[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
.The axe whipped out, striking low this time, and the firbolg chieftain lunged toward the charging man.Thurgol ignored the pain as the axe blade bit deep into his thigh.He swung, then cursed as the man ducked beneath the blow.Casting aside the club, he closed his hands about the man's surprisingly frail chest and lifted him up.The man kicked and punched as the giant pitched him over the transom.Thurgol stumbled to the deck, his leg collapsing as the helmsman plunged into Codsbay.The giant chieftain knelt, watching with surprise the fountain of blood spurting from his wounded leg, yet it was with a grim sense of satisfaction that he looked down the length of the hull at the grinning faces of a dozen firbolgs.Most of their faces showed delight, though already a few had begun to cast longing glances back to the shore.* * * * *Shallot cruised through the open forest at a smooth trot, broad hooves pounding rhythmically against the soft dirt while widely spread tree trunks allowed the king to ride for the most part upright in the saddle.Occasionally he ducked his head beneath a low, knotted limb, and his lance trailed behind in order to avoid entanglements, but he was quite pleased by their rapid progress.The hounds coursed through the woods before and around him, staying in sight but ranging freely back and forth, frequently scaring rabbits from concealment.The great dogs had become adept at pouncing on the fleeing hares, and Tristan had several skinned carcasses swinging from his saddle.Mindful of his lesson from the mouth of the wolf, he would take only enough meat to feed himself and the dogs at their evening meal.Tomorrow, he knew, the forest would provide him with such additional bounty as he might need.For three days, he had ridden steadily northward, his mind fixed upon his mission, his concentration rapt on the thought of a monstrous horde that marched through his realm and threatened his subjects.Yet even as he considered the threat, he never regretted his decision to ride alone.Whether it came from a sense of human arrogance or deity-inspired destiny, his determination remained fixed.It was his quest to challenge the monsters, to teach them to honor the peace and return to their homes, or perish in their defiance.He passed through realms of forest giants, beauty unsurpassed throughout the Moonshaes.Trees that had lived for a thousand years raised their crowns hundreds of feet over his own, and he rode beneath them with scarcely a glance.Meadows of blossoms more brilliant and varied than gemstones in hue and shade sprawled around him, yet he took no note as Shallot's broad hooves pressed some of the blooms into dirt.Tristan rode until after sunset, when the darkness began to shroud the forest and make further travel dangerous.Selecting a sheltered glade, closely surrounded by lush, tall evergreens, he made a small fire and cooked a rabbit for himself, giving a raw carcass to each of his loyal hounds.As the fire sank to good cooking coals, he stared into the embers, enjoying the sizzling smell of his meat.But his ears remained elsewhere, probing through the forest night, listening for a particular sound.But he did not hear the wailing song of the wolves.* * * * *Brandon sank his axe into the muscle-bound gut of a troll, knocking the hulking beast backward.Kicking with his booted foot, he dropped the creature like a felled tree and hacked again.This time his blow nearly sliced the grotesque head from the thin, knobby shoulders."Fire—we need fire!" he shouted, knowing that unless the gnarled body was burned, the monster would climb back to its feet within a few minutes.Pausing to gasp for breath, he looked around the bloody, mud-stained commons of Codscove.The sudden attack of fifty veteran northmen had, if not turned the tide, at least stabilized the battle for a moment.Indeed, the trolls fell back cautiously before Brandon's howling crewmen, the short, lunging charges of several mounted knights, and the grim determination of the townsmen themselves, many of whom had already paid the ultimate price for their courage, as evidenced by the dozens of bodies strewn through the streets of the town and across the field."Captain—the ship!" The panicked cry, from one of his young sailors, sent spears of terror shooting through the Prince of Gnarhelm even before he turned around.But as he spun, those spears turned to rending knives, for he saw that the unthinkable had happened.The Princess of Moonshae rocked in the water as a dozen or more giant bodies—firbolgs!—staggered through the hull.He saw one of the creatures pick up Knaff the Elder and hurl the old helmsman into the bay.Where had the monsters come from? His heart seemed to wither in his chest as he saw them overrun his beloved ship, and at the same time, he saw more of the creatures pouring from the warehouse at the shore.An ambush! Had the dull creatures waited for just such an opportunity?Brandon had left a dozen men to guard the ship, commanding them to row it a short distance from shore to prevent such an attack.Groaning in disbelief, he saw oars raised, cracking against each other as the clumsy beasts tried to guide the ship.The hulking beast who had thrown Knaff overboard handled the trailing rudder, using it like an oar, slowly starting the Princess of Moonshae through a long, gradual pirouette.Knaff and several other crewmen, meanwhile, splashed their way to shore, climbing onto the dock some distance from the firbolgs gathering along the shore.The prince felt as though his heart and soul had been torn away.He loved that ship more than anything else in the world! At the same time, his northman's stubborn courage started him thinking about how to get it back.An unholy shriek arose from the green behind him, and Brandon whirled in time to see the rank of trolls, reformed and healed, surging onto the commons again.This time a deeper roar emerged from the firbolgs at the wharf.Those who hadn't made it to the longship now turned back to the battle, finally ready to help their trollish allies.A knight on horseback, apparently the captain of Codscove's militia, thundered past Brandon, his lance lowered, a red pennant trailing from his helm.The lance ripped through the chest of a troll, but the monster fastened long claws into the horse's flanks as it pounded past.More and more of the fearsome attackers leaped onto the valiant horseman, dragging him from the saddle and burying him beneath a slavering pile of horror.The firbolgs lumbered forward too, more and more of them emerging from the smashed wreckage of the fish warehouse.Beyond them, beyond the dock, Brandon could see his once proud vessel, sail furled, hull rocking uneasily from the weight of her boisterous captors.But the Prince of Gnarhelm had fought too many battles to dwell for long on the unattainable [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]