The Giant Among Us (34 page)

“And what are you going to do?” Avner asked.

“Catch Tavis and send him to the temple, of course.”

*****

Tavis rushed across the narrow drawbridge toward a small tower on the rear wall of the inner curtain. Each breath brought with it the sickening stench of battle: the coppery fetor of spilled blood, the acrid reek of flaming oil, the charred rankness of burning flesh. The scout seemed to stumble every third step, for he felt as though he were walking on someone else’s mangled feet. Although he was wearing Brianna’s ice diamonds around his neck, the cold stones merely replaced his agony with icy numbness. They did nothing to heal the firbolg.

Tavis worried that the necklace’s enchantment would leave him as befuddled as Brianna, but he suspected the spell worked its magic gradually so as not to be noticed. So far, he seemed to be right, for he hadn’t noticed any ill effects. Besides, the scout had little choice except to wear the jewelry. Without the relief of the frigid gems, his battered body simply would not function well enough for battle.

The scout reached the far end of the bridge and stepped into the fortified tower. He traveled down a short corridor lined by murder holes, then opened a heavy oaken door into the tower’s main room. In the center of the chamber stood two of Selwyn’s Winter Wolves, busily reloading their tripod-mounted crossbows.

A hill giant thrust his enormous fingers through one of the arrow loops that overlooked the castle’s rear bailey. The entire tower trembled as the brute hammered at the exterior wall. One of the Winter Wolves locked his bowstring into place, then slipped a long iron quarrel into his weapon’s firing groove. He dragged the heavy crossbow forward and fired through the arrow loop containing the giant’s hand. The brute bellowed, then the pounding stopped and the enormous fingers vanished from sight.

Tavis slipped his bow, taken from the keep armory, over his shoulder. He replaced it with a shield and battle axe that he borrowed from one of the Winter Wolves. Having watched his arrows bounce harmlessly off Arlien’s armor, the scout now realized the only way to stop the prince was in close-quarters combat.

Fortunately, that would be easy to arrange. The single avenue into the keep was across the drawbridge that Tavis had just crossed. The one path to the bridge was through this bridge tower, and the only route into the tower was along the top of the inner curtain. The scout intended to meet Arlien as far down the ramparts as possible, then fight him every step of the way.

Tavis left the tower and limped along the rear wall toward one of the great corner towers of the inner curtain. The battle din grew more distinct than it had been in the keep, with boulder after boulder pounding the walls, ballista skeins crackling like lightning, and the dirge of dying warriors echoing over the ward.

The scout hardly noticed the clamor. His attention was locked on the inner curtain’s western rampart, where he expected to see Arlien at any moment Picking out the prince’s armored form would not be easy. A pall of black smoke covered much of the rampart’s length, and the rubble of shattered merlons choked the few visible sections of wall. Bleeding and dazed men were everywhere, lying half-buried under debris, wandering aimlessly along the walkways, sitting in pools of oil that had not yet caught fire.

As Tavis approached the corner tower, he caught a glimpse of Selwyn. The captain was about halfway down the rampart, sprinting alongside a dozen of his Winter Wolves. With tabards singed, helmets missing, and breastplates torn half off, they all looked terribly battered. That did not stop them from hefting their axes and charging into the smoke with a chilling battle howl. The scout caught a glimpse of the red-bearded soldier he had sent to warn Selwyn about Arlien’s identity, then the entire group vanished from sight.

Tavis rushed through the corner tower, which was a larger version of the bridge tower, and threw open the door leading to the western rampart. In the smoke ahead, he heard the harsh clang of steel on steel. Selwyn’s voice cried out in pain.

Tavis limped toward the howl as fast as he could. The scout had lurched forward no more than five steps when he spied the captain and two soldiers backing out of the smoke. All three Winter Wolves were soaked with blood. Arlien followed close behind, his armor and weapons smeared with crimson-none of it from his own wounds. The prince fixed his gaze on Selwyn, then shrieked wildly and charged. The three Winter Wolves spread across the rampart, lifting their own weapons to meet the attack.

Arlien tore into them like a whirlwind, crushing the outside man’s breastplate with a hammer strike so powerful that it flung his disjointed body into a merlon. The prince took the second Winter Wolf on the back swing. The blow easily overpowered the fellow’s guard and smashed his head in the same stroke.

