The Titan of Twilight

by Troy Denning

  “What are you doing?” gasped Munairoe, coming around the flag tower. “Need I remind you—”

  Tavis swung the timber as hard as he could, smashing it into the back of the fomorian’s legs. A strangled shriek reverberated inside the gallery. The hunter’s knees buckled, then dropped to the rubble-strewn ground with a tremendous clatter. His head popped out of the breach in the wall, his loose jowls shaking and the mangled thigh of a human warrior dangling over his blubbery lip. He spit the leg against the keep and roared in pain, then turned toward his assailant. When he saw who had assaulted him, the look of astonishment and hurt in his eye changed to resentment.

  “Why hit Awn, you?” The fomorian raised his fist. “Awn smash, yes him should!”

  Tavis could barely hear the words over the ringing in his ears, and the marrow in his bones had changed into something like molten lava. He stepped forward and smashed his club into Awn’s ribs, then slipped away to avoid a counterblow. The astonished hunter doubled over, holding his ribs and grunting for breath.

  “Maybe this … will … teach Awn not to … eat the dead!” The acrid taste in Tavis’s mouth had so dried his tongue that the words seemed to stick to his teeth.

  The high scout raised his club again. Before he could strike, Raeyadfourne came pounding around the flag tower and jerked it from his hand. Awn spun toward Tavis, his own hand raised.

  “Now Awn mad!”

  Raeyadfourne reached over Tavis’s head and pushed Awn into the wall, then quickly interposed himself between the two combatants.

  “This is a firbolg prisoner,” the chieftain warned. “He’s under my protection.”

  “Not when him hurt Awn, no.” The fomorian pointed to a red welt where Tavis had smashed the floor joist across his knees. “That hurt plenty—and him do it for fun!”

  Raeyadfourne glared at Tavis. “You promised to behave as a prisoner of honor.”

  “I am.” Tavis pointed at the mutilated remains in the corner. His vision faded, and the bloody scene appeared to him in shades of gray and black. “He was eating the dead.”

  “So, what that matter?” The fomorian chieftain, Ror, stepped around the tower. He was nearly twice Tavis’s height, with slender, sticklike legs that hardly look capable of supporting the huge belly above them. “Awn gots to feed.”

  “It’s cannibalism!” Tavis objected.

  “To you, perhaps—but then, you are a traitor to your own race.” Orisino, the horse-faced chieftain of the verbeegs, followed Ror around the tower. His gray lips were curled into a sneer that showed two rows of vile yellow teeth filed to sharp points. “Who are you to say fomorians shouldn’t eat humans? The gods have seen fit to let wolves eat foxes.”

  “It’s not the same thing.” Tavis kept his attention fixed on Raeyadfourne.

  The chieftain did not meet Tavis’s gaze. “We have discussed the matter at length,” he sighed. “It’s not cannibalism, and there’s no law against foraging for food during time of war—however disgusting that food may be.”

  “The spoils go to the victor,” added Orisino.

  “You’re hardly victors,” Tavis snarled. “I opened the gate!”

  “After we hit it with our ram,” the verbeeg countered. “As I understand firbolg law, that means you surrendered the castle.”

  Tavis stepped toward Orisino, his hands knotted into balls. “I surrendered noth—”

  The high scout’s jaw clamped shut, preventing him from finishing, and the taste in his mouth grew so bitter he wanted to spit out his tongue. The ringing in his ears became a clanging, then his eyes rolled back in their sockets and he fell. When the back of his skull smashed into the ground, every muscle in his body clamped on his bones. He began not just to tremble, but to quake and buck as though he had been struck by lightning.

  Tavis had no way to tell how long his paroxysm continued. His entire body ached from terrible exertion as though from feverish illness, and he could feel several sets of large hands gripping his arms and legs. Basil’s voice broke through the clamor in his ears, shouting for him to open his mouth, but the scout could not obey. Someone pushed a pair of fingers into his mouth and jerked his jaw down, then someone else thrust an axe handle between his teeth.

