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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.
    Brianna heard the bowstring throb a second time, and another arrow bounced off Morten’s shield. Searching the treetops for the firbolg’s attacker, the princess saw nothing but a lanky shadow lurking among the highest branches, its true shape blurred by flashing aspen leaves.
    Morten jerked his sword free and swung again at the white bole. This time, yellow chips flew in all directions, and Brianna saw a wedge-shaped void appear in the wood. The firbolg smashed his shoulder into the trunk. A sharp crack rang through the forest and, as the aspen toppled, the shadowy figure in the high branches dropped out of the tree.
    The ogre looked almost as large as Brianna’s bodyguard, with long shoots of leafy boughs sticking out from his body at all angles. As the princess screamed a Warning, the dark shape slammed into Morten’s shield. The firbolg grunted and collapsed, his attacker still on top. A spindly arm raised a stone mace above Morten’s head and brought the weapon down. There was a sick thud, then a barbarous chortle tolled through the forest. The mace rose again.
    Brianna hefted her bejewelled axe. Before she could spur Blizzard forward, her bodyguard smashed his steel buckler into his attacker’s bony face. A loud crunch shot through the grove, and the ogre pitched over backward. He rolled away, only to spring up as Morten clambered to his own feet.
    The princess held her mount steady. The ogre stood with his back to her, ripping boughs of leafy camouflage off his body. His skinny torso was haggard and stooped, with hunched shoulders and gangling arms that ended in huge, gnarl-fingered hands. The brute was a striking contrast to the bloated churls that travelers from the south described when they spoke of ogres. And, judging by tales old earls liked to tell, he would also be much more dangerous. Unlike their oafish cousins of the warm lands, northern