The Giant Among Us

by Troy Denning

  Avner finally turned to flee. As he tried to scramble up the slope, Tavis saw that the youth was exhausted. The boy’s legs were barely moving at half speed, and he had to stop every third step to catch his breath.

  Tavis climbed down the cliff, then lowered a trembling foot into the subsiding floodwaters. When the current did not threaten to sweep his leg from beneath him, he dropped the rest of the way and started toward the drained beaver pond.

  By the time the scout reached the ruined dam, the frost giants had Avner flanked on both sides. The youth feinted toward Egarl, then darted between Bodvar’s legs. The giant uttered a cold curse and spun around, snatching Avner up easily.

  “Don’t harm him!” Tavis yelled. He stepped across the beaver pond’s muddy bottom in two quick strides, then went to stand at the third frost giant’s side. He raised a hand toward the warrior holding Avner. “Hand him down to me.”

  A milky hand clasped his arm and pushed it down. “You must think us stupid!” growled the third frost giant “We caught the traell.”

  “I’ll see you get credit,” said Tavis. “But I should carry him. I knew the child when I served at Castle Hartwick.”

  “Liar!” yelled Avner.

  Tavis looked up to see the youth’s angry eyes glaring down at him. The boy was securely enclosed in Bodvar’s fist, with nothing but his head showing over the frost giant’s index finger.

  “When you were at Castle Hartwick, I lived at Tavis’s inn with the other orphans,” he said. “The only time I ever saw you was after Tavis chased you off.”

  The third frost giant narrowed his pale eyes and stared at Tavis in open suspicion. “What kind of trick you playing, Sharpnose?”

  The scout silently cursed Avner’s irrepressible spirit. So far, Tavis had avoided the necessity of lying, allowing the frost giants to draw their own conclusions from what he said. The boy’s sharp tongue threatened to expose his ruse.

  Tavis met the frost giant’s gaze evenly. “You wouldn’t know the traell’s value if I hadn’t told you who he was,” he said. Strictly speaking, Avner was not a traell. The name properly applied only to the semicivilized humans who wandered the frozen plains north of the Ice Spires, but frost giants seldom made the distinction. “All I ask is that you let me carry the traell.”

  “No!”

  The voice boomed out from the other side of the gorge, where Tavis saw a frost giant wearing a steel skullcap with ivory horns. The fellow looked large even for his race, with pale yellow eyes and snarling blue lips.

  The frost giant started across the pond. “You have Tavis’s bow to give to Julien and Arno,” he said. “All we have is this miserable traell.”

  “I don’t trust you to keep the boy alive, and he’ll be no good to Julien and Arno dead,” Tavis said. “I’ll trade you.”

  The scout held Bear Driller out to the leader, who was already stepping out of the beaver pond.

  “Trade him what?” called Avner. The boy remained gripped securely in Bodvar’s fist “That ol’ piece of hickory?”

  “That is Bear Driller,” said the giant leader. He eyed the bow carefully, but made no move to take it. “I have heard the poets sing its praise often enough to recognize the weapon.”

  “So?” Avner scoffed. “Just because Gavorial got the bow doesn’t mean he got Tavis. I’ve already caught him in one lie. How do you know he isn’t lying about the battle?”

  The scout bit his tongue, restraining the urge to tell Avner to shut up. The youth was trying to incite trouble among his captors so he could slip away in the confusion, an art he had apparently cultivated during his years as a street thief. Tavis feared the technique would be the undoing of them both.

  The frost giant leader shifted his gaze between Avner and Tavis. “The traell does have a point,” he said. “Perhaps Tavis dropped his bow while you were chasing him.”

  “Would he have also dropped his cloak?” Tavis asked, reaching inside his tunic. “And his quiver, his sword belt, and his equipment satchel?”

  The scout reached into his large tunic and withdrew each of the items he named, which he had been holding for use after his eventual return to firbolg form. All of the equipment was blood-soaked and tattered from his fight with Gavorial and Odion.

  Tavis fixed what he hoped was a stony glare on Avner’s shocked face. “Do you still believe Tavis Burdun escaped?”

