by Troy Denning
Brianna bit her lip, glaring down at the youth. “Avner, if this is some kind of trick—”
“It isn’t”
Brianna raised the cup and nearly gagged on the cloying smell. Wondering how she could have once thought that the stuff tasted good, the queen tipped her head back and let the syrup run down her throat. The libation scalded like overheated milk, settling into her stomach with all the appeal of a greasy pudding. She suddenly felt flushed, her head spinning and feverish. The queen tossed the empty chalice aside and braced herself on Avner’s shoulder.
“By the Huntress, that was awful!” she croaked. “I hope that’s a good sign.”
“What’s your bodyguard’s name?” the youth demanded.
Brianna scowled. “Are you going to start …?” Suddenly, the name came to her, burning through the haze inside her head like the bright, searing sun. “Tavis! His name is Tavis Burdun!”
“How do you feel about him?” the boy pressed.
“I love him!” She gasped. A chain of familiar feelings rushed over the queen, sweeping the muddling fog of Arlien’s potion from her mind. She remembered all that Tavis was to her: loyal comrade and fearless protector, her only trusted confidant, the man with whom she ached to share her bed. “Hiatea help me! What have I done?”
* * * * *
Tavis’s arms ached from the strain of keeping his heavy shield raised and his battle axe cocked. The thickening smoke filled his throat with a bitter, acrid burning that made it increasingly difficult to breathe. Nevertheless, the scout stood fast. Combats between opponents of skill were won more often by wit than strength, and the advantage seldom went to he who committed first.
Finally, when the smoke had grown so dense that Arlien’s armored form was beginning to take on a wraithlike appearance, the prince circled toward Tavis’s flank. The scout pivoted back toward the tower, simultaneously keeping his chest toward his enemy and his body between his foe and the path to Brianna.
Arlien stopped behind a crippled ballista, then suddenly thrust a foot into the stock. The kick landed with a giant’s incredible power, swinging the entire weapon around so that the windlass arced straight toward Tavis’s knees. The prince charged in the same instant, his hammer flashing toward the firbolg’s head.
The scout dropped to a crouch, lowering his shield to protect his knee. Arlien’s hammer sailed past above his head, then the windlass slammed home. Although Tavis had braced himself for the impact, the blow nearly knocked him off his feet. He launched himself upward, transferring the momentum into his own attack as he swung his battle axe at the prince’s unarmored armpit.
Arlien’s hammer flashed down to block. Tavis’s weapon clanged against the shaft and stopped dead, a mere finger’s breadth from its target The firbolg tried to pull back for another blow, but the prince’s free hand shot out and grabbed his weapon arm. The scout swung his other arm low, driving the edge of his shield into his foe’s armored knee.
The steel joint buckled—slightly.
Arlien jerked Tavis up and swung his hammer. Tavis twisted sideways, at the same time bringing his shield around to protect his head. The prince’s blow landed with a resounding boom, denting the steel shield and driving the firbolg’s clenched fist into his own cheek.
Tavis countered instantly, leveling his shield and driving the bottom point into the seam between the prince’s chinpiece and gorget. Arlien’s head snapped back. A strangled gurgle echoed from behind his visor, and he staggered back. When the scout cocked his arm to repeat the strike, the prince flung him away. He flew through the air as though he were a sprite instead of a firbolg.
Tavis felt his heart beat seven times before he finally crashed into a merlon. He dropped to the rampart beside the groaning remains of one of Cuthbert’s soldiers, then instantly rolled to his knees. Anticipating his foe’s next attack, he raised his shield and set it at a steep angle. The scout did not even see Arlien’s hammer when it struck. He simply heard an ear-rending crack and felt his shield arm go limp.
The enchanted hammer started to circle back over Tavis’s head, but the scout was already swinging at it. He felt a sharp jolt as the shaft of his battle axe struck the magic weapon and sent it sailing over the inner ward.
The scout breathed a sigh of relief, knowing it would have been impossible to dodge the thing many more times. He tried to move his numb arm and discovered that it would not respond. He pushed his battered shield off the useless limb, then grasped his battle axe and stood.
