He enjoyed a glass of warm ale, and then another, strolling out onto the porch of the inn as the grayness began to fade to black. He could barely make out the outline of Caer Corwell, perched so proudly and so precariously on its little knoll. The cleric smiled a secret smile as he thought of the earthquake spell Bhaal had restored to him.
Soon that ancient fortress, the original stronghold of the Ffolk, would come crashing down about them. And even as it fell, the sahuagin and the dead would emerge from the sea.
Chauntea, mistress of agriculture, had recoiled with the other gods from Bhaal's roiling presence in the Darkwell. She had grieved for the destruction of land and life as that murderous god had worked his will.
But now she sensed a glimmer of life, and of hope, from near the heart of his realm. It was not strong nor constant, but it seemed to be her only promise, however faint, of a tool to use against the god of murder and death.
Chauntea had suffered much, perhaps more than any other god, from the passing of the Earthmother. The two deities had shared more than immortal sisterhood, for they had both cherished notions of growth and health, nature and life. The balance, prime tenet of the Earthmother's faith, was a necessary conviction of those who would work the land and grow crops and raise livestock. Without winter, of course, there could be no spring.
Now the passing of the goddess and the claiming of her
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lands梙er body, in truth梑y Bhaal struck Chauntea as a grievous wrong, a blight upon the face of all the planes.
But there was a hope now, at least the glimmer of one, in the person of this flicker of life and strength near Bhaal's own foul stronghold. Chauntea studied the signs well and came to know this thing as a human follower of the goddess, a druid.
This human would no doubt paint Chauntea, with the broad brush used by such druids, as one of the new gods and hence an enemy of the land. However, she was a person of great strength and faith, plus a powerful aptitude. Her use of scrolls normally reserved for Chauntea's own clerics provided ample proof of this. And she carried a medallion of faith, for this was how Chauntea knew of her presence.
Perhaps, if this druid remained strong, Bhaal would not gain a complete triumph. Perhaps some vestige of the land would remain in its natural 'state.
Perhaps.
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DANCE OF THE HEATHBIRDS
The snow dragged against Tristan's feet, slowing him to an agonizing plod. He saw Pawldo fall, with the tree line a good twenty paces away. The halfling struggled to his feet, whirling and unslinging his bow in the same motion, and Tristan turned to fight beside him.
The Sword of Cymrych Hugh hummed with anticipation as he raised it toward the oncoming flock. The leading deathbird swooped toward him, its antlers spread like a phalanx of deadly spear tips.
Tristan saw a flash of motion out of the corner of his eye, and Pawldo's arrow darted into the sky, piercing the monster's wing and bringing it tumbling to the ground. Even in pain, it made no sound, though the thump of its body and the cracking of its neck were plainly audible as it crashed.
More of the monsters swerved toward the king, seeming to blacken the sky before him. Silently he vowed to slay as many as he could before he fell, and the sword in his hands thrummed with the shared conviction.
A volley of arrows arced through the air over his head, knocking six or eight of the beasts from the sky. Instinctively the king readjusted his defense to face the nearest surviving attackers, and then his mind reacted. A volley! From where? Pawldo was a rapid archer, to be sure, but no man could shoot several arrows simultaneously!
But he had no more time to contemplate the source of this unexpected succor as two more of the monsters slashed toward his face. The sword flicked upward like a lightning bolt as the deer-skull face of one attacker ducked to drive its
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antlers home. The point drove deep into the creature's breast, and the sword sang with grim satisfaction.
The second deathbird veered to avoid the falling body of its partner, and as it did, the point of an antler struck the king a glancing blow on his shoulder. The sturdy chain of his father's armor absorbed the blow and snapped the tip of the horn, and one blow from the gleaming sword struck the creature on the back of its neck and lopped its stag-skull from the bird's body.
More of the things were on him instantly, and it seemed as if his world had been reduced to a vision of frantically beating wings, sharp antlers, widespread mouths hungry for his blood, and hollow, empty eye sockets. Antlers scraped his face, and blood flowed freely into his eyes. He took repeated heavy blows to his chest and back, which only his armor prevented from driving deep into him.
He fought back desperately, a whirlwind of slicing, slashing death. He cut the deathbirds from the air, slaying one, driving another back with one leg hanging limp, flopping a third to the ground as he severed its wing.
