Nearby the ruins of the shantytown still smoldered, while the gruff, profane sounds of firbolg revelry continued to rock the stone-walled warehouse.
"Humans all fled, the cowards!" gloated the troll. "We trolls routed them!"
"Good fight," Thurgol agreed easily. He turned to watch his impromptu crew members grappling with ropes and thwarts, trying to secure the ship to the dock. "Stay there. Hold the ropes!" he commanded finally.
"Leave ship here," Baatlrap said, drawing Thurgol's suspicious attention. "Whole army go after the humans. Kill all of them!" The troll's eyes drifted casually over to Garisa, who stood at the waterfront with the Silverhaft Axe at her side. The old hag scowled back, unintimidated.
The firbolg chieftain blinked in surprise, studying the recalcitrant troll. Then he scowled, drawing his heavy brows down over his craggy face in an expression that was very menacing indeed. "We've got the ship. Now we sail to Icepeak!" He pointed across the Strait of Oman, currently too hazy for the far shoreline to be seen. Nevertheless, his firm intent was unmistakable.
"No," declared Baatlrap, stepping closer to the firbolg chieftain. "You follow me now."
Thurgol glared at his co-commander in growing fury. "You saw the sign of the gods!" he barked. "We have the Silverhaft Axe. Now it's time to take it to Icepeak!"
Baatlrap looked at the ship, skepticism rank on his grotesque face. "Humans flee that way," he said, pointing to the east along the shore. "We should give chase now-catch them and kill them!"
The firbolg chieftain showed no fear of his gangly, powerfully muscled rival. Yet as he remembered the size of the ship, he knew he couldn't squeeze more than his own tribe into the hull. There would be no room for the trolls. And given their utter lack of nautical skill, he suspected that multiple crossings of the surprisingly wide strait would be out of question.
"I take the ship and my warriors," Thurgol said after a moment's thought. "You trolls, and any giant-kin what don't come along, you can chase the humans."
His suggestion seemed, to the powerful giant, to be a model of diplomacy and compromise. He nodded thoughtfully, considering all the ramifications. It was a good idea!
"No!" barked Baatlrap, surprising Thurgol in his self-congratulatory meditation. Then, with not a second's warning, the hulking troll attacked.
How long can a back be twisted before a person became permanently crippled? When an arm or leg remained numb for hours on end, did it wither and die? These questions arose from more than idle curiosity in Tavish. By now, after more than an hour under her bench, she considered them crucial to her chances of survival.
Already she felt as though she had passed the point of ever being able to walk again. A rough thwart jabbed the small of her back, and the low-hanging bench pressed her shoulder into the hull, wearing her skin away with each jolt and roll of the ship. And the firbolgs, she quickly noted, jolted and rolled the ship a good deal more than had Brandon and his crew. The only good news was that the water barrels served to screen her from observation by the giants.
When the humanoids scrambled out of the vessel onto the docks of Codscove, she had risked a little movement, stretching her legs beneath the bench and rolling sideways so that the vicious wooden thwart was removed from contact with her backbone. At the same time, her new position allowed her a small crack of daylight, a space between the bench and a water barrel, through which to observe the longship's captors.
She saw a monstrous troll, easily the largest and ugliest she had ever seen, jabbering angrily with an equally hulking firbolg. The pair stood nose to nose beside the ship, barking guttural sounds at each other. Though she couldn't understand a word of the conversation, Tavish sensed that the troll grew increasingly agitated.
The creature carried a huge, wicked-looking sword, balancing the weapon easily in the palm of one massive hand. The blade was streaked with blood; he hadn't bothered to clean it after the battle on the commons. The giant, on the other hand, leaned casually on a huge, knotted limb. To Tavish, the club looked as large as a small tree trunk, but the monster spun it easily to rest it across one of his broad shoulders.
The firbolg's eyes drifted over the boat, and Tavish flinched, though there was little chance that the creature would see her in the shadowy niche. She was puzzled by something in his eyes. They seemed to stare with longing far into the haze over the strait.
