That was where Graytusk’s sensitive nose would prove useful.
Avner guided the mammoth toward the center of the avalanche fan, more or less directly beneath the chute. Tavis had taught him that it was important to work quickly when searching for people buried in snow, since most victims suffocated within an hour of being buried. Thankfully, that applied more to wet, heavy snow than this fluffy stuff. A firbolg could probably last longer in this powder-exactly how much longer, the youth could not say-and there were things a victim could do to help himself, like crossing his arms in front of his face. Avner remembered Tavis drilling that into him time after time, saying it would double or even triple the amount of time before the air ran out So, if he assumed the scout would last twice as long in light snow as the heavy wet stuff, that would be two hours, and tripling that for knowing what to do would give him six hours.
By the youth’s best guess, Tavis had now been buried for twelve hours.
Avner shoved the thought aside. The boy intended to keep looking until he found his friend, and it wouldn’t matter if a week had passed. The youth turned his mount toward the chute. The frost giants had been in enough of a hurry that they hadn’t wasted time searching near the top of the avalanche, which was the least likely place for a victim to be buried.
Nevertheless, after watching the warriors search all morning, Avner had come to the conclusion that the top of the fan was the best place to start looking. If Tavis had been swept into the tangled mess at the copse’s edge, his body would hardly be worth finding, and the giants had already explored all the obvious accumulation zones in the middle part of the avalanche.
Besides, Avner thought it most likely that Tavis lay buried high up the slope. In last night’s blizzard, visibility on the open hillside would have been a mere foot or two, rendering a bow and arrows useless. But the scout would have been able to see much farther in the shelter of the gully, so he had almost certainly been in the chute when he fired the arrows. And if he had been at the top of the avalanche when it started, it seemed likely that he lay near the top now.
Graytusk left the trampled snow that the giants had already searched and waded into the deep powder higher up the slope. Avner stopped the beast here. From his satchel the youth withdrew one of the thistle roots Tavis had given him to eat earlier. He tossed it into the snow a few feet in front of the mammoth’s trunk.
The root sank out of sight. Graytusk plunged his nose into the snow and sniffed the root out, then slipped the morsel into his mouth. Avner dropped a rock he had collected in the spruce copse. Again, the mammoth dipped his nose into the snow and sniffed around. The youth pulled himself to the top of his mount’s head and watched the beast’s face intently. He had no idea what Graytusk would do if he caught a whiff of Tavis, but Avner felt certain the mammoth would react in some way.
After several moments of not finding the root, Graytusk pulled his trunk from the avalanche and sprayed his passenger with snow.
“Sorry, but you’ve got to work for your treats,” Avner said.
The youth guided his mount up the slope, stopping every dozen paces or so to repeat the process. He soon learned to vary the order and number of thistle roots he tossed into the snow, since Graytusk would not sniff around if he thought Avner had dropped a rock.
They were about twenty paces from the top when the mammoth’s ears swung forward. A series of muffled squeals rose from the beast’s submerged trunk, then Graytusk followed his probing nose across the avalanche. A short distance later, he stopped and lowered his tusks into the snow, angrily swinging his head from side-to-side.
Avner grabbed both woolly ears. “No, Graytusk!” The boy’s heart was beating like a drum. “Gently.”
The youth allowed Graytusk to lower his head again, but did not release the beast’s ears. The mammoth dug more carefully, and within a few minutes he had excavated a hollow ten feet deep. The beast stopped digging, then snorted and tilted his head to gore something beneath the snow.
Avner yanked on the trunk rope, forcing Graytusk to raise his head. The youth peered around his mount’s ear. In the bottom of the hole, he saw a scrap of frozen tunic showing through a patch of icy red snow. His heart started to pound so hard he thought it would burst.
Keeping the trunk rope taut, Avner climbed down his mount’s woolly flank. He dropped the rest of the thistle roots in the snow. “You’ve done your part, Graytusk,” he said. “Good boy.”
The mammoth cast a suspicious glance into the hole, then diffidently looked away and began to eat the delicacies. Avner tied the trunk rope around his waist-whatever happened, he did not want Graytusk to leave-and waded toward the scrap of tunic. Even this far beneath the surface of the avalanche, the snow remained so fluffy that he sank to his hips with each step.
The youth stopped and knelt in the blood-soaked snow. He placed a hand on the tunic. Under the frozen cloth, he felt a shoulder blade.
“Tavis!”
No response.
Avner dug through the crimson snow and located Tavis’s head. The scout lay facedown, curled into a fetal position, with his arms crossed in front of his face and his knees tucked to his elbows. The resulting air pocket looked quite large, but the heat of the firbolg’s breath had lined much of it with a glassy layer of ice, sealing the cavity like a tomb.
Avner yelled, “Can you hear me?”
Again, no response.
The youth reached into the hole and laid his fingers over Tavis’s nose and mouth. With his hand still stinging from his frostbite, he could not feel much, but the scout’s skin did seem to feel a little warmer than the snow. Avner withdrew his arm and saw tiny beads of water on his fingers. It could only be condensation from the scout’s breath.
Avner’s stomach somersaulted.
Working frantically, the youth cleared the snow away so he could inspect Tavis’s injuries. A weblike tangle of jagged, ugly gashes covered the scout’s back and limbs, while a fiery blast had scorched the front of his body from his head to his knees. Both arms and one leg had nasty-looking lumps that might indicate cracked bones, but there were no unusual bends or kinks to suggest a severe break. A large, egg-shaped lump had risen on the side of his head.
Satisfied that Tavis would suffer no further injury by being moved, Avner went back to Graytusk. The youth turned the mammoth so that the beast was standing on the scout’s downhill side, then forced him to kneel. The creature sank so deeply that he almost disappeared in the snow.
Avner dragged his patient to the mammoth and mounted, pulling the heavy firbolg up in front of him. Graytusk stood without command. As the beast started to turn away, Avner caught a glimpse of familiar brown leather lying in the bottom of the hole.
“Not so fast, Graytusk!”
The youth stretched over Tavis’s inert form to grab his mount’s ears and stop the beast. He cut four short lengths of line off Graytusk’s trunk rope and tied the scout’s limbs into the mammoth’s shaggy fur. Avner turned the creature back toward the hole. Still holding the trunk rope, he slipped down Graytusk’s flank, then waded over to the familiar brown leather. He brushed the snow away and pulled Tavis’s quiver from where it had lain half-buried. The case still contained thirteen arrows, twelve of wood and one of gold.
15
Before each embrasure swarmed a band of soldiers, standing on their toes and shoving each other aside to see what was coming down the lake. Brianna did not even try to push through the throng. She stepped over to a merlon and put her height to good use by peering over the top. The queen saw a small flotilla of hill giant rafts angling past the far corner of Cuthbert Castle’s outer curtain. By the tiny, toylike appearance of the crude vessels, she estimated their distance to be five hundred yards, just beyond catapult range.