“Perhaps Tavis dropped his bow while you were chasing him.”
“Would he have also dropped his cloak?” Tavis asked, reaching inside his tunic. “And his quiver, his sword belt, and his equipment satchel?”
The scout reached into his large tunic and withdrew each of the items he named, which he had been holding for use after his eventual return to firbolg form. All of the equipment was blood-soaked and tattered from his fight with Gavorial and Odion.
Tavis fixed what he hoped was a stony glare on Avner’s shocked face. “Do you still believe Tavis Burdun escaped?”
The youth’s eyes swelled to puffy red spheres, and he looked away. Tavis did not enjoy being so cruel, but at least he would no longer have to contend with the youth’s sharp tongue.
The frost giant leader lifted his gaze from the blood-soaked gear. “You have convinced me that Tavis is dead, and I think you will convince Hagamil as well,” he said. “As for Julien and Arno-who can tell what they will think?”
“Then you’ll make the trade?” Tavis asked.
The leader shook his head. “I’ve no idea why you want the traell, but I don’t like it, Sharpnose. We’ll keep the boy, and you keep your rags,” he said. “And don’t worry that we’ll kill him. Even if Julien and Arno have no use for him, this traell has a brave spirit. Hagamil will want to feast him before he dies.”
A wave of fatigue rolled through Tavis’s body. He slipped his equipment back into his tunic and tucked Bear Driller beneath his belt, trying to find the strength to keep his legs from trembling. He did not know if he had the stamina to continue impersonating Gavorial until he freed Avner, or whether Basil’s magic would last until he had the chance. Nor did he know what was happening at Cuthbert Castle, and that ignorance weighed more heavily on him than Gavorial’s immense weight.
8
Tavis groaned. The glacier ahead was a large one, with a high, clifflike snout and a boulder-strewn moraine at least three thousand paces long. Rivers of blue water gushed from several ice caves large enough for a stone giant to stand inside, and the frigid wind hissing off its back had been sopping up the glacial cold for dozens of miles. The first frost giants were already entering a steep chute that ascended to the summit of the terminus, and the scout did not know where he would find the strength to follow them.
After a full day of forcing Gavorial’s massive body to keep pace with the frost giants, Tavis was spent to the core. The fatigue seemed as much spiritual as physical. With each step, he felt a cord tugging at that deep place where he stored his courage and fortitude, and his chances of surviving long enough to rescue Avner seemed more remote.
By the time Tavis reached the chute, half the frost giants in line had already started climbing. Still, the trough was narrow, with icy footing that made for slow going, and the scout could see that he had a few minutes before his turn came. Thankful for the chance to rest, he walked a few paces to the valley wall and sat in a dry side ravine. He braced his back against one slope and his feet against the other, then closed his eyes and listened to the wind hiss through the limber pines.
“You stone giants spend too much time thinking and not enough hunting,” observed Bodvar, who was standing at the end of the line. “A giant who tires so easily is a poor excuse for a warrior-especially if he’s supposed to be the best of his tribe.”
Tavis opened one eye and regarded Bodvar stonily. The frost giant was sneering from behind his unruly yellow beard, his pale eyes issuing an unspoken but obvious challenge.
“Tavis Burdun is not an easy firbolg to kill,” Tavis said. “Let me rest today, and tomorrow I’ll show you who’s the poor excuse for a warrior.”
The sneer vanished from Bodvar’s face. “Thrym stop me! If Julien and Arno had not forbidden challenge fighting, I’d take you up on that offer,” he growled. “But I’m sure Hagamil will let me kill you, once all is done.”
“By then, it’ll be too late to avenge the insult,” said Avner, who was tightly gripped in the warrior’s fist. Slagfid, the war party’s leader, had decided that since Bodvar had captured the traell, he would have the honor of carrying the prisoner back to camp. “Gavorial will be long gone. You have to kill him now-if honor means anything to you.”
Tavis felt a proud smile creeping across Gavorial’s lips. The youth still had not given up hope-far from it; he was taking every opportunity to sow discord among his captors, and trying to avenge the death of a close friend while he was at it
“What are you smiling at?” demanded Bodvar. “I just might listen to the traell.”
“And you might get killed,” Tavis replied. He knew that any attempt to smooth things over would fail, earning him Bodvar’s contempt as well as his animosity. Frost giants respected strength and prowess above all things. “Either way, it makes no difference to me.”
The scout closed his eyes and returned to his rest, confident that Bodvar would leave him alone. The warrior would gain nothing by attacking now, for frost giants saw no honor in killing by surprise.
A short time later, Tavis was roused from his nap by a large rock bouncing off his head. “Are you coming, Sharpnose?” demanded Bodvar’s annoyed voice. “Or do you want to spend the night down in this heat?”
The scout rubbed his sore temple and shot a menacing scowl at Bodvar, then braced his hands in the pine needles to push himself to his feet. That was when he noticed a tiny, frightened face peering at him through the boughs of sapling pine.
Tavis blinked twice. The face remained, a small olive-skinned moon with the soft features of an adolescent girl and a halo of black hair. Her flat nose and tiny mouth left no doubt of her race; she was of true traell heritage, no doubt from one of the tribes that occasionally crossed the Ice Spires to make a home on the fringes of Hartsvale.
The child’s brown, almond-shaped eyes remained moored to Gavorial’s grim face, as though she expected the stone giant to reach out and pulp her.
“Well, Sharpnose?” Bodvar insisted.
“Go on,” Tavis replied. “I’ll be along.”
“Can’t,” the frost giant grumbled. “Slagfid told me to be sure Bear Driller and those rags of yours make it to camp. Hagamil’s going to want to see them.”
“Okay, I’ll come now.” The scout pushed himself to his feet.
The girl’s eyes widened, but she did not run.
From Gavorial’s full height, Tavis saw that the child’s hiding place was not nearly as good as it appeared from the ground. He could easily see her crouching behind the sapling, her brown woolen cloak pulled tight around her shoulders. The scout glanced at Bodvar and saw that the frost giant’s angle was just as good. If the warrior happened to look in the sapling’s direction, he would spot the child.
The scout stepped in front of the girl. “I said I was coming!” he snapped. “You don’t have to wait”
Bodvar scowled. “If you say so,” he grumbled. “By Thrym’s beard, I’d think you’d be in a better humor after killing Tavis Burdun!”
The frost giant started up the chute. Tavis slowly glanced over his shoulder and saw the girl backing away from her hiding place. Their eyes met, then she cried out in alarm and sprinted up the side ravine.
“What’s that?” demanded Bodvar.
Tavis returned his gaze to the glacier and saw the frost giant staring down at him. The scout yawned and started forward, dragging his feet to muffle the sound of snapping branches and clattering rocks coming from the ravine behind him.
“Quit your yawning!” Bodvar ordered. “I heard a traell! ”
The frost giant scrambled out of the chute and brushed past the scout. Egarl, the next warrior in line, was more than twenty paces ahead. He kept his eyes fixed on the ice ramp beneath his feet, too worried about his traction to notice what was happening behind him. Tavis turned around to find Bodvar peering up the side ravine,
