The Giant Among Us ttg-2

by Troy Denning

  Olchak waded through the deepening snow, following the mammoth’s footprints into the spruce copse. Tavis pulled on one of Graytusk’s ears, trying to swing the beast around to follow. The mammoth stubbornly turned his head in the other direction and would not budge. The scout grabbed the trunk rope and gave a cautionary jerk, then tugged the ear again. This time, the creature reluctantly allowed his head to be dragged around, spitting a series of angry bugles from his hairy nose.

  By the time Tavis got their mount turned around and moving, Olchak had disappeared into the copse. The scout released Graytusk’s ears and took the trunk rope from Avner. The mammoth resentfully plodded forward, dragging his feet through the snow and casting yearnful glances over his shoulder. They did not catch Olchak until they reached the stream where he had first called for a halt. The old man was standing on the bank, peering into the blizzard with both hands cupped around his eyes. Although the current kept the main channel open, thin sheets of silvery ice were rapidly forming along the edges of the gurgling waters.

  Tavis stopped Graytusk beside Olchak. In the meadow across the stream, the scout could barely make out the lumpy silhouette of a rocky outcropping. The snow was falling too hard for him to determine its shape.

  “Is that Dragon Rock?” the scout asked. “Will it help us find Split Mountain?”

  Olchak nodded. Before he could speak, Graytusk flicked his head, casually running a tusk through the old traell and tossing him into the air. The old man came down in the deep snow across the stream, too surprised to cry out. The mammoth gave a satisfied snort, then twisted around to glare at Tavis with a heavy-lidded eye.

  Olchak raised both hands to his abdomen and screamed. Even from across the stream, Tavis could see a dark stain creeping from beneath the old man.

  “By Stronmaus’s angry fist!” Tavis pulled Graytusk’s trunk rope until the noose bit deep into the mammoth’s nose. He passed the line to Avner. “Keep that taut. If he so much as flinches-”

  “I’ll pull as hard as I can,” the youth finished. He wrapped the line around both wrists and braced his feet against Graytusk’s enormous shoulder blades. “But don’t expect me to win a tug-of-war with a mammoth.”

  “It shouldn’t come to that,” Tavis said. “His nose seems pretty sensitive.”

  The scout lowered himself to the ground, holding onto Graytusk’s ear so he would swing with the head if the mammoth tried to gore him. The beast allowed Tavis to climb down without attacking, then watched with a single, enigmatic eye as the firbolg limped out of tusk range.

  The scout went to the stream and waded into the icy water. Normally, he would have tried to cross without soaking his boots, since wet feet would freeze quickly in these plummeting temperatures. Unfortunately, he lacked the time to look for a dry ford, and his injured toe made it impossible to dance across the snow-capped boulders jutting up from the brook.

  As the scout climbed out of the stream, Olchak clamped his jaw shut and fixed a bewildered gaze on Tavis’s face. The scout kneeled at the traell’s side and opened the flap of the old man’s blood-soaked parka. The hole underneath was as big as around as a human wrist, and ran all the way through the abdomen. The firbolg needed to look only a moment to know he would not save Olchak. He could pack punctures and sew gashes, but rejoining severed intestines and pierced spleens were tasks far beyond his meager talents.

  “How look?” asked Olchak. “Not bad, Olchak think. It not feel that bad.”

  Tavis looked up to find the old man staring at him. Olchak’s face was full of trust and hope. Not for the first time in his life, the scout wished lying came to him as easily as to humans. He closed the traell’s parka.

  Olchak’s black eyes flashed in alarm. “What you doing?” he demanded. “Fix wound!”

  Tavis shook his head. “There’s nothing I can do for you, my friend,” he said. “I’m sorry, but you’re going to die.”

  The color drained from Olchak’s face. “No,” he said. “Hole not hurt that bad.”

  “You’re still shocked. The pain will come in a little while,” Tavis answered. “I’m sorry.”

  Olchak looked away. Deciding it would be best to allow the old man a few moments to consider his fate, the scout stood and gazed toward the craggy outcropping the traell had called Dragon Rock. A whistling wind was blowing down from the ridge they had descended earlier, whipping the snow into an opaque white curtain. Tavis could not see the faintest hint of the crag’s silhouette, or even of the first spruce copse through which they had passed. Trying to look across the meadow was like trying to stare through the inside of his own eyelids, save that he saw a white blur instead of a dark one.

