Tavis swung a leg over Graytusk’s back. The sensation reminded the firbolg of the few times he had climbed onto a horse’s back. It felt like he should be carrying his mount, not the other way around.
“How do I make him go?”
“When I take my foot off his leg, he’ll stand up and start moving,” Slagfid explained. He grinned shrewdly, then added, “At least for a little while.”
Tavis scowled. “What do you mean?”
The frost giant chuckled. “I shouldn’t tell you this,” he said. “But you tried to get me the honor for catching little Dragon, so I figure I owe you something.”
“What?”
“Mammoths aren’t strong enough to haul grownups-it’s all they can do to carry a young giant,” Slagfid explained. “You’ll ride this fellow to death before you’re off the glacier.”
With that, the frost giant took his foot off Graytusk’s knee and stepped away. The mammoth pushed himself up, spewing a long snort from his hairy trunk and rocking so violently that Tavis nearly fell off. The beast instantly ambled forward with a lurching, uneven gait. The scout yanked on both ears, bringing the beast to a swift halt, and leaned over to speak with Slagfid.
“That’s why Hagamil kept the shaman’s promise!”
Slagfid nodded. “And that’s why Halflook made it in the first place,” the giant chortled. “You really don’t think the frost giants are going to share…”
Slagfid’s jaw fell open and he let his sentence trail off. He pinched his eyes closed, then opened them again and stared at Tavis with a bewildered expression. “Sharpnose, what’s happening to you?”
A cold numbness fell over the scout’s face, and his skin suddenly seemed as stiff and rigid as steel. His facial muscles began to twitch and snap. A loud, metallic ping echoed through his nasal cavities, then Basil’s runemask popped off and struck Slagfid squarely on the forehead. Tavis’s face erupted into searing pain. The bones of his jaw began to shrink, causing his teeth to grind against each other like stones. His entire head throbbed in agony.
“You’re not Sharpnose!” Slagfid gasped.
Tavis raised his foot and drove the heel into the frost giant’s midsection, then grabbed Graytusk’s ear and jerked the mammoth around. The beast broke into a shaky, bone-jarring trot. The scout’s throat started to shrink and he found himself choking on his own Adam’s apple, which was reducing its size only half as fast as the air passage around it. He guided his mount toward the place he had last seen the traell’s shadow, praying the fellow had not moved.
Slagfid’s voice commanded, “Graytusk, stand!”
The mammoth halted instantly. Tavis pitched forward, and only his secure grip on the beast’s ears prevented him from flying off. He craned his neck around to see Slagfid’s looming face just a few paces behind him. A distant ringing echoed in the scout’s ears, and black wisps of fog formed at the edges of his vision. He felt Graytusk’s back broadening beneath his legs, and he realized he was shrinking fast.
“You’re no stone giant,” Slagfid growled. “You’re just a scrawny little firbolg!”
The frost giant lowered a hand to pluck Tavis off the mammoth’s back. The scout pushed himself out of the way, then slid down Graytusk’s flank and dropped onto the snow. He crawled under the beast’s belly and scrambled to his feet on the other side, dizzy and still choking.
Slagfid shoved the mammoth out of his way. “You’re Tavis Burdun!”
Tavis stumbled forward. The black fog closed in, reducing his vision to a narrow tunnel. He tried to cry out for his bow, but could not choke the words out of his constricted throat. The ice trembled and crunched as Slagfid kneeled behind him.
“Catching you alive will bring me more honor than Hagamil!”
Tavis felt the giant’s fingers close around him, and his vision went dark. A scream of fury erupted deep inside the firbolg. It rose as high as the choking lump in his throat and remained there, simmering. The scout grabbed one of Slagfid’s fingers and pushed against the joint, determined to break the digit before he fell unconscious.
Tavis never had the chance. An arrow sizzled past several feet over his head, then sank into Slagfid’s eye with a mucky hiss. A pained bellow boomed over the ice, and the giant’s hand opened, spilling Tavis onto the ground.
Somewhere ahead, an old man’s voice yelled, “Basiliz wives!”
Tavis staggered toward the voice as fast as his growing dizziness allowed. Behind him, Slagfid scrambled to his feet, roaring, and stomped off toward the cavern.
“Basiliz wives!” the voice repeated, this time more urgently.
It occurred to the scout that his savior was attempting to activate one of Basil’s runearrows, but the fellow had such a traell accent that his words were hardly comprehensible. Tavis tried to give the command, but still could not speak. He dropped to his knees. He heard several humans rush up to him, then felt their hands grasping his arms.
“What wrong, Dafis?” asked an old man’s voice. “Hurt bad?”
The scout shook his head. He could still hear Slagfid’s steps pounding toward the ice cavern, but the giant’s bellows had changed to an alarm cry. Tavis could do nothing to silence him, at least not until he changed back to a firbolg. The few moments the transformation required seemed to pass at an interminable pace. Once the frost giant alerted his fellows to the presence of Tavis Burdun, the traells would not have much time to escape-and the scout would have even less time to rescue Avner.
When the scout’s throat finally cleared and his vision returned to normal, he saw that his rescuers were the same dark-haired traells that had lured Bodvar into the ambush. Neither the young girl nor the man Tavis had inadvertently wounded were present, but he recognized the child’s features in the face of the old man and one other warrior.
The scout quickly turned toward the ice cavern and saw that Slagfid had already disappeared inside. Tavis did not speak the runearrow’s command word. Even if his voice would carry that far, it was already too late to stop the giant from sounding the alarm. It would be far wiser to reserve the magic until later, when he could see what results the explosion might bring.
“Here, Dafis.” The old man thrust the scout’s quiver and bow into his hands. “My name Olchak. Afner say give these to you.”
“Thank you,” the scout replied. “I’m grateful for your help against the giant.”
“Frost giants!” Olchak spat into the snow. “Dey should stay in Ice Plains, where dey belong!”
“Perhaps we can send them back,” Tavis said, looking toward the ice cave. “Will you help me, Olchak?”
“Dat why we came,” the old man replied. “What you want?”
Tavis checked the supply of arrows remaining in his quiver-three runearrows, several dozen normal arrows, and, of course, the golden shaft reserved for Brianna. He started toward Graytusk, speaking as he moved.
“See if you can find some frost giant rope.” The scout was still limping, for the transformation had done nothing to mend his wounded toe. “And if you can, take it to the cave entrance. Here’s what I want you to do.”
The remorhaz struck at Avner yet again. The youth angled his spear toward the worm’s descending head. As it had many times before, the beast stopped short of impaling itself. But this time, it twined a face tentacle around the shaft and yanked.
Avner held firm, rising off the ice as the beast tried to jerk the spear from his hands. The youth circled the end of his weapon over the tentacle, then flicked the tip down. The steel head severed the tendril. The worm bellowed in pain and, madly shaking its head, retreated.
The frost giants roared their approval.
Avner flicked the tendril away and started forward to press his advantage. Then he remembered Tavis’s ambiguous warning about the beast’s back and decided to wait. The youth retreated to his bloody corner and braced the butt of his weapon in its cup.