by Troy Denning
Behind Anastes, forks of lightning lanced down from the gray snow clouds, stabbing at the ground and spewing great plumes of hissing steam into the sky. The birds screeched as though they were dying. The graupel battered the giant’s shoulders so fiercely he grimaced.
“That’s a heavy burden to claim,” Brianna observed. “Are you certain it belongs to your race alone?”
“Oh, yes. There can be no doubt.” Anastes’s voice was growing louder and more pained with each syllable he spoke, once again raising the storm outside to blizzard proportions. “We are the ones who plunged the world into chaos and war. We are the ones who slew Ostoria’s divine ruler, Hartkiller, and drove Annam the All Father from Toril forever!”
The howling winds buffeted the tower so harshly that Brianna had to brace her arm against the wall. “I see!” she shouted. “But did you ever consider that your ancestor might have done other races a favor? Perhaps they had no wish to be ruled by giants.”
Anastes looked aghast, and the storm lulled. “How can you say that?” he demanded. “You, a descendant of Hartkiller!”
“I’m more human than giant,” Brianna reminded him. “I’m glad to rule Hartsvale instead of the giants, and the humans are happy to have me.”
Anastes shook his head in disbelief. “Then you are as foolish as your people,” he declared. “Annam decreed that the giants would rule Toril, not for our sakes, but for the welfare and harmony of all races. By killing Hartkiller, we defied the All Father’s will. We destroyed Ostoria.”
“Now you’re the one who’s being foolish,” Brianna countered. “My runecaster has translated the histories written by the stone giants. I know who destroyed Ostoria, and it wasn’t your ancestor. It was Lanaxis.”
Anastes’s face went as white as the snow. The birds on his shoulders took flight, and the storm grew so quiet that even the graupel seemed to hang frozen in the sky. The scratching of Avner’s knife hissed loudly in the queen’s ears.
Brianna pinched her son. Kaedlaw responded admirably, filling the chamber with a low, angry growl.
“You mustn’t say such things about Lanaxis,” Anastes warned. “Never!”
“Why not?” Brianna demanded. “Must I tell you the legend? Annam the All Father wanted true giants—his progeny—to rule Toril. But faithless Othea spawned children by many different gods, and she wanted all her offspring to share the world. That’s why she helped one of her lovers unleash the glacier that would one day wipe Ostoria from the land.”
“I know the history of my own people!”
“Then think about it.” Brianna was beginning to hope she could make an ally of the storm giant. When men consumed by false guilt learned the truth, they often turned against those who had abused their emotions. “After Othea forbade Lanaxis from destroying the glacier, he poisoned her, and that made him a murderer. What did he become when he allowed his brother kings to drink the same poison?”
“He loved Ostoria!”
“Lanaxis would not be the only fool to destroy what he loves most,” Brianna replied. “Nor the only one to go mad after he realized what he did.”
Kaedlaw fell silent. Though Brianna could still hear the faint scratching of Avner’s knife, she did nothing to cover the sound. Anastes was lost in thought, and it seemed a worthwhile risk to let him think in peace.
At length, the birds returned to the storm giant’s shoulders, and the wind howled as mournfully as before.
“We still bear the blame for Hartkiller’s death.” Anastes sounded almost relieved. “Lanaxis did not murder him.”
“By then, Ostoria was already lost,” Brianna said. “Your race has been blaming itself for a tragedy the gods set in motion. By trying to right things now, you’ll be making a mistake even more terrible than the one for which you have blamed yourselves all these centuries.”
The giant’s silver eyes grew thoughtful, and he looked away. Once again the winds quieted, the graupel fell more slowly, and the birds deserted their roosts—then a muffled clatter echoed out of the fireplace.
Anastes’s head snapped back toward the tower. Brianna braced herself for a tempestuous display of temper, but the storm remained calm.
“How do you know?” demanded Anastes. If he had heard the clatter, he paid it no heed. “What makes you certain Lanaxis is wrong to restore Ostoria?”
Brianna breathed no sigh of relief. She pulled her son from beneath her cloak and said, “I know because I have seen the face of your new emperor.”
