The Giant Among Us

by Troy Denning

  Halflook shook his head. “Why would it be?” he demanded. “Doesn’t Halflook deserve some fun?”

  The giants answered with a hearty chorus of approval. Halflook smiled and took Tavis’s arm. He started toward the far end of the chamber, where several seats had been carved into the edge of the pit.

  “You also deserve some fun, my friend,” he said. “Killing Tavis Burdun could not have been easy.”

  “The battle was desperate,” Tavis replied. “But I have no interest in worm-baiting. If you’ll honor Hagamil’s agreement and tell me where you’re meeting Julien and Arno, I’ll be on my way.”

  Halflook stopped and raised his brow, his single eye twinkling with a knowing light. “Hagamil promised you that?”

  “He did,” Tavis replied.

  The shaman shook his head regretfully. “I can’t help you. Hagamil has told me no more than anyone else: We are to break camp tomorrow, and he will lead us to the rendezvous.” Halflook worked his bruised jaw back and forth, then added, “And I wouldn’t advise you to wait and ask him. He’ll be in a foul mood when he returns.”

  Halflook started forward again, but Tavis did not follow.

  The shaman looked back, and a reassuring smile slid across his cracked lips. “Come along, Sharpnose. You’ve nothing to fear from me, and Hagamil won’t be back until morning.” His gaze drifted toward the cavern exit and again grew distant and unfocused. “Besides, there’s a surprise coming—one you won’t want to miss.”

  Tavis glanced toward the exit and saw nothing except the sable night. Nevertheless, he followed Halflook to one of the seats of honor, quite sure that the shaman would not let him leave now even if he insisted. One of Hagamil’s concubines threw a mammoth fur down on Tavis’s chair, then held his arm so that he didn’t slip as he lowered himself into the icy seat. Even through the thick fur the scout felt the cold creeping into his weary bones. Halflook sat beside his guest, directly on the ice.

  In the bottom of the pit, the ogre now stood alone, his neck craned back and his beady, bewildered eyes running over the enormous faces gaping down at him. The last of his two captors was just stepping off the log ladder onto the chamber’s main floor. Slagfid and another warrior had taken hold of the remorhaz’s harness poles and were holding the writhing beast over the pit. Frith stood next to them, grasping a long halberd, which he would use to slice the harness.

  Halflook leaned over to Tavis. “I know stone giants find these things boring, so perhaps we should make a wager,” he suggested. “Having something at stake does liven things up.”

  “What kind of wager?” Tavis asked. He had little interest in watching the cruel contest and even less in wagering on it, but he knew the shaman had a good reason for proposing a bet

  “Do you think the ogre will injure the remorhaz before he dies?” Halflook asked.

  Tavis studied the frightened prisoner for a moment. He bore no love for ogres—they were a brutal, wicked race—but he had learned to respect them. In desperate circumstances, they were especially spirited, and they possessed a certain animal cunning that would prove useful in a battle such as this.

  “The ogre won’t last long,” Tavis decided. “But he’ll draw blood.”

  “Good,” replied the shaman. “Then that’s our wager.”

  “And the stakes?” Tavis asked.

  “If he fails to draw blood, you tell me how you and Bodvar really lost Bear Driller and Little Dragon,” said the shaman.

  “How did you know we lost Little Dragon?” Tavis’s heart was beginning to pound with cold apprehension. “No one said that”

  The shaman smiled. “Is that really what you wish to know if you win?”

  “No, of course not.” Tavis exhaled slowly, trying to calm himself and keep his face relaxed. “If the ogre draws blood, you’ll tell me how to find the rendezvous.”

  “Why is the rendezvous so important to you?” Halflook asked.

  “Why is it so important to you that only frost giants accompany Brianna to Twilight?” the scout countered.

  Halflook smiled crookedly. “I had not thought stone giants so covetous of such honors,” he said. “But I was speaking truly when I said only Hagamil knows. The best I can do is give you safe passage and one of Bodvar’s bulls to ride. Then, perhaps, you could trail us at a safe distance. Our path will not be so hard to follow.”

  “Perhaps you could heal my toe instead,” Tavis suggested. “I’d prefer to walk.”

