long and graceless, and masses of iron-gray tendrils writhed atop their heads. Their black eyes were round and sunken, their noses, grotesquely long, and their wide mouths were lined with yellow fangs.
The enemy swordsmen instinctively shied away from the trolls. Vox, Escevar, and Brom maneuvered frantically to engage these new and far more formidable foes. But four creatures had materialized, and the Uskevren retainers only managed to intercept three of them. Despite its clumsy, ill-made appearance, the remaining troll shambled toward Tamlin fast as a man could run, its clawed, four-fingered hands dragging through the snow.
Tamlin's dappled gelding went wild with fear, and as he fought to control the animal, he felt on the brink of panic himself. With the ice barrier behind him and the troll in front, there was nowhere to run. Even if by some miracle he could dodge around the creature-and he was all but certain that one of those long, thin arms would whip out and pluck him from the saddle if he tried-he doubted any unarmed man could ride unscathed through the band of bravos behind it. Finally, he realized there was one place to go, even if it would only buy him a few seconds.
He snatched off Honeylass's leather hood and sent her toward the troll's head. The gyrfalcon had never been trained to attack such monstrosities, and, winging to the left, she sensibly veered off at once. Even so, the troll apparently considered the hawk a threat, or perhaps the conjured creature was simply startled. At any rate, it stopped charging long enough to swat Honey-lass from the air, then took another moment to shake the bird's carcass off its long, curved claws.
Meanwhile, Tamlin spurred the gelding toward the open entrance to someone's shop. He ducked beneath the lintel of the doorway, and the horse knocked over a rack of men's hats, which fell to the floor with a crash. Soft caps, high-crowned copotains, and other examples of masculine head-wear tumbled about, some of them to be immediately trampled by the gelding's stamping feet.
Tamlin tried to straighten up, bumped his head on the ceiling, cursed, and stooped once more. His scalp smarting, he peered about the shop. As he'd feared, there didn't seem to be another exit, certainly not one he could take a horse through, and if he attempted to flee on foot, he suspected the nimble, long-legged troll would run him down. The hatter, a stout, black-bearded man with orange dye stains on his fingertips, evidently knew why Tamlin had ridden into the shop, for he gaped up at the aristocrat with horror in his eyes. 'Get out of here!' he wailed. 'A weapon!' Tamlin replied. All shopkeepers kept weapons on the premises to fend off thieves, didn't they? Term's fist, he hoped so!
'Get out!' the merchant repeated. 'The troll will burst in here in a matter of seconds,' Tamlin replied. 'One of us will have to fight it. Unless you want to do it, give me a weapon!'
The hatter threw up his hands and raced for the counter at the back of the shop. Deciding he'd be better off on foot than trying to maneuver his terrified horse through the clutter of hat racks and tables, Tamlin dismounted and followed the other man.
The hatter reached around under the counter, produced a cudgel, and thrust the weapon at Tamlin, who regarded it with a feeling not far from despair. A blunt little stick like this might rattle the brains of a common rogue, but it would be virtually useless against a troll. But the club was still, he reflected, marginally better than the glass sword; at least people wouldn't laugh so hard when they saw it in his cold, dead hand. He reached for it, the horse screamed, and the troll made a horrible, wet slobbering sound as it hurtled through the door.
Tamlin whirled to face his pursuer, and it was only then that he glimpsed the rusty single-bitted axe leaning in a shadowy corner. It wasn't a battle-axe but a tool for hewing wood to fuel the stove in the center of the room, which was probably why the panicky dolt of a hatter hadn't thought of it, but it would serve Tamlin better than a cudgel if he could only get to it in time.
He dashed for it, hoping the troll would stop to slaughter his horse, but no such luck. Crouched as it was, the creature had no difficulty maneuvering under the comparatively low ceiling, and it charged straight at him, yellow foam flying from its jaws, the claws at the end of one long arm stretched out to rend him.
Tamlin thrust out his own arm and knocked over a rack of beaver and ermine hats. It fell in the troll's path, and, as he'd prayed, the creature stumbled over it, affording him the final second he needed to grab the axe.
