Feathered Dragon

6

Luskag felt a strange mixture of sadness and pride as his dwarves marched past. They left Sunhome in the care of the young and the old, while all the strong adults-males and females alike-joined the file toward war. All across the House of Tezca, he knew, the other villages of desert dwarves mustered as well.

He counted barely a hundred souls among the warriors, and he did not know how much they could accomplish against the apparently numberless horde of monsters spreading southward across the desert. But the vision of chaos had been so clear, so threatening, that they all knew they had to try.

Most of his dwarves were armed with weapons of plumastone, but his village was still unique in the desert. The others had only begun to acquire the secrets of the super hardened obsidian and were for the most part bearing crude weapons more typical of Maztica.

Work progressed steadily, following the council at Sun-home, as each village had sent an expedition to the ridges around the City of the Gods. They had since returned to their homes, laden with the shiny black rock with which the dwarves now labored to create the tough, deadly weapons.

A few desert dwarves wielded metal axes or swords that predated the Rockfire, but these artifacts were reserved for chieftains and other venerable warriors. Luskag himself had borne such a battle-axe, but he had bestowed the weapon upon his eldest son, Bann. The chief himself carried a heavy axe of plumastone.

Regardless of their armament, all of the villages had sent companies of doughty warriors, albeit warriors who had never known war. Yet the tradition of courage and combat lay deep within the dwarven race, and Luskag knew that they would fight well. So, too, he reflected sadly, would they die.

Luskag trotted to the head of the column, and the desert dwarves started across the sun-scorched realm of their home. They would gather at the City of the Gods, and there they would make their stand.

Gultec nodded to Halloran, then bowed deeply before Erixitl. The sun had not yet risen, yet the sky was clear and blue, already promising a day of extreme heat. Eastward over the trackless desert, Poshtli soared in tight circles, as if impatient with the humans so far below.

“Lady of the Plume,” Gultec began, “1 must leave now. My destiny calls.”

She embraced the Jaguar Knight but did not try to dissuade him. “1 know of destiny,” she whispered softly. “May it be a load you can hear.”

Gultec looked into her face, holding her shoulders. “It can be a blessing as well as a burden. Whatever its form, it is laid upon you. You must not fight it.

A frown creased her forehead, but Erixitl sighed slowly and relaxed. She sensed a deep kinship with the Jaguar Knight, and she knew that he spoke wisely. “1 will try to remember,” she promised.

“The acts of the gods are not easily understood. Once I fought wars for the cause of Zaltec, and even worked with priests to further the causes of that god of war-god of death, more rightly!”

“I remember,” Erixitl said dryly. They both smiled now, though the memory was not pleasant. Gultec had bound Erix and led her to an intended sacrificial death on the shores of the Eastern Sea. Only the arrival of the white-winged “sea creatures,” later proven to be the ships of the Golden Legion, had saved her.

“But my own destiny took me to Far Payit, and there I

learned the ways of this god you call Qotal. His wisdom is proven in that he has chosen you as his herald.”

Once again Erix shook her head. “What does that prove? How am I aiding the cause of his arrival-his promised arrival?”

“That I do not know. But know this, Erixitl of the Nexala: When the knowledge comes, you will be the first to receive it.”

Around the two, the vast camp of Mazticans came slowly awake. Dawn’s pale blue light filtered across the desert, shining on the feathers of the eagle that still circled to the east. Already word of the problems facing them on this day had spread among the refugees.

All had heard of the massacre the previous day of the band of stragglers, a thousand lives snuffed out in one brutal attack. Though the news caused tension and fear, Erixitl noticed no sign of panic among her countrymen, and this made her proud.

The people had heard of the bountiful valley discovered by Gultec and reported by other scouts as well. The swiftest of the marchers could expect to lie there by nightfall, while the rest of the band would reach it by the middle of the following day.

Yet what good was such a fertile place if it would merely be swept over by the surging wave of war? At best, it seemed to offer a temporary sanctuary-a respite of a day, perhaps two-in a journey that threatened to become a way of life.

And then there was the matter of the great eagle. Many had witnessed the miracle, as the tale of the bird’s appearance as Poshtli was now called, and they had insured that the story spread throughout the camp. But now the eagle veered away from the promised route to food and water, and the path to safety was no longer clearly defined.

