The things came closer, straight at her face, and she swung the staff with all the force her weary body could gather. The stout shaft cracked against the first monster's head, knocking it aside, but the force of the blow nearly knocked Robyn off her feet. Instantly the second of the things struck her.
She brought the staff up and felt the shaft crunch into its feathered body as those awful antlers sliced her face and forced her back against the cliff face. The creature's teeth tore at her breast, and she forced the staff against the thing's throat as blood from a slash on her forehead dripped into her eyes. The creature snapped at her again, but she pushed it away.
The monster had black, soulless eyes, or maybe they were just empty sockets staring from that rotted skull. Robyn could not be sure. The teeth snapped again at her left breast. Suddenly she was acutely conscious of her pounding heart, thumping almost audibly from her exertions.
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The beast lunged forward again, and this time she crushed its throat with the force of her resistance, and she understood its lust as it died. It hungered for her heart!
The body fell lifeless at her feet, and she stumbled back in horror as she saw the beast clearly for the first time. The stag-skull, framed by a proud rack of antlers, could have been taken from the body of a deer and transplanted onto the headless corpse of a great eagle, for all its gory looks. But the thing had lived!
And one other, at least, still did. The first monster, the one she had clubbed aside with her staff, suddenly swept upward from the valley. It had taken a long dive, but now it attacked with undiminished fury.
Robyn, through a bloody haze, saw it coming and staggered to the edge of the ledge. She could barely raise her staff, and the creature was soaring toward her with savage momentum. In that instant, she realized the futility of further combat. If she stayed to fight this thing, she would die, for she had no more strength.
In that same instant, she fell back upon her faith and her skill. If her magic failed her now, she would be dead. The monster raced toward her, its wicked antlers spread like a score of lances. But Robyn no longer stood before the attacker. Instead, she dropped to all four of her feet and scuttled toward a crack in the rock. Her tail whisked out of sight as the creature thumped into the rock wall.
Her tiny heart pounded, many times a second, as she turned to stare anxiously from her sheltered niche. She chit-tered and chirped nervously, unable to restrain her invective.
The monster landed outside and slashed at the crack with its crooked claws. But the furry marmot that was Robyn of Gwynneth drew farther back in the cave and chattered an angry challenge.
The great unicorn trotted across the wasteland, his white head held high. His ivory horn rose in apparent challenge to any minion of horror that might arise before him.
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And indeed, Kamerynn would have relished the death of any of the servants of evil who now defiled his home. For weeks, he had lived among the desolation of the vale, slaying the living carrion tha t served the cleric of the Dark well.
Once the unicorn had discovered and fought a hideous flying creature, a cross between hawk and stag. The thing was incredibly evil, but it had flown away before Kamerynn could slay it.
Through those weeks, he had wandered around the breadth ofMyrloch, watching the great lake die. The desolation had spread quickly, and now he could only feel a hopeless sense of defeat. Kamerynn was only an animal but an animal of such intelligence as to make normal human intellect dim in comparison.
To him, the fate of the world was now obvious, writ upon the face of Myrloch Vale. This blackness and death would claim all. Abruptly the unicorn halted in his tracks. He lifted his head even higher, flexing his pink nostrils in the fetid air. Though no odor nor sound reached him, he sensed a message, or was it a cry for help?
His broad heart quickened as he felt the gentle tug upon his spirit once again. The mother called him! He could not know that the goddess lay inert within the earth, paralyzed by the blackness, nor that the call came not from her but from a druid of great faith, in dire danger.
But he recognized the summons, and the command. With a mighty bound, he galloped off in a new direction, thundering across the dead ground. A streak of white across a landscape of unbroken black, he raced to answer the call to his soul.
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Tristan opened the chest, and immediately the musty smell washed over him with memories of his father. He inhaled slowly, cherishing those remembrances in a way he had never cherished his father while he lived. Then he shook off his reminiscence and reached into the large trunk.
The silver chain mail gleamed untarnished, as if he had put it there yesterday. In reality, the armor had lain here undisturbed since the end of the Darkwalker War more than a year earlier.
He lifted the shirt of mail, noticing again the lightness of the metal, the unblemished nature of the craftsmanship. Yet experience had shown him the strength of the armor. It had saved his life more than once.
