Douglas Niles - The Druid Queen

Holding his sword across his lap, Tristan urged Shallot into a slow walk, leaving the muddy track to push through a field of corn, straight toward the hulking troll.

Thurgol aimed the Princess of Moonshae toward a sheltered cove he observed on Oman Isle's shore, but a surprisingly strong current carried him several miles to the east of this destination. Still, the Icepeak remained the crowning feature of their horizon, and the chieftain felt no particular apprehension as he regarded the rock-lined shore. Even if the longship was shattered against those boulders, his primary concern was accomplished if the firbolgs and the Silverhaft Axe could make it onto shore intact, and in the same place.

Finally the firbolgs were fortunate enough to find a stretch of graveled beach, and the longship's keel came to rest against the bottom with scarcely more than a timber-straining shudder that inflicted no damage to the sturdy hull.

"Over the sides!" barked the giant chieftain, and his crew responded with alacrity. These were all firbolgs of his village. The giant-kin who had joined their march in progress had elected to remain with Baatlrap. The fact pleased Thurgol, for it gave him a sense that their quest would end as it had begun. These, his bold and loyal comrades, would see him through.

"You wait here," he told Garisa before he himself dropped over the transom into the gentle breakers.

The sea came barely to the giant-kins' knees for the most part, though at the stern, Thurgol stood in surf that washed as high as his chest. "Push!" he bellowed. "Push it up on the shore!"

Here the steady strength of the firbolgs came to the fore as they raised the longship from the water and hauled it out of reach of the waves. It canted slightly to the side on the flat shore, but Thurgol felt certain that it would remain here-perhaps forever, he admitted, not capable of imagining a future path that would necessarily bring him back to this place, to this ship.

Garisa clambered over the low side of the hull, clutching the Silverhaft Axe in her knobby fist. The giant-kin had brought nothing in the way of cargo beyond the possessions of each individual, so they were immediately ready to start the march.

"There's the mountain," Thurgol said, pointing. "Let's go."

"Remember," the shaman cautioned him, "the Peaksmasher is imprisoned on the north slope of the peak, where the sun can never reach him. We have to approach it from the other side. We should go around the mountain first."

Thurgol considered the suggestion but determined that it didn't make much sense. After all, he could see their objective before them, looming so close in the clear morning air that it looked as though he should have been able to reach out and touch it. "If we have to go to the other side," he responded logically, "then the closest way to get there is to march over the top."

With that course firmly set before them, Thurgol of Blackleaf and some sixty of his villagemates set out to free the godfather of giantkind. Above them, the peak pierced the sky, its fringes of snowy shoulders beckoning the questing giant-kin with a cool beauty that was altogether unlike the difficult challenge presented by its steep slopes and icy, unceasing winds.

Shallot spun easily through a circle, allowing Tristan to get a full view of the encircling monsters. He guessed that there must be at least two hundred of the creatures, and the ring that had formed left him no likely gaps through which to escape. Slowly, steadily, they continued in their soundless advance.

He wasted no time cursing fate or his own carelessness for this predicament. Instead, his mind clicked through options-he had precious few-and in an instant, he made up his mind. If he waited for them to rush him, the fight could have but one possible outcome. The only option available was an attempt to surprise the beasts with something they might not expect-something such as the target of the trap turning the tables on his ambushers.

In the instant of decision, he set his heels into Shallot's flanks, and the war-horse sprang forward like an eager filly, baying hounds coursing at his heels. Tristan rode straight toward the largest troll, the one bearing the massive, serrated blade.

The huge troll gaped at him for a moment, stunned by the apparition of this doomed human having the effrontery to charge! But that moment passed quickly, and the creature raised its great sword while several of its fellows raced to its side. In seconds, Tristan bore down full tilt into a knot of six or eight trolls.

He felt claws rake his leg at the same time as his sword split one green, knobby skull. The frantic baying of the hounds shrilled as they snarled into the monsters, one of the dogs wailing piteously as a huge troll picked up the hound and twisted it into a broken corpse. From the corner of his eye, Tristan saw another of the great hounds meet a similar fate. He slashed blindly, feeling his blade chop into the tangled bodies of his enemies. One of the trolls screamed, staggering backward with its clawed hands pressed to its face.

Shallot pitched and bucked, the stallion's powerful hooves crushing trollish limbs before and behind. The king caught a fleeting image of the huge troll, its jagged blade upraised for a killing blow, but then the horse whirled away and he faced a smaller humanoid. That one lunged for Shallot's neck, but Tristan chopped its hands off with a clean blow. As the creature hissed in horror and hatred, the keen edge of Trollcleaver did the same thing to its head.

"Here! This way!" shouted a familiar voice. Abruptly, from the ground before Tristan, short blades of flame spumed upward, crackling among the feet of the crouching trolls.

"Newt!" shouted the king, recognizing the illusionary magic of the faerie dragon. The trolls squawked in dismay, springing out of the region of flame, opening a path for Tristan's flight.

But then the huge troll with the sword stepped right into the middle of the illusion, barking something in its bestial tongue. The flames around the creature flickered and grew pale, as Newt's illusion lost its force. The disbelief of the leader proved enough to dispel the magic for the lesser trolls.

More claws bit cruelly into the king's hip while the stallion whinnied in pain. Tristan chopped without looking, feeling the blade bite into bony flesh, while at the same time, he bashed the shield on his left arm against a pair of grotesque, black-eyed humanoids bounding toward him from that side. He saw the hulking leader before him again, waiting with a nasty smirk on its teeth-studded jaws. Trolls sprinted toward them from the left and right, and Tristan knew that his first escape attempt had been blocked.

"Back!" he shouted, again guiding Shallot with his knees while, with sword and shield, he battered at the trolls who had closed in behind him. Two of these fell, slain by Trollcleaver, while the others were forced back by the lunging stallion and the heavy shield.

In another second, the war-horse broke free from the melee, galloping once more into the center of the ring of monsters, trailed by Ranthal and one other moorhound. The great circle had grown considerably smaller during the brief skirmish. Tristan reined in after a sprint of thirty paces, since any farther would have taken him close to the trolls approaching from the direction of the shore. To his right, the firbolgs still advanced in a steady wave, while another large band of trolls blocked any escape to his left.

A whirring form buzzed past his ear, and Tristan ducked instinctively before recognizing the sound of Newt's agitated flight.

"Over here-try this way!" came the excited voice out of the air. In his agitation, the faerie dragon had forgotten to make himself visible. But as he dove forward, accompanied by the sound of ripping, tearing earth, it was clear that the trolls weren't going to fall for his illusionary diversions. A great chasm seemed to open in the earth before the feet of the advancing monsters, but the brutes simply stepped onto the apparently gaping fissure, finding the dirt there to be every bit as solid as it was elsewhere.