Tavis saw Arlien standing at the edge of the rampart, one arm stretched over the inner ward in the direction his hammer had flown. In the thick smoke, the scout could not see the weapon, but he suspected it would be floating back to the prince’s hand.
The rampart shuddered as some part of the inner curtain gave way under the constant barrage of hill giant boulders. For the first time since joining combat with Arlien, Tavis grew cognizant of the battle around him, and he realized he was the only one of Brianna’s men still standing along this section of wall. Everyone else was dead, wounded, or gone.
The scout turned and scrambled toward the corner tower. It was time to seek a more defensible position.
* * * * *
Basil rushed out of the bridge tower as rapidly as his flat feet would carry him. He expected the trembling rampart to crumble beneath him at any moment When the runecaster reached the corner tower, he pulled the oaken door open and squeezed through the cramped corridor at a dead run. In the main chamber, he found close to a dozen soldiers—Cuthbert’s and Brianna’s—furiously cranking their crossbow strings back.
The verbeeg went to the nearest one and jerked the weapon from the warrior’s hands. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I borrowed this,” he said, pulling the string over the trigger with his bare hands. He took a javelin-sized quarrel from the man’s quiver and slipped it into the firing groove. “I shall only need it a moment. I’m sure the angle will be much better here than it was in the bridge tower.”
Before the astonished soldier could reply, the verbeeg rushed to an arrow loop and peered into the rear bailey. He saw a throng of frost giants directly below. Most were beating the flats of their huge axe blades against the inner curtain, but a single giant, a one-eyed fellow with dozens of yellow tattoos on his bald head, was using the dismembered trunk of a mammoth to spray a powerful stream of water into the crevices his companions were opening in the wall.
The runecaster needed no introductions to know the bald giant was a shaman, nor any explanations to realize why he was spraying water into the cracks. When water freezes, it expands, and if it happens to be inside a stone, the stone crumbles.
Basil aimed the crossbow at the shaman’s bald head and pulled the trigger. The bolt hissed away, planting itself deep in the target’s temple. A dark trickle appeared beneath the wound. The frost giant collapsed without even crying out.
The verbeeg stepped away from the arrow loop. “That’ll buy us a few more minutes.” He returned the crossbow to the man from whom he had taken it, then asked, “Now, can anyone tell me where Tavis has gotten to?”
“I’m right here,” called the scout. He came limping into the room from the far corridor, one arm hanging useless at his side and looking more like a tattered beggar than the queen’s bodyguard. If the scout was surprised to see the runecaster, he was too weary to show it. He went directly to the soldiers in the center of the room. “You men, turn your weapons around.”
The men raised their brows. “But the frost giants—”
“Are not nearly as dangerous as Arlien, who’ll be coming in that door at any moment.” The scout pointed down the corridor through which he had just come. “We’ll set an ambush here.”
“It won’t do any good,” said Basil, crossing to the scout “Arlien’s armor was made by the Twilight Spirit himself. I doubt very much that you can kill him while he’s wearing it, and certainly not in your current condition.”
“I’ve got to try,” Tavis said.
�
�Then try after you’ve been healed,” Basil said. “I painted a rune for the queen. By now, she should be free of her affliction.”
Tavis raised his brow. “She can cast spells?”
“Isn’t that what I said?” Basil grabbed the scout’s good arm and dragged him toward the door. “She’ll be waiting for you in the temple.”
Tavis shook his head. “It’s no good,” he said. “Arlien’s right behind me.”
Basil took a runebrush from inside his tunic. “You can’t stop Arlien, but I can slow him down.” The verbeeg continued to pull the scout along. “Leave him to me.”
Tavis did not resist. “Are you sure about this?”
“No,” Basil admitted. “But it’s the best chance we have.”
A tremendous crash echoed from the corridor by which Tavis had entered, and Basil heard a heavy plank crack. At most, the door would last two more blows.
“You men, go upstairs!” Tavis motioned the soldiers toward the stairway.
