The decision was taken from him as the crossbow-bearing hunter continued to approach the wood. When the dwar reached the fringe of shade, a monstrous troll whooped and sprang from cover upon the dwarven hunter. Thurgol immediately recognized Baatlrap. The leaping beast held his huge, saw-toothed sword over his head, bringing it down in a crushing blow toward the astonished hunter’s skull Before the dwarf could utter a sound, the deadly copper edge cleaved him from head to heart.
The firbolgs bellowed, a sound like the rumbling of a nearby rockslide. Branches splintered and trees swayed as the monsters of Thurgol’s crude force charged from the underbrush. Thurgol himself raised his great club and led the assault. Beside him, several giant-kin paused to pitch rocks into the dwarven village while the chieftain pounded toward the side of the nearest small house.
Meanwhile the sleek forms of racing wolfdogs passed Thurgol by as a dozen savage canines burst from concealment to charge, snarling, into the village of the enemy. The predators quickly surrounded a struggling dwarven axeman, soon bearing the valiant warrior to the ground, though not before one of the wolfdogs fell dead, its throat slashed by a blow from the sharp blade.
A bearded dwarf darted out the door of the house nearest Thurgol, clutching a puny hammer and crouching before his home. The little fellow had obviously been interrupted at his lunch. A napkin remained tucked into the collar of his stiff leather shirt. The dwarf’s eyes blazed with hatred, and he raised the hammer, apparently undeterred by the much larger firbolg lumbering toward him. Through the doorway, Thurgol saw similar small figures scrambling out of his view. Obviously the dwarf’s family was within.
The firbolg chief bashed his club downward, ready to squash the insolent dwarf on his very doorstep. At the same time, something about the helpless little ones within the house nagged at him. Thurgol decided that, after killing the warrior, he would let the rest of the family live.
Yet his generosity was shortchanged by the stumpy fighter’s quick reactions, for the dwarf rolled away from the crushing blow before the club could land. Thurgol grunted in pain as the knobby weapon sprang from the hard stones of the doorstep. But where was the dwarf?
A searing pain in his buttocks answered that question. With a bellow, Thurgol spun, swinging his club in a furious circle close to the ground. The dwarf would pay for his insolence!
Nevertheless, as low as the giant swept his weapon, the pesky little warrior ducked even lower, dropping flat against the earth as the club whistled past. Then, before Thurgol could recover, the dwarf brought the surprisingly heavy hammer down on the firbolg’s foot.
Thurgol’s bellow of pain rattled the windows in their frames. He swung back, but again the runt scuttled into the roadway, springing into a crouch perhaps six paces away, facing the firbolg and forcing Thurgol to turn his back to the house. This time the chieftain resolved to attack cautiously, advancing toward the dwarf one step at a time, his club raised, a murderous gleam in his eye.
All thought of guilt and mercy had been banished by this scuttling creature’s resistance. Never had Thurgol imagined that a single dwarf could prove so troublesome. Now he took great care, reluctant to commit his club to a swing that would leave him open to a fast counterattack.
A rock sailing through the air solved his dilemma, cracking against the dwarf’s bare skull from behind and sending him sprawling face forward into the dirt. Thurgol didn’t take the time to grunt an acknowledgement to the stone-throwing giant who had aided him. Instead, the chieftain turned back to the village, bellowing savagely and lumbering forward to renew the charge.
Snapping wolfdogs lunged beside him. Thurgol saw two of the great creatures leap on a slashing dwarf, carrying the unfortunate fellow to the ground beneath their weight. Jaws slashed and came up dripping blood, though one of the beasts suddenly yelped and whirled away, losing its own blood through a gaping wound in its belly. The injured canine, whining piteously, fell to the ground and died beside the gory corpse of its last victim.
Dwarves in various states of disarray, some dressed in business finery, others in homespun—one even shaking bath soap from his beard—popped from the houses and shops, rallying to the defense. They bore a variety of weapons, including axes and hammers as well as an occasional crossbow or spear, and they shouted their hatred and anger at the attackers who had emerged from the brush with such shocking and brutal speed. Dimly the chieftain noticed an odd fact: These dwarves, as a group, seemed unusually old compared to dwarven warriors he had faced in the past. Many of them were stooped of posture and stiff of movement, and a significant portion of the males showed patches of sunburned skin through their thinning hair.