And it would do so again, staying with him as trusted protection. Not like his companions, damn them! Not like Dary-th! The Calishite had not spoken to him all morning as he went about his own preparations with surly concentration. Even Pawldo was subdued.
Of course, they all worried about Robyn, as did he. But they would find her, rescue her. Tristan knew that they would.
He raised the legacy of his father over his shoulders and felt its solid weight come to rest upon his frame. The armor felt good, a solid cloak protecting him from the deadly assaults of his enemies. Would that it offered the same protection from the pain emanating from his own heart!
Angrily he shook off the thought. Guilt was for weaklings!
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He stalked through the castle, down the stairs, and out the doors, then across the courtyard to the stable. There he found Avalon. The great stallion whinnied a soft greeting.
The steed had been well cared for. As he threw the heavy saddle across the stallion's back, the king saw that Avalon's snowy white coat gleamed and his nostrils flared with eagerness, as if he sensed impending adventure. He pranced anxiously as Tristan cinched the saddle and loaded his few provisions into panniers.
He only vaguely noticed lavish and Pawldo preparing their own mounts, a gelding and a small pony, elsewhere in the stable. Pawldo was well outfitted for travel and adventure, with sturdy leather garments and his trusty sword. Tavish had borrowed a shortsword from the castle weapons room. She had it strapped to her saddle so she could carry her lute. Her saddlebags bulged with a variety of foods and several skins of strong wine.
Newt and Yazilliclick buzzed around anxiously. Both the faerie creatures were eager to return to Myrloch Vale, but the sprite's natural shyness prevented him from talking when everyone else remained silent. Noticing the difficulties Tavish had with packing her ample provisions, however, the sprite offered his aid. The bard finally saddled him with a wineskin.
The normally loquacious Newt seemed unusually subdued. This morning his scales were a sickly greenish color. He waited on one of the rafters in the stable until the others were ready, then buzzed down to ride on the horn of Tristan's saddle.
Daryth already sat astride his chestnut mare, waiting for them in the courtyard with Canthus. His silver scimitar rested easily against his thigh. Daryth looked toward the gate, ignoring the rest of the party as they gathered in the courtyard.
Tristan glanced awkwardly at the others when they gathered before the gate. They were all acutely aware of Robyn's absence, he felt certain. His embarrassment caused his voice to grow harsh as they started out.
"Robyn's gone. I'm certain she's headed for Myrloch Vale,
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to the grove of the great druid. We will follow and find her" He nudged Avalon with his knees, and the great stallion started into a brisk trot, passing through the gatehouse as the other companions fell in behind.
Tristan unwillingly recalled in vivid detail the events of the previous night. How could he have hurt Robyn like that? What could have gone through his mind? A part of him still wanted to claim that the woman had bewitched him somehow, used foul enchantment to beguile him with her charms. But he suspected that this was not the truth.
Tristan remained constantly aware of Robyn's absence, though he tried to ignore his role in her sudden departure. His father's chain mail armor rested heavily on his shoulders, and he quickly grew saddle sore. Nevertheless, he would find her. Of that he was certain. The others could come with him or remain behind. He didn't really care.
Now the north wind howled with the threat of approaching winter, but the lone longship of Grunnarch the Red sliced through each mountainous crest as if it could smell the security of its home port. Manned by thirty brawny northmen, several of whom Grunnarch had recruited in Corwell's taverns and one whom he had liberated from the town gaol, the sleek vessel raced northward.
"Hold steady!" the king ordered his helmsman as he made his way into the bow. The gray water roiled on all sides as far as he could see. Dusk settled over the Sea of Moonshae, and the Red King's thoughts turned to the cookfires of home, the great smoky council lodge near the shore, and the welcoming embrace of his woman.
It would not be long before those things were his again, and this knowledge brought him a keen pleasure. Truly, homecoming was always sweet, but this one would be sweeter than most.
Still, his eyes fell, unbidden, on the gray swells that slowly turned to black with the vanishing light. He recalled the sahuagin that had boiled upward from the mysterious
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depths to claim the lives of so many of his countrymen.
The fish-men still lurked down there, he knew. He couldn't be certain, but he suspected that their depredations were not finished. Grunnarch did not even suspect that the horrors of the sahuagin had barely begun.