Then, with shocking speed, the troll whipped his sword upward and slashed it toward the unprepared firbolg's neck. Backed by the force of powerful sinew, the blade whistled through the air while the firbolg, still staring out to sea, remained unaware of the treacherous attack.
A deep voice, shrill with warning and-to Tavish, who couldn't see the speaker-unmistakably female, screeched an alarm. With amazing speed, the firbolg flipped his club to the opposite shoulder, spinning back to face his attacker while the great sword bit into the wooden weapon with a loud chunk.
Bellowing in fury, the giant-kin twisted his club and almost pulled the blade out of the great troll's hands. As it was, the obscene monster held on to the hilt with both hands, stumbling across the dock before he wrenched the sword from its wooden trap.
An excited hubbub of voices rose from the encircling humanoids, all of whom backed out of Tavish's vision to leave the two combatants a wide, unimpeded arena. The bard felt the strong tension in the air and knew something very important was riding on this duel. The firbolg planted his broad feet firmly, hefting the mighty club and warily holding it before him, guarding against another quick attack.
The troll, however, showed no intention of dashing in for another savage onslaught. The green-skinned humanoid held the sword in the same manner as the giant wielded his club, so that the tips of the two weapons nearly touched, each fighter guarding against a rash attack by his foe.
Tavish heard hisses and catcalls rumble from the unseen onlookers, but the firbolg stood firm, allowing the words to roll off his shoulders. The troll, on the other hand, stepped backward and then angrily barked at the surrounding monsters. His sharp commands only seemed to inflame them more. Even without a knowledge of the language, the bard had no difficulty discerning the derisive tone of the hoots and taunts.
Finally the weight of opinion grew too heavy for the monstrous troll. With a curse and a snarl, he sprang toward the firbolg, bashing at the club with his huge, jagged blade in an attempt to sweep the weapon out of the way.
But he may as well have chopped at a broad tree. The firbolg, muscles knotting in his shoulders and arms, held the club firm. Instead, it was the troll who staggered, though the lanky creature quickly regained its balance and scuttled through a wide circle around the giant-kin.
Now the firbolg uttered a bellow, a blast of sound that nearly deafened Tavish, and sprang forward with a timber-shaking pounce. The club flew through a dizzying arc, and the troll threw himself headlong onto the dock in order to avoid the savage swing, dropping out of Tavish's view. The cacophony of the onlookers' voices rose feverishly while the hulking giant leered in fierce triumph.
The firbolg whirled through a circle, bashing downward with his stout weapon. Tavish heard it crack solidly into the timbers of the dock, not the troll's wriggling body, and she felt oddly disappointed. Though each of the combatants was a mortal enemy, the ghastly appearance and the total and unadulterated evil nature of the troll made that beast the more hateful foe. Nevertheless, she retained no illusions about her fate if the brutish giant-kin should discover her.
The firbolg kicked, and she heard a squawk of outrage from the green-skinned monster. Then the troll bounced back into view, swinging the gory sword in a wide circle toward the giant's midriff. As the firbolg moved to block the attack, the troll pulled the weapon back, avoiding the parry before driving the weapon's sharp point straight toward the firbolg's chest.
Surprised, the giant tried to recover, twisting desperately away, but not before the keen tip ripped through his skin, slicing a wound deep into his flank. Grunting in pain, the huge creature stag
gered back, weakly flailing with his club to block any immediate pursuit.
But the troll didn't hesitate for long. Utilizing the newly-successful thrusting tactic, he drew the sword back, leveling the blade and angling the point straight toward the giant-kin's heart. The firbolg stumbled awkwardly, almost falling to one knee, and Tavish wondered if the wound in his side was mortal.
So, too, did the troll. Sensing his opponent's weakness, the horrific monster lunged inward, driving the sword with all the power of his taut muscle and tough, resilient bone. Like an arrow, the tip of the blade darted toward the lurching giant's unprotected chest.
Tavish almost shouted a suicidal warning, so certain was the blow and so unprepared seemed its lumbering target. The assembled humanoids grew silent in that instant, the collective breath of the monstrous army held in tense anticipation of the duel's outcome. Ignoring the impulse to close her eyes, Tavish watched in spellbound horror, waiting for the fatal penetration.
