by Troy Denning
“No,” Tavis insisted. “He knows too much about Brianna’s abduction. I want to interrogate him.”
“You’re mad!” Avner said.
“Whether that’s so or not, I’m the leader of this rescue party.” Tavis turned to Basil, then asked, “Can you force him to answer my questions?”
The verbeeg sighed. “I do have a rune that will grant me control over undead spirits, but I must paint it on his forehead.”
“On his forehead?”
“It’s not as difficult as it sounds,” Basil informed him. “The shaman assigned your friend’s spirit to watch this pass. When he can no longer see to do that, he can’t draw on the shaman’s magic.”
“Are you saying we have to blind him?” Tavis asked.
“That’s what I was thinking of, yes,” Basil replied.
“If I could get that close, I wouldn’t need you!”
“Runes are not spells,” the verbeeg explained. “You can’t hurl them about like spears.”
Tavis considered the problem for a moment, then asked, “Is there any chance my arrow would actually destroy him?”
“Not unless a cleric had blessed it,” Basil answered.
“Then I may know a way to blind him,” Tavis said, nocking an arrow. “Wish me luck.”
He crawled up into the rocky notch and took aim. The globe around Runolf’s head began to spin, forming a whirlpool of golden light. Tavis exhaled in a steady breath, releasing the bowstring at the moment his lungs had completely emptied themselves.
The arrow flew straight for one of Runolf’s eyes, then passed into the spinning light. For a moment, the scout thought the shaft would find its mark, but the wood stuck to the whirling glow as though snatched from the air. The arrow swung around the back of the disembodied head like a stone in a sling, and Tavis knew what would happen next.
He yelled, “Get down!”
Tavis pushed Avner’s head down and dropped over the notch. He began to slide, the rocky scarp painfully gouging his flank as his own arrow sizzled past a mere hand’s breadth above his head. He braced his feet on the slope and halted his descent, then looked back to see his arrow arcing down toward the small plateau.
“So much for that idea,” said Avner. “How about giving Basil’s plan a try?”
“Even if I didn’t want to interrogate him, what makes you think an avalanche would work?” Tavis countered. “Judging by what we’ve seen of Runolf’s defenses, I don’t think the shaman overlooked an obvious trick like that.”
The scout scrambled back up the cliff and peered over the top of the notch. Runolf remained atop the stone spire, a yellow halo enveloping his head and golden flames crackling in his eyes.
“Avner?” Tavis asked. “What would you do if you had to steal a key from the pocket of a big sentry—back when it was necessary for you to do such things?”
The youth considered the problem for a moment, then said, “If there was no way to knock him unconscious, I’d sneak up as close as I could, then have someone else distract him while I picked his pocket.”
“That won’t work here,” Basil said. “You cannot sneak up on spirit guardians, and they have no pockets to pick.”
“No, but we can distract him,” Tavis said. “Maybe we can get close enough to grab him.”
“And then what?” Avner demanded. “Grabbing a wildcat’s tail will get you clawed faster than anything else.”
“Not if you do it right,” Tavis said. He turned to Basil and asked, “Are you sure you can cause that rockslide?”
The verbeeg rolled his eyes at the foolish question. “Would you like me to prepare the rune?”
When Tavis nodded, Basil opened his satchel and pulled a hammer and steel chisel from it. He selected a flat rock, then set the chisel blade on it and began to tap.
While Tavis waited for the runecaster to finish, he slipped his bow over his shoulder. After a quick glance at the waists of his companions, he motioned at Avner’s belt.
“Let me see that,” he requested.
The youth promptly undid his buckle and handed the belt over. “What do you want with it?”
“You’ll see.”
The belt was surprising new, made of black-dyed cowhide as stiff as shoe leather. Tavis slowly flexed the strap back and forth. It was almost too rigid for what he had in mind, but its bulk could turn out to be an advantage. The scout detached Avner’s dagger scabbard and returned it to the boy, then grabbed a rock and began to pound the belt to make it more flexible.
“Hey!” Avner objected. “That’s a new belt!”
