The Titan of Twilight

by Troy Denning

  “Orisino?” Tavis could not tell whether the verbeeg was waiting at the tunnel mouth, for the interior of the passage remained black as soot to the very edge of the vast chamber. “Are you here?”

  The wind was roaring so loudly that Tavis barely heard his own voice. He repeated the question, then finally crawled to the brink of the gray room.

  Ahead lay a craggy funnel littered with the petrified bones and abandoned possessions of hundreds—if not thousands—of dead giants and ’kin. Upon every ledge lay heaps of frost-rimed armor and curving spines; from every rock spur dangled rotting haversacks and yellowing pelvises; against every crag leaned tarnished shields and smirking skulls. At the heart of this gruesome mess, in a small space kept meticulously clear of clutter, stood Snad’s skeletal form.

  In the light of the chamber, it became apparent that the giant’s flesh had not fallen away. Rather, it had grown almost transparent. Tavis could see the heads of his two arrows lodged deep inside his foe’s torso, yet he could also make out the ghostlike contours of an ancient and withered face. Snad looked to be at least four hundred years old.

  The giant was touching the heft of an enormous hand axe whose blade was buried deep in a granite cleft. The eight-foot handle angled up from the floor at a steep incline, so that the pommel hung within easy reach of Snad’s long arms. The entire shaft was made of ivory, and wondrously carved with scenes of godly might. The huge head, fashioned from obsidian as black as a mountain’s heart, was bound to the handle with golden twine.

  A lump of awe formed in Tavis’s throat. Without realizing it, he slipped from his hiding place and started down the slope. Even without Basil’s description, the scout would have recognized the glorious weapon below as Sky Cleaver, the lost hand axe of Mighty Annam, and he had to have it.

  Tavis soon realized he was not the only one who coveted the axe. Orisino huddled in the bones at the edge of Sky Cleaver’s small clearing, and his eyes were fixed on the prize. The verbeeg grabbed a spear from the rubble and began slowly pacing back and forth beyond the hill giant’s reach. As the scout approached, he heard the two talking.

  “You’re being selfish and stingy, Snad,” Orisino said. “All I want to do is touch it.”

  “No! Snad the One, not stupid verbeeg.” The hill giant’s voice was quavering more than it had been a few moments earlier. Snad shot a scowl up at Tavis, then added, “And not stupid Tavis Burdun, either!”

  Orisino cast a jealous glance at Tavis, then slipped away from the safety of his bone pile. “You can’t even pull it out of the ground, Snad! Let me try!”

  “Snad the One!”

  “You’re not!” the verbeeg yelled. “You’ve had centuries to pull it free!”

  “Liar!” Snad slipped around to place himself between the axe and Orisino. “Snad only find axe last winter—after he kill old Kwasid.”

  The name brought Tavis to a halt. Not many years before, he had known a fire giant by that name. But Kwasid had been an athletic young fire dancer—hardly someone that even a dull-witted hill giant would call old.

  “And how old are you Snad?” Tavis yelled down.

  “Still plenty young to be the One.” Snad kept his eye fixed on Orisino. “Fifty summers.”

  Tavis gasped. At fifty, a hill giant was barely an adult. The high scout began to consider the wisdom of turning back while he still had the strength—then Orisino leapt for the axe’s ivory handle.

  Tavis’s reservations vanished as suddenly as they had appeared. He found his runearrow in his hand, nocked and ready to fire, and in his heart there burned a fierce desire such as he had not known since his wedding night.

  Tavis aimed at Orisino’s heart.

  Snad’s ancient foot lashed out and caught the verbeeg in the chest. The chieftain crashed back into the bones from which he had crawled, and Tavis switched targets without thinking. The runearrow caught Snad squarely in the ribs.

  “esiwsilisaB!” Tavis yelled.

  Nothing happened, except that Snad reached up and snapped the shaft off at the head.

  “Stupid firbolg magic can’t hurt the One!” Snad chortled. He cast a suspicious glance at Orisino’s motionless form, then stepped away from the axe to finish what he had started. “Kill verbeeg dead this time—then kill Tavis Burdun.”

  “esiwsilisaB!” Tavis repeated.

