killed, though. She, above all the others in her party, understood the motives and methods of the assassin band, and she reserved no mercy for anyone who would don the silver-and-black mask of the amoral guild.
Ivan, directly under the window, looked up in frustration as Pikel sought a secure perch in the tree branch's shaky outer reaches. Finally, when Pikel seemed on solid enough footing, Ivan placed the edge of his axe against the house and ran it slowly down the wall, scraping and bumping over each shingle.
A moment later, a curious face peered out beside the curtain. The man, sword in hand, straightened, seeing nothing there, and gradually peeked over the sill,
"Ha!" he cried, spotting Ivan. Above, a branch cracked.
"Me brother," Ivan explained, pointing up.
"Oh," the confused assassin replied.
"Ooooooo!" Pikel roared, swinging down like a pendulum, his dub thick end out, like a fat lance, and securely braced. The man tried to get his sword in front of him, but got slammed in the chest and went flying away as if he had been sitting in the basket of a giant-cranked catapult.
"Come on!" Ivan cried, hopping up to the windowsill and pulling himself in beside his upside-down brother.
Pikel shrugged helplessly; things had not gone exactly as planned. The branch had snapped and Pikel's thick ankle was firmly stuck in a fork, leaving him hanging helplessly.
"Come on," Ivan, now inside the room, said again. He grabbed Pikel's free hand and tugged, dragging the dwarf halfway into the room.
"Uh-uh," Pikel tried to explain.
Thinking his brother was just being stubborn, Ivan dropped his axe, grabbed with both hands, and yanked with all his strength. Pikel came into the room, the bending, grasping branch being pulled in right behind him.
Vander held the barn door firmly, supporting it tightly against its hinges so that it would not creak so loudly as he gingerly cracked it open. He couldn't see the fight at the window from his angle, but he did see the trembling branches of the elm above the corner of the farmhouse roof. That, and the previous squawking of the chickens, told the giant beyond doubt that intruders were about.
Finder stopped, staring incredulously at a ball of fire hovering in the air a few feet above him, just outside the barn door. The firbolg tensed, sensing the danger, sensing that if he moved, the pausing magic would go off.
Why was the spellcaster waiting?
Slowly, binder leaned back into the barn.
A line of flames roared down from the fireball, scorching the ground at the firbolg's feet, Finder dove to the barn floor, pulling the door closed behind him, fearing that the magic would follow him in.
Black smoke rose from the bottom of the door.
Everything went pitch black.
The stubborn firbolg rose to his feet, knowing that he had to get out the door, out of the trap.
Everything went absolutely silent.
Vander growled and eased one foot in front of the other, toward the door. He had no way of knowing if the flames remained, but he had to find out.
He heard no sound, but it seemed as if the ground rushed up in front of him, twirling dust nipping at his eyes and forcing him to fall back. He tripped over unseen crates and crashed silently to the dirt.
The disoriented firbolg's vision returned in the blink of an eye, the magical darkness dispelled. Vander heard the snap of wood as a plank broke under his hand, and he heard, too, a whirling sound above him that alerted him a moment before he tried to rise.
The firbolg stared helplessly at the air only inches above his head, at the air that had suddenly filled with magical manifestations of whirling blades.
Vander heard the door creak open and looked across his body to see a young man in a wide-brimmed blue hat.
"The blades will cut," the young man said evenly.
The trapped Vander didn't doubt it for a minute.
"Ooooooo!"
Danica, making her way toward the far side of the farmhouse, heard Pikel's cry as the branch holding Pikel flew out of the window.
When the pliable branch reached its end and reversed direction, Pikel's ankle slipped free and the dwarf went sailing, turning a perfect two-and-a-half back somersault to land headfirst into a pile of dust.
"I telled ye not to let go!" a frustrated Ivan, holding Pikel's club, shouted from the window.
Pikel shrugged, adjusted his cooking pot, and rushed back to join his brother.
Together, the dwarves crept across the small room. It had two doors, both fortunately closed, one along the wall to