  Behind Tavis, Avner’s voice rang out above the whistling wind. “Whoa! Stop!” the boy yelled. “Stand-”

  The sentence ended with a splash.

  Tavis whirled around. Through the blowing snow he saw Graytusk’s hazy back lying parallel to the stream. Avner was in the churning current, clinging to the trunk rope to keep himself from being swept downstream. The mammoth rolled to his knees, dragging the youth onto the icy shore.

  “Hold that line!” Tavis yelled, leaping into the stream. “Don’t let go!”

  “Who c-c-can let g-go?” Avner chattered. “My hands are f-f-frozen sssstiff!”

  The scout splashed across the stream in three quick strides, arriving at the shore as Graytusk began to rise. He leaped over Avner’s half-frozen form, then dodged past a tusk and grabbed the rope close to the slip knot. The mammoth stood, lifting the firbolg into the air. Tavis braced his feet against the side of the beast’s head and cinched the noose down so tightly that blood oozed up through the long fur. The creature huffed in pain and tried to shake the scout off, but only tightened the knot.

  After struggling a few more moments, Graytusk abruptly began to tremble. With a great sigh of resignation, the mammoth sank to his knees, then curled the tip of his trunk back to gently pat Tavis on the head. After that, the beast remained motionless, save for his body’s uncontrollable quivering.

  “I th-think he’s g-g-given up,” Avner said. The youth was standing a pace behind Tavis, still holding the end of the rope.

  The scout looked into Graytusk’s dark eye. When the mammoth lowered his gaze and looked away, Tavis stepped into the snow. He tied the slip knot in place and stepped away.

  The mammoth continued to tremble and look at the ground.

  “That’s right,” Tavis said. “If you want that knot loosened, you have to wait for me.”

  When Graytusk did not move, the scout felt secure in attending to Avner. After being dumped in the stream, the youth’s clothes were thoroughly soaked. More importantly, his skin felt as cold as ice, and he was shivering uncontrollably.

  Tavis pulled the end of the rope from Avner’s frozen hands and let it fall to the ground. He stripped the boy’s icy clothes off and replaced them with his own cloak. The bitter wind instantly bit through the scout’s tunic and breeches, but he ignored the stinging pain. Firbolgs could endure frigid temperatures with little more than discomfort, but wet humans froze to death with distressing frequency.

  Once he had Avner swaddled in his cloak, the firbolg carried the youth over to Graytusk’s leeward side and nestled him in the woolly hollow between the mammoth’s front leg and chest. Tavis was concerned about leaving the boy there alone, but he suspected he had finally won the war of wills with the beast, and Avner needed the warmth.

  “I’ll go and find a good place to start a fire,” the scout said. “You stay close to Graytusk until I get back.”

  “Wh-what about B-Brianna?” the youth asked. “If we-we m-m-miss the r-rendezvous, we’ll n-n-never f-find her.”

  “You’ll have to stay behind,” Tavis said. He didn’t like the thought of leaving the youth half-frozen in a blizzard, but he had no choice. His duty to the queen demanded that he continue to search for Split Mountain, no matter what the cost to himself or others. “I’ll leave you with plenty of wood. Once you’re warm, you kno
w enough to take care of yourself.”

  “No!” Avner shouted. “I’m g-going w-with you.”

  Tavis shook his head. “You could freeze.”

  “I’ll f-follow anyway,” the youth warned. “I will.”

  Tavis sighed, knowing he would not win this argument. Later, after the cold wore down the boy’s willpower, he would try again. “You can come,” the scout said. “But the instant you start to feel sleepy-”

  “I’ll l-let you know,” Avner promised. “You j-just worry about f-finding Split M-Mountain.”

  Tavis crossed the stream again-his feet were already beginning to grow numb from the cold-and struggled through the blizzard to Olchak’s side. The old man was covered head to foot beneath a fleecy white mound. As the scout brushed the snow away, he saw that the traell’s eyes had glassed over.

  “Olchak, I need to ask you something.”

  The old man grasped Tavis’s arm and pulled the scout’s ear close to his quivering lips. “Now it hurt.”

