Moonsword - Chapter 32

Chapter 32

Rwiordes awoke in a thicket of thorn bushes.  The bitter wind rushed over him with icy fierceness.  At first he could not remember where he was or why, for that matter, he was there in the first place.  He was clenched into as tight a ball as he could manage.  He listened as the cold blew over him in the great northern gale.  It howled as it bit at the wide grassy fields of the region.  He allowed his eyes to open and take in the brightness of the day.  Then he remembered where he was.

He moaned as the uncomfortableness of his immediate position in the thorn bushes impinged itself upon his consciousness .  Even so he did not hasten to remove himself from their prickly embrace immediately.  He had not been captured yet, he would not allow haste to undo him at this point.  He crept up towards the edge of the thorny thicket, a standard landmark of the northern sheep country.  He surveyed the vast expanse of grasslands to the North.  The wind greeted him harshly, nibbling cruelly at his nose and ears.  There was no one in sight in that direction.  A small shepherd’s cottage stood, barely discernible towards the East, but no one appeared to yet be up and stirring.  Rwiordes fought his way back through the hedge to see view the southern vista.  A modest estate stretched out on the southeastern border to the field, nearly a mile away.  To the southwest the grassy terrain rolled without landmark of note.  It was rather open terrain for Rwiordes liking.

He determined to hug the line of the thorn hedge and make his way along it, heading roughly west.  He did have a destination in his mind.  Even as he ran in blind fury to be away from his captors and the monster that they served, he had begun to form a plan.  It had been there, really, as the smallest seed of an idea after the night the Champion bested the Demon’s werewolves.  He certainly wasn’t entirely clear the details, or even the objectives of his plan.   Rwiordes knew was that his only hope of truly escaping the Demon was to seek out the only person that the fiend seemed to fear, the Druidic Champion.

The Demon in Hertrid’s body was headed southwest to Lorm, that was where Rwiordes needed to get to then, but somehow, he had to get there first.  And he had to get there without getting caught.  The particulars of his plan were definitely lacking, to be sure.  Rwiordes only knew that he had to try and warn the Champion.

He followed the thorn hedge until it ended several miles across the field.  It ended abruptly along its border with a small grove of beech trees.  Cautiously he made his way through the trees, peering discretely through the branches.  He was startled to see an encampment of some kind.  His first thought (or rather fear) was that this was a contingent of the Demon’s force sent to find him.  This notion was quickly eased as he saw the festive colors and the relatively small numbers of the tents.  There were no more than two dozen large tents arranged in an unorganized manner.  As Rwiordes examined the campsite the aroma of cooked food wafted to his nostrils.  Oatmeal.  Hot Coffee.  His stomach growled.

At last some of the people came into Rwiordes’ view.  They were dressed in thick coats of bright colors and they laughed and cavorted with gusto.  They did not appear suspicious to his astute examination.  Their food smelled awfully good.  Perhaps they would be kind enough to share a little sustenance with a fellow traveler.  It was worth an attempt in any case.

He stepped out of the grove and walked towards the encampment.  He forced himself to adopt a casual appearance.  He whistled a cheerful little tune.

“Good morning!” he called out towards the camp.

Several of the people turned towards him.

“Good Morning, yourself and well met!” answered a cordial gentleman.  “Welcome to the Solar Pilgrimage Festival.”

The Solar Pilgrimage Festival.  That explained a great deal.  Every year the religious sect known as the Solar Pilgrims began its southern trek from Gestoia upon the Autumnal Equinox.  They led a semi-nomadic existence, alternating between their travels and the joyous revelry which accompanies them.  They moved ever southward until the spring Equinox when they began their return to the northern climes.  They are universally welcomed, for it is claimed that those who rendered aid to the Solar Pilgrims will receive the blessings of the Sun in exchange for their kindness.  In fact, the pilgrims were supplied wholly from the stores of the wealthiest families in the land.

“Pilgrims,” said Rwiordes, “I fear I have no alms nor charity to give to you.  For, I am, myself, a lonely wanderer.”