  A resounding crack shook the cavern, then a brilliant blue light flared inside Snad’s translucent body and scattered his dark bones in every direction.

  The rumble had not even faded before Orisino was on his feet and charging the axe. The ivory hilt was nearly as long as the verbeeg was tall, but that did not stop him from wrapping both arms around the shaft. He braced his feet on the floor and tried to pull it free.

  “Come to me!” Orisino cast a nervous glance in Tavis’s direction, then stooped beneath the motionless handle and pushed against it with his shoulders. “By Karontor, I shall have you!”

  “Wrong god.”

  Tavis dropped Mountain Crusher and stretched both hands toward the axe. Then, speaking the ancient syllables that Basil had made him repeat a thousand times in the last two days, the high scout called Sky Cleaver to him:

  “In the name of Skoraeus Stonebones, Your Maker, O Sky Cleaver, do I summon you into the service of my hand.”

  With a groan as ancient as Toril itself, the mighty axe pulled its dark blade from the cleft and rose into the air. Orisino leapt up and snatched the ivory handle with both arms. The axe shook him off as a dragon shakes off a mountain lion, then floated into the scout’s waiting arms. The weapon stood as tall as its new owner, with a head as big as his chest. It was so heavy that the mere act of swinging it would drain the last ounce of Tavis’s strength, but he did not care.

  Sky Cleaver belonged to him.

  15

  The Bleak Plain

  Tavis sat upon a moonlit drumlin, staring down at the narrow rift as though he could force it open through will alone. The crevice ran northward across the frozen plain for nearly a thousand paces, ending beneath a cloud-scratching wall of ice that could only be the Endless Ice Sea itself. Nowhere along its entire length was the fissure as wide as a dagger blade, yet the titan’s trail stopped here at the near end, beneath a lonely, ice-caked inselberg that Basil had dubbed Othea Tor. Somehow, Lanaxis had descended into that narrow cleft, and with him he had taken Brianna.

  The high scout would have her back, and it did not matter that a titan had locked her away in a prison of solid bedrock. Tavis was the One Wielder, and he would have whatever he wanted. With Sky Cleaver in his hand, there was no enemy he could not slay, no riddle he could not solve, no evil he could not conquer. He could do whatever he wished, have anything he wanted—anything, that is, except what he needed most: sleep.

  Tavis had lost count of the days it had taken to cross this frozen waste, but it had been more nights than that since he had rested. He trembled almost constantly with exhaustion, and he moved about in a waking stupor that would long ago have given way to deep sleep, save for Sky Cleaver. It was not that the axe gave him strength—though perhaps it provided more than he knew—but that Tavis did not dare close his eyes. The verbeegs watched him constantly, their thieving gazes riveted on his weary eyelids, waiting for him to nod off so they could steal his axe. They were watching now, gathered below in the still, cold air, sitting on their haunches and staring at him with the gluttonous patience of vultures.

  Tavis knew better than to think he could send them away. They came with Sky Cleaver. They would do anything he commanded—march across barren snows, jump into dark abysses, fight ancient titans—but never would they leave him. They would always flock to the One Wielder, as ready to serve as to usurp. Six of the boldest had tried already and died for their trouble; more would follow tonight. He could feel their thirst building.

  Tavis hoped one would be Orisino. The verbeeg had actually touched the ivory handle, and he had heard the ancient words of command. Like the One Wielder himself, Orisino had not
slept since Split Mountain, and his eyes never left the axe’s sable head. His lips often twisted into strange configurations, forming the half-remembered syllables of the ancient words of command. Sooner or later, the chieftain would try for the weapon. Then Tavis could kill him, but not until then.

  The crunching of boots on ice sounded behind the One Wielder. He laid Sky Cleaver at his feet and jumped up, straddling the mighty axe and pulling his sword from its scabbard. Sky Cleaver was much too awkward and heavy for Tavis to heft in battle, and so far he had been forced to defend it with bow and blade.

  “Easy, Tavis,” urged Galgadayle. The seer stopped a cautious distance away and turned up his palms to show that his hands were empty. “I didn’t come to steal your axe.”