  Tavis nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But I need to know about the Dragon Rock.”

  “Take Olchak home, Tavis,” Olchak pleaded. “ Traells got good shaman there.”

  Tavis shook his head. “I can’t,” he said. “Even if you lived that long-which you wouldn’t-my duty is to the queen. I must find Split Mountain. Does Dragon Rock point toward it?”

  “What good is queen to me?” asked the old man. “Take Olchak home before he die.”

  “You’re going to die anyway,” Tavis answered. “Tell me about Dragon Rock.”

  “Later.” The old man looked away and closed his eyes. “After shaman heals me.”

  Tavis cursed Olchak for a coward, but slipped his arms under the old man and gently picked him up. He waded back across the stream, then removed the traell’s furry parka and folded it around Avner’s shoulders.

  “You’re going to have to hold Olchak against your chest” As he spoke, the scout hoisted Avner onto Graytusk’s trembling back. “Are you strong enough to do that?”

  “I th-think ssso,” Avner answered.

  Tavis passed Olchak up to the youth. Avner pulled the old man close and closed the parka around them both. The scout cautiously slipped between the mammoth’s tusks and loosened the trunk noose, then climbed up the beast’s head. Graytusk’s body stopped quivering, but he kept his eyes averted and made no objection to the scout’s unusual method of mounting.

  Once Tavis was securely seated, he gave the trunk rope a tug and Graytusk rose. With his eyes nearly pinched shut against the stinging barrage of snow, the scout guided their mount across the stream. The storm was blowing so ferociously that the firbolg could barely see the tip of the mammoth’s long trunk, and everything else-the sky, the ground, the horizon-was a white haze.

  Tavis pointed the mammoth more or less in the direction Olchak had been looking before he was gored, and not long after a stony outcropping emerged from the white murk ahead. The bluff was only a little higher than the mammoth’s back. The scout circled the crag and soon understood why the traell had called it Dragon Rock. In the front was a long, serpentine protrusion similar to a dragon’s neck.

  Tavis glanced over his shoulder. Olchak’s eyes were half-closed and unfocused. It seemed doubtful that the old man was even aware of where he was, but the scout saw no harm in asking for his help one more time.

  “Olchak, we’ve reached the Dragon Rock,” Tavis said. “Does the head point toward Split Mountain?”

  The old man raised his eyelids. “What-what will you sacrifice for queen, Tavis Burdun?” he gasped. “My life… your life… boy’s life, too?”

  The scout did not need to ask to know what Olchak meant. Avner looked nearly as bad as the old man. The youth was shivering so hard that it appeared he would shake both himself and the traell off Graytusk’s back, and his lips had turned an alarming shade of blue. The boy desperately needed a fire and hot food, and soon.

  Tavis shifted his gaze back to Olchak. “Does the head point toward Split Mountain?”

  “Olchak… not die for queen,” the old man replied. “Duty, it mean nothing… to dead.”

  “Y-You’re d-dying anyway,” Avner chattered. “T-Tavis c-can’t save you. At least l-let him s-save the w-woman he loves.”

  “Love?” Olchak scoffed. “Olchak die… for someone else’s love? Hah!”

  “Love has nothing to do with why I’m here,” Tavis said. “Even if I save Brianna, I can’t marry her.”

  “What?” Avner screeched. “But I t-told you! Arlien used m-magic!”

  “Perhaps, but his magic didn’t steal her away,” the scout answered. “She’s always belonged to Hartsvale. That means she can never be my wife.”

  “That’s n-nonsense!”

  “It is also the queen’s decree, and so I have buried my feelings for her,” Tavis said. “Saving her from the giants is strictly a matter of duty-yours as well as mine, Olchak.”

  As the firbolg shifted his gaze back to the traell’s face, he saw that his appeal had been wasted. Tavis could see vapor condensing from the old man’s breath, but Olchak’s eyes had fallen closed. The scout doubted they would ever reopen.

  Tavis turned Graytusk parallel to the dragon’s head, then took the lodestone from his satchel and suspended it by the steel chain running through its center. As it always did, the arrow-shaped rock promptly swung around to point northward, which was only a shallow angle from the direction they were currently facing. By maintaining the same relationship between the arrow’s tip and their direction of travel, the scout could be certain they were going the way the dragon’s head pointed.

