Morten scowled, unable to offer an explanation.
'I know how.' Brianna said. 'He learned from the humans he grew up with. And when he joined the border patrol, he learned to do worse things.'
Morten shook his head. 'No. Tavis was trained by Runolf Saemon, and I hear Runolf's a good man,' he said. 'The king relies on him.'
'My father relies on all his soldiers. That doesn't mean he trusts them,' Brianna countered. 'As for Runolf, I don't know what to make of him. He seemed to be avoiding me.'
'He was nervous,' Morten replied. 'Like most men when they meet you for the first time.'
'Perhaps, or maybe he was nervous because he knew Tavis to be a thief.' The words left Brianna with a queasy, empty feeling in her stomach, but the princess had learned long ago to trust her mind over her emotions. 'There are plenty of humans who think little enough of stealing to look the other way when their friend is the thief.'
Morten considered this for a time, then shrugged. 'You'd know better than me,' he said. 'But if you're so worried about the orphans, why leave them with Tavis in the first place?'
'Because Tavis Burdun has slain frost giants with that bow of his,' Brianna replied. 'And getting ourselves killed would not save the children.'
Morten's eyes flashed in indignation. 'I'm every bit that runt's match,' he growled. 'I'd cleave his skull in a blow.'
Brianna grimaced at the image of her bodyguard's huge sword slicing through the scout's brain. 'A moment ago, you were defending Tavis,' the princess observed. 'Now you're ready to split his head?'
'All I said was I could,' Morten said, his petulant tone betraying his injured pride. 'There's a difference.'
'I didn't mean to insult your fighting skills.' It was as close to an apology as Brianna would utter. 'But whoever won, it would do the children no good to witness the combat. Tavis is the only father they know, and the sight of him killing or being killed would be a heavy burden for such young hearts.'
'Dobbin Manor has fifty men. Not even Tavis would fight so many.' Morten said. 'Why not demand the earl's help?'
'Because I don't want the lord mayor as a husband,' the princess explained. 'And it'd be just like the ruthless swine to keep the children hostage until I married him.'
'How could he do that?' Morten demanded, his brow furrowed in puzzlement. 'That would violate the law!'
Brianna rolled her eyes at the firbolg's naivete. 'Earls know many paths around the law,' the princess said. 'Which is why we must hurry. The only way to ensure the children's safety is to send a company of father's guards back before anyone-whether it be Tavis or Karl Dobbin-can take them from the inn.'
With that, the princess urged her mount forward.
Morten caught Blizzard by the inane. The horse swung her head around with teeth bared, but the firbolg stiffened his arm and held her steady. The marc's mouth snapped shut two feet shy of his throat. She whinnied in anger and tried to jerk free of her captor's grasp, but even Blizzard was not strong enough to overpower the bodyguard.
'I can't let you enter the wood until I've had a look.' Morten said. 'If you can't wait, we'll just have to go back.'
'Then make your search quick,' Brianna snapped. 'If you let Tavis disappear with those children, I'll replace you with a fomorian. He might not fight well, but he'd be better company.'
Morten chuckled at the ludicrous threat. Fomorians were the most hideous and, wicked of all giant-kin, with deformed bodies and twisted, evil personalities. Comparing one to a firbolg was like comparing a turkey buzzard to an eagle, although they had descended from the same species, at heart the two were as different as could be.
'I'll hunt the ambusher down fast as I can.'
The firbolg pulled his shield off his back and buckled his helmet, then strode forward. As he entered the aspen grove. The breeze rose and the flashing aspen leaves rustled more loudly, reminding Brianna of a sound she had heard a hundred times before: the tense murmur of the earls and their wives waiting for her father to enter the banquet hall. It was a sound as full of dread as it was of hope, for such gatherings were polite forms of battle, where the prestige of great families rose and fell on the slippery course of well-told jests or foolish slips of the tongue. But in the next few moments, she reminded herself, it would be lives and limbs that were maimed, not the reputations of pompous and vain men.