  The youth’s eyes swelled to puffy red spheres, and he looked away. Tavis did not enjoy being so cruel, but at least he would no longer have to contend with the youth’s sharp tongue.

  The frost giant leader lifted his gaze from the blood-soaked gear. “You have convinced me that Tavis is dead, and I think you will convince Hagamil as well,” he said. “As for Julien and Arno—who can tell what they will think?”

  “Then you’ll make the trade?” Tavis asked.

  The leader shook his head. “I’ve no idea why you want the traell, but I don’t like it, Sharpnose. We’ll keep the boy, and you keep your rags,” he said. “And don’t worry that we’ll kill him. Even if Julien and Arno have no use for him, this traell has a brave spirit. Hagamil will want to feast him before he dies.”

  A wave of fatigue rolled through Tavis’s body. He slipped his equipment back into his tunic and tucked Bear Driller beneath his belt, trying to find the strength to keep his legs from trembling. He did not know if he had the stamina to continue impersonating Gavorial until he freed Avner, or whether Basil’s magic would last until he had the chance. Nor did he know what was happening at Cuthbert Castle, and that ignorance weighed more heavily on him than Gavorial’s immense weight.

  8

  Traell Country

  Tavis groaned. The glacier ahead was a large one, with a high, clifflike snout and a boulder-strewn moraine at least three thousand paces long. Rivers of blue water gushed from several ice caves large enough for a stone giant to stand inside, and the frigid wind hissing off its back had been sopping up the glacial cold for dozens of miles. The first frost giants were already entering a steep chute that ascended to the summit of the terminus, and the scout did not know where he would find the strength to follow them.

  After a full day of forcing Gavorial’s massive body to keep pace with the frost giants, Tavis was spent to the core. The fatigue seemed as much spiritual as physical. With each step, he felt a cord tugging at that deep place where he stored his courage and fortitude, and his chances of surviving long enough to rescue Avner seemed more remote.

  By the time Tavis reached the chute, half the frost giants in line had already started climbing. Still, the trough was narrow, with icy footing that made for slow going, and the scout could see that he had a few minutes before his turn came. Thankful for the chance to rest, he walked a few paces to the valley wall and sat in a dry side ravine. He braced his back against one slope and his feet against the other, then closed his eyes and listened to the wind hiss through the limber pines.

  “You stone giants spend too much time thinking and not enough hunting,” observed Bodvar, who was standing at the end of the line. “A giant who tires so easily is a poor excuse for a warrior—especially if he’s supposed to be the best of his tribe.”

  Tavis opened one eye and regarded Bodvar stonily. The frost giant was sneering from behind his unruly yellow beard, his pale eyes issuing an unspoken but obvious challenge.

  “Tavis Burdun is not an easy firbolg to kill,” Tavis said. “Let me rest today, and tomorrow I’ll show you who’s the poor excuse for a warrior.”

  The sneer vanished from Bodvar’s face. “Thrym stop me! If Julien and Arno had not forbidden challenge fighting, I’d take you up on that offer,” he growled. “But I’m sure Hagamil will let me kill you, once all is done.”

  “By then, it’ll be too late to avenge the insult,” said Avner, who was tightly gripped in the warrior’s fist. Slagfid, the war party’s leader, had decided that since Bodvar had captured the traell, he would have the honor of carrying the prisoner back to camp. “Gavorial will be long go
ne. You have to kill him now—if honor means anything to you.”

  Tavis felt a proud smile creeping across Gavorial’s lips. The youth still had not given up hope—far from it; he was taking every opportunity to sow discord among his captors, and trying to avenge the death of a close friend while he was at it

  “What are you smiling at?” demanded Bodvar. “I just might listen to the traell.”

  “And you might get killed,” Tavis replied. He knew that any attempt to smooth things over would fail, earning him Bodvar’s contempt as well as his animosity. Frost giants respected strength and prowess above all things. “Either way, it makes no difference to me.”

  The scout closed his eyes and returned to his rest, confident that Bodvar would leave him alone. The warrior would gain nothing by attacking now, for frost giants saw no honor in killing by surprise.

  A short time later, Tavis was roused from his nap by a large rock bouncing off his head. “Are you coming, Sharpnose?” demanded Bodvar’s annoyed voice. “Or do you want to spend the night down in this heat?”

