Brianna shook her head. “You’ll wake up the entire keep clanking about in the armor,” she said. “Besides, Avner wouldn’t dare disobey me again-would you?”
The youth lowered his eyes. “Certainly not, Majesty.”
“Good. When you’re finished, return to your chamber and wait for me there,” she said. “I’ll inform you of your punishment in the morning.”
Avner bowed to Brianna and started to leave, but Arlien caught his shoulder. “Do as you’re told, young man-and don’t even think about taking that folio to Basil’s room instead,” he warned. “I’ll be watching.”
“At least that’ll keep you out of the queen’s bedroom,” Avner muttered. He tried to jerk free, but the prince’s fingers were as powerful as dragon talons.
“What did you say?” Arlien demanded.
The youth looked away and grumbled, “Nothing.”
“It would be best if you made that a habit,” the prince said. He released Avner’s arm, then added, “Think about it.”
“I’m already thinking.” He was thinking that something seemed very wrong when Brianna could not say Tavis’s name, and that, with the future of two kingdoms at stake, the “good prince” might well use a magic necklace to win Brianna’s heart The youth was also thinking that anyone who enchanted the queen of Hartsvale would not hesitate to kill one lowly page, and Avner had no illusions about his ability to protect himself.
If he wanted to see the dawn tomorrow, his only choice was to leave Cuthbert Castle tonight “You can be sure of that” Avner grabbed the handles of his barrow and started for the keep basement
6
Tavis crested the canyon headwall. Ahead of him lay an undulating meadow of alpine tundra, traversed by ribs of gray bedrock and partially enclosed by a jagged wall of peaks. A single granite pinnacle stood forward from the rest, tipped slightly outward like an ogre’s snaggled fang. It could be only Wyvern’s Eyrie.
Near the bottom of the spire, perhaps a hundred feet off the ground, a lone stone giant was creeping across a narrow rock shelf. From across the emerald meadow, the brute looked like a tiny spider, pulling himself forward one limb at a time. Ahead of him, seven smaller specks, undoubtedly humans, were scurrying around the shoulder of the mountain. It seemed apparent that their pursuer would catch them long before they reached the narrow pass at the end of the ledge.
Tavis snatched a runearrow from his quiver and started toward the pinnacle at a trot. The firbolg kept a careful watch on the meadow around him, keenly aware that a second stone giant could be lurking behind any of the ridges ahead. At the demolished farm the scout had found two pairs of giant tracks, and both sets had led up the canyon into the vale ahead.
As the scout crossed the meadow, Wyvern’s Eyrie and everything on it grew more distinct. He saw that the ledge was really a series of broken rock lips linked together by graying logs. The giant’s heels hung over the edge of the narrow shelf, forcing the brute to keep his face pressed to the cliff. Tavis could even tell that the party of humans consisted of four women, two little girls, and a brawny shepherd boy armed with a long pitchfork. The youth kept looking back toward the giant as though aching for a fight he had little hope of winning.
One of the women pointed at Tavis, and the whole procession stopped to look.
“Keep going!” Tavis yelled, continuing to run.
Had there not been a chill wind blowing down from the peaks, the farmers might have heard the firbolg’s resonant voice. As it was, however, they stood on the ledge, watching Tavis while the giant crept closer. The scout broke stride long enough to wave them on, but still they waited. When he scrambled up the first of the bedrock ridges traversing the meadow, two of the women pointed to the third crag ahead.
“Be… watch… giant!”
Tavis could barely hear their shrill voices coming to him on the wind. He waved in acknowledgment, and the farmers turned away to continue their escape. The giant behind them slid across the ledge, coming within three arm-lengths of the shepherd boy. The scout considered stopping to shoot now, but at three hundred paces he was barely inside Bear Driller’s range. Given the runearrow’s heavy tip and the contrary wind, he had no reasonable chance of making the shot.
Tavis continued forward at his best sprint, angling away from the ambush the farmers had warned him about He glanced up at the ledge every third step. The giant drew to within two arm-lengths of the boy, and then one. The youth stopped on a log bridge and raised his pitchfork, and that was when Tavis realized accuracy was not as important as he had thought
“No!” the scout boomed, yelling so hard that his throat went raw. He scrambled up the next rocky bluff. “Keep going!”
The youth glanced down, and the giant made a grab for him. The boy ducked, then thrust his pitchfork at his attacker’s huge hand. The wooden tines snapped, and a grim chuckle echoed down from the mountain. The youth slipped back a step, then hurled the useless weapon at his foe. The giant let the stick bounce off his head and slid one foot onto the bridge. The boy turned to flee.
“That’s right,” Tavis whispered. He nocked his runearrow and drew his bowstring to fire. “Get off the bridge.”
The second stone giant rose from behind the ridge ahead and bounded across the meadow, trying to slip between Tavis and his target. The scout kept his gaze trained on Wyvern’s Eyrie, silently beseeching the youth to hurry. His entreaties did no good. He found himself looking into a pair of huge black eyes long before the boy reached the end of the bridge.
“It would be better not to do that.” The giant’s voice was as deep and gravelly as a pit mine. He stooped over, lowering his palm toward Tavis. “Why not give me your toy?”
The scout side-stepped the colossal hand and let his runearrow fly. He saw the shaft sizzle straight toward the bridge, then the giant blocked his view by trying to squash him with a boulderlike fist.
Tavis leaped backward off the bluff, screaming, “Basil is wise!”
If the runearrow exploded, the scout did not hear it. He slammed into a boulder and felt Bear Driller slip from his grasp. His attacker’s fist crashed down on the ridge above, sending a deafening crack across the meadow and spraying shards of bedrock in every direction. The giant twisted his fist back and forth, as a man might grind a fly into the table, and did not seem to notice that his quarry had escaped.
Tavis tried to crawl away, only to discover that he had fallen between two boulders and become lodged in place. He reached past his head to grab a handhold. As he dragged himself free, a jagged knob of stone opened a deep gash in his back. The scout swallowed his pain and continued to pull, his teeth clenched to keep from crying out.
The movement drew the stone giant’s attention. The brute’s rigid face showed no emotion, but he quickly lifted his hand and peered at the crater beneath it.
“Missed,” he observed in a dispassionate voice.
The giant leaned over the bluff to reach for his prey, but could not quite make the stretch. He pulled back and stooped over behind the ridge.
Tavis leaped to his feet and started toward Bear Driller. A huge boulder crashed onto the tundra in front of him. He looked up and saw the giant clambering over the bluff, a second stone in his hand. The scout feinted a dash toward his bow. The stone giant’s arm came forward, but the brute checked his throw.
“It is written that you are a guileful one,” the giant observed.
“Written?” Tavis echoed. He kept his knees flexed, ready to dive for his bow the instant the giant made the mistake of committing to an attack. “Where?”
“In the Chronicles of Stone.” The giant’s gaze flickered to Bear Driller and back to Tavis, and he wisely restrained the impulse to make the first move. “Where do you think?”