“And where did you come across a new belt?” Tavis demanded. “I don’t recall making it for you, and we certainly didn’t have the spare coins to buy it.”
“Forget it,” Avner sighed. “There’s always more where that came from.”
This time, Tavis looked up. “There’d better not be.”
The firbolg resumed his work, pounding each section of belt until the leather grew as soft and flexible as cloth. Beside him, Basil continued to tap his chisel, filling the air with a soft chime as erratic as a bell swinging loose in the wind.
Runolf’s voice sounded from the other side of the notch. “Whatever you’re doing, Tavis, it won’t work,” he called. The words were difficult to make out, for the yowling wind softened the consonants and swallowed the vowels. “My spirit serves Goboka, and only his death will release it.”
Basil looked up. “That’s fine with us,” he said, speaking more to Tavis and Avner than to Runolf’s head. “What we have in mind has nothing to do with freeing you.”
The verbeeg put his hammer and chisel back in his satchel, then showed Tavis the stone he had been working on. The glowing rune etched on its face was surprisingly simple, just three blue lines capped by a white crescent.
“I’m holding it upside down,” Basil said. “When you turn it over, it’ll set the whole hill to sliding.”
Tavis raised his brow. “And if I turn it over again?”
“It’ll stop the landslide—but I don’t know how quickly,” the verbeeg replied. He handed the runestone to Tavis, then added, “I suggest you be very careful.”
Tavis smiled. “This should work fine.” With the runestone in one hand and Avner’s belt in the other, he inched up toward the notch. “I’ll go over and bring Runolf’s head under control. Wait here until then, but be ready to paint the rune that gives you control over undead.”
“I’m coming with you,” Avner announced.
Tavis shook his head. “This is too dangerous—”
“If it’s so dangerous, we should just bury him,” Avner said.
“I can always do that later,” Tavis replied. “I’ll let the avalanche take him if I get into trouble.”
“With two of us, you’ll be less likely to get into trouble,” Avner countered. When Tavis showed no sign of yielding, the boy’s eyes grew hard, and he added, “You can let me come with you or after you. We’ll stand a better chance if we work together.”
Remembering how well the youth had obeyed his orders to wait at the Weary Giant, Tavis reluctantly acquiesced. “Then take this.” He passed the boy’s belt back. “Runolf will concentrate on me, so you’ll have a better chance of actually reaching him.”
“That makes sense,” Avner replied. He held the battered belt up. “But what do I do with this old thing once I get there?”
“I should think that would be obvious,” Basil said. “Use the belt to blindfold him until I can paint my rune on his forehead. If he can’t see, he can’t perform the task for which he was created, and his link with the shaman will be interrupted.”
Avner’s eyes lit in understanding.
“We’ll go down opposite sides of the couloir,” Tavis said. “I’ll start the avalanche to distract Runolf, and we’ll go down behind it. Then I’ll try to stop the slide right before it buries him, but if either of us gets into trouble, I’ll just let the slide take him. You understand?”
“Nothing could be simpler
.”
With that, the young thief hoisted himself upward. Tavis scrambled into the notch after the boy, then the two rose to their feet. Runolf’s halo dimmed, the flames in his eyes burning more brightly as he regarded Avner’s small form.
“How dare you bring a child into this!” the head stormed.
“I came on my own,” Avner yelled down. “And I’m as old as Tavis was when you made a scout of him.”
“And that’s as old as you shall grow,” Runolf replied in a melancholy voice. His golden halo began to dim, then he added, “It’s not in my power to show mercy—even to a boy.”
The scout turned his runestone over. The scree slope came loose with a tremendous crack, sliding down the couloir in a single huge cascade. Tavis waited an instant, then shoved Avner toward the far wall.
“Go!”
Tavis leaped into the couloir on the tail of the avalanche, springing toward the wall opposite Avner, hoping to draw all of Runolf’s attacks upon himself. The tactic failed miserably. The sergeant’s eyes rotated in different directions, one following Avner and the other the scout. A fiery stream of energy arced from each of the golden orbs, crackling and sizzling up the narrow couloir.