Abruptly Gultec turned away Erixitl gasped as his shape shifted, his transformed appearance clear in the cool light, He moved quickly then, in a flash of bright green feathers, and disappeared. She saw a large parrot take to wing, and then the bird turned one bright eye toward her as it fluttered higher into the air. In a few moments, it was go: winging strongly toward the east.

“There, to the east,” she said softly as Halloran turned to her. “That is where Poshtli flies, now Gultec as well. It is where I must fly, too. I know Poshtli shows us the path- toward what I’m still not sure.” She looked at her husband, and he nodded. He, too, had observed the eagle’s change of course. While a sheltered valley, with food and water, lay a day’s march to the southwest, Poshtli now soared over arid lands, a broken waste of jagged ridges and deep, barren gulches.

“I’m coming with you,” he promised. “But everyone?”

She shook her head. “Let the people go to the valley. They can stop there to rest. I believe Poshtli shows the path for me-for you and me-alone.”

Halloran looked to the narrow ridge that loomed to the east, knowing of the bleak desert (hat lay beyond. Silently he vowed to do his utmost to see Erixitl safely through that waste. It was all another part of their search for a home, he told himself. And someday they would find one.

As the Mazticans bestirred themselves, many already starting on the trail toward the southwest, Erixitl and Halloran found Cordell and Daggrande among the camp of the legionnaires.

“We need your help,” Halloran began. Cordell’s eyes flashed at the news, and his hand went instinctively to the hilt of his sword,

“Speak,” he requested.

“We are leaving the trail, following Poshtli to the east. He flies over the bare desert.” Then Halloran described the lush valley that lay to the southwest, knowing that Grimes and some of the other riders had already found it as well. “Go with the people and keep an eye out for attack. If you can make a defensible position there, set up a long-term camp.”

“Why do you think he’s taking you that way?” Cordell had known Poshtli as an adversary, and a courageous one. Too, he had witnessed the man’s appearance in the guise of the bird. But he wasn’t willing to let Halloran and Erix go without some plan.

“Qotal.” Erixitl replied simply. “Somehow I am tied in to his return. He is the only force that can counterbalance Zaltec and his creatures. I must do what I can to bring him back to the True World”

Halloran knew the resentment his wife felt for her enforced role in this game of the gods, yet he heard none of it in her voice. She spoke as a true believer, and Cordell accepted her faith without question.

“Good luck to you, then,” he agreed. “I’ll get the company together. The Kultakans will stand bravely, and so will these Nexalan warriors. I’m sure we can hold the bastards at bay!”

Cordell’s voice carried renewed enthusiasm at the prospect of battle and action, as Hal had known it would. He understood as well as anyone the heavy toll that the long retreat had exacted from the aggressive general. Still, to Halloran the commander’s optimistic assessment of his chances seemed almost reckless.

“I’m coming with you,” Daggrande declared, facing Hal and Erix. He coughed awkwardly. “That is, if you think you could use some help.”

Halloran looked at his old companion with deep affection. I know we could use your help, my friend.”

“Don’t get mushy on me,” huffed the dwarf, his own voice gruff with emotion. “Just let me get my whetstone-my damned axe keeps going dull, what with all the dust and all!”

Daggrande marched away, and Hal watched him with affection. A “dull blade” by the old dwarf’s estimate was still as sharp as a barber’s razor, he knew. The sturdy veteran’s presence would greatly enhance their chances of survival.

Several Mazticans approached. Hal recognized the priest Xatli and the Eagle Knight Chical. Erixitl explained their plans and accepted their good wishes for their journey. The cleric of Qotal looked at her seriously.

“Out there in the desert, sister, I sense that your destiny awaits. I would offer to accompany you, to offer whatever feeble aid I can, but I know this: You will have the aid of someone far greater than myself.”

“Who do you mean?” she asked, surprised.

The cleric shook his head. “1 do not know, but I sense it

about you. You will lie carried to your final challenge on the wings of your friends.”

“I hope you’re right,” Erix admitted with a shake of her long black hair. She pulled her cloak, growing brighter with each minute of increasing daylight, tightly around her shoulders.

The great monolith looked like a living form as it moved. Two great legs, thicker than massive tree trunks, supported it and carried it cumbersomely forward. Two arms, humanlike in shape but tipped with wicked talons of crooked stone, swung at its sides.

