by Troy Denning
"Brianna is a priestess of Hiatea, is she not?" asked Basil.
Tavis nodded.
"Well then," the verbeeg added, "if this doesn't convince you she's dead, nothing will."
Avner frowned. "What are you talking about? I'm as anxious as you to put some distance between us and Morten, but I don't see any proof that the princess is dead."
"Basil's talking about the mountain lions." Tavis explained. "They're solitary creatures. They never run in packs."
"So?"
It was Basil who explained. "Brianna summoned them. That's how she killed six ogres." The verbeeg cast a nervous glance down the mountain, then said. "Perhaps now we can leave."
"We still have plenty of time," Tavis said. "And those bones could be the spy's."
Basil snorted his derision. "Why would the shaman eat his own spy?" he demanded. "That has to be Brianna back there."
"What you say makes sense," Tavis allowed. He had a lump in his throat that felt like it might choke him, and he wasn't sure that he cared if it did. "But I must be sure. You go on ahead while I look around."
"Go ahead where?" Basil demanded.
Tavis gestured up the ravine.
"I stand a better chance against Morten than trying to climb that mountain-especially alone," Basil hissed.
"Don't you have a rune that could help?"
"Of course. I have runes that will transform me into mountain goats, birds, even snow apes-but that cliff is a high one. What happens when I change back to a clumsy verbeeg in the middle of the ascent?" Basil asked. "I'm better off staying here to help you look."
The verbeeg turned his eyes to the ground and wandered away to search the hillside. Tavis went to the largest group of dead lions and kneeled down. The area was littered with bone shards and scraps of cloth, while the rocky ground beneath the beasts was coated with stale blood-some of it forming pools so deep that it still had not dried. The scout rubbed his fingertips in the sticky mess and raised the digits to his nose. The syrup smelled vaguely of iron and spoiling meat, and from that he concluded it had probably come from a human. It didn't slink enough to be ogre, and the amount of it on the claws and feet of the mountain lions suggested it had come from their prey and not themselves.
Tavis pulled a scrap of cloth from the blood pool and rubbed it between his fingers. The fabric was wool, coarsely spun but tightly woven-the same material from which his own cloak had been made.
Basil came over and squatted down at the scout's side. "I'm sorry to show you this." The verbeeg opened his hand. In his palm lay a tiny flaming-spear amulet attached to a silver chain. "This is the symbol of Brianna's goddess, is it not?"
Tavis pocketed the scrap of cloth he had picked up, then took the talisman. The amulet itself was in good condition, but the chain had been broken and several links were coated with dried blood. "Show me where you found this."
Basil led him across the hill, to where a single dead mountain lion lay on its side. Although the beast had been badly mutilated, there was little sign of blood in the area.
"It was below this lion." The verbeeg led the way down the hill, then stopped and waved his hand over the rocks, "I can't remember where exactly, but this was the general area."
Save for a few rocks Tavis and his companions had turned over during their descent, the area looked undisturbed.
"Did you see any blood?" Tavis asked.
The verbeeg shook his head. "No, but you saw those stains."
"They don't matter." The scout allowed himself a deep sigh of relief, then slipped Brianna's talisman into his cloak pocket and smiled. The princess will be pleased to have her amulet back. I'll be sure to tell her you were the one who found it."
"You've lost your wits!" said Basil. "That's blood on the amulet's chain!"
Tavis nodded. "True. Brianna probably suffered a cut, or perhaps the blood came from someone else," he said. "But those are the spy's bones down there, not hers."
Basil narrowed his eyes. "You're just saying that so-" Realizing the folly of accusing the firbolg of lying, the verbeeg let the allegation drop in midsentence. "How do you know?"
Tavis reached into his pocket and removed the scrap of fabric he had recovered earlier. "I found this back there." He pointed across the hill to where he had found the mountain lions lying amidst the scraps of bone and pools of blood. That's where our human was killed-by Brianna's creatures."
Basil pointed at the fabric in Tavis's hands. "And I sup-pose that scrap confirms this?"
