by Troy Denning
At last, Arlien regained the power to speak. “Young man, you must have a low opinion of your queen if you think she could be seduced so easily,” he said. “She merely came down to look after my wound, and I offered her a warm drink. Now, I am done explaining myself. You may leave.”
Avner looked to Brianna. “Are you coming?”
“It’s hardly the place of young pages to order their queens about,” Arlien growled.
“It is when they’re under an enchantment!”
Avner grabbed the ice diamonds hanging from Brianna’s throat. A cold, stinging pain shot through his hand, and his arm went numb clear to the elbow. The youth cried out, barely managing to open his stiff fingers and pull his arm back. His hand had gone white with frostbite.
“Avner!” Brianna clutched her chest where his hand had brushed her breast. “What in Hiatea’s name are doing?”
“The necklace.” Avner had to speak through clenched teeth. “It’s enchanted.”
“As a matter of fact, it is,” Arlien said. “It will freeze the hand of any thief who touches it And I can’t abide thieves!”
The prince shoved Avner out the door with such force that the youth bounced off the far wall of the corridor. Arlien followed close behind and caught the boy on the rebound, then turned to push him toward his own room.
Avner’s barrow stood at the end of the corridor, clearly silhouetted against the flickering torchlight in the main hall. Prince Arlien released his grip and marched over to the cart
“Avner, is this yours?” the prince demanded. He reached into the barrow and tipped the folio up. “And what’s this inside? One of Earl Cuthbert’s folios?”
Brianna stepped into the hall. “Avner!”
“It’s not for me,” he began. “I’m just borrowing it for—”
“What you were doing is plain enough!” Arlien snapped.
Brianna locked her arms stiffly at her sides, as if restraining the urge to strike the youth. “You betrayed my trust!” she spat “You’re as bad as Basil!”
“But—”
“Be quiet!” the queen snapped. “You just stand there while I figure out what to do with you.”
“If I may, I have a suggestion,” said Prince Arlien.
“Please tell me,” Brianna said. “I’m too angry to think.”
“Return the folio to the library before its absence is noticed,” suggested the prince. “Basil has already embarrassed you quite enough with the earl, and Cuthbert’s just the type to seize this as an excuse to turn us out”
“Don’t you think you’re exaggerating?” Brianna asked.
The prince shrugged. “Perhaps, but why take the chance?” he asked. “Even if I’m wrong, admitting that there’s a second thief in your party will only lead to more distrust and resentment on Cuthbert’s part. Wouldn’t it be better to take care of this problem ourselves, and limit our arguments with the earl to matters of strategy?”
Brianna considered this for a moment, then nodded. “You do have a point.” She turned to Avner. “Do as the good prince suggests, and put that folio back exactly where you found it.”
Arlien scowled as she issued the command. “The boy can’t be trusted,” he said. “I was thinking we would return the book ourselves.”
Brianna shook her head. “You’ll wake up the entire keep clanking about in the armor,” she said. “Besides, Avner wouldn’t dare disobey me again—would you?”
The youth lowered his eyes. “Certainly not, Majesty.”
“Good. When you’re finished, return to your chamber and wait for me there,” she said. “I’ll inform you of your punishment in the morning.”
Avner bowed to Brianna and started to leave, but Arlien caught his shoulder. “Do as you’re told, young man—and don’t even think about taking that folio to Basil’s room instead,” he warned. “I’ll be watching.”
“At least that’ll keep you out of the queen’s bedroom,” Avner muttered. He tried to jerk free, but the prince’s fingers were as powerful as dragon talons.
“What did you say?” Arlien demanded.
The youth looked away and grumbled, “Nothing.”
“It would be best if you made that a habit,” the prince said. He released Avner’s arm, then added, “Think about it.”
“I’m already thinking.” He was thinking that something seemed very wrong when Brianna could not say Tavis’s name, and that, with the future of two kingdoms at stake, the “good prince” might well use a magic necklace to win Brianna’s heart The youth was also thinking that anyone who enchanted the queen of Hartsvale would not hesitate to kill one lowly page, and Avner had no illusions about his ability to protect himself.