Basil wrapped his arm around the scout and half-carried him down the corridor. Once they were outside, the verbeeg kicked the door shut and slashed his runebrush across the oaken panels. Although he had not dipped the bristles in any sort of paint, a glowing green line appeared beneath the tip. He traced a total of three squiggly lines, creating what looked like a pair of waves bisected by a crooked lance, then took the scout to the middle of the rampart.
“Go on.” Basil shoved the scout toward the bridge tower, then kneeled on the walkway. “I’ll see you in the keep.”
The entire rampart was still reverberating from the blows of the frost giants.
“Don’t tarry,” Tavis warned, following the runecaster’s instructions. “Arlien’s as efficient a killer as he is ruthless.”
“He’s certainly had long enough to learn the art,” Basil replied, clearing the dirt away from a small section of stone.
A loud thump reverberated from the door Basil had sealed. “By the titan!” came Arlien’s muffled voice. “I’ll feed your heart to one of my ettins, Tavis Burdun!”
The threat was followed by the pounding of the prince’s hammer against the other side of the door. Instead of splitting, the oaken planks merely bowed and flexed back into their original position. Basil smiled and touched his brush to the walkway.
The runecaster found his task more difficult than anticipated. The rampart shuddered constantly, making it impossible to draw a straight line. He found it necessary to retrace each stroke several times, and even then the rune had the thick, squiggly appearance of an amateur. It would hardly be one of his most powerful spells, but with a little luck, it would delay the ettin long enough for Brianna to heal Tavis.
A tremendous clatter arose from the corner tower. Basil looked up and saw the door he had sealed disintegrating beneath the impact of Arlien’s hammer. Judging that he had time for one last stroke, the verbeeg laid his brush on its side and began to drag it lightly over the rune. Wherever the stem touched, the glowing symbol vanished from sight.
Before Basil had finished, an ominous rumble reverberated from deep within the curtain. The entire rampart began to shudder violently. A long series of pops and crackles echoed up from the sides of the wall, followed by the clatter of falling stone. The verbeeg jumped up, leaving his final stroke half finished. If the wall was collapsing, it was because of the frost giants’ hammering, not his rune.
The door to the corner tower crashed down, and Arlien stepped out onto the rampart His visor instantly tipped toward the half-concealed rune at Basil’s feet.
“No!” Arlien yelled, apparently mistaking the verbeeg’s sigil for the cause of the collapse. The prince hurled his hammer and rushed forward.
Basil spun away and threw himself down. He heard the hammer whoop by over his head, then saw the walkway crumbling. He heard Arlien scream, but the ear-splitting roar of the wall’s collapse quickly drowned out the prince’s angry cry. A boiling cloud of dust billowed up beneath him, filling his mouth with the bitter taste of rock and mortar.
* * * * *
Brianna kneeled before the altar. Somewhere outside, the frost giants were already pounding at the keep’s thick foundations, but the queen did not notice the floor trembling beneath her knees, or hear the mighty booms reverberating through the stone walls. She knew only the burning spear before her. She saw only its dancing light, smelled only its sweet smoke, harkened only the crackle of its orange flame. She had returned to Hiatea, and now she felt only the heat of her goddess’s power, coursing like fire through her veins.
“Your Majesty?” The voice came from a long way off, but it was a familiar one—and a welcome one. “Milady?”
Brianna returned instantly to the battle-torn world of Cuthbert Castle. “Tavis!” She leaped to her feet and spun around, repeating his name just to prove she could: “Tavis Burdun!”
“It’s good to see you’re feeling better, Milady.”
Tavis was propped between two Winter Wolves. Apparently they had more or less carried him into the temple, for both men had one arm around his waist and were panting heavily. Despite their fatigue, they had also dragged their heavy crossbows and quivers up the stairs. Clearly, they did not think any place in the keep was safe—at least not for long.
Tavis looked awful. One dislocated shoulder sagged from its socket at an impossible angle, while the glaze in his eyes suggested he might collapse from sheer exhaustion at any moment. He had fresh cuts across old ones, bruises atop lumps, and burn blisters rising from scorched flesh. His feet looked even more hideous than the rest of him, with black, swollen flesh bulging over his boot ankles.
