by Troy Denning
“All—all I have is a sparking steel.” Galgadayle sounded forlorn. During the time it took to start a fire and make a torch, the seer could well bleed to death.
“I have a magical light,” Tavis said. “But I don’t want to attract fire giants.”
Galgadayle sighed in relief, and when he spoke, he sounded like a dead man to whom the gods had given a second life. “You won’t,” he said. “There’s no need to worry about that.”
“How do you know?” Now that the seer’s thoughts were on saving his own life, Tavis could try to draw out the information he needed. “If a straggler attacks while I’m pulling out the steel, there won’t be much I can do.”
“There … aren’t any … stragglers.” Galgadayle sounded as though the frustration of trying to reassure Tavis would kill him long before he bled to death. “Our warriors … killed them … all of them.”
The high scout’s stomach felt queasy and heavy. If the fire giants were dead, Brianna was with the firbolgs. “In that case, maybe I should fetch your shaman,” Tavis suggested. “It would be safer if he removed the blade.”
“No!” Galgadayle objected. “I won’t live … long enough.”
“They couldn’t have gone far.”
The seer started to reply, then thought better of it and glared at Tavis. “You’re as devious … as a human,” he said. “Can you lie, too?”
“I would if I could,” Tavis said truthfully. “I’ve sworn to protect the queen, and I’d do anything to keep that vow.”
With that, the scout took Mountain Crusher in both hands and whispered, “tnaillirbsilisaB.” A rune flared with sapphire light, then the entire bow radiated a pale blue glow. Tavis leaned the weapon where it would illuminate the injury. He pulled his dagger and cut Galgadayle’s fur cloak away from the wound. The scout had little trouble finding the end of the steel shard, for it protruded from a short crescent of severed sinew and sliced meat. Whoever had planted the blade had deliberately tried to work it back and forth, a vicious killing technique more commonly employed by assassins and thieves than by honorable soldiers. Tavis knew instantly who had done this to the seer.
“You’re lucky, Galgadayle.” Tavis pulled a wad of soft, clean cloth from his satchel and laid it on a stone beside the seer. “Avner usually strikes truer than this.”
“Who?”
“The one who stabbed you in the back.” Tavis pinched the stub of the broken sword between his fingers and jostled it, lightly, to see how securely the blade was lodged. “I hope you didn’t kill him.”
Galgadayle shook his head. “The coward got away,” he hissed. “But if I—”
“Got away?” Tavis interrupted. If Avner had escaped, so had Brianna. The youth’s ethics were certainly questionable, but not his loyalty. “Your warriors didn’t capture him?”
Galgadayle’s head pivoted toward the mountainside, then he realized his mistake and looked away. “I’m feeling weak.”
Tavis glanced up the gloom-shrouded slope. He saw only a purple, inky darkness as deep as the Abyss itself, but he was smiling when he looked back to his patient. “Avner has taken my wife into the mines, hasn’t he?”
Galgadayle’s eyes widened. “I don’t … I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Before his distracted patient realized what was happening, Tavis pulled the shard from Galgadayle’s back. The steel slipped out of the wound like a dagger from its sheath, and it was removed before the seer could open his mouth to scream. The fragment was about two feet long and covered with a dark coating of slime and blood.
“You … tricked me!” Galgadayle seemed more surprised than angered.
“You have nothing to complain about.” Tavis tossed the bloody shard aside. “The blade came out in one piece, didn’t it?”
He used the cloth he had set aside earlier to stanch the heavy flow of blood, then guided Galgadayle’s hand to the wound. Once he knew his patient was strong enough to hold the dressing in place, he helped the seer sit up. Tavis took his healing potion from his cloak and uncorked the purple flask.
“Drink this.” He placed the elixir in Galgadayle’s free hand. “And when you feel well enough to move, find someplace warm to spend the night.”
The seer did not lift the flask to his lips. “You will not … you cannot save the child,” he said. “There are many … many miles of tunnel up there.”
“I’ll find my way.” Tavis stood and grabbed his rune-etched bow. “Now drink up. I’d hate to see you spill the last of Simon’s elixir.”
