"I've told him not to do that!" Alicia objected. "Everyone else sleeps on a small patch of ground. Why does he need a full hectare?"
Keane ignored the obvious reply concerning the huge cleric's girth and addressed the more pertinent issue. "To him, the whole concept of Myrloch Vale is superstition, or perhaps even blasphemy, and he's persistent, to say the least, in maintaining his own way of doing things."
"There's something more there," Alicia said quietly. Something in her voice drew Keane's eyes to hers, and he saw that the princess was actually afraid of Parell Hyath. "It's not just that he's of a different faith. It's as if he thinks of the goddess as an enemy!"
"If he shows any kind of threat," Keane vowed, "you can be sure that I'll be there to stop him!"
"I know." The pressure of her hand increased, and the wizard's heart swelled with joy. He wanted to wrap her in his arms, to pull her against his chest and shelter her from the world. But this he couldn't do, nor was such protection, he sensed, what she needed or desired.
For a time, they watched the fire in silence, seeing the dry aspen slowly turn to coal, the pieces falling away from their individual limbs to form a soft bed of embers. The gentle glow within, of deep and iridescent orange, made a pleasant companion to the darkness and to each other.
"How much longer until we're out of Myrloch Vale?" Alicia wondered.
"We could cross into Winterglen tomorrow," Keane noted. They followed a course to the west of Codsrun Creek, and five days' march must certainly have carried them out of the wide valley.
"I wish there'd been some sign of Father."
Keane shook his head, trying to hide his own concern. "This is a big place. The chance of us crossing his trail anywhere along the way is pretty remote."
"Then what if he has caught up with this army of firbolgs and trolls? Is that any better?" Alicia demanded.
"There's always the dwarves," Keane reminded her. "Finellen's likely to spot him just as she did with Hanrald and Brigit. And she's not about to let him charge off on any suicidal attacks."
"I wish I could believe that. But it seemed so shocking, so sudden. One minute he's standing there talking to us, and the next he's astride Shallot, pounding across the moors! If he hasn't come to his senses, who knows what could have happened to him!"
"That bothers me, too," Keane admitted. "It was too sudden. Your father's not a sluggish man, but it's not like him to do something so drastic without a little more reflection."
"Greetings, fellow travelers!" The hearty voice emerged from the darkness, followed quickly by the bulky form of Parell Hyath, Exalted Inquisitor of Helm. The silver and golden thread gleamed against the white silk of his voluminous robe. Somehow he kept the garment immaculate, even after five days on horseback, five nights sleeping in his tent.
Keane cursed silently as the princess sat up straight, removing her hand from his.
"Hello," Alicia replied stiffly. His was an invasive presence, but throughout the march, she had forced herself to treat him with civility. Tonight, however, his arrival might as well have doused ice water over the fire.
"Does our quarry draw near? Are there reports from your scouts?" the patriarch inquired, settling himself on a fallen log a little back from the low fire.
"The men of Llyrath have found the path of the firbolgs," she replied. "But it's a cold trail, nearly a week old."
"Any sign of your father, then?" Hyath's eyebrows, which nearly met in the middle, came together in a questioning, even concerned, frown.
"No, nothing," Alicia said bitterly. She turned back to Keane. "We've got to pick up the pace! Too much time has passed already, and I don't want it to be too late by the time we get there!"
"Now, my child … I don't believe-" the cleric began, but Alicia cut him off with a sharp gesture.
"We don't know what to believe! That's why it's so important to move quickly." She stopped to think, and both men tactfully remained silent for a few moments.
"Tomorrow we'll break camp an hour before dawn," she declared. "The packs are lighter now, with so much of the food gone, so we'll also add another hour to the evening's march."
Alicia's eyes saddened, and she looked at Keane. "That is, if you think that the men…"
"I said they'd follow you to the Abyss, and I meant it!" he replied.
"I hope you're right," she said sadly. For a moment, Keane wondered if he felt any of the warmth in her voice that had been so full just a few moments before. He might have, or it could have been just a figment of his imagination.
"What about the plan? We win the fight-then we get a boat!" snarled Baatlrap, confronting Thurgol on the dock-side of Codscove. The huge troll's thin lips were drawn back, revealing his jagged fangs, while he held his massive and knobby fists planted firmly on his hips.
The firbolg chieftain and his twelve kinsman had, with great difficulty, pulled the Princess of Moonshae to wharfside. Thurgol clambered out of the rocking ship and bumped into the troll, knocking Baatlrap backward a step.
"The boat came to shore!" barked the firbolg. He was too delighted with his prize to pay more than mild attention to the hulking troll. "We took it!"
The pair stood amid the throng of huge, boisterous humanoids on the waterfront of Codscove. Wounded trolls, as they healed, limped across the trampled commons to join them. The remnants of the human defenders, recognizing their cause as lost, had fled the field several minutes before. For the time being, even the trolls were too tired to pursue.
Nearby the ruins of the shantytown still smoldered, while the gruff, profane sounds of firbolg revelry continued to rock the stone-walled warehouse.
"Humans all fled, the cowards!" gloated the troll. "We trolls routed them!"
"Good fight," Thurgol agreed easily. He turned to watch his impromptu crew members grappling with ropes and thwarts, trying to secure the ship to the dock. "Stay there. Hold the ropes!" he commanded finally.
"Leave ship here," Baatlrap said, drawing Thurgol's suspicious attention. "Whole army go after the humans. Kill all of them!" The troll's eyes drifted casually over to Garisa, who stood at the waterfront with the Silverhaft Axe at her side. The old hag scowled back, unintimidated.
The firbolg chieftain blinked in surprise, studying the recalcitrant troll. Then he scowled, drawing his heavy brows down over his craggy face in an expression that was very menacing indeed. "We've got the ship. Now we sail to Icepeak!" He pointed across the Strait of Oman, currently too hazy for the far shoreline to be seen. Nevertheless, his firm intent was unmistakable.
"No," declared Baatlrap, stepping closer to the firbolg chieftain. "You follow me now."
Thurgol glared at his co-commander in growing fury. "You saw the sign of the gods!" he barked. "We have the Silverhaft Axe. Now it's time to take it to Icepeak!"
Baatlrap looked at the ship, skepticism rank on his grotesque face. "Humans flee that way," he said, pointing to the east along the shore. "We should give chase now-catch them and kill them!"