Douglas Niles - The Druid Queen

Thurgol helped the old shaman across these parts, and by dint of careful footsteps, he prevented either Garisa or himself from suffering a fall. The old woman seemed preoccupied, carrying the Silverhaft Axe in both hands and constantly staring up at the snowcapped peak, her jaw slack with wonder.

"The eternal home of Grond Peaksmasher," Garisa said with an amazed shake of her head. "It's a miracle to finally be here."

During the arduous climb, she had tactfully avoided any mention of her previous day's suggestion. Thurgol realized now that the lower route, though longer, would have been more practical. Still, he appreciated her tact in avoiding the subject

The sheer summit soaring above them humbled the giant chieftain. Very carefully he skirted the highest region, leading the file of his tribesmen in a long, creeping traverse. Broad hands and wide feet grasped each bare hold on the steep surface as the chieftain slowly crept along. He led the way around a sheer shoulder, gaining a vista of Oman's Isle sweeping away to the north and of the plunging face of the Icepeak's summit directly ahead.

Thurgol stopped abruptly, vertigo seizing his brain with a whirling, overpowering wind. He felt as though it would tear him from the mountainside and he would plummet down the thousand-foot drop yawning immediately before him.

"The trail stops here," he grunted in disgust, returning to the slightly larger ledge where Garisa and the other giant-kin waited.

"Can we go around?" asked the shaman.

Thurgol looked below, ruefully studying a long, sheer ridge that neatly divided their route in half. They would have to go around that barrier, and the only way to do that was to backtrack nearly to the foot of the mountain.

"We'll have to go back," he replied bitterly. "You were right. We should have gone around Icepeak, not over."

Garisa shrugged. "Grond Peaksmasher has been asleep for centuries," she said. "A few more days aren't going to matter."

With more relief than disappointment, the rest of the firbolgs accepted the news of the necessity to backtrack. With their numbed hands and frostbitten ears, the thought of a march back to a land of firewood and windbreaks cheered them nearly as much as the thought of their destination itself.

The companions stole a few precious hours of rest following the battle, but when they awakened to resume their march, it was still the full moon, not the sunrise, illuminating their preparations. Finellen had agreed only to take the bare minimum of non-dwarves through the tunnel, so Tristan had declared that Alicia, Keane, Brandon, Hanrald, and Brigit would accompany them. Sir Koll, with the aid of the Corwellian men-at-arms and their capable sergeants-major, would be responsible for chasing down any remnants of the monsters that might still be roaming the area.

"With this start, we should get to the entrance by noon," Finellen explained quickly. "I'll tell you right now, though, the horses will never fit. You'll have to leave them here or at the mouth of the tunnel."

"Fair enough," Tristan agreed. "Might as well leave them in good hands." Sergeant-Major Parsallas took charge of Shallot and Brittany, as well as Hanrald's and Brigit's steeds, and with that decided, the companions and the column of dwarves started along the misty coast.

Crazed by rage, Baatlrap loped through the forest, the heat of his fury compelling action against the humans. Yet even his flaming anger did not entirely blind his cunning. When the scent of humans came to him on the breeze, he slowed to a creeping skulk, ordering his companion trolls to remain concealed in the woods.

Crawling forward flat on the ground, concealed beneath the green foliage of a thorny bush, Baatlrap observed the humans beneath the cool light of the moon. The great bulk of the army broke into companies and prepared to make camp. These did not interest the great troll.

Instead, his black, unfeeling eyes remained fixed upon the human lord with the great stallion. That man remained with the dwarves, and presently, to the great troll's bitter satisfaction, this small force marched away from the main body of the army.

Swiftly Baatlrap gathered his remaining warriors, staying well away from the human encampment as they started out. They circled the battlefield, then quickly found the trail of the dwarves and the human king.

Carefully, cautiously, staying well back from his quarry, Baatlrap led his trolls along the moonlit coastal trail.

The dwarven captain led the way along the coast for the better part of six hours as the dawn grew into a cloudless, bright morning. The heat began to increase, untempered by any breeze off the strait.

"I still can't figure out why they wanted to steal the axe," Finellen groused. "What use is it to them? Why, the dolts didn't even use it in battle!"

"And why did they break a peace of twenty years?" Tristan added, puzzled himself.

"I think the answer to both questions lies with these firbolgs, and the sooner we catch them and beat the truth out of them, the happier I'll be!"

Tristan shared his old companion's eagerness to conclude their pursuit, but he was surprised to find that his own sense of grim determination had begun to flag somewhat. He wanted to answer these questions as much as ever, but the lust for vengeance no longer burned quite so hotly in his heart. It had been replaced by a kind of wondering curiosity.

By midday, true to Finellen's prediction, the bearded dwarfwoman announced that they must turn inland. Tristan noticed a large split rock, jutting from a promontory on the shoreline, and assumed that this was some kind of landmark.

Indeed, after no more than a quarter-mile of hiking, they reached an apparently impenetrable clump of thornbushes. The branches were interwoven so thoroughly that any attempt to push through, or even to hack a passage, would have been painful if not impossible.

Nevertheless, the dwarf ducked low, lifting heavy branches lined with jagged, prickly thorns out of the way. Tristan followed, using his shield to part the thorny branches, but still he and the other humans had to crawl on their knees to make their way through.

Then abruptly the thicket gave way to a small, grassy clearing, completely surrounded by the thorny hedge. Finellen stepped to a broad stump, the only feature of the meadow, and twisted it once. Tristan wasn't surprised when it fell away, revealing a spiraling stone staircase descending into the earth.

Following the High King, Keane produced a small pebble and, with a snap of his fingers, caused it to burst into bright illumination. "Here you go, Sire," he said, passing it to Tristan.

The king lifted the stone as he followed the dwarf into the dank, tightly circling stairwell. Cool white light splashed along the walls and steps before him, clearly showing him the passage. In the confining space, with the ceiling low overhead and the walls constantly pressing against one shoulder or another, the king was profoundly grateful for the illumination.

The others followed, aided by several additional enchanted pebbles. The dwarves, with their natural night vision, had no need of such aid. After twenty or thirty steps, the stairway became a tight-walled, steeply descending corridor. In places, Tristan had to turn sideways just to make the passage, and he began to wonder if it would be possible to follow such a passage for any number of miles.

"It opens up before too long," Finellen said, as if reading his mind. "As soon as we join up with the main passage."

"Good news!" broke in a familiar voice.

Tristan whirled in surprise as Newt popped into sight behind him, hovering in the corridor that was so narrow his gossamer wings nearly brushed the sides. "Let's get going," said the faerie dragon, settling on the king's shoulder.