Scowling, Brianna pulled a silver-handled axe from it's saddle sheath. A cool mountain breeze hissed down from the aspen-covered slope ahead. Though she smelled nothing but damp leaves on its breath, the princess knew her mount well enough to realize Blizzard had caught the scent of danger. She laid her weapon across her lap and, remaining as still as her horse, studied the path before her.
A canopy of small, heart-shaped leaves hung over the road. They quivered incessantly in the light breeze, flashing waxy green and dusty silver, filling the air with a rustle just loud enough to cloak the whisper of creeping feet. Supporting this shimmering vault were hundreds of papery white tree trunks, rising from a steep, boulder-strewn slope with ample cover for an ambush.
This was Coggin's Rise, named for an ancient carl who had been found on its slopes mysteriously torn limb from limb, and Brianna had learned better than to travel it recklessly. Once, she had nearly lost Blizzard when a cave bear sprang from among the boulders along the trail, and another time a marauding mountain giant had chased her from the base of the hill all the way to Castle Hartwick. In spite of her eagerness to return home, she thought it wise to let her bodyguard inspect the wood.
Brianna twisted around to look at Morten, lumbering Up the trail fifty paces back. After leaving Tavis's inn, she had ridden hard for half an hour, and the effort of keeping pace with Blizzard had nearly done the firbolg in. He wore his helmet pushed half off his head and his leather armor fastened too loosely to offer protection. His buckler hung across his back, slung in place by a rope strung beneath his armpits, and his feet had grown so heavy that he stumbled over the slightest obstacle. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground, and he was panting so hard the princess saw his chest heave each time he gasped for breath.
A guilty pang shot through Brianna's breast, for her anger at Tavis had overwhelmed her concern for the firbolg. Even a fire giant would have found it difficult to keep pace with Blizzard for more than a league, and the princess had forced Morten to run several times that distance. It was a good thing something had alarmed her horse, or she might have run her poor bodyguard to death. It might even be possible that an apology was in order.
Blizzard snorted again, vanquishing all thoughts of penance. A crow screeched, then the crack of a snapping branch ricocheted through the aspen trees. Catching a faint whiff of something sour and rancid, like curdled milk, Brianna twisted around to face the forest. She saw a black flash as the crow rose through the quivering canopy of leaves, but that was all. Among the white thinks, nothing stirred.
Still, the smell did not vanish, and Brianna glanced over her shoulder. "Will you hurry, Morten?" she called. "I smell something."
The firbolg's chin rose and he sniffed at the breeze, but he did not seem to smell anything. Nevertheless, from somewhere he summoned the strength to sprint. A dozen thudding steps later, he stopped at Brianna's side and braced his hands on his knees. He lifted his head and tried to catch the scent, but he was gasping so hard he could not draw air through his nose.
"I don't smell anything," he wheezed.
"The odor's not very strong," Brianna said, "but it's sour."
"Maybe bear or elk," Morten suggested. "They both stink."
Brianna scowled. "Wouldn't I know if it was an animal?" As a priestess of Hiatea, she was familiar with all the creatures of the wild, able to identify any one of them by their tracks, droppings, calls-or scent. This is too rancid. It's more like a goatherd's cheese hut."
The firbolg went pale, the fatigue draining from his face as though he had just risen from a nap in a shady snowbank. Fixing his gaze on the woods ahead, he raised himself to his full height and tightened the buckles of his armor. "Ogre!" he hissed.
"You can't be serious," Brianna scoffed. She found herself craning her neck to look up at her bodyguard, despite the fact that she still sat upon her big mare's back. "No ogre would dare come this close to Castle Hartwick."
Evidently, the firbolg did not share her conviction. He pulled his helmet down and drew his huge sword. "Wait here." he said. "I'll scout the wood."
"We'll go together," Brianna countered. She was far from convinced that something as dangerous as an ogre lurked in the woods ahead. "I don't have time to wait."
"Better late than dead," the firbolg grunted. "Besides, the dance doesn't start until dusk. We've got plenty of time."
"I will have to bathe and dress," Brianna snapped. "Or do you suggest I enter the ball smelling of horse and trail?"
"You weren't worried about that before you found Tavis hiding the verbeeg." Morten replied. "You just want to get home so you can cry."
