Douglas Niles - The Druid Queen

The ring closed faster, and Tristan knew that his next escape attempt-whether it succeeded or failed-would be his last. Once more he guided Shallot into a charge, and the stallion seemed to sense the raw urgency. Lowering his broad head, snorting aggressively, the war-horse thundered toward a gap between two pairs of trolls.

Immediately the creatures sprang together, closing the narrow opening effectively, while others raced for the point of impact. Tristan hunched low in his saddle, bracing the shield against his leg and shoulder, holding his potent sword like a lance, challenging any trolls to face him on his right.

Shallot smashed into the humanoids, carrying two of the hideous beasts to the earth and trampling them brutally with heavy hooves. Ranthal sprang beside the horse, clamping his jaws to the face of another troll, while Tristan speared one through the chest with the keen sword.

But still more of them surged around him. He felt claws raking his legs, heard Shallot cry out in pain. The king's arm, grown into an unfeeling, leaden weight, chopped, hacked, and stabbed with Trollcleaver, but he couldn't hold the savagely pressing beasts at bay.

The stallion reared back, breaking free of the press for a moment. Then a troll lunged at Shallot's flank, knocking the horse sideways. For a sickening, desperately hopeful moment, Tristan thought that the mighty stallion would recover his balance.

Instead, Shallot fell heavily on his side. The king flew from the saddle, feeling the impact with the ground before it happened. Even as the stunning force of the fall drove the breath from his lungs, he tried to scramble to his feet but found his muscles strangely unwilling to move.

And so he could only lie there, helpless in the midst of his enemies, waiting the blow that would certainly bring the end.

"They haven't come any farther along the coast," reported Brigit, galloping up to the column of exhausted dwarves. Hanrald took her hand as she swung down from the saddle. "They're staying in place near the shore, almost as if they're waiting for something behind them."

"Let them wait for us!" snapped Finellen, elated at the news. "How far away are they now?"

"Not far," Brigit replied. "If you keep up the pace, you should get there in a few hours."

"Double-step, now-quick march!" Finellen called. "Make time, dwarves! There's battle awaiting! We'll have the Silver-haft Axe back by nightfall!"

The column of doughty warriors picked up its pace with noticeable enthusiasm. The tromp of booted feet thumped against the ground in rapid cadence, and despite their long hours without any real respite, the bearded warriors looked fresh and eager to meet the enemy.

Hanrald swung into the saddle of his war-horse as Brigit remounted beside him. Pacing themselves with a gentle trot, they rode at the head of the dwarven formation, following the course the sister knight marked to the camp of the trolls and firbolgs.

Because of Finellen's hastened march, they covered the ground in even less time than Brigit had estimated. It was less than two hours before the Llewyrr woman held up her hand, bringing the whole column to a halt behind her.

"Near here?" asked Finellen, squeezing her axe and peering anxiously through the wooded ground ahead of them.

"We break into the coastal fields just up ahead," Brigit replied. "Once we go a little farther, you'll lose the advantage of concealment."

"Let's have a look, then," huffed the dwarf. The riders dismounted to accompany her as Finellen pushed her way through a tangle of underbrush, quickly reaching the trunk of a large tree. Peering around the bole, she saw that the elfwoman had spoken the truth. Fields of lush grain sprawled away before her, blowing gently in the breeze.

But there was nothing lush about the scene drawing their eyes on the far side of the grainfield. There they saw dozens of green, hulking figures-trolls! The monsters had gathered in a large ring, though for the moment, the observers couldn't see what they encircled.

Then a flash of movement whirled beyond the trolls, and they saw a huge war-horse break into a gallop. The steed and its rider were trapped in a ring of savage trolls, and the trio could only stare in wonder at the futile courage of the human rider. His armor gleamed, but they couldn't make out the seal on his dented shield, and he wore no banner, pennant, or other symbol of his identity.

"The poor doomed fool!" Hanrald gasped, his voice tinged with admiration and sorrow.

"By the gods, man, he's giving us a great diversion!" Finellen barked. "Let's get moving!"

"You want to attack?" demanded Brigit, incredulous. "Why, look at the ground before you! You'd have to charge through that field for half a mile! They'd have plenty of time to get ready to meet you."

"Do you have a better suggestion?" barked the dwarf, regarding the Llewyrr knight belligerently.

"Wait here and watch them for a little while. If you see them get ready to move, then you can take a defensive position in their path. You'll have a better chance against them if you choose the ground and give yourself some cover!"

"No good," Finellen retorted. "If they do pick up and move, there's no guarantee we'll be able to catch 'em. Nope, we've got them here in front of us. I say we're going after them right now!"

Hanrald looked back at the fight, where the lone human rider circled to face the surrounding legion of his attackers. The warrior saw something admirable and grand in the knight's valiant stand. He wished they had a chance to help the man, but even if he and Brigit rode to the fight at top speed, they stood no chance of getting there before the lone rider must inevitably be slain.

Meanwhile, Finellen darted back to muster her company, while the human lord and the elfwoman stared in pity at the doomed fight of the surrounded warrior. His great war-horse reared, raising the rider above even the towering bodies of his enemies, but everywhere the man and horse turned, they faced a closing ring of tooth, sinew, and claw.

Along the fringe of trees, dwarves emerged from the woods silently, starting through the field in a long rank, though only their heads showed above the green, waving grain. And even these the bearded warriors held low, trying to take advantage of their concealment for as long as possible.

Quickly the two riders returned to their horses. "Let's give the dwarves a bit of a start," Brigit suggested. "After all, we'll catch them soon enough, and we'll be a lot easier to see than they will."

"Agreed," said Hanrald, privately chafing at the sensible suggestion. Now that the enemy was in sight, he wanted nothing so much as the chance to thunder across the field in a valiant charge. Though they would be too late to help, certainly, there was something in the doomed rider's carriage and appearance that inspired a fierce and combative drive in the Earl of Fairheight. The rider's battered shield had been through savage fighting, he could tell. Indeed, the insignia had been worn to a shapeless blur of brown. Yet somehow, against these phenomenal odds, that shield had kept the horseman alive.

Then, in a flash, it came to him. That battered seal was the bear's head of Kendrick! The rearing, plunging horse could only be Shallot, the king's prized stallion.

"Sire!" he cried, spurring from the woods, horrified to see no sign of the valiant knight-the knight who could only be the High King of the Ffolk. Now the horse scrambled to its feet, riderless, and a horde of trolls swarmed in.

Ranthal stood over his master as Tristan gasped for breath, holding Trollcleaver across his chest and struggling, but failing, to sit up. The loyal moorhound bled from a dozen gory wounds where troll tooth or claw had rent skin and torn away bristling fur. Yet the dog spun this way and that, lunging and biting seemingly in many directions at once. Snarling, teeth bared in fanged savagery, the great moorhound tore the throat from a troll that leaned in too close.