Another volley of arrows, gleaming silvery bright even under the bieak overcast, whistled overhead and struck several more of the monsters from the sky. Suddenly the entire flock was swirling around the companions in. a vicious melee, antler against sword and dagger and even fist, for Yak waded into the thickest of the flock, bashing tirelessly with his great, clubbed hands. A deathbird vanished in a cloud of feathers and bones, annihilated by a single powerful blow. Another twisted and squirmed as the firbolg seized it around the neck and squeezed the life from its obscene body.
Tristan caught a glimpse of Robyn, surrounded by a swirling cloud of feathers and antlers. Silver gleamed, and the scimitar she had inherited from Daryth of Calimshan claimed an unnatural victim. The druid wielded the weapon with skill and grace, using it like a sickle to harvest the foul creatures from the sky.
The king lunged and hacked his way to her side. Pawldo fought alongside him, sticking and thrusting with his dag-
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ger and somehow managing to hold the deathbirds at bay. Yak stood protectively over the bard as lavish poked awkwardly with her shortsword at the swirling predators.
A fountain of colored lights exploded among the flock, scattering them temporarily, and Newt popped into view in the center of the display.
"Scatter, you stupid buzzards, or I'll turn you all into sparrows!" With a great display of teeth, the faerie dragon dove at one of the deathbirds, sinking his fangs into the thing's tail and sputtering away with a mouthful of feathers. The monster swerved around and joined several others as they dove at the faerie dragon.
Once more Newt disappeared, deciding invisibility was the safest defense against the raging fowls. The predators darted and swooped in the direction of their vanished quarry, and Tristan took advantage of the confusion to stab another in the belly, dropping the creature like a stone.
The attackers turned once more toward the companions, and the king heard Robyn, behind him, cry out in pain. A rack of antlers struck him in the back, jolting him forward and knocking the wind from his lungs, but he somehow maintained his footing. Once again the chain mail had prevented a wound. Spinning, he cut the creature from the air as it tried to climb away.
Then he saw a line of figures, perhaps half a dozen of them, advancing through the snow. Dressed in white furs, they emerged from the trees and moved toward the battle. He saw longbows and quivers slung across their backs, but now they attacked with silver swords extended. Again the king whirled to protect his flank, slaying another deathbird, but he turned back in the next instant to stare at the newcomers.
Who were they? Where did they come from? These and a thousand more questions stormed through his brain, but he saw several of the silver swords dart through the air and slice into the obscene avians. Whoever they were, they were friends.
Robyn stumbled, a bloody gash on her shoulder, and Tristan hurried to her side. One of the monsters flapped toward
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his face, revealing wolfish fangs in its bony maw, but the king brought the sword of his ancestors crashing down onto the thing's skull and it tumbled into the trampled snow. With a quick thrust, he killed it.
Now the fur-cloaked figures were fighting all around them, and the odds were shifting in their favor. As the newcomers moved easily across the ground, Tristan saw that each wore a pair of light snowshoes. Perhaps half of the deathbirds had fallen, and the remaining creatures could no longer gang up on an opponent four or five at a time. Tristan could see little of the strangers beneath their winter garments, but he caught a glimpse of wide brown eyes beneath one hood. A long lock of blond hair spilled from another.
Yak lunged forward with a loud bellow, seizing a flying deathbird by its claws. The firbolg swung the creature around in a circle before smashing its skull against the frozen ground. Tristan, Pawldo, and Robyn joined in the charge, disrupting the flock with a sudden attack. Then the strangers followed their lead and rushed forward. The entire flight of monsters lurched into the air, beating their ungainly wings in an attempt to evade the deadly swords.
Tristan lunged at one that passed high overhead, and the Sword of Cymrych Hugh seemed to pull him upward, striking the creature's belly at the height of the king's prodigious leap. In moments, the horrid creatures had risen too high for their blades, flapping their great wings with unseemly urgency as they fled the scene of battle.
The newcomers threw back their hoods and unslung their bows. The king saw, with instant recognition, the shocks of golden hair, the slender and serious faces, the breathtaking beauty of each of the warriors. He stood, amazed and exhilarated, watching the silver arrows dart into the sky, bringing down more and more of the monsters until at last the survivors, no more than a dozen or so, had flown out of range to the north.