He certainly had no intention of mentioning the Demon or his association with that monstrous fiend.  No, he had determined that the only person he should truly reveal himself to would be the Champion.

“Whither dost thou wander, friend?” asked another of the jolly pilgrims, a young man in his twenties, dressed in bright orange and yellow.

“I am journeying to Lorm on business,” answered Rwiordes.

“An odd business, that, then.  For you have no bags or packs, and your clothing is torn.”

“Yes, my business is of an urgent nature, which has required me to forgo the regular conveniences of travel,” replied Rwiordes.

The first pilgrim spoke, “We shall pass through Lorm eventually, why don’t you join the Solar Pilgrimage Festival, and travel with us for a while?”

“You are too kind good pilgrim, but as I have said, my mission is an urgent one.”

“Ah, but not too urgent for breakfast, then?”

“No, not too urgent for breakfast.”

A young, red-headed woman dressed in red and the young man grabbed his hands and directed him through the festival tents.  The tents were made of only the most brilliant of fabrics in the brightest of colors.  Countless banners and streamers blew on the cold wind.   The pilgrims wore clothing colored in the same hues as the tents.  Rwiordes noticed how clearly his own black raiment contrasted with his surroundings.  The two youthful revelers led him into a large tent where hot food was being served.  The smell of the cooking seemed impossibly powerful to his nostrils.  His mouth watered.

“Please help yourself,” said the girl.

“Thank you so much.”

“Don’t thank me, thank the Sun.”

The youths made certain of his comfort and then excused themselves.  Rwiordes ate hungrily.  The food was delicious.  Most likely was catered by a local nobleman’s staff.  Whenever the Solar pilgrimage Festival passed through a region it was the custom for the local gentry to provide as much hospitality to the indigent revellers as possible.  Rwiordes alternated between sipping his hot coffee and warmed spiced wine once he had finished his meal.

“Hullo there!”

Rwiordes looked up to see a large man enter the tent.  He was white haired and bearded, wearing furs dyed red and green.  Out of his hat projected two antlers of moderate size.  His cheeks were bright red, and in his eye a mischievous twinkle gleamed.  He smiled as he saw Rwiordes.   The jolly old pilgrim walked over to him.

“Greetings, friend,” he said.  “Welcome to the Solar Pilgrimage Festival.  I am Krin Gul, the Chief Pilgrim, if you will.”

The old fellow extended his hand in a warm greeting.  His handshake was firm.

“It’s a true honor to meet you, sir,” Rwiordes said humbly, “I am a simple traveller, and I do keenly appreciate your hospitality.

“You are welcome to it.  Have you no name, friend?”

“I do, but I dare not reveal it to you lest I should injure one of us by doing so.”

“Spoken like a man with enemies hot on his trail,” laughed Krin Gul shrewdly.

Rwiordes was taken aback by his astuteness.

“Ah, don’t worry yourself,” said the old man, “You’re safe among friends here I assure you.  I understand that you need to get to Lorm as quickly as possible, correct?”

“Yes, that’s right.  It’s vital.”

“Vital, eh?”, laughed Krin Gul.  “Only the Sun in his journey is vital my friend.  All else stands in no consequence.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you understood what’s going on.”

“Well, then perhaps you should make me understand.  Perhaps I can help you.”

Rwiordes considered this for a moment.  The jolly old fellow took his hesitation as a willingness to explain.

“Come, sir, to my tent.  There we can talk in private.”

It was as the aged pilgrim said this that Rwiordes finally noticed that the antlers on Krin Gul’s head projected not from his hat, but from his very scalp.

Copyright 2002, 2015 Diana Hignutt

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Moonsword - Chapter 31

Chapter 31

At first there was a stunned silence.  Then Tolian heard both Brythia and Findelbres stammering.  The prince herself, said nothing.  What was there to say?  She could only stare at the little silver creature that was the Moonstone.  It was absolute in its simplicity.  It bowed to them politely at Davlin’s bidding.  Tolian felt waves of powerful energy radiating from it, almost as a physical force it tugged at her. The force she had mistaken as her destiny drew out  of her a deep sense of nihilistic uselessness.  She couldn’t believe she had been so wrong about the sword, about everything.  She cast her gaze upon herself: her cleavage, the soft curves of her body.  She began to shake with a deep despondency.  The room began to swirl around her, she could hear the others talking, but it seemed that they were a thousand miles away.  Their words meant nothing.

