Troy Denning - The Titan of Twilight

“It’s cannibalism!” Tavis objected.

“To you, perhaps-but then, you are a traitor to your own race.” Orisino, the horse-faced chieftain of the verbeegs, followed Ror around the tower. His gray lips were curled into a sneer that showed two rows of vile yellow teeth filed to sharp points. “Who are you to say fomorians shouldn’t eat humans? The gods have seen fit to let wolves eat foxes.”

“It’s not the same thing.” Tavis kept his attention fixed on Raeyadfourne.

The chieftain did not meet Tavis’s gaze. “We have discussed the matter at length,” he sighed. “It’s not cannibalism, and there’s no law against foraging for food during time of war-however disgusting that food may be.”

“The spoils go to the victor,” added Orisino.

“You’re hardly victors,” Tavis snarled. “I opened the gate!”

“ After we hit it with our ram,” the verbeeg countered. “As I understand firbolg law, that means you surrendered the castle.”

Tavis stepped toward Orisino, his hands knotted into balls. “I surrendered noth-”

The high scout’s jaw clamped shut, preventing him from finishing, and the taste in his mouth grew so bitter he wanted to spit out his tongue. The ringing in his ears became a clanging, then his eyes rolled back in their sockets and he fell. When the back of his skull smashed into the ground, every muscle in his body clamped on his bones. He began not just to tremble, but to quake and buck as though he had been struck by lightning.

Tavis had no way to tell how long his paroxysm continued. His entire body ached from terrible exertion as though from feverish illness, and he could feel several sets of large hands gripping his arms and legs. Basil’s voice broke through the clamor in his ears, shouting for him to open his mouth, but the scout could not obey. Someone pushed a pair of fingers into his mouth and jerked his jaw down, then someone else thrust an axe handle between his teeth.

Slowly, Tavis’s muscles released their bone-crushing grip. The harsh taste in his mouth was replaced by the more familiar flavor of his own blood, and the deafening clamor in his head gave way to the concerned voices of Basil and the Meadowhome firbolgs. The back of his skull was resting on a huge, immensely sore lump. When he tried to turn his head, he found it was held securely in place by a firbolg hand.

“Let me go.” Tavis’s speech was thick and painful, for he had nearly bitten off the tip of his tongue. “I’m better.”

When the hands released him, the high scout turned his head off the painful lump. His vision cleared. He found himself surrounded by a ring of ’kin: Galgadayle, Raeyadfourne, Munairoe, Basil, Orisino, Ror, and even Awn. Tavis still saw their faces in tones of gray, and he heard a deep, low buzzing beneath the murmur of their concerned voices.

Munairoe knelt at Tavis’s side. “How are you feeling?” He began to remove the mud cast on the high scout’s arm. “I didn’t expect this. I was only trying to mend your broken bone.”

Tavis flexed his broken arm and discovered that it felt better. It was the only part of his body that didn’t hurt. “You succeeded in that much at least,” he said. “But what didn’t you expect? What happened to me?”

Munairoe ran his eyes over Tavis’s bruised and battered body. “Just how many times have you been healed since yesterday?”

Tavis shrugged. “I could have been dead three times over.”

Munairoe’s lips tightened. “No wonder you went into convulsions! All that magic-your system is in shock.”

“Is that why he’s gone gray?” Basil squinted at Tavis’s head.

The high scout ran his fingers through his hair, as though he could feel the color change. “My hair’s turned gray?”

“Don’t worry,” Basil replied. “It’s just a streak-really quite handsome, if you ask me.”

“Nobody has.” Munairoe frowned at the ancient runecaster, then looked back to Tavis. “How do you feel?”

“My ears are buzzing,” he said. “And I can’t see colors.”

The shaman pursed his lips. He exchanged knowing glances with Galgadayle and motioned the seer to Tavis’s other arm.

“I’m sorry, Tavis.” Galgadayle stooped over to slip a hand beneath the scout’s arm. “I had hoped Munairoe could repay the kindness you showed me in the Gorge of the Silver Wyrm. I didn’t expect this.”

A cold knot formed in Tavis’s stomach. Before he could ask what the seer meant, Basil pushed his way to Munairoe’s side.

“Expect what?” the runecaster demanded. “You haven’t killed him?”

“No, of course not,” replied the shaman. “But I’m afraid he won’t be going after the titan as he had planned.”

“How unfortunate,” sneered Orisino. “And I was so looking forward to seeing him flattened.”

Tavis pulled his arms free. “What trick is this?” he growled. Before he had opened the gates for the firbolgs, he had made Raeyadfourne swear that he and the other citizens of Hartsvale would be released when the ’kin army left the castle. Apparently, the shaman and seer had found a way to prevent the high scout from interfering with their plans. “The firbolgs of Meadowhome have spent too much time in the company of verbeegs and fomorians.”

“This is no trick,” said Munairoe. “Your injuries are too serious for travel, and I cannot use magic to heal them without causing permanent damage to you.”

Tavis listened carefully for any sign of a lie, but the shaman’s voice remained steady and true. “Could I still fight?”

Munairoe nodded reluctantly. “But the price would be years of your life. Your whole system would be weakened. It would be more difficult for you to heal naturally, and-”

“Heal me anyway.”

“You don’t understand,” the shaman objected. “This is not something that might happen-it would. Without a potion or spell, even small cuts would take weeks to mend, and one day your heart would simply stop beating-”

“If I leave Brianna to the titan, it will stop beating now,” Tavis said. “There’s nothing in our agreement that says you must heal me, but I am asking you to do this before you leave.”

Galgadayle nodded. “If that is what you wish.”

“ If you are willing to pay our price.” Orisino’s beady eyes were barely visible, peering around Munairoe’s broad shoulders. “There is always a price, you know.”

“That’s for me to decide,” growled Munairoe. “It is my magic-”

“But our quest.” Orisino looked to Raeyadfourne. “When we joined forces, we agreed that the Council of Three would make all the decisions, as long as those decisions did not violate the law-did we not?”

“Yes, but-”

“Then I say we place a price on our help, just as Tavis placed a price on his before opening the gate.” Orisino cocked an eyebrow at Ror. “What say you?”

The fomorian shrugged noncommittally.

“Then it’s decided,” said Orisino.

“And what would this price be?” Tavis asked. “I warn you, I will not promise to slay the queen’s child.”

“Why not? Kill fomorians!” grumbled Ror. “Kill plenty fomorians, you.”

“Only when they threaten the citizens of Hartsvale.”

“This child is a greater threat than all the fomorians-even to your humans,” said Galgadayle. “In joining us, you would be serving the greater good.”

“I don’t know that,” Tavis replied. “Your dream could be mistaken.”

Raeyadfourne and Munairoe rolled their eyes, and Galgadayle did not even grace the argument with a rebuttal. The seer placed a comforting hand on Tavis’s shoulder.

“I know this is difficult for you, my friend,” said Galgadayle. “History will not blame you if you don’t join us.”