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."That's some sword!" said Newt, settling to the earth for a moment.The dragon was too agitated to rest for long, however, quickly springing back into the air to drift around Tristan in a circle."It is, at that," the king agreed.As the fighting tension slowly drained from his body, he found himself possessed with a deep sense of wonderment."I will call it 'Trollcleaver,'" he said quietly.Once again Tristan tried to imagine the creature leading these monsters onto a path of destruction.The sword in his hand tingled, as if eager to kill again.Why had that faceless monster broken the peace of twenty years? The question had begun to lose importance as the fact of the violence became indisputably apparent.All that mattered to the king now was that one day soon that creature would die.But then a more dangerous thought occurred to him, made doubly menacing by the fact that it posed questions he couldn't answer.He remembered the madness that had sent him off on this quest by himself.And indeed, even with such a sword, it still seemed like madness to confront an entire army of trolls and firbolgs.Yet why had he been given this weapon? Could it be that madness was exactly what the gods expected of him?* * * * *Once the Princess of Moonshae broke onto the rolling swell of the strait, Tavish remembered her cramped, frightening confinement dockside as a pleasant vacation from troubles compared to the danger and discomfort she experienced during the crossing.For one thing, she had curled her ample body into a space she was sure would have made tight quarters for any decent-sized ship rat.Even so, her knees were barely inches away from the toes of a big firbolg who sat on the bench behind her.Because of the tiny size of her niche, excruciating pain wracked at least four parts of her body at any given time.She was poked by thwarts, she was raw where her body rested on crossbeams, and she suffered cramps from the awkward position of her limbs.Firbolg grunts paced the efforts of the giant-kin to wield the oars, causing the ship to lurch and spin on a frequent but wholly unpredictable basis.Though the four rowers tried to stroke together, the awkwardness of their technique brought the blades into frequent collision.Firbolg temperament being what it was, these accidents were usually followed by several shouted remarks before the lone voice of command in the stern brought the straining giant-kin back under control.And through it all, she dared not make a sound.Instead, she tried to distract herself with memories, and was often able to reminisce about some pleasant experience for several minutes at a time.Then, however, the cramps would grow too severe and, with pain shooting up her leg or through her shoulder, she would have to, ever so slightly, shift her position into another torturous posture.Darkness closed over them, and the firbolgs ceased their efforts with the oars, allowing the ship to drift on the surface of the calm Strait of Oman.For a time, Tavish slept.Yet this respite proved even more painful that her constantly shifting pain, for when she awakened after no more than twenty or thirty minutes of fitful dozing, she had lost all feeling in her legs, and her back felt as though it had been permanently twisted.Somehow, in a succession of such agonizing moments, she made it through the longest night of her life.She even risked emerging slightly from below the bench when the snores of the firbolg behind her told the bard that her risk of discovery was minimal.By the time dawn filtered through the darkness, she had turned herself completely around, so that her head lay closer to the keel and her leather boots were propped against the sloping planks of the side.From this angle, against the backdrop of slowly graying sky, she could see a pair of firbolgs sitting together, hunched in a low conversation in the stern.Apparently she wasn't the only one who had gotten little sleep during the night.As the light improved, she recognized the two.One was the great warrior who had smashed the troll on the dock, and the other was the old female who had tended his wound.A shrewd judge of individuals and societies, Tavish had solidly concluded that the male was the leader of this clan, and the female some sort of spiritual adviser or counselor.She saw that the giantess rested a hand possessively on the gleaming silver shaft of a double-bitted axe.The blade itself gleamed supernaturally in the gray dawnlight.For the first time, the bard wondered about the giant-kin's purpose in capturing the Princess of Moonshae.If they intended to pillage and plunder, it seemed to her that their chances were a lot better when the giants' feet were planted firmly on the ground.Why, then, would they commandeer a ship they couldn't steer and break apart an army that had, by all appearances, just won a grand victory?She had no answers, but the questions made her study the two firbolgs that much more intently.Whatever had motivated this band, she suspected that the idea had originated with one of this pair.The sun rose at last, and she saw that the big giant's eyes were fastened almost reverently on something that she couldn't see, something that lay beyond the bow of the long-ship.Abruptly his face grew taut, and with angry shouts, he jarred his slumbering crewmen into wakefulness.Tavish pulled her head back under the bench just as the giant-kin behind her snuffled and raised his face to the leader.Once again she felt the ship lurch as big firbolg hands seized the shafts of the oars, driving the blades through the water.From the position of the sun, the bard quickly deduced that they sailed north, toward the island named for the ancient northman adventurer, Oman.Her discomforts continued to expand while the minutes ticked by, as now thirst and hunger began to trouble her.Yet the questions surrounding this strange voyage began to dance through her mind, cavorting in a whirlwind of curiosity that drew her intellect and awareness.What were these firbolgs trying to do? And why?Of course, they were questions that, for now at least, must exist without answers, but in their examination, the bard began to find relief from her pains.* * * * *Robyn screamed and stumbled backward, holding her hands over her eyes to block out the bright light and searing flame that suddenly burst through Deirdre's room.When she next tried to look, her vision was a series of glowing spots, brilliantly dancing before her eyes, blocking out the darkness of the room itself.Yet even with her shadowy vision, the High Queen could see that her daughter was gone.Cries of alarm came from the hallway, and she heard persistent pounding at the door.She heard the echoes of her own scream ringing from the walls and understood that the spell of silence had vanished with Deirdre [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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