Selwyn countered with a vicious strike to the midsection, but the battle axe merely chimed off Arlien’s enchanted armor. The prince smashed the heft of his hammer into the captain’s head. The steel helmet split in two, Selwyn collapsed at the prince’s feet, and the battle was done in the time it had taken Tavis to travel four steps.

Arlien kicked Selwyn’s body aside, then looked down the rampart toward the firbolg. “Tavis Burdun,” he said. “I thought it would take more than an avalanche to kill you.”

“It will.” Tavis hefted his battle axe. “Much more.”

17
Bitter Wine

From the keep roof, the battle seemed a thing as murky and frenzied as the queen’s whirling thoughts. To the east, fifty men stood on the ramparts of the inner curtain, hurling boulders and flaming oil down on a long file of cone-shaped helmets, all Brianna could see of the frost giants fighting toward the castle’s rear bailey. To the west, dozens of hill giant rafts were burning out on the lake, pouring so much smoke through the battered remnants of the outer curtain that the outer ward had disappeared beneath an unfathomable sea of gray fume.

The queen hardly had a better view of the ramparts themselves. Pools of burning oil were steadily creeping down the walkways and dribbling into the inner ward, filling the air with clouds of dark, greasy smoke that permitted only intermittent views of the debris-choked ramparts. When Brianna did catch a glimpse of the walls, she saw corpses and wounded lying everywhere, trapped beneath the rubble of shattered merlons or strewn among the splinters of smashed ballistae.

The queen’s shoulders slumped under a guilty weight. She ached to send the keep guard down to help the men on the walls, but she knew that would accomplish nothing. The battle was already lost, and committing her last reserves would make the giants’ final victory only easier. It would be better to wait here and make the enemy attack the keep’s formidable defenses. The small company would never hold, of course, but more giants would fall. Brianna owed her soldiers that much.

A short distance from the rear corner tower, two plumes of smoke temporarily drifted apart, revealing Arlien’s armored form striding along the ramparts. Several paces in front him stood Brianna’s battered bodyguard. The firbolg still wore her ice diamonds, but he was now armed with a shield and battle axe. A cold queasiness filled the queen’s stomach, and she found her hand drifting toward her bare throat.

Brianna heard someone approaching from the center of the roof, then Avner cried, “What’s Tavis doing down there? He’s in no condition to fight!”

The hole in the smoke closed as quickly as it had opened, once again concealing the two warriors. Brianna turned her attention to Avner. The boy was holding a silver chalice and the flagon from which Prince Arlien had poured his concoctions.

“What are you doing with that?” she demanded.

“You have to drink this.” Avner filled the chalice, then raised it toward her. “It’ll make you feel better.”

The familiar odor of fruit and spice pervaded the queen’s nostrils. Her stomach began to churn, and she felt an irrational sense of dread building within her breast. Brianna raised her hands to ward off the proffered cup.

“Take it away,” she said. “It clouds my head.”

“Not this time, it won’t.” The boy turned the chalice around, displaying a painted rune. “Basil said the prince has been using a love potion on you. Drinking out of this cup will reverse the effects.”

Brianna narrowed her eyes. “Basil’s in the dungeon.”

“Basil was in the dungeon,” Avner corrected. “But right now, he’s trying to catch Tavis so you can heal him.”

“Avner, I’ve tried,” Brianna said. “I can’t…”

“Drink this, and you can,” the youth countered. “Trust me.”

Brianna made no move to take the goblet. “Trust you?” she scoffed. “Aren’t you the same boy I caught stealing Cuthbert’s folios? And who sneaked off rather than face his punishment?”

Avner continued to hold the goblet. “You’re not drinking this for me, or even for Tavis,” he said. “You’re drinking it for Hiatea.”

“For Hiatea?” Brianna asked.

“It’ll clear your mind.” Avner took her arm with his free hand, then slipped the chalice into her grasp. “So you can find her again. You’ll remember your spells.”

Brianna bit her lip, glaring down at the youth. “Avner, if this is some kind of trick-“

“It isn’t!”