If he wanted to see the dawn tomorrow, his only choice was to leave Cuthbert Castle tonight “You can be sure of that” Avner grabbed the handles of his barrow and started for the keep basement
6
Shepherd’s Nightmare
Tavis crested the canyon headwall. Ahead of him lay an undulating meadow of alpine tundra, traversed by ribs of gray bedrock and partially enclosed by a jagged wall of peaks. A single granite pinnacle stood forward from the rest, tipped slightly outward like an ogre’s snaggled fang. It could be only Wyvern’s Eyrie.
Near the bottom of the spire, perhaps a hundred feet off the ground, a lone stone giant was creeping across a narrow rock shelf. From across the emerald meadow, the brute looked like a tiny spider, pulling himself forward one limb at a time. Ahead of him, seven smaller specks, undoubtedly humans, were scurrying around the shoulder of the mountain. It seemed apparent that their pursuer would catch them long before they reached the narrow pass at the end of the ledge.
Tavis snatched a runearrow from his quiver and started toward the pinnacle at a trot. The firbolg kept a careful watch on the meadow around him, keenly aware that a second stone giant could be lurking behind any of the ridges ahead. At the demolished farm the scout had found two pairs of giant tracks, and both sets had led up the canyon into the vale ahead.
As the scout crossed the meadow, Wyvern’s Eyrie and everything on it grew more distinct. He saw that the ledge was really a series of broken rock lips linked together by graying logs. The giant’s heels hung over the edge of the narrow shelf, forcing the brute to keep his face pressed to the cliff. Tavis could even tell that the party of humans consisted of four women, two little girls, and a brawny shepherd boy armed with a long pitchfork. The youth kept looking back toward the giant as though aching for a fight he had little hope of winning.
One of the women pointed at Tavis, and the whole procession stopped to look.
“Keep going!” Tavis yelled, continuing to run.
Had there not been a chill wind blowing down from the peaks, the farmers might have heard the firbolg’s resonant voice. As it was, however, they stood on the ledge, watching Tavis while the giant crept closer. The scout broke stride long enough to wave them on, but still they waited. When he scrambled up the first of the bedrock ridges traversing the meadow, two of the women pointed to the third crag ahead.
“Be … watch … giant!”
Tavis could barely hear their shrill voices coming to him on the wind. He waved in acknowledgment, and the farmers turned away to continue their escape. The giant behind them slid across the ledge, coming within three arm-lengths of the shepherd boy. The scout considered stopping to shoot now, but at three hundred paces he was barely inside Bear Driller’s range. Given the runearrow’s heavy tip and the contrary wind, he had no reasonable chance of making the shot.
Tavis continued forward at his best sprint, angling away from the ambush the farmers had warned him about He glanced up at the ledge every third step. The giant drew to within two arm-lengths of the boy, and then one. The youth stopped on a log bridge and raised his pitchfork, and that was when Tavis realized accuracy was not as important as he had thought
“No!” the scout boomed, yelling so hard that his throat went raw. He scrambled up the next rocky bluff. “Keep going!”
The youth glanced down, and the giant made a grab for him. The boy ducked, then thrust his pitchfork at his attacker’s huge hand. The wooden tines snapped, and a grim chuckle echoed down from the mountain. The youth slipped back a step, then hurled the useless weapon at his foe. The giant let the stick bounce off his head and slid one foot onto the bridge. The boy turned to flee.
“That’s right,” Tavis whispered. He nocked his runearrow and drew his bowstring to fire. “Get off the bridge.”
The second stone giant rose from behind the ridge ahead and bounded across the meadow, trying to slip between Tavis and his target. The scout kept his gaze trained on Wyvern’s Eyrie, silently beseeching the youth to hurry. His entreaties did no good. He found himself looking into a pair of huge black eyes long before the boy reached the end of the bridge.
“It would be better not to do that.” The giant’s voice was as deep and gravelly as a pit mine. He stooped over, lowering his palm toward Tavis. “Why not give me your toy?”
The scout side-stepped the colossal hand and let his runearrow fly. He saw the shaft sizzle straight toward the bridge, then the giant blocked his view by trying to squash him with a boulderlike fist.
