polearms projected from gaps beside the entrance, the bulk of the giants drove the ram home with irresistible power.
The door to the warehouse snapped free from its hinges, tumbling into a pile of barrels that had been used to brace it. The latter scattered like ninepins, rolling through the warehouse amid a tangled mass of firbolgs, battering ram, and the unfortunate defenders, who tried to dodge out of the way.
Thurgol stepped through the door in time to see a human spearman drive his weapon into the unprotected back of a firbolg who had fallen to the floor. The giant bellowed in agony as the man pulled his weapon free, raising it for another, this time fatal, thrust.
But the chieftain of Blackleaf got there first. Thurgol broke the human's body like a twig with a single blow of his club, killing him instantly and sending the corpse flying into the wall like a broken rag doll. The wounded firbolg squirmed on the floor, unable to rise, and Thurgol stepped over him to follow the charge into the warehouse.
Humans with swords tried to make a stand around the breach, while others threw open the back doors of the box-like structure. Here they met the other half of Thurgol's band, however. The chieftain hadn't been foolish enough to commit all his giants against one side of the building. Led by Garisa's shouts of encouragement, these firbolgs charged into the desperately fleeing humans, slaughtering them by the dozen as they poured like lemmings from the door.
Thurgol grunted from the pain of a sword cut beside his knee, bashing out the brains of the insolent human swordsman who had injured him. By this time, the firbolgs roamed throughout the warehouse, more and more of them piling through the two entrances until the entire band had collected around their leader. They raised a lusty cheer, and the chieftain felt a cruel flush of triumph.
Then he reflected: There hadn't been more than a few dozen men in this whole place, and it had taken something like two hundred firbolgs the better part of an hour to root them out. When he put the fight into these terms, it didn't cause his heart to swell with martial pride.
Such concerns were beyond the interest of his troops, however, especially after one of them discovered that the warehouse had stored more than fish. Indeed, this seemed to be the biggest liquor repository a town the size of Codscove could possibly need! Casks were broken open before Thurgol even noticed the discovery, and in moments, the smell of flowing rum began to rival even the stench of gutted fish.
Some four hundred stalwart men-at-arms answered the High Queen's mustering within twenty hours. Mostly they came from Corwell Town, but cantrevs Dynnatt and Koart contributed small companies of footmen as well. Nearly twoscore of the Corwell men were mounted and carried light lances; the others included many with longbows and the rest bearing swords and shields. Each man also carried two flasks of highly flammable oil.
The two sergeants-major organized the recruits in the courtyard of Caer Corwell. Sands barked at the swordsmen and archers, organizing them into four companies of march, while Parsallas shouted and harangued the riders and spearmen, forming a long central formation and assigning the horsemen to assume various scouting duties once the formation took to the march.
Robyn stood upon a balcony in the keep, addressing the men gathered in the courtyard below. Alicia and Keane waited at the head of the great file, with the Exalted Inquisitor of Helm off to the side.
'For the first time in a generation,' she exhorted them, 'the giant-kin have broken the peace, carving a path of destruction across the face of Myrloch Vale and the Winterglen! Will you men join your king and march against them?'
The resulting cry echoed from the walls of the castle, clearly audible even down in Corwell Town.
'Your king already rides,' she continued, turning to look clearly at the cleric of Helm. 'In the name of the goddess, go forth and restore the Balance! I name the Princess Alicia as your commander, the noble Sir Keane as her lieutenant.'
'For the kings of Corwell!' shouted the men, their deep voices rumbling in unison as they chanted the ancient battle cry of the kingdom: 'The kings of Corwell!'
Robyn lowered her gaze to rest upon her daughter's uplifted face. 'Go now, Princess. Find the enemies of the goddess and bring them to the right!'
'Aye, my queen!' pledged Alicia, with a bow. In another moment, she sprang into her saddle, waiting as Keane and the cleric mounted somewhat more slowly.
'Forward!' she cried. A thumping song begun by a few veterans, rhythmic in tempo and nonsensical in verse, brought the men into a steady march. Alicia and the other riders circled the courtyard and passed through the gatehouse, followed by each rank of footmen in turn, after they clumped proudly past the queen's balcony.
'For the kings of Corwell!' Once again the battle cry echoed from the walls, ringing firmly as the column of men made its way through the gatehouse and onto the castle road.
Just as Alicia, mounted on her fleet mare Brittany, led the column from the gatehouse down the long, descending curve of the road, another rank of men hove into view, coming across the moor from the south. The princess was delighted to hold up the march until the newcomers, forty keen-eyed crossbowmen from Llyrath Forest, fell in at the end of the line. Despite an all-night march, the hearty woodsmen had no difficulty following the rest of the column.
Robyn stood alone in her window for several minutes after that, watching them start across the moors toward the northern highlands. She had given Alicia a map showing a good pass, hitherto known only to a few druids. It should allow them to reach the western shore of Myrloch by the second day out of Corwell.
'Well, they're gone. Now what do we do for excitement?' The voice, from the door of her chamber, whirled the queen around in shock, even as she realized that Deirdre had simply entered without knocking.
'You-you startled me,' she said unnecessarily.
'Obviously,' Deirdre said, walking into the room but staying away from the sunswept balcony. 'There's quite a chill,' she added, wrapping her arms around her ribs.
'I hadn't noticed.' Robyn quickly stepped into the room and pulled the large double doors shut. 'How are you feeling this morning?'
'I feel fine, Mother!' snapped the princess with a suggestion of her earlier vitality. 'In fact, this place is starting to drive me crazy. I'd like to get out of here!'
'Go for a walk-perhaps even a ride,' her mother suggested. 'When the sun gets a little higher, it's sure to be a warm day.'
Deirdre shook her head firmly. 'No, not like that… not out with people. I want to get away… from…'
She didn't finish the thought. Instead, she rose abruptly and crossed to the door. She stopped, as if she wanted to say something more to the High Queen. But then she spun on her heel and quickly left the room.
The moorhounds coursed after a stag in full voice, wailing across the gentle ridgetop, down through the forested valleys, and into the tangled bottomlands and fens. Tristan spurred Shallot on, and the great war-horse thundered after the racing dogs, carrying the High King down a steep slope and plunging into the dense forest beyond.
Thorns tore at Tristan's leggings, and only his armor allowed him to bull his way through the ensnaring thickets. Hacking with his great sword, the king forced a path for himself and his struggling horse, until finally they broke onto a trail and thundered deeper into the wood, following the baying song of the hounds.
The hunt drew Tristan into its vital embrace, so much so that nothing else mattered. He felt the terror of the stag as a powerful enticement pumping through his veins. His lance trailed behind-there was no other way to carry the ungainly weapon in this tangled terrain-yet he longed for the chance to raise the long shaft, driving the barbed head toward the stag's pounding, fear-stricken heart.
He knew that the hounds would take the beast, and he understood that this was the law of the hunt, right and proper and every bit in keeping with the Balance. Yet at the same time, he felt a tearing sense of jealous rage, a powerful compulsion that told him that he himself deserved to slay the beast, had earned the first bloody taste of fresh meat.
Tristan rode like a wild animal, racing through the hunt, desperately thrilled at the thought of the kill so close at hand. Above the tangled growth, he caught a glimpse of the antlered head cresting a grass-covered ridge, the baying of the hounds sounding close behind. When the great dogs broke into the clear behind the stag, the mighty animal had already disappeared over the summit.
Baying frantically, their song resounding from the very heavens, the five moorhounds bounded after their
