by Troy Denning
Kwasid’s eyes glazed over. Wisps of fire flickered upon his ebony fingertips, then he spread his arms and began to spin. Ribbons of golden flame arced through the hall’s murky heights, licking at the gray rafters and roof planking. The giant’s mouth opened, and he sang with the voice of fire, filling the hall with a crackling chant more eerie than it was beautiful.
The performance unnerved Tavis’s guests as well as mesmerized them, but the flames did not worry the scout. He had seen enough fire giant dancers to know that their control was absolute. As terrifying as the performance appeared, Kwasid would not allow the ancient timbers of the Weary Giant to burn.
Without taking his eyes off the dance, Tavis leaned toward Princess Brianna. “I hope you’re enjoying yourself.” He had to speak loudly to make himself heard over the giant’s crackling voice. “This banquet won’t equal the ball at Castle Hartwick this evening, but the children wanted to show their gratitude for all your help.”
“There’s no need to thank me,” she said. “As a priestess of Hiatea, I must help.” Hiatea was a deity of the giants, but many humans in Stagwick also worshipped her as the goddess of nature, family, and child-rearing. “And besides, it’s no trouble.”
“My lady, you’re too modest,” Tavis said. In the few months since he had found himself in charge of the orphans, the princess had made the long ride from Castle Hartwick at every opportunity, always bearing gifts of clothing and other necessities for the children. “I suspect you’d help us even if your goddess did not wish it.”
“Certainly not!” snorted the lord mayor. “The princess would never consort with rabble by choice.”
Brianna graced Earl Dobbin with an acid smile. “To the contrary, Lord Mayor,” she said. “If I were to shun all the rabble in the kingdom, I should have to lock myself away from my father’s courtiers and instruct my servants to admit no one but these poor orphans.”
Earl Dobbin’s face darkened, and Brianna returned her attention to Kwasid. The fire giant was near the end of his performance, kneeling on the floor, his torso whirling wildly and his fingertips trailing cyclones of yellow flame.
Kwasid’s gyrations stopped, and he threw his chin back, arching his spine until the crown of his skull touched the floor. His eyes flared like embers, and, with a tremendous shudder, he sprang high into the air. The giant’s hands streaked furiously about his body, weaving a fiery orb of such brilliance that Tavis could hardly bear to look at it.
Kwasid’s voice erupted in a booming crescendo. The sphere vanished in a blazing flash of gold, leaving the fire giant standing in the center of the room with his upraised palms pressed against the hall’s smoking roof. His breath came in broken gasps, as hot as forge gas and twice as mordant. The room remained entirely still, everyone at the banquet table too frightened or stunned to speak.
Before the dazed audience could gather its wits to applaud, a dull boom sounded from the courtyard. “Unbar these gates!” cried a man’s muffled voice. “By the authority of Lord Mayor Dobbin, open up!”
Noting that he could no longer hear the verbeeg’s footsteps echoing through the streets, Tavis rose and bowed to Brianna.
“Excuse me, Princess,” he said. “Avner may be reluctant to open the gate to the earl’s men, so I’d better answer it myself.”
The scout stepped to the chimney, where his hickory bow, Bear Driller, hung. Runolf had helped him make the weapon, which was as famous as the firbolg himself—and a foot taller. As he took the bow and its arrow quiver off the hooks, Brianna’s violet eyes flashed in alarm.
“Surely you don’t need that to talk to the lord mayor’s men?” she gasped.
“Just a precaution,” Tavis said, pausing to give the princess a reassuring smile. The scout was in no hurry, for the lord mayor’s guards had long ago learned that it angered the giant traders who stayed at the inn to have the gates of their lodging battered down. “With verbeegs about and the guard pounding at the gate, it’s better to be cautious.”
Runolf also rose. “With your permission, Princess, I’ll go with Tavis.” As he had all morning, the sergeant spoke rather softly when he addressed Brianna, an amusing contrast to the courage with which the man confronted dragons and marauding giants. Glancing at Earl Dobbin, Runolf added, “Perhaps the lord mayor would like to come along?”
