The Giant Among Us (20 page)

An approving murmur rustled through the cavern, and Hagamil demanded, “So all went well?”

Slagfid hesitated, his gaze dropping to the ogre in the pit. “In the end, yes,” he said. “But Tavis Burdun was not alone. He left a mighty traell warrior in the canyon to defend his back trail.”

A dubious scowl crept down Hagamil’s face. “What warrior?”

“We call him Little Dragon,” Slagfid replied.

Tavis was glad Avner was not listening to this. The boy was vain enough without hearing a frost giant call him a mighty warrior.

“While we were in the canyon, his boulders fell like hail on our heads,” Slagfid continued. “My warriors could hardly move.”

This drew a round of guffaws from the other giants.

“Little Dragon is a fiercer warrior than Tavis Burdun!” Slagfid bellowed. He silenced his fellows with an angry glare. “Tavis Burdun does not cast trees down upon your head, or send crashing floodwaters to sweep you away!”

“And Little Dragon did all this?” demanded Hagamil.

“I tell you, Little Dragon’s magic is as powerful as his arm,” said Slagfid. “He always strikes by surprise. You never know when he will appear-isn’t that so, Bodvar?”

Bodvar gave an emphatic nod. “Compared to Little Dragon, Tavis Burdun is like a calf to a bull mammoth.”

Hagamil looked doubtful. “And how many warriors did you lose to this traell bull?”

Slagfid straightened his shoulders. “None.”

“None?” Hagamil roared. “Why not? Were you afraid to join battle with this fierce pebble-hurler?”

A chorus of nervous laughter rolled through the cavern.

“I was not afraid to catch him!” Slagfid bellowed. He waited for the room to fall quiet, then added, “Or to save Sharpnose from the flood he unleashed.”

The frost giant looked to Tavis for confirmation. The scout remained silent. He had no wish to cast doubt on Slagfid’s exaggeration, but feared his cracking voice would do more to arouse suspicions than to quell them.

Hagamil gave Tavis a look that suggested he did not consider Gavorial’s salvation a good thing. Before the chieftain could say anything, a loud clatter arose at the cavern entrance.

Tavis looked over his shoulder to see Frith backing into the chamber, followed closely by the hissing remorhaz. The young giant was controlling the beast by means of the two long poles harnessed to the creature’s chitinous head, but that did not prevent the ice worm from striking at its handler. So powerful was the creature that the lunge rocked Frith on his heels.

The remorhaz was quick to press its advantage, thrashing wildly as it pushed itself into the cave. Frith slid across the icy floor, grunting and cursing as he tried in vain to get his legs under him. If Slagfid had not laid a hand on the young giant’s back, the beast would have pushed him into the pit.

Hagamil’s laughter echoed through the chamber. He handed the glowing scepter to one of the giantesses and came forward to inspect the beast. The chieftain was even larger than he had seemed from across the pit. He stood a full head taller than Slagfid, with a barrel chest as big around as a mammoth.

“A spirited worm, as promised.” Hagamil laid a hand on one of the poles Frith used to control the ice worm, then a crafty smile creased his lips. He turned to Slagfid and said, “It will be interesting to see how Little Dragon fares against it.”

Bodvar’s eyes flashed in alarm. He opened his mouth to speak, but Slagfid cut him off with a curt wave of the hand.

“We can’t throw Little Dragon into the pit until we’ve feasted him,” Slagfid objected. “He has earned a happy death.”

Hagamil glared at the smaller giant, then jerked his hand away from the remorhaz’s probing face tentacles. There were red welts where the worm had touched his white skin, but the chieftain showed no sign of pain.

“If Little Dragon is as great as you say, we will feast him after he kills the worm,” Hagamil said. “Otherwise, he doesn’t deserve such an honor.”

Slagfid inclined his head, yielding to the chieftain’s logic. “If you wish,” he said. “But we should let the ogre fight first. Otherwise, we’ll miss half the fun.”

Hagamil smiled, then clasped an affable hand on Slagfid’s shoulder. “A good idea,” he said. “And you can tell me about Tavis Burdun while Sjolf and Snorri fetch a chain and spear for the ogre.”

The chieftain motioned to two warriors. They reluctantly turned to leave, grumbling about having to work while Slagfid related his story.

As the pair left, Slagfid said, “The honor of telling that story is not rightfully mine.” He grabbed Tavis’s arm and pulled him forward. “Sharpnose killed Tavis Burdun.”

A dark cloud descended over Hagamil’s face. “Is that so?”