Brianna went straight over to him. She wrapped him in her arms and kissed him squarely on his cracked lips, ignoring the raised eyebrows of his two escorts.
Tavis pulled away.
“Please, Milady!” the scout said. He cocked an ear toward the battle clamor roaring through the window. “We must hurry. The frost giants will break through at any moment. And I doubt we’ve seen the last of Prince Arlien.”
A cold, frightening ache filled Brianna’s chest—and not because the scout had mentioned Arlien. She remembered what had happened that awful night he had come to her in this temple, at least until he had overpowered her and poured his vile potion down her throat, and the next time she saw the prince it would be he who regretted the meeting. What scared the queen now was Tavis, or more accurately, the aloofness she sensed in his voice.
Brianna stepped back. “I don’t care about the giants or Arlien,” she said. “If I’ve lost you, I’d rather they take me.”
Tavis frowned, considering. Finally, he said, “You haven’t lost me. I’m still your bodyguard.”
Brianna shook her head. “You’re much more than that to me—and to the kingdom,” she said. “I owe you an apology.”
The scout shook his head. “What happened with Arlien wasn’t your fault,” he said. “The magic—”
“I’m talking about what happened before I drank the potion,” Brianna said. “I was wrong to insist that we keep our love secret.”
“No, you were right,” Tavis said. “We have to think of Hartsvale.”
“I am thinking of Hartsvale,” Brianna said. “If I’m afraid to act on my true feelings, then I’m not strong enough to rule this kingdom or any other. There will always be someone like Prince Arlien, shrewd enough and unscrupulous enough to pry at the seam between appearances and reality.”
The keep shuddered under some terrific blow, like a man about to fall unconscious. A booming clatter echoed up the stairway. The floor joists creaked plaintively, and an entire corner of the room suddenly sank.
Avner stepped away from the altar, where he had been waiting, and came to Brianna’s side. “Maybe we should do this somewhere else.”
The queen shook her head. “No. My spells will be more powerful here.”
“Then let’s get to the healing.” The boy eyed the sagging corner, then grabbed Tavis’s wrist and started forward. “I’m kind of in a hu
rry to get out of here.”
Tavis raised an eyebrow. “And go where?”
“The secret tunnels,” the youth said. “There are more beneath this castle than Cuthbert has admitted. Basil and I saw him running for one in the dungeon tower. I think it—”
“You’re getting ahead of us, Avner,” Brianna interrupted, following the boy to the front of the room. “Before we worry about our escape, we have to mend Tavis.”
Brianna slipped the bow and quiver off Tavis’s dislocated shoulder, noting that the golden arrow still remained in its special pocket. Next, as Avner tugged the boots off the firbolg’s swollen feet, she removed his cloak and what remained of the singed clothes underneath. Finally, she unclasped the necklace of ice diamonds hanging around his neck and pitched them through the window into the maelstrom outside.
“I don’t ever want to see an ice diamond again.” Brianna gently pushed the scout onto his back. “I’m sure Hiatea’s magic will work much better without them near.”
Brianna and Avner had already made all the necessary preparations. She picked up the bucket they had placed beside the altar earlier, then poured the contents over the firbolg’s body. His spirit had been cleansed earlier in the day, so the water frothed and bubbled for only a moment before she was ready to begin the actual healing.
A fierce bang resounded in the stairwell outside the room, followed by the rattle of stones tumbling down steps. The youngest Winter Wolf stuck his head out the door to see what was happening. When he turned back to Brianna, there were beads of sweat on his upper lip.
“Milady, we’d better go.”
“Not now,” Brianna said. She was dusting Tavis’s feet with powdered brimstone.
“But the giants have knocked a hole—”
“Quiet!”
As Brianna laid her goddess’s amulet on Tavis’s ankle, the scout looked over at the two soldiers. “Keep the giants away from the stairs. We’ll need them to get out of here,” he ordered. “Use the hole as an arrow loop.”
“As you command, Milord,” said the second Winter Wolf, older than his companion. “We’ll wait for you on the stairs.”