“Love?” Olchak scoffed. “Olchak die… for someone else’s love? Hah!”
“Love has nothing to do with why I’m here,” Tavis said. “Even if I save Brianna, I can’t marry her.”
“What?” Avner screeched. “But I t-told you! Arlien used m-magic!”
“Perhaps, but his magic didn’t steal her away,” the scout answered. “She’s always belonged to Hartsvale. That means she can never be my wife.”
“That’s n-nonsense!”
“It is also the queen’s decree, and so I have buried my feelings for her,” Tavis said. “Saving her from the giants is strictly a matter of duty-yours as well as mine, Olchak.”
As the firbolg shifted his gaze back to the traell’s face, he saw that his appeal had been wasted. Tavis could see vapor condensing from the old man’s breath, but Olchak’s eyes had fallen closed. The scout doubted they would ever reopen.
Tavis turned Graytusk parallel to the dragon’s head, then took the lodestone from his satchel and suspended it by the steel chain running through its center. As it always did, the arrow-shaped rock promptly swung around to point northward, which was only a shallow angle from the direction they were currently facing. By maintaining the same relationship between the arrow’s tip and their direction of travel, the scout could be certain they were going the way the dragon’s head pointed.
As it turned out, Tavis hardly needed the lodestone. Graytusk proved an uncanny navigator, marching through the storm straight in the direction the scout had originally pointed him. Every so often, the mammoth would pause to wave his trunk in the air and let out a brief trumpet that his passengers could barely hear over the howling wind. Then the beast would continue on, his course never varying from the one indicated by Tavis’s lodestone.
The storm continued to worsen, the wind threatening to tear the scout and his companions from their mount’s back. The snow grew so deep that Graytusk had to plow through it, sending great plumes of the powdery stuff arcing high into the air. Tavis could no longer feel his feet, which meant they had become little more than ice blocks, and now and then he even caught himself shivering.
Avner had fallen into a lethargic slump. One hand was clutching Olchak’s unconscious body to his chest and the other was frozen into the mammoth’s long fur. The boy’s skin was beginning to take on the same blue tint as his lips, and he was staring into the blizzard as though he saw something more than white nothingness ahead.
After a while, it seemed to Tavis that they were no longer even moving-then, with a start, he realized they weren’t. Graytusk had stopped. The scout could not say whether they were in the center of a meadow, the bottom of a ravine, or even at the base of a mountain. Dusk was coming, and he could barely see the mammoth’s hairy trunk probing through the snow. The firbolg raised his lodestone. When he saw that they were still traveling in the right direction, he tugged on the trunk rope.
“Let’s go, Graytusk,” he growled.
The mammoth pulled his nose out of the snow and flung a snootful of brown mud at the scout. When the foul-smelling muck spattered him, Tavis was surprised to discover that it felt vaguely warm. He scraped some of the stuff off his face and saw tiny bits of half-digested twigs and grass. Manure.
Mammoth manure.
During the long journey from the glacier, the scout had certainly seen enough of Graytusk’s droppings to recognize the stuff. Of course, it was possible that a wild herd had drifted south from the Icy Plains and crossed the Ice Spires into this valley, but the firbolg could think of a more likely explanation: The frost giants had escaped from their ice cave and beat him into the valley.
Tavis put his lodestone away and took Bear Driller off his back, then swung his quiver around to where he could grab his arrows easily. He had only two runearrows left, one for Julien and one for Arno. The scout let the trunk rope fall slack, then slipped the end under his thigh.
“We’re g-getting c-close now, Avner,” Tavis said, shouting to make himself heard above the roaring wind. He was not happy to hear himself stammering. When a firbolg stammered, the weather was truly cold. “B-Be alert”
“Arrmphg augh?” The boy’s speech was so slurred the scout could not understand it.
Tavis glanced over his shoulder. The storm was growing dark now, but enough light remained to see that Avner’s pupils were almost as large as their irises. The youth’s breath came in quick, shallow gasps, and the scout knew the boy was the verge of falling unconscious.
“S-Stay with me,” Tavis said. Although he was speaking in a normal voice, even he couldn’t hear himself over the raging wind. “It can’t be much f-farther.”
Tavis turned and used the tip of his bow to tap Graytusk on the head. The mammoth rooted around under the snow for a moment longer, then turned slightly north and resumed his trek. Whenever the beast stopped to stick his nose under the snow, the scout tugged on the trunk rope until the mammoth hurled some more dung at him. The manure grew steadily warmer, and Tavis guessed they couldn’t be more than thirty minutes behind the main herd.
It was during one of those stops that Tavis caught a whiff of something more interesting than mammoth dung: the acrid smoke of burning spruce. The wind was swirling and howling from a hundred different directions, but the scout suspected that the smell came from someplace ahead. More importantly, he felt certain that he knew who had made the fire. Frost giants had little need for campfires, but Julien and Arno might, and Brianna certainly would.
A confident smile cracked across Tavis’s frozen face. Although the storm’s swirling winds would make it impossible to locate the fire by smell alone, smoke was not so different than anything else he had ever pursued. In the short run, it might dart here and there, laying a crazy path that only the gods could decipher. But over a longer distance, it would travel in a straight line, a line that a good tracker could calculate not by examining each individual sign, but by finding the underlying pattern.
The scout allowed Graytusk to guide them for a while longer, counting off the seconds before he caught the odor of smoke once more, and then the interval until he smelled it again. He repeated this process over and over, and the period between whiffs steadily grew shorter. At the same time, Tavis used his lodestone to determine that they were traveling almost due north. When the mammoth finally veered westward, still following the scent of his herd mates, the interval between smoke whiffs began to increase.
Tavis steered Graytusk northward again. The mammoth tried to jerk his head back westward, but a quick tug on the trunk rope returned the beast to good behavior. They continued north and soon entered a spruce copse. Here, the blizzard did not seem so bad. The trees acted as a windbreak, reducing the storm’s howl to a mere whistle. The thick boughs provided a dark contrast to the white haze, and trapped much of the blowing snow in their long needles. Even in the darkening dusk light, the scout could see the silhouettes of trees more than thirty paces ahead.
Tavis continued northward until the copse started to thin and, in the openings between the trees, he could see the raging white wall of the storm. The scout stopped Graytusk beside a particularly large spruce, then used Bear Driller to scrape the snow off the branches as highup as he could reach. Next, he dismounted into waist deep snow and forced the beast to kneel. He crawled into the cavelike den beneath the conifer’s dense boughs, where he tied the mammoth’s trunk line to the bole.
With the snow piled five feet high around the base of the tree and a canopy of dense boughs above, the weeping spruce offered a convenient shelter from the wind. There was even a ready supply of firewood, for dead branches ringed the lowest part of the trunk. Tavis crawled back outside and pulled Avner’s stuporous form off the mammoth’s back. Olchak’s frozen corpse slid into the snow beside the beast. The scout left it there and took the boy into the den.
Tavis pulled some dried moss tinder from his satchel then warmed his stiff fingers under his armpits until they were nimble enough to hold his flint and steel. He struck a few sparks into the tinder and created a flame. This he fed with twigs and sticks. When he had a small fire, he broke several branches off the tree and added them.
The campfire increased the likelihood of a frost giant stumbling across Avner, but only slightly. Hagamil’s warriors would likely attribute any smoke they smelled to Julien and Arno. Besides, the scout had little to lose. If Hagamil’s tribe found the youth again, they would probably kill him-but the boy would certainly die with out a fire.
Within a few minutes, the glow of orange flames lit the cave, and the air started to grow warm. The scout worked his way around the tree trunk, snapping off dried branches and stacking them near the fire. When he had