The renegade druid, Davlin, was triumphantly explaining the proper translation of the Prophecy, “You see, what had been translated as `he shall be killed by no man, and by no born female’ refers to the genderless state of the Champion.”

Brythia spoke out, but doubt told in her wavering voice, “That’s nonsense, Davlin.  And what about, `born of the dead in a day not in the year’?”.

Davlin smiled, “Ah well, you see `twas on Lybric Day last year that I used my will to bring the Champion forth from the lifelessness of the Moonstone.  In perfect accordance with the Prophecy.”

Findelbres offered a point. “My Lady, Queen of Faerie, has studied Brythic’s prophecy since he penned it.  No mortals have greater wisdom than she in such matters.  She was certain that the plan laid out by the Druidic High Council was correct.  She has no doubts that Tolian, here, is the Champion.  I still tend to agree with her.”

“Friend Findelbres,” replied Davlin calmly, “is it so hard for you to believe the evidence of your own eyes.  This is no Moonsword; it is the Champion.  Your false Champion looks more like a lost little girl to me at the moment.  Do you believe that your Queen can never be mistaken?”

A lost little girl.  That registered in Tolian’s dazed consciousness.  It rang true to her.  That’s precisely how she felt.  What had they done to her?  She had never felt so helpless in her entire life.  She was convinced Davlin was right.

“But, what about Tolian’s superhuman strength?” asked Brythia.  “The ritual gave him powers beyond those of any other mortal.  Surely, that is proof that he is the Champion.”

“She is a magickally empowered being,” answered the former druid, “I’ll grant you that.  But that is merely evidence of the power of Druidic magick.  No doubt she will be quite useful to the Champion in its quest.”

They debated for some amount of time.  Finally Davlin said, “Look, we can settle this once and for all.”

“How?” asked both Brythia and Findelbres.

“Well, you claim that the moonstone was meant to be utilized by the Champion as her weapon, correct?”

“Yes,” replied Brythia emphatically.

“Very well,” continued Davlin, “Then, if Tolian is the Champion then she should be able to change the Moonstone into her sword, or whatever she likes.  If she can’t, then I am correct that the Moonstone itself is the Champion.  Agreed?”

Brythia pensively considered his challenge.  Findelbres seemed doubtful.  Tolian was deeply afraid of the idea.  She knew that it would prove that Davlin was right.  The shiny creature that stood calmly  regarding them was the Champion, she had no doubts of that at the moment.  Everything she had undergone had been for naught.

“Well?” asked the self-exiled nature priest.

“I’m not certain that that would offer definitive evidence,” argued Brythia, her brow knotted in thought.  “But, I suppose it’s worth a try in the short term, until we can think of something else.”

“I am no expert on mortal magick,” said Findelbres, “but, I think Davlin’s experiment will settle the matter correctly.  I, for one, have no doubt that our Tolian is the Champion.”

Davlin addressed Tolian, “What do you think, Your Highness?  Is it worth a try?”

“Yes,” she responded.  “Let’s settle this now.”

“Then,” Davlin said, “We are  agreed.  Tolian, why don’t you begin by calling the Champion, I’m sorry, I mean the Moonstone, over to you.”

“I’ll try,” she said, her voice trembling with doubt.

“You can do it, my lord,” Brythia assured her.

“We have complete confidence in you,” added Findelbres.

Kilfrie licked her hand in support as well.

Tolian tried to dispel her own certainty of failure.  She looked at the diminutive metallic being.  It looked back at her and smiled.  She attempted to gather her self-confidence about her.

“Come to me,” she commanded.

It did not move, but stayed there maintaining its eager smile.

