Tavish saw the great chieftain, the one who had bested the troll on the dock and who had guided his ship across the Strait of Oman, now bearing the great, diamond-bladed axe in his hands. He stood as though in thoughtful repose, observing the jagged, narrow crack that shot up the face of ice following the impact of his blow, the axe held loosely at his waist.
As the tiny female figure clambered up the boulders, Tavish saw that her target was the giant wielding the great axe. With some difficulty, the woman scrambled up the last high boulder and tugged the Silverhaft Axe from the frozen hands of the rigid firbolg. The weapon was huge, and appeared to be quite heavy, yet the princess drew it free without apparent effort.
She turned, her black hair swirling around her head as her face exploded into an expression of fierce triumph, and the bard recognized her for certain: This was Princess Deirdre Kendrick! Why the woman, youngest daughter of her friends, should be here remained a mystery to the harpist, yet Tavish sensed something very wrong, dangerously evil, in the scene she currently witnessed.
Carefully Tavish crept through the broken talus, working her way from rock to rock while she kept her eyes on the tableau below. She saw Deirdre climb down, clutching the axe. Then the princess passed through the band of firbolgs and stood still, her back to Tavish, as if she waited for something.
In another moment, the bard saw what that was: the end of the spell that had frozen the giant-kin in time. Tavish heard a popping sound in the air, and abruptly the firbolgs resumed the activities that had been interrupted. Those in the midst of taking a step concluded the gesture smoothly, as if there had been no spell, no delay of any kind.
The suspended blocks of ice tumbled around them, shattering and cracking down the slope. The sound echoed through the valley, but the dodging firbolgs avoided most of the shards. Indeed, they had already dodged the iceblocks several minutes before, moving out of the way and now watching the debris as if it had continued its plunge quite uninterrupted.
Only the chieftain, standing upon the rock and staring up at the glacier, noticed a change. He bellowed in alarm, spinning on the rock and shouting to his tribesmen, shaking his empty fists. Tavish sensed what had happened: No instant of time had passed for the giant-kin within the sphere of Deirdre's powerful spell. To the great firbolg warrior, it must have seemed as if the axe had vanished instantaneously from his hands.
Then the great giant-kin's eyes fell upon the human figure standing beyond his comrades below… the young woman who bore the Silverhaft Axe in her hands. His jaw fell in astonishment, but a moment later, fury contorted his face, and he sprang down from the mountainside in great, leaping bounds. The other firbolgs, sensing the focus of their chieftain's rage, turned in astonishment to regard the impudent human.
"Stop!" ordered the Princess of Callidyrr, her voice ringing in countless echoes from the surrounding cliffs. The tone of command was unmistakable, but Tavish was nevertheless astounded when the hulking giant, twice as tall and five times as massive as the woman, slowed his charge to a walk and finally came to a standstill, staring angrily at Deirdre.
"Who are you?" he demanded, his voice rumbling deep in the familiar words of the common tongue.
"I am your mistress-the one who holds the Silverhaft Axe and whose commands you will obey."
"I owe no fealty to the bearer of the axe," shot back the firbolg chief. He took another step toward the princess.
"Would you see it destroyed?" she demanded, raising the shaft and holding the crystalline edge over a chunk of solid granite.
"It would take one mightier than you to break that blade," the firbolg replied, confident again. He took another step toward Deirdre.
A sound rumbled through the valley like a thunderclap, and they all looked to the sky, expecting to see black clouds rolling in, perhaps bolts of lightning exploding toward the ground. Yet the heavens remained blue and pastoral, with a few puffy clouds the only harbingers of moisture. Surely none of these vaporous wisps had issued that mighty clap of thunder!
The sound was repeated, and like Deirdre's voice, the noise echoed over and over, rolling down the narrow valley like a volley of distant explosions. This time, Tavish could see the source, and it was a revelation that drained the blood from her face and set her stomach roiling.
