As he contemplated this horrible question, Tavis realized he still might be able to move one set of muscles. He tried to wiggle his fingers, and discovered that he could wobble the runestone back and forth. Something that might have been a whoop of joy rose from his chest, but he could not hear it to be sure. The scout did not care. He slowly worked his fingertips over the runestone's surface, spinning it a tiny amount with each effort.
Dust fell in his eyes. The scratchy grains burned horribly, but all he could do was blink and try to wash them out with tears. He kept turning the stone. The gravel around him shuddered. The scout felt himself slip along with it, dirt and stones dropping onto his face.
Tavis turned the runestone once more, and then his body trembled as the whole hillside crept into motion. The scout stopped working the stone and tried to kick his legs and flail bis arms, as though trying to fight free of the Clearwhirl's cold currents. Dirt and pebbles streamed through the gap between his arms, covering his chest and spilling into his mouth.
Suddenly, Tavis's elbow broke loose. Cool air rushed in, and gray light filled his tiny world. Dropping the runestone onto his chest, the scout pushed his free arm out of the hole and clutched at the dirt, pulling himself upward as the scree continued its gentle slide.
His head slipped into the light. A harsh, rhythmic rasping filled his ears: the sound of coughing. Tavis twisted his body uphill, freeing his other arm, and pulled the runestone out of the hole. He turned the crescent uphill, and the scree slowly stabilized. Holding his chest and head out of the dirt, the scout waited, coughing and wheezing, for the gravel to stop moving.
"Tavis!" Avner shouted. "There you are!"
Tavis looked toward the voice and saw the boy balancing on the surface of a large boulder. He looked dusty and bruised, but did not appear to have suffered any serious injuries. He still held both his belt and dagger. There was no sight of Runolf or the spire on which the disembodied head had been resting.
"Where's Runolf?" Tavis asked. Being careful to keep the crescent turned uphill, he laid the runestone aside and began digging himself free.
"After all your talk about capturing him, you buried the spirit guardian anyway," muttered Basil. The verbeeg's report was barely understandable, for he was clambering down a barren face of schist where there had been scree a few moments earlier. "I believe he's just about even with Avner, though it's difficult to be certain-there was so much dust."
Avner spilled. "What a relief," he said. "I wasn't sure this blindfold idea was going to work anyway."
The boy let his sentence trail off, for a circle of light had formed beneath the talus just a few paces in front of him. The ground heaved upward. Golden rays streamed into the air, hissing and writhing like snakes.
"Oh, dear," said Basil. "This could be a difficulty."
Tavis braced his hands on the ground and worked his hips from side to side, at the, same time trying to kick himself free. "Avner, get away!"
The youth leaped off his boulder, but did not retreat as Tavis had commanded. Instead, he put the dagger between his teeth and crept forward to the edge of the heaving ground, the belt stretched taut between his hands.
Tavis's legs came free all at once, sending him tumbling down the hill. He stopped after his first somersault, then jumped to his feet. Already, he could see the crown of Runolf's halo rising from the scree. The scout drew his sword.
"No! Attack with the stone!" Basil called. The verbeeg stepped away from the schist scarp, covering the remaining distance to the scree pile in a single jump. "Its magic will slice through what steel cannot."
The head's eyes appeared at ground level, looking up the hill toward Basil. The golden halo dimmed, and golden flames licked the stones in front of the spirit guardiant. Avner stood less than a pace away, at Runolf's side where his peripheral vision would detect the slightest movement. The young thief froze instantly, standing so still even his nostrils did not flare.
"Over here, traitor!" Tavis called. Though it pained him to ridicule his mentor, it was the best way he could think of to prevent Runolf from noticing Avner.
"Who do you call traitor?" Runolf demanded. He rose the rest of the way out of the ground, slowly spinning around to face Tavis. "I have done my duty!"
"By delivering your princess into the hands of ogres?" Tavis demanded. "I think not."
With that, the scout dropped his sword and snatched the runestone off the ground. He flung it in Runolf's direction, and the head's halo flashed brilliant yellow, sending Avner stumbling two steps back. In the next instant, a spray of blue and white sparks filled the air as the runestone sliced through the protective sphere. The rock struck a glancing blow off Runolf's chin, then clattered to the ground, its runes dark and gray.
Runolf fixed his eyes on Tavis. "I was no traitor," the head said. "You must know I always performed my duty."
"To whom?" Tavis scoffed. "Vaprak, the ogre god?"
Avner sprang forward even as Tavis spoke. The boy slipped his belt over Runolf's brow in an instant, then pulled the head off the pedestal and laid it facedown In the scree.
"Well done!" called Basil. The verbeeg rushed down the hill with brush in hand. "But keep that belt tight. If Runolf spies us for even an instant, the shaman's magic will return to him-and we'll pay with our lives."
"Don't worry," said Avner. He looped the strap around Runolf's head once more, then buckled it tight. "I'm not going to let him see anything."
Once Tavis arrived, the youth carefully passed Runolf to him. The scout waited for Basil to arrange his tools, then turned Runolf over so the verbeeg could paint the brow. A faint glow of yellow shone around the edges of the blindfold, but otherwise Runolf looked more or less normal for a disembodied head, with pallid flesh and a scalp as shriveled and dry as unoiled leather. He did not say anything or struggle at all, but seemed properly quiet, and still for a dead man.
Basil touched his brush to Runolf's brow. A wisp of yellow steam began to hiss from the spirit-guardian's mouth, but the lifeless head still did not resist or object. The runecaster worked slowly, showing no anxiety as he traced his lines. He did not use ink or paint. Rather, magic flowed from the brush itself, the tip trailing glowing green pigment wherever the runecaster drew it. The process took many minutes, and by the time the verbeeg had finished, the distance between Runolf's temples was completely covered with an intricate tangle of sticklike lines.
Basil lifted bis brush and wiped the tip on his cloak, then returned it to his satchel. "It's safe. I've usurped the shaman's magic-at least temporarily," he said. "Remove the belt, and Runolf's spirit will be ours to command."
Tavis turned the head facedown, then did as asked, keeping the blindfold ready just in case Basil's magic was not as effective as the verbeeg claimed. Runolf's flesh seemed to come alive beneath his fingers, once again growing supple and full. When the head did not try to attack, or show any objection to the runecaster's magic, the scout slowly turned him over. The pall of golden radiance that had covered Runolf's eyes was gone, replaced now by a shimmering yellow mist that was slowly evaporating into the air.
"Tavis," Runolf said. There was neither anger nor regret in his voice, only acknowledgement and recognition. "What I have done I did not choose."
"I know, Runolf," the scout replied. "And in my heart, the things I'll remember are those you did choose: to teach me well, and to serve your king in good faith."
"Thank you." he said, his face showing his relief. "You know you were a son to me."