Tavis nodded, passing the cloth to him. "Coarse wool like this didn't come from the clothes of a princess."
Basil's gray eyebrows came together. "Perhaps the ogres gave her a cloak."
"Ogres don't spin wool," Tavis countered.
"I mean to suggest they stole it for her," said the verbeeg.
"Did you see any dead men between here and the castle?" Tavis demanded. "Or perhaps you think they'd simply take a man's cloak without bothering to kill hint?"
"If they look it on the way in, we wouldn't have come across the body," Basil insisted.
"The ogres wouldn't have done that," the firbolg answered. "As they snuck into the valley, they'd avoid killing. A dead man's companions might notice his absence and sound an alarm."
"Speaking of alarms, it's time for us to go," said Avner.
The youth pointed down the mountainside, to where the small company's pursuers were just coming through, the stunted spruce hedge at timberline. Still carrying their lances and heavy shields, the earls remained mounted, kicking and cursing their horses as they forced the poor beasts up the treacherous slope.
"If they're going to chase me, those earls would do well not to abuse their mounts."
Tavis removed Bear Driller from his shoulder and loosed an arrow. Although the distance was far too great for most archers, the scout was able to place his shaft a few paces directly behind the lead rider. The near miss caused all the earls to draw up short and jump off their mounts. They took cover among the rocks, leaving Morten to clamber up the slope alone.
"What's wrong with that firbolg?" demanded Basil. "How can he be so certain you won't fire at him?"
"I don't think he cares," Tavis replied. "After losing Brianna to the ogres, he'd rather take an arrow than fail his king again."
"Then let's go," Basil said. "I've no desire to let any firbolg reclaim his honor at my expense."
"That won't happen," Tavis said. The scout led the way to the mouth of the steep ravine. "Once we're up there in the gorge, even Morten won't follow."
"Why not?" Avner asked.
"Because he's not going to redeem himself by committing suicide," Basil said. "Which is exactly what he'll be doing if he tries to come after us while a clumsy verbeeg's up above him. I'm sure to send half the rocks in the ravine tumbling down on him-if I don't fall and crush him myself."
"That's not exactly what I had in mind, but Morten's too smart to risk an ambush up there," said Tavis. The scout would have suggested that Basil paint himself with the same rune he had used to levitate Morten, but the process would take far too long. "Unfortunately, we're going to have difficulties of our own. I can't help you both."
"Help me? Up that?" Avner scoffed, looking up the ravine. It was little more than a rock chute, so steep that, had there been a stream running through it, it would have been a waterfall. That's a stairway compared to some of the walls I've scaled."
Avner stepped in the ravine and began his ascent. He moved swiftly and surely, never taking more than one hand or foot off the rock, or lingering in one place more than a moment. The youth found handholds on the tiniest knobs of rock and braced his feet on stone faces so sheer it was hard to imagine what kept them from slipping. Tavis had seen many excellent climbers in his time-himself among them-but the boy put them all to shame.
Once Avner had ascended a short distance, Tavis nodded to Basil. "Your turn," he said. "You're big enough that you can climb the ravine like a chimney. Press an arm and a leg against each side,
then move them up one at a time. I'll be right behind you in case you need help."
The verbeeg licked his lips. "You're sure I can do this?"
"Would you rather wait for Morten?"
Basil reached into the ravine and drew himself up.
Before following, Tavis nocked another arrow and turned around. He found his view of the mountainside below blocked by Blizzard's white-flecked frame. The mare was pacing back and forth, nervously nickering and glaring up the ravine.
"Sorry girl," the scout said, using Bear Driller's end to push her away. "You'll have to trust me from here. You can't follow where the ogres are taking Brianna."
The horse stomped her hoof, then withdrew a few paces. On the mountainside below, Tavis quickly found Morten, still charging up the slope and now easily within arrow range. The scout drew Bear Driller's string back, then aimed the tip of his arrow at the bridge of his target's nose.
