"The Silverhaft Axe is merely a tool from the past. It is not a key to bind you against your will! You are being used-used to serve the invaders, those who would wrack the world of your body!"
The response grew more definite, becoming a sense of anger, of dark and implacable resentment that began to swell into a rising force. She struggled to continue, striving against the overwhelming weight of the mountain.
"Your enemies are not these humans and dwarves, nor those who wield the axe. Strive instead against those who seek to steal your will! You must assert that power before it is too late!"
The strain of her expansive form tore at Robyn's soul, and the rock smothered her. Desperately, like a foundering swimmer seeking a breath of air, she turned her soul upward, seeking to break free from the bedrock of the world. It was too late; she sensed that she would perish here, unheralded, failing once again to work the will of the Earthmother. Strata of rock split and twisted around her as once again the convulsions shook the land.
But now, finally, she could see light, feel air against her face. As the earthquake ripped a crack through the world, the druid queen reached upward and scrambled out, standing on the edge and seemingly impervious to the pitching rock beneath her feet.
Overhead, the monolith of the Peaksmasher settled its great arms to the ground. The massive head slumped, the eyes closing, as if the demigod suffered a loss of power and will. For a second, silence hung over the valley, broken only by the receding rumbles of the quake's echoes.
A screech of inhuman rage spun Robyn around, and she saw the body of her younger daughter, her face distorted by rage and the massive axe raised high in her hands, charging toward her. But it was only the form of the princess, Robyn told herself. Deirdre's soul was already gone.
Or so the queen argued, savagely determined to make herself believe. It was the only way she could prepare herself for the terrible thing she had to do. She's already dead!
Coldly impassive, the druid queen raised her hands and prepared to meet Deirdre in an embrace of doom.
Hanrald and Brigit raced toward the trolls in Tristan's wake, charging on either flank of the monarch. Ranthal, too, lunged, snarling, toward the enemy. The darting shape of Newt, his scales a bright crimson for battle, flashed through the air. Flushed with hope, the warriors attacked valiantly, determined to capitalize on their good fortune. Leading the attack, the High King sprinted toward the massive troll with the evil, jagged-bladed sword.
More trolls emerged from the woods to try to block the king's path. Tristan cut down the first one and kept going, while the earl and the elfwoman raised their blades against another pair. Dimly he saw the great firbolg, surrounded by his giant-kin companions, standing mutely at the side of the battle. They watched, but they did not attack. He didn't have time to wonder why.
Hanrald chopped down a troll, but then the blow of a second sent him reeling. Twisting, he saw a golden-haired figure fly past him, driving a shining steel blade deep into the troll's belly. The monster bellowed and tumbled away.
But a third troll had avoided discovery for a second too long. It leaped from the shadows behind a rock, dodging around Brigit's sharp parrying blow. With a sweeping dive, the creature ripped a clawed hand across the sister's knight's face. Brigit made no sound as her head twisted around. Instead, the Llewyrr knight fell soundlessly to the earth, lying in a growing pool of blood.
"No!" Hanrald screamed, hacking his sword through the body of the hateful beast, dropping the troll in two pieces. The grotesque remains writhed upon the ground, each scrambling away from the fight, but the man's horrified eyes had already turned back to the pathetic, motionless figure on the ground.
Groaning unconsciously, he knelt beside Brigit, gently reaching out to touch her cheek. Her eyelids were shut, and no sign of breath disturbed the golden strands of hair that had fallen over her mouth and nose.
But she was not dead-not quite yet, in any event. Her eyes, large and almond-shaped, fluttered open, and she looked up at him in a mute expression of her love. And when he clasped her small hand in his, he felt the slight returning pressure of her grip.
Then, as his heart broke, she died.
Tristan confronted the one-handed troll as the monster raised his toothed sword. When the beast leaped at him, the king slashed deeply into one of his legs, knocking him to the ground. Grim and implacable, as the monster wriggled at his feet, screaming, the High King drove the tip of Trollcleaver through the troll's foul heart.
A circle of the monsters had collected around him, standing well back from his gory blade, silently staring at the dead body of their leader. Tristan wasn't certain whether they intended to attack or flee, but the question quickly became immaterial as Grond Peaksmasher extended a stony arm and brought the massive, rock-studded club of his fist to earth, crushing the monsters in a single, smashing blow.
Too surprised to wonder about the colossus's apparent change of sides, the king turned back to his companions. Then, closer, he saw Deirdre and Robyn facing each other. Racing to them, he stumbled in between the two.
"No!" shouted Robyn. "This is my fight!"
"There won't be a fight!" he shouted back. "This is Deirdre-your daughter!"
"She is not our daughter! She has become the sword of the New Gods!" Robyn screamed back.
Deirdre lunged, swinging the axe into an arc that would have cut through Tristan and into Robyn had it landed. But stone fingers dropped from above with surprising quickness, plucking the diamond blade from Deirdre's fingers. Grond raised the axe, the artifact looking insignificant and tiny in his hands. Then, with a flick of his fingers, he crushed it to dust.
The dark-haired princess shrieked in rage, her face distorted beyond humanity. Like a deranged banshee, she raised her hands, spitting the initial commands to a destructive spell.
Before the incantation was complete, the tip of a steel blade erupted from Deirdre's chest in a fountain of blood. The princess looked down, gaping without comprehension, before slumping face forward to the ground.
Her sister, High Princess Alicia, stood behind her, blood still trickling down her blade while she stared at Deirdre's body in uncomprehending shock.
Exalted Inquisitor Parell Hyath stood upon the brink of pitching chaos, his hands held over his stomach in a posture of reflection and contemplation. This goddess, this Earthmother, was a deity of power beyond his calculations. Clearly it was time to summon his chariot, to return to societies more fertile to the dogma of Helm.
But before he could cast that spell, another man stepped from behind a tree. Hyath recognized Keane.
"It was you," said the wizard, his voice level. "I know that now. Once before I saw a spell cast in that pose, hands clasped over a fat belly. It was you!"
"What are you talking about?" demanded the priest
"It's the earthquake that made me remember," Keane explained, slowly approaching the cleric. Hyath took a step backward, frightened by some vague menace in the magic-user's demeanor. "I saw you during another one, another earthquake, but not so great as this."
"Explain yourself!" shouted Parell Hyath.
"In Baldur's Gate," the wizard continued, his voice still low and calm. "You cast the spell that consumed Bakar Dalsoritan. You killed him!"
The inquisitor's face went pale. "You're mad!" he shrieked, his voice cracking with terror, a terror that revealed beyond doubt to Keane that his memory was correct
The cleric suddenly pulled a hand from beneath his cloak, raising three fingers toward the magic-user in a desperate attempt to cast a spell, any spell that might divert the Ffolkman's righteous wrath. But the wizard was ready, and his own finger pointed, his own voice barked a word before the cleric could strike.