But suddenly it was the giant who, with lightning speed, dropped out of sight. In that instant, before even the monsters roared their approval or dismay, she understood. He had feigned his weakness.
The troll shrieked in agony and, though she couldn't see the firbolg, this time Tavish heard that mighty club smash into trollish bone. The horrid attacker fell, and the firbolg rose into her line of sight, lifting the club above his head and then driving it downward onto the unseen form below.
Again the troll howled, and for excruciating moments, the hidden bard watched the club rise and fall, hearing the piteous cries grow weaker, until finally they ceased altogether. Even then the club fell brutally three more times before the firbolg finally lowered the weapon to the dock. No sound emerged from the unseen form at his feet. In fact, Tavish couldn't imagine that the troll was anything more than a gory pulp.
At once, the firbolg stumbled, and several of his fellows dashed forward to support him. Tavish saw a stooped old female firbolg, who nevertheless stood at least eight feet tall, step forward to dab something at the giant's wound. Red blood continued to gush from the small slice, and finally the healer insisted that the warrior lie down.
Tavish drew back into her niche, intrigued enough by the scene she had witnessed to forget momentarily the painful cramps that had once again started to numb her legs. There seemed to be precious little unity in this monstrous army, for unless her guess was way off the mark, she had just observed a battle between the leaders of separate factions.
She wondered what would happen next. The possibility of waiting until dark and then trying to slip onto the dock began to have its appeal. Perhaps she could get ashore and disappear into the night.
Sunset was still many hours away, however, when firbolg after firbolg began to climb into the ship. As the bard drew back from clumping, intrusive feet, she hardly dared to breathe, cringing against the backbreaking thwart and pressing as far as she could under the low overhanging bench. She forced herself to be absolutely silent. At the same time, she wanted to scream her dismay, for she had no doubt as to what was going on.
And in fact, a few minutes later, her suspicions proved correct. The firbolgs pushed the Princess of Moonshae away from the dock and floated toward the rolling waters of the Strait of Oman.
Princess Deirdre stalked through Corwell Town in the dark of the night, wearing the guise of her magic as an impenetrable disguise. Those who passed her saw nothing save a ripple in the blackness. Perhaps they felt a shiver of disquiet as they hurried on their way, rationally certain that there was nothing there, yet spiritually unconvinced.
Thus undiscovered, she entered the hutch of a farmyard, finding a proud rooster slumbering peacefully on his roost nearby. With a sharp twist of her hands, she wrung the bird's neck, quickly dropping the feathered body into her large leather sack.
Next she came upon a dog, slumbering before its master's doorstep. The screen of nothingness was so impermeable that the hound didn't sense the young woman's approach, nor did it see the keen dagger that slit the coarse fur of its throat. Withdrawing the dripping blade, the princess lowered a small cup, collecting the blood that flowed from the severed artery.
She repeated the ritual with a great draft horse that stood slumbering in a livery yard, gathering the dying steed's blood in a larger container. Finally, then, she was ready to return to the castle on the knoll, which she did on the wings of her magic, disdaining the winding road that climbed toward the gatehouse and fortress walls.
Settling her feet on the lofty parapet of those walls, she searched for the final element of her brew. Undisguised now, she came upon a pacing guard. The man bowed respectfully, so he didn't see the still-crimson blade dart outward. He fell silently, staring mute and uncomprehending at the young woman who stood over his bleeding corpse.
Her eyes shining in the darkness, Deirdre knelt and gathered the last sample of blood. Then, in a swirl of her dark cloak, she passed through a door and entered the darkened hallways of the keep.
"Splendid. . the components of might are in your hands, my daughter." The immortal form of Talos twisted and heaved in anticipation. The princess of the Moonshaes was his now! He well knew that, with the striking of her dagger, she had forever turned her back on her people and their dying faith.
In his struggles, Talos had learned an important lesson-that the Earthmother must be struck away from the heart of her power, away from Myrloch Vale. Deirdre had begun that attack, gathering the vital tools of destruction. She would become a powerful agent of the New Gods, bringing the goddess to her knees in final defeat.