Tavis ducked. The blazing beam flashed past, licking the back of his cloak with golden flames, and struck the craggy wall. A deafening bang echoed through the couloir. The scout’s nostrils filled with the acrid smell of scorched rock, and he felt a heavy shard of stone slam into his shoulders, pitching him forward. He found himself flying down the slope and clutched the runestone to his breast. He glimpsed Avner, on the opposite wall of the canyon, sliding along behind the avalanche. The boy’s clothes were smoking and his mouth was wide open with fear, but at least he was descending feetfirst and on his back, and that was all Tavis had time to see before he crashed face first into the sliding scree.
The scout went shooting down the couloir as though he were falling headlong down a frozen waterfall. He tried to look down the couloir to find Runolf, but all he saw was a billowing cloud of dust. A tremendous weight began to gather around his legs, and he realized that the landslide was overtaking him. He kicked himself free, trying to push himself down the slope faster than the scree, but did not turn the runestone over immediately. He and Avner would be easy targets without the avalanche to cover their descent and keep their adversary busy.
Tavis forced himself to wait five long heartbeats. He had to keep kicking his legs free to keep the rumbling heap from hurling his feet over his head and send him tumbling down the mountain. Rocks of all sizes clattered past, gouging his arms and legs, sometimes even bouncing off his flanks or back. The scout pressed his face into the gravel, shrugging his shoulders up to protect his head as best he could.
At last, Tavis counted five heartbeats. He raised his head and looked toward the center of the couloir, but still could not see anything except billowing dust. Nevertheless, he turned the runestone around—then immediately wondered if that had been wise. The scree beneath his chest began to drag against the mountain and slow, but the gravel behind him continued to press forward, pouring over him in a pelting, scouring tide of stone and dirt. Desperate to keep himself from being buried alive, the scout rolled onto his back and jerked his knees toward his chest.
The motion flipped Tavis over in a backward somersault, but did not deposit him facedown on the slide as it had done on the other side of the notch. Instead, it merely righted him, so that he stood on his feet with his back facing downhill and the landslide rumbling down in his face. The scout braced his elbows against his chest and touched his forehead to the runestone, forming a small air pocket in front of his mouth and nose. Then the scree washed over him, robbing him of all distinction between his body and the gravel that had swallowed it. The sky vanished into roaring, choking darkness. For a moment, he was vaguely aware that he was moving, but soon even that sensation vanished, and all he could see were the blue and white lines of the glowing runestone.
Some time later, Tavis’s chest trembled with the effort of coughing. He did not hear the sound, only felt it, but it meant he had survived. More than that, it meant his attempt to create an air pocket had succeeded—though that was difficult to believe, with all the dirt and dust clogging his nose and throat. Though a tremendous pressure crushed down on him from all sides, he felt strangely weightless, almost separated from his body.
Tavis tried to move, first his head, then his torso, and finally each limb. He strained with all his might, pushing and pulling, pressing outward in every direction. Nothing happened, except that he felt the heat of his own breath fill the tiny pocket in front of his face. How much longer would his air last? A minute—maybe two or three?
As he contemplated this horrible question, Tavis realized he still might be able to move one set of muscles. He tried to wiggle his fingers, and discovered that he could wobble the runestone back and forth. Something that might have been a whoop of joy rose from his chest, but he could not hear it to be sure. The scout did not care. He slowly worked his fingertips over the runestone’s surface, spinning it a tiny amount with each effort.
Dust fell in his eyes. The scratchy grains burned horribly, but all he could do was blink and try to wash them out with tears. He kept turning the stone. The gravel around him shuddered. The scout felt himself slip along with it, dirt and stones dropping onto his face.
Tavis turned the runestone once more, and then his body trembled as the whole hillside crept into motion. The scout stopped working the stone and tried to kick his legs and flail his arms, as though trying to fight free of the Clearwhirl’s cold currents. Dirt and pebbles streamed through the gap between his arms, covering his chest and spilling into his mouth.
