Prophet of Moonshae - Douglas Niles [107]
In moments, orange flame crackled upward, and thick, black smoke wafted into the air. The parts of the trolls vanished with an evil hiss, devoured by the one thing that could destroy them permanently. Even as they burned, Hanrald retained his watch over them, to insure that no living piece could escape the fringes of the blaze.
Only then did he remember his quest and realize that he still had no idea where the princess had gone. And now, without a horse, his current circumstance seemed to be more than a slight disadvantage. He grimly cleaned and sheathed his sword, then picked up his helmet, selected a pouchful of provisions and supplies from his saddlebag, and slung the heavy sack across his shoulder.
On foot, weary and bruised but still alive-and, more important, still a knight of the Ffolk!-Hanrald started across the rugged highland terrain, his body clinking heavily as he marched in his rigid metal boots.
* * * * *
The invading army of firbolgs numbered three, and this trio now stood before a battered sailboat, their broad backs to the bay, facing a suspicious and growing ring of belligerent northmen. It was to King Svenyird's credit, Alicia decided, that his warlike countrymen did not attack these traditional enemies immediately.
As usual, it rained steadily, and though it was merely afternoon, the dockside was shrouded in an evening-like cast. The Princess of Callidyrr accompanied the King of Gnarhelm and his son as they approached the giants. Alicia took care to keep the monarch between herself and the prince. She didn't think she could keep her composure if he talked to her.
The three firbolgs were hulking brutes, ten feet tall or more, with craggy faces and dark, scowling eyebrows. They wore crude garments of linen, and their feet were bare. The one in the center of the group, however, was distinguished by a huge black cape. The cloak was tied around his shoulder, with the hood thrown back to hang down his back.
"We seek the king," said the largest of the firbolgs.
"I'm the king," declared Svenyird. "What do you want?"
"No." The firbolg shook his head defiantly. "We seek the true king."
"What?" The monarch's eyes bulged. "You insolent castaways! I'll see you flogged at the post. You won't insult my-"
"Excuse me," said Tavish, smoothly sidling past the sputtering King of Gnarhelm. She eyed the cloak as she addressed the center firbolg. "Is it King Kendrick of Corwell you're looking for?"
The giant looked at her, his brows deepening into a scowl that carved gullies and ravines across his stony face. Alicia gripped Keane's arm as she saw the firbolg's expression.
"Is she in danger?" she whispered.
Keane, studying the giant, disengaged his arm and raised his hands before him-ready with an instant spell, Alicia realized.
"I think," the firbolg said finally. "King Tristan?"
"Yes, Yak-Tristan Kendrick!" Tavish stepped forward and gave the firbolg a hug around its broad midriff, surprising no one more than the giant himself, who stumbled backward and would have fallen into the bay if not for the saving reach of one of his fellows.
"Bard lady?" said Yak, his brows lowering still further as recognition came.
"Yes-I'm Tavish!"
"Good music," remarked the giant in a softer tone. "I still dream your harp sound."
"Why, Yak, you old charmer," replied Tavish, nudging his hip with her elbow.
"You know this firbolg?" Alicia demanded, asking the question that was on a thousand tongues. "How?"
"It's a long story," she explained. "He helped your father in the final battle against Bhaal."
"Enough!" barked the giant, his voice surprisingly harsh. The topic obviously annoyed him. "We bring news."
His words, in crude Commonspeech, were barely understood by the listeners. Nevertheless, the gist of his tale was clear to those close enough to follow.
"Many humans killed on Grayrock by dragon with fire-breath and fish-men from the sea. They slay and then they go. Make it look like other humans did killing. Or firbolgs. We come to tell you not us."
"Sahuagin?" asked Brandon, initial disbelief quickly converting