Troy Denning - The Titan of Twilight

Tavis turned directly toward the queen’s tower. Lanaxis stood beside the battered structure, peering over the top to survey the battlefield. The high scout continued to rush forward, unconcerned about being seen. The titan’s good eye was looking the other direction.

Tavis had closed to within twenty paces of the tower when a black spire eagle swooped low over his head and turned toward the titan. The bird voiced its shrill cry, drawing Lanaxis’s attention at once. The titan’s gaze lingered a moment on the reeling birds above the high scout’s head, then seemed to pierce the feathery cloud and fall directly on Tavis’s face.

He stopped and drew a runearrow from his quiver. The titan simply looked away, then knelt in the snow and wrapped his arms around the queen’s tower.

Tavis nocked his arrow. The spire eagle appeared before his face, talons extended to strike. The scout leapt sideways and loosed his shaft, then tumbled backward as the raptor slammed into his shoulder.

“esiwsi-”

The eagle sank its beak into Tavis’s gullet, and they dropped into the snow together. The high scout released his bow and twisted toward his attacker, at the same time drawing his belt dagger. The raptor tore a hunk of flesh from Tavis’s neck. He drove his knife deep into the bird’s feathery breast, drawing a startled squawk and a last, feeble peck at his face.

“Damn damn damn birds!”

Tavis leapt up and turned toward the center of the meadow. Lanaxis had already risen to his full height and was cradling the queen’s tower in the crook of his elbow. The runearrow was lodged in the shoulder of the same arm, but if the titan noticed it, he showed no sign. He was already limping away from the battle.

Tavis started to utter the command word that would detonate the runearrow, then realized how far the building would drop if he blew the arm off. A cold, sick ache more painful than any wound filled his body, for he knew better than to think his wife and child would emerge alive from the rubble. He stood motionless in the snow, torn between the futile impulse to stumble after them and the wiser decision to turn back and help his allies regroup.

Basil’s hand grasped his shoulder. “You’re as mad as Memnor!” the runecaster puffed. “Attacking the titan alone!”

“He’s weak during the day,” Tavis croaked. The effort of speaking pained his savaged throat, but he barely noticed. “I almost had him.”

Basil cocked an eyebrow. “I’d say you’re lucky you didn’t.” The verbeeg retrieved Tavis’s bow from beside the dead spire eagle. “But we have other problems at the moment. Ror has betrayed us all.”

The runecaster pointed Mountain Crusher across the blowing snow, toward the eastern end of the meadow. It took Tavis a moment to find what concerned Basil, then he saw them: a long line of hulking shapes in the forest beyond the village, slipping through the trees as quietly as thieves. In the lead was a massive figure with a potbelly and spindly legs.

“Ror!” Tavis exclaimed. “He’s chasing Lanaxis!”

“And leaving the firbolgs to the storm giants,” Basil said. “Look.”

Tavis turned his gaze back across the field. Raeyadfourne and his warriors were forming ranks to charge Anastes in mass, completely oblivious to the huge figure rising over the hilltop behind them.

It was Eusebius.

Tavis grabbed his bow and plowed through the snow, shouting and gesturing as he ran. The thundering storm drowned out his voice, and the Meadowhome warriors were too intent on their charge to notice his waving arms. Balls of lightning filled Eusebius’s hands. He began to hurl the bolts into firbolg’s rear ranks, but they were too determined to notice the attack from behind.

Raeyadfourne himself led the first rank into the fray, flinging his axe into Anastes’s midriff. The storm giant bellowed and stumbled, then his great sword came down, reducing the chieftain and three more warriors to a crimson spray.

Behind the firbolg column, Eusebius hurled his last lightning bolt, then drew his sword and descended the scarp in two strides.

Tavis drew a common arrow from his quiver. He had one more runearrow left, but he could not use it without also detonating the one in Lanaxis’s shoulder. He stopped and nocked the shaft.

Eusebius stepped away from the hill and was upon his quarry. Tavis fired his arrow, aiming low so that it would skim the heads of the last two ranks of Meadowhome warriors. A flurry of birds flashed down to intercept the shaft, but the bustle caused several firbolgs to duck and look over their shoulders.

Eusebius’s sword came down, slicing through the last rank from one end to the other.

An alarmed cry rose from those who had seen the attack, and the rear ranks slowly wheeled around to face their menace. Munairoe’s voice briefly lifted above the clamor, beseeching the aid of the fire spirits. A fountain of molten rock erupted beneath Eusebius, drawing a long and agonized wail.

With his legs still flaming, Eusebius stepped out of the fiery column and swung his mighty sword. Munairoe fell with five warriors at his back. Then Eusebius and Anastes, each as bloody and battered as the other, hacked their way toward one another, hewing firbolgs as though they were harvesting hay.

Tavis nocked another shaft, then heard Basil’s heavy breath at his back. The high scout turned to his panting friend and presented the tip of his arrow to the runecaster.

“I need magic!” Tavis said. “Something to keep the birds off!”

“No time… for anything powerful.” Basil pulled a runebrush from his cloak and traced a quick pattern on the arrowhead.

A tremendous crash shook the field, and Tavis glanced back to see a shroud of birds settling over Eusebius’s fallen body. Anastes stumbled another step forward and brought his sword down, cleaving his comrade’s killer down the center. The last three firbolgs, Galgadayle among them, buried their axes in the storm giant’s leg. His knee buckled with a loud crackle, then he dropped into the snow with a long, mournful groan.

“Done!” Basil reported.

Tavis brought his bow around and fired. The arrow streaked away, a great plume of red smoke roiling from its tip. The birds dived after the missile and disappeared into the crimson cloud, then emerged on the other side disoriented and hardly able to fly. The shaft reached Anastes unimpeded. He twitched slightly as it planted itself in his ribs, then struck a glancing blow off the heads of Galgadayle’s companions. Both firbolgs collapsed with crushed skulls.

Basil yelled an arcane command word, and a spout of green flame shot from Anastes’s arrow wound. The storm giant roared in surprise and glanced down to look at the hole.

Galgadayle stepped forward to attack, throwing all his weight into the blow. The seer’s axe bit deep, splitting the giant’s chest cleanly down the sternum.

As if by instinct, Anastes’s hand rose and closed around the seer. A long rasping gurgle sounded from the storm giant’s throat, then the howling wind fell silent and the blowing snow settled over the meadow.

Tavis drew his bowstring with no conscious memory of having nocked the arrow between his fingers. It was not the runearrow.

“Stop!” Tavis’s voice cracked as though he were lying. He could probably finish the storm giant with a common arrow, but not quickly enough to save Galgadayle. “Let that warrior go!”

Anastes looked at Tavis, his face grave with the unfathomable weight of his race’s ancient remorse. For several moments, they stared at each other more in pity than menace or anger.

Finally, Tavis lowered Mountain Crusher and took the arrow off his bowstring. “The battle is done,” Tavis said. “I see no more sense in killing.”