  The scout rubbed his sore temple and shot a menacing scowl at Bodvar, then braced his hands in the pine needles to push himself to his feet. That was when he noticed a tiny, frightened face peering at him through the boughs of sapling pine.

  Tavis blinked twice. The face remained, a small olive-skinned moon with the soft features of an adolescent girl and a halo of black hair. Her flat nose and tiny mouth left no doubt of her race; she was of true traell heritage, no doubt from one of the tribes that occasionally crossed the Ice Spires to make a home on the fringes of Hartsvale.

  The child’s brown, almond-shaped eyes remained moored to Gavorial’s grim face, as though she expected the stone giant to reach out and pulp her.

  “Well, Sharpnose?” Bodvar insisted.

  “Go on,” Tavis replied. “I’ll be along.”

  “Can’t,” the frost giant grumbled. “Slagfid told me to be sure Bear Driller and those rags of yours make it to camp. Hagamil’s going to want to see them.”

  “Okay, I’ll come now.” The scout pushed himself to his feet.

  The girl’s eyes widened, but she did not run.

  From Gavorial’s full height, Tavis saw that the child’s hiding place was not nearly as good as it appeared from the ground. He could easily see her crouching behind the sapling, her brown woolen cloak pulled tight around her shoulders. The scout glanced at Bodvar and saw that the frost giant’s angle was just as good. If the warrior happened to look in the sapling’s direction, he would spot the child.

  The scout stepped in front of the girl. “I said I was coming!” he snapped. “You don’t have to wait”

  Bodvar scowled. “If you say so,” he grumbled. “By Thrym’s beard, I’d think you’d be in a better humor after killing Tavis Burdun!”

  The frost giant started up the chute. Tavis slowly glanced over his shoulder and saw the girl backing away from her hiding place. Their eyes met, then she cried out in alarm and sprinted up the side ravine.

  “What’s that?” demanded Bodvar.

  Tavis returned his gaze to the glacier and saw the frost giant staring down at him. The scout yawned and started forward, dragging his feet to muffle the sound of snapping branches and clattering rocks coming from the ravine behind him.

  “Quit your yawning!” Bodvar ordered. “I heard a traell!”

  The frost giant scrambled out of the chute and brushed past the scout. Egarl, the next warrior in line, was more than twenty paces ahead. He kept his eyes fixed on the ice ramp beneath his feet, too worried about his traction to notice what was happening behind him. Tavis turned around to find Bodvar peering up the side ravine, his free hand cupped to his ear.

  “Don’t you hear that, Sharpnose?” demanded Bodvar.

  Tavis heard it: the soft sobbing of a child in terror. “What should I be listening for?”

  “Are stone giants stone deaf?” Bodvar demanded. “The whimpering traell.”

  Tavis stepped to the frost giant’s side and peered up the gully. It was difficult to see much. Both slopes were covered by dense stands of limber pines. The trees had thick, downswept boughs that hung nearly to the ground, providing perfect camouflage for small beasts like traells and deer. The small clearings between the trees were full of rocky outcroppings, all the same shade as the child’s cloak.

  “Are you sure it isn’t the wind, Bodvar?” Tavis asked. “I see nothing except trees and rocks.”

  No sooner had the scout spoken than the girl stepped from behind a boulder, darted up the slope, then vanished between a tangle of pine boughs. The child had already run a surprising distance up the ravine, but Tavis knew that it would not take a frost giant long to catch her.

  “I’m sure,” Bodvar said. He thrust Avner into Tavis’s hand. “Hold this. I’ll run that traell down.”

  Tavis accepted the burden, too shocked to reply, and stared blankly down at the youth while Bodvar trundled up the ravine.

  “You wanted me, Gavorial,” Avner said. “What are you going to do now?”

  “Get you out of here,” Tavis said. He started down the main valley at a trot

  “Hey, Slagfid!” Avner’s voice did not boom like a giant’s, but it was loud enough to echo off the canyon wall. “Help! He’s stealing me!”

  “Quiet! I’m not Gavorial,” Tavis hissed. “I’m Tavis.”

