Robyn reached out and took the older woman's stronger hand in both her own. "That is why Alicia's journey is so important. I don't believe we can afford to lose a Moonwell, stagnant and lifeless though it may be!"
"There, too, I must agree."
"Then please, Tavish, go with them. Go with Keane and Alicia to Blackstone and see that their counsel is wise. . and prudent."
"Of course." The bard bowed her head, humble before her queen.
"There is one thing more." Robyn gestured toward a dark hickory chest near one wall of her bedchamber. "You will find the key in my nightstand. Please open it."
Tavish did so, inserting the tiny golden tines into the keyhole, turning it to release the catch, and then lifting the heavy lid with both hands.
"The staff-take it out." Robyn's voice was a command.
Tavish saw that the chest contained several felt pouches of rich cloth as well as a pair of scrolls, a metal torque that she recognized as having graced the queen's neck at her wedding, and a long stave of smooth, white ash.
The bard lifted the staff out and closed the lid. Turning, she offered it to Robyn.
"No." The queen shook her head. "It is the Staff of the White Well, the tool of a druid, not a cleric-nor a queen. Take it with you on your journey. It may be that you will come upon one who shall use it."
"Very well, Lady," Tavish replied, bowing deeply. "I am honored by the trust."
Robyn leaned back again, her face grown shockingly pale. "You do me honor if you help my daughter succeed."
He presented himself as a cleric, and how else were the men to take him? His powers were real enough: They had all seen him materialize in their midst, along the storm-wracked shore of Whitefish Bay. When he spoke, his voice was full of power and promise, sweeping the hundred or so ruffians in his audience to a pitch of enthusiasm and loyalty. They had gathered from the slums, from the waterfronts and garrison quarters, of the worst dives along the Sword Coast.
There were also the matters of his robe and his identity. The one who had summoned these men-bandits, mercenaries, and outlaws, from Gnarhelm and Callidyrr and places beyond-was robed from head to foot, revealing only his hands. The latter were pale and spotted, almost skeletally frail, but supple and quick of movement.
And not one of the men summoned here knew the name or the identity of the robed man. Yet he spoke of the gods like one who knew their ways, and his gold was real. Finally, his promise of gold answered the important questions.
Lost in the mist and rain, the white towers of Callidyrr thrust skyward no more than five miles away, but they might have been across the world for all they could be seen. The band of scoundrels gathered here secretly, coming from the cities and forests and highlands-wherever the robed man had found them.
He divided his recruits into two companies. Those of the north he outfitted with helms and weapons of the type used by northmen.
"You, Kaffa, will be my captain," said the robed man, addressing a huge, one-eyed northman. "You will take seventy men to the longship I have provided. It is anchored in a cove along the north shore of Whitefish Bay. I have the location sketched on maps, which I will provide you when our business here is concluded. Also, I have affixed a talisman to the ship-a thing that will protect you against sorcery."
"You don't lead us there?" inquired Kaffa, with a spit.
"I have other, equally important matters to attend to. But listen to me carefully, for here are your orders:
"Sail swiftly down the coast of Callidyrr," the mysterious priest ordered the crew in that dry voice that discouraged questions or debate. "Strike all the major cantrevs-Blythe, Dorset, Kythyss. Land quickly and burn what you can, wherever you can. Take treasure and captives only as it does not jeopardize your mission. Then, when you reach Southpoint, pass to the western shore and continue your raiding along the western shore of Alaron."
"Aye, Master," replied the one called Kaffa.
"And you, Larth," the priest continued, now speaking to a strapping outlaw known to be skilled with sword and shield. "You will lead the other thirty men. I have collected horses and armor in a barn beside that same cove. You will don them and ride, as knights of Callidyrr, against the lands of the northmen. Kill and burn as you ride. Take what treasure you will, but I want no prisoners!"
"As you wish, great one," replied Larth, grinning easily as he contemplated mayhem.
"Both of you, my captains, must remain alert for a message from me. When that comes, I want you to join me as quickly as possible. I will need you without delay!"
Standing on the gray shore of Whitefish Bay, the men nodded and then turned to their tasks. They would move north in small bands, agreeing to gather at the appointed cove in four days' time.
Watching them go, the robed figure allowed himself a shadow of a smile beneath his masking robe. The mist parted as a sudden gust drove the rain momentarily inland. The man glimpsed the towers of the great white castle.
He thought of one who dwelled there, who dreamed of the robed man, though she did not know it yet. Still, her dreams were a summons, an appeal to him, and soon she would know his presence. To her, he would become more than the impersonal figure who had just sent these raiding parties on their missions. Indeed, she would need to call him something- though, of course, he could not let her know his real name. The faint smile played with his lips as he thought of the young princess and her naive welcome.
"She will call me Malawar," he whispered to himself with a soft chuckle.
From the Log of Sinioth:
The pieces of war are gathered. Talos awaits the rise of chaos, when the armies shall march and his power shall rule over all the land!
Of course, I do not control these armies, but through the wisdom of my master, I do not have to. The mere triggers of war, prodded by the agents of Talos, will be enough to sweep away the fragile framework of twenty years' peace.
And in its place, once again the isles will tremble before the thunder of war, raging conflicts of men and of gods!
5
Gotha finally touched claw to land upon an islet that stood in lonely isolation, rising a little higher than the gray seas about its bleak shore. The barren rockpile was crested by a low hill, and near the rounded summit, Gotha discovered a cave. The natural cavern did not approach the grandeur of the magnificent lair he had once claimed, but it was a dwelling that would serve him well for the task at hand.
Next he went about exploring the islet, knowing that it was not huge but having earlier seen evidence of human habitation. The beast prowled the rock in the dark of the night, stalking the land like a huge hunting cat. Wind howled, and sheets of rain drenched him, but Gotha pressed on, unmindful of the weather.
The dracolich came upon a small pasture of sheep and gleefully slayed the stupid creatures. When their bleating brought a shepherd forth, the hideous monster disemboweled the wretch with one quick slash of his foreclaw, deriving even more pleasure from this killing.
Creeping across the fogbound isle, the dragon-beast found more huts-dwelling places for lone shepherds and fishermen mostly, though in one place, he encountered a dozen or more buildings clustered together, forming the beginnings of a town.
Gotha's eyes-red orbs that seemed to float in his deep, black sockets-glowed fiercely at the discovery. Slinking silently along the ground, sheltered by the heavy mist and the thickness of the night, the beast coiled in the center of the rude buildings. The structures employed, for their walls and roofs, the wreckage of ships that had been cast upon this lonesome rock, giving each a temporary, haphazard appearance.