Suddenly, Tavis’s elbow broke loose. Cool air rushed in, and gray light filled his tiny world. Dropping the runestone onto his chest, the scout pushed his free arm out of the hole and clutched at the dirt, pulling himself upward as the scree continued its gentle slide.
His head slipped into the light. A harsh, rhythmic rasping filled his ears: the sound of coughing. Tavis twisted his body uphill, freeing his other arm, and pulled the runestone out of the hole. He turned the crescent uphill, and the scree slowly stabilized. Holding his chest and head out of the dirt, the scout waited, coughing and wheezing, for the gravel to stop moving.
“Tavis!” Avner shouted. “There you are!”
Tavis looked toward the voice and saw the boy balancing on the surface of a large boulder. He looked dusty and bruised, but did not appear to have suffered any serious injuries. He still held both his belt and dagger. There was no sight of Runolf or the spire on which the disembodied head had been resting.
“Where’s Runolf?” Tavis asked. Being careful to keep the crescent turned uphill, he laid the runestone aside and began digging himself free.
“After all your talk about capturing him, you buried the spirit guardian anyway,” muttered Basil. The verbeeg’s report was barely understandable, for he was clambering down a barren face of schist where there had been scree a few moments earlier. “I believe he’s just about even with Avner, though it’s difficult to be certain—there was so much dust.”
Avner smiled. “What a relief,” he said. “I wasn’t sure this blindfold idea was going to work anyway.”
The boy let his sentence trail off, for a circle of light had formed beneath the talus just a few paces in front of him. The ground heaved upward. Golden rays streamed into the air, hissing and writhing like snakes.
“Oh, dear,” said Basil. “This could be a difficulty.”
Tavis braced his hands on the ground and worked his hips from side to side, at the same time trying to kick himself free. “Avner, get away!”
The youth leaped off his boulder, but did not retreat as Tavis had commanded. Instead, he put the dagger between his teeth and crept forward to the edge of the heaving ground, the belt stretched taut between his hands.
Tavis’s legs came free all at once, sending him tumbling down the hill. He stopped after his fi
rst somersault, then jumped to his feet. Already, he could see the crown of Runolf’s halo rising from the scree. The scout drew his sword.
“No! Attack with the stone!” Basil called. The verbeeg stepped away from the schist scarp, covering the remaining distance to the scree pile in a single jump. “Its magic will slice through what steel cannot”
The head’s eyes appeared at ground level, looking up the hill toward Basil. The golden halo dimmed, and golden flames licked the stones in front of the spirit guardian. Avner stood less than a pace away, at Runolf’s side where his peripheral vision would detect the slightest movement. The young thief froze instantly, standing so still even his nostrils did not flare.
“Over here, traitor!” Tavis called. Though it pained him to ridicule his mentor, it was the best way he could think of to prevent Runolf from noticing Avner.
“Who do you call traitor?” Runolf demanded. He rose the rest of the way out of the ground, slowly spinning around to face Tavis. “I have done my duty!”
“By delivering your princess into the hands of ogres?” Tavis demanded. “I think not.”
With that, the scout dropped his sword and snatched the runestone off the ground. He flung it in Runolf’s direction, and the head’s halo flashed brilliant yellow, sending Avner stumbling two steps back. In the next instant, a spray of blue and white sparks filled the air as the runestone sliced through the protective sphere. The rock struck a glancing blow off Runolf’s chin, then clattered to the ground, its runes dark and gray.
Runolf fixed his eyes on Tavis. “I was no traitor,” the head said. “You must know I always performed my duty.”
“To whom?” Tavis scoffed. “Vaprak, the ogre god?”
Avner sprang forward even as Tavis spoke. The boy slipped his belt over Runolf’s brow in an instant, then pulled the head off the pedestal and laid it facedown in the scree.
“Well done!” called Basil. The verbeeg rushed down the hill with brush in hand. “But keep that belt tight. If Runolf spies us for even an instant, the shaman’s magic will return to him—and we’ll pay with our lives.”