  Galgadayle looked as haggard as Tavis felt. The seer’s beard was caked so thick with ice that his cheeks sagged beneath the weight, making the circles beneath his eyes seem even darker and deeper. The cold had long ago turned his flesh as white as the moonlight, and the tip of his nose had lost several layers of frozen skin.

  Tavis sheathed his sword. He picked up Sky Cleaver, resting the pommel in the snow and the obsidian blade against his shoulder.

  “Come closer, my friend. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Tavis glanced around the base of the drumlin, where his verbeegs sat waiting on the milky snowpack. “But I must be vigilant. Orisino is waiting to steal my axe. They all are.”

  Galgadayle’s face twitched with some emotion destined to remain hidden beneath his frozen flesh. “You belong more to that axe than it does to you. It would have been better for us all if you had died in the cavern and left Sky Cleaver unfound.”

  “How can you say that?” The One Wielder was aghast. “Think of all I can do! Drive the giants from the northlands! Unite the ’kin under one law!”

  “What if our brothers have no wish to live under the law?”

  The question left Tavis confused and blank-minded, for it had never occurred to him to think of what they might want. He considered the matter for a moment, then decided there would be no need to compel the obedience of the verbeegs and fomorians.

  “They will live under the law. Uniting will make them strong, and the only way to unite is to live under the law.”

  Galgadayle shook his head. “The law is the firbolg way. Fomorians do not understand it, and verbeegs only twist it to their own ends—this journey has taught me that much.”

  “Then they will follow me,” Tavis insisted. “With the giant-kin behind me, I can drive evil from all Toril!”

  “How?” Galgadayle scoffed. “You can barely lift Sky Cleaver, much less wield the weapon.”

  Tavis stepped closer to the seer, carrying the axe with both hands. “I could if I were only a little larger.”

  Galgadayle’s eyes grew as round as saucers. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m as much a firbolg as you or any of Meadowhome’s warriors,” Tavis replied. “You could show me how to change size.”

  “No.” Galgadayle raised his hands as though to push the scout away. “If the gods wanted the evil chased from Toril, they would do it themselves.”

  “Why do you think they gave me Sky Cleaver?” Tavis was growing more exhilarated by the moment. It was all becoming so clear to him. “Why, of all the thousands of warriors who found their way down to the axe, was I the only one who could pull it free?”

  “That had nothing to do with the gods,” Galgadayle growled. “If Basil hadn’t taught you the magic words, you’d still be down there fighting with Orisino.”

  “But I’m not,” Tavis retorted. “The gods sent Basil to me so I’d know the magic words.”

  Galgadayle stepped close enough to grab Tavis’s arm. “Listen to this madness spilling from your mouth! It’s the axe speaking!”

  “What does it matter who’s speaking?” Tavis spun the seer around. He pointed past the looming shoulder of Othea Tor, toward the unseen mountains beneath the frozen horizon. “Think of it—a world without evil! Is that madness, from my mouth or Sky Cleaver’s?”

  Galgadayle’s gaze did not falter. “Yes, if you think such a world can be won by might of arms.” His voice calmed. “Tell me Tavis, before you strike someone down, who will decide he is evil, you or the axe?”

  “I will!” Tavis’s voice broke, making the statement sound more like a horse’s whinny than an honest claim. “I mean, I summoned Sky Cleaver. It serves …”

  When his voice continued to squeal like rusty winch gears, Tavis dropped the axe into the snow. He let his sentence die and stepped away from the weapon, glaring at the thing as though it had suddenly come alive and cut off his arm.

  Galgadayle’s eyes filled with sadness. “You retrieved Sky Cleaver to rescue your wife, and to …” The seer paused to choose his next words carefully. “And to prevent Lanaxis from turning her son against his mother’s realm. If you have forgotten that, you would do better to discard the axe and attack the titan with your bare hands.”

  Tavis’s eyes remained locked on Sky Cleaver. It seemed to him that a shimmering mist of darkness was rising off the obsidian blade and slowly spreading across the snow in his direction. He glanced at Galgadayle, but saw no sign that the firbolg also saw the ebon fog.

  Tavis shook his head. “Even if I could cast it off, it’s too late.” This time, his voice did not crack as he spoke. He slowly turned to study the verbeegs gathered below. Save for Orisino, who continued to sit on his haunches with his lips moving, they had all risen and taken a single step up the drumlin. Tavis bent down and retrieved the axe. “I have taken Sky Cleaver in hand, and now I must use it.”

