Troy Denning: The Giant Among Us

At first, Arlien seemed too stunned by the refusal to take the weapon back, but he recovered his wits an instant later and lowered the hammer. “As you wish,” he said, forcing a smile. “Rest assured that nothing shall happen to her while I am near.”

Tavis lowered his voice, then said, “And I’d also ask you to keep a close eye on Earl Cuthbert. That man is too frightened to be trustworthy.”

Brianna started to protest on the earl’s behalf, but discovered a lump in her throat too big to speak around.

Arlien nodded grimly. “The same thought had crossed my mind,” he said. “Don’t worry about him.”

“Good.”

“And Tavis,” the prince added. “Don’t worry about me. There’s no sense discussing alliances until we know whether Brianna and I come out of this alive.”

“Thank you, Prince. That’ll make it easier for me to concentrate on the task at hand. But I’m sure we’ll do what’s best for our kingdoms in the end.” Tavis inclined his head to Arlien, then turned and bowed to Brianna. “With your permission, Majesty.”

“No, not yet!” Brianna threw her arms around the firbolg’s neck and kissed him on the mouth, long and hard.

Prince Arlien politely turned away, fixing his gaze on the map that Earl Cuthbert had left lying on the desk in the corner.

Tavis sat against the tunnel door, whetting his sword and listening to the heavy steps outside. Every muffled boom caused the candle to hiss and sputter ominously, but the scout did not bother to rise and see how much stub remained. He had perched the taper on the edge of the door’s counterweight, and the long curtain of wax running down the side told him all he needed to know.

The giants had been out there all night, building war machines or dancing or rutting or whatever. It made little difference to the scout. He did not dare open the door while they were so close. The instant he pulled the counterweight down, the rusty chains would squeal like a raging boar. All he could do was wait-wait and hope the brutes would move off before sunrise.

Dawn could not be far away, for the journey through the secret tunnel had been long and difficult. The passage was so low and cramped that the firbolg had been forced to creep through it nearly doubled over, at times twisting sideways so he could squeeze his broad shoulders through. To make matters worse, a steady trickle of water had seeped down from the lake above, submerging much of the floor beneath an icy black puddle. Nevertheless, the scout had ignored his cold-numbed feet and pressed on steadily over the slick footing, only to hear the giants outside when he finally reached the door. With three-quarters of his candle remaining, he had taken out his whetstone and sat down to hone his weapons.

Now, his dagger and his arrow tips were all freshly sharpened, he was putting the finishing touches on his sword, and the stomping outside continued unabated. From the way his candle spat and hissed, the wick was all but gone and the flame was sinking into the wax. Tavis tried not to think about how long it took a candle to burn and concentrated on whetting his sword.

The blade was already as sharp as an owl’s talon, but the scout found himself scraping the stone along as though honing an unedged sword-and not because he was upset about his foes outside. Tavis knew from long experience it was best to remain patient and calm around giants, and he always did. But he had an aching knot where his heart should have been, and that kind of distress could have only one cause: the queen.

The whetstone shot from beneath his thumb. The scout’s hand slid across his sword’s sharp edge, opening a deep cut across his palm. Tavis cursed and opened his satchel to retrieve a bandage, grumbling at Brianna for causing him to be so inattentive. Though the firbolg had been raised among humans, he still could not comprehend the way their convoluted minds worked.

Brianna loved Tavis. That was what she claimed, and most of the time she acted like it. Yet she refused to wed him, claiming their union would weaken the kingdom. Then, in the next breath, she expressed her willingness to carry on secretly as though they were husband and wife! The firbolg, of course, had no choice but to refuse. It would be impossible for him to keep such a secret. Besides, if the earls objected to their marriage, he could only imagine how they would react to such a deception. The queen claimed the nobles would accept the arrangement, but the scout could not believe that. Even if he could live a lie, he failed to see how Hartsvale would benefit by asking everyone in the country to do the same.

Now Brianna wanted to marry a man she hardly knew, a foreign prince, and treat Tavis as her husband! The firbolg could not help questioning her judgment. His understanding of human behavior was limited, but to him such a proposal sounded like a formula for war. Although Arlien had reacted graciously enough when he had stumbled upon them embracing, the prince seemed a man of honor. He would certainly expect his wife to abide by the sacred vows of marriage.

The vows were another matter. Tavis had heard them many times, and they spoke of such things as devotion, fidelity, obedience, a giving of the self. How could Brianna swear those things to the prince of a distant kingdom? By giving herself to Arlien, she was also giving Hartsvale to him. If the earls objected to the queen presenting all that to a citizen of their own country, surely they would object to having it given to a foreigner! Or maybe not. Brianna certainly hadn’t seemed to think so, and she was astute about such things.

Tavis ripped a strip off his bandage cloth, then tied the dressing around his palm. Being in love with Brianna was a confusing thing, and it was getting more baffling all the time. The firbolg had endured the past year only by hoping that once she established herself as queen, she would feel secure enough to marry him. But with Arlien’s arrival, that hope had grown distant. Now, the scout could look forward only to protecting Brianna while she raised another man’s children. He didn’t know how he could endure that possibility, but he would find a way. He had to; he had sworn to defend the queen until her death, and firbolgs did as they pledged.

Tavis picked up his whetstone and drew it down his sword in a light, smooth stroke. He would concentrate on his duties and face each day as it came. Maybe Hiatea would look more favorably on him tomorrow, and if not, then perhaps the day after.

The candle flame gave a contemptuous hiss, then finally sank into the wax and pitched Tavis into dank blackness.

Avner knelt before the locked door and examined the keyhole by the light of a flickering candle. The latch was secured by a primitive ward lock, strong but easy enough to pick. The youth put Basil’s satchel aside, then reached inside his tunic and withdrew a set of flat metal bars affixed to an iron ring. The tools came in many different sizes, but all were shaped roughly like skeleton keys, with a wide variety of notches and grooves cut into the end tabs. He selected the tool of the proper size and slowly worked it into the keyhole, twisting gently from side to side until he felt it slip past the wards. He gently turned the implement, engaging the bolt.

The lock had barely clicked open before the chamber door flew ajar, jerking the ring of picks from Avner’s hand.

“By Karontor!” Basil hissed. The verbeeg dropped to his hands and knees, trying to squeeze his bony shoulders through a portal meant for humans half his size. “I thought you’d never come for me!”

Avner quickly blocked the doorway. “I didn’t come for you,” he corrected. “I came to see you.”