“Come, Moonstone,” she tried again.

Nothing happened.

At length Davlin spoke, “Champion, go to Tolian, please.”Instantly the thing moved (in a rather eerie, inhuman fashion, Tolian thought) towards the prince.  It stopped as it stood before her.

“All right, Tolian,” suggested the renegade druid, “Touch the Moonstone, and exert your will power to transform it into the sword of your visions.”

Tolian knew that it wasn’t going to work.  She reached out towards the Moonstone being and tentatively touched its shoulder.  She felt a powerful charge of energy flow between them.  She looked into the silver creatures little eyes.  They were filled with love.  The energy passing between them grew stronger and stronger.  Some confidence fought its way into her heart.  Perhaps, she was the Champion after all.  She began to concentrate on the Moonstone.  She closed her eyes and visualized the creature transforming into the sword of her vision.  The Moonsword.  She attempted to picture the metamorphosis as vividly as possible.

Finally she opened her eyes.  No change was evident in the Moonstone.  No change.  The Moonstone was the Champion—she was not.

“There!” shouted Davlin with victorious gusto.  “I told them.  But, no!  I had to be wrong, didn’t I?  Well I wasn’t wrong!”

Depression seized Tolian.  A powerful darkness of the soul.  She retreated into the deepest recesses of her mind.

“Tolian,” Brythia said calmly, “this doesn’t necessarily prove anything.  Don’t be upset.”

She ignored her.

“What do you mean, `this doesn’t prove anything’?” demanded Davlin.  “I believe we agreed that this would stand as the test.  And so it did.  The Moonstone is the Champion.”

Brythia corrected him, “No sir, I agreed that we would accept the result until we could think of something else.”

“Can you?”

“No.  Not at the present.”

“What does the Moonstone say on the matter?” asked Findelbres.

“The Champion can not speak,” answered Davlin.

“Well, surely speech should be one of the qualifications of the Champion,” put forth the faerie.

“What matter if it can talk or not, Findelbres?” asked Tolian somberly, “If it can kill the Demon that is all that matters.  Enough argument.  I am convinced that the Moonstone is the actual Champion.”

The truth was hard, but there it was.  She said it.  It hurt.  Throughout her ordeal, the only thing that had made her transformation bearable was her status of Champion.  She had at least appreciated the honor of her quest, her purpose.  Saving the World.  Now she had no purpose, no destiny, only the loss of her manhood, and the attendant humiliation.  There was within her, however, a courage and a determination.

She finished her announcement, “We shall do everything we can to aid the true Champion.”

They appeared stunned.  Even Davlin seemed surprised by Tolian’s words.  Apparently he had anticipated more of a fight.

“Excellent!” he exclaimed.  “I had not imagined this turn of events.  We shall certainly appreciate every bit of assistance that we can get.”

“Tolian?” asked Brythia, “are you sure about this?”

“I’m not sure of anything anymore.  But we still have to do whatever we can to stop the Demon.  That much hasn’t changed.”

“She’s right,” agreed Davlin.  “The three of you shall make powerful allies in our quest.”

Kilfrie growled.

“Sorry,” the older man said, “The four of you.”


Copyright 2002, 2015 Diana Hignutt

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Moonsword - Chapter 30

Chapter 30

It took four days for Tolian and her companions to travel through the Great Western Marshes (or so they were referred to by the Lormians; it should be noted that the inhabitants of Threasia called them the Great Eastern Marshes).  By day they journeyed in silent consideration of their grim surroundings, for marshes in the latter days of autumn are quiet places where one can easily become hypnotized by the scenery.  At night they were escorted by the Will-o-the-Wisps, who lit their way if they did some travelling by night or cavorted and performed for them if they rested by their camp fire.  The little light beings delighted in Tolian’s presence, that much was obvious.  They clearly held her in the highest regard.  It seemed to pain them when the sun returned and they were forced to leave her side.

