No answer came from the defeated trolls, though the creatures grew increasingly sullen in the face of Baatlrap’s abuse. The hulking brute looked back and forth, along the assembled rank of his monstrous company. It was a potent band, he knew—two score giant-kin and five times that many trolls.
Of course, he would have liked to create still more trolls, but that scheme had been prevented when Garisa and the Silverhaft Axe had sailed to the north. Vaguely Baatlrap felt a desire to go after the weapon. Perhaps one day he would. As for now, he had a hard time imagining a human army that could stand against his present force, nor had he yet seen any evidence that the humans had mustered any men-at-arms even to challenge him.
Yet if there were such a force, it could just as easily be behind him as before him. And this human warrior, the one whose sword sliced the wounds that would not heal, could well be a harbinger of such an army. Indeed, the more Baatlrap thought about it, the more he became convinced: There could be no other explanation.
Certainly any lone human knight, well mounted, who found himself attacked by a dozen trolls would try to ride away from the fight, wouldn’t he? Common sense would allow no other interpretation! Since this warrior had elected not to flee the battle, it could only mean that he was followed by many more of his own kind.
The prospect did not alarm the great troll. Instead, the thought of such a battle gave him a sense of pleasant anticipation, together with a self-congratulatory nod for his shrewd analysis of the enemy’s situation. This way, Baatlrap’s army would be ready to face the pursuing humans in a fair fight, at a place of the troll lord’s choosing.
“Stop the march!” he shouted to the humanoid monsters of his command. “We meet the humans here!”
* * * * *
Finellen tried to conceal her worry from the rest of her troops and from her human and elven companions. She wasn’t entirely successful in either case.
“It’s going to be tough to catch them, isn’t it?” Hanrald asked softly, leading his war-horse along the trail beside the dwarven captain.
“Aye,” she grunted sourly. “They move so damned fast. Even a whole night’s forced march puts us two leagues behind them!”
The column of dwarves had unquestioningly followed their leader’s command, tromping grimly through the night. Hanrald had ridden or walked along with them in silent amazement, for the doughty warriors stumped along at an exhausting rate hour after hour, and yet not one of them raised a voice in complaint or showed any sign of faltering. Brigit’s scouting report had indicated that the monsters camped at dusk, and this news propelled all of them into a steady, draining pace.
Before sunrise, the dwarves paused for an hour’s rest. Some tried to nap for a few minutes, while others simply stretched muscles battered and bruised from long days on the trail. Brigit rode forth on her fleet mare, ready as always to scout the enemy force. Shortly after her departure, however, the druid Danrak entered the camp with news that alarmed them all.
The monsters, he told them, broke camp even before the coming of daylight. Once again they marched away from the dwarves, increasing the distance between the two forces faster than Finellen and her warriors could close it.
“Still, are you sure it’s as bad as all that?” questioned the earl as he and Finellen made their way along the trail. “After all, Brigit hasn’t gotten back yet. She might have some good news.”
Finellen shook her head in frustration and disappointment. “You heard what Danrak said. They were already on the march an hour before dawn!”
The courageous druid, Hanrald knew, had been observing the camp of the trollish army from nearby vantage points in the brush and trees, no doubt concealed in the body of some fleet forest creature, perhaps a rabbit or squirrel, or maybe even a sparrow or jay. Such disguises had enabled him to give them excellent reports on each of the monsters’ camps and their subsequent lines of march.
“Same direction as yesterday, I assume?” the Earl of Fairheight queried.
“Yup. They’re heading for the Gray Headlands!” Finellen said disgustedly. “It looks like they’d take the axe all the way to the Sword Coast if they could swim!”
The day after the ravage of the town, the raiders had marched northeast, staying near the shore of Gwynneth. Though the beasts had looted a few small fishing villages—isolated huts and cottages, for the most part—there were no sizable villages in their immediate path. Still, the eastern shore of the island was populated far more heavily than was the north, so it wouldn’t take long before the giant humanoids would begin to encounter victims aplenty.
