The Giant Among Us

by Troy Denning

  “If there’s a storm giant out there, none of us has much longer than that,” Tavis replied. He slipped the mask into his satchel. “My thanks to you, Basil—and to you, Earl Cuthbert.”

  “Wear it in good health.” There was only a touch of sarcasm in the earl’s voice. Cuthbert took a tallow stick off the map case and lit the wick from Brianna’s lamp. “And the strength of Stronmaus to you—you’ll need it.”

  When the earl stepped forward to give the candle to Tavis, he stubbed his foot on Basil’s satchel. The sack toppled to the floor with a clack that sounded suspiciously like stone on stone.

  “What’s this?” the earl screeched. He bent down and rolled the collar of hte satchel back, revealing one of his biotite folios. He looked up at Basil with an utter expression of shock. “Thief!”

  “I’m only borrowing it!” the verbeeg retorted, reciting his standard defense in such situations. “You weren’t using it, and books are meant—”

  “Basil!” Brianna barked.

  The verbeeg’s mouth snapped shut. He fixed his eyes on the floor. “Yes?” he asked quietly.

  “I warned you about this.”

  “But—”

  “There’s no excuse!” Brianna yelled. “Since you’ve shown no inclination to respect our host’s property, I have no choice but to have you locked in a secure room.”

  “Can I at least keep—”

  Brianna silenced him with a gesture of her hand, then turned to Cuthbert. “Can you arrange that for me?”

  “With pleasure,” the earl replied. He handed the candle to Tavis, then stooped down to retrieve his beloved folio, groaning loudly as he struggled to pick it up. “Since he’s a member of your company, I’ll try not to make it too unpleasant for him.”

  “Thank you,” the queen said. She glanced down at Avner. “The time has come for us to let Tavis go.”

  The youth nodded and looked up to the scout. “I’m not a child anymore,” he said. “You should let me come with you.”

  The scout shook his head. “I’ll be back soon enough.”

  “That would be more likely with someone to watch your back,” the boy grumbled. “But if I’ve got to stay, I’ll try to avoid trouble. At least you won’t have to worry about that”

  “I didn’t think I would.” Tavis ruffled the boy’s hair, then said, “Take care of the queen for me.”

  Avner smiled weakly. “Don’t I always?”

  “Always,” Brianna agreed. She gave the lamp to Avner, then waved him and her other two companions toward the door. “If you’ll excuse us, I’d like to have a few words with Tavis.”

  As the trio disappeared into the folio room, Brianna wrapped her arms around Tavis’s waist. “Be careful.”

  The scout did not meet her gaze. “Of course,” he said. “I’ll be back with help as soon as I can.”

  Tavis tried to pull away, but Brianna would not release him. “That’s not the only reason I want you to come back alive.” She looked up at his chiseled face. “You know that.”

  The firbolg closed his eyes and nodded. “I know,” he said. “But it’s the only reason that matters—at least until you decide about the alliance with Gilthwit.”

  “Why?” Brianna demanded. “It doesn’t need to be that way. Even if I marry the prince—and that’s a big ‘if’—Arlien won’t stay long. He’ll be anxious to return to Gilthwit—”

  “After you’ve produced an heir—and you’d still be his wife,” Tavis interrupted. “I’m a firbolg. I can’t be a party to such a deception. You’ve always known that about me.”

  Brianna felt her mouth open, but she did not have words to push out of it. She felt wounded, as though Tavis had slipped a dagger into her heart, but that simply could not be. He was her firbolg bodyguard, sworn to defend and protect her. He could not hurt her, except by her own command—which, of course, was the situation now. Tavis could not live in deception, and by asking him to try she could only force him away. He could abandon their love, but he could not lie to save it.

  “Damn it, you were raised by humans!” Brianna stepped back, but kept her hands on the scout’s waist. “Why can’t you lie?”

  Tavis set the candle aside and took her hands in his. “Because I’m not human,” he said. “I’m firbolg.”

  They were interrupted by a voice from the folio room. “Tavis, wait!” It was Arlien. “I hope you haven’t—oh, dear.”