It was noon when they stepped from the marsh.  Tolian was quite astounded by the abrupt manner in which the swamp land ended and the tall pine forest began.  Almost as if a line had been drawn the terrain changed and the air at last was clear of the fetid marsh odors.  The road began to gradually climb its way over hills covered with tall evergreens.

“Well, thank heavens!” proclaimed Findelbres.  “We’re finally free of those little glowing monsters.  I never did trust them, you know.”

“I thought they were cute,” Brythia said.

“Cute?  Those little cuties have led thousands to their deaths.”

“I do not begrudge them that.  They too have a right to survive,” responded the druidess with philosophical insight.  “They are merely defending their homes from invasion and providing nutrition for the living creatures of the swamps.”

Tolian kept her thoughts to herself, but listened with interest as her companions debated.  Brythia then noticed the position of the sun and excused herself to perform her druidic salute to the life-giving solar fire.  Kilfrie sat next to her, but was, of course, unable to recite the words or make the gestures, required.  The sun shone off her sleek black coat.

The next two weeks they traveled far through the countryside of Threasia.  Forests, fields and rocky grassland took their turns as the terrain.  More often then not a stiff wind blew out of the North, making their journey cold and difficult.  Tolian hardly noticed the cold.  She was well protected from its icy spears by the magick of her armor, as well as her absolute absorption into herself.  Visions of the Moonsword drew her onward.  Its power seemed to pull her like a lodestone.  She could feel herself getting closer and closer to it.  It called to her.  Through every fiber of her being she knew that it was her destiny to wield that lunar metal as a mighty sword against the coming darkness.  So wrapped in her thoughts was she that she barely spoke to her companions.  At night she could not truly sleep due to her yearning for the mystic weapon of ancient, lunar power.  She woke her companions early every morning and urged them on to greater speed.

Brythia was getting worried about her, she knew that.  But even the druidess’ love did not stave off the powerful pull of the Moonstone, created by the ingenuity of the great Brythic.  Brythia for her part tried to understand, as Tolian endeavored to explain the situation to her.  But it was difficult for her to verbalize the pull the artifact had upon her.  She only knew that it was vital that she find it as soon as possible.

They had passed a few small hamlets and farmhouses as they rode, but they kept well clear of such places.  Tolian did not particularly want to interact with other people, in general, in her current form, and they thought it best to avoid all eyes for the security of the expedition.  They had too great a respect for the Demon’s power and reach.

Tolian led them off the main road that they had been traveling along onto to a narrow trail that was clearly not well used.  The faerie horses had no difficulty with the poor condition of the trail, however.  Brythia and Findelbres looked at each other but said nothing.  They were certain that Tolian knew where she was leading them.  The forest about them looked especially dark and overgrown.  It had a forbidding air to it that spoke directly to the emotions.  Its message was clear, come no further.  Stay out.  Go away.

Tolian paid no heed, but kept riding forward.

“We’re close now,” she announced.

“I know,” said Brythia.

“How do you know?” Findelbres asked with unease and reluctance evident on his face.

“Do you feel a strong urge to leave this forest?” the druidess asked.

“Well, now that you mention it, yes,” answered the faerie.

“That’s a druidic spell of the same sort we use to keep interlopers out of the Haunted Mountains.  It must have been cast by Brythic a thousand years ago.  What power he must have had.”

“Come,” called Tolian.  She did not wait to see if the others obeyed her. She turned and continued down the trail. She could hear Brythia and Findelbres’ horses behind her.

Without warning an icy wind rushed over the forest, bringing a snow squall in its wake.  The drop in temperature was impossibly sudden.  Snow blew through the trees straight at them.  The wind blew harder and harder.  Within five minutes a full-fledged blizzard raged around them.  Or at them, thought Tolian.  She was not about to allow a mere weather condition to hold her back now.  She could feel the moon energy radiating from a nearby source.  She was charged and vitalized by its power already.  The heavy snow was piling up around her, but she paid it no heed.  She urged Whisper on to a gallop, but even that mighty horse of the Faerie Queen’s could not easily make its way through the treacherous blizzard.  She kicked and kicked, striving to get more from the tiring animal.  She had forgotten about her friends, she had forgotten everything.  Only finding her Moonsword mattered now.