The seer lifted the potion to his lips and downed it in a single gulp. When he finished, he raised the empty flask to Tavis.
“I thank you for my life.” He still sounded weak, but the anxious edge had slipped from his voice. “And I would repay your favor with … with a warning.”
“I’m listening,” Tavis said. “But if this is about the child—”
Galgadayle shook his head. “Watch out for the … verbeegs … and the fomorians,” he said. “And pray … pray that Raeyadfourne finds your wife … before they do.”
* * * * *
Brianna’s litter-bearers were exhausted. Their efficient double-time trot had degenerated into a disorderly jog occasionally punctuated by the thud of tripping feet. The sound of their labored breathing echoed through the tunnel like the wheezing of a punctured forge bellows.
The party was passing through a labyrinth of winding passages that the tunnel wizards called “the drifts,” where the narrow corridors crossed and recrossed each other as they followed the meandering “drift” of the silver veins. The queen did not dare call a rest. Even suspended on her cloak, she felt the stone floor rumbling beneath the heavy boots of her pursuers, and she heard their distant voices echoing louder at each fork in the tunnel.
Brianna did not know what had become of Avner, but it seemed apparent the young scout’s plan had failed. She had heard the crack of his runebullet and, for a short time thereafter, the sounds of pursuit had fallen silent. The queen and her bearers had slowed their pace so he could catch up, but he had never arrived. Then a distant rumble had begun to build behind them and resolved too soon into the tramping boots of a firbolg troop. The front riders had been running hard since, and Brianna had knotted her stomach into a snarl worrying about her young friend.
Kaedlaw stopped suckling, then fixed his handsome blue eyes on Brianna and opened his mouth wide to cry. The noise that came out sounded nothing like a sob; it was more of a long, gurgling growl. Several of the queen’s exhausted bearers cast nervous looks over their shoulders, peering not at the infant, but down the dark passage behind them.
“Carry on,” Brianna said. “It’s only Kaedlaw—commanding to be burped, I imagine.”
“Strangest sound I ever heard a baby make, Majesty,” huffed the torch holder. “Sounds more like a—”
“Marwick, you’d do well to save your wind.” Brianna started to ask the young front rider if he expected a half-firbolg prince to sound the same as his own peasant runt, but she caught herself and said instead, “If you have that much breath left, you can change places with Thatcher.”
A crimson flush crept over Marwick’s face. His green eyes flashed briefly to Kaedlaw, then he fell back and traded his torch for Thatcher’s place at her cloak.
The queen was still using one hand to keep her incision closed, so she balanced her son on her chest and used her free hand to gently pat his back. Kaedlaw’s growl only became louder. She covered him with her shift, thinking he might be cold, but that also failed to silence him.
“Don’t worry, Majesty,” wheezed Gryffitt. “He’s just tired. It’s a rough way to come into the world.” “Yes, it is,” Brianna agreed.
The queen felt as exhausted as Kaedlaw, and that worried her. She had already lost so much blood that she was cold, sleepy, and dizzy, and blood continued to seep from the incision. A dark curtain had begun to descend inside her mind. When it fell completely, her son would be left an or
phan, with nothing more than half-a-dozen exhausted guards to defend him from the firbolgs.
The front riders carried Brianna deeper into the drifts. Always, they strived to follow the largest passage, on the theory that it was the least likely to come to a sudden end. Kaedlaw’s growls gradually abated to mere murmurs, and the clamor of their pursuers grew steadily louder. It was not long before the queen could make out some of what the firbolgs were shouting:
“… clear here.”
“This … empty.”
“Not in here.”
The cries kindled a glimmer of hope in Brianna’s breast. She propped herself on her elbow, then watched the gray walls and mineral-crusted timbers slip past. At the next fork, she ordered her litter-bearers to carry her down the smaller of the two passages.
Thirty paces later, the queen almost missed what she had been looking for. A small drift branched off the main corridor; its entrance was so narrow and ragged that it looked like a shadow. The passage itself was barely as wide as a man’s shoulders, with the walls lying at a cockeyed angle and the floor sloping down toward the heart of the mountain.