Brianna watched Morten creep deeper into the wood, his helmeted head swiveling back and forth in search of the ogre. The firbolg held his buckler high, so that it covered his flank from the chin down to the ribs. He waved his right arm slowly up and down, keeping the fiat of his sword turned outward as if ready to slap away a flying dart or stone. Every now and then, he stopped and raised his nose to test the air for his quarry's scent, but the princess saw no indication that her bodyguard smelled anything unusual. By the time Morten had advanced fifty paces into the grove, Brianna's patience was at an end. If something dangerous was lurking among the aspens, the firbolg would have flushed it out, and now he was just wasting her time.
Morten suddenly stopped. He spun around and raised his buckler over his head. At the same time. Brianna heard a small bowstring strum from the forest canopy. A dark shaft streaked down from the quivering leaves and ricocheted off the shield with a sharp ping. The firbolg let out a shout that the princess could not understand, then swung his great sword at a nearby tree. His blade bit deep, but fell far short of cleaving through the thick trunk. Still holding his buckler over his head, he threw himself at the bole, slamming his shoulder into it so hard.that the aspen shuddered from base to crown.
Brianna heard the bowstring throb a second time, and another arrow bounced off Morten's shield. Searching the treetops for the firbolg's attacker, the princess saw nothing but a lanky shadow lurking among the highest branches, its true shape blurred by flashing aspen leaves.
Morten jerked his sword free and swung again at the white bole. This time, yellow chips flew in all directions, and Brianna saw a wedge-shaped void appear in the wood. The firbolg smashed his shoulder into the trunk. A sharp crack rang through the forest and, as the aspen toppled, the shadowy figure in the high branches dropped out of the tree.
The ogre looked almost as large as Brianna's bodyguard, with long shoots of leafy boughs sticking out from his body at all angles. As the princess screamed a Warning, the dark shape slammed into Morten's shield. The firbolg grunted and collapsed, his attacker still on top. A spindly arm raised a stone mace above Morten's head and brought the weapon down. There was a sick thud, then a barbarous chortle tolled through the forest. The mace rose again.
Brianna hefted her bejewelled axe. Before she could spur Blizzard forward, her bodyguard smashed his steel buckler into his attacker's bony face. A loud crunch shot through the grove, and the ogre pitched over backward. He rolled away, only to spring up as Morten clambered to his own feet.
The princess held her mount steady. The ogre stood with his back to her, ripping boughs of leafy camouflage off his body. His skinny torso was haggard and stooped, with hunched shoulders and gangling arms that ended in huge, gnarl-fingered hands. The brute was a striking contrast to the bloated churls that travelers from the south described when they spoke of ogres. And, judging by tales old earls liked to tell, he would also be much more dangerous. Unlike their oafish cousins of the warm lands, northern ogres were so vicious and cunning that even giants avoided them.
Brianna could have charged the brute from behind, but knew better than to try. Any attempt to help now would only confuse and upset Morten, for her father had given them both very clear instructions regarding combat: under no circumstances was Brianna to join in battle, if the danger looked too great, she was to escape while Morten sacrificed himself, it was an arrangement that seemed perfectly reasonable to the king and the firbolg, but one the princess resented deeply. She was quite capable of holding her own in a battle. Not only had she been trained with axe and sword since childhood, she was also blessed with the supernatural strength of the Hartwick line, a mysterious legacy that made her almost as powerful as firbolgs.
Brianna heard an eerie, low-pitched rattle break from the aspen grove, then the ogre charged, at the same time hurling his weapon at Morten's head. The firbolg raised his shield and sent the mace clanging away harmlessly. In the same instant, the ogre leaped into the air and flew feetfirst at the princess's bodyguard, wrapping his legs around the firbolg's burly thighs. The lanky brute gave a mighty twist, already reaching for a bone dagger hanging from his belt.