She dismounted and struggled forward with all of her strength.  The twirling snow stung her eyes.  She could see nothing.  It did not matter for she did not need to see.  She could feel the power of the Moonstone more clearly than she had ever seen anything with her eyes.

At last she came to a stone wall about ten feet high, with a large wooden gate.  It was locked.  She was about to use her great strength to push it open, when she heard Brythia’s cry in the distance behind her.  It was amazing the wind of the storm did not it drown out.

“Tolian! Help!”

Tolian paused for only a moment.  She looked at the gate.

“I’ll be right back,” she assured the wooden structure.

She leapt through the deep snow back to her friends.  They had not progressed anywhere near as well as she had.  She first reached Brythia who had been either blown or thrown form her horse.  Tolian scooped her beloved into her arms and paying no attention to the fierce blizzard ran her to the gate with her impossible speed.  She then reached Findelbres, Kilfrie and each of the horses one by one.  When she had retrieved each of her friends, who could not even stand up at that point, she examined the gate again.  She delivered a mighty blow with her fist and the gate flew apart before her.

She gasped when she looked inside.  A large garden stretched out before her, flourishing in warmth and sunshine.  She looked back and, sure enough, the snow still came down with savage force.  She carried her friends inside to recover.  It was mind-boggling.  A wide variety of crops and summer flowers grew there.  The air was warm and the sun shone down brightly within the walls.  Red, yellow, pink and purple blossoms were in abundance.  Bees buzzed about, pollinating the myriad blooms.  They sat there and recovered themselves.

“This isn’t possible,” observed Brythia.

“No, everything’s possible,” noted Findelbres, “but this is very unlikely.”

Once everyone seemed to have gotten the chill out of themselves and rested for a moment, Tolian’s urgency returned.  There was a humble farmhouse across from the garden.  If it were, in fact, summer, it would have struck Tolian as being normal.  But it was nearly December, now, and although the area was not known for severe winters, there was no explaining the phenomena they were experiencing.

“It’s here,” said Tolian, “My sword is in that house.”

They left their horses and walked down the walkway toward the house.  Tolian was bursting with excitement.  Brythia and Kilfrie were nervous.  Even Findelbres seemed quite curious.  The front door was plain with no window.  Tolian stared at it.

“I suppose we should knock?” said Findelbres.

“But...,” Tolian mumbled.

“Please, for a prince you have no manners at all,” commented the elf.  He knocked loudly on the door.

They waited for a few minutes, straining to hear any sounds from inside.  Tolian felt foolish for standing there.  The Moonsword was her destiny and she was not going to wait for someone to let her in to get it.  Just then, however, sounds of hurried footsteps could be heard from inside.  The door knob turned, the portal opened.  Standing before them was a man who appeared to be in his mid-fifties.  His hair and beard were brown, but with sufficient grey to add  dignity to his bearing.  He wore a plain purple robe and a circlet of silver upon his brow.

“Can I help you?” he asked in a friendly manner.

Brythia gasped, “Davlin?  What are you doing here?”

“I live here, child,” he answered.  “Wait, I know you, don’t I?  You’re Brythia, of course.”

He looked over at Tolian, “And this must be Prince Tolian.”

Davlin shook his head sadly, “It’s such a tragedy that they felt they had to do that to you, son.  Such a waste of energy.”

Davlin’s words stunned Tolian, “What?”

“Nothing,” Brythia assured him.  “He’s mad.  He has no idea what he’s talking about.”

Findelbres nodded politely at the fellow, “Hello, nice to meet you and all.”  He turned to Brythia, “Well, this is awkward, where do you know this gentleman from?”

“From the Order,” she answered.

“From the Order?” Tolian repeated.  “Then you have the Moonstone?  I am the Champion.  I have come to retrieve it.”

Davlin smiled most graciously, “Yes, well ah, perhaps we should sit down and discuss the matter.  It is a delicate subject, I’m sure you will all agree.”