Another clatter sounded from the fireplace, this one too loud to miss. Brianna turned Kaedlaw toward the shattered arrow loop and thrust his hideous visage toward the storm giant.
Anastes’s silver eyes opened wide, and he grimaced with revulsion. “There is nothing I can do.” He looked away from the tower. “What will be will be—the matter is entirely out of my hands.”
12
Surprise Attack
The birds would be a problem, Tavis knew. The birds and the cold. He had never seen so many birds, and he had never been so cold. He felt sick with cold. His clothes were frozen stiff with his own sweat, and his thoughts bumped through his mind like icebergs. The weather was not particularly frigid, but, as Munairoe had warned, the high scout’s system had been weakened by too much magic. After last night’s long run, his body lacked the stamina to keep itself warm, and now he would have to deal with the birds. There were thousands and thousands, from warm lands and cold, representing every species Tavis knew and a hundred he didn’t.
On the icy winds above wheeled a dozen glacier vultures, their black heads and blue-tinged wings all that showed through the dusky snowstorm. A clan of dervish owls sat perched on the battered rim of the queen’s tower, their huge golden eyes tracing every movement of the strange blue pheasants below. On the shoulders of the storm giants, kestrels roosted with sparrows, harriers with siskins, hawks with crows; only the egg-stealing skunkbirds sat apart, their white-striped bodies tangled like bats amidst the giants’ windblown hair. There was even a pair of condors waddling around the roasting fire, snatching slabs of moose off the spits when the cooks looked the other way.
Tavis was studying the scene from atop a thirty-foot knoll, where he and the three giant-kin chieftains lay belly-down in a deep blanket of wet graupel. The ’kin army was behind them, quietly gathering at the base of a long, gradual slope. Ahead of them, the hill descended in a steep, rocky scarp to the snow-covered meadow of an abandoned farm village.
In the center of the meadow, a low, snow-mantled drumlin spewed plumes of white steam into the air and occasionally stirred in its sleep: the titan lying blanketed beneath a thick jacket of snow. The queen’s tower stood nearby, with a storm giant kneeling beside it so he could peer into the second-floor chamber. At the west end of the field was the roasting fire, where two giants were tending a like number of spitted moose. At the opposite end of the meadow, two more were rummaging through the debris of the demolished village. The sixth giant was in the forest beyond the hamlet, his location marked by trembling treetops and a halo of circling birds.
The fomorian chieftain, Ror, shifted in the snow at Tavis’s side. “What we do now?” he whispered. “Them storm giants don’t let us kill baby, no.”
“Ror, we’re here to recover Kaedlaw, not kill him.” As he spoke, Orisino cast a sidelong glance in Tavis’s direction to make certain the high scout was listening. “What happens after that is up to Tavis.”
The fomorian’s froggish face winced, and he said, “Right. Ror mean rescue kid.”
The high scout paid the exchange little attention. He knew better than to think either chieftain would keep his word, but Raeyadfourne had pledged the Meadowhome firbolgs to let Tavis decide Kaedlaw’s fate. When the time came, that promise would go far toward countering the treachery of the verbeegs and fomorians.
“How shall we do it?” Raeyadfourne cast an uneasy glance toward the sinking sun. “We don’t have much light left, and I don’t fancy fighting storm giants after dusk.�
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“Titan sleeping. Kill first, him,” suggested Ror. “Then storm giants leave, them.”
“That’s absurd, Ror,” said Orisino. “How will you kill that titan?”
It was Raeyadfourne who answered. “We wounded him last night, and many of our axes still bear Basil’s rune marks.” The chieftain squinted at the titan for a moment, then reluctantly shook his head. “But Lanaxis is no fool. Even Tavis couldn’t get within a hundred paces of him without being seen. One way or another, we’re going to have fight the storm giants first. I say we attack as soon as our warriors are ready.”
Raeyadfourne craned his neck to look down the back side of the hill. Tavis and the others did likewise. The firbolgs stood at the base of the gentle slope, clouds of white vapor spewing from their panting mouths. The short-legged verbeegs had gathered at the western end of the hill. They were leaning on their spears or kneeling in the snow, their ribs heaving as they gasped for breath. The fomorians, hindered by their deformities, were still scuttling or limping or slinking over to the eastern end of the hill, where they were collapsing in the shelter of a small spruce copse. Two companies of human footmen were also rushing northward at their best pace, but they would not arrive in time for the battle.
