, once again, the Beast would stalk the land.
he fields around Caer Corwell beckoned brightly, as colored tents, proud banners, and gay costumes all competed for the eye of the fairgoer. The Festival of the Spring Equinox signaled the end of winter, and the beginning of a seas on of new hope and promise. To such an event, the Ffolk would come from throughout the Kingdom of Corwell, and even beyond, to join the celebration.
The deep harbor at the terminus of Corwell Firth bristled with masts. The deep, sturdy coracles of the Ffolk bobbed next to sleek longships of the northmen, and both were dwarfed by the looming decks of Calishite trading galleons.
Tristan Kendrick, Prince of Corwell, forced his way through the crowd eagerly, barely absorbing the sights and sounds all around him. A troop of Calishite jugglers stood among the crowd, each deftly controlling a ring of glittering scimitars. Tristan, impatient, passed around the jugglers without seeing them. He ignored the hawkers of bright silk, though the oily Calishite trader sold colors never before imagined in Corwell. In his haste, he even passed the booths where the skilled armor-smiths of Caer Calidyrr displayed shining steel swords.
“Hello, Tristan!” called one of the farmers, arranging jugs of milk on a table before him.
“Good morning,” added a fisherman from the village.
And so it went as he passed through the crowd, receiving polite and friendly greetings from most of the Ffolk. As usual, Tristan felt a brief flash of annoyance, for no one addressed him by his title. Just once, he would like to hear “Hello, my prince!” or something equally appropriate.
But then he shrugged these thoughts away, just as he shrugged away all serious thought of his rank, and the responsibilities of his name. One day, perhaps, he would give some thought to the duties he would eventually face as king, but today … today he had a mission here at the fair!
His step speeded up, and pretty country maids, in fresh gowns of light linen, smiled coyly at him. The prince felt very dashing, reflexively stroking the new coat of hair upon his chin. His first beard had grown in full and curling, slightly darker in color than his wavy brown hair. His new woolen cloak and leather trousers looked clean and shiny against his black leather boots.
He felt alert and alive, full of spring fever.
Passing from the tents and stalls of the goods merchants, Tristan moved between corrals and pens, ignoring the sheep, the cattle, and even the horses. Finally, he reached an expanse of clustered pens, and here he found his objective.
“Greetings, my liege,” piped a cheerful voice, and Tristan smiled at the advancing form of Pawldo, the halfling.
“It’s good to see you, my friend,” the prince said sincerely, clasping the diminutive man’s hand. “I’m glad you made it back from your winter voyages safely.”
Pawldo beamed at the greeting, but his eyes held a hint of avarice. The halfling was a stout and sturdy little man, perhaps an inch or two over three feet in height. He wore a weathered leather jacket and old, but well-oiled boots. His gray hair hung over his ears and collar, and his smiling face was clean-shaven and free of wrinkles, though Pawldo was over sixty years old.
Halflings lived on all the Isles of the Moonshaes, mostly as neighbors to human settlements. Though they were one of the original races, along with the dwarves and the Llewyrr elves, to inhabit the islands, they had adapted well to the coming of humans. They profited from business dealings with the Ffolk, and benefited from the protection afforded by nearby castles.
“And how are you, old crook?” asked the prince.
“Very well, and better soon, when I’ve had a chance to part you from your purse!” responded Pawldo. The halfling, shrewdly eyeing the leather pouch hanging from Tristan’s belt, quickly concealed a smile of satisfaction.
Tristan could not suppress a surge of affection for his old companion. Pawldo ostensibly lived in Lowhill, the community of Halfling burrows a mere mile from Caer Corwell. The hardy old adventurer, however, spent most of the year traveling about the Moonshae Islands and the rest of the world in pursuit of profit, so the prince saw very little of him. Unlike most Halflings, who were content to enjoy the pastoral comforts of their burrows, pantries, and wine cellars, Pawldo lived a life of excitement and travel.