  Halflook chuckled at this. “Do you really want me to use frost magic on your stony toe?” he asked. “Or have you never seen how ice can break rocks apart?”

  “Perhaps I will accept the mammoth,” the scout replied.

  “A wise decision.”

  The shaman looked to the other end of the chamber, where Sjolf and Snorri were pulling the log ladder from the pit. The remorhaz was growling more viciously than ever, while the ogre was dragging his chains across the pit so that he would be in position to attack as soon as the beast fell.

  Halflook nodded to Frith. “Release the worm.”

  The young giant reached out and ran the halberd blade across the worm’s harness. After a moment of slicing, the hide strap came apart and the remorhaz slipped into the pit amidst a clatter of legs and chitin.

  The ogre lurched forward, his heavy chains clanging against the ice. The remorhaz whirled on him. The brutish prisoner swung his spear like a club, striking the worm’s throat with a sharp crack. The creature’s sinuous neck crackled and folded around the heft, then the beast’s body went slack. For an instant Tavis thought the captive might have won the fight in a single blow. Then, as deep-throated murmurs of disappointment began to echo through the chamber, the ice worm whipped its rear segments forward, slamming its heavy tail into the ogre.

  The prisoner sailed across the pit and crashed into an icy wall. The air left his lungs in a loud huff, then the spear dropped from his grasp. He slid down the wall in a limp heap and lay there wheezing, his weapon lying a hand’s length beyond his fingertips.

  The giants shook the cavern with their cheers. The remorhaz approached cautiously, its neck-wings flapping and its black eyes fixed on the ogre. The worm stopped just out of the captive’s reach and stretched its face tentacles toward the spear.

  The ogre stopped wheezing and snatched his spear up, slashing the tip at his foe’s bulbous eyes. The remorhaz jerked back, then the captive was on his feet and thrusting at the beast’s chitinous throat. The ice worm slipped the blow with a well-timed curl of the neck and countered with a lightning-fast head strike.

  The ogre blocked with a slap of his weapon’s shaft, then dodged behind the worm’s head wing. Taking the spear in both hands, he raised the tip high over the white streak on the beast’s back.

  Even as the spear began its descent, Tavis knew the ogre had made his first mistake. To keep themselves from freezing in the icy wastes, remorhazes generated as much internal heat as red dragons, and their blood was as hot as molten stone. When the spear pierced the worm, a geyser of white fire spewed from the hole. The wooden shaft dissolved into a wisp of smoke.

  The astonished ogre bellowed in agony. He raised his hands to his seared face and stumbled away. The ice worm leaped instantly to the attack, trapping the agonized brute beneath its chitinous bulk. The remorhaz curled its head under its bulk to finish its prey, but even then the captive put up a valiant fight The worm’s serpentine body continued to squirm for several moments before it finally raised its bloody maw to bugle its victory cry.

  The giants shouted in glee, filling the chamber with such a clamor that several icicles broke off the ceiling and crashed down on their heads. Halflook leaned over to Tavis.

  Almost shouting to make himself heard above the din, the giant said, “I believe you owe me an explanation, Sharpnose.”

  “I think not,” Tavis replied.

  The scout pointed at the underside of the remorhaz’s sinuous neck, where a chitinous scale had been torn away during the battle. A broke
n ogre tusk protruded from the beast’s throat, and a thin red line of steaming blood rimmed the puncture.

  “You owe me a mammoth.”

  Halflook’s mouth twisted into half a dozen different kinds of snarls. His red-veined eye remained fixed on the tusk until the remorhaz finished its victory call, then he looked back to Tavis and reluctantly nodded his head.

  “So I see,” he said.

  “If you’ll have someone show me how to ride it, I’ll be on my way.”

  Tavis hoisted himself from his seat and climbed onto the main floor. The cold had seeped deep into his joints, so that the effort of standing sent an icy ache through his entire body. He felt more exhausted than ever, and sickened by the spectacle he had been forced to watch.

  Halflook also stood, stepping to the scout’s side. “Stay a moment longer, I beg you.” The shaman’s eye turned toward the cavern exit and once again acquired that distant, unfocused look. “The surprise is almost here.”

  “I’ve seen enough for one night,” the scout replied. “I’m in no mood for surprises.”