Hanrald knew, too, that even the hardy dwarves couldn’t handle another night of marching. It seemed that, by acting upon his advice, Finellen might have missed her chance for the fight that she so desperately wanted. The long-legged troops of the enemy were just too fast for the dwarves.
Something moved in the trees before them, and then, as she always did, Brigit and her mare materialized. Hanrald’s heart jumped with relief as she shrugged away his helping hand to dismount on her own.
“How far ahead are they?” Finellen inquired grumpily. Then something on the sister’s knight’s face gave the dwarfwoman pause. “What is it? Do you have news?”
“I do, at that,” the Llewyrr woman reported. She shook her head in amazement, as if she didn’t believe what she was going to say.
“I saw them on the march. They kept on for several hours, into the midmorning. Then, for some reason that I can’t figure out, they just stopped. They’re waiting near the coast, barely a league and a half away.”
* * * * *
“I don’t like blundering along in this bottomland. It’s too easy for it to drop into a bog,” Alicia announced with concern.
Following behind her, Keane cursed as a thorny branch slashed back across his face. “And getting more tangled with every step!” he added sourly.
The two of them pressed forward, ahead of the main body of troops. They had been forced to leave their horses some distance behind but continued to explore in the hope that the ground would open up.
Abruptly Alicia stumbled, a loud sucking noise following her foot from the ground. She grasped a tree trunk for balance as Keane saw that she stood ankle deep in brown muck. Flies buzzed around them, and the air pressed close and humid.
“Help!” cried the princess, suddenly in real distress as her feet continued to sink.
Keane reached for her hand and pulled, but it took all of his strength to break the princess free of the clutching mire. Finally he jerked backward and Alicia came free, falling into his arms as he collapsed against the rough bark of a tree trunk.
Exhausted, he held her, and she was content to lie in his arms as they gradually caught their breath. Finally, in a regretful moment for Keane, she sat up and brushed the hair back from her face before she looked at her mud-stained boots.
“Thanks,” she said, squeezing his hand. “That stuff surprised me.” His heart swelled, and he wanted the moment to last forever.
“Let’s rest a bit,” Keane urged gently. I want to be here alone with you! his mind whispered. It was a selfish reason, but the mage told himself that the princess really did look exhausted.
“Yes. It’s nice to sit still for a moment,” she agreed softly.
She looked at him, and her deep, bright eyes filled his vision and his heart. Again he felt the urge to take her into his arms, to cover her mouth with kisses, but his innate reserve would not weaken enough for him to act.
And then, in the next instant, her thoughts had turned back to the men under her command. “It doesn’t seem that we can go any farther this way,” she said. “We’ll have to chance the course to the east.”
Keane nodded, reluctantly turning to practical matters. “I think you’re right, though it surprises me to find this much of a swamp here. Are you sure eastward is the course you want to follow?”
“Father must have encountered this morass too,” Alicia continued. “If we halt the men here and ex
plore to either side, we’ll probably lose a whole day!”
Keane nodded. Even if he used magic—a spell of flying, for example, to carry him birdlike over the tangled fen—he would need the remaining hours of daylight to complete a moderately thorough reconnaissance. Those would be precious hours when the men of Corwell would not be marching. He well understood Alicia’s desire to keep moving. The welfare of King Kendrick had become a growing concern to the magic-user as well. Privately he grew increasingly concerned that they hadn’t come upon any sign of the king’s passage. It was a fact that did not bode well for their chances of eventually finding Tristan, the mage suspected.
“So all I can do is try to guess at his track,” Alicia concluded. “Codscove must lie to the east of here, and that seems like the most logical place for him to go!”
They followed the tangled trail back to the main body of the troops. There, the Exalted Inquisitor, still clad in his immaculate white robe, greeted them with expressions of concern.
“This place looks dangerous,” he said, clucking in reproval. “I was just about to come after you!”
“That wasn’t necessary or called for!” Alicia snapped, discouraged enough to dispense with the niceties of diplomatic language.