Tristan did not speak until the last of the bows had been lowered and the leader of the band of warriors turned to regard him with her wide brown eyes.
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"Brigit, your arrival could not have been better timed! I feared that we faced the end of our quest right here on this snowy field."
The sister knight's face lightened with the barest suggestion of a smile. "Your quest is the hope and prayer of more than you realize, Tristan. We could not stand by when we had the power to aid you."
He stepped forward and embraced the petite warrior, a gesture which she shyly returned. He looked around and recognized Maura, the tiniest of the sister knights, and Colleen, and several others, the remnants of the brave company that had served him during the Darkwalker War. These female fighters of the Llewyrr had ridden chargers and carried silver lances then. Now they fought in furs and snow-shoes, with longbow and sword. But always they battled with courage and consummate skill.
"My Lord King," said Brigit, bending at the waist in the slightest of bows. "The Sisters of Synnoria are at your service once again."
The moorhound bounded in an ever-growing circle around Yazilliclick and Honkah-Fah-Snooei, stopping every several moments to shake more droplets of water from his shaggy coat.
"Why you know wolf?" asked the troll, looking suspiciously at the sprite.
" W-Wolf? He's no wolf. He's a dog梐 dog! Like a blink dog, kind of, only he's b-bigger and he d-doesn't blink." Yazilliclick laughed at the notion of Canthus as a wolf. "He's m-my friend, and the f-friend of my friends, t-too!"
"Dog-friend?" The troll slowly absorbed the thought, and then his face brightened. "Dog-friend gats wine?"
"N-No! People gots梡eople have wine. The d-dog just g-goes with them梬ith them."
"Crud. We rest now." Honkah plopped himself on a fallen tree trunk and looked wistfully at Canthus and the gate. "I gots to go back to my guard gate."
"B-But we're g-guarding a g-gate here, aren't we梐ren't
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we? You're still a g-guardian troll. You j-just moved to a d-different gate, that's all!"
"Not my gate!"
"H-How often does anyone use y-your gate? Do people g-go through it a Mot梐 lot?"
"Sure! Just now, you did."
"I桰 know. But how long before m-me?"
Honkah scratched his head, squinting his tiny eyes with the effort of his concentration. "Never."
"Well, someone j-just came through this g-gate, too. I bet it's even busier that yours. M-Maybe we should rest here and guard it梘uard it! Then we can go find another g-gate, one that's even b-busier!"
The troll looked at him suspiciously but apparently could think of no effective rebuttal. He grunted and turned to stare at the earthen bank, as if expecting an invading army to pour through it in the next instant.
Canthus dropped and rolled in a field of flowers, squirming in delight. He displayed no curiosity or surprise about his transition from the depths of an icy torrent to this sunlit meadow. The moorhound sprang to his feet and bounded over to Yazilliclick, bumping the sprite with his nose and knocking him off the log.
"N-No, Canthus! 1 c-can't play now梟ow. I'm helping Honkah g-guard the g-gate!"
Across the meadow, the branches of a thick bush parted, and the head of a blink dog poked through, staring with interest at the trio. The dog, like all of its kind, had smooth brown fur, a pointed muzzle, and floppy ears that perked upward when, as now, the creature was attentive. The blink dog was about half the size of the moorhound.
The faerie dog suddenly teleported itself across the meadow, popping into sight right in front of Canthus. The moorhound barked sharply and leaped backward in surprise, then leaned toward the blink dog. The two canines sniffed each other tentatively, and then the blink dog popped out of sight, only to reappear across the meadow, with another of its kind beside it.
Canthus barked again, confused, then raced across the
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meadow to once again sniff the other canines' noses, followed by a more intimate examination of each other. Abruptly both dogs of Faerie popped out of sight.
This time four of them appeared near the center of the meadow, and Canthus leaped over to them, his tail wagging playfully. The blink dogs, too, frolicked and rolled about the moorhound, and soon six of them had Canthus racing and chasing about the meadow.
Yazilliclick whooped with laughter at the dogs' antics, and even Honkah chuckled a bit before climbing gruffly to his feet. " 'Nuff rest! Show next gate now."