The form of Zaltec disdained the broken causeways that still connected the island to shore. Instead, the huge stone form waded into Lake Tezca. striding easily through the thick mud. The water came only to the monstrous form’s knees.

Then it emerged onto the lake’s south shore, its heavy footfalls crunching into the ground. It passed the smoldering remains of Mount Zatal without a sideways glance. Instead, the glowering eyes, gray orbs of granite in a stark, stone face, remained fixed upon the desert, in answer to some distant and unknown compulsion.

And Zaltec marched on, until a watcher on the rim of the valley could have seen only a huge, monolithic form, moving into the remote wastes of the desert, like a towering, sheer-sloped mountain.

A mountain that walked.

“Forward, beasts of the crimson hand’”

Hoxitl urged his minions into a lumbering advance. Earlier, while darkness still shrouded the desert, the ogres bad stalked through the camp, kicking and cursing their charges awake. Now the ranks of ores stood armed and restless, ready to move.

The route lay plain before them: the wide, flat-bottomed valley that curved gently through the desert, lb each side, ridges of windswept rock, red and brown in color, provided a jagged outline to the track of their quarry.

“Today we will find more humans, and there will be more killing!” promised the beastlord.

The assembled creatures snorted and stomped at the pledge, pounding spear-shafts against the ground or clashing macas and clubs together. The throbbing noise rolled across the desert, all the way to the camp of his hated enemies, Hoxitl hoped.

HOW he hated the humans’. The anger that had spurred him from the ruins to lead his army on this great march seemed a pale flame compared to the fiery loathing that now consumed him. With each slain body, with each life claimed for Zaltec, his fury had grown.

With an explosion of howls and roars, the beasts lumbered after Hoxitl as the great monster started to advance. They spread into a vast wave, moving down the same valley the humans had followed the day before, advancing at a steady trot. For an hour, the horde rushed forward, covering distances it had taken the humans four times as long to march.

The first clue was an odor on the dry wind, the sweet scent of prey. Hoxitl howled, and the cry arose from the ranks behind him until a horrid shriek of bloodlust filled the air, reverberating across the desert like a killing gust from the north.

Hoxitl searched the dry valley floor before them, but no sign of movement caught his eye. The humans had probably moved on early in the day, but his nostrils told him that they had been here, and very recently.

Then he saw them.

Atop one of the low ridges that bordered this desert valley, Hoxitl saw a flash of color. Squinting, he picked out several shapes-human, no doubt, though one seemed somewhat short and stocky.

And then a hot, hissing spear of light lanced into his eyes. The colors! The brightness! Screaming in pain and rage, Hoxitl tumbled backward. His clawed hands scratched at his eyes in agony.

Very slowly the pain faded away, and the beast, with a low growl, sneaked another look at the ridge. He blinked in confusion and fear, and red spots swam before his eyes, but no further blaze assaulted his vision. Yet he recognized it for what it was: pluma. Only the power of feathermagic could cause such pain to his powerful senses.

Dimly he realized that the attack had come from the ridgetop, from that point of color up there. And with this awareness, all of his hatred, all of his rage, focused against that distant, slowly moving spot of color.

Hoxitl’s heavy eyelids drooped over his wicked, gleaming eyes as he pondered this mysterious development. The great mass of humans, he knew, continued to flee along the valley floor. Yet the one who now climbed the desolate ridge must be one of special significance. Certainly the power of the pluma he had just witnessed indicated this.

He could not ignore the mass of victims awaiting his army. No, the taste of blood on the previous day had been too sweet, too tempting. Yet neither could he ignore the spoor leading to the east, into the desert.

He gestured to his trolls, long-limbed creatures who were very fleet of foot. “Pursue those who slip away to the east,” Hoxitl ordered.

The green-skinned creatures lumbered away, in groups of three and four, from the rest of Hoxitl’s army. Finally several hundred of the monsters-all of the trolls-broke away, heading for the sheer ridge. They lumbered forward in the rolling gait typical of the long-limbed creatures. The beastlord knew that they would move quickly and inexorably after the pathetic humans.

Hoxitl turned back to the rest of his beasts, the crowded mass of ores and ogres. These he led toward the south, in the direction taken by the warm bodies that would make food for his hungry god.

Jhatli sat beside the trail, watching the long columns of his countrymen march past. They followed the unobstructed route of the valley, toward the water and food that they knew lay before them. The sight of yet another sullen youth, apparently without friend or family, was no longer enough to stir their hearts, so the Nexalans passed Jhatli with neither a look nor a word.

