Troy Denning: The Giant Among Us

“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.

The scout turned and scrambled toward the corner tower. It was time to seek a more defensible position.

Basil rushed out of the bridge tower as rapidly as his flat feet would carry him. He expected the trembling rampart to crumble beneath him at any moment When the runecaster reached the corner tower, he pulled the oaken door open and squeezed through the cramped corridor at a dead run. In the main chamber, he found close to a dozen soldiers-Cuthbert’s and Brianna’s-furiously cranking their crossbow strings back.

The verbeeg went to the nearest one and jerked the weapon from the warrior’s hands. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I borrowed this,” he said, pulling the string over the trigger with his bare hands. He took a javelin-sized quarrel from the man’s quiver and slipped it into the firing groove. “I shall only need it a moment. I’m sure the angle will be much better here than it was in the bridge tower.”

Before the astonished soldier could reply, the verbeeg rushed to an arrow loop and peered into the rear bailey. He saw a throng of frost giants directly below. Most were beating the flats of their huge axe blades against the inner curtain, but a single giant, a one-eyed fellow with dozens of yellow tattoos on his bald head, was using the dismembered trunk of a mammoth to spray a powerful stream of water into the crevices his companions were opening in the wall.

The runecaster needed no introductions to know the bald giant was a shaman, nor any explanations to realize why he was spraying water into the cracks. When water freezes, it expands, and if it happens to be inside a stone, the stone crumbles.

Basil aimed the crossbow at the shaman’s bald head and pulled the trigger. The bolt hissed away, planting itself deep in the target’s temple. A dark trickle appeared beneath the wound. The frost giant collapsed without even crying out.

The verbeeg stepped away from the arrow loop. “That’ll buy us a few more minutes.” He returned the crossbow to the man from whom he had taken it, then asked, “Now, can anyone tell me where Tavis has gotten to?”

“I’m right here,” called the scout. He came limping into the room from the far corridor, one arm hanging useless at his side and looking more like a tattered beggar than the queen’s bodyguard. If the scout was surprised to see the runecaster, he was too weary to show it. He went directly to the soldiers in the center of the room. “You men, turn your weapons around.”

The men raised their brows. “But the frost giants-”

“Are not nearly as dangerous as Arlien, who’ll be coming in that door at any moment.” The scout pointed down the corridor through which he had just come. “We’ll set an ambush here.”

“It won’t do any good,” said Basil, crossing to the scout “Arlien’s armor was made by the Twilight Spirit himself. I doubt very much that you can kill him while he’s wearing it, and certainly not in your current condition.”

“I’ve got to try,” Tavis said.

“Then try after you’ve been healed,” Basil said. “I painted a rune for the queen. By now, she should be free of her affliction.”

Tavis raised his brow. “She can cast spells?”

“Isn’t that what I said?” Basil grabbed the scout’s good arm and dragged him toward the door. “She’ll be waiting for you in the temple.”

Tavis shook his head. “It’s no good,” he said. “Arlien’s right behind me.”

Basil took a runebrush from inside his tunic. “You can’t stop Arlien, but I can slow him down.” The verbeeg continued to pull the scout along. “Leave him to me.”