The earl scowled at this suggestion. “I’ll stay with Brianna, in case something unfortunate should happen.”
Brianna’s bodyguard, who had spent the entire banquet standing at the wall behind the princess, stepped forward. “No need for that,” he grunted. “That’s why I’m here.”
Like Tavis, Morten was a firbolg—but the semblance ended there. With a stout frame and a height of twelve feet, the bodyguard was as large for their race as the scout was small. He had a broad nose with an orb-shaped end, brown eyes the size of gruel bowls, and a mane of red hair that would have put a glacier bear to shame. Though his face showed no emotion, his eyes were as alert as those of an eagle, and the huge sword hanging from his belt suggested that if something unfortunate happened, Earl Dobbin’s help would not be required to protect the princess.
Nevertheless, Tavis faced the cautious earl. “Do as you think best, Lord Dobbin.” He tried to keep the spite out of his voice, trusting the princess would note the lord mayor’s cowardice without his help. “I doubt there’ll be trouble, and I’m sure you’ll enjoy the elderberry tarts the children have made.”
Tavis motioned for two of his orphans to fetch the desserts, then he and Runolf stepped out the door. The inn’s courtyard lay between the dining hall and the barn, a fresh layer of straw strewn over the ground. The square was blocked at one end by the sleeping lodge and at the other by a log stockade. In the center of the enclosure stood a well and drinking trough for the animals. Avner was nowhere to be seen, but the youth had closed and barred the gate.
“We’re done waiting!” cried the guard’s angry voice. “Open up, or we’ll batter your gate down!”
Tavis raised his brow at the threat, for it was no secret in the village that a fire giant was staying at the inn. “Be patient,” he advised. “I’m on my way.”
The scout started toward the gate, his eyes searching the ground for any sign of a struggle. He saw a few clumps of straw that had been kicked up when he had escorted Brianna into the inn that morning, but little else. The yellow blanket had not been disturbed since.
Tavis slung his quiver over his shoulder, then pushed the crossbar out of its hooks. The beam had barely hit the ground before a dozen of the mayor’s guards pushed the gates open and stormed into the courtyard. All were humans, wearing polished leather armor with the hawk’s-head crest of Lord Mayor Dobbin. Half carried crossbows so large they could not be aimed without the aid of supporting crutches, and the others carried thick-shafted pikes. They arrayed themselves in a half circle around Tavis and Runolf.
The group leader pointed his crossbow at Tavis. “Give me the thief,” he ordered. “Hand over the verbeeg, or we’ll tear this inn down!”
“What verbeeg?” asked Runolf.
The guard narrowed his eyes. “This time you’ve gone too far, Burdun! When you send your thieves to Dobbin Manor, even the princess can’t save you!”
“I have no thieves,” Tavis responded. “Only children and our guests, one of whom happens to be a fire giant. No verbeegs.”
The guard spun away. “Search the grounds,” he ordered, waving his crossbow around the courtyard. “Take the buildings apart log by log!”
Brianna’s voice rang out from the inn, stopping the search before it started. “That’s hardly necessary,” she called. “Verbeegs are not mice. They do not hide in nooks and crannies.”
Tavis turned to see Brianna leading Morten and Earl Dobbin through the inn’s massive doorway. The princess walked across the courtyard, her bodyguard and the earl a pace behind, and stopped at Tavis’s side. She studied the lord mayor’s men for a moment, then glared down at Earl Dobbin.
“Why are your
guards beleaguering poor Tavis again?”
The lord mayor swallowed, then looked to the leader of his guards. “Stinson?”
“A verbeeg broke into your manor,” Stinson explained. “We chased the marauder to these grounds, and the gate closed right after he entered. Someone had to be waiting for him.”
Lady Brianna studied the ground near the gate. “Your men must be mistaken,” she said. “I see no verbeeg tracks.”
Tavis frowned. She was right. There were no heel marks, no barren patches where the straw had been scraped away, no hint at all that a heavy foot had entered the courtyard. Yet it had been only a few hours since Morten walked through the gate. The bodyguard’s tracks should still have been visible.
Earl Dobbin studied Stinson, then asked, “How sure are you of what you say?”