Directly in front of Thurgol, a firbolg screamed and toppled forward, the blunt end of a dwarven crossbow quarrel extending from his eye. Another giant fell nearby, hamstrung by a dwarf who rushed from cover to chop savagely with his axe as the attacker rushed past.
Thurgol loomed behind this valiant dwarf, swinging with all the brutish force of his giant body, and this time his club fell true. The dwarf dropped dead, his skull crushed by the killing blow before he even knew he was being attacked. Stepping over the corpse, the firbolg chieftain felt a savage glee begin to pump through his veins, infusing within him a lust for killing, a desperate desire to strike at these foes wherever they could be found.
A wolfdog yelped and sprang backward, collapsing on a wounded leg to thrash on the ground. A sturdy dwarf, wielding a bloody axe, stood over the fallen creature and glared around, ready for a new foe. More of the great canines leaped forward, and the last the chieftain saw of the fight, the dwarf held the beasts at bay with desperate swings of his axe.
Another dwarf raced forward, his bearded face contorted by his own fury. Thurgol didn’t stop to note that the fellow’s hair was purest white, with a patch of pink skin showing at the crest of his head. Stooped in posture, his movements showing the stiffness of advanced age, the venerable warrior nevertheless brandished a small axe, challenging the firbolg with jabbered insults and clumsy swings of his pathetic weapon. Behind him, several young dwarves scurried for the safety of the woods.
Swinging his weapon through a sweeping arc, Thurgol crushed the old dwarf’s shoulder and sent him flying through the air. Shouting in triumphant glee, the firbolg lunged after the escaping dwarves, ready to crush them all with the bloody end of his club.
In the next instant, stinging pain slashed through Thurgol’s calf, and he howled in agony, stumbling forward and dropping to one knee in sudden pain. The white-haired dwarf, gritting his teeth against unspeakable pain, wielded his axe with his one good hand. Somehow he had risen to his feet and hacked through the firbolg’s skin as Thurgol lumbered toward his next victims.
Furiously, blindly, the giant swung his club at the insolent pest, but from the awkward stance, he could put little force into the blow, and the crippled dwarf toppled backward, avoiding the weapon by several inches. The firbolg scrambled to his feet, grunting and panting from exertion, and brought the club down once, and then again, against the immobile and helpless target.
Only then did he turn his eyes toward the cowardly dwarves who had fled, protected by the dead warrior’s desperate diversion, but by now they were nowhere to be seen. Spitting in disgust, Thurgol looked around to see that the battle had swept through the village, with most of the dwarves either slain or driven into the forest.
Several trolls surrounded a young dwarven axeman. The dwarf’s beard had barely come in, yet the little fellow circled like a veteran, striking out with his blade, which was well streaked in green, trollish blood, and nimbly dodging the vicious talons of the slashing monsters. Finally three of the gangly predators leaped at once, bearing the courageous dwarf to earth and rending him with claws and teeth. Even with such an overpowering force, one of the trolls staggered back, clutching the stump of his wrist where the dying dwarf had severed his hand with his last blow.
Howling in fury, the troll sat roughly in the dirt, waiting for the hand to grow ba
ck. Disgustedly Thurgol turned away. The unnatural and hideous allies never seemed so obscene to the firbolg as when their innate regenerative ability healed some grotesque wound.
Furiously Thurgol bashed at the stone wall of a small house, satisfied that a few rocks chipped loose from the wall but surprised that the structure didn’t come crashing down. Any firbolg-built pile of rocks would surely have crumbled from such a blow! Angrily he pounded against it again and again, ignoring the jolts of pain that shot through his shoulders and arms. He bashed against the wooden door, which splintered satisfactorily, and then smashed the eaves of the roof. The stone walls he left alone, however, out of a real danger that he would shatter his club, or perhaps even his bones, before he chipped away any more of the solid masonry.