  Brianna looked toward the door and saw the prince’s form silhouetted against the lamp in Avner’s hand. She stepped away from Tavis and turned toward the wall, trying to wipe the tears from her eyes.

  “I’m s-sorry,” Arlien stammered. “I seem to have—ah—interrupted.”

  “Not at all, Prince,” Tavis said. If the firbolg felt any resentment for the intrusion, Brianna did not hear it in his voice. “I was just leaving.”

  “Then I’m glad I caught you,” Arlien replied, limping into the room. “I wanted to present you with a gift.”

  Although Brianna could feel that her eyes were still swollen from crying, she turned to face the prince. There was no use pretending he had not seen Tavis holding her. Perhaps his father had even forced him to leave his own beloved in order to come and court her.

  “You should be resting, Arlien,” the queen said. Noting that he was carrying his huge warhammer, she asked, “What’s that for? Surely you don’t intend to join Tavis?”

  The prince shook his head. “I’m afraid I’d only slow the good scout down.” He held his warhammer out “But I want him to take this along. It’ll serve him well against the giants.”

  Tavis clasped his hands on the prince’s, but did not take the weapon. “I truly appreciate your offer,” he said. “But with any luck, I’ll be avoiding our enemies, not fighting them. Besides, you’re likely to need that here, and I’d rather you have it at hand to defend Brianna.”

  At first, Arlien seemed too stunned by the refusal to take the weapon back, but he recovered his wits an instant later and lowered the hammer. “As you wish,” he said, forcing a smile. “Rest assured that nothing shall happen to her while I am near.”

  Tavis lowered his voice, then said, “And I’d also ask you to keep a close eye on Earl Cuthbert. That man is too frightened to be trustworthy.”

  Brianna started to protest on the earl’s behalf, but discovered a lump in her throat too big to speak around.

  Arlien nodded grimly. “The same thought had crossed my mind,” he said. “Don’t worry about him.”

  “Good.”

  “And Tavis,” the prince added. “Don’t worry about me. There’s no sense discussing alliances until we know whether Brianna and I come out of this alive.”

  “Thank you, Prince. That’ll make it easier for me to concentrate on the task at hand. But I’m sure we’ll do what’s best for our kingdoms in the end.” Tavis inclined his head to Arlien, then turned and bowed to Brianna. “With your permission, Majesty.”

  “No, not yet!” Brianna threw her arms around the firbolg’s neck and kissed him on the mouth, long and hard.

  Prince Arlien politely turned away, fixing his gaze on the map that Earl Cuthbert had left lying on the desk in the corner.

  4

  The Granite Door

  Tavis sat against the tunnel door, whetting his sword and listening to the heavy steps outside. Every muffled boom caused the candle to hiss and sputter ominously, but the scout did not bother to rise and see how much stub remained. He had perched the taper on the edge of the door’s counterweight, and the long curtain of wax running down the side told him all he needed to know.

  The giants had been out there all night, building war machines or dancing or rutting or whatever. It made little difference to the scout. He did not dare open the door while they were so close. The instant he pulled the counterweight down, the rusty chains would squeal like a raging boar. All he could do was wait—wait and hope the brutes would move off before sunrise.

  Dawn could not be far away, for the journey through the se
cret tunnel had been long and difficult. The passage was so low and cramped that the firbolg had been forced to creep through it nearly doubled over, at times twisting sideways so he could squeeze his broad shoulders through. To make matters worse, a steady trickle of water had seeped down from the lake above, submerging much of the floor beneath an icy black puddle. Nevertheless, the scout had ignored his cold-numbed feet and pressed on steadily over the slick footing, only to hear the giants outside when he finally reached the door. With three-quarters of his candle remaining, he had taken out his whetstone and sat down to hone his weapons.

  Now, his dagger and his arrow tips were all freshly sharpened, he was putting the finishing touches on his sword, and the stomping outside continued unabated. From the way his candle spat and hissed, the wick was all but gone and the flame was sinking into the wax. Tavis tried not to think about how long it took a candle to burn and concentrated on whetting his sword.

