“You say ‘take Split Mountain fast!’ ” Olchak replied. “Olchak do that Mountain here somewhere-if not this valley, next one.”
“It’d better be this one,” Tavis muttered. “By the time we reach the floor, we won’t be able to see Graytusk’s trunk, much less Split Mountain.”
“What if we don’t find it?” asked Avner. The youth turned toward Tavis, the hood of his borrowed bearskin parka pulled far forward to shelter his face from the cold. Despite the boy’s precautions, his nose and cheeks had turned pallid white. “I mean, what if we don’t find Split Mountain tonight?”
Tavis fixed an icy glare on the youth, then drew a heavy fur muffler from his satchel. “Tie this over your face, Avner.” He tossed the scarf at the boy. “You’re already frostbitten.”
Without saying another word, the scout turned around to guide Graytusk into the basin. The task was largely unnecessary. The mammoth knew his own limitations and was traversing the slope at a shallow angle, taking care to pick solid footing and keep his immense weight squarely over his legs. The beast’s only fault lay in his habit of brushing against the goblet pines that flecked the hillside, forcing his passengers to keep ducking or risk being swept off their mount by a face full of stiff boughs. Tavis did his best to guide the mammoth away from the trees, but the creature seemed to grow only more stubborn as the storm worsened.
By the time they reached the bottom of the hill, a gauzy veil of snow had fallen over the valley. The thickets of weeping spruce ahead seemed no more than drooping silhouettes. The lush meadows of alpine grass became patches of unblemished white against a streaky background of blue-tinted pearl. Even the craggy peaks were hidden behind an impenetrable curtain of white. Tavis knew he and his companions would be hard-pressed to reach any of the pinnacles, much less the correct one.
Graytusk seemed to know exactly where he was going. The beast ambled onto the basin floor and crashed into the nearest spruce thicket. Tavis pressed himself tightly against the mammoth’s skull to keep from being swept off and hauled back on both ears. Graytusk merely flapped his head, nearly throwing the scout off, and broke into a small meadow. He raised his trunk and gave an ear-piercing trumpet, then stepped across a gurgling stream in a single stride.
“Wait!” Olchak called. “That Dragon Rock! Stop!”
Tavis could not comply. Their mount had taken charge of the journey and was continuing toward the next copse at a determined lope. The scout knew little about mammoth habits and could not say what had triggered Graytusk’s excitement Perhaps the beast smelled something good to eat, or was simply anxious to find a sheltered place before the full force of the blizzard hit. Whatever the reason, he would not stop.
Graytusk crashed into the next copse with a lowered head, snapping branches as thick as Tavis’s wrist. The scout pressed himself close to the beast’s neck and stretched a hand back toward Avner.
“Give me your rope,” Tavis ordered. “You can hold onto the mammoth’s fur.”
Avner struggled with the knot, dodging spruce boughs as he untied the makeshift harness. Finally, he freed the coarse line and passed it to Tavis, who used a slip-knot to fashion a running noose. When the mammoth emerged from the trees, the scout sat upright. As before, Graytusk raised his hairy trunk to bugle.
The scout tossed the noose. The loop passed over the upturned trunk and slipped down toward Graytusk’s mouth. Tavis pulled the slip-knot tight, pinching the nasal passages shut. A coarse snarl rumbled up from the mammoth’s chest and blasted out his open jaw. He began to huff through his mouth, filling the air with the cloying smell of half-digested grass.
Graytusk lumbered to a stop, tossing his head wildly about in a vain effort to toss the noose. The scout held the line taut, one hand wrapped in the rope and the other entwined in the mammoth’s long hair. With each tug, the beast only tightened the slipknot more. He began to spin in circles, trying to reach the cord with his tusks and contorting his neck into all manner of positions.
Tavis passed the rope to Avner. “Hold that tight.”
Graytusk tossed his head again, almost flinging the youth off his back.
“I’ll trryyyy!” Avner yelled.
The scout stretched forward and grabbed both ears, then steadily pulled back. Graytusk slowly seemed to understand what was required and stopped struggling.
“Should I give him some slack?” Avner asked.
