The Druid Queen - Douglas Niles [52]
"Lots of people good-make nice booty for us," Baatlrap grunted, smacking his thin, bony lips.
Thurgol shook his head. "We cross water here. Why waste time with big attack?"
The giant troll regarded the firbolg chieftain with his deep, emotionless black eyes. Baatlrap raised a gnarled fist clenched into a ball of knotty green-covered bone. "We have to take boats!" He pointed at the small fleet of fishing craft bobbing in the shelter of Codsbay. "To do that-take town first."
The firbolg warrior was forced to admit that his hulking companion had a point, though it galled him to grant anything to the monster he came increasingly to regard as a dangerous rival.
"Let's go make plan," Baatlrap grunted, turning his back on the town and starting down the hill toward the blanket of forest that flowed halfway up the gradual slope. There waited the ragged army of trolls and firbolgs that had followed these two leaders from Myrloch Vale to the northern shore of Gwynneth.
"Attack tomorrow. I tell trolls," barked Baatlrap.
The two types of creatures maintained separate camps, with the trolls gathered closer to the fringe of the forest. They passed through a muddy clearing where the gaunt, wiry beasts flopped in relaxation after a day of marching. Baatlrap stopped here among his minions, while the giant chieftain continued toward the camp of his firbolgs. As he passed, Thurgol noted with surprise that there seemed to be a lot of trolls-more than he had remembered from the previous day. Then, as he reentered the forest to find the camp of the firbolgs, he met still another band of trolls-a dozen or more-coming to join the group in the meadow.
Finally he saw, hanging listlessly from the branch of a dead tree, the woolen banner created by Garisa. The rectangular flag bore a crude replication of the Silverhaft Axe, a white image sewn on a dark green background. The old shaman had proudly produced it during the course of the march, and now she insisted that the firbolgs fly it as a banner of war wherever the trail of the campaign led. Thurgol took little note of the flag as his brain worked over the implications of the large number of trolls assembled in the adjacent camp.
True, the numbers of the giant-kin had grown somewhat as well. Several bands of firbolgs, totalling nearly a score of new arrivals, had emerged from the wilderness to accompany Thurgol's ragged tribe. He had never suspected that this many giant-kin still dwelled in the fringes of the great valley, but word of this epic march had spread to even these remote reaches. As a rule, these smaller bands had suffered even worse luck on the hunt than had the Blackleaf clan.
Word of the Silverhaft Axe had crystallized within these firbolgs an urgency that had drawn them from fifty miles away, flocking to Garisa's rude banner. Thurgol hadn't done a detailed count of his troops. Since their number clearly exceeded the combined total of his fingers and toes, an accurate numbering was more or less out of the question. Nevertheless, he had begun to suspect that the army now included nearly as many trolls as firbolgs.
Of course, on the good side, this meant that they had a fairly respectable force. They might just succeed at taking Codscove, though Thurgol realized without enthusiasm that it was likely to be a bloody affair. And ever since the first massacre of the small steading in the forest, the firbolg had felt the control of this army, of its march and perhaps even the purpose of the grand quest, slipping away.
While he pondered, a great cheer rumbled upward from the camp through the woods. Obviously Baatlrap had just told his troops of the impending attack.
Sighing heavily-the cheering depressed him-the firbolg chieftain shouted to get the attention of his own troops. The shambling giants gathered into a great circle, and Thurgol began to speak.
He very much did not feel like cheering.
* * * * *
Robyn spoke with Alicia and Keane in the library less than an hour after the king's departure.