“I’ve spent the winter scouring the Sword Coast and the Moonshaes, collecting the finest lot of dogs you’ve ever seen. And I found the one for you, just to the west of here—on the Isle of Moray. You won’t be able to resist him!” Again Pawldo smiled, with a slight twist to the corners of his mouth.
“Let’s have a look at him,” said Tristan, directing his attention to the small pen behind Pawldo.
This year Pawldo was a dealer in hounds, and as usual, his goods were offered in an assortment of styles, for a variety of purses. Even as his eyes passed quickly over the collection of bored dogs lying in the sun, Tristan saw the one magnificent animal, caught his breath, and whistled.
Trying to sound casual, he said, “Not a bad-looking dog.”
“As if you had cause to doubt …” Pawldo started to retort, but Tristan was not listening.
The animal was a moorhound—one of the savage hunting dogs bred exclusively on the Moonshae Islands. This was not remarkable—Tristan already owned a dozen of the large dogs. But this moorhound was a large and powerful specimen with a proud bearing quite unusual for its kind.
Among the terriers, racers, and wolfhounds in Pawldo’s collection, this great brown moorhound stood out like a princess among scullery maids. His brown coat gleamed, thick and smooth, over broad shoulders and long, slender legs. Even for a moorhound, he was huge. His eyes were riveted on Tristan, just as the prince studied him.
“Where did you find him?” Tristan asked.
“Came across with me from Norland he did. Rode in the bow like he was born to the sea. I’ve never seen him take any notice of a man—until now that is.”
Tristan strode to the dog’s side, and knelt on the muddy grass, his eyes level with the dog’s. He thought of his hounds. Already they were fierce and loyal hunters—but with a dog such as this to lead them, they would be the finest pack of dogs in the Isles! Tristan slowly took the great head in his hands. The shaggy tail flickered slightly, swaying from side to side.
The prince stared into the moorhound’s eyes and whispered, “We shall be the greatest hunters on Gwynneth—no, on all the Moonshaes! Even the Firbolgs of the Highlands will tremble in fear at your cry.
“Your name will be Canthus.” The dog regarded the prince keenly, brown eyes shining. His mouth opened slightly as he panted, and Tristan noted teeth the size of his little finger.
A number of onlookers had gathered to observe the prince, and Tristan felt a quick rush of pride as he realized that they looked with equal admiration upon his dog. A pair of savage, yellow-bearded northmen stood behind Pawldo, jabbering in their strange tongue full of yerg and url sounds. Several fisherffolk, a woodsman, and two young boys also watched. A crimson cloak, among the plain garb of the villagers, marked a young Calishite trader, staring in wonderment.
Tristan tried to conceal his eagerness as he stood and turned back to Pawldo, but his palms were sweating. He must have this dog! Trying to look disinterested, he opened the bidding. “He is indeed a fine animal. I’ll give you ten gold for him!”
With a wail of anguish, Pawldo staggered backward. “The sea swelled over the bows,” he cried in his high, squeaking voice. “Bold sailors grew pale with fear, and would have retreated, but I pressed on! I knew, I told myself, of a prince who would sacrifice his kingdom for such a dog—a prince who would reward well the steadfastness of an erstwhile friend … who would—”
“Hold!” cried Tristan, raising his hand and looking the halfling in the eye while trying to keep from laughing. “You shall have twenty, but no m—”
“Twenty!” The halfling’s voice squealed in outrage. He turned to the listeners and threw out his hands, a picture of wounded innocence. The two northmen chuckled at his posturing.
“The sails hung in tatters from the beam! We nearly capsized a dozen times. Waves the size of mountains smashed us … and he offers me twenty gold!” Pawldo turned back to the prince, whose smile was growing thin. “Why a dog like this, to one who knew such creatures, would fetch a hundred gold in an instant—in any civilized port in the world!”
The halfling smiled disarmingly. “Still, we are friends, and so I would remain. He is yours … for eighty gold!” Pawldo bowed with a flourish to the gasps of the growing crowd. Never had a dog been sold for half of that asking price!