After studying the exhausted warriors for a moment, Tavis looked back to the meadow. “The f-firbolgs will ch-charge the t-titan,” he said. “I’ll sn-sneak into the t-tower to get B-Brianna and the ch-child.”
The three chieftains all raised their brows at the sound of Tavis’s stuttering. A predatory grin crept across Orisino’s broad mouth.
“You sound … chilly.” The verbeeg glanced at Ror, then observed, “Strange; it doesn’t feel that cold to me.”
“That’s enough,” growled Raeyadfourne. “You know well enough why he’s cold. I doubt you’d make the same sacrifice for someone you loved.”
“Fortunately, verbeegs aren’t foolish enough to indulge such emotions.”
Tavis shot the verbeeg a warning glance.
“I’m w-warm enough to n-nock my bow.” The high scout glared at Orisino until the verbeeg looked away, then shifted his gaze to the western end of the field. He pointed to the storm giants at the roasting fire. “The v-verbeegs will attack those t-two. Ror and his f-fomorians will take the p-pair in the village.”
Ror scowled, then looked beyond the village into the forest. “Ror see three giants—one in wood. Firbolgs go to village, them. Fomorians sneak up on tower, us.”
Tavis shook his head. “There won’t be any sneaking during this battle. Even fomorians can’t—”
The sound of wings broke overhead. The high scout rolled onto his back and saw two glacier vultures swooping low over the knoll. In an eyeblink, the birds were past and diving toward the firbolgs at the base of the slope.
Tavis pushed himself down behind the hill crest, pulling his bow off his shoulder as he slid.
The vultures reached the bottom of the slope and beat their wings, one turning toward the verbeegs and the other toward the fomorians. By the time Tavis had nocked his first arrow, both birds were rounding the corners of the hill. Most of the warriors below showed no sign of noticing the creatures, and none made any move to down them.
Tavis returned his unfired arrow to his quiver and scrambled back to the summit. The vultures were racing across the field toward the queen’s tower. They flew straight to the giant kneeling there and landed on his shoulder, then began cackling and groaning into his cavernous ear.
“I think we’ve been spotted,” Tavis growled. “Damn birds!”
“To your tribes!” Raeyadfourne rose to his feet. “We’ll follow Tavis’s plan.”
Ror shook his head emphatically. “Ror like ambush better—”
“Do it, Ror!” snapped Orisino. “There’s no time to argue.”
Orisino stood and bounded down the slope. Ror scowled after the verbeeg a moment, then reluctantly hefted his great bulk and waddled toward his own tribe. Tavis fixed his attention on the queen’s tower and remained on the hilltop, aching to the bone with weariness and cold. The battle was off to a bad start. Without the confusion of a surprise attack, it would be difficult to sneak past the giants to the tower, much less steal away with Brianna and her child.
After listening to the vulture’s report, the storm giant rose to his full height, two full heads taller than the queen’s tower, and peered up the rocky scarp toward Tavis’s hiding place. The birds cackled into his ears again, and the giant looked toward the west end of the hill. He raised a hand and pointed in the verbeegs’ direction.
“Nikol and Ramos, there are verbeegs there.” The storm giant’s voice blustered across the field like a howling wind. “See to them.”
The two cooks looked first toward their leader, then toward the hill. They abandoned the spitted moose to the condors and started forward, drawing their enormous two-handed swords. The weapons were twenty feet long, with hawk-sized nicks on the blade edges and blemishes of orange rust on the flats.
The vultures continued to cackle in the leader’s ears. He turned to the other side of the field, where the two searchers had stopped their explorations. He gestured at the eastern end of the hill.
“Fomorians are gathering there,” he rumbled. “Call Eusebius from the wood. They are for him.”
One of the searchers took an owl off his shoulder and sent it into the forest. The other called, “What of us, Anastes?”
Anastes pointed toward the center of the hill. “Firbolgs for you, Sebastion, and for Patma as well.”