“I saw it with my own eyes,” the guard replied. “We were less than a hundred paces down the lane.”
The lord mayor looked back to Brianna. “I must insist. This isn’t the first time my men have followed a thief to this inn.” The earl pointed at his guards, dividing them into groups of four. “You search the dining hall, you take the lodge. The rest of us will search the barn.”
“Lord Mayor, by the grace of my father’s law you have the right to run your village as you wish,” Brianna hissed. “But I promise you this: if your men break so much as a mug, you won’t need to come to the ball this evening. You won’t be the earl I pick as a husband.”
The lord mayor winced, for many considered him the most likely choice. Tavis did not share that opinion, and with good reason—or at least with what seemed good reason to him. During the last few months, the princess had spent more time at the Weary Giant than with all of her noble suitors combined—not all of it with the children. Of course, the scout realized that the earls would be flabbergasted if she named him as her future husband, but he still had high hopes. There were few things Brianna enjoyed more than outraging the royal court, and she had even kissed his cheek a time or two.
After a moment, Earl Dobbin regained his composure and sneered in Tavis’s direction. Still addressing Brianna, the lord mayor said, “I don’t know why you would take the word of a commoner over that of a noble, but I’m about to prove that this firbolg is nothing but a knave.”
With that, the earl started for the barn’s closed door. Brianna and Tavis walked at his side, while Morten remained a pace behind his mistress. The lord mayor’s guards brought up the rear of the procession. As they approached the barn, the scout noted that the straw had not been disturbed since it was laid down. Yet, he had watched Lady Brianna lead her horse into the barn just that morning. At least a few of the yellow stems should have been bent or snapped.
The lord mayor stopped before the door and motioned for his men to open it. As the guards obeyed, Tavis discreetly used his bow to scrape away some of the straw beneath his feet. The layer below was as yellow and fresh as the one on top, and a U-shaped depression marked where a horse’s foot had crushed some stems. Someone—no doubt Avner—had spread a fresh covering of straw over this part of the courtyard.
Once the door was open, the lord mayor’s guards stormed inside while everyone else waited in the courtyard. A great cacophony of scraping and braying arose as they shoved mangers about and pulled startled mules from their stalls—this in spite of the fact that such areas were too small to hide a verbeeg. From the back of the building came a series of muffled thuds as two guards stomped up the loft ladder. Tavis cringed, fearing the shout of an angry verbeeg would shake the barn, but the only cries were the indignant screeches of an owl.
Lady Brianna scowled at the clamor. “Earl Dobbin, you’d better hope they find your thief,” she threatened. “Otherwise, I’ll see to it that my father’s men visit the same treatment on your hall.”
“And if I find my thief?” the lord mayor demanded. “Will you name me as your husband then?”
“Then I will consider it,” Brianna sneered.
With that, the princess stepped into the barn. Tavis followed, Morten close on his heels. The air reeked of fresh manure and straw. The mules, most owned by villagers who lacked room to board the beasts themselves, had gathered in the back corner, around a huge mound of straw someone had pushed down from the loft. Two of the lord mayor’s guards were busily pounding the stall floors with the butts of their weapons, apparently searching for secret doors that did not exist, while the other two cursed and grunted in the loft, using their spears to probe the enormous mass of hay and straw stored there.
After surveying the scene, the lord mayor picked his way to the only stall that had not been opened. Above the gate the rear quarters of Lady Brianna’s horse could be seen. The mare was black with white flecks, and had a snowy tail as fine as silk. The earl studied the pen for a moment, apparently unsure whether to open it.
“Don’t do it, Earl,” Tavis warned. “Blizzard is very particular about who touches her.”
The lord mayor studied Tavis for a moment, then a cunning smile crossed his lips. “What better way to cover the verbeeg’s hiding place than to place a spirited horse over it?” He raised the latch and cautiously opened the gate.
Morten started to utter a warning, but Brianna cut the firbolg short. “Be quiet,” she hissed. “The fool was warned.”
The lord mayor stood aside for a moment, watching the horse carefully. Blizzard’s tail stopped twitching, and she did not move, even to stamp a foot. Finally, the earl gave Tavis a confident sneer and slipped into the stall.
