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The camp is attacked . . .
From the low-lying rises beyond the camp, five pairs of stone dark eyes surveyed the happenings. Little fires dotted the area where the Elves and Dwarves had gathered for the night. Along the outside of the camp’s perimeter were picketed the horses; three clumps of them at equal distances along the outside edge. And beyond that there were armed warriors, Dwarves and Elves stationed, their weapons at hand.
A small band of Hill Trolls had come in as close as they dared to the camp. Unlike their cousins, those lumbering creatures of the night – the Stone Trolls, these trolls had no fear of the sun’s light. They had, in fact, been tracking the Elven party all that day as they moved into their territory.
They were smaller, too, than their stone cousins. The height of a man, in fact, but larger built, and covered with hard scales. They were savage creatures; very territorial. And in them was a deep-seated hatred of all those who were fair to look on. Their eyes glittered at the sight of the Elves, and their large hands clenched about their stout handled, stone-headed hammers.
‘The horses,’ growled the leader. ‘Make sure we get enough of them to feed on for several days. Kill the foul Elves. Mash their pretty faces into crow food.’
‘Them Dwarves is what I want!’ another rasped. ‘Little fiends with their sharp pointy axes! Bash their helmets into their shoulders, I will!’ ‘Yesss!’ snarled another. ‘Them and their nosy ways come picking around our hills for the shiny stones that belong to us!’
On silent feet, the five trolls fanned out about the half of the camp’s edge nearest them, trying to stay downwind of the horses. The leader raised his mighty hammer and gave a bestial bellow as he started at a dead run toward the now nearby camp.
His companions picked up the cry and moved in, bashing at whatever stood in their way . . .
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