Lord of the Rose by Doug Niles

the back wall. In a dark alcove near the back he could see haunches of dried meat, many of them. There was a great bed in the corner, a bed fit for an exalted chieftain such as Bonechisel Hob.
    The issue was decided by the apathetic nature of this giant himself. The fellow had only now raised his head to blink stupidly at the strangers who had just spent several minutes smashing in his front door. Clearly, this giant was not blessed with lightning-quick reactions. The expression on his face bespoke an utter lack of intelligence and imagination. Perhaps it would not be madness to battle him for the prize of this shelter. Indeed, Bonechisel thought, a sudden, swarming attack might be the best option.
    “Go!” cried Bonechisel, clapping one of his lackeys on the shoulder. “Kill giant!”
    The goblin yelped as his chieftain pushed him forward. Two other warriors, equally slow and witless, lurched after, propelled by strong kicks to their posteriors.
    “Attack!” cried Bonechisel, raising his club and advancing behind the screen of the three milling goblins.
    The giant shook his head and blinked. His eyes went to something at the edge of the room—a bed for an infant, the hobgoblin perceived in a quick glance—and the giant’s muscles tensed as he was suddenly galvanized by fear. At the same time, the three goblins in front of Bonechisel hesitated.
    Disgusted, the hobgoblin charged between his cohorts in a bull rush. His axe, already raised above his head, whistled downward in a wild swing just as the giant sprang to his feet. The jagged edge of granite struck the fellow right in the middle of his forehead, the blow knocking him back into his seat then sending the chair toppling over backward, spilling the giant onto the floor where he lay motionless.
    With a wild whoop of triumph, Bonechisel brought the axe down again, and again. The three other goblins, inspired by their chieftain’s example, joined in the fun, rushing forward with their own stone clubs to batter and bash the helpless giant,until his body had been reduced to a shapeless pulp.
    Bonechisel danced around the corpse of his slain foe in an ecstasy of triumph. “I am Giant-Slayer!” he crowed. He clubbed one of his lackeys. “Call me Giant-Slayer!” he ordered.
    “Hail Bonechisel Giant-Slayer!” the goblin, no fool, shouted.
    The hobgoblin danced to the back of the room then yelped when he realized that the great bed was occupied—by the mate of the giant. He bashed his club against the female and was startled by her utter lack of reaction. Leaning in, he sniffed. The scent of death filled his nostrils. Pulling back the quilt, he saw this was an ogress, not a giantess. A shrewder brain that Bonechisel’s might have deduced that this oddly matched couple were outcasts from both giant and ogre tribes.
    The chieftain remembered the third denizen of this stone house. He looked toward the infant bed and saw that Laka was peering over the lip of the cradle. Caught up in the blood-frenzy, Bonechisel raised his club and howled aloud, starting toward the last of his enemies.
    To his surprise, Laka reached into the cradle, snatched up the infant, then turned and snarled at the chieftain with a startling display of big teeth. Her eyes blazed, and the import of her actions was clear and defiant.
    “Give me babe!” demanded the hobgoblin. “I kill! I am Bonechisel Giant-Slayer!”
    “This babe mine!” she declared. “Go kill someplace else!”
    The infant was squalling and fussing, and the hobgoblin would have liked nothing better than to smash its little brains out on the floor, but he noted the glare of determination, of pure courage, in his mate’s eye. He decided that killing this baby was not worth subjecting himself to the female wrath and recrimination that would follow.
    Even as he stared in disbelief, his pig-eyes squinting, Laka slumped down to the floor, opened her tunic, and gave the baby one of her breasts for suckling. The baby half-breed’s