The Giant Among Us ttg-2

by Troy Denning

  “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 secret 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 raised 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.”

  “Fine.” Avner slipped off the table. “I hope I know what I’m getting myself into.”

  The youth stepped to the window and threw his apple core out into the gray glow of first light.

  *****

  The stomping had ended some time earlier, pattering into silence after an unexpected crescendo. That had been exactly a thousand breaths ago-Tavis had counted each one, lacking any other way to tell time-and now it was time to go. The scout checked to make sure his sword, quiver, and shoulder satchel were secure, then grabbed the counterweight chain and pulled.

  An ear-piercing squeal, almost deafening after the long silence, echoed off the stone walls. The counterweight seemed to stick for a moment, then a loud crack sounded from the threshold as the door broke free. The granite slab began to rise, grudgingly, and a low, grinding growl joined the cacophony of rattling chains. A sliver of gray light appeared on the tunnel floor and slowly spread down the passageway.

  Tavis cursed. Although the rays were not bright, he knew what they meant: dawn was coming, and soon. He forced himself to look into the light so his eyes would grow accustomed to it and pulled harder. The door rose another foot.

  A gentle tremor shuddered through the tunnel, then another and another: giants searching for the source of the mysterious sounds. More steps joined the first, but none seemed to be growing any louder. That would change quickly enough, Tavis knew. Soon his foes would overcome their initial confusion and track down the source of the clamor.

  The scout stopped pulling on the chains and heard the gruff, terse grunts of shouting hill giants. Although the voices were too muffled to understand, they sounded much closer than Tavis would have liked. He gave the chain another long pull, then abruptly stopped. A trio of giants began shouting contradictory commands, confused by the sporadic noise.

  Tavis eyed the gap between the door and threshold, finding about three feet of gray light. That was enough space for him to squeeze through, but he feared the granite slab would slide down the instant he released it. The scout pulled again, paused a
short time, then gave the chain another tug. The door rose to a height of six feet, and now he could hear the giants clearly.

  “Where Gragg hear that sound?”

  “Gone ’gain,” answered another muffled voice. “But gots to be over there somewhere. Be quiet.”

  The tunnel stopped shuddering as the giants moved more carefully. The scout could picture them stalking through the predawn light in the typical posture of hunting hill giants: hunched over almost double, tree trunks resting across their stooped shoulders, their dull eyes fixed on the ground with their thick brows screwed into a crumpled parody of concentration. They were hardly as stealthy as fog giants, but they would move with surprising grace for such ungainly beings, their knees bent and their legs flexed. If the need arose, they could spring over the land in great, bounding strides, the impact of each crashing footfall bouncing their terrified quarry off the ground. Tavis did not look forward to becoming their prey, but the prospect of reporting his failure to Brianna was even less appealing.

  The scout took a deep breath, then snatched Bear Driller and threw himself into the gray light. The door began to descend with a loud, grating rumble.

  The ground failed to appear beneath Tavis. He plummeted headfirst into the gloom and glimpsed the face of a rocky crag slipping past, then the stony dark mass of a hillside emerged before his eyes. He had enough time to cover his head before a wave of stinging numbness coursed through his arms. The scout rolled instantly, and found himself tumbling head-over-heels down a steep bank, ricocheting off boulders and tree trunks and leaving equipment strewn all down the slope. He came to a rest in the bottom of a rocky gulch, dizzy and aching, with the growl of the closing door still rumbling somewhere above.