The crack on the giant glacier grew! Now spiderweb fissures ran through the ice to the right and left, extending outward from the gash created by the chieftain's original blow. Once again the crashing sound rumbled through the vale, and this time pieces of ice broke from the surface to plummet dizzyingly toward the base of the glacier and the watching firbolgs and human gathered there.
The giant-kin hastily scrambled away from the tumbling debris as more and more sheets of compressed ice broke away and plunged downward. The first of these shattered against the rocks at the glacier's base, exploding upward in shimmering curtains of white frost. Others cracked into larger pieces, sending blocks the size of boulders tumbling through the air, falling and smashing among the fleeing firbolgs.
Only the princess stood firm, facing the breaking glacier and bearing the axe easily in her hands, as if it were a talisman that could protect her from all harm. In fact, Tavish wondered if that might be the truth. Certainly the plunging debris and deadly flying rocks gave the young princess a wide berth, while the panic-stricken firbolgs had been driven well back from the glacier.
Again the crack sounded through the valley, and this time the gap in the glacier widened visibly, revealing in clarity the granite-featured form imprisoned there. More rubble spewed outward, crashing around the figures below. Now the Peaksmasher appeared, and for the first time, Tavish could see that only the giant's torso was visible. The body from the waist downward was sunk into the ground, as if part of the bedrock itself. Though the giant flexed its chest and shoulders, sending more debris tumbling and crashing, it seemed to be firmly rooted in place. Even only half-visible, however, Grond Peaksmasher loomed like a small mountain overhead!
Then finally the echoes faded away, and the dust of crushed rock and ice began to settle. None of the firbolgs made a move, and even the princess stared upward, her posture locked in rigid awe.
A cliff like a huge face was clearly visible in the glacier's gap now. Low brows of granite sheltered shadowy niches that resembled closed eyelids, above cheekbones of mountain ledges beside an overhanging crag of a nose. The beard, of frosty gray, flowed in a thick cascade, a great slope of broken rock that in itself was the size of a high hill.
Then those ledges flexed, rising like brows as the massive eyes opened, freezing all the watchers with a gaze of ice-pure blue. The massive lips moved, rustling the beard and releasing another shower of icy shards. Awestruck, Tavish held her breath, well aware that she witnessed the awakening of a god, or the potent avatar of an elder deity.
The mighty shoulders shrugged, and more sheets of ice fell away, some of them as big as the icecap on a small pond. These, too, shattered, and now the brawny arms came free, knotted with muscle and capped with massive hands. All the surface of the great being was rock, but it was rock that seemed supple, like rough, pliable skin. The fingers, broad-knuckled and blunt, were themselves larger than the firbolgs gaping up at him from below. Finally the entire torso was revealed, though the giant from the waist down remained imprisoned in the bedrock of the earth.
Twisting, Grond Peaksmasher released another deluge of rock and ice, showering down toward those assembled below. The great pieces seemed to fall in slow motion, yet Tavish knew that any one of them could kill an unfortunate victim trapped in the path of the fall. Once again the firbolgs clawed their way back away from the crushing avalanche.
Deirdre still stood firm, unshaken by the thundering wave of destruction, nor did any of the debris fall anywhere near her. Was it the will of the god that she remained unharmed? Or perhaps some barrier of protection raised by the Silverhaft Axe? The bard couldn't know, so she could only stare in wonder at the steady courage of the young princess.
/> Then Tavish gasped audibly, anticipating the giant's next act even as he began slowly to move. She watched in an awe that began to grow into terror as she understood the import of the Peaksmasher's gesture.
The firbolgs, too, staggered back in dismay and consternation as the face of the giant moved closer and closer to the ground.
For the colossus that was Grond Peaksmasher leaned toward Princess Deirdre, bending so far forward that the great, craggy forehead finally met the earth.
It was a bow of absolute obeisance. Tavish understood beyond question that Grond Peaksmasher was acknowledging his new mistress.
The march beneath the Strait of Oman took the column the better part of two days, though to Tristan, it felt as though it might have been a week. The tiny pebble glowing in his hand became a kind of talisman for him as Finellen led them along dank corridors, across sweeping bridges that spanned apparently bottomless subterranean chasms, along narrow ledges that swept dizzyingly above black, empty space.