Running… fleeing! Jhatli looked at his countrymen in scorn. Was that all they could do? Why didn’t they stand and fight? This was no life for a warrior… or one who would be a warrior.

Still, it was the life led by the Nexala now. The youth shook his head angrily, looking to the north, imagining the lumbering horde over the distant horizon. How long until they reached these people, until they forced them into a battle for which they were not prepared?

Finally Jhatli cast a look back over his shoulder. The first thing he noticed was the great eagle, soaring high in the sky to the east. Looking down, he spotted the trio: Erixitl, the Lady of the Plume; and the two soldiers, Halloran and Daggrande.

He didn’t know where they went, but he suspected that it involved the hideous beasts that pursued them all. His own promise for revenge still burned in Jhatli’s heart, and so he watched them carefully.

He had heard the story that the eagle was in fact Lord Poshtli. Jhatli well remembered that noble warrior, proud and aloof in his feathered cloak and his great, beaked helmet. Such a warrior, in the guise of this bird, would be a powerful ally and a wise leader.

Now Erixitl and her companions had broken away from the great bulk of the people to follow that eagle. It was only natural that Jhatli resolved to follow the eagle, too.

He waited until the three had begun to climb the rugged ridge that bordered the valley. Then he turned away from the column and trotted toward the same ridge, but some distance to the left of where Erix and her companions climbed it. Again the people took no notice-another youth trotting off to a fruitless hunt in the desert. Too bad his parents didn’t keep him under control. Didn’t they know that danger lurked out there?

Jhatli held his pace easily, quickly scrambling into a narrow, boulder-strewn ravine that seemed to lead up the ridge. For long minutes he climbed, sweat pouring from his wiry brown body. His footsteps fell sure, though, and his strong hands and arms pulled him through several narrow spots.

Finally he reached a small gap in the ravine that allowed him to step out onto a small shoulder of the ridge. He had climbed most of the way to the top, he saw. Perhaps half a mile away, he saw the flaming colors of Erixitl’s cloak, already at the crest.

Suddenly Jhatli felt very dizzy. He looked at the cloak again, and the colors began to spin, weaving an incredibly beautiful pattern, images of birds and flowers and butterflies of every hue, before his eyes. Shaking his head in confusion, Jhatli sat down and looked away.

It was then that he saw the massive horde of monsters gathered on the valley floor, stretching to the far limits of his vision until they vanished into the rising cloud of dust made by their march. Unconsciously the youth recoiled against the rock, appalled at the extent of the horde.

Then he noticed movement closer to where he crouched. He saw a small group of creatures-huge, gangly beasts with green skin and gaping, fang-studded jaws-moving steadily away from the mass. They came forward in long strides, toward the ridge he watched from. In fact, they came toward the very ravine he had followed in his climb.

They came toward him’

The colors faded as Halloran and Daggrande looked at Erixitl in astonishment. For a second, the pair had stood in the warm wash of light, very bright yet somehow vaguely cooling in the dry desert air.

“How-how did you do that?” Hal asked softy.

“It is the power of pluma” she answered, suddenly uncomfortable, “didn’t do anything. But look, it seems to have captured their attention!”

Indeed, they saw the horde in the valley surge toward them. Even at this distance, they heard the shrieks and howls, felt the pounding of weapons and feet upon the

ground.

“Let’s go!” Hal urged, and they swiftly started down the opposite side of the slope. Though they could no longer see the beasts of the Viperhand, the presence of the monsters lurked like a heavy cloud just beyond the ridge. They knew that soon it would wash up and over.

They saw with dismay that they descended toward a torturous landscape of jagged gullies, sharp outcrops of rock, and broad stretches of cracked and broken ground. Far away, blue with haze even through the clear air, stood another ridgeline.

Above them, the eagle still floated effortlessly through the sky. The great bird circled slowly, always leading them eastward. If they followed him, they would have to traverse the bleak and tortured ground before them.

“How are we going to cross that?” groaned Halloran.

“There! Follow Poshtli” Erix pointed as the great eagle dove toward the ground. It appeared to follow the course of a twisting, broken chasm. From where they stood, they couldn’t see the bottom.

