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.
A disappointed murmur rustled through the cavern. Avner did not care. He was fighting for his life, not the amusement of the frost giants.
The remorhaz flapped its head, spraying droplets of sizzling blood across the ice. The beast cautiously advanced again. It had just closed to striking range when Slagfid’s voice rumbled over the pit like thunder.
“Help!” His voice was so pained that it was barely intelligible. “My eye!”
The crowd on the pit rim slowly parted, then Slagfid’s head came into view. The giant held one hand cupped over his eye, with the dark fletching of one of Tavis’s runearrows protruding between his fingers. A stream of blood was flowing down his cheek and pouring off his jaw in a bright red cascade.
“What happened?” demanded Hagamil.
Slagfid’s only reply was an incoherent wail.
Avner did not have time to watch what happened next, for the remorhaz was approaching again. This time, the worm scuttled toward him sideways. It held its head low to the ground, while, twenty feet away, its tail twitched high the air.
The youth saw at once that the beast had at last hit upon a strategy to defeat him. If he lowered the spear to defend against the head, the remorhaz would lash out with its tail and batter him senseless in a single blow. If he kept his weapon high, the worm would grab him by the ankles.
There was only one thing left to do.
Avner hurled his spear at the remorhaz’s eye. The worm jerked its mouth up and snatched the weapon out of the air. The beast snapped the shaft in two with a single chomp, but the maneuver bought the youth enough time to dart out of the corner.
The creature whirled around and hobbled after him, still crippled by its shackles and broken legs. The youth stopped in the center of the pit, where he would have plenty of room to keep dodging. Eventually, he knew, the remorhaz would wear him down, but his deftness was the only weapon Avner had left.
The second time Tavis stepped through the cavern mouth, the ice cave felt immeasurably vast. The icicles that had appeared to hang so low to a stone giant now looked as high as stars, and the far wall seemed a distant blue horizon.
The air reverberated with the booming voices of astonished giants, dozens at once yelling at Slagfid, calling him a fool and shouting questions. The warrior was in too much pain to provide the explanations they demanded. He seemed unable to do anything except bellow in agony and keep his hands clutched over his eye. As a result, the entire tribe’s attention remained fixed on him.
Keeping a careful eye on the throng, Tavis sneaked through the cave’s mouth and angled toward the log ladder lying near the pit. As the scout moved, he felt the cold hand of panic beginning to squeeze his heart. The clamor in the cavern prevented him from hearing anything in the pit, but he found it ominous that the spectators had lost interest in the remorhaz.
Tavis had nearly reached the log when Hagamil’s voice blustered above the rest. “Quiet!”
The cavern instantly fell so silent that Tavis could hear the soft clatter of the remorhaz’s many legs in the pit below. The worm sounded slow and languid, and the scout could also detect the sporadic clanking of a chain, as though the beast were dragging shackles across the ice. In his mind, the scout envisioned the creature hauling Avner’s limp body into a corner.
On the far side of the pit, Hagamil grasped Slagfid by the shoulders. “Be quiet, you!” he yelled. “Tell me what happened, then I’ll fetch Halflook to take care of your eye.”
This offer seemed to help Slagfid get a hold on himself. The frost giant quieted, then gasped, “Tavis Burdun shot me!”
“That can’t be!” Hagamil roared, shaking the injured warrior. “Sharpnose said he killed Tavis Burdun!”
Tavis reached the ladder and crouched down at the end. He braced his shoulder against the log, ready to push it forward the instant the giants made enough noise to cover the sound.
“That wasn’t Sharpnose here,” Slagfid tried to explain. “It was Tavis Burdun, pretending to be Sharpnose.”
This drew an incredulous murmur from the giants.
Hagamil promptly silenced them with a single, roving glare. “How could a little firbolg pretend to be a stone giant?”
Slagfid did not answer immediately, and the clattering of remorhaz legs fell silent. The scout’s heart felt as if it would burst.
After a moment, Slagfid said, “He was wearing a mask.”
A chorus of thunderous laughter shook the cavern. Tavis shoved the log forward until the end hung over the edge. The far side of the pit floor came into view, where a spear lay broken and discarded. A trail of blood ran from one corner toward the center of the arena, and that was all the scout could see. The hand around his heart clamped tighter, filling his entire being with a sick, cold ache.
Tavis couldn’t leave, not until he saw the body. With the thunderous guffaws of the giants still shaking the cavern, he lay beside the log and crept forward, pulling Bear Driller along with him.
“Quiet!” Hagamil thundered. The laughter died away, and the chieftain asked, “A mask, Slagfid?”
“It was silver,” the warrior said meekly. “It fell off Sharpnose’s face, and then he changed into Tavis Burdun.”