“Wait!” Brianna ordered. “Stop here!”
The front riders stumbled to a halt, then Gryffitt cast a nervous glance back toward the fork. “Milady, the firbolgs are closing,” he panted. “We may not have time to backtrack.”
“We’re not backtracking, we’re hiding—in there.” Brianna pointed at the narrow drift, then added, “And I need a volunteer to lure the firbolgs away. Someone fast.”
All eyes turned to Marwick.
“Take the torch back to the fork and go a little way up the passage,” Brianna ordered. “Stay ahead of the firbolgs, but let them catch a glimpse of the light now and then, and don’t go too fast. We don’t want to make it obvious you’re alone.”
“As you wish, milady.” Marwick reluctantly reached for the torch.
Thatcher did not yield the brand. “Majesty, perhaps I should go instead,” he suggested. “Marwick has a family.”
“There’s nothing to worry about,” Gryffitt growled. “Those aren’t fomorians back there. All Marwick has to do is surrender when he runs out of tunnel. If he doesn’t fight, the firbolgs won’t hurt him.”
Gryffitt and another front rider carried Brianna into the cock-eyed drift, tipping her sideways to prevent her broad shoulders from becoming lodged in the narrow confines. The warm stench of sulfur filled the passage, causing Kaedlaw to start murmuring again. The other front riders crammed themselves in behind the queen’s litter; then Marwick took the torch and left, plunging the drift into a darkness as thick as sap. Already, Brianna heard firbolg axes clanging against the walls of nearby tunnels.
Kaedlaw began to complain more loudly, filling the drift with a deep, rumbling growl. Brianna turned his face toward her breast, hoping he would start to suckle again. That only made him angrier. She laid her hand across his cheek to muffle the noise. He still sounded as loud as a snoring bear.
A chorus of shouts erupted from the fork as the firbolgs spotted Marwick’s light. They rushed after him, the fury of their pounding boots shaking the drift walls. The thunder continued for minutes. Kaedlaw’s growls grew ever more ferocious. He kept twisting his head away from Brianna’s hand, determined to make himself heard. The queen found herself holding her breath, as though that would quiet her indignant son. She prayed to Hiatea that the din would continue until he wore himself out.
But Kaedlaw was a strong boy. The thunder gradually began to diminish, and the newborn’s complaints seemed that much louder. Brianna tried to reassure herself with the thought that her pursuers could not possibly hear the child over the hammering of their own boots.
She was finally beginning to believe herself when a hand shook her ankle.
“Thatcher says a firbolg’s coming down the tunnel,” whispered a front rider. “He wants to know if he should attack.”
Brianna appreciated the young man’s diplomacy. He was really hinting that she should find a way to quiet Kaedlaw, but he was too wise to suggest the queen’s child might be placing the party in danger.
“Tell him to be ready, but to hold fast unless I call the order.” Brianna would battle her pursuers to the death, but she was under no illusions that it would save her child. If it came to bloodshed, the rest of the firbolgs would quickly realize they had been tricked. “I’ll do what I can to spare us a fight.”
The queen pressed Kaedlaw more tightly to her breast. She pulled the edge of her cloak over him, but even the heavy fur could not smother his cries. The thunder of the firbolg boots continued to diminish, and she saw the first dim glow of torch light flickering outside the drift. It was growing steadily brighter, as though the warrior were walking carelessly down the passage, not really expecting to be ambushed.
“Kaedlaw, forgive me,” Brianna whispered.
The queen slipped her hand over her son’s face and covered his mouth. He began to struggle, beating and kicking at her chest and trying to twist out of her grasp. Although her fingers muffled his cries, he still had enough air to continue his protests. He sounded more like a fox kit than an infant, but Brianna knew better than to think their pursuer would be fooled. She tightened her grip until she felt her palm pressing into Kaedlaw’s jaw bone, then pinched his nostrils shut and started to count. If the firbolg was still here when she reached a hundred, she would order Thatcher to attack.
A firbolg’s deep voice rang down the corridor outside their hiding place. “It’s no use hiding, Queen,” he called. “We’re going to find you.”