  “May Hiatea have pity on us.”

  Tavis fixed his gaze on the seer. “Help me,” he pleaded. “Help me do what I came for. If I can’t wield this weapon, it will wield me.”

  “And after you have freed your queen?” Galgadayle pointed at Sky Cleaver. “Who will you turn it against after the titan?”

  “I have no idea,” Tavis answered honestly. “But I do know this: only Brianna can give me strength to make that choice wisely. Otherwise, it will be Sky Cleaver that decides.”

  The seer closed his eyes and nodded. “I’ll help you,” he whispered. “But first, let me call Basil. We must find our way into Twilight, and he knows more about the place than anyone.”

  Tavis clutched Sky Cleaver more tightly to his breast and glanced down the slope. The runecaster stood a short distance away from the other verbeegs, his thick brows arched expectantly.

  “Call Basil,” Tavis said. “But stay between him and the axe. With his magic, he is more dangerous than any of Orisino’s warriors, and the temptation will be great for him. I think Sky Cleaver’s draw is stronger than even he realized.”

  “I have no doubt about that.” Galgadayle cast a wary glance at the axe. “I have sworn not to touch the weapon, and all that vow has earned for me is the constant temptation to break my oath.”

  The seer nodded to the runecaster, who quickly ascended the drumlin. Like Galgadayle, Basil looked half-frozen and entirely exhausted. His eyes were pinched and bloodshot from his constant battle with snow blindness. His beard had become a single great icicle, and most of his face had turned white with frostbite. If there was no healer available when he thawed, the runecaster would lose both of his ears. The drooping appendages were as stiff and translucent as ice.

  Basil stopped a dozen feet away and kept his eyes on the snow. “Thank you for letting me come up.”

  “There’s no need to thank me.” Tavis struggled to focus his thoughts on the friendship he and the runecaster shared. “We want the same thing.”

  Basil smiled, and his gaze flickered to Sky Cleaver. “I’m glad to hear you say that.”

  “I’m not talking about the axe,” Tavis warned. “And let’s not pretend that it means nothing to you. I know you’re tempted to steal it—”

  “Borrow!”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Tavis said. “Sky Cleaver’s hold is just as strong on me as it is on you.
I couldn’t lend it to you any more than I could lend you my heart.”

  Basil bit his lip and looked away. “I know that”

  “Good, then we have things well in hand.” Galgadayle slipped between Tavis and Basil. “Now, how do you suggest we go about entering the Twilight Vale?”

  Basil stepped around the seer and moved to the front of the drumlin, where he could peer down at the narrow rift. “The stone giant histories say little about the Twilight Vale itself.” He apparently did not notice as Galgadayle once again slipped between him and the axe. “But there’s no need for concern. If all else fails, we can use Sky Cleaver to ‘cut to the heart of the matter’, as the stone giants describe it.”

  “We?” Tavis demanded.

  “I mean you,” Basil sighed. “But I wouldn’t advise doing so lightly. From what you described of the previous wielder’s condition, calling upon Sky Cleaver’s powers carries a heavy price.”

  Tavis cringed at his memory of Snad’s translucent flesh. “I hope you’re saying there’s another way into the vale.”

  “I have several ideas, yes,” Basil replied. “But before I can say which is correct, we must examine the signs and see how each one fits our theories.”

  The runecaster motioned for his companions to follow and started to plow down the snowy slope toward the southern end of the rift. Tavis laid his heavy burden over his shoulder, then, using one hand to balance it there, drew his sword and followed. The descent was treacherous. Tavis was so cold and weary that he found it difficult to keep his footing on the snowy slope, especially with Sky Cleaver’s unwieldy bulk pulling him off-balance. By the time he caught up to Basil and Galgadayle, he was panting and sticking his sword into the snow like an alpenstock.

  Orisino trudged up to join the trio. “Have you found the way in?” the chieftain asked. “Are we going after the titan?”

  Tavis cast a warning glare at the verbeeg. “Not yet. I’ll call you when we’re ready—but stay away from me until then.”