The Druid Queen - Douglas Niles [110]
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"How did you manage to stay alive the last twenty years without me to bail you out?" Finellen demanded gruffly, the tone of her voice not hiding the real affection she felt for the High King of the Ffolk.
"I've not been in many pickles like this over that time," Tristan allowed, leaning from his saddle to clasp Finellen's fists in his good hand. "But sure enough, when it happened, there you were! Many thanks, old friend."
"Enough about the last twenty years," Brigit said, not unkindly. "What about the next twenty minutes?" She pointed across the cornfield to the trolls who plunged toward them, furious at the escape of the king.
"Back to the woods! Quickstep!" barked Finellen, and the dwarves hastily reversed the course of their advance. With the monsters on the attack, the dwarven leader decided that her company should face the enemy with the benefit of some cover around it.
Fortunately the dwarven charge hadn't progressed far before Tristan broke free, so they quickly reached the shelter of overhanging oak limbs and tangled dogwood trunks. The obstructions would hamper the larger humanoids far more than they would the diminutive dwarves.
"Crossbows about! Fire at will!" cried the bearded captain, and those of her troops with the stocky missile weapons quickly loosed a volley of steel-headed bolts.
Immediately the archers began cranking their heavy weapons to reload, while the first rank of monsters faltered, many falling with the lethal bolts jutting from their bodies. Unlike an arrow from a standard bow, the quarrels from the crossbows struck with great punching power, sometimes with enough force to knock even a troll off its feet.
"Fires!" shouted Brigit. "We need fires to burn the trolls!"
From nowhere appeared the druid Danrak. "I've got tinder piled back here. I'll ignite it," he said to Finellen, "if you'll send some of your dwarves to carry the brands to the fight."
"Aye-good thinking." Finellen nodded and quickly dispatched several trustworthy veterans.
A second volley met the onrushing foe as the giant predators reared only a few paces from the edge of the forest. Following the shot, the archers dropped their missile weapons and all the dwarves, together with their human and Llewyrr allies, met the humanoids with sword and axe, hammer and shield.
Tristan stood near the center of the line, singling out a strong company of trolls for the attentions of his powerful sword. As the first of these sprang through the hedge at the border of the field, the High King split him from chin to pelvis with a slashing downward blow of Trollcleaver. Spewing gore, the monster collapsed beside him as Tristan already clashed blades with his next opponent.
All around he heard the gruff cursing of dwarves, the hissing shrieks of bloodthirsty trolls, and the bellowing cries of the giant-kin. Ranthal snarled and snapped beside him, while wolfdogs lunged at the mighty moorhound with slavering jaws.
Trollcleaver met a troll's heavy axe, the resounding clang driving daggers of agony through Tristan's bones, but he held firm, and as the troll recoiled for another blow, the king's sword snaked out, piercing the gristle of the monster's chest and finally puncturing the knotty ball of its heart.
Smoke wafted through the air. In other places, fallen trolls were charred by snapping flames, dry timbers piled upon the corpses to ensure that they wouldn't rise to fight again. Ranthal, ranging from side to side but always battling close by Tristan's flank, added his fierce snarl to the din, while cheering dwarves raised their voices in triumph each time another of the beasts succumbed to the blaze.
But amid the cheering, the king heard darker, more painful sounds. Dwarves groaned, and all too often he heard the piteous exhalation that Tristan recognized as the last sound of a dying warrior. Wounded dwarves