“Forgive my overindulgent concern,” the inquisitor apologized solicitously.
“We’ve got a problem,” Keane interjected. “This swamp blocks our path to the north.”
“So we’re angling to the east,” Alicia concluded. Stalking past the cleric, she went up to Sands and Parsallas, who had been lounging in the shade of a wide oak. The two sergeants quickly got to their feet when they saw her approaching.
“How are the rations?” Alicia asked Sands, who’d served as unofficial quartermaster.
“Enough for a couple days yet, Your Highness,” replied the bowlegged veteran.
“Aye, a few more fine meals of beans and dry bread!” added Parsallas with a hearty chuckle. The lanky warrior seemed to remain cheerful about whatever irritating setbacks they encountered.
“We’ve got to start up in five minutes,” she said quickly. “I’ll lead the way. We need to find a path around this swamp.”
Each of the sergeants saluted smartly and proceeded to gather the troops into column. They started to march exactly a minute earlier than Alicia had ordered.
Mounted upon Brittany, the princess scouted ahead for the best path through the tangle of underbrush. Keane rode behind her, not wanting to slow her up with his own clumsy horsemanship but ensuring that she remained within sight so that he could reach her side in seconds if need be.
Soon Brittany broke through a tangle of vines onto a narrow game trail, and Alicia guided the eager mare along the relatively straight pathway. Keane followed, and then came Sands leading the first company of Corwell. The spirits and step of the men picked up noticeably now that they had a trail to follow.
Keane prodded his old gelding into a trot, and the nag hastened to catch up to Brittany and the princess. Behind him, he heard the approach of other hooves and turned to see the Exalted Inquisitor also riding ahead of the footmen. It seemed that the open trail had infused them all with energy and enthusiasm.
Then Alicia reined in, uttering a crude sailor’s curse. Keane galloped to her side, though he recognized frustration, not danger, in her tone. In another moment, he saw why.
The trail suddenly dropped away, dipping into a pool of fetid water and disappearing. All around them here, to the front and to both sides, stretched a seemingly endless expanse of rank swamp.
* * * * *
Sir Koll was a large knight, broad in the shoulders and the waist. Though he was probably twice the Prince of Gnarhelm’s age, Brandon found in him a kindred warrior spirit. He was surprised to learn, however, that the knight’s parents had been people of the north, originally settling upon Gwynneth after a successful raiding voyage. Only when Koll had been knighted by High King Kendrick had he fully adopted the manners and customs of the Ffolk.
“Lately, of course, there hasn’t been much need for my sword,” explained the hearty warrior. His horse had been slain in the final moments of battle. Now he walked along at a steady pace, accompanying Brandon and some two dozen men-at-arms, both northmen and Ffolk, as a rear guard for the fleeing townspeople of Codscove. “But I’m glad I had the sense to keep the thing sharpened!”
“I’ve had plenty of need for my ship,” Brandon countered glumly. “You’d think I would have learned to keep a better watch on her.”
“I’m the fool who lost her for you!” Knaff interrupted dejectedly. The helmsman bore the responsibility for the capture heavily. His shoulders slumped, and his footsteps were more of a shuffle than a march.
“No, old friend. Stop beating yourself with that!” Brandon countered, clapping Knaff on the shoulder. “The responsibility is mine. I came in to shore without scouting, without even considering the possibilities. The blame is mine.”
“Pah—bad luck! Could happen to anyone,” Koll allowed. “And, besides, we’ll get her back!”
The prince wished he could share his companion’s enthusiasm, but his current prospects looked less than ideal.
They had spent the afternoon after their defeat in steady flight, attempting to put as much space between themselves and the monstrous invaders as possible. Now, another day later, the women and children had been given time to find shelter in the secluded grottoes and groves of the woodlands. There they would await news.
The warriors, meanwhile, had debated what they should do. Most of the townsmen had no interest in trying to fight the monsters again. After all, they had already lost their property and many of their neighbors or kin, so unless their families’ lives were at stake, they didn’t see the point of suffering more death and injury.