Tavis nodded. He continued to pull back on Graytusk’s ears, but stayed ready to grab the rope, half expecting the mammoth to resume its struggle the minute the pressure was released.
Graytusk was smarter than that. He flipped the tip of his trunk back and ran his sensitive nostrils over the line, then stood fast.
Tavis looked back at Olchak. “What’s this about Dragon Rock?”
“Back there!” The old man pointed toward the copse behind them. He began to lower himself down Graytusk’s flank, using thick tangles of hair as handholds. “Come, I show you.”
Olchak’s legs sank to midcalf in dry, powdery snow. Tavis cringed, remembering that the alpine grass had been visible from the top of the ridge. By the time they found Split Mountain and recovered Brianna, the likelihood of avalanches would make it too dangerous to climb any steep slope. The only safe escape route would be down the valley, which was a grim prospect. The frost giants would certainly realize the same thing.
Olchak waded through the deepening snow, following the mammoth’s footprints into the spruce copse. Tavis pulled on one of Graytusk’s ears, trying to swing the beast around to follow. The mammoth stubbornly turned his head in the other direction and would not budge. The scout grabbed the trunk rope and gave a cautionary jerk, then tugged the ear again. This time, the creature reluctantly allowed his head to be dragged around, spitting a series of angry bugles from his hairy nose.
By the time Tavis got their mount turned around and moving, Olchak had disappeared into the copse. The scout released Graytusk’s ears and took the trunk rope from Avner. The mammoth resentfully plodded forward, dragging his feet through the snow and casting yearnful glances over his shoulder. They did not catch Olchak until they reached the stream where he had first called for a halt. The old man was standing on the bank, peering into the blizzard with both hands cupped around his eyes. Although the current kept the main channel open, thin sheets of silvery ice were rapidly forming along the edges of the gurgling waters.
Tavis stopped Graytusk beside Olchak. In the meadow across the stream, the scout could barely make out the lumpy silhouette of a rocky outcropping. The snow was falling too hard for him to determine its shape.
“Is that Dragon Rock?” the scout asked. “Will it help us find Split Mountain?”
Olchak nodded. Before he could speak, Graytusk flicked his head, casually running a tusk through the old traell and tossing him into the air. The old man came down in the deep snow across the stream, too surprised to cry out. The mammoth gave a satisfied snort, then twisted around to glare at Tavis with a heavy-lidded eye.
Olchak raised both hands to his abdomen and screamed. Even from across the stream, Tavis could see a dark stain creeping from beneath the old man.
“By Stronmaus’s angry fist!” Tavis pulled Graytusk’s trunk rope until the noose bit deep into the mammoth’s nose. He passed the line to Avner. “Keep that taut. If he so much as flinches-”
“I’ll pull as hard as I can,” the youth finished. He wrapped the line around both wrists and braced his feet against Graytusk’s enormous shoulder blades. “But don’t expect me to win a tug-of-war with a mammoth.”
“It shouldn’t come to that,” Tavis said. “His nose seems pretty sensitive.”
The scout lowered himself to the ground, holding onto Graytusk’s ear so he would swing with the head if the mammoth tried to gore him. The beast allowed Tavis to climb down without attacking, then watched with a single, enigmatic eye as the firbolg limped out of tusk range.
The scout went to the stream and waded into the icy water. Normally, he would have tried to cross without soaking his boots, since wet feet would freeze quickly in these plummeting temperatures. Unfortunately, he lacked the time to look for a dry ford, and his injured toe made it impossible to dance across the snow-capped boulders jutting up from the brook.
As the scout climbed out of the stream, Olchak clamped his jaw shut and fixed a bewildered gaze on Tavis’s face. The scout kneeled at the traell’s side and opened the flap of the old man’s blood-soaked parka. The hole underneath was as big as around as a human wrist, and ran all the way through the abdomen. The firbolg needed to look only a moment to know he would not save Olchak. He could pack punctures and sew gashes, but rejoining severed intestines and pierced spleens were tasks far beyond his meager talents.
“How look?” asked Olchak. “Not bad, Olchak think. It not feel that bad.”
Tavis looked up to find the old man staring at him. Olchak’s face was full of trust and hope. Not for the first
