Tavis backed away, raising Sky Cleaver and holding it between them. “What else would you say?” he snapped. “Nothing would please you more than to see the rift slam shut forever, with Kaedlaw and Brianna trapped inside.”
Galgadayle’s hurt showed even through his frozen flesh. “Before we became friends, perhaps-but not now. No one hopes that my vision can be changed more strongly than I do. And, more importantly, I know how much you need Brianna. If you cannot control Sky Cleaver, what Kaedlaw wreaks on the world will pale by comparison to the evil you unleash.”
More than anything, Tavis wanted to hear Galgadayle’s voice break, to hear the telltale squeal of a lie and know that the seer was trying to manipulate him. But Galgadayle’s voice remained steady and deep. The scout could only conclude that it was Sky Cleaver, not the firbolg, trying to manipulate him, to undermine the only power in the world that could save the One Wielder from himself: his true friends.
Tavis lowered his axe. “If you think that’s best. All I ask is that you do everything you can to be certain of yourselves.”
Basil’s glance drifted to the axe, and a hungry gleam came into his ancient eyes. “If you want to be certain, we could use Sky Cleaver’s power.”
Tavis shook his head. “No, there are some things better left to the judgment of friends.” The high scout turned away from Basil’s shining snowball and studied the stars until he found the Midnight Circle, high overhead. “We have about six hours until dawn, Galgadayle. Is that enough time for me to learn how to change sizes?”
“It should be plenty, even with the disadvantages of your upbringing,” the seer replied. “I have taught the technique to children in six minutes.”
Tavis glanced back toward the verbeegs. They were standing twenty paces down the rift, near the drumlin upon which the high scout had been sitting earlier. Their hungry eyes were locked on Sky Cleaver’s dark blade, and Orisino’s cold-burned lips were silently moving to the half-remembered syllables of the axe’s ancient summoning call.
Tavis looked back to Galgadayle. “Now’s as good a time as any to teach me, as long I won’t be impaired.”
“You might feel a little dizzy as you grow larger.” The seer glanced toward the verbeegs. “But I doubt Orisino or his warriors will dare approach when they realize you’re big enough to swing Sky Cleaver. I suggest you lay aside anything you don’t want to grow with you. Whatever you’re touching when you start the process will grow larger along with you.”
Tavis glanced down at Sky Cleaver. Something inside whispered not to set the weapon aside, that Galgadayle was only trying to trick him and steal it.
The high scout dropped the axe at his feet. “I’m ready.”
The seer glanced at the weapon, then nodded and smiled. “I believe you are,” he said. “Now, changing sizes is basically a breathing exercise. You start by exhaling slowly, then draw a deep breath and hold it.”
Tavis filled his lungs with icy air.
“Look inward and see yourself growing larger,” the seer instructed. “Sometimes it helps to close one’s eyes, but that’s not necessary-especially if it’s going to make you worry about what you’re not holding.”
Tavis closed his eyes.
“Good,” Galgadayle said. “Exhale again, but don’t open your mouth. Blow the air out of your lungs into the rest of your body, and you’ll start to grow.”
Tavis tried to do as the seer instructed, but the air came rushing out his nose.
“That’s okay,” Galgadayle said. “You’re not really blowing yourself up-it’s only one way to visualize the change. Try again, and push your tongue back to block your throat. It’ll help you seal off not only the air passage, but the energy channels as well.”
Tavis took another frigid breath, held it, and pushed his tongue to the back of his throat. He tried to exhale. He felt a terrible pressure inside his chest, and it seemed his sternum would crack under the strain. An instant later, the force simply melted away. His torso felt strangely hollow, then his entire body swelled up, not with air, but with muscle and bone. The One Wielder heard Basil’s voice, and something dark and sinister whispered that the runecaster might be calling Sky Cleaver.
Tavis put the thought out of his mind and drew another breath.
“Good. You’ve grown half-a-foot already,” Galgadayle reported. “Continue as long as you can. Your body will know when you can’t take any more.”
Tavis expelled the breath and felt himself swell, then inhaled again. He continued for many minutes, never opening his eyes, growing larger and stronger with each lungful of icy air. Soon, his head began to spin, as Galgadayle had warned it would, and his muscles started to burn with weariness.
“By Stronmaus!” Basil hissed.
“How are you feeling, Tavis?” Galgadayle asked.
“Dizzy,” the high scout replied. “Weak.”
Tavis gulped down another lungful of frigid air.
“Perhaps you should stop,” Galgadayle suggested. “Given your condition and lack of sleep, it might be best not to press matters.”
Tavis expelled the breath into his body, and again felt his chest grow hollow. “One more time,” he gasped. “When I face Lanaxis, I want… to… be…”
A whistling roar filled the scout’s ears, replacing his own voice. He felt himself falling. It seemed to take forever before his face met the ground, and then he heard a strange choking sound: himself, trying to breath snow as fine as flour. A pair of tiny hands, no larger than those of a child, grasped his shoulder and laboriously rolled him over. Another hand, no larger than the first, slipped between his lips and cleared his breathing passage.
“Tavis!” It was Basil’s voice, but much more tinny and high-pitched than normal. “Are you all right?”
“He’ll be fine.” Galgadayle’s voice also sounded sharp and high. “He needs to sleep. I should have known that as tired and feeble as he is, he wouldn’t have the strength to-”
Galgadayle suddenly stopped speaking, and Basil hissed, “What’s that?”
Tavis opened his eyes and saw the faces of his two friends, barely half their normal size. They were looking away from him, back toward the drumlin where the verbeegs were waiting. Then the One Wielder heard it, Orisino’s shrill voice calling out to Sky Cleaver in the ancient language of its divine maker:
“In the name of-”
Tavis sat up, his hands flailing about for the axe, but finding only snow.
“-Skoraeus Stonebones, Your Maker, O Sky Cleaver-”
“Enough of that. Move!” hissed Basil.
The runecaster pointed at the shimmering silver snowball that still hovered over the fissure, then swung his finger down at Orisino’s distant figure.
“-do I summon you in-”
The snowball crashed over Orisino’s head, ending the intonation in midword. The silver sphere shattered into a thousand pieces and spilled its shimmering radiance over the chieftain, who immediately fell motionless. His flesh turned as glossy and hard as ice, then he toppled onto his side and did not move.
“That will keep him quiet,” Basil chuckled. “At least until he thaws out-which could be quite some time.”
Tavis continued to thrash about in the snow. “My… axe,” he gasped. “Sky Cleaver!”
Galgadayle grabbed the high scout’s wrist and guided his hand through the snow. Tavis felt a familiar handle in his palm. Though the shaft was much smaller than he remembered, the One Wielder could feel the energy of Orisino’s half-completed call coursing through the ancient ivory. He pulled the weapon to his breast and collapsed back into the snow, his weariness descending upon him like a flight of starving wyverns.
“That’s right, Tavis. Sleep.” Galgadayle’s whispering voice was fading fast. “Rest. Let your friends watch over you until dawn.”
16
