Druid queen, p.30
Druid Queen, page 30
Outside the pit, Robyn saw her daughter Deirdre and the patriarch of Helm. When she recognized the latter, a squawk of anger burst from her hawk's beak, for even the self-disciplined druid was unable to entirely contain her outrage.
Then she dove, feeling the power of the goddess surge through her. She was more than the great druid now, more even than the druid queen. As her spirit expanded, nourished by her days of meditation and trance, and she faced the looming bulk of the New Gods' power, she became something awe-inspiring, immortal in her own right.
In the force of that swooping dive, Robyn Kendrick, High Queen of the Isles, became the avatar of the Earthmother.
* * * * *
"Damn the curse that blinds her!" Tristan swore, shaking his fist at the disappearing firbolgs. Beside him, Ranthal paced and barked.
The brutes had just lowered them into the pit with the rest of his companions, and now he railed at the backs of the giants, arms clasped around swords, shields, and axes, who walked away with the weapons of the humans and dwarves. The firbolgs quickly disappeared from sight, since the prisoners in the pit could see only a short distance beyond the rim of the enclosure.
Just then the shriek of the white hawk pierced the breezy air in the valley, and the king peered anxiously into the sky. "Robyn! It's a trap!" he cried, his voice lost in the wind that suddenly arose.
"What are you guys doing in here?" asked Newt, appearing between Tristan and Alicia as they stood beside the gray barrier of the granite wall.
"We have to get out!" Tristan barked, returning to his inspection of the sheer surface. It was only twelve feet high or so, but the sides had been thoroughly smoothed and provided no handholds. It made a very effective prison.
"Well, don't be mad at me!" the faerie dragon huffed, quickly disappearing again.
Keane approached, his gait maddeningly nonchalant to the king. Yet Tristan sensed something conspiratorial in the man's walk, so the king turned back to the cliff, as if continuing his inspection. Keane came to a stop beside him.
"There may be a way—at least for one of us to get out of here," the young wizard said, his tone low and elaborately conversational. "I have a spell of levitation. It can lift me to the top, where I just might be able to do some good."
Tristan looked at him thoughtfully. "Just you?" he asked.
"Well, just a single person," the mage amended. "Though I thought that I could do the most—"
"Please!" the king said, his voice desperate. "That's my wife and my daughter up there! Use the spell on me!"
"But... Your Majesty," Keane objected. "You have no weapons!" He bit back another remark, concerning the king's missing hand. He saw the desperation in Tristan's eyes but tried to dissuade him rationally. "At least I could use my spells to some effect!" he concluded lamely.
"Think about the fact that they put you in here without restraint," Tristan urged, his eyes turning crafty. "They know of your powers! Perhaps they're watching you right now, waiting for you to make some move for freedom! They won't expect the same from me!"
"But... the danger—!"
"Keane!" Tristan's voice was level and tense. "I won't, I can't order you to do this. The goddess knows you've earned the right to rule yourself. But please, man... it's Robyn!"
"Very well, Sire," Keane said miserably. He looked around the fringe of the pit—at least, at as much as they could see of it from inside the hole. None of the firbolgs were in sight, and Deirdre and the cleric, so far as they knew, had gone over to the base of Grond Peaksmasher.
"Gravatius ... deni," muttered Keane, touching a hand to the king's arm. Immediately Tristan started to rise from the ground. "Be careful, Sire!" the wizard whispered after him.
The High King kept his hand close to the wall, looking over his shoulder. As he rose higher, he saw several firbolgs across the pit, but fortunately their eyes were inevitably drawn to the scene above them. When he looked up to follow their gaze, he understood why. The queen, his wife, flew in the body of the white hawk, circling and diving at the mountain that was Grond Peaksmasher. The struggle would have seemed ludicrous to the king, if not for the fact that he understood the stakes.
The Peaksmasher reached outward with craggy fingers of granite at the bird, which seemed to swirl effortlessly away from the blunt, sweeping hand. Robyn screeched again, and the sound was a jarring note that rocked the giant backward. Grond threw his hands over his ears with a thunderclap of noise and bellowed his outrage against the affront of the Earthmother's cry.
