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“ Now Dead-Eye Dick, he bangs ‘em quick-he cast the first aside,

“ And made a dart at the second tart, when the swing doors opened wide.

“ Then entered into that hall of sin, into that harlot’s hell,

“ Walked a lusty maid who was unafraid, and her name was Eskimo Nell…”

Orson’s ears were getting red. “Kevin. Kevin, me boyo. Don’t do this. I’ll make it worth your while.”

“What’ja have in mind?”

“My next dessert.”

Max choked. “Is that all it takes? Hey-anybody ever heard ‘Kafoozalem’? ‘ Hi-ho Kafoozalem, harlot of Jerusalem. Prostitute of ill-repute and daughter of a Rabbi-”

Orson’s scream echoed up and down the mountain.

They heard the sound before they saw anything. The group was far above the clouds now, and the mountain trail was little more than ribbon-wide. Robin Bowles actually lost his footing once. He should have fallen but bounced back onto the ledge, propelled by he knew not what. A hidden net? Author control? They were in the midst of clouds, barely able to see more than a few feet. Nets would make sense.

The first sound they heard was a tittering, scraping sound, followed by a dull crack.

Snow Goose crept up to the front of the line, to where the trail dead-ended against a ridge of rocks. She stealthily climbed up, and peered over. Within moments she returned, shuddering. “I… I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Orson’s embarrassment evaporated in a flare of curiosity. “Max? Let’s take a look.” He hefted his mutated spear as if he meant business. Maybe he did. He and Francis Hebert were the first to the top of the ridge: Hebert moved like an Indian scout. Max puffed as he climbed the last few feet, and then gaped at what he saw.

In a saucer-shaped stone depression thirty feet across lay a nest, a nest for birds the size of rocs. The parents were gone, and there had been six eggs in the nest. Two of the eggs had been shattered, the chicks within dragged out and brutally hacked apart.

Attackers were at work on a third egg. They might have been barrels covered with black hair… or obscenely fat, four-limbed spiders. Their fingernails were immense and crusted with filth, and grew out of the fingers like knives stuck on the ends of sausages. They chortled as a third Thunderbird chick, a wet, yellow-feathered infant the size of a plump turkey, struggled sluggishly for life. They tore it to pieces with their fingernails and consumed it raw. Each of the six monstrosities was larger than a man.

Orson ducked back beneath the ridge of rock. His breathing was asthmatically harsh.

“Do you know what that is?” Hebert’s little eyes were wide with excitement.

“ Yes, I know what that is!” Orson said. “The book calls them mountain trolls. Flesh-eaters, man. We don’t want to mess with them. I don’t remember anything about how to survive an encounter.

Hebert checked the action on his rifle, one of the few that hadn’t been converted. “Bull. We can’t let them kill the Thunderbird chicks. This is our chance to look good to the birds!”

Johnny Welsh and Hippogryph had joined them. Without peering up over the edge of the basin, everyone seemed to know exactly what would have to be.

“All right,” Hebert said. “Are we together on this?”

Snow Goose gulped. Yarnall gave the sky a dirty look. “No cheating,” he muttered.

“Then-let’s DO IT!”

Hippogryph and Hebert began firing. Hebert’s Remington was unimpaired by magic, but Hippogryph had to pause to add powder and shot with every blast from the flintlock.

The trolls screamed, their misshapen barrel bodies shuddering with the shock. A monster’s flat, hideous face dissolved to a smear of red light. It fell back twitching.

But the others charged, howling their rage.

With gibbonlike agility they scampered over the rocks, mouths dripping with Thunderchick blood and yolk, impossibly long arms sweeping out like scythes.

Fear froze him for a moment. Then Max broke free, ducked under the sweeping black arms, and thrust upward with his harpoon. The creature swatted the spear aside, and grabbed him by the arm. Not a hologram! Its other hand almost lovingly displayed the foot-long nails, traced them lightly across his neck, and then hissed and drew back-

Yarnall! The Guardsman smashed into it with his war club.

The troll squealed and released Max. Max hit the ground, heart triphammering.

All around him were scuffles, and screaming, and the sound of rocks sliding beneath climbing, running feet.

His hands searched until he found the harpoon. He grabbed it in the middle and turned as the troll advanced on Yarnall. Screaming, he raised the spear. It plunged deep into the furred back and-

(For just a moment, he wondered if he had seen correctly. In other circumstances he would have sworn he saw the head of the spear retract, and the flesh around the “wound” actually close in to grasp the haft. Ah, well…)

— the troll gasped in pain, blood flowing from its mouth. It turned and ran. Max wrenched his spear from its back as it plunged over the side of the cliff and disappeared into the clouds below.