  Slowly, Tavis’s muscles released their bone-crushing grip. The harsh taste in his mouth was replaced by the more familiar flavor of his own blood, and the deafening clamor in his head gave way to the concerned voices of Basil and the Meadowhome firbolgs. The back of his skull was resting on a huge, immensely sore lump. When he tried to turn his head, he found it was held securely in place by a firbolg hand.

  “Let me go.” Tavis’s speech was thick and painful, for he had nearly bitten off the tip of his tongue. “I’m better.”

  When the hands released him, the high scout turned his head off the painful lump. His vision cleared. He found himself surrounded by a ring of ’kin: Galgadayle, Raeyadfourne, Munairoe, Basil, Orisino, Ror, and even Awn. Tavis still saw their faces in tones of gray, and he heard a deep, low buzzing beneath the murmur of their concerned voices.

  Munairoe knelt at Tavis’s side. “How are you feeling?” He began to remove the mud cast on the high scout’s arm. “I didn’t expect this. I was only trying to mend your broken bone.”

  Tavis flexed his broken arm and discovered that it felt better. It was the only part of his body that didn’t hurt. “You succeeded in that much at least,” he said. “But what didn’t you expect? What happened to me?”

  Munairoe ran his eyes over Tavis’s bruised and battered body. “Just how many times have you been healed since yesterday?”

  Tavis shrugged. “I could have been dead three times over.”

  Munairoe’s lips tightened. “No wonder you went into convulsions! All that magic—your system is in shock.”

  “Is that why he’s gone gray?” Basil squinted at Tavis’s head.

  The high scout ran his fingers through his hair, as though he could feel the color change. “My hair’s turned gray?”

  “Don’t worry,” Basil replied. “It’s just a streak—really quite handsome, if you ask me.”

  “Nobody has.” Munairoe frowned at the ancient runecaster, then looked back to Tavis. “How do you feel?”

  “My ears are buzzing,” he said. “And I can’t see colors.”

  The shaman pursed his lips. He exchanged knowing glances with Galgadayle and motioned the seer to Tavis’s other arm.

  “I’m sorry, Tavis.” Galgadayle stooped over to slip a hand beneath the scout’s arm. “I had hoped Munairoe could repay the kindness you showed me in the Gorge of the Silver Wyrm. I didn’t expect this.”

  A cold knot formed in Tavis’s stomach. Before he could ask what the seer meant, Basil pushed his way to Munairoe’s side.

  “Expect what?” the runecaster demanded. “You haven’t killed him?”

  “No, of course not,” replied the shaman. “But I’m afraid he won’t be going after the titan as he had planned.”

  “How unfortunate,” sneered Orisino. “And I was so looking forward to seeing him flattened.”

  Tavis pulled his arms free. “What trick is this?” he growled. Before he had opened the gates for the firbolgs, he had made Raeyadfourne swear that he and the other citizens of Hartsvale would be released when the ’kin army left the castle. Apparently, the shaman and seer had found a way to prevent the high scout from interfering with their plans. “The firbolgs of Meadowhome have spent too much time in the company of verbeegs and fomorians.”

  “This is no trick,” said Munairoe. “Your injuries are too serious for travel, and I cannot use magic to heal them without causing permanent damage to you.”

  Tavis listened carefully for any sign of a lie, but the shaman’s voice remained steady and true. “Could I still fight?”

  Munairoe nodded reluctantly. “But the price would be years of your life. Your whole system would be weakened. It would be more difficult for you to heal naturally, and—”

  “Heal me anyway.”r />
  “You don’t understand,” the shaman objected. “This is not something that might happen—it would. Without a potion or spell, even small cuts would take weeks to mend, and one day your heart would simply stop beating—”

  “If I leave Brianna to the titan, it will stop beating now,” Tavis said. “There’s nothing in our agreement that says you must heal me, but I am asking you to do this before you leave.”

  Galgadayle nodded. “If that is what you wish.”

  “If you are willing to pay our price.” Orisino’s beady eyes were barely visible, peering around Munairoe’s broad shoulders. “There is always a price, you know.”

  “That’s for me to decide,” growled Munairoe. “It is my magic—”

  “But our quest.” Orisino looked to Raeyadfourne. “When we joined forces, we agreed that the Council of Three would make all the decisions, as long as those decisions did not violate the law—did we not?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then I say we place a price on our help, just as Tavis placed a price on his before opening the gate.” Orisino cocked an eyebrow at Ror. “What say you?”

