to start the march.
'There's the mountain,' Thurgol said, pointing. 'Let's go.'
'Remember,' the shaman cautioned him, 'the Peaksmasher is imprisoned on the north slope of the peak, where the sun can never reach him. We have to approach it from the other side. We should go around the mountain first.'
Thurgol considered the suggestion but determined that it didn't make much sense. After all, he could see their objective before them, looming so close in the clear morning air that it looked as though he should have been able to reach out and touch it. 'If we have to go to the other side,' he responded logically, 'then the closest way to get there is to march over the top.'
With that course firmly set before them, Thurgol of Blackleaf and some sixty of his villagemates set out to free the godfather of giantkind. Above them, the peak pierced the sky, its fringes of snowy shoulders beckoning the questing giant-kin with a cool beauty that was altogether unlike the difficult challenge presented by its steep slopes and icy, unceasing winds.
Shallot spun easily through a circle, allowing Tristan to get a full view of the encircling monsters. He guessed that there must be at least two hundred of the creatures, and the ring that had formed left him no likely gaps through which to escape. Slowly, steadily, they continued in their soundless advance.
He wasted no time cursing fate or his own carelessness for this predicament. Instead, his mind clicked through options-he had precious few-and in an instant, he made up his mind. If he waited for them to rush him, the fight could have but one possible outcome. The only option available was an attempt to surprise the beasts with something they might not expect-something such as the target of the trap turning the tables on his ambushers.
In the instant of decision, he set his heels into Shallot's flanks, and the war-horse sprang forward like an eager filly, baying hounds coursing at his heels. Tristan rode straight toward the largest troll, the one bearing the massive, serrated blade.
The huge troll gaped at him for a moment, stunned by the apparition of this doomed human having the effrontery to charge! But that moment passed quickly, and the creature raised its great sword while several of its fellows raced to its side. In seconds, Tristan bore down full tilt into a knot of six or eight trolls.
He felt claws rake his leg at the same time as his sword split one green, knobby skull. The frantic baying of the hounds shrilled as they snarled into the monsters, one of the dogs wailing piteously as a huge troll picked up the hound and twisted it into a broken corpse. From the corner of his eye, Tristan saw another of the great hounds meet a similar fate. He slashed blindly, feeling his blade chop into the tangled bodies of his enemies. One of the trolls screamed, staggering backward with its clawed hands pressed to its face.
Shallot pitched and bucked, the stallion's powerful hooves crushing trollish limbs before and behind. The king caught a fleeting image of the huge troll, its jagged blade upraised for a killing blow, but then the horse whirled away and he faced a smaller humanoid. That one lunged for Shallot's neck, but Tristan chopped its hands off with a clean blow. As the creature hissed in horror and hatred, the keen edge of Trollcleaver did the same thing to its head.
'Here! This way!' shouted a familiar voice. Abruptly, from the ground before Tristan, short blades of flame spumed upward, crackling among the feet of the crouching trolls.
'Newt!' shouted the king, recognizing the illusionary magic of the faerie dragon. The trolls squawked in dismay, springing out of the region of flame, opening a path for Tristan's flight.
But then the huge troll with the sword stepped right into the middle of the illusion, barking something in its bestial tongue. The flames around the creature flickered and grew pale, as Newt's illusion lost its force. The disbelief of the leader proved enough to dispel the magic for the lesser trolls.
More claws bit cruelly into the king's hip while the stallion whinnied in pain. Tristan chopped without looking, feeling the blade bite into bony flesh, while at the same time, he bashed the shield on his left arm against a pair of grotesque, black-eyed humanoids bounding toward him from that side. He saw the hulking leader before him again, waiting with a nasty smirk on its teeth-studded jaws. Trolls sprinted toward them from the left and right, and Tristan knew that his first escape attempt had been blocked.
'Back!' he shouted, again guiding Shallot with his knees while, with sword and shield, he battered at the trolls who had closed in behind him. Two of these fell, slain by Trollcleaver, while the others were forced back by the lunging stallion and the heavy shield.
In another second, the war-horse broke free from the melee, galloping once more into the center of the ring of monsters, trailed by Ranthal and one other moorhound. The great circle had grown considerably smaller during the brief skirmish. Tristan reined in after a sprint of thirty paces, since any farther would have taken him close to the trolls approaching from the direction of the shore. To his right, the firbolgs still advanced in a steady wave, while another large band of trolls blocked any escape to his left.
A whirring form buzzed past his ear, and Tristan ducked instinctively before recognizing the sound of Newt's agitated flight.
'Over here-try this way!' came the excited voice out of the air. In his agitation, the faerie dragon had forgotten to make himself visible. But as he dove forward, accompanied by the sound of ripping, tearing earth, it was clear that the trolls weren't going to fall for his illusionary diversions. A great chasm seemed to open in the earth before the feet of the advancing monsters, but the brutes simply stepped onto the apparently gaping fissure, finding the dirt there to be every bit as solid as it was elsewhere.
The ring closed faster, and Tristan knew that his next escape attempt-whether it succeeded or failed-would be his last. Once more he guided Shallot into a charge, and the stallion seemed to sense the raw urgency. Lowering his broad head, snorting aggressively, the war-horse thundered toward a gap between two pairs of trolls.
Immediately the creatures sprang together, closing the narrow opening effectively, while others raced for the point of impact. Tristan hunched low in his saddle, bracing the shield against his leg and shoulder, holding his potent sword like a lance, challenging any trolls to face him on his right.
Shallot smashed into the humanoids, carrying two of the hideous beasts to the earth and trampling them brutally with heavy hooves. Ranthal sprang beside the horse, clamping his jaws to the face of another troll, while Tristan speared one through the chest with the keen sword.
But still more of them surged around him. He felt claws raking his legs, heard Shallot cry out in pain. The king's arm, grown into an unfeeling, leaden weight, chopped, hacked, and stabbed with Trollcleaver, but he couldn't hold the savagely pressing beasts at bay.
The stallion reared back, breaking free of the press for a moment. Then a troll lunged at Shallot's flank, knocking the horse sideways. For a sickening, desperately hopeful moment, Tristan thought that the mighty stallion would recover his balance.
Instead, Shallot fell heavily on his side. The king flew from the saddle, feeling the impact with the ground before it happened. Even as the stunning force of the fall drove the breath from his lungs, he tried to scramble to his feet but found his muscles strangely unwilling to move.
And so he could only lie there, helpless in the midst of his enemies, waiting the blow that would certainly bring the end.
'They haven't come any farther along the coast,' reported Brigit, galloping up to the column of exhausted dwarves. Hanrald took her hand as she swung down from the saddle. 'They're staying in place near the shore, almost as if they're waiting for something behind them.'
'Let them wait for us!' snapped Finellen, elated at the news. 'How far away are they now?'
'Not far,' Brigit replied. 'If you keep up the pace, you should get there in a few hours.'
'Double-step, now-quick march!' Finellen called. 'Make time, dwarves! There's battle awaiting! We'll have the Silver-haft Axe back by nightfall!'
The column of doughty warriors picked up its pace with noticeable enthusiasm. The tromp of booted feet thumped against the ground in rapid cadence, and despite their long hours without any real respite, the bearded warriors looked fresh and eager to meet the enemy.
Hanrald swung into the saddle of his war-horse as Brigit remounted beside him. Pacing themselves with a gentle trot, they rode at the head of the dwarven formation, following the course the sister knight marked to the camp of the trolls and firbolgs.