They climbed stairways of stone, and waded through knee-deep, chill water that, the dwarven captain claimed, was 'not likely' to get too much deeper. Even Newt remained quiet and subdued during the underground passage, remaining alertly vigilant on the High King's shoulder. Ranthal, meanwhile, paced along at his master's heels, the great moorhound's nose constantly sniffing the dank, stuffy air for some sign of an approaching threat.
The companions stopped to rest once for a period of several hours, but even the dwarves, who were quite at home in the underground environment, seemed to be ready to move on quickly. Tristan and the other humans slept only fitfully, the king with his hand wrapped around the gleaming pebble that he increasingly believed was the only thing preserving his sanity.
At one point, however, just before he drifted off to sleep, Tristan noticed the Prince of Gnarhelm crossing their darkened campsite, settling himself beside Alicia and speaking softly. Tristan didn't see what happened next, but as he turned away, seeking a comfortable position on the rocky floor, the light from his pebble swept across the group. He saw Keane, oblivious to everything else, staring at Brandon and the princess with an expression of raw, unrelieved tension.
Finally they resumed the march, and within a few hours Tristan noted the subterranean corridor beginning to slope upward, first gradually, as it followed a long, winding cavern that slowly ascended toward the surface. Weary and out of breath from the long uphill grade, the party slowed its pace. Finellen and Tristan kept them going until, staggering with weariness, they reached a wide stone stairway, obviously the work of dwarven craftsmen.
They climbed the steps for an apparently eternal interval-at least, it seemed that way to Tristan. He held the pebble before him, and it illuminated dozens of steps disappearing into the darkness above. When he lowered it behind him, he saw the tired faces of his companions and the trailing column of dwarves, extending into the darkness below.
"Here we are," Finellen announced eventually.
At first, Tristan noticed nothing different, but gradually he realized that the passage around them grew lighter, suffused with a dim illumination. Water trickled along the floor, and as they progressed, he heard a steady splashing, like a small waterfall. The light continued to increase until Tristan enclosed the glowing pebble in his hand and found out that he could see sufficiently to prevent a fall.
The sound of the waterfall increased, and the air itself became moist, full of partially condensed droplets. Finally they came around a bend and beheld a shimmering curtain blocking the way, beyond which blossomed pale daylight. Finellen led them along a narrow, slippery ledge, concealed from outside view by the waterfall. They had to duck through a corner of the watery barrier, but then they came out upon the bank of a small pool. Overhead, well-screened by tree branches, they could see a blue, nearly cloudless sky!
Tristan quickly raised a hand to his eyes, shielding against the shockingly bright illumination that spilled through the trees around them. The king was astonished to see that they weren't even looking at the sun or the sky. It was simply the reflection of daylight off an opposite cliff wall, though in the first blast of brightness, it seemed fully sufficient to blind him.
"It always takes a few minutes to get used to the light again," Finellen said helpfully. "You'll be able to see like normal in just a bit."
True to her prediction, the humans and dwarves quickly adapted to the light, and they wasted no time in moving into a rockbound valley. Nearby, the clear bulk of the Icepeak rose into the morning sky.
"Good navigating," Tristan said, with a grin of congratulations and relief.
"Aye," Finellen replied, pleased herself. "The glacier's on the north slope, and we're just a little to the east of the main ridge."
The party took a short time to acclimatize to the light and fresh air, also taking a few moments to rest from the long uphill climb. Their goal was too near for them to brook any long delay, however, so the column quickly resumed its march over the surface of the ground. Finellen and Tristan led the way, followed by their human companions and Brigit, and finally trailed by the resolute column of sturdy dwarves.
They passed through sun-speckled woods of pine and cedar, with the scent of evergreen needles permeating the cool morning air. On any other day, Tristan would have taken the time to enjoy the forest. It was just the kind of woods where he loved to spend long, quiet hours. He found the smell reminiscent of pastoral outings as a lad, in the company of Old Arlen, his father's loyal weaponmaster.