  The fomorian shrugged noncommittally.

  “Then it’s decided,” said Orisino.

  “And what would this price be?” Tavis asked. “I warn you, I will not promise to slay the queen’s child.”

  “Why not? Kill fomorians!” grumbled Ror. “Kill plenty fomorians, you.”

  “Only when they threaten the citizens of Hartsvale.”

  “This child is a greater threat than all the fomorians—even to your humans,” said Galgadayle. “In joining us, you would be serving the greater good.”

  “I don’t know that,” Tavis replied. “Your dream could be mistaken.”

  Raeyadfourne and Munairoe rolled their eyes, and Galgadayle did not even grace the argument with a rebuttal. The seer placed a comforting hand on Tavis’s shoulder.

  “I know this is difficult for you, my friend,” said Galgadayle. “History will not blame you if you don’t join us.”

  “There is nothing to decide,” Tavis replied. “I swore an oath to Brianna, and I will keep it—whether or not you are right.”

  “Then you will not object to the price we ask for Munairoe’s help,” said Orisino. “It will benefit you as well. After all, we must all fight the titan, whether or not we wish to kill the queen’s bastard.”

  Tavis glared at the chieftain, his anger droning like a bee in his ears. “What’s your price?”

  Orisino stepped from behind Munairoe. He raised his hand, holding his thumb and forefinger close together. “A small thing,” he said. “You will guide us through Hartsvale, and order any human companies we meet to let us pass in peace.”

  “And that is all?”

  “Yes,” Orisino replied. “In return, we will help you catch the titan.”

  Tavis considered the verbeeg’s offer. “I’ll do it—on one condition.”

  Orisino nodded, as though he had been expecting the counteroffer. “We’re listening.”

  “That no one will slay the child except me,” he replied. “It will be my decision whether or not to kill Kaedlaw.”

  “No!” Munairoe and Galgadayle boomed the word at the same time.

  “You know we cannot allow that,” added Raeyadfourne.

  Orisino gave Raeyadfourne a disapproving scowl. “It seems to me that you’re forgetting the terms of our alliance again,” he said. “I, for one, find Tavis’s condition perfectly acceptable.”

  “Because you have no intention—”

  “Nevertheless, this is a decision for the Council of Three,” Orisino interrupted. “I favor promising what Tavis asks—and I’m quite sure Ror does as well.”

  Ror scowled. “Huh? What if Tavis say don’t kill—”

  “Ror, Tavis is a firbolg,” Orisino said. “If you can’t trust a firbolg, who can you trust?”

  A glimmer of understanding flashed in the fomorian’s eye, then his lips curled into a larcenous smile. “Oh, yeah,” he snickered. “Ror trust Tavis, sure thing!”

  * * * * *

  Across the moonlit snows I trudge, half-crippled by the slashed tendon in my heel, each step a battle of will against my own mutinous foot. I crash through the thick spruce forests like a dragon in delirium, leaving a crooked swath of toppled and splintered trees to mark my hobbling trail, and I tramp over the frozen fens, where my lurching feet break through the permafrost to press ponds deep into the steaming mud; when I cross the tiny granges where peasants graze their goats and swine, the stone fences erupt beneath my lame foot, and as I lumber by the manors of highborn earls, even the lofty keeps tremble with the fear that I will stumble against them. Thus does Lanaxis the Chosen pass, not with the great strides of an ancient and mighty titan, but with the scuttling limp of a vile, ragged beggar.

  This taste of mortality I could have done without.

  Understand, it is not the pain I speak of—hardly so! after three thousand years of the Twilight Vale’s cold numbness, any sensation is a welcome one—rather, it is the idea of the pain that offends me. To be injured by a mortal—by a mere firbolg runt!—it is an affront almost more than I can bear. Is it not enough that I have forsaken the Twilight Vale? Cruel Ones, I have sacrificed eternity for the glory of Ostoria. Why must you insult me as well?