  The blade was already as sharp as an owl’s talon, but the scout found himself scraping the stone along as though honing an unedged sword—and not because he was upset about his foes outside. Tavis knew from long experience it was best to remain patient and calm around giants, and he always did. But he had an aching knot where his heart should have been, and that kind of distress could have only one cause: the queen.

  The whetstone shot from beneath his thumb. The scout’s hand slid across his sword’s sharp edge, opening a deep cut across his palm. Tavis cursed and opened his satchel to retrieve a bandage, grumbling at Brianna for causing him to be so inattentive. Though the firbolg had been raised among humans, he still could not comprehend the way their convoluted minds worked.

  Brianna loved Tavis. That was what she claimed, and most of the time she acted like it. Yet she refused to wed him, claiming their union would weaken the kingdom. Then, in the next breath, she expressed her willingness to carry on secretly as though they were husband and wife! The firbolg, of course, had no choice but to refuse. It would be impossible for him to keep such a secret. Besides, if the earls objected to their marriage, he could only imagine how they would react to such a deception. The queen claimed the nobles would accept the arrangement, but the scout could not believe that. Even if he could live a lie, he failed to see how Hartsvale would benefit by asking everyone in the country to do the same.

  Now Brianna wanted to marry a man she hardly knew, a foreign prince, and treat Tavis as her husband! The firbolg could not help questioning her judgment. His understanding of human behavior was limited, but to him such a proposal sounded like a formula for war. Although Arlien had reacted graciously enough when he had stumbled upon them embracing, the prince seemed a man of honor. He would certainly expect his wife to abide by the sacred vows of marriage.

  The vows were another matter. Tavis had heard them many times, and they spoke of such things as devotion, fidelity, obedience, a giving of the self. How could Brianna swear those things to the prince of a distant kingdom? By giving herself to Arlien, she was also giving Hartsvale to him. If the earls objected to the queen presenting all that to a citizen of their own country, surely they would object to having it given to a foreigner! Or maybe not. Brianna certainly hadn’t seemed to think so, and she was astute about such things.

  Tavis ripped a strip off his bandage cloth, then tied the dressing around his palm. Being in love with Brianna was a confusing thing, and it was getting more baffling all the time. The firbolg had endured the past year only by hoping that once she established herself as queen, she would feel secure enough to marry him. But with Arlien’s arrival, that hope had grown distant. Now, the scout could look forward only to protecting Brianna while she raised another man’s children. He didn’t know how he could endure that possibility, but he would find a way. He had to; he had sworn to defend the queen until her death, and firbolgs did as they pledged.

  Tavis picked up his whetstone and drew it down his sword in a light, smooth stroke. He would concentrate on his duties and face each day as it came. Maybe Hiatea would look more favorably on him tomorrow, and if not, then perhaps the day after.

  The candle flame gave a contemptuous hiss, then finally sank into the wax and pitched Tavis into dank blackness.

  * * * * *

  Avner knelt before the locked door and examined the keyhole by the light of a flickering candle. The latch was secured by a primitive ward lock, strong but easy enough to pick. The youth put Basil’s satchel aside, then reached inside his tunic and withdrew a set of flat metal bars affixed to an iron ring. The tools came in many different sizes, but all were shaped roughly like skeleton keys, with a wide variety of notches and grooves cut into the end tabs. He selected the tool of the proper size and slowly worked it into the keyhole, twisting gently from side to side until he felt it slip past the wards. He gently turned the implement, engaging the bolt.

  The lock had barely clicked open before the chamber door flew ajar, jerking the ring of picks from Avner’s hand.

  “By Karontor!” Basil hissed. The verbeeg dropped to his hands and knees, trying to squeeze his bony shoulders through a portal meant for humans half his size. “I thought you’d never come for me!”

  Avner quickly blocked the doorway. “I didn’t come for you,” he corrected. “I came to see you.”

  “Then see me outside.” The runecaster started to crawl forward.