  “Not even this one?”

  The shaman pointed toward the exit, where a tall frost giant was stepping into the chamber. Although Tavis had not gotten much of a look at the sentry earlier, this warrior appeared to be about the same size and build.

  “You’re looking too high.” Halflook’s bloodshot eye was locked onto Tavis’s face as though connected to it. “The surprise is much farther down, near the floor.”

  Tavis lowered his gaze. For several moments, he saw nothing but the enormous, booted feet of frost giants. Then, as the sentry pushed his way deeper into the cave, the scout glimpsed a small, shivering form among the massive legs: Avner.

  11

  Midnight Vigil

  A muffled creak came to Basil’s ears, or perhaps it was more of a squeal. Fearing his runes of silence had gotten smudged, the verbeeg stopped and looked down at his feet, then cursed himself for not bringing a lamp. The keep corridors were as dark as caves at this hour of night. He could hardly see his boots, much less determine whether the sigils on the insteps were intact, and he still had two squeaky staircases to ascend.

  The sound returned, and this time the runecaster heard it more clearly: a sort of muffled, gurgling squeal coming from the corridor on his right. Basil sighed in relief. He had heard similar noises in Castle Hartwick often enough. They always came late at night from behind closed doors, when people seemed to believe darkness would smother their sounds. Foolish humans.

  Tightly clutching the folio he had taken from Cuthbert’s library, Basil started forward again, running one hand along the wooden ceiling to keep himself from banging his head. He had already skimmed the volume once and knew it told the story of Twilight’s creation. There had been no mention of Arlien, but the folio did list all of the giants who had been present. With a few hours of study and contemplation, the verbeeg felt confident he would find the connection between the prince and Twilight.

  The ceiling ended at a horizontal corner. The verbeeg ran his hand down the wall to an oaken door, then reached down around his knees to find the latch.

  “Noooo!” The cry came from the same corridor as the squealing earlier. The voice sounded like Brianna’s.

  A muffled thud came next, then the muted growl of an angry man. “Drink!”

  Basil rushed back down the hall. Although the floor trembled under the impact of his heavy feet, the runes on his boots allowed him to move across the planks in utter silence. He heard no more sounds from the side corridor. He turned down the narrow passage, squatting down to listen at each door he passed. The verbeeg heard nothing but the rumbling of a few snoring sleepers.

  At the end of the corridor, Basil came to a small stairway curving up one of the keep’s exterior walls. By the purple midnight blush pouring through the arrow loops, the verbeeg could see that this passageway had been built strictly for humans. It was barely large enough for a single man.

  Basil peered up the corridor, trying to gauge whether his hunched shoulders would fit between its walls. In his mind appeared the unwelcome image of a verbeeg youth trapped in a cramped tunnel, and the runecaster felt runnels of hot sweat pouring down his brow. He wondered if he couldn’t find another, larger staircase that led to the same place. His shoulders would barely fit into this passage, and the corridor might grow narrower ahead. Besides, he couldn’t even be sure Brianna was up there, or that she needed help.

  Brianna’s voice murmured down the stairwell, “Bastard!”

  The word sounded thick and slurred, as though the queen had been drinking. Basil pondered going for help, but rejected the idea. If he embarrassed Brianna by calling the guard when she had only drunk too much wine, the verbeeg felt quite sure the rest of his time at Cuthbert Castle would be spent in the dungeon.

  A sharp clatter rattled down the stairwell.

  Basil slipped the folio inside his robe, then dropped to his hands and knees. He turned sideways and wormed his way into the narrow stairwell. The step edges dug into his bottom arm, and the walls squeezed his chest so tightly that he could not draw a deep breath. He worked his arms past his head and pulled himself into the gloomy passage.

  The walls squeezed his chest more tightly, filling his body with a dull, throbbing ache. His breath came in shallow gasps, whether from panic or inability to expand his lungs he did not know. He squinted up the passage. The purple night glow was too dim to see whether the corridor grew wider above.