  “Damned fool! We told you where to look.…”

  “… you must do it, my darling; do it for me.…”

  “… now! You will kneel before your betters or I’ll have your …”

  Ah … you wish to humble me. My hubris was my downfall—and the ruin of Ostoria. I must learn humility before I may ask forgiveness, and until I am redeemed, the empire of giants will not rise again.

  Very well, I shall endure your burden; though it be a thousand times heavier than this tower I carry, I shall bear it without complaint. You have chosen well, for I was firstborn of Annam the All Father, and my long eternity of cold contemplation has made me naught but stronger.

  * * * * *

  Brianna sat braced in the splayed sill of a second-story arrow loop, holding a crimson ash leaf in her hand and uttering the mystic syllables of her spell. Kaedlaw, tied to her stomach in a makeshift sling, fidgeted and growled, clearly unhappy with the scratchy bundle into which he had been stuffed. Avner was on the floor above, with the five guards who had been in the tower when Lanaxis pulled it from the ground.

  Brianna finished her incantation, and the ash leaf vanished in a puff of pink smoke. A long blade of scarlet flame shot through the arrow loop to slash across Lanaxis’s breast. The fiery tongue did not burn the titan so much as sear away the dusky gloom clinging to his person.

  The queen angled the flame toward Lanaxis’s face. He instinctively raised one hand to cover his eyes, leaving the tower to swing free and nearly dislodge Brianna from her perch. A series of booms echoed through the ceiling as several men tumbled across the floor above, then the titan lowered his hand to catch his slipping burden.

  Brianna raked her flame over Lanaxis’s jaw and up toward his eyes. The fire caused no actual harm to his flesh, but merely burned away his purple murk to expose the pale, aged skin beneath. The titan lowered his eyelids and tried to twist away from the fiery blade’s advance, but he could not turn far enough to keep the queen from combing the crimson shaft across the corner of his eye. The lid turned instantly white and baggy.

  The clatter of firing crossbows echoed down the chimney, then a trio of dark shafts streaked toward Lanaxis’s face. One bolt caught him in the purple murk beneath his jaw and passed harmlessly through his body. The second lodged itself in his wrinkled cheek, causing no greater injury than a splinter would cause a man. The final bolt struck home, catching the corner of the titan’s eyelid and sinking clear to the butt.

  Amazingly enough, Lanaxis did not roar or bellow or thunder his pain. He let out a long, exasperated sigh, which blustered over the tower like a gusting blizzard. Then he carefully stooped over to let his burden slide gently to
the ground.

  Brianna slipped out of her arrow loop. She heard her soldiers’ boots reverberating across the floor above. The clack of two firing crossbows echoed down the chimney, followed by Avner’s command, “Reloadreloadrelo—jump!”

  In the next instant, a deafening clatter sounded from the floor above. The entire tower shook. Fragments of stone fell past the arrow loop, and Brianna knew the titan was demolishing the third story. A man wailed in agony, and a second and a third, their voices fading as their bodies plummeted groundward. Another crash and more screams followed, then something fell into the chimney, muffling the terrible sounds.

  The tower stopped shaking.

  Kaedlaw fell silent and motionless, but Brianna could feel his breath, damp and cold, beneath her cloak. She thrust her hand into her satchel and fumbled through spell components, hoping to come across one that would spark a workable escape plan.

  An enormous fingernail appeared in an arrow loop, then pulled away a section of wall larger than a door. Lanaxis’s eyes appeared in the opening, one lid still pinned shut by the crossbow bolt. The milky pupil of the other slowly searched the room. In desperation, Brianna pulled a glass rod from her satchel and pointed it at her captor. The motion caught the titan’s attention, and his gaze locked on her.

  “You have already made me dispose of my nephew’s servants.” Lanaxis’s rumbling voice seemed to reverberate from the walls themselves. “Do not force me to destroy his mother as well.”

  Brianna lowered her hands. She had guessed correctly about the titan’s defenses—once a bright light burned away his murky armor, he could be injured by normal weapons—but she knew better than to think she could utter her incantation faster than he could pull his head away.

  “Waiting would be a wise decision. A dead mother will be of little use to my nephew.” Lanaxis pulled his eyes away from the window, then held an enormous hand beneath it. “Now toss out your bag. If you test me again, I fear the gods shall be disappointed in my humility.”