infinitely preferable alternative.
There was also the matter of the Silverhaft Axe. At first Thurgol had felt that the axe made a handy incentive for his less broad-minded fellows, giving them a clear reason to march against the dwarves. But during the march- indeed, beginning with Garisa's powerful recounting of the legend on the night before their departure-the ancient blade had come to mean more to Thurgol.
Now it seemed only right and proper to him that the giant-kin regain the lost artifact of their maker. And the only way to do that, he understood, was to wage war. With the battle looming imminent, the prospects of a victory seemed better than even Thurgol had dared to hope possible. His ragged army had reached the very periphery of the dwarves' village, and the wily chieftain concealed his troops among the underbrush no more than a hundred feet from the nearest wood-and-stone houses.
Many dozens of such sturdy dwellings formed the cluster of homes that made the village of Cambro. A few bearded dwarves, males and females alike, clumped from this building to that, though the activity could hardly be described as bustling. A dwarven hunter carrying a stout crossbow emerged from one of the houses and started toward the forest. The few other dwarves visible all seemed to have business within the village.
Nevertheless, the community possessed an undeniable vitality. Sounds of typical dwarven activity were everywhere-the hammering of smiths, the grinding of millers, and the chiseling of stonecarvers all formed a musical chorus in the background of the town's apparent placidity. It seemed, in a dim and admittedly vague sense, a bit of a shame to charge in there and start killing. Still, Thurgol had made his decision several days earlier. It was much too late to change his mind now.
The decision was taken from him as the crossbow-bearing hunter continued to approach the wood. When the dwarf 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