Something about the surroundings and the mysterious man’s demeanor was not right, Tolian was certain of that much.  Still she allowed Davlin to lead them to a quaint sitting room with rustic, but comfortable chairs.

“Can I offer you some wine, your journey here could not have been an easy one,” offered their mysterious host.

“Yes please,” chimed in Findelbres.

Tolian shot him a look of displeasure.  She got right to business, “You claim that we have something to discuss.  Let us get on with it,  I have gone through much to get the sword.”

“The sword?” asked Davlin.

Brythia explained, “As you know the Moonstone is malleable, to Tolian it appears as a sword in her visions.  There are only two questions that we need to discuss, and we have already asked them.  What are you, an outcast of the Druidic Order, doing here? And, where is the Moonstone?”

“Let us keep one thing clear,” said Davlin, “I left the Order of my own freewill, I am not an outcast, as you put it.  Now, let me ask you one question before I answer your two.  Have you told Tolian about the controversy regarding the Prophecy, yet?”

“Controversy?” asked Tolian.

Brythia reassured him, “There is no controversy, except in Davlin’s mind.”

“Not entirely true,” the renegade druid countered.  “The High Council took the wrong translation of the Prophecy when they made their original plan two hundred years ago.  I had advised Magara of this.  The official interpretation is flawed.”

Davlin looked with kindly eyes on Tolian, “I’m afraid you were transformed for no good reason.”

Panic stabbed at Tolian, “What are you talking about?  I am the Champion.”

“No,” answered Davlin, “You are not the Champion.  You are some poor man that was changed into a woman for no justifiable reason.  The High Council was wrong—the Champion was not supposed to be a person.”

He stood and offered Tolian a large glass of wine.  She took it in her trembling hand.

Davlin called into the next room, “Come out and meet some friends of our cause, Champion.”

Out stepped a silver humanoid creature about four feet tall.  It radiated incredible power from its slim form.  Its head was bald and pointed, its features were quite rudimentary.  It wore no clothes and possessed no sexual organs.  It bowed to them.

Davli n beamed. “May I present to you, the Champion!  The Moonstone was supposed to be the Championa all along, Brythic was very clear about that if you consider the proper translation of the Prophecy.  When the Druids would not listen to me, I realized that it was up to me to find the Moonstone, and use my will to form it into the Champion.”

Tolian swallowed her wine in one quick gulp.

Copyright 2002, 2015 Diana Hignutt

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Moonsword - Original Back Cover Blurb and Author Bio

"The Demon shall be mighty, but not indestructible:
He shall be killed by no man and by none born female.
No metal of the earth shall harm him."

Prince Tolian of Lorm is the kingdom's greatest warrior and proud heir to the throne.  His world is turned upside down when he learns of the Druidic Prophecy which foretells the coming of a powerful Demon and the end of the world.  There is only one hope:  Tolian must allow himself to be transformed into a woman in order to become the Champion -- the only one capable of defeating the Demon.  Tolian reluctantly agrees as the Demon enters the world and begins his nightmarish conquest.  Now Tolian must come to terms with her new femininity, gain control of her magical powers, and find the fabled Moonsword, battle a host of monsters and confront the Demon before it's too late.  Not your average faerie-take to be sure.


A Libra with her Moon in Capricorn and Virgo rising, DIANA HIGNUTT lives in southern New Jersey where she enjoys gardening, camping and hiking in the Pine Barrens, and visiting the state's peerless(1) beaches.  She is an accomplished guitarist, a life-long student of mysticism and the occult, as well as a post-operative transsexual woman.  She is a businesswoman and holds degrees in Economics and Small Business Management.  She lives with her beloved wife Elizabeth and their two cats, Nox and Jasper(2).  Moonsword is her first novel.

UPDATES for the Blog Edition 2015:

1) The badly edited AmErica House edition changed my spelling of peerless to pierless, making it seem as if I had a morbid fear of boardwalks.

2) Eliazabeth and I are getting divorce.  Nox and Jasper are dead.