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."

"Cry over a firbolg?" Brianna scoffed. Despite her retort, the princess felt the tears welling in her eyes. Looking away, she added. "It's the orphans that concern me. Tavis may try to take them with him."

"Why?" asked Morten. "They'd only make his life harder."

"Fire giants will trade silver and gold for human children."

Morten shook his head. "No firbolg would do such a thing."

"We have no idea what Tavis might or might not do, but it's better not to take chances." Brianna's tone was at once certain and regretful. "Besides, Tavis isn't really a firbolg. He was raised among our kind, not yours."

It way common knowledge that Tavis had been born under what the firbolg's called a "red moon," meaning his mother had died in childbirth. In accordance with the tribe's stern code of justice, the infant had been held responsible for the death and banished. A visiting bear trapper had carried the babe to Stagwick's only lodge, where the kindly Isa Wirr had taken the child to raise among the kingdom's many other orphans.

"It doesn't matter who raised him." Morten said. "Tavis's, blood is firbolg. It'd freeze in his veins if he tried to sell those children into slavery."

"There's nothing I'd like to believe more." The princess had to struggle to speak around the catch in her throat. "But we can't ignore that verbeeg thief. If firbolg blood's so important, how could Tavis lie to us about him?"

Morten scowled, unable to offer an explanation.

"I know how." Brianna said. "He learned from the humans he grew up with. And when he joined the border patrol, he learned to do worse things."

Morten shook his head. "No. Tavis was trained by Runolf Saemon, and I hear Runolf's a good man," he said. "The king relies on him."

"My father relies on all his soldiers. That doesn't mean he trusts them," Brianna countered. "As for Runolf, I don't know what to make of him. He seemed to be avoiding me."

"He was nervous," Morten replied. "Like most men when they meet you for the first time."

"Perhaps, or maybe he was nervous because he knew Tavis to be a thief." The words left Brianna with a queasy, empty feeling in her stomach, but the princess had learned long ago to trust her mind over her emotions. "There are plenty of humans who think little enough of stealing to look the other way when their friend is the thief."

Morten considered this for a time, then shrugged. "You'd know better than me," he said. "But if you're so worried about the orphans, why leave them with Tavis in the first place?"

"Because Tavis Burdun has slain frost giants with that bow of his," Brianna replied. "And getting ourselves killed would not save the children."

Morten's eyes flashed in indignation. "I'm every bit that runt's match," he growled. "I'd cleave his skull in a blow."

Brianna grimaced at the image of her bodyguard's huge sword slicing through the scout's brain. "A moment ago, you were defending Tavis," the princess observed. "Now you're ready to split his head?"

"All I said was I could," Morten said, his petulant tone betraying his injured pride. "There's a difference."

"I didn't mean to insult your fighting skills." It was as close to an apology as Brianna would utter. "But whoever won, it would do the children no good to witness the combat. Tavis is the only father they know, and the sight of him killing or being killed would be a heavy burden for such young hearts."

"Dobbin Manor has fifty men. Not even Tavis would fight so many." Morten said. "Why not demand the earl's help?"

"Because I don't want the lord mayor as a husband," the princess explained. "And it'd be just like the ruthless swine to keep the children hostage until I married him."

"How could he do that?" Morten demanded, his brow furrowed in puzzlement. "That would violate the law!"

Brianna rolled her eyes at the firbolg's naivete. "Earls know many paths around the law," the princess said. "Which is why we must hurry. The only way to ensure the children's safety is to send a company of father's guards back before anyone-whether it be Tavis or Karl Dobbin-can take them from the inn."

With that, the princess urged her mount forward.

Morten caught Blizzard by the inane. The horse swung her head around with teeth bared, but the firbolg stiffened his arm and held her steady. The marc's mouth snapped shut two feet shy of his throat. She whinnied in anger and tried to jerk free of her captor's grasp, but even Blizzard was not strong enough to overpower the bodyguard.

"I can't let you enter the wood until I've had a look." Morten said. "If you can't wait, we'll just have to go back."

"Then make your search quick," Brianna snapped. "If you let Tavis disappear with those children, I'll replace you with a fomorian. He might not fight well, but he'd be better company."

Morten chuckled at the ludicrous threat. Fomorians were the most hideous and, wicked of all giant-kin, with deformed bodies and twisted, evil personalities. Comparing one to a firbolg was like comparing a turkey buzzard to an eagle, although they had descended from the same species, at heart the two were as different as could be.

"I'll hunt the ambusher down fast as I can."

The firbolg pulled his shield off his back and buckled his helmet, then strode forward. As he entered the aspen grove. The breeze rose and the flashing aspen leaves rustled more loudly, reminding Brianna of a sound she had heard a hundred times before: the tense murmur of the earls and their wives waiting for her father to enter the banquet hall. It was a sound as full of dread as it was of hope, for such gatherings were polite forms of battle, where the prestige of great families rose and fell on the slippery course of well-told jests or foolish slips of the tongue. But in the next few moments, she reminded herself, it would be lives and limbs that were maimed, not the reputations of pompous and vain men.

Brianna watched Morten creep deeper into the wood, his helmeted head swiveling back and forth in search of the ogre. The firbolg held his buckler high, so that it covered his flank from the chin down to the ribs. He waved his right arm slowly up and down, keeping the fiat of his sword turned outward as if ready to slap away a flying dart or stone. Every now and then, he stopped and raised his nose to test the air for his quarry's scent, but the princess saw no indication that her bodyguard smelled anything unusual. By the time Morten had advanced fifty paces into the grove, Brianna's patience was at an end. If something dangerous was lurking among the aspens, the firbolg would have flushed it out, and now he was just wasting her time.

Morten suddenly stopped. He spun around and raised his buckler over his head. At the same time. Brianna heard a small bowstring strum from the forest canopy. A dark shaft streaked down from the quivering leaves and ricocheted off the shield with a sharp ping. The firbolg let out a shout that the princess could not understand, then swung his great sword at a nearby tree. His blade bit deep, but fell far short of cleaving through the thick trunk. Still holding his buckler over his head, he threw himself at the bole, slamming his shoulder into it so hard.that the aspen shuddered from base to crown.