That was the good aspect of his situation. The bad was that the troll had him in a corner. He fought better with a sword, the gentleman's arm, than an axe, and the implement in his hands wasn't even a proper weapon.
He tried to control his breathing, tried to be calm, tried to remember the combat training that he'd often attended so grudgingly, tried it all in that last instant and then the troll was on him.
The creature raked at him with both hands simultaneously. He swayed back, and the filthy claws at the end of the long green fingers missed him by an inch. The rending motion rocked the troll forward, and, following through, it brought its mouth down to bite. Its maw gaped wide enough to engulf his entire head, and its breath was so foul that his stomach turned.
Tamlin thrust upward with the axe as if it were a spear. The steel head cracked against the troll's jaw, breaking fangs and jolting the creature back. The noble immediately chopped a gash in its breast, then cut at its knee and nearly severed its leg. The moss-green horror fell backward, and as it did, Tamlin seized the opportunity to spring past it and extricate himself from the corner.
Though the wounds Tamlin had inflicted would have incapacitated any human being, the troll was scarcely that, and the aristocrat knew his stalker wasn't finished. Sure enough, still quick despite the injury to its leg, the black-eyed thing spun around and flung itself at him with claws outstretched.
Tamlin scrambled backward and kept retreating as the troll crawled after him, its claws splintering the floorboards.
Tamlin reckoned that if he wanted to survive this encounter, he'd better finish the brute off fast. He stopped retreating, giving the troll another chance to grab at him, then met the creature's arm with a stroke of the axe. The bit crunched into the troll's wrist and sheared off its four-fingered hand.
Instantly he rushed in to attack the troll's body and head, while the creature reared up, supported by its remaining hand. It bit at him, and he dodged. It clubbed at him with its raw, bloody stump, and he parried with the axe, meanwhile shifting into position to chop its good arm.
The axe cut into the stringy muscle just above its elbow, whereupon, suddenly unable to support itself, the troll crashed facedown on the floor. Bellowing with rage, Tamlin hewed at the creature's head and spine.
The troll heaved itself over onto its side, where it tried to fend off the axe with its handless arm, kick Tamlin with its three-toed feet, and thrash and flop itself into position to bite his leg. He avoided its flailing legs and gnashing fangs and kept on hewing until something grabbed hold of his ankle.
He let out a startled gasp and looked down to see the troll's severed hand clutching his leg. In the instant he was thus distracted, the troll finally landed a kick to the side of his head, flinging him backward and into another display rack. The collision knocked it over, and he sprawled to the floor amid an assortment of felt tricornes.
For a second, the world seemed silent and empty of significance. He realized dimly that the kick had stunned him, that he might even be in danger of passing out, and he struggled to break through the daze. By the time he managed it, he felt a crawling on his thigh.
The troll's hand had clambered up his leg. Though still a little addled, he realized that it might have found it difficult to plunge its claws through his thick leather boots, but would have no trouble with the velvet breeches higher up.
Somehow, Tamlin had kept hold of the axe. He used the butt of the haft to knock the severed hand off his thigh and followed up with a chop. The hand hopped backward, avoiding the stroke, and then a shadow fell over him.
He looked up. The troll had gotten back on its feet and was now bending over him, its fanged, reeking jaws hurtling down to tear his face off. He whirled the axe up to meet them.
The bloody bit thudded deep into the creature's head. The troll lurched sideways and collapsed. Tamlin studied it for a second, making sure it truly had stopped moving, then wrenched himself around to see what the severed hand was doing. It was inert as well.
Tamlin floundered to his feet, gave the troll a few more axe strokes for good measure, then turned to the hatter, who was cowering behind the counter.
'Burn this thing,' the noble panted. 'Otherwise, it will come back to life.'
A soft slurping sound came from the troll's mangled body as its hand began to regenerate.
'Me burn it!' the hatter replied. 'What about you?'
Tamlin realized it was a good question. He could tell from the noise that the battle still raged outside, and it