  Avner planted both his palms on Basil’s crooked nose and pushed, forcing the astonished verbeeg back into his gloomy chamber. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Anywhere,” Basil answered. He peered past the boy’s shoulder, his baggy eyes wild with desperation. “Anyplace is better than this.”

  Avner glanced around the room. Although the earl’s men had removed the furniture to make room for the verbeeg, they had been kind enough leave an oil lamp and throw several straw mattresses across a sturdy table to make a bed. There was even a barred window overlooking the inner ward, its shutters thrown wide open despite the cold predawn breeze.

  “This isn’t so bad, especially considering you’ll end up in the dungeon if you try to leave,” Avner said. “The castle’s crawling with soldiers, and they’d spot someone your size in a minute. It was tough enough to get this back.” The youth reached around the corner and retrieved Basil’s satchel. “Besides, where do you think you could go? Into the hills with the giants?”

  “Perhaps,” Basil replied. “Or maybe I could hide in the library.”

  “That’s the first place they’d look,” Avner said. He pointed to the makeshift bed beneath the window. “Besides, how long has it been since you had something that comfortable to sleep on?”

  “How can a prisoner sleep?” Basil demanded. “While I languish here, life outside is passing me by.”

  Avner rolled his eyes. “I’ve spent weeks in pits slimier and darker than this. You haven’t been here one night” He took his picks from the lock, then pushed the door closed. “What kind of thief is afraid of jail?”

  “One should not be punished for acting in accordance with the principles of one’s race,” the runecaster replied. “And if you’re not here to free me, what do you want? At this hour of the morning, I doubt you’ve come to pass the time.”

  “We’ve got to do something about Arlien.” Avner went to sit on the table, dragging Basil’s huge satchel with him. “The prince is coming between Tavis and Brianna.”

  Basil sank to his haunches and sat facing the youth. “What do you mean?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Avner opened the satchel and removed half a dozen apples he had taken from the earl’s kitchen. He kept one for himself and tossed the rest to Basil. “The good prince came to marry her.”

  “I realize that,” the runecaster replied. “But I fail to see what we can do about it.”

  Basil slipped an apple into his mouth. He crushed it with a single chomp and swallowed it, stem, core, and all.

  “We’ll do whatever it takes to prevent a marriage.” Avner bit into his own apple.

  Basil rais
ed his bushy eyebrows. “Assassinate the prince?”

  Avner sighed in exasperation. “I was hoping we could think of something less drastic. I’m not trying to start a war.”

  Basil popped another apple into his mouth and gnashed it slowly. “Runes of the heart are hardly my area of expertise,” he said. “But I do have a trick or two that might help our cause—perhaps a rune of stammering or foul odors.”

  “Good!” Avner said. “The prince can’t court Brianna if he smells bad—but it’ll have to be subtle. We don’t want the queen to realize what we’re doing.”

  “Of course not,” Basil agreed. He glanced forlornly around the room, studying the gloomy stone walls. “But the rune requires modification, and I can’t concentrate here.”

  “What are you saying?” Avner demanded. “This chamber’s not much smaller than your study at Castle Hartwick, and you stay in there for days!”

  Basil’s eyes lit up. “Yes, but I have my books,” he said. “Perhaps, if I had something to occupy my attention, this dreary room would seem more like a proper office.”

  Avner shook his head. “Not on my life!” he said. “Filching your satchel and a few apples is one thing, but if Earl Cuthbert catches me with his folios, he’ll feed us both to the giants!”

  Basil’s gray eyes grew as hard as the stones of his cell. “Then I hope you enjoy weddings.”

  Avner tore a big piece from his apple. He gnawed on this for a time, then said, “Just one, and I take it back as soon as you’re done.”

  “Very well. Even I can read only one book at a time.” A treacherous gleam appeared in Basil’s eye, then he added, “Of course, the magic of my rune might last longer if I had no fear of growing bored.”

  “All right,” Avner growled. “How often do I have to bring you a new book?”

  “We’ll set up a signal.” Basil thought for a moment, then said, “It’ll be best if you can see it from a distance. I’ll close my shutters whenever I’m ready.”