Only Deirdre and the inquisitor, it seemed, had watched the scene with dispassion. And then, an hour later, Tristan had ridden through the gates of Caer Corwell on his most powerful war-horse, accompanied only by five of his veteran moorhounds and armed with the gleaming sword.
Now, in the darkness, Deirdre sensed the interest of the gods in the High King's quest. He served the goddess, in his defiance of those creatures who actively wracked the Balance. And he also served Helm, for he placed his faith in the arms of a warlike god and fought against great odds. Perhaps he served all the New Gods, for though his quest was sanctified by the blessing of the Exalted Inquisitor, that patriarch had blessed the endeavor in the names of a full pantheon of deities.
And certainly, Deirdre sensed in the dim recesses of her mind, he served at least one other god besides the goddess Earthmother and the All-Seeing Eye. She sensed this in the core of herself, in the part of her body that was no longer fully human-that part that had been claimed when the mirror shattered and the shards of glass had pierced her without a wound.
She heard the deep voice of an immortal master, and it was not a thing of menace, for it did not try to command her. Instead, this potent deity listened to her needs, paid heed to the desires that had begun to grow in her mind, and slowly, gradually, began to show her the way.
Amid the vast halls of the gods, Talos and Helm observed the consultation in the Moonshaes with particular interest. The two mighty gods, diametrically opposed in almost all facets of value and belief, nevertheless agreed that the reign of the goddess must not be allowed to hold all other faiths aside. Each had his own tool, and each worked toward that aim.
Unknown to them, however, a third immortal power began to stir, to take an interest in the affairs of the Moonshaes. That one was not one of the greatest gods; indeed he was not a true god at all, but a demigod who had once stalked the mortal world of the Realms. Still, he did not lack for worshipers. Once the potent master of a powerful race, he now saw the chance to return to his once mighty glory.
This immortal lord was Grond Peaksmasher, and his children were the giant-kin.
6
It seemed to Tristan Kendrick that layer after layer of his life-extraneous, civilized levels-fell away as he rode steadily northward. The complexities of gods and humans grew distant and remote as Caer Corwell dwindled to a speck on the horizon and finally disappeared in the haze of distance.
The comfortable weight of his chain mail armor, a long-past gift from his father, settled upon his shoulders. The sword given to him by Parell Hyath swung easily at his side, and the king reflected that the blade's weight felt good. It had been long since he had wielded a sword, and that sword had been a blade for the ages-the Sword of Cymrych Hugh. Yet now, so long after that weapon had vanished in the final triumph over the Darkwalker, it somehow seemed right that he again carry worthy steel.
Five powerful moorhounds, led by the redoubtable Ranthal, coursed proudly through the brush and hillocks. The lanky hound, covered with shaggy rust-colored fur and gifted with a keen nose and virtually limitless endurance, was a descendant of the mighty Canthus himself. Loping tirelessly, the pack leader sniffed and searched through the brush, eager to lead his packmates onto the spoor of any prey.
A high-backed saddle supported the king as the huge stallion, Shallot, easily crested the rises. With his gleaming palomino coat and snowy white mane and fetlocks, Shallot trotted and cantered with head held high, as if he knew that he bore the High King of the Ffolk on his back. As the monarch rode, the moors gradually merged into the highlands, the slopes becoming steeper, the crests more rocky and precipitous.
Even the skies blessed Tristan's endeavor, for the sun shone brightly the whole day long at the beginning of his ride. He rode generally along the line of the northern coast of Corwell Firth, but far enough inland that he avoided the settlements of fisherffolk lining the shore. It was enough that he had the company of his dogs and his horse; indeed, it gave him a sense of freedom and youth such as he hadn't known in many years.
Before sunset, he turned inland, intending to widely skirt the only significant town, Elyssyrr, along this coast. His course would take him northward into a rugged range of mountains, yet he relished the challenge of untraveled valleys and undiscovered passes. He still felt the pressure of time; he had to travel quickly! It was possible, even likely, that his path would take him into a box canyon instead of a pass, and he could lose a day's or more travel time with a long backtrack and detour. Yet, as with the entire concept of his solitary quest, he felt no lack of confidence. He rode in the service of the gods; therefore they would find him a path through the mountains.
Of course, even a moment's reflection told him that he couldn't expect to set his lance and charge into two hundred firbolgs and trolls. Yet here a serene faith took over in his mind, banishing any concern on this score. It was as if the gods around him urged him on, assuring him that they would take care of the rest.
The first night he made a comfortable camp atop a low mountaintop, relishing the brilliant arc of stars overhead. Already he was so remote from humanity that he saw no sign of fire or lamplight throughout the circumference of his horizon. In fact, he elected to eat a cold supper of bread, sausage, cheese, and wine rather than build himself a blaze that would have detracted from the brilliance of the night.
Snugly wrapped in his bedroll, he watched the stars until he drifted off to sleep. For a long time, he dreamed about many things, but most vividly he remembered floating on a dark, rolling sea, supported by a wide raft, yet alone upon a featureless expanse of water. Then he awakened, still hours before dawn, and thought that he beheld a miracle.
The sky to the north was aglow with spiraling lines and twisting columns of fire dancing on the surface of the world. They reached toward the stars, those flames, and flickered through cosmic colors-red and yellow, deep blue and pure, flaring white. For an hour, Tristan watched the lights of the north, and in them, he saw the blessings of the gods. Did they not illuminate the sky over his destination?
As if to confirm the magic of the scene, a chorus of wild voices arose from the forest, a song of joy wailing at the stars. It had been many years since Tristan had heard the call of the wolves, and a smile of contentment crossed his lips as he lay, powerfully moved, and listened to their song.
Considerably heartened, the High King drifted back to sleep. This time he dreamed that his ship was propelled by wide sails, fairly flying across the sea on a true and proper course. When he next awakened, it was dawn.
The village of Codscove huddled against the shore, protected by two outreaching peninsulas that served to wrap the bay and community in sheltering arms. Thurgol and Baatlrap watched the town from the vantage of a high hill only a mile or so inland. Not a large town by any means, Codscove was nonetheless the most populous location in the path of the steadily marching army of trolls and firbolgs.
"Good-no wall around it," observed the huge troll, studying the layout of buildings, streets, and waterfront.
Most of the buildings were small and made primarily of wood, with perhaps one or two walls of stone. In the center of the town, however, were several large stone structures-a small temple, some kind of warehouse or armory, and a sprawling house that must belong to the local lord. These three stood around three sides of a large square of grass, with the fourth side facing the water.