Even this rampage of destruction did nothing to improve his mood. Stalking through the ruined village, he looked over the carnage of war. Surprisingly, it hadn’t been a massacre. Though the dwarves had been taken by complete surprise, they had fought extremely well. Perhaps two dozen had fallen, and most of these were young adults or very old males. The sacrifices of these dwarves had allowed the rest of the village, primarily females and young, to escape.
In exchange, six firbolgs and a like number of trolls lay on the ground in various stages of serious injury. In addition, a surprising number of the wolfdogs had suffered wounds serious enough to rule out any chance of healing. For the badly wounded canines, Thurgol had no choice but to order them destroyed.
The trolls, of course, would regenerate. Indeed, most of them had already risen to sitting positions, their midnight-black eyes inspecting the gruesome healing process as wounds closed, limbs grew back, and broken bones mended.
The giant-kin were not so lucky. Three of them had been hamstrung, a favorite tactic of the nasty little dwarves, and Thurgol had no choice but to order their throats cut. The others suffered a variety of slices and chops that at least had a possibility of healing. Crudely bandaged, these hapless giants would have to fend as best they could when Thurgol’s rude army moved on.
Nevertheless, all in all, it must be counted as a signal victory for the invaders. The dwarven village was abandoned, and trolls and firbolgs rooted through the various dwellings, seeking treasures and delicacies. Several casks of strong rum yielded themselves to an inquisitive giant, and with great whoops of excitement, he bashed in the cork and took a long swig.
A troubling thought occurred to Thurgol as he watched the rest of his ragged band gather around the valuable find, joining in with their own grunts and whoops and shouts. Why had the fighting dwarves been almost exclusively old men or youngsters barely fully bearded? Where were the veteran warriors, the full-bearded adults, male and female, who had been the doughty enemies of giantkind since time immemorial? The more he thought about it, the more troubling became the notion. The real dwarven warriors hadn’t even been here for the battle!
As this truth began to grow within him, Thurgol became increasingly nervous. He cast his tiny eyes about the thick fringe of underbrush surrounding the village, imagining that a deadly ambush took shape there. He saw the firbolgs and trolls, many of them already drunk, and pictured the slaughter that might result from a sudden and unsuspected attack, harboring no illusions that his thick-skulled troops would respond as quickly or in such orderly fashion as had the dwarves.
Abruptly, decisively, he stalked over to a troll who guzzled from the opened rum cask. With a sharp blow, Thurgol knocked the keg to the ground, where it shattered in a splash of amber pungency. With a growl, the troll lunged at him, but the firbolg chieftain smashed a brawny fist into the monster’s long, branchlike nose. Yelping, the green-skinned monster stumbled back, both hands clutching his wounded proboscis. Hateful black eyes, sunken like caves beneath the beast’s overhanging brows, regarded Thurgol with undiluted venom.
The troll backed away from the enraged firbolg. Like most of his kin, the beast took great pride in the sweeping expanse of his beaklike nose. Now that it had been shattered, he was obsessed with making sure that it grew back as prominently as ever. Growling and snarling, the troll settled in the doorway of a roofless cottage to tend to his regeneration.
Not all the beasts would be so easily cowed, however. As Thurgol might have guessed, Baatlrap was the one to disagree. The monstrous troll swaggered toward Thurgol, his long arms planting curling fists on his hips.
“Why you stop Lakrunt from drink?” he demanded, his voice an ominous growl.
“More dwarves will come,” Thurgol shot back, crossing his arms across his chest and facing the giant troll squarely.
“Dwarves run. We celebrate!”
“What about dwarf warriors? We killed only old ones and young ones! Others might be nearby.”
“Pah! We win fight. We drink!” To underscore his point, Baatlrap ripped another keg from the hands of a gaping firbolg and poured a long stream of rum into his mouth.
“We win! We drink!” The cry arose all around him, from firbolgs and trolls alike, and Thurgol knew that he had lost the argument.
“Turn your eyes to this!” The voice screeched through the scene of growing chaos like a sharp scythe through a field of ripe wheat. All eyes turned to Garisa. The hunched giant woman stood in the open after emerging from one of the larger of the dwarven buildings. She raised her hands over her head, and they all saw what she held. They saw, and they trembled in awe and a sense of giddy joy.