Half-sliding, half-scrambling, they plunged down the steep slope. Their route took them right to the lip of the gully, and they saw a fairly clear floor of dirt. It took but another minute to find a negotiable route down into the gulch.

They looked upward between a pair of steep, rocky cliffs and saw only a narrow strip of sky above. On the bottom, they felt a little more secure, since only something airborne or standing at the very lip of the little canyon would be able to see them. Puffing with exertion, they started along the level ground, relieved to see that the eagle followed each twist and turn of the canyon above them.

For several hours, they pressed forward, not speaking, dripping with sweat, pausing only long enough to take a few drops of refreshment from their still-bulging waterskins.

Fortunately the canyon floor followed a generally eastward course, with many small twists leading slightly to the north or south.

It was at their third brief rest, as each rationed a few tiny drops from the skins, that Hal stiffened. Immediately the other two came alert. Daggrande’s eyebrows raised questioningly.

“1 heard something,” Halloran mouthed silently. He drew Helmstooth, his keen longsword, and began to creep along the canyon floor. A few feet before them, the gully curved to the right, concealing the next stretch of its course.

Crouching, Hal raised the sword before him as he approached the turn. Then he sprang forward, turning to the side and stabbing the weapon viciously.

He almost fell as he suddenly twisted away, desperately pulling back before his thrust struck home. His initial astonishment grew into full-blown shock.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

Daggrande and Erix watched in amazement as Jhatli crept from behind the concealing rock.

“I–I came to warn you,” the youth whispered. The urgency in his voice assured their attention.

“Of what? Why did you leave the others?” Halloran’s anger filled his voice.

“The others!” Jhatli’s indignation came through as scorn. “This is where 1 should be! 1 told you, I will be a warrior, not one who spends his life fleeing enemies like the rest of my people.”

“Warn us?” interjected Erixitl quietly. “Warn us against what?”

“There’s an ambush up ahead. Monsters-big, green ones! They watched you enter this canyon, and now they wait at the rim to kill you!”

Halloran squinted at Jhatli, but he believed the lad immediately. “Trolls. That was courageous of you. How far away are they?”

“I will show you, but first let us get out of this low place!”

They scrambled up a shallow draw in the slope. Once again on the slopes above the deep floor, they felt vulnerable. But they moved carefully, and could see no sign of the trolls as they emerged from the canyon.

They crept forward no more than a hundred paces, however, when Jhatli pointed. They saw three of the green humanoids crouched at the rim of the canyon, peering expectantly downward.

“There are more-six or eight-on the other side,” Jhatli explained. “But I saw only these three over here.”

“Let’s try to slip away while they’re still expecting us down below,” Erixitl urged. The plan made sense, so they worked away from the canyon, slowly moving from one sheltering mound to another. Fortunately the rough ground made concealment easy.

It was almost good enough.

“Let’s pick up the pace a bit,” suggested Hal after they had left the trolls some distance behind. Accompanied by Jhatli now, they started toward the distant ridge, scrambling over, around, and through the many jagged obstacles in their path.

The roar from beside them was their first warning of attack. A pair of massive trolls reared up on a boulder, howling and barking, obviously calling to others of their kind.

Daggrande reacted instantaneously. He raised his heavy crossbow and let fly a thick steel bolt. The missile tore into the chest of the nearest troll, exploding from its back in a shower of gore. Bellowing, the creature toppled backward, out of sight.

The second troll leaped toward them, but Hal’s reaction was nearly as quick as his old companion’s. He felt the tingling of pluma around his wrists, the tiny cuffs of feathers adding to his strength. Helmstooth carved a silver arc in the air and sliced right through the troll’s midsection. Soundlessly the two halves fell to the ground, wriggling in a growing pool of black blood.

But Hal’s gullet rose in horror as the two halves of the troll didn’t cease their movement. With horrifying determination, the torso began to crawl forward, using its taloned hands to pull itself along. The trail of black blood spurting from the wound slowed to a trickle and finally ceased altogether. Even as Halloran moved away, a tiny pair of legs sprouted from the wound, growing slowly, but with visible and inexorable progression, Hal stumbled backward, gagging in horror.

The legs, meanwhile, kicked randomly. That portion, too, quickly ceased bleeding. Though the regeneration proceeded more slowly, a small lump of flesh formed at the wound and began to sprout upward.

