"This place looks dangerous," he said, clucking in reproval. "I was just about to come after you!"
"That wasn't necessary or called for!" Alicia snapped, discouraged enough to dispense with the niceties of diplomatic language.
"Forgive my overindulgent concern," the inquisitor apologized solicitously.
"We've got a problem," Keane interjected. "This swamp blocks our path to the north."
"So we're angling to the east," Alicia concluded. Stalking past the cleric, she went up to Sands and Parsallas, who had been lounging in the shade of a wide oak. The two sergeants quickly got to their feet when they saw her approaching.
"How are the rations?" Alicia asked Sands, who'd served as unofficial quartermaster.
"Enough for a couple days yet, Your Highness," replied the bowlegged veteran.
"Aye, a few more fine meals of beans and dry bread!" added Parsallas with a hearty chuckle. The lanky warrior seemed to remain cheerful about whatever irritating setbacks they encountered.
"We've got to start up in five minutes," she said quickly. "I'll lead the way. We need to find a path around this swamp."
Each of the sergeants saluted smartly and proceeded to gather the troops into column. They started to march exactly a minute earlier than Alicia had ordered.
Mounted upon Brittany, the princess scouted ahead for the best path through the tangle of underbrush. Keane rode behind her, not wanting to slow her up with his own clumsy horsemanship but ensuring that she remained within sight so that he could reach her side in seconds if need be.
Soon Brittany broke through a tangle of vines onto a narrow game trail, and Alicia guided the eager mare along the relatively straight pathway. Keane followed, and then came Sands leading the first company of Corwell. The spirits and step of the men picked up noticeably now that they had a trail to follow.
Keane prodded his old gelding into a trot, and the nag hastened to catch up to Brittany and the princess. Behind him, he heard the approach of other hooves and turned to see the Exalted Inquisitor also riding ahead of the footmen. It seemed that the open trail had infused them all with energy and enthusiasm.
Then Alicia reined in, uttering a crude sailor's curse. Keane galloped to her side, though he recognized frustration, not danger, in her tone. In another moment, he saw why.
The trail suddenly dropped away, dipping into a pool of fetid water and disappearing. All around them here, to the front and to both sides, stretched a seemingly endless expanse of rank swamp.
Sir Koll was a large knight, broad in the shoulders and the waist. Though he was probably twice the Prince of Gnarhelm's age, Brandon found in him a kindred warrior spirit. He was surprised to learn, however, that the knight's parents had been people of the north, originally settling upon Gwynneth after a successful raiding voyage. Only when Koll had been knighted by High King Kendrick had he fully adopted the manners and customs of the Ffolk.
"Lately, of course, there hasn't been much need for my sword," explained the hearty warrior. His horse had been slain in the final moments of battle. Now he walked along at a steady pace, accompanying Brandon and some two dozen men-at-arms, both northmen and Ffolk, as a rear guard for the fleeing townspeople of Codscove. "But I'm glad I had the sense to keep the thing sharpened!"
"I've had plenty of need for my ship," Brandon countered glumly. "You'd think I would have learned to keep a better watch on her."
"I'm the fool who lost her for you!" Knaff interrupted dejectedly. The helmsman bore the responsibility for the capture heavily. His shoulders slumped, and his footsteps were more of a shuffle than a march.
"No, old friend. Stop beating yourself with that!" Brandon countered, clapping Knaff on the shoulder. "The responsibility is mine. I came in to shore without scouting, without even considering the possibilities. The blame is mine."
"Pah-bad luck! Could happen to anyone," Koll allowed. "And, besides, we'll get her back!"
The prince wished he could share his companion's enthusiasm, but his current prospects looked less than ideal.
They had spent the afternoon after their defeat in steady flight, attempting to put as much space between themselves and the monstrous invaders as possible. Now, another day later, the women and children had been given time to find shelter in the secluded grottoes and groves of the woodlands. There they would await news.
The warriors, meanwhile, had debated what they should do. Most of the townsmen had no interest in trying to fight the monsters again. After all, they had already lost their property and many of their neighbors or kin, so unless their families' lives were at stake, they didn't see the point of suffering more death and injury.
With a few exceptions, such as Koll, the men of Codscove seemed all too willing to march to the next sizable cantrev, seeing if they could lure the humanoid horde into a long pursuit and then a fight on different ground than their own.
The northmen, and Brandon in particular, had no interest in moving too far from the place where the Princess of Moonshae had been captured. It was true that they had no assurances that the ship remained in Codsbay. The trolls had chased them several miles from the village after the battle, preventing any attempts to spy on the harbor. Still, even if the monstrous pirates had tried to embark, Brandon suspected that they wouldn't get terribly far. A related fear to that notion, however, was his constant apprehension that they would destroy his ship on some rocky shore or flounder in the surprise storms that were so common in the Moonshaes.
The final resolution had been the dispatching of this small rear-guard party, with Brandon's crewmen and an equal number of volunteers from the town, led by the redoubtable Koll. The men-at-arms advanced in scattered columns, preceded by several scouts. The latter were woodsmen, Ffolk who spent their days hunting in the forest. They knew its paths and prey and were adept at fast, silent movement.
Brandon and Sir Koll led their group back along the route of their flight, seeking to find out if the troll and firbolg army hastened in pursuit.
"One thing-it seems that they didn't come too far after us," Koll observed as they continued to move back toward the town with no sign of pursuing trolls.
"I wouldn't be surprised if they spent a long time drinking up your liquor stocks," Brandon pointed out. "That doesn't mean they won't be coming after us in a day or two."
"You're right about that. And even if a few of 'em took that ship of yours, I think there'd be plenty left on shore."
Brandon shuddered privately at the thought of numerous hulking firbolgs piling into his beloved ship. Any more than a score or so, he felt certain, and the Princess of Moonshae would inevitably capsize.
"Still," Koll added after another mile of undisturbed forest had rolled beneath their boots, "as quick as they came after us when we retreated, I think they'd want to hold on to their advantage. You know, keep us on the run."
"It does seem odd," the Prince of Gnarhelm admitted. Yet still another mile passed with no sign of the trolls. "We must be getting close to Codscove," he guessed.
"Not far at all," agreed the knight. Just then one of the scouts stepped into view, emerging from behind an oak trunk where he'd been completely invisible.
"No sign of 'em so far," reported the green-garbed woodsman. "I don't understand it."
"I don't either," groused Koll. "Somehow, though, I don't think they've just up and disappeared."
Deirdre walked the immortal paths of the gods, a sense of might growing, tingling within her. She heard the words of their counsels, learned the challenge of her being.
"You are the mighty one!" came the voices, smoothly urging, compelling her toward greatness. "You will bring us through this barrier with which the ancient shell, the withered hag called the Earthmother, would try to block us."