The bodyguard's eyes widened in alarm, and he threw himself face first to the rocky ground. Tavis quickly adjusted his aim, then released his bowstring. The arrow hissed away. A loud ping echoed across the mountain as the steel tip struck the back side of Morten's breastplate, then the shaft ricocheted away.
Tavis smiled, then whispered. "That shot should slow down even an angry firbolg."
*****
Needle Peak loomed across the valley, a granite minaret rising a thousand feet above the field of gray boulders surrounding it. Behind the spire lay the silhouette of the next mountain ridge, a jagged wall of stone and ice. To the pinnacle's south, the rocky meadow ended at the brink of a vast, murky abyss. From these gloomy depths came the dull roar of an unseen river, its frothing waters filling the air with a fine mist that bent the sun's light over the canyon in a stunning arc of red and yellow and blue.
The rainbow was the only colorful thing in the vista ahead. To the north of the pinnacle, the field ended beneath a wall of loose boulders and pearly ice, the terminal moraine of a large glacier. The snow field curved away for miles, slowly climbing toward a cirque in the mountain ridge.
Somewhere in the unseen valleys ahead were trees, or so Brianna had heard, but she could see only the gray and white ramparts of mountain chain after mountain chain, each higher and more icy than the last, until the peaks grew so lofty and snowy she could no longer tell them from the clouds. The princess had never before ventured beyond the borders of her father's kingdom and gazed on the vast expanse of the Ice Spires. The sight filled her heart with a despair as dark and deep as the abysses hidden ahead.
A dozen paces down the couloir, Goboka stopped. The ogre shaman lifted a boulder off the bottom of the narrow trench, then began a careful examination of the stone. Brianna's ogre-or more accurately, the one carrying her across his shoulders-stopped to wait, bracing one hand against the couloir wall to keep from sliding down the steep slope. The other survivors of Brianna's ambush simply sat down, holding themselves in place by kicking their heels into the loose scree. Both warriors were lightly burdened, one carrying a handful of waterskins and the other Runolf's head. The head was all that remained of the unfortunate traitor, for Goboka had eaten the rest.
With an impatient grunt, the shaman dropped the boulder he had been examining and reached for another. Brianna found herself silently cursing Goboka's delay. When they stopped moving, the smell of the ogres grew immeasurably worse, to the point where her jaws ached and her stomach churned. Not even the bitter wind could carry the awful stench away fast enough, and she could not recall ever wanting anything quite so much as she now wanted to retch.
But that was impossible. Even if the ogres had not gagged her with one of their filthy rags, the princess could not have stopped her teeth from chattering long enough to do the job. They were high in the mountains, where the sun's rays were as frigid as ice, and a slabbing, bitter cold crept into the lungs with every breath. To make matters worse, as a way of discouraging another escape attempt, Goboka had burned Brianna's cloak with the bodies of his dead warriors. She wore nothing more than the faltered remains of the cashmere dress in which she had attended Tavis's party. Even the slightest breeze numbed her flesh, and up here the wind howled loud enough to shame an entire pack of dire wolves.
Brianna twisted around to look op the mountain, praying she would see her father's men climbing over the rocky notch above. She could not understand what was taking them so long. Even if she had not been missed until the ball started, the ogres would have had less than a three-hour start on her saviors. With the advantage of the swift royal horses, the rescue party should be closing in by now.
At least Brianna hoped they were. Already her bones ached with cold, and her joints felt too stiff to move. If her rescuers did not arrive soon, there would be nothing left to recover but a frozen body.
When no guards appeared. Brianna reluctantly forced herself to look down the steep couloir again. Watching for rescuers only made her wait more agonizing.
At the front of the ogre line, Goboka picked up a long, narrow stone with a sharp point on each end. With a mighty thrust, he drove one end deep into the ground, planting the stake in the center of the couloir, where the walls stood within twenty paces of each other and the pitch was so steep stones sometimes rolled down the hill with no visible impetus. The shaman tested the pillar to make sure it was steady, then look Runolf's head and placed it on top of the post.
