The Druid Queen - Douglas Niles [101]
Desperately he raised his shield, bashing the creature's face but failing to block the long, muscular arms. Claws raked his back through his chain mail as the beast seized him and pulled, trying to drag the king from his horse.
Shallot reared instinctively, and only the deep, well-braced saddle saved Tristan from disaster. Grunting against the pain of the troll's grip, he smashed the hilt of Trollcleaver into the monster's face, but the beast clung tenaciously. The war-horse bucked and kicked, unable to break the troll's hold. The king felt the heat of the monster's breath, smelled the fetid rot of its guts as cruelly slashing teeth attempted to tear off his shield arm.
Twisting as much as he could, Tristan reversed the blade and plunged the steel tip into the troll's gaping mouth. Trollcleaver emerged from the back of the monster's neck in a shower of green blood and gore. Retching hideously, the monster finally let go of his victim, slumping back to the ground and writhing in its death throes.
Before him, the dogs, in stiff-legged agitation, still backed away from the concealing shrubs, but the king's attention was suddenly drawn to the rear. He saw them emerge from trees a quarter of a mile off the trail: scores of lanky trolls, racing through the fields in a shockingly fast sprint toward the High King of the Ffolk. Whirling back, he confirmed what he'd suspected a moment before as more of the creatures leaped from the rocks along the shore, closing the last part of the deadly ring.
Except for the gauntlet of hedgerows before him. Even as he nudged the powerful stallion forward, huge forms pushed through, splintering the shrubs like twigs and sending the courageous moorhounds bounding back toward the king.
Firbolgs! Each of them as tall as the king on his huge war-horse, the giant-kin brought back to Tristan a flood of memories from two decades before. He saw the crude assortment of weapons: clubs, mostly, with a few bearing big hammers, axes, or chipped and rusty-bladed swords. A few hefted rocks, and he eyed these most warily, knowing that a blow from one of them could knock him from his saddle or even kill him.
With the appearance of the giants, the monstrous ring closed around Tristan. Behind him, the racing trolls had slowed to a walk once they reached the road. Those to the right and left seemed content to wait, blocking any escape attempt he might make. The firbolgs spread into a broad line, ambling toward the king with caution, more worried about keeping the ring closed than they were about rushing in to attack.
Finally they all stopped, except for one truly colossal troll. That one carried a huge sword, the blade itself as long as Tristan was tall, carved with jagged, wicked-looking teeth down each edge. The massive humanoid swaggered forward with an unmistakable air of command. This one came from the right, where he could see all the components of the monstrous horde and the quarry caught so nicely in the middle of the ring.
Ranthal and the other moorhounds formed a protective circle around their king, facing outward with jaws set firmly. Deep growls rumbled from each canine chest. Newt, of course, was nowhere to be seen.
Holding his sword across his lap, Tristan urged Shallot into a slow walk, leaving the muddy track to push through a field of corn, straight toward the hulking troll.
* * * * *
Thurgol aimed the Princess of Moonshae toward a sheltered cove he observed on Oman Isle's shore, but a surprisingly strong current carried him several miles to the east of this destination. Still, the Icepeak remained the crowning feature of their horizon, and the chieftain felt no particular apprehension as he regarded the rock-lined shore. Even if the longship was shattered against those boulders, his primary concern was accomplished if the firbolgs and the Silverhaft Axe could make it onto shore intact, and in the