For that purpose, she would be linked to another tool. That one still slumbered to the north, but soon he would be awakened, emerging for his vengeance from the very shadow of the Icepeak.
The ultimate sword of chaos would be the demigod, Grond Peaksmasher, finally freed from his goddess-imposed confinement.
10
Perilous Pathways
The muscular steed galloped like a pale ghost along the open floor of the forest, carrying her silver-armored rider beneath overhanging limbs and around large, moss-covered boulders. Brigit gave the fleet war-horse free rein, and the white Synnorian mare flew through misty meadows and dank, overgrown thickets.
Sensing, after several miles, the nearness of her destination, the elfwoman exerted slight pressure with her knees, bringing the mare's headlong race to a gentle, cautious trot. In another moment, a small figure emerged from the brush, and the horse, grown used to dwarves over the past week on the trail, reared back only slightly.
"We're too late," Brigit announced tersely as Finellen and Hanrald came up behind the lead dwarf. "They've taken Codscove even more quickly than we thought possible."
The dwarven column gradually came into view behind the leaders. Hanrald led his great war-horse, while the dwarves, on foot, marched steadily along behind.
"What are they doing now?" asked the dwarven captain.
"It looks like they've started along the shore to the east. There are several small villages and at least one good-sized town in their path."
"Damn!" spat Hanrald. "We can't let them run wild!"
"Just what I've been sayin' for a week now," grumbled Finellen. "Weren't you the one who told me to wait for King Kendrick?"
Hanrald spun away in irritation. His mind whirled through conflicting pictures of his duty. On the one hand, the king was sure to come, with sufficient men-at-arms to confront the horde with a reasonable chance of success. As it was, they had a mere fourscore dwarves or so, coupled with a human earl and an elven sister knight-not a great prospect of victory in any thoughtful analysis.
Yet they had no indication of how long it would take the king's army to arrive on the scene, or how much damage the monstrous horde could inflict in the meantime. Indeed, they had expected Codscove to delay the beasts for several days, and instead, that prosperous hamlet had been ravaged in a few short hours.
"You're right-now, in any event," muttered the proud earl, turning back to the stubborn
dwarfwoman. "I don't think we can afford to wait any longer."
"Did you catch sight of the Silverhaft Axe?" Finellen queried.
"No-as much as I could see, they didn't have it with them."
"Damn! What did a bunch of firbolgs want it for? Where did they take it?" the dwarf demanded.
"Speaking of firbolgs, I was surprised to see that there aren't that many giants in this horde-mostly trolls," Brigit noted. "The firbolgs are only a small fraction of the total army."
"I don't care who took the axe," Finellen snorted impatiently. "I just want it back!"
"I'll ride toward the town and see if I can confirm their movements," Brigit volunteered quickly. "If they continue along the coast to the east, it might be that you can angle through Winterglen and gain some ground on them."
"That would be too much of a risk-and besides, it's not necessary," Finellen replied with a firm shake of her head. "They've got to go east from Codscove. A march in the other direction would take them right into the middle of the biggest swamp on Gwynneth."
"I remember," Brigit agreed. "At the mouth of Codsrun Creek, isn't it?"
"Yup. That little stream just disappears when it gets within fifteen miles of the shore. It turns into a morass of mud flat and fen. Not a road or track through the whole thing, and not good, open forest like this, either," Finellen concluded.
"Then we've got to get ahead of them if we're going to do any good," Hanrald realized.
That prospect was daunting, at the very least. On their sturdy but short legs the dwarves had difficulty maintaining a speedy march. Now they faced the prospect of not only matching the monsters' pace, but also moving quickly enough to get ahead of them and then making a glorious, but quite probably doomed, attempt to block the pestilential advance.
"We're going to pick up the pace," Finellen announced loudly. The doughty warriors uttered not a single word of complaint, Hanrald noticed, impressed. Instead, they followed the cadence of their leader's commands, forming into their file and following steadily behind Finellen, Brigit, and Hanrald, the latter pair leading their trail-weary war-horses.
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