“The Silverhaft Axe!” she cried, and the last rays of the setting sun gleamed from the immaculate metal of the weapon’s shiny haft.
But it was the blade itself that inevitably compelled everyone’s rapt attention, for here the sunlight glittered even more profoundly, shining and reflecting and shimmering off the facets of a great, wedge-shaped surface of purest diamond.
* * * * *
Baatlrap stared at the gleaming axe blade. In it, he saw all the wonders of the world, the most glorious beauties and the grandest achievements … and the vision of utmost, terrifying power.
A dim stirring tickled the base of the troll’s primitive brain. The coarse, wiry body thrilled to the ecstacy of victory and celebration. The scent of blood still pulsed in his nostrils. His mind lingered on the memories of dying dwarves, squirming desperately in Baatlrap’s crushing talons until, very gradually, the wriggling bodies grew still.
But now the sight of the Silverhaft Axe awakened within him an overwhelming craving, and at the same time a reverent sense of of awe. All his dull feeling came together then in a single and compelling urge.
One day that axe would be his.
* * * * *
As a girl, Robyn had spent many hours atop the high tower of Caer Corwell. These had been times of delight and disappointment, of joy and sorrow. Whatever her mood, however, the vista of green moor and gray-blue firth beneath glowering clouds or skies of limitless blue had never failed to soothe her anxieties and focus her mind.
Now, though she was High Queen of the isles, she found that the lofty perch had the same soothing and spiritual effect. Since her return to Corwell, she had spent parts of each day up here, sometimes accompanied by her husband or oldest daughter but more often, as now, alone.
The tower wasn’t an eminent structure compared to grand Caer Callidyrr, where the royal family made their permanent home. It loomed high above this small castle, however, and when its height was added to the crowning knob of rock that served as Caer Corwell’s foundation, it created a vantage almost impossibly remote from the sweeping grass and water below.
Today the clouds were friendly, clean and white, floating gently through the field of blue far overhead. Their shadows gave the limitless moor a dappled effect as patches of sunlight brightened the grass to an almost luminescent brilliance between darker shadows.
Some intuition that she couldn’t identify drew her attention to the east, where the long line of the King’s Road faded into the high distance. There, high above the ground, she detected a gleaming pinpoint of light. At first she thought that
a shooting star, bright enough to flare in the daylight, crackled through the sky at the limits of her vision. But the thing didn’t seem to move—at least not perceptibly. Instead, it remained fixed in place, if anything growing slowly brighter. She observed it for several minutes, far longer than any shooting star could last even if it found a way to stay in one place for the duration of its spectacular life.
Then the High Queen understood: The flare appeared to stand still because it approached her! Growing steadily brighter, it passed beneath the clouds, and as it neared Caer Corwell, it slowly began to descend. Now she saw sparks of light falling away from the thing in a stream, like embers dropping from a blacksmith’s forge in the wake of his shaping hammer.
A sense of foreboding slowly closed about the queen. Vaguely she heard castle guards shouting an alarm, heard trampling feet as men raced onto the walls and lower towers to gape at the approaching phenomenon.
By this time, she could see that the spot of light was actually an object, and slowly it became more detailed, sweeping into a long curve to approach the courtyard itself. She saw a chariot of crackling flame, pulled through the air by two blazing horses and swooping downward with ever-increasing speed. It looked more like a diving hawk than a galloping horse.
Finally she saw the passengers, two men standing in the box of the chariot, one holding the flaming reins and the other, a tall, slender fellow whose trousers flapped around his long, sticklike legs, standing alertly beside the driver.
“Keane!” she shouted, recognizing the tall man at last.
And then the fact of his arrival struck home. This wasn’t Bakar Dalsoritan returning with the magic-user to the Moonshaes.
Immediately her foreboding flared into a full sense of alarm. She wasted no time with the tower stairs. Instead, she pitched herself from the rim of the parapet, immediately altering her features into those of another creature favored by the goddess. As a white hawk, she spiraled through a descent into the courtyard of the humble castle, returning to her human body in the instant before her claws touched the paving stones of the wide enclosure.
The Druid Queen Page 6