The bird came to rest upon a high outcrop of rock, a spire that approached the very crown of the Icepeak, beyond the reach even of the colossal giant. The Peaksmasher reached down and grasped a huge shoulder of rock, breaking it free from the mountainside in a showering landslide of rubble. Hoisting the solid chunk, the size of a large house, he hurled it at the spire where Robyn perched. Moments before impact, however, the great druid once again sprang into the air.
Still rising gently, Tristan soon reached the top of the pit wall, checking to see that the firbolgs remained raptly engaged in the battle above. His feet on the ground again, the king sprinted for the cover of some nearby trees, tumbling over a low hummock and seeking the shelter of a streambed. He lay there for a moment, his mind whirling with tension—not for himself so much as fear for his wife and daughters.
Where was his weapon? The question jerked him up to spy over the bank of the shallow stream. He looked around, cursing as he saw the gleaming pile of armaments that the firbolgs had piled on the ground—across the pit from him.
Desperately, knowing that speed was as important as stealth, Tristan started down the rocky creek bed. The waterway twisted through a thick stand of trees, offering a modicum of concealment from the firbolgs. The king decided that he would try to circle the pit and somehow get to his weapon before the giant-kin reacted.
The king failed to see, as he slipped along, that one of the giants had already observed him. Carrying a stout club, the firbolg moved into the woods not far away and started stalking carefully along the king's tracks.
Instead of checking behind himself, Tristan looked above, watching a piece of massive rock soar through the air, hurled by the colossus toward the flying druid. The chunk of mountain missed the hawk to shatter against the ridge, sending shards arcing through the air, showering into the valley below, and obscuring the shape of the gleaming white bird. Then Robyn screamed again and dove, plunging like an arrow toward the broad, mountainous surface at the base of the Peaksmasher's back.
* * * * *
Hatred and rage burned in Baatlrap, flaring like a black flame in his evil, tortured mind. The shock of his wound expanded until it climaxed in a monstrous outrage, like a great wrong done not only to him, but also to the entire race of trollhood. Now vengeance awaited!
The paths of the Rockbound Ways guided him, and he knew that he followed close upon the heels of those he hated, those who had rendered upon him the intolerable insult of his missing hand.
Accompanying him were the survivors of the battle in Winterglen. These, too, were hateful and driven trolls. None of them bore the wounds of the Trollcleaver, but all had suffered hurt and indignity during the fight, even to the point of being slain, before regeneration gave them the mobility to limp from the field and heal completely.
Pressing along the darkened passage, Baatlrap had no difficulty following the trail left by the human and dwarven party. Even if the dust on the floor hadn't been disturbed, the troll's keen nostrils would have been able to follow the hours-old scent of warm-blooded creatures in the dank air of the cavern, so long had it been since these corridors had seen the footsteps of such surface dwellers.
The trolls' fabled endurance and impressive speed didn't require them to rest as often as their quarry. Thus the one-handed humanoid and his companions were only a scant hour or so behind the king's party when they finally reached the long ascending stairway and the shimmering waterfall that screened the sunlit world beyond.
Here, sensing the nearness of his quarry, Baatlrap wouldn't allow his trolls to rest. Quickly the lanky creatures fell into file and continued the march to Icepeak Glacier.
They loped up the trail in the narrow valley, winding their way easily around switchbacks that had slowed the humans and dwarves to a trudging crawl. Finally, as they neared the end of the valley, Baatlrap discerned through the trees the huge bulk of Grond Peaksmasher, and the awesome reality of the living mountain almost halted him in his tracks.
"So the old hag was right!" he hissed, impressed in spite of himself. Yet the firbolgs weren't the ones who had drawn him this far, and the hatred for the man with the deadly sword hadn't begun to flag. He would continue on the trail of vengeance, though it seemed only reasonable to stay out of sight of the colossus.
