The hunting tactics of Thurgol and his band had always been crude, at best. The thrown rock was the deadliest weapon in the giant-kin arsenal, and the club, however heavy and knotted, was no way to bring down a deer. Of course, during the chieftain's youth, the band had possessed the Silverhaft Axe, and while that was no hunting weapon, at least in design, it seemed that the diamond-studded blade and whichever firbolg wielded it had always been able to provide fresh meat. Indeed, one of Thurgol's earliest memories was of a grand feast-a huge bear, slain by Klatnaught, the former chieftain, with the Silverhaft Axe. Klatnaught's wife, the shaman Garisa, had provided Thurgol with a tender morsel from the beast's ribs.
Yet it had now been two decades since the Silverhaft Axe had been stolen. During these past years, the firbolgs had ranged the width and breadth of the wide valley in the heart of the island of Gwynneth, stumbling across listless animals and bashing their brains out. Now, he knew, those days were gone, along with the mighty axe.
He came to the shore of a pool of still water. Previously he had come here to study his reflection, drawing comfort from the craggy precipice of his brow, the heavy jowls and large, wart-covered nose. Those features, together with his broad-girthed mass of shoulders and chest, his stumplike legs as sturdy as two weathered oak trunks, had combined to make Thurgol lord and master of Blackleaf.
But even that visage was lost to him now, thanks to the cloudy film that colored the previously clear water. Not only did the liquid have a distinct cast of milky white color, but in the full dark of the night, it also actually seemed to glow!
Thurgol wasn't terribly certain of the latter fact. On one night several weeks earlier, however, he had certainly gotten the impression that the pool possessed some kind of luminescence. On that occasion, shaken by a dim, supernatural fear, he had hastened back to the village, and he hadn't approached the pond after nightfall since.
Now, in his capacity as ruler, he knew that he had to do something about his people's current malaise. Thurgol liked having his pick of the wenches, and it was a source of great satisfaction for him to lord it over the trolls. In the past, those scaly, hideous humanoids wouldn't have consented to such an arrangement, but now the hard times in the vale had driven them to seek the protection of the firbolgs. Without Thurgol and his giant-kin, the trolls would almost certainly have been exterminated by the dwarves, who were the other significant occupants of northern Myrloch Vale.
For many years, the firbolgs and dwarves had existed in uneasy truce, sharing the large valley to the north of the great lake itself. The dwarves claimed the lands to the east of Codsrun Creek, the firbolgs to the west. Surrounded as they were by rugged highlands to north, east, and west, and isolated by the huge lake to the south, the two tribes had lived in seclusion from the rest of the Moonshae population. Indeed, since the druids had departed, precious few humans had even entered Myrloch Vale, much less tried to live there. The few rash enough to try the latter, of course, the trolls quickly found and devoured.
Suddenly Thurgol scratched his head. The druids, he knew, had begun to return. His eyes gleamed with the fervor of insight. Could there be a connection to the revitalized forest and the men and women who had once tended and preserved it? Grunting in frustration, the firbolg chief shook his head as the cognitive link proved to be too much of a mental challenge.
Still, the unease agitating him remained. He thought of the dwarves, spitting loudly as the image of the small, bearded pests filled his mind. Hateful runts, every one of them! Another thought occurred to him: The game eluded his tribe around Blackleaf, but did the dwarves continue to have plenty? In his heart of hearts, Thurgol became convinced that they did.
Perhaps the dwarves had stolen the game that rightly belonged to the tribe of Thurgol! The more he considered this possibility, the more he became convinced it was the truth. The complacency of twenty years of peace had lulled him and his people, and his ancient enemies had taken advantage of that lapse! The question of how the dwarves lured away his game did not trouble the giant-kin's dim intellect. It was enough that he had found a focus for his discontent
Finally-or perhaps foremost-there was the matter of the Silverhaft Axe. The priceless artifact had been the grand treasure of the firbolg clan during the first decades of Thurgol's life. The hallowed object was attributed a major role in the creation of the firbolg race and had been a wonder to look at.
Then, twenty years earlier, following the giant-kins' defeat in the Darkwalker War, the axe had been claimed by the victors, specifically the dwarves. Those short folk also revered the axe as a legendary artifact, and had regarded its possession by firbolgs as nothing short of heresy. The Myrloch dwarves had been only too glad to seize the axe as the spoils of war. Nevertheless, to Thurgol, it was his own tribe who had been wronged.
And then the gods, or fate, gave him further proof when he turned back toward the village, stepping roughly on a lush lilac. A rabbit scampered away from the foliage, and he swung mightily with his club. The knobbed weapon bounced from the ground scant inches from the terrified creature's puffball of a tail. The hare disappeared as Thurgol grunted in anguish, the rude shock jarring his elbow and wrenching his shoulder. Then his eyes narrowed suspiciously as he understood the import of the event
For the rabbit had fled eastward, toward the vale of the dwarves.
Day provided no respite for the weary Princess of Callidyrr. Deirdre lay awake, but for the most part unaware. Her eyes remained open, staring vacantly about the room. Occasionally she allowed her mother-but no one else-to feed her broth or water. Other than that, she took no nourishment, responding listlessly or not at all to companionship.
A sense of complete weariness possessed her, an apathy that her mother and attending clerics suspected grew from her troubled nights.
Yet her mind remained alive and active. She knew fear, remembered desire. She felt an unspeakable horror of something that awaited her beyond the curtain of nightfall. Yet there was power there, and a certain allure that she couldn't deny.
Thus, at the same time as her terror grew, she found herself yearning for sunset
Talos the Stormbringer seethed in his rage. At every turn, it seemed, the revitalized goddess of the Ffolk thwarted and aggrieved him. Yet in his frustration, his immortal will congealed into a last grim purpose: He would strike at these impudent mortals; he would wound and dismay them.
For that task, he had one tool-a tool that was singularly suited to his purpose.
2
"Please, Alicia, reconsider! Sail with me to the north!" Brandon's arms held the princess against his brawny chest. Though the pressure of his grip was gentle, she felt suffocated, and gently she broke free.
Alicia looked up while the wind blew her bright golden hair back from her face. Her eyes of green searched the ice-blue gaze of the proud northman prince. Framed by high, proud cheekbones, her face tore at Brandon's heart so intensely that it hurt him to see it. At the same time, he found it absolutely impossible to look away.
Only a trace of this anguish showed on the sailing captain's own stern face. Dressed for sea, the northman had tied his long hair into twin braids, donning leather sandals to protect his feet. The day was warm, and so he wore merely a strap of bearskin across his loins.
"I must stay here in Corwell, at least for now, until Deirdre's better or…" She didn't want to voice the alternative.