“Look out!” Erixitl screamed, and Halloran saw movement beyond the boulder. Horrified, he saw the troll that had been shot by Daggrande slowly claw its way back onto the rock. Then he saw more green heads-a whole file of trolls-moving up to attack.

“Run!” he shouted, swinging the deadly blade until his companions started to move away. He heard the chunk of Daggrande’s weapon, and a second quarrel transfixed the troll’s forehead.

But now six, eight, even more of the beasts swarmed toward them. Halloran spun and raced after his companions, his heart chilling at the thought of Erixitl’s peril. Once again he stopped and turned, driving the first troll back and lopping a hand off another, a hand that continued to crawl, horribly, after its escaping quarry.

They dashed along a dusty path that slowly twisted upward along a narrow ridge. Halloran turned frequently to hack at the nearest trolls. Apparently the beasts felt pain, for they cowered back from his crushing blows, though they quickly leaped back to the pursuit as soon as the man turned away.

Daggrande paused to load and launch another missile. The force of the bolt knocked a troll from the narrow ridge, sending the beast tumbling in a cloud of dust to the gully below. Halloran knocked another into space with a clobbering blow from Helmstooth, but he faced the grim realization that all he could do was slow down their advance. He could not kill them.

Jhatli threw rocks, revealing a surprising strength in his youthful body as he lifted good-sized boulders over his head and pitched them at the green-skinned monstrosities. In the

lead, Erixitl tried to pick the safest route along the crest of the eroded sandstone ridge. It narrowed perilously until they worked their way along a trail only a foot or two wide, with steeply sloping drops to either side of them.

Halloran stumbled, almost rolling off the ridge. He caught himself with his free hand but then looked up in horror. A troll lunged for him. Still off-balance, he knew he could not counter the creature’s attack.

Then a black and white shape soared across his vision as, with a shrill cry of defiance, the great eagle darted past them. The bird’s powerful talons seized the monster’s coarse black hair and pulled it roughly to the side. With a harsh bark of anger, the troll tumbled from the narrow crest, the eagle releasing its hold to pull powerfully upward again. Screeching and howling, the creature slid and bounced down the jagged slope, until it finally stopped, broken and motionless, against an outcrop of rock. Even from this height, they could see the twisted limbs and gashed, bleeding skin slowly start to heal.

Halloran sprang to his feet, recovering his guard in time to meet the next troll. The beast, drool spattering from its black, fang-studded maw, growled savagely but stayed just beyond reach of the deadly steel. Hal lunged and stabbed and slashed, but always the gangly creature, towering high over the human’s head, stepped nimbly out of the way. Loose rocks rolled from beneath the mans feet, bouncing and tumbling into space on either side of the ridge.

Halloran briefly considered casting a spell-one of the few he had learned as an apprentice magic-user. He quickly discarded the thought, knowing a magic missile or enlarge spell would be of little use.

“C’mon! Keep moving!” Daggrande snapped in frustration from behind Hal. The dwarf itched for a chance to bring his keen axe to bear, but the ridge was too narrow, and in any event, he knew that the swordsman, with his enchanted sword and the power of pluma in his arms, could do far more damage to their enemies. Instead, the dwarf loaded another of his dwindling supply of quarrels into his crossbow, remaining alert for a chance to shoot.

Halloran backed along the ridge, barely holding the lead troll at bay. Then his boot snagged on an outcrop of rock and he fell heavily. In that same instant, the troll sprang.

But Daggrande was there. He released his missile, and the heavy bolt tore into the troll’s chest, right through the brand of the Viperhand- With a gurgling howl, the beast tumbled away, and by the time the next of the monsters lunged forward, Halloran had regained his feet. He met the charge with the bloody edge of Helmstooth, and again he managed to hold the rear for his retreating party.

The companions followed the serpentine landform for a half mile, staying just ahead of the trolls. Several of the beasts followed their progress at the foot of the ridge, and each of the humans knew that any misstep would send him rolling straight into deadly talons and fangs.

Suddenly their progress halted. Hal risked a quick glance at Erixitl and saw that she stood at the brink of a sheer drop. There was no way down, and still the trolls pressed at the rear. Below, several of the beasts had started to scramble up the steep sides of the ridge.

“A neat trap, this,” grunted Daggrande. He fired another bolt at a climbing troll, sending the creature tumbling back to the bottom. “Two left,” he said ominously as he reloaded.

With a chorus of growls and snaps, the trolls rushed forward to the attack.