The Druid Queen - Douglas Niles [105]
"Do you have a better suggestion?" barked the dwarf, regarding the Llewyrr knight belligerently.
"Wait here and watch them for a little while. If you see them get ready to move, then you can take a defensive position in their path. You'll have a better chance against them if you choose the ground and give yourself some cover!"
"No good," Finellen retorted. "If they do pick up and move, there's no guarantee we'll be able to catch 'em. Nope, we've got them here in front of us. I say we're going after them right now!"
Hanrald looked back at the fight, where the lone human rider circled to face the surrounding legion of his attackers. The warrior saw something admirable and grand in the knight's valiant stand. He wished they had a chance to help the man, but even if he and Brigit rode to the fight at top speed, they stood no chance of getting there before the lone rider must inevitably be slain.
Meanwhile, Finellen darted back to muster her company, while the human lord and the elfwoman stared in pity at the doomed fight of the surrounded warrior. His great war-horse reared, raising the rider above even the towering bodies of his enemies, but everywhere the man and horse turned, they faced a closing ring of tooth, sinew, and claw.
Along the fringe of trees, dwarves emerged from the woods silently, starting through the field in a long rank, though only their heads showed above the green, waving grain. And even these the bearded warriors held low, trying to take advantage of their concealment for as long as possible.
Quickly the two riders returned to their horses. "Let's give the dwarves a bit of a start," Brigit suggested. "After all, we'll catch them soon enough, and we'll be a lot easier to see than they will."
"Agreed," said Hanrald, privately chafing at the sensible suggestion. Now that the enemy was in sight, he wanted nothing so much as the chance to thunder across the field in a valiant charge. Though they would be too late to help, certainly, there was something in the doomed rider's carriage and appearance that inspired a fierce and combative drive in the Earl of Fairheight. The rider's battered shield had been through savage fighting, he could tell. Indeed, the insignia had been worn to a shapeless blur of brown. Yet somehow, against these phenomenal odds, that shield had kept the horseman alive.
Then, in a flash, it came to him. That battered seal was the bear's head of Kendrick! The rearing, plunging horse could only be Shallot, the king's prized stallion.
"Sire!" he cried, spurring from the woods, horrified to see no sign of the valiant knight-the knight who could only be the High King of the Ffolk. Now the horse scrambled to its feet, riderless, and a horde of trolls swarmed in.
* * * * *
Ranthal stood over his master as Tristan gasped for breath, holding Trollcleaver across his chest and struggling, but failing, to sit up. The loyal moorhound bled from a dozen gory wounds where troll tooth or claw had rent skin and torn away bristling fur. Yet the dog spun this way and that, lunging and biting seemingly in many directions at once. Snarling, teeth bared in fanged savagery, the great moorhound tore the throat from a troll that leaned in too close.
One of the large wolfdogs of the firbolg camp charged Ranthal from the side, but the hound whirled and broke the wolf's neck with a single bite. Another troll dove, knocking the dog to the side, but Ranthal rolled quickly and came up biting, clasping iron jaws around the troll's wrist until the creature shrieked to the snapping of bone.
The shout of a voice from across the grainfield carried dimly through the fray. Immediately the trolls turned away from Tristan, gesticulating and barking in alarm. The king forced himself to a sitting position, astounded to see the Earl of Fairheight and Brigit Cu'Lyrran galloping at full speed toward the army of trolls and firbolgs.
"No!" Tristan cried, his voice coming out as a strangled gasp. He saw something else then-plumes trailing from helmets, just above the level of the