Now, however, the driving need to confront the firbolgs propelled him, with no thought for the wonders around him. The High King's desire-for retribution, or vengeance-burned strong. Soon he would confront the firbolg chieftain and ultimately destroy him.
Then finally they came around the last ridge, starting a long, winding trail that led into the narrow valley. The enclosing walls prevented them from seeing very far ahead of them, but the northward orientation of the place was obvious.
The trail twisted across a steep climb, leading them past a great boulder in a path so narrow they were reduced to a single file. Moving carefully, with a hundred-foot drop falling away to their right, they crept steadily upward. They worked their way around the shoulder one at a time. Here the view opened up the valley, and after a few more steps, Finellen stopped abruptly, a gasp of astonishment escaping her lips.
Tristan looked up, following her gaze, and at first he thought that some huge pillar of stone blocked their view of the glacier. That impression lasted only a second, however, before the truth came home to him with a shocking wave of force: The pillar he saw was stone, but not normal rock; not a shapeless monolith, but a humanlike being that was alive!
The colossal figure was visible only from the belly up, as if the giant stood in a great canyon in the ground. Tristan refused even to consider how huge it would be if it were to stand with feet at ground level.
"By all the gods!" gasped Keane as he and Alicia came up behind the king.
"What is it?" the princess wondered, awestruck. The chiseled, craggy face peered into the unseen distance as the gigantic being stared vacantly over their heads. Yet in the steady rise and fall of his breath and in the massive sweep of his arms, with his fists planted firmly on the ground, she saw evidence of life, of humanlike dexterity.
"Grond Peaksmasher," Finellen answered for them. The dwarf moved forward, allowing the rest of the file to pass around the rock and stare upward at the gigantic figure. They gazed with slack, stunned faces, in the silence of awe, wonderment… and fear.
Tavish had remained hidden as Grond Peaksmasher rose before the princess-or, more significantly in the bard's deduction, before the Silverhaft Axe. In the hours that followed, the bard had been alternately thunderstruck and appalled.
Following the example of the gigantic avatar, the firbolgs themselves had bowed in craven obeisance to the young Princess of Callidyrr. Deirdre had coolly accepted the worship as no more than her due. Speaking in the gruff tongue of the giant-kin, she h
ad dispatched several of them to guard various approaches to this valley. Then the princess had put the rest of the band to work.
Deirdre had ordered the firbolgs to excavate a great pit, with steep walls and a depth sufficient that a firbolg within the hole was perfectly invisible to an observer on the ground. The space enclosed was quite large and an almost perfect square, Tavish saw, estimating perhaps thirty human paces on a side. She wondered about the purpose of the pit and was impressed by the sharp, regular outlines of the corners and sides.
Grond Peaksmasher had stood aloof from this project, looming over the valley bottom, his eyes gazing away to the north, as if he could see something a thousand miles away that triggered his deep, primeval memory. Yet while he took no part in the activities around his feet, Tavish had the feeling that he simply awaited Deirdre's command.
No sooner had the giant-kin completed their great, precisely oriented square hole in the ground than one of the lookout firbolgs hastened back from the mouth of the valley. Watching his gestures, Tavish understood that the fellow warned the princess about the approach of intruders-dwarves or humans, the bard guessed from the crude gestures.
She wondered idly who the newcomers were, but from her position of cover, there seemed to be little that the bard could do to influence events. So, instead, she waited.
For the moment at least, the colossus hadn't seemed to notice Tristan and his companions. The group gathered underneath the screen of several tall pines. The king, the dwarven captain, and the princess advanced cautiously to peer through the densely needled branches.
"Legend said that he was frozen in the ice years before the coming of humans to the isles," Finellen explained in a hoarse whisper.
"It's moving!" Alicia hissed.
The giant turned slowly, sweeping its gaze downward, past the silent observers and into the bowl of the valley before its flat, slablike stomach. A low hillock of ground blocked their view into this bowl.
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