  As it turned out, Tavis hardly needed the lodestone. Graytusk proved an uncanny navigator, marching through the storm straight in the direction the scout had originally pointed him. Every so often, the mammoth would pause to wave his trunk in the air and let out a brief trumpet that his passengers could barely hear over the howling wind. Then the beast would continue on, his course never varying from the one indicated by Tavis’s lodestone.

  The storm continued to worsen, the wind threatening to tear the scout and his companions from their mount’s back. The snow grew so deep that Graytusk had to plow through it, sending great plumes of the powdery stuff arcing high into the air. Tavis could no longer feel his feet, which meant they had become little more than ice blocks, and now and then he even caught himself shivering.

  Avner had fallen into a lethargic slump. One hand was clutching Olchak’s unconscious body to his chest and the other was frozen into the mammoth’s long fur. The boy’s skin was beginning to take on the same blue tint as his lips, and he was staring into the blizzard as though he saw something more than white nothingness ahead.

  After a while, it seemed to Tavis that they were no longer even moving-then, with a start, he realized they weren’t. Graytusk had stopped. The scout could not say whether they were in the center of a meadow, the bottom of a ravine, or even at the base of a mountain. Dusk was coming, and he could barely see the mammoth’s hairy trunk probing through the snow. The firbolg raised his lodestone. When he saw that they were still traveling in the right direction, he tugged on the trunk rope.

  “Let’s go, Graytusk,” he growled.

  The mammoth pulled his nose out of the snow and flung a snootful of brown mud at the scout. When the foul-smelling muck spattered him, Tavis was surprised to discover that it felt vaguely warm. He scraped some of the stuff off his face and saw tiny bits of half-digested twigs and grass. Manure.

  Mammoth manure.

  During the long journey from the glacier, the scout had certainly seen enough of Graytusk’s droppings to recognize the stuff. Of course, it was possible that a wild herd had drifted south from the Icy Plains and crossed the Ice Spires into this valley, but the firbolg could think of a more likely explanation: The frost giants had escaped from their ice cave and beat him into the valley.

  Tavis put his lodestone away and took Bear Driller off his back, then swung his quiver around to wh
ere he could grab his arrows easily. He had only two runearrows left, one for Julien and one for Arno. The scout let the trunk rope fall slack, then slipped the end under his thigh.

  “We’re g-getting c-close now, Avner,” Tavis said, shouting to make himself heard above the roaring wind. He was not happy to hear himself stammering. When a firbolg stammered, the weather was truly cold. “B-Be alert”

  “Arrmphg augh?” The boy’s speech was so slurred the scout could not understand it.

  Tavis glanced over his shoulder. The storm was growing dark now, but enough light remained to see that Avner’s pupils were almost as large as their irises. The youth’s breath came in quick, shallow gasps, and the scout knew the boy was the verge of falling unconscious.

  “S-Stay with me,” Tavis said. Although he was speaking in a normal voice, even he couldn’t hear himself over the raging wind. “It can’t be much f-farther.”

  Tavis turned and used the tip of his bow to tap Graytusk on the head. The mammoth rooted around under the snow for a moment longer, then turned slightly north and resumed his trek. Whenever the beast stopped to stick his nose under the snow, the scout tugged on the trunk rope until the mammoth hurled some more dung at him. The manure grew steadily warmer, and Tavis guessed they couldn’t be more than thirty minutes behind the main herd.

  It was during one of those stops that Tavis caught a whiff of something more interesting than mammoth dung: the acrid smoke of burning spruce. The wind was swirling and howling from a hundred different directions, but the scout suspected that the smell came from someplace ahead. More importantly, he felt certain that he knew who had made the fire. Frost giants had little need for campfires, but Julien and Arno might, and Brianna certainly would.

  A confident smile cracked across Tavis’s frozen face. Although the storm’s swirling winds would make it impossible to locate the fire by smell alone, smoke was not so different than anything else he had ever pursued. In the short run, it might dart here and there, laying a crazy path that only the gods could decipher. But over a longer distance, it would travel in a straight line, a line that a good tracker could calculate not by examining each individual sign, but by finding the underlying pattern.