The trolls dropped into a narrow gully, skulking along a shallow streambed in an effort to creep up the valley without exposing themselves to view. And then it seemed that the gods truly smiled upon Baatlrap, for as the monstrous troll came around a bend in the stream, he saw, not twenty feet away from him, the hateful man who had wounded him.
A snarl escaped from the troll's lips, and the man looked up, his eyes wide and frantic. Good—he knows his fate! The troll gloated silently. Then he noticed another fact, a thing that caused his craven heart to bubble with cruel glee.
Now the man was unarmed, and Baatlrap could see no sign of that cleaving, deadly sword!
* * * * *
Thurgol followed the riverbed, observing the figure of the human who had somehow floated from the great pit. He watched the man sneak between the shallow banks, looking outward at the pit and the strange woman who had come so easily to master the independent firbolgs.
The chieftain still wasn't exactly sure how that had happened. In the instant that the Silverhaft Axe had been taken from his hands, it was as if his own will had been taken at the same time. After the theft of that mighty artifact, he'd had no power to resist any command of the black-haired human woman. Indeed Grond Peaksmasher, immortal lord of giantkind, apparently willed it so.
The woman had told him to watch the humans, to see that they didn't escape, and so he had set to the task resolutely. He'd been smart, it seemed, to post himself back in the woods, where he could observe any break for freedom without being seen himself.
So now the one-handed man, the human who had seemed to be their leader, had somehow scaled the wall and tried to escape. Thurgol would simply have to see that this attempt failed. Unconsciously he tightened his grip on his club, picking up the pace of his own stealthy pursuit
Then he froze in his tracks, astounded, as he saw a large green shape springing up the streambed toward the escaped human and Thurgol. It was Baatlrap, leading a company of his savage humanoids! The giant-kin chieftain thought he must be going mad, but the troll was certainly real, for just then the human saw him, too.
The one-handed man immediately reversed course at the sight of the troll, spinning so quickly that he saw Thurgol before the giant could even try to hide. The human leaped from the streambed, breaking through the underbrush and sprinting toward the clearing where Deirdre and the cleric stood.
The troll sprang after him, but a sudden explosion of flames crackled through the woods, blocking Baatlrap's path. The monster twisted out of the way as a small, brightly colored little dragon popped into sight, shouting shrill insults at the troll and pleading with the king to run faster.
Bulling through a stand of pines, Thurgol charged forward to cut the man off. Firbolg, human, and troll all broke into the clear at once, and the man stumbled to a stop, too shrewd to get run down by the fleet-footed trolls.
Thurgol felt a flash of pity for the human. It seemed that his valiant effort deserved something better than this. The firbolg watched as Baatlrap raised his sword and stepped closer to the unarmed human. The duel looked increasingly incongruous, the troll every bit of ten feet tall, with that evil-looking weapon reaching like a tree limb over his head. The human crouched, ready to dodge to either side, but without a weapon or shield, his situation was desperate in the extreme.
Other trolls emerged from the trees, following Baatlrap to gather in a semicircle around the giant troll and his victim. The appearance of the green-skinned humanoids inflamed Thurgol. Just when he thought he was rid of his noxious comrades, they had arrived to dog his presence again. He shook his head and growled in frustration.
"Wait!" Thurgol barked. "Put down your sword!" he commanded Baatlrap.
"What?" objected the troll, pausing long enough to glare at Thurgol. "Shut up!"
"No. Put down the sword and fight him fair—only you fight him," commanded the firbolg, hefting his club for emphasis and advancing slowly on the troll. Perhaps Baatlrap remembered the fight on Codscove's dock. Whatever it was, the troll's brows lowered in an expression of sullen fear.
Baatlrap snarled again while the man's eyes flicked from one humanoid to the other. Finally, with a scowl of irritation, Baatlrap threw down his sword. Without another word, he sprang at the one-handed man.
* * * * *
Robyn's body changed in the instant before she collided into the stones at the base of Grond Peaksmasher's mountainous torso. Her shape shifted, as it had so many times before, but this time it did not assume the form of an animal. Instead, her wings tucked backward, her head outstretched, and she became an arrowhead of stone, driving toward bedrock. The transformation was instantaneous and complete, fusing the power of the goddess and the will of the druid queen.