Blizzard whinnied—once. When the intruder did not leave, she brought her hoof down on his foot and smashed her hindquarters into his chest. He screamed in pain and shoved her away, then backed, limping, out of the pen. The mare was not satisfied. She bucked her rump high into the air and kicked out with both rear feet. Her hooves caught him in the chest. The lord mayor’s feet left the ground, and he sailed across the center passage, smashed into a stanchion post, and from there collapsed to the floor, his sable cape dangling in a manure gutter.
“You see? Tavis does tell the truth,” Brianna said. The princess, who was a skilled healer, kneeled at the groaning earl’s side. After running her hands over his torso, she pulled him roughly to his feet. “Your ribs aren’t broken, just bruised. You’ll survive.”
“But I … can’t … breathe!” the lord mayor gasped.
“No wonder. You smell like a dung heap!” Brianna taunted. She shoved him into the hands of his two guards. “Take your master and wash him, so he can catch his wind.”
“What about the verbeeg?” asked a guard.
“There is no verbeeg,” Brianna snapped. “Now perhaps you should do as I suggested.”
The earl glared at Brianna and shook his head. “Finish the search,” he rasped.
The guards resumed their havoc, though they were careful to probe the floor of Blizzard’s stall only from the adjoining pens. It was not long before they shoved the mules aside to search the straw piled at the base of the loft ladder. Soon, one of them thrust his spear deep into the heap and withdrew a bloody tip.
“Got something!” he chortled.
The other guards pointed their weapons at the heap. “Come out, thief,” ordered one.
Something stirred, then a sharp hiss sounded from the pile, filling the barn with a foul, sulfurous stench. Crying out in disgust, the guards doubled over and began to throw up.
In the next instant, a cacophony of braying and screeching filled the air. The mules bolted for the door, joined by a swarm of rats that had scurried from beneath the mangers and several owls that had dropped from the rafters. Morten stepped in front of Brianna, forcing the stampede to divide around her and consequently protecting Tavis, Runolf, and Earl Dobbin as well. Still, the lord mayor did not escape unscathed. The horrid smell caused him to retch, and the resultant heaving of his bruised ribs dropped him to his knees in pain.
“Glacier skunk!” Tavis gasped, more perplexed than sickened by the rancid stench. Glacier skunks rarely left thei
r mountain homes, and he had never heard of one actually entering a village.
The others in the room were less curious than alarmed. Morten swept Brianna up in his arms and lumbered out the door with Runolf close on his heels. Next went the guards, doubled over, stumbling, and stinking like carcasses left in the sun to rot. They abandoned the lord mayor readily, for glacier skunks were to the smaller striped and spotted skunks what true giants were to giant-kin. When a glacier skunk’s fumes hit a man, rivers of stinging tears poured from his eyes, hot embers filled his throat, and his stomach churned like a tumbling boulder. Sometimes he coughed blood, occasionally he stopped breathing, and, worst of all, the awful stench stayed with him until a cleric cast the proper spell to remove it.
When it became apparent Earl Dobbin did not have the strength to rise, Tavis scooped him up in one arm and left the barn. After handing the man to the cowardly guards, the scout pulled an arrow from his quiver and turned toward the barn, prepared to kill the skunk if it chose this moment to come running out.
The earl grasped Tavis’s arm and pulled him back. “Don’t think you’ve won, Burdun,” he hissed. Tiny beads of sweat were running down the lord mayor’s pained face, and he could take no more than a shallow breath. “You’ll rue this day.”
Lady Brianna took the lord mayor’s hand off Tavis’s arm. “Why? At least he knows the difference between a glacier skunk and a verbeeg.” She sneered at the earl, then added, “I’m certain this afternoon’s events will make amusing conversation this evening—especially the part where Tavis carries you from the barn because your own guards left you to the skunk.”
The earl’s face darkened to a stormy maroon. “Tell your tale if you wish,” the lord mayor spat. “But be assured that if you continue to protect this cur and his thieves, it’ll be my story that draws the last laugh.”