The Druid Queen - Douglas Niles [100]
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. "I'll bet they have food in this town!"
"Remember the way those trolls jumped us? I don't want the same thing to happen when we get between those buildings." Tristan could see that the narrow streets of the town created only a few routes he could use, and all of them could easily conceal a deadly ambush.
"Well, if that's all, I'll go have a look!" huffed the dragon, bouncing into the air and immediately disappearing. Concealed by invisibility, he flew quickly forward, flying over the main street and looking into the buildings and walled yards to either side.
Five minutes later he had returned to the king. "There's nobody there-no humans, no giants, no trolls. Nothing!" he reported. "Now can we go see if we can find some decent food?"
"I'm afraid not, old friend," Tristan replied. He had learned what he wanted to learn. There was no point now in examining the tragic scenarios that would doubtless be evidenced in the houses of the town. "If the raiders aren't here, they must have gone somewhere else, and I intend to find their trail!"
He guided Shallot in a wide arc around the town, riding along the lanes that ran between the once lush fields. Now most of the crops had been trampled in the chaos of battle. At last, as he neared the shore, he found the muddy track left by a marching army. He saw the harbor, now placid and blue, but the masts of many small boats jutted from the surface, each marking the grave of a fisherffolk boat
On the ground below, huge, booted feet-firbolgs, Tristan recognized with a tingle of alarm that was nonetheless acute for the fact that the memory was twenty years old-had clumped along in the midst of the horde, while the bare, clawed feet of trolls had carved their own distinctive marks in the earth along the army's fringes.
"Maybe they marched into the town while we were riding around and getting hungry," Newt suggested hopefully.
"Look at the toes," Tristan suggested. "They're pointing away from Codscove."
"I guess you're right," Newt concluded glumly. "At least, some of them are going that way."
Ranthal bounded along the trail of the army, but now he stopped, a hundred feet ahead of Tristan, to look back at the king with his ears upraised. The other three moorhounds raced after their leader, and Shallot trotted along in the wake of the dogs.
Tristan was about to call the rangy hounds back-he didn't want them too far in the lead-but the steady Ranthal held his pace to a slow walk until the great war-horse drew near. Then the dogs spread into their protective screen, sniffing alertly and poking through the brush and hedges that flanked the path.
The king's shield was a comfortable weight on his left arm. He tugged at Trollcleaver, reassuring himself that the sword was loose in its scabbard. For several minutes, they rode in silence, even Newt peering alertly to the right and left while Tristan kept his eyes to the front.
Abruptly Ranthal sprang away from a thick hedge, barking furiously. The other hounds joined him, hackles bristling, long fangs bared. Growling and snarling, they backed away from the lush greenery. Nothing moved there, but Tristan drew his sword and studied the hedge, knowing beyond any doubt that he approached a watch post of the predatory raiders.
Tangled branches grew from the ground to a height of eight or nine feet, creating an impenetrable screen. Did another dozen trolls lurk there? He didn't know, but neither did he hesitate in his cautious approach.
"Look out!" squeaked Newt suddenly, bouncing