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.
Aware of his past defeat, Grond wasn't certain that the result had been such a bad thing.
12
Tristan camped a short distance from the scene of his fight with the trolls. Finding a low, tree-covered knoll where he could see reasonably well to all sides, he picketed Shallot within a screen of evergreens and ordered the hounds to remain silent and vigilant.
Not daring to risk a fire-even Newt agreed that they didn't want to bring the trolls back just yet-the High King and the faerie dragon ate a cold supper. The loquacious serpent shared his companion's somber mood, talking little while they ate.
Then Tristan found himself a comfortable tree. Laboriously climbing a dozen feet from the ground, using his one hand and his feet to pull himself up the rough bark, he found a wide notch between a pair of sweeping limbs. He leaned back against the trunk, secured by a wide limb encircling his left side. Newt buzzed up to him and then found a stout limb a little higher up the trunk. Here he curled up, catlike, and promptly fell asleep.
Laying the blade he had dubbed Trollcleaver across his lap, the High King watched and waited throughout the remaining hours of evening and fading twilight. The hounds had found places to sleep under the tree, but they, too, remained alert and restless. Still there was no sign of any troll returning to the scene of the skirmish, nor did the corpses show any inclination to regenerate.
Finally, after dark, Tristan slept, though he jolted awake at the sound of any scampering creature of the woodland. He longed to hear the cry of the wolves, but his wishes were met with silence, except for the rustling of the small animals. His hounds, under the example of the well-disciplined Ranthal, didn't even growl at the rabbits and squirrels. They, like their master, waited for bigger game.
Yet during the course of the night and the dawn, that bigger game never materialized. Stiffly climbing down from his perch before the sun had fully cleared the horizon, Tristan began to wonder if he had sent the band into flight. The latter possibility seemed pretty unlikely, given the fact that he was only one man, but why hadn't they returned to the scene of their watch?
It was time, Tristan decided, to find out what the trolls had been guarding. Climbing easily again into the saddle, with Newt curled up in his position on the pommel, the king urged Shallot into an easy trot. With Ranthal leading, the four remaining hounds loped in a protective screen before the horse and riders.
Almost immediately Tristan noticed that the forest opened up into wide grainfields. He skirted a low hill and at last saw water gleaming before him. By the time he had passed the hill, he could make out the towers of the manor house and temple of a good-sized town.
Codscove! Spurring the powerful war-horse into a canter, Tristan approached the community, sensing immediately that this was a scene of trouble. The great tracks through the grain indicated the advance of a large force, and as he drew closer to the town, he saw the blackened ruins of burned buildings.
Yet, for all the signs of life meeting his eyes, it might have been a ghost town. A few piles of charred timbers still smoldered, casting thin wisps of smoke into the morning air, but the damage was at least a day or two old, Tristan knew. As he neared the first buildings, he saw human corpses, bloated and surrounded by flies, and from them he knew for certain that the battle had been two days before.
It was a sight he had witnessed all too often before, though it had been many years since he had seen it in his own realm. A feeling of deep, fundamental violation took hold of him, slowly welling upward into a crescendo of growing rage.
Again he tried to picture the firbolg lord who had brought all this to be. His hand itched to drive a blade into that hateful body, the grotesque image of evil. Why? Why do they attack? What do they seek?
Cautiously he reined in, causing Shallot to prance nervously, still a hundred paces from the nearest fringes of the town.
'What're we stopping for?' demanded Newt, raising his head and peering through the horse's white mane.