The great dog led the way unerringly, selecting the easiest path up the rocky defile. Tristan followed, leading Avalon by the great stallion's bridle. The wind picked up, and he pulled his cloak tightly about him with his free hand.
As they climbed through the foothills into the highlands, progress slowed for the first time in the four days of the journey. From his previous venture into Myrloch Vale, Tristan knew that this was the roughest part of the trip.
"Let's hunt some firbolgs!"
The suggestion came from the back of Avalon's saddle, where Newt rested comfortably. Tristan ignored the faerie dragon, but the top popped from one of the saddlebags to reveal Yazilliclick.
"Are you c-crazy?" he stammered, his tiny antennae quivering in agitation. "W-We've got to find Robyn桼obyn!"
"Well, maybe she's been captured by a firbolg! I mean, that's as likely as anything, if you ask?
"Shut up!" growled Tristan, whirling to face the dragon. Newt dropped his head and sulked as the king glared at him for a moment. Beyond the dragon, Tristan could see the figures of lavish and Pawldo, each leading his mount up the trail behind him. Daryth's tiny figure, occasionally disappearing around some bend in the trail, brought up the rear to guard against surprise.
"Or perhaps to avoid my presence," mumbled Tristan. In truth, the Calishite had avoided his gaze and made no offer to converse with him. As they had made camp each of the last three nights, Daryth had found an excuse to wander away by himself, returning only after Tristan had retired.
The bright sunlight of their journey thus far, even with its pale, wintry glow, had seemed to mock the king. The noble purpose of the quest seemed an empty memory now. Dar-
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yth should be helping me, offering me friendship and comfort, damn him!
He tried to avoid thinking about his own actions, but his mind was inexorably drawn to the fateful night of their homecoming. Robyn's absence had surprised and mystified him, but he had suspected immediately that she had gone on to the vale alone. How she had left her room without drawing attention, he couldn't guess.
But now she must certainly be in great danger. And he was equally aware that his own lack of faith had sent her away. He cringed inwardly at this awareness, but there was no other way to look at it. He had betrayed her.
"She could be killed!" he hissed, shaking his head as if to ward away the fear. He pushed himself harder, looking ahead to Canthus.
The great dog stood now at a narrow niche in a ridge at the top of this high valley. His sharp nose pointed into the wind, the moorhound gazed majestically into the valley beyond. There, Tristan knew, lay Myrloch Vale. There, too, would be Robyn. Or so he devoutly hoped.
The marmot cowered within its niche while the great predator, with apparently infinite patience, crouched just outside the crack. For three days, it had remained motionless, like a statue of itself.
But it still was there, waiting only for the appearance of its prey. The strain of the shape-change had exhausted Robyn so much that she had slept for a day and a half. Now, as she slowly regained her strength, she listened carefully. Robyn's tiny ears, more keen than those of her human body, heard the steady thumping of the monstrous heart. The druid knew that she was trapped.
Her ears were not keen enough to hear the distant clop-ping of hooves upon the rocks below. The monster could hear, and see, however. Its vacant eyes stared at the muffled figures, four of them, below. The humans led their horses and were preceded by a great dog. The peryton watched
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them make their way through a high pass and descend into the broadening valley beyond.
The peryton twitched anxiously, shaking its broad antlers. The commands of its maker had been clear梘uard the vale, attack strangers, report large groups of intruders.
But now it had a dual task, for was it not still engaged in the attacking of the stranger now trapped in the cave? Yet these were intruders below, as well, and didn't their numbers make them the greater threat? But the prey in the trap was an intruder close at hand, and as is the way of stupid beasts, to the peryton, the thing close at hand was the important thing.
So the monster kept its watch upon the tiny marmot, for sooner or later, the creature would need to emerge and eat. And all the while, the four intruders, with their horses and dog, grew smaller and smaller in the north.
Robyn's senses had a new aspect now. She was no longer crippled with fear. Her wounds, over the past three days of enforced rest, had healed. She was hungry, and eager to proceed with her mission. Now the fear of the monster that had driven her into the tiny cave was gone, replaced by an angry flame that slowly grew into a crackling rage.