The shaman said something in the deep, guttural voice he used for casting spells, Runolf's eyes popped open. They were not dazed or glassy, as those of a dead man, but seemed fully alert and alive. The traitor's gaze roved over the couloir and came to rest on Brianna's face. There was an expression of terrible anguish in the depths of his eyes, but also something more, as though he was more sad for the princess than he was for himself.
Brianna could not look at Runolf's face without remembering how he had asked forgiveness and claimed the decision to betray her had not been his. Then whose decision had it been. Runolf? Was Tavis involved? Did his betrayal of her include more than abusing her good name? The princess would have liked to call down and ask all these questions of the traitor, but of course she could not. She had a gag in her mouth, and even if she had not, who was to say Runolf could answer. He was Goboka's creature now, and the sadness in his eyes might have meant anything-or nothing at all.
Goboka looked across the valley and raised his hands to his mouth. A loud, wavering cry erupted from his throat, cutting through the wind to crash against the cliffs of the distant mountains. For a moment, there was no answer, until an excited murmur slowly bubbled up from the remote fields beneath Needle Peak. The gray stones stirred, and at first Brianna could not understand what she was seeing. Then the distant shapes began to arrange themselves into ragged formations, line after line, rank upon rank. A strange thunder rumbled across the valley, growing more rhythmic with each repetition, until she could make out a single, guttural word rising from the throats of a thousand ogres: "Bree-an-a! Bree-an-a!" * 6* Runolf's Couloir
The disembodied head of Runolf Saemon sat thirty paces down the slope, fixed atop a small rock spire lodged between the craggy walls of the sleep couloir. The sergeant's face was pale with death, his cheeks hollow and his lips the color of ash, but his eyes still seemed very much alive. They were as blue as mountain columbines, with twitching crow's feel at the corners and watchful pupils fixed on Tavis's face.
For a long time, the scout sat on his haunches in the windy notch above the couloir, waiting for Basil and Avner to join him.
More than anything. Tavis wanted to avoid thinking about the gruesome scene below, but his mind would not allow it. His thoughts kept returning to what he saw, searching for an acceptable theory to explain why it was Runolf Saemon's head waiting down there.
There was only one conclusion for Tavis to reach: His mentor had been part of Brianna's abduction from the beginning. Runolf had been the guide who led the ogres past the outposts of the Border Guard. Later, he had been their spy, sneaking away from the party at the Weary Gi
ant to warn the kidnappers of their quarry's approach. And now, having been ripped apart by Brianna's mountain lions, the traitorous sergeant continued to serve the brutes as some sort of undead watchman.
The only thing Tavis did not understand was why.
The scout fixed his eyes across the valley, where a long file of dark forms was climbing the glacier north of Needle Peak. A cold wind was blowing from that direction, and on its breath Tavis caught faint whiffs of the rancid, sour-milk odor of ogre flesh. Sometimes, he thought there was a more fragrant scent, one he remembered from the princess's visits to the Weary Giant, but his imagination was only playing tricks on him. Brianna was certainly with the ogres, but her perfume would long since have worn off.
The scout's stomach burned with a hollow pain he had felt not too long ago, upon learning of the death of his adoptive mother, Isa Wirr. This time, he could not say for whom he was mourning. Was it for Brianna, hopelessly lost in the midst of a thousand foul-smelling ogres? Or was he grieving for Runolf, whose unfathomable betrayal had left him feeling even more lost than the princess?
Tavis forced himself to look down the couloir and met his mentor's gaze. Runolf's eyes were filled with shame and regret, two emotions Tavis had never before seen on the man's face. In life, Runolf had been one of those rare humans as confident in his own moral code as firbolgs were in their laws, a dedicated man who always upheld the strict codes of duty and honor to the letter. How the ogres had corrupted a man of such character, the scout could not imagine. Perhaps when he knew that, he would also know why they had taken Brianna.
"Runolf, I know you led the ogres into Hartsvale." Tavis called down. "The thing I don't understand is why. Tell me."
"That I cannot do." replied the head. "But I will say this: Remember what I taught you about three-toed tracks."