But there was nothing lush about the scene drawing their eyes on the far side of the grainfield. There they saw dozens of green, hulking figures-trolls! The monsters had gathered in a large ring, though for the moment, the observers couldn't see what they encircled.
Then a flash of movement whirled beyond the trolls, and they saw a huge war-horse break into a gallop. The steed and its rider were trapped in a ring of savage trolls, and the trio could only stare in wonder at the futile courage of the human rider. His armor gleamed, but they couldn't make out the seal on his dented shield, and he wore no banner, pennant, or other symbol of his identity.
"The poor doomed fool!" Hanrald gasped, his voice tinged with admiration and sorrow.
"By the gods, man, he's giving us a great diversion!" Finellen barked. "Let's get moving!"
"You want to attack?" demanded Brigit, incredulous. "Why, look at the ground before you! You'd have to charge through that field for half a mile! They'd have plenty of time to get ready to meet you."
"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 corn. Dwarves-a rank of them moving toward him.
Sudden, wild hope infused Tristan's body and soul. Where was Shallot? He climbed to his knees and whistled, drawing the horse toward him at a gallop. Seizing the pommel as the stallion raced by, Tristan awkwardly pulled himself off the ground, finally throwing a leg across the wide back and lifting himself fully into the saddle.
The trolls, still jabbering about the sudden arrival of reinforcements, were taken by surprise when the king on his war-horse, the limping moorhound racing alongside, exploded toward the encircling beasts. One of the wolfdogs sprang at Ranthal, but the powerful hound sent the creature yelping back to its masters with a snap on the muzzle. In another moment, Tristan thundered free, Shallot flying toward the other two riders with Ranthal close on his heels. The other moorhound was nowhere in sight.
Brigit and Hanrald halted their rush as the king broke away from the monstrous horde. When the High King reached them, the trio wasted no time on congratulation. Instead, they raced back toward the dwarves, while the trolls finally raised a great howl of indignation and leaped into pursuit
Whirling through the ether, then plummeting with dizzying speed, the princess finally came to rest upon the world of mortals. Before her loomed the massive physical image of a legend. Grond Peaksmasher was encased in ice of deep, primeval blue. The giant's craggy features might have been carved from stone. His great beard flowed down his chest like the distant whiteness of a pristine icefield.
She stood at the base of a steep glacier, looking upward at the ice-chiseled form. But where others might gaze with reverence or even with awe, Deirdre studied the ice-encased image, as big as a small mountain in its own right, with a different eye.
The gods would give her a tool, they had promised, and now she knew what that tool was to be. She couldn't break the great avatar free, not yet, anyway, but she knew that it would only be a matter of time.
Deirdre sat for hours, enthralled by the image of the great giant-god before her. Stars came into view above her, and for the first time, she realized that she was outside, yet she had no desire to leave, to seek any kind of shelter. A soft glow seemed to emanate from the great ice-clad figure before her. Whether or not it was her imagination, the glow seemed to warm her, insulating her flesh against the chill of the mountain night.
The princess gradually absorbed the fact that she was in a high, rockbound vale. Towering ridgelines loomed near on the left and the right, while the giant-and the glacier that imprisoned it-stood at the southern terminus of this deep, U-shaped valley.