Brianna raised the cup and nearly gagged on the cloying smell. Wondering how she could have once thought that the stuff tasted good, the queen tipped her head back and let the syrup run down her throat The libation scalded like overheated milk, settling into her stomach with all the appeal of a greasy pudding. She suddenly felt flushed, her head spinning and feverish. The queen tossed the empty chalice aside and braced herself on Avner’s shoulder.

“By the Huntress, that was awful!” she croaked. “I hope that’s a good sign.”

“What’s your bodyguard’s name?” the youth demanded.

Brianna scowled. “Are you going to start… ?” Suddenly, the name came to her, burning through the haze inside her head like the bright, searing sun. ‘Tavis! His name is Tavis Burdun!”

“How do you feel about him?” the boy pressed.

“I love him!” She gasped. A chain of familiar feelings rushed over the queen, sweeping the muddling fog of Arlien’s potion from her mind. She remembered all that Tavis was to her: loyal comrade and fearless protector, her only trusted confidant, the man with whom she ached to share her bed. “Hiatea help me! What have I done?”

Tavis’s arms ached from the strain of keeping his heavy shield raised and his battle axe cocked. The thickening smoke filled his throat with a bitter, acrid burning that made it increasingly difficult to breathe. Nevertheless, the scout stood fast. Combats between opponents of skill were won more often by wit than strength, and the advantage seldom went to he who committed first.

Finally, when the smoke had grown so dense that Arlien’s armored form was beginning to take on a wraithlike appearance, the prince circled toward Tavis’s flank. The scout pivoted back toward the tower, simultaneously keeping his chest toward his enemy and his body between his foe and the path to Brianna.

Arlien stopped behind a crippled ballista, then suddenly thrust a foot into the stock. The kick landed with a giant’s incredible power, swinging the entire weapon around so that the windlass arced straight toward Tavis’s knees. The prince charged in the same instant, his hammer flashing toward the firbolg’s head.

The scout dropped to a crouch, lowering his shield to protect his knee. Arlien’s hammer sailed past above his head, then the windlass slammed home. Although Tavis had braced himself for the impact, the blow nearly knocked him off his feet. He launched himself upward, transferring the momentum into his own attack as he swung his battle axe at the prince’s unarmored armpit.

Arlien’s hammer flashed down to block. Tavis’s weapon clanged against the shaft and stopped dead, a mere finger’s breadth from its target The firbolg tried to pull back for another blow, but the prince’s free hand shot out and grabbed his weapon arm. The scout swung his other arm low, driving the edge of his shield into his foe’s armored knee.

The steel joint buckled-slightly.

Arlien jerked Tavis up and swung his hammer. Tavis twisted sideways, at the same time bringing his shield around to protect his head. The prince’s blow landed with a resounding boom, denting the steel shield and driving the firbolg’s clenched fist into his own cheek.

Tavis countered instantly, leveling his shield and driving the bottom point into the seam between the prince’s chinpiece and gorget. Arlien’s head snapped back. A strangled gurgle echoed from behind his visor, and he staggered back. When the scout cocked his arm to repeat the strike, the prince flung him away. He flew through the air as though he were a sprite instead of a firbolg.

Tavis felt his heart beat seven times before he finally crashed into a merlon. He dropped to the rampart beside the groaning remains of one of Cuthbert’s soldiers, then instantly rolled to his knees. Anticipating his foe’s next attack, he raised his shield and set it at a steep angle. The scout did not even see Arlien’s hammer when it struck. He simply heard an ear-rending crack and felt his shield arm go limp.

The enchanted hammer started to circle back over Tavis’s head, but the scout was already swinging at it. He felt a sharp jolt as the shaft of his battle axe struck the magic weapon and sent it sailing over the inner ward.

The scout breathed a sigh of relief, knowing it would have been impossible to dodge the thing many more times. He tried to move his numb arm and discovered that it would not respond. He pushed his battered shield off the useless limb, then grasped his battle axe and stood.

Tavis saw Arlien standing at the edge of the rampart, one arm stretched over the inner ward in the direction his hammer had flown. In the thick smoke, the scout could not see the weapon, but he suspected it would be floating back to the prince’s hand.

The rampart shuddered as some part of the inner curtain gave way under the constant barrage of hill giant boulders. For the first time since joining combat with Arlien, Tavis grew cognizant of the battle around him, and he realized he was the only one of Brianna’s men still standing along this section of wall. Everyone else was dead, wounded, or gone.