Tavis leaped backward off the bluff, screaming, “Basil is wise!”
If the runearrow exploded, the scout did not hear it. He slammed into a boulder and felt Bear Driller slip from his grasp. His attacker’s fist crashed down on the ridge above, sending a deafening crack across the meadow and spraying shards of bedrock in every direction. The giant twisted his fist back and forth, as a man might grind a fly into the table, and did not seem to notice that his quarry had escaped.
Tavis tried to crawl away, only to discover that he had fallen between two boulders and become lodged in place. He reached past his head to grab a handhold. As he dragged himself free, a jagged knob of stone opened a deep gash in his back. The scout swallowed his pain and continued to pull, his teeth clenched to keep from crying out.
The movement drew the stone giant’s attention. The brute’s rigid face showed no emotion, but he quickly lifted his hand and peered at the crater beneath it.
“Missed,” he observed in a dispassionate voice.
The giant leaned over the bluff to reach for his prey, but could not quite make the stretch. He pulled back and stooped over behind the ridge.
Tavis leaped to his feet and started toward Bear Driller. A huge boulder crashed onto the tundra in front of him. He looked up and saw the giant clambering over the bluff, a second stone in his hand. The scout feinted a dash toward his bow. The stone giant’s arm came forward, but the brute checked his throw.
“It is written that you are a guileful one,” the giant observed.
“Written?” Tavis echoed. He kept his knees flexed, ready to dive for his bow the instant the giant made the mistake of committing to an attack. “Where?”
“In the Chronicles of Stone.” The giant’s gaze flickered to Bear Driller and back to Tavis, and he wisely restrained the impulse to make the first move. “Where do you think?”
“Then you know who I am?” As he spoke, Tavis crouched behind the boulder the giant had just thrown at him. He stretched a hand toward his bow. “I don’t see how you could. There are thousands of firbolgs in the Ice Spires.”
“But few runts.” The giant stepped on the boulder, pressing it into the ground. “And only one who serves the queen of Hartsvale.”
“Then you have me at a disadvantage,” Tavis said. Although he could feel his heart pounding, he remained poised to roll away. “Who are you?”
“I am known as Odion,” the giant answered.
“Well, Odion, what now?” Tavis cast a longing glance toward his beloved bow.
“We will have no more of your tricks.” Odion positioned the boulder in his hand over Tavis. “That will only prolong matters.”
The scout sprang forward and smashed an elbow into the soft spot below Odion’s kneecap. The joint popped and straightened, drawing a deep grunt from above. The giant dropped his stone, but Tavis had slipped between the brute’s legs and was already darting toward the bluff.
“Come Tavis! This isn’t worthy of you.”
Tavis scrambled over the stony ridge without responding. A loud clatter sounded from the other side as Odion gathered up an armful of throwing boulders.
“Only through the grace of acceptance does one triumph over death,” admonished the giant. “In every other aspect your life has been recorded with great esteem. I pray you, do not sully that account with a graceless end.”
Tavis drew his sword. “You may write that I have no intention of ending my story here,” he called, crouching behind the bluff. “Let that decision reflect on my annals as it will.”
The scout crept silently forward, hunched over and staying close to the ridge. After a dozen paces, he judged it safe to glance at Wyvern’s Eyrie. A great starburst of scorched granite now marred the cliff’s silvery face. Nothing remained of the bridge except the ends of splintered logs, with Odion’s partner dangling from one of the stubs by a single hand. The stone giant’s feet scraped madly along the cliff, while his free hand slapped blindly at the ledge above, where the shepherd youth was dodging back and forth, smashing the brute’s fingers with a large stone. The four women had sent the young girls ahead and stopped at the next bridge. Two of them kneeled at each end, working furiously to cut the heavy logs free.
Tavis heard a loud thump behind him and looked over his shoulder. Odion was leaning over the bluff, staring at a boulder he had just dropped where the scout had been earlier. Realizing the quickest way to defeat the giant would be to give him a false sense of confidence, the firbolg jumped to his feet and zigzagged across the tundra as though terrified.