Brianna felt her men tense and heard hand axes swishing from their sheaths.
“Not yet,” she whispered.
The firbolg was trying to draw them out. If he really knew they were here, he would be calling his fellows back, not yelling threats into the dark—that was what Brianna hoped.
The queen’s count reached twenty-five. Kaedlaw finally ran out of breath and fell silent, but he continued to struggle against the smothering hand. Outside the drift, the thunder of the main troop suddenly grew quieter, as though they had rounded a corner in some distant tunnel, and Brianna heard the rustle of heavy boots scuffing across the stone floor outside.
“What’s that bitter scent?” the firbolg called. “Is that giant spawn I smell?”
Brianna counted fifty, and she bit her tongue to keep from answering the insult with an attack order. The affront was the worst a firbolg could offer, for the enmity between ’kin and their true giant brethren dated back to the birth of their races.
The rumble of the firbolgs’ main troop had grown so muted that Brianna heard other voices in nearby passages. Like the pursuer in the drift outside, they were attempting to lure her from hiding by hurling taunts into the darkness. The queen counted seventy-five, and Kaedlaw stopped struggling in her arms.
An icy fist closed around Brianna’s heart, but she did not dare remove her hand from the child’s face. She could see her men’s heads silhouetted against the light of the firbolg’s flickering torch. The warrior would certainly hear the slightest gurgle. She already feared that her own throbbing pulse was loud enough to give the party away, and she smelled her own sweat growing heavy beneath the sulfurous stench of the drift. It would not be much longer, she knew, before the odor grew thick enough to reach the warrior outside.
“Think about what you’re doing, Queen,” the firbolg called. “The wicked twin will slay his brother to assure ascension to your throne. A strong queen—a good mother—would protect both her kingdom and her worthy child. She would give the giant spawn to us.”
Brianna counted eighty-five. She slipped her fingertips under Kaedlaw’s jaw and searched for a pulse. She could not find one, and the infant remained as still as death. The queen silently called upon Hiatea to protect her child. In reply, she heard the dark, angry voice of another god, one who promised that if the firbolgs forced her to smother her own child, her vengeance would be as terrible as her grief.
Brianna shudd
ered. She did not want vengeance; she wanted to escape with her child.
At ninety-five, the queen heard Raeyadfourne’s weak, raspy voice call out from the fork. “Let’s go, Claegborne,” he said. “We’ll have trouble enough catching the others.”
The warrior did not reply. The tunnel fell so quiet that Brianna could hear Claegborne’s torch hissing and sputtering. The firbolg had to be within two or three paces of her hiding place. A strange, muted rumble sounded inside her skull, and the queen realized she was grinding her teeth. She stopped, fearing her pursuer had already heard the noise.
The count reached a hundred.
“Stop wasting my time,” Raeyadfourne ordered. “If you’ve found something, say so.”
A pair of heavy steps sounded from the fork as Raeyadfourne started down the passage. Brianna opened her mouth to order the attack, then the torchlight outside suddenly dimmed.
“Don’t trouble yourself.” Claegborne started back toward Raeyadfourne. “I smelled something, but it was just brimstone blowing up the passage. This tunnel must connect to the bottom of the mine.”
The icy fist inside Brianna’s chest clamped down, squeezing so hard that she feared her heart would burst. Kaedlaw had already been without air for nearly two minutes, but she forced herself to keep her palm over his face as she listened to the firbolg withdraw. The thought that she might be smothering her own child left the queen shivering and queasy, but she would feel no better if the firbolgs returned to murder him before her eyes.
Finally, the heavy steps of the two firbolgs abruptly faded to muted thumps as they reached the fork and started up the opposite tunnel. Brianna pulled her hand from Kaedlaw’s face, ready to slap it back at the slightest hint of a grumble. When the child made no sound, she wet her fingers and held them before his nostrils, alert for the faintest stir of breath.
The queen felt nothing but the drift’s sulfurous breeze.
“Someone strike me a light,” Brianna commanded. “Thatcher, go to the fork and keep a watch for our enemies.”