With a few exceptions, such as Koll, the men of Codscove seemed all too willing to march to the next sizable cantrev, seeing if they could lure the humanoid horde into a long pursuit and then a fight on different ground than their own.
The northmen, and Brandon in particular, had no interest in moving too far from the place where the Princess of Moonshae had been captured. It was true that they had no assurances that the ship remained in Codsbay. The trolls had chased them several miles from the village after the battle, preventing any attempts to spy on the harbor. Still, even if the monstrous pirates had tried to embark, Brandon suspected that they wouldn’t get terribly far. A related fear to that notion, however, was his constant apprehension that they would destroy his ship on some rocky shore or flounder in the surprise storms that were so common in the Moonshaes.
The final resolution had been the dispatching of this small rear-guard party, with Brandon’s crewmen and an equal number of volunteers from the town, led by the redoubtable Koll. The men-at-arms advanced in scattered columns, preceded by several scouts. The latter were woodsmen, Ffolk who spent their days hunting in the forest. They knew its paths and prey and were adept at fast, silent movement.
Brandon and Sir Koll led their group back along the route of their flight, seeking to find out if the troll and firbolg army hastened in pursuit.
“One thing—it seems that they didn’t come too far after us,” Koll observed as they continued to move back toward the town with no sign of pursuing trolls.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if they spent a long time drinking up your liquor stocks,” Brandon pointed out. “That doesn’t mean they won’t be coming after us in a day or two.”
“You’re right about that. And even if a few of ’em took that ship of yours, I think there’d be plenty left on shore.”
Brandon shuddered privately at the thought of numerous hulking firbolgs piling into his beloved ship. Any more than a score or so, he felt certain, and the Princess of Moonshae would inevitably capsize.
“Still,” Koll added after another mile of undisturbed forest had rolled beneath their boots, “as quick as they came after us when we retreated, I think they’d want to hold on to their advantage. You know, keep us on
the run.”
“It does seem odd,” the Prince of Gnarhelm admitted. Yet still another mile passed with no sign of the trolls. “We must be getting close to Codscove,” he guessed.
“Not far at all,” agreed the knight. Just then one of the scouts stepped into view, emerging from behind an oak trunk where he’d been completely invisible.
“No sign of ’em so far,” reported the green-garbed woodsman. “I don’t understand it.”
“I don’t either,” groused Koll. “Somehow, though, I don’t think they’ve just up and disappeared.”
* * * * *
Deirdre walked the immortal paths of the gods, a sense of might growing, tingling within her. She heard the words of their counsels, learned the challenge of her being.
“You are the mighty one!” came the voices, smoothly urging, compelling her toward greatness. “You will bring us through this barrier with which the ancient shell, the withered hag called the Earthmother, would try to block us.”
Talos formed the chorus of words, though others of the New Gods propelled him, eager to claim a place in the Moonshaes. But Talos moved carefully. He would not strike the goddess in Myrloch, in her place of strength. No, for this task, another place would serve.
“Yes!” pledged the princess, thrilling to the role and the power. The shards of glass brightened within her, like a flaming wick concealed by a thin curtain of flesh. “But how?”
“For that,” replied the voices of Talos, “we shall grant you a tool.”
* * * * *
The demigod had languished in an icy prison for the coming and going of many centuries. Most of that time had passed in cold, mindless blackness as, unknown to Grond, the ages had passed him by.
Now, for the first time in many, many years, that darkness began to lift. The demigod felt the warmth of the world at his feet, the chill of the sky against his skull. For all that time he had rested, in the earth … and of the earth. Now, as remembrance of another life returned, the Peaksmasher was reluctant to make any acknowledgment.
He had led his giants here in the distant past, and at the time, the will of the Earthmother had stood strong against him. The clash of immortal wills had been powerful and violent, and in the end, the goddess had vanquished the demigod.
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