“This is not worthy of you, Tavis!” A boulder sailed past the scout and thudded into the tundra. “It is your time. Face death as bravely as you faced life!”
Tavis changed directions, narrowly dodging a second stone. He hazarded a glance back and saw Odion bracing for another throw, with three more boulders cradled in his arm. The scout darted to one side and slowed his pace. The next ridge was less than fifty paces away, and he wanted the giant close behind when he reached it.
A frightened cry rang out from Wyvern’s Eyrie. Still darting and weaving, the scout looked up to see the giant’s free hand close around the shepherd boy. In the same instant, the four women came charging down the trail with a heavy log under their arms. They rammed it into the stone giant’s head, and the brute fell away, still holding the shepherd youth in his hand. He disappeared behind the ridge ahead, then a terrible crash shook the meadow.
Odion hurled two more stones. One passed so close to the scout’s sword that the steel blade tinkled like a wind chime. Tavis changed directions and heard one more boulder thump down behind him. He glanced back and saw that his pursuer had no more rocks in his arms.
“Surely, now you will concede to the inevitable,” Odion called. Despite a pronounced limp, the giant’s long strides were quickly closing the distance between him and Tavis. “Even you cannot hope to escape two of us.”
Tavis could only guess what his looming foe saw on the other side of the ridge, at the base of Wyvern’s Eyrie. Odion’s partner was probably shaking off the effects of his long fall. It would take more than a hundred-foot drop to kill a stone giant.
The scout headed directly for the bluff. Odion caught up in three strides and stooped over to grab his quarry. Tavis threw himself into a forward roll and returned to his feet five paces shy of the ridge. He pumped his legs hard, bounding toward the bluff as swiftly as a stag.
“There is nowhere to go,” Odion said. “Accept your fate.”
The shadow of the stone giant’s hand crept over Tavis. The scout leaped into the air and braced his feet against the side of the bluff, then sprang back toward Odion.
Tavis landed almost exactly where he had intended, requiring only one quick step to place himself beside his foe’s leg. He swung his sword hard, then felt a sha
rp snap as his blade sliced through the delicate tendons behind the giant’s knee. Odion bellowed, and his leg buckled. He pitched forward, his huge body folding over the bluff like a corpse over a saddle.
The firbolg grabbed a handful of bloody flesh and pulled himself up Odion’s leg. The pain-stricken giant did not react until Tavis started to climb his back, and by then it was too late. When the brute tried to turn over, the scout placed the tip of his sword between two ribs.
“Go ahead and roll,” Tavis said. “You’ll drive the blade in for me.”
Odion wisely returned to his stomach. The firbolg’s blade was hardly more than a dirk to him, but a dirk was long enough to puncture a lung. “What is your intention?”
“I hope it isn’t to kill you,” boomed the second stone giant “I have not prepared myself to lose a son.”
Tavis instantly recognized the sonorous voice. “Gavorial!” The scout pressed the tip of his sword into the back of Odion’s neck, then looked up to see a familiar, grimly lined face. “I had thought never to see you again.”
“Nor I to see you—and both our lives would have been the better for it,” Gavorial answered. The stone giant opened his hand to display the shepherd youth he had snatched from the side of Wyvern’s Eyrie. The boy was battered and trembling with fear, but he was alive. “Yet here we stand, and now you must surrender—or burden your spirit with the weight of this boy’s death.”
* * * * *
Avner dived into the moldering grain, burrowing deep and fast. The oats and barley were damp and rank, but he tried not to think about what he smelled. The foul odor would keep anyone from poking around the heap, and that made it an ideal hiding place. He continued digging until he neared the other side, then cleared an eyehole so he could see the wrecked farmhouse and most of the rubble-strewn yard.
The giants had been little more than sticks on the horizon when Avner had stepped out of the spruce copse, but already they were close enough for the youth to see that they were frost giants. They had milky skin and bushy beards that ranged in color from dirty ivory to ice blue, and most were dressed in sleeveless jerkins and kilts made from some long-furred hide. They all carried double-bladed axes large enough to fell a mature spruce in a single swipe, and the leader wore a skullcap with two ivory horns.