The Earthmother reached out, grasping Robyn's physical shell and melding her into the raw, elemental power of the ground, joining them in a linking of power and will. The queen met the face of slate and merged, sinking through layers of rock to become one with the earth. Her soul remained intact, centered below the bulk of the Peaksmasher, but the physical reach of her body expanded to encompass the entire narrow valley, its sheer ridges, and even the massif of the high peak.
Like a fundamental force of the earth, Robyn surged through dirt and stone and deeper layers of sand and shale. She seized the bedrock of the highlands with wrenching might, using every bit of her power—power expanded by the fresh presence of the vengeful goddess.
The strength of the Earthmother, transmuted through mountain and hill and vale, twisted the surface of the world with violent, wracking force. Grond Peaksmasher bellowed like a continuous, booming thunderclap as the quaking earth took hold of him and tore at his vitals.
"O Mighty One!" The demigod reeled as the words, the message, came to him, so it seemed, from within himself.
"Hear me, Lord of Giants—hear me, please!"
Robyn focused her will on the message, and as the earth convulsed from the pressure of the conflict, she waited, wondering if Grond Peaksmasher would understand.
* * * * *
Tristan ducked his left shoulder in the briefest of feints and then dove to the right, rolling away from the crushing pounce of the grotesque troll. It was as he rose to his feet that the earthquake struck, slamming him heavily back to the ground.
Great fissures ripped along the ground, splitting into deep crevasses. Steam burst upward, and here and there rocks flew into the air, hurled with explosive force by the power of the contractions within the earth.
The huge troll bounced upward with the first shock of the temblor. A fissure snaked past Tristan, and he felt a stab of hope as he saw the one-handed monster, flailing madly, slip over the rim and vanish. The other trolls had been knocked to the ground, and now they scuttled around in panic, seeking some shelter from the onslaught.
Lurching to his feet, the king felt the ground still rocking underfoot, but he lunged away from the momentarily helpless trolls. Breaking into the clear, he raced toward the edge of the pit, hoping to get around the hole and reach his weapon. Another wave of force rolled across the valley floor. Large pieces of rock tumbled free from the high peaks, smashing downward to shatter on the lower slopes. Craggy shards shot through the air with death-dealing force, leaving dusty trails hanging in their wakes.
Where was Robyn? Desperately the king looked around, fighting a growing sense of panic when he couldn't see her. Had she vanished? Did she live?
Then, looking across the regular outlines of the deep pit, Tristan saw the opposite rock wall crack and tumble away, great boulders plummeting straight down to shatter among the prisoners. Falling again as the ground bucked, the panicked king bounced to his feet and stumbled toward the enclosure. In his heart, he feared to look, feared what he would find beneath the rockslide. The most horrifying picture of all was an image of Alicia, trapped beneath the crushing weight of stone.
He saw figures move, scrambling up the loose, treacherously shifting stone. In a moment of hope, Tristan realized that the edge of the pit had collapsed enough for the prisoners to escape. Reaching the opposite edge, he recognized Brigit's blond hair, Brandon's trailing braids. Then, with a palpable sigh of relief, he saw Alicia, with Keane's lanky form right behind her. Ranthal, bounding like a panther, sprang after them.
As soon as he reached the rim of the makeshift prison, the wizard blasted a lightning bolt full into the chest of a firbolg who stood guard over the cache of weapons taken from the companions upon their capture.
Tristan risked a glance behind him, seeing the one-handed troll crawling forth from the crevasse. The monster picked up its jagged blade, which lay at the rim of the gap, and started toward the High King. A bright blue shape appeared in the air next to the troll, fluttering away from the monster's vicious swing. Newt disappeared as another tremor swept the valley, slamming the king to the ground and knocking him senseless for a moment
When he recovered, he saw Hanrald kneeling beside him. There were tears in the earl's eyes, tears that he shook away as soon as he saw Tristan blink and try to sit up.