  Basil reached farther and dragged himself farther up the stairwell. The passage narrowed slightly, and he found himself wedged in place. When he inhaled, his chest filled with crushing agony. The verbeeg pulled harder, twisting his shoulders back and forth, and felt the folio digging into his waist Then, for no obvious reason, his throat began to close up.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” he gasped. Basil heard his pulse pounding in his ears, and he felt his eyes bulging in their sockets. “I’m panicking, that’s all.”

  Basil’s body did not care. It wanted out of the dark corridor, and it wanted out now. The verbeeg found his arms pushing at the wall, trying to force his large mass down the stairway. Through the thin cloth of his trousers, the bottom of the folio snagged on a stone block. He pushed harder, driving the top edge into his stomach.

  Only then did it occur to Basil to ask why he had tried to save Brianna. Strictly speaking, he wasn’t even one of her subjects, and even if he had been, no verbeeg had ever suffered the compulsion to perform his duty to a liege.

  Perhaps it was her library, the runecaster thought. If Brianna perished, the new monarch would name a new librarian, denying Basil access to the thousands of ancient and obscure volumes in the Royal Archives. But what good were all those books if he failed to work himself free?

  A loud thump rolled down the stairway, followed by a pained groan. Suddenly it no longer mattered why Basil had crawled into the stairwell. Brianna needed help, and verbeeg or not, the runecaster could no longer turn his back on a friend in need.

  “I’m starting to act like a firbolg,” Basil grumbled.

  The runecaster braced his feet against the walls and dug his fingers deep into a seam between two blocks of stone. He exhaled until he was certain all the air had left his lungs, then he forced himself farther up the stairway. He felt each separate rib grating against the wall, flexing inward and racking his body with pain. An anguished grunt escaped his lips and softly rumbled up the corridor.

  Basil redoubled his efforts. His vertebrae and ribs shot sharp pangs of protest through his torso. He ignored them and pushed with every muscle in his body. The verbeeg heard a muted crackle and felt a series of pops run down his spine. He came free and bumped up the stairs. His lungs filled themselves with a sharp gasp, then he spied a sliver of yellow light less than ten steps away. It was dancing beneath a closed door on a small landing above. The runecaster pushed himself to the platform and listened at the door.

  From inside came a scratching sound, such as rats make
as they gnaw through wood, and the gurgle of flowing liquid.

  Basil gently undid the latch, then pulled himself to his feet. He used his toe to push the door open. He could feel the hinges grating against their pins, but the runes painted on his boot kept the portal from making any sound.

  Inside lay a modest chamber with a vaulted ceiling and a granite altar at the far end. Standing before this platform, with his back to the door and still wearing his enchanted armor, was Arlien of Gilthwit—or rather, Arlien of Twilight. He had Brianna’s feebly struggling form pinned to the altar, with his armored elbow resting on her sternum and his fingers holding her jaws open. The other hand was pouring the contents of a large silver flagon into her mouth.

  Brianna seemed lethargic and half asleep, with glazed eyes and drooping lids. The prince was pouring faster than she could swallow, so the fruity-smelling concoction dribbled down her cheeks in runnels. One arm hung limply off the altar. Her other hand waved languidly in the air, the fingers curled into ineffectual claws. Her gown had been torn half off.

  “That’s better, my dear.” Arlien’s voice was a mockery of gentleness. “Drink it all. You’ll feel much better.”

  The runecaster crawled through the door on his hands and knees, moving slowly and carefully to avoid making any noise. Once he was inside the room, where the vaulted ceiling allowed him to stand upright, he pulled the folio from his trousers. He considered smashing the heavy book over Arlien’s head, but could not bring himself to destroy such a priceless treasure. Basil leaned the volume beside the door, then calmly walked to the altar. The prince continued to pour, oblivious to the angry verbeeg standing behind him.

  Basil grabbed the collar of Arlien’s backplate and pulled. The prince did not even budge. Instead, three buckles popped loose and his backplate swung free.

  Basil’s jaw dropped open and his bushy eyebrows came together. He blinked rapidly, squinting and shaking his head, absentmindedly allowing his fist to open.

  Arlien had a second face.

  It was where the prince’s right shoulder-blade should have been, hanging upside down with its dull eyes glaring at Basil. The face was ugly and brutish, with pale skin, a pug nose, and a double-chin encrusted with dried food. The thing’s thick lips formed a spiteful sneer.