  “Like I’m Queen Brianna!” the boy retorted. “Slagfid, help!”

  Tavis stopped and slipped a large finger over Avner’s mouth. The youth promptly sunk his teeth into the hard flesh and ripped out a small chunk of gray hide. The scout pinched the boy’s head between his thumb and forefinger, holding it steady.

  “I’m telling the truth,” Tavis said. “I used Basil’s mask.”

  The boy raised his brow and stopped struggling, so Tavis took his bleeding finger away.

  “What mask?” The boy’s tone was suspicious. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course you do,” Tavis replied, glancing toward the glacier. When he saw no warriors pouring out of the chute, he began to hope the frost giants had not heard Avner’s cries. He slipped into the woods and started to climb the valley wall. “You remember. We were in Cuthbert’s library, and you asked Basil how I could impersonate a giant if I was too small?”

  Avner considered this, then a grin of relief spread across his face. Tears of happiness rolled down his cheeks, and he asked, “Aren’t you supposed to be in Shepherd’s Nightmare?”

  “The giants have a spy inside the castle. It was a trap.” Tavis was already panting from the climb. “Gavorial and his son were going to block the pass so the frost giants could catch me from behind. If you hadn’t delayed Slagfid and his war party, their plan might have worked.”

  “And you killed both Gavorial and his son?” Avner asked, awed. “Two stone giants?”

  Tavis braced himself against a tree and paused to rest. Over in the ravine, he could hear Bodvar crashing through the trees, searching for the traell girl.

  “I had to kill only Gavorial.” He put Avner on the ground. “Odion pledged to return home and have nothing more to do with the war.”

  “And you believed him?” Avner scoffed. “Now I know you’re Tavis.”

  “A stone giant’s pledge is sacred,” the scout replied. “And speaking of pledges, weren’t you supposed to stay in the castle?”

  “It’s a good thing I didn’t,” Avner replied. “Bodvar would be carrying you into camp.”

  Tavis pushed off the tree and started up the slope, angling back toward the ravine. “A promise is a promise, Avner,” he said. “The last thing you told me—”

  “There were circumstances.” The youth had to run to keep pace with Tavis’s giant strides.

  “What circumstances?”

  Avner slowed and looked away. “The spy. I know who he is.”

  Tavis frowned. “Keep moving,” he said. “Tell me what you know.”

  “I saw Brianna with Prince Ar
lien.” The youth hesitated, then added, “Late at night—in his chamber.”

  A lump formed in the pit of Tavis’s stomach. “That hardly makes him a spy.” The firbolg grabbed a tree and used it to pull himself up the slope. “They might have been discussing—”

  “Brianna was in her bedclothes—or rather, half out of them,” Avner interrupted. “In Arlien’s arms.”

  All the strength went out of Tavis, and he had to stop, head pounding and legs quivering. He doubled over to brace his hands on his knees. “Even if you’re sure of what you saw—”

  “You think I’d be here if I wasn’t?” the youth snapped.

  “No,” Tavis admitted. His voice sounded rather weak and tinny for a giant, and he wondered if Basil’s magic was beginning to wear off. The scout hoped not He still had business to conclude with Bodvar, and it would be safer if he appeared to be a stone giant “But the queen must think of Hartsvale.”

  “Whatever she and Arlien were thinking of, it wasn’t Hartsvale,” Avner retorted.

  Tavis pinched his eyes shut, trying to fight back the image that came unbidden into his mind: an eight-limbed creature of writhing flesh, two backs and two heads, moaning and grunting and smelling of musk … The scout didn’t have the strength. He slumped to his knees, his entire body trembling, tears of exhaustion welling in his eyes.

  Avner was at his side instantly. “What’s wrong?”

  The scout shook Gavorial’s massive gray head. “I’m tired,” he said. “Being a stone giant is harder than Basil said.”

  “You’d better find some strength somewhere,” Avner replied. “Because when you hear what I have to say next, you’ll want to kill Arlien.”

  Tavis looked up. “I can’t kill a man for the choice a woman makes.”

  “She didn’t make the choice,” Avner said. “The prince made it for her.”

  The scout’s jaw clenched tight “He took her by force?”