Troy Denning: The Giant Among Us

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.”

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!”