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 back. 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 ecstasy 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