Tavis met the chieftain’s gaze, but said nothing. Slagfid was hardly being noble. By gallantly sharing the credit, the wily leader was simply trying to make his superior angry enough to forget about Little Dragon. The scout would have been happy to cooperate, had it been possible to do so without lying.

“Well?” Hagamil demanded. “Did you kill him?”

“You may claim that honor for yourself,” Tavis responded. “I give it to you as a gift.”

Hagamil blinked twice, then shook his head in confusion. “You what?”

“The honor was to belong to your tribe. I return it to you, if you wish to claim it,” Tavis said. “It will not be written in the Chronicles of Stone that Gavorial killed Tavis Burdun.”

The frost giant considered this with a skeptical frown, then asked, “So you weren’t trying to steal it from us?”

Tavis shook his head. “Never,” he said. “The battle started, and I did what was necessary.”

A smile started to creep across Hagamil’s lips, but it abruptly turned to a snarl. “What do you want for this ‘gift’?”

The scout smiled, thinking it might be easier than he had anticipated to learn the location of the rendezvous. “A small boon,” he said. “Tell me where you are meeting Julien and Arno.”

Hagamil rubbed his chin, then shrugged and gave Tavis a sharp-toothed smile. “Done,” he said. “When they send word-“

“They have already sent word,” Tavis interrupted. “I want to know where you’re meeting them tomorrow.”

Hagamil’s grin faded. “How’d you find out about that?”

Without waiting for a reply, the chieftain cast an angry glare at Slagfid, who could only shrug and shake his head.

“It’s nothing that should be kept secret,” Tavis said. “All giants deserve the honor of escorting Brianna to Twilight.”

“And that’s why you want to be there?” Hagamil demanded.

“I have no intention of claiming that I killed Tavis Burdun, if that’s what concerns you.”

As he spoke, Tavis silently congratulated himself. Until now, he had only been assuming that the giants intended to take the queen to Twilight. Hagamil had just confirmed his guess.

Sjolf and Snorri returned, carrying a set of rusty shackles, a wooden spear, and a long log with steps carved into it. Giving the ice worm wide berth, they lowered one end of the crude ladder into the pit.

Hagamil watched the first giant start down the log, then looked back to Tavis. “Okay. Give me Tavis’s body.”

“There is no corpse,” Tavis answered.

“What?” Hagamil bellowed. “How can there be no corpse?”

“The battle was fierce, and firbolgs are not so large,” the scout replied. “When the fighting was over, all of Tavis Burdun that lay on the tundra were a few drops of blood.”

“Sharpnose smashed him,” elaborated Bodvar.

Hagamil turned toward the warrior. “If you were close enough to see the fight, why didn’t you kill Tavis Burdun?”

Bodvar looked away. “I didn’t see the fight,” he admitted. “Just the proof.”

“You have proof?” Hagamil said. “Let me have that, then.”

Tavis reached inside his robe and withdrew his empty sword belt and mottled cloak, all that he still possessed of his gear. Hagamil snatched the tiny scraps and held them up to his enormous eye.

“What are these rags?” he demanded.

“Tavis Burdun’s sword belt and cloak,” Tavis replied.

“This isn’t proof!” Hagamil roared.

The frost giant flung the belt and cloak in the general direction of the remorhaz. The beast’s head pivoted and lashed out, snatching both items from the air. It swallowed them down in a single gulp, then licked its lips with a glowing red tongue and lunged at Frith one more time.

“Sharpnose had more,” whispered Bodvar. “He had that long bow, Bear Driller, and the quiver with the golden arrow.”

“Had?” Hagamil growled. “What happened to them?”

“I had them before the traells ambushed us,” Tavis said.

“You were ambushed?” Hagamil demanded, looking at Slagfid.

“Just them.” The leader pointed at Tavis and Bodvar. “Sharpnose saved Bodvar’s life. That’s when he lost the bow and quiver.”

Hagamil’s face turned as blue as a sapphire. He whirled on Bodvar and yelled, “Sharpnose lost Bear Driller to save your miserable life?”

The warrior stumbled back, his eyes wide with terror. “I-I-I didn’t ask him t-to.”

“It-doesn’t-matter!” The chieftain was so angry that he could barely sputter the words.

Hagamil’s massive hand lashed out and clamped onto Bodvar’s ear. For a moment, Tavis thought the angry giant would rip the thing off, but the chieftain’s intentions were far more deadly. He flung the elbow of his opposite arm into the side of Bodvar’s head, twisting his hips forward to hurl the full force of his weight into the blow.