Sebastion and Patma nodded grimly, then drew their swords and angled across the field toward the center of the hill. Anastes pulled his own weapon and positioned himself squarely between the queen’s tower and the giant-kin, precluding any possibility of anyone slipping past his fellows during the confusion.
Tavis cursed the giant’s wisdom. It addition to protecting the tower, the storm giant was shielding Lanaxis from the firbolgs. The high scout shifted his gaze to the titan’s slumbering form, wondering how much of a factor the ancient colossus would play in the coming battle. The mere fact that he had stopped suggested his power was diminished in daylight, but there was no way for Tavis to guess to what extent. It seemed too much to hope the titan would be rendered completely helpless.
The high scout glanced over his shoulder and saw his ’kin allies still struggling to organize their warriors.
“Q-Quickly! The giants are c-coming after us!” Tavis began to shiver, more with cold, he thought, than fear. “Two for the v-verbeegs, two for the firbolgs, and one f-for the fomorians.”
The chieftains boomed their commands even louder. The verbeegs slipped around the corner and the firbolgs started up the slope at a trot, but the fomorians continued to mull about with no sense of direction.
A cacophony of bird calls erupted over the field, and stinging pellets of graupel began to pelt Tavis. The high scout looked back toward the heath and saw the first four giants already moving into attack positions. The fifth, Eusebius, was just emerging from the forest and starting toward the fomorians. Anastes remained in front of the queen’s tower. All six giants were hidden from the thighs down by a curtain of blowing snow, and they had thick clouds of birds whirling over their heads.
Tavis reluctantly pulled a runearrow from his quiver. By drawing attention to himself early in the battle, he was making it more difficult to reach Brianna. But he could not allow the storm giants to carry the fight to the hill’s back. Unless the combat occurred in the meadow below, he would have no chance at all of reaching the queen’s tower.
Tavis nocked his runearrow and rose, aiming at the giant who had been addressed as Sebastion. The high scout had to take a moment to steady his arms, for the icy wind had chilled him to the point of trembling. Peals of thunder rumbled across the sky, so loud that his ears throbbed and his knees ached to buckle.
Sebastion stepped onto the hill, with Patma close behind. Tavis had to angle his arrow only slightly downward to set the tip on his ta
rget’s breast. He emptied his lungs, then drew his bowstring and loosed the shaft.
A flurry of screeching falcons streaked down from the sky and struck at the arrow as though it were a lark. One of the birds snatched the missile from the air, then banked away over the field. Sebastion climbed a step higher, and Tavis had to crane his neck to look into the giant’s eyes.
“Damn birds!” The high scout’s cold-numbed fingers fumbled for another runearrow.
Sebastion raised his sword to strike. Tavis found a shaft and pulled it from his quiver, nocking and firing in one smooth motion. This time, the target was so close that there was no chance for the falcons to snatch the arrow. It flashed through the whirling birds and lodged itself deep in the giant’s breast.
Sebastion did not even wince. He simply squinted at Tavis and started to bring his sword down.
“esiwsilisaB!” Tavis cried.
A ray of sapphire light lanced from the wound. Sebastion’s chin dropped, and the strength left his swing. The giant’s chest opened across its entire width. His arms flew out to the sides and sent his great sword spinning through the sky, and his body folded around his mangled torso. He pitched over backward and disappeared into the blowing snow at the bottom of the scarp. A tremendous boom rolled across the meadow, and the hill bucked so hard that it bounced Tavis into the air.
The high scout came down on his side and felt the air rush from his lungs. Blowing snow blocked his view of everything around him, save for the whirling birds above and Patma’s head rising over the crest of the knoll. Tavis did not wait for his breath to return, or even for the pain of his fall to register. He pushed off with all fours and leapt to his feet, facing the back of the hill.
Raeyadfourne’s tribe was rushing up the gentle slope, concealed from the waist down by a blustering white curtain. Bolts of lightning skipped through their midst like dancers, hurling firbolgs and shattered stone in all directions. The air smelled of charred earth, seared flesh, and rain, and not even the howling wind could cover the cries of the wounded.