A tremendous crack echoed through the cavern, as deep as a drumbeat and as sharp as a thunderclap. Bodvar’s nostrils and ears began to pour blood, then his limp body slipped from Hagamil’s grasp and collapsed in a heap. The warrior’s mouth was still gaping open, astonished at the speed with which death had descended upon him.

Hagamil whirled on Tavis next, reaching for his throat. The scout raised his arms inside the chieftain’s wrists and knocked the menacing hands away, then drove the heel of his palm into the giant’s chin. The blow would have launched any other giant off his feet, but it merely shoved Hagamil’s jaw out of socket.

The chieftain did not counterattack. A blank look suddenly replaced his angry mask, then his eyes rolled back in their sockets. The lids fluttered wildly, and one eyeball slowly sank out of sight behind his cheekbone. The yellow hair braids dropped from his head and writhed away like snakes, until they were plucked up and swallowed when they ventured too close to the remorhaz. The frost giant’s massive shoulders slumped forward, his milky skin grew pallid and yellow, and Tavis found himself looking at the gaunt, one-eyed form of the shaman.

Halflook raised a bony hand to his dislocated jaw and popped it back into place. After opening and closing his mouth a few times, he fixed his bloodshot eye on Tavis and gave him a snaggle-toothed grin.

“It’s been a long time since someone struck Hagamil,” Halflook said. “Much less knocked him unconscious.”

“Yeah, but we can’t bait the worm without Hagamil! What do we do now?”

The question came from the pit, where Sjolf and Snorri stood with the haggard ogre stretched between them. Although ogres stood half again as tall as humans, this one seemed as small as he did forlorn. He was about the size of a frost giant’s leg, though not nearly so big around, with hunched shoulders and long, gangling arms. His loutish face was as pale as ivory, and his jutting chin trembled so badly that his tusks looked as if they might shake loose. The wooden spear had been thrust into his hand like a cruel joke, and the rusty shackles had been fastened to his ankles like an anchor.

“Is the baiting off?” asked one of the giants-Tavis did not know whether it was Sjolf or Snorri.

Halflook shook his head. “Why would it be?” he demanded. “Doesn’t Halflook deserve some fun?”

The giants answered with a hearty chorus of approval. Halflook smiled and took Tavis’s arm. He started toward the far end of the chamber, where several seats had been carved into the edge of the pit.

“You also deserve some fun, my friend,” he said. “Killing Tavis Burdun could not have been easy.”

“The battle was desperate,” Tavis replied. “But I have no interest in worm-baiting. If you’ll honor Hagamil’s agreement and tell me where you’re meeting Julien and Arno, I’ll be on my way.”

Halflook stopped and raised his brow, his single eye twinkling with a knowing light. “Hagamil promised you that?”

“He did,” Tavis replied.

The shaman shook his head regretfully. “I can’t help you. Hagamil has told me no more than anyone else: We are to break camp tomorrow, and he will lead us to the rendezvous.” Halflook worked his bruised jaw back and forth, then added, “And I wouldn’t advise you to wait and ask him. He’ll be in a foul mood when he returns.”

Halflook started forward again, but Tavis did not follow.

The shaman looked back, and a reassuring smile slid across his cracked lips. “Come along, Sharpnose. You’ve nothing to fear from me, and Hagamil won’t be back until morning.” His gaze drifted toward the cavern exit and again grew distant and unfocused. “Besides, there’s a surprise coming-one you won’t want to miss.”

Tavis glanced toward the exit and saw nothing except the sable night. Nevertheless, he followed Halflook to one of the seats of honor, quite sure that the shaman would not let him leave now even if he insisted. One of Hagamil’s concubines threw a mammoth fur down on Tavis’s chair, then held his arm so that he didn’t slip as he lowered himself into the icy seat. Even through the thick fur the scout felt the cold creeping into his weary bones. Halflook sat beside his guest, directly on the ice.

In the bottom of the pit, the ogre now stood alone, his neck craned back and his beady, bewildered eyes running over the enormous faces gaping down at him. The last of his two captors was just stepping off the log ladder onto the chamber’s main floor. Slagfid and another warrior had taken hold of the remorhaz’s harness poles and were holding the writhing beast over the pit. Frith stood next to them, grasping a long halberd, which he would use to slice the harness.

Halflook leaned over to Tavis. “I know stone giants find these things boring, so perhaps we should make a wager,” he suggested. “Having something at stake does liven things up.”