At the far end of the room stood the tribal shaman. He was a haggard, one-eyed giant with yellow patterns tattooed on his bald head and the fur of a white mammoth pulled tight around his chest. In his gaunt hand he carried a brilliantly glowing scepter that supplied the only light in the cavern.
Slagfid stopped at the near edge of the ice pit. “Halflook, fetch me Hagamil,” he demanded. “Tell him that Slagfid has returned with good tidings!”
Halflook’s red-veined gaze darted from Slagfid to Bodvar to Tavis, the muscles of the empty socket working as though it still contained an eyeball. The shaman let his attention rest on the scout and shook his scepter several times, and blue reflections danced wildly across the cavern walls.
“Good tidings, you say,” Halflook echoed. His gaze drifted toward the cavern mouth, growing distant and unfocused. “Perhaps better than you know.”
Slagfid shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Enough of your babble,” he growled. “Get me Hagamil.”
“As you wish.”
Halflook’s eye rolled back in its socket, then his chin tipped into the air and his tongue rose out his mouth, dancing between his lips like the winged head of a remorhaz.
“I welcome your return, Slagfid.” The voice that rumbled from the shaman’s mouth was deeper and more gravelly than the one Tavis had heard earlier. “We’ve all been awaiting you.”
When Halflook’s head tipped forward again, Tavis was astonished to see a piercing blue eye in each socket. The giant’s face suddenly looked much fuller, and his gaunt body seemed stout and robust. Even the tattoos on his bald pate were changing before the scout’s eyes, sprouting into long yellow braids.
A pair of comely giantesses wrapped in sleeping robes appeared out of the shadows. They flanked the giant on both sides, casting arrogant glances at the other females in the room.
The giant ignored the women and ordered, “Tell me of your journey, Slagfid.”
“Hagamil, I have won much honor for us,” said Slagfid.
An approving murmur rustled through the cavern, and Hagamil demanded, “So all went well?”
Slagfid hesitated, his gaze dropping to the ogre in the pit “In the end, yes,” he said. “But Tavis Burdun was not alone. He left a mighty traell warrior in the canyon to defend his back trail.”
A dubious scowl crept down Hagamil’s face. “What warrior?”
“We call him Little Dragon,” Slagfid replied.
Tavis was glad Avner was not listening to this. The boy was vain enough without hearing a frost giant call him a mighty warrior.
“While we were in the canyon, his boulders fell like hail on our heads,” Slagfid continued. “My warriors could hardly move.”
This drew a round of guffaws from the other giants.
“Little Dragon is a fiercer warrior than Tavis Burdun!” Slagfid bellowed. He silenced his fellows with an angry glare. “Tavis Burdun does not cast trees down upon your head, or send crashing floodwaters to sweep you away!”
“And Little Dragon did all this?” demanded Hagamil.
“I tell you, Little Dragon’s magic is as powerful as his arm,” said Slagfid. “He always strikes by surprise. You never know when he will appear-isn’t that so, Bodvar?”
Bodvar gave an emphatic nod. “Compared to Little Dragon, Tavis Burdun is like a calf to a bull mammoth.”
Hagamil looked doubtful. “And how many warriors did you lose to this traell bull?”
Slagfid straightened his shoulders. “None.”
“None?” Hagamil roared. “Why not? Were you afraid to join battle with this fierce pebble-hurler?”
A chorus of nervous laughter rolled through the cavern.
“I was not afraid to catch him!” Slagfid bellowed. He waited for the room to fall quiet, then added, “Or to save Sharpnose from the flood he unleashed.”
The frost giant looked to Tavis for confirmation. The scout remained silent. He had no wish to cast doubt on Slagfid’s exaggeration, but feared his cracking voice would do more to arouse suspicions than to quell them.
Hagamil gave Tavis a look that suggested he did not consider Gavorial’s salvation a good thing. Before the chieftain could say anything, a loud clatter arose at the cavern entrance.
Tavis looked over his shoulder to see Frith backing into the chamber, followed closely by the hissing remorhaz. The young giant was controlling the beast by means of the two long poles harnessed to the creature’s chitinous head, but that did not prevent the ice worm from striking at its handler. So powerful was the creature that the lunge rocked Frith on his heels.
The remorhaz was quick to press its advantage, thrashing wildly as it pushed itself into the cave. Frith slid across the icy floor, grunting and cursing as he tried in vain to get his legs under him. If Slagfid had not laid a hand on the young giant’s back, the beast would have pushed him into the pit.
Hagamil’s laughter echoed through the chamber. He handed the glowing scepter to one of the giantesses and came forward to inspect the beast. The chieftain was even larger than he had seemed from across the pit. He stood a full head taller than Slagfid, with a barrel chest as big around as a mammoth.
“A spirited worm, as promised.” Hagamil laid a hand on one of the poles Frith used to control the ice worm, then a crafty smile creased his lips. He turned to Slagfid and said, “It will be interesting to see how Little Dragon fares against it”
Bodvar’s eyes flashed in alarm. He opened his mouth to speak, but Slagfid cut him off with a curt wave of the hand.
“We can’t throw little Dragon into the pit until we’ve feasted him,” Slagfid objected. “He has earned a happy death.”
Hagamil glared at the smaller giant, then jerked his hand away from the remorhaz’s probing face tentacles. There were red welts where the worm had touched his white skin, but the chieftain showed no sign of pain.
“If Little Dragon is as great as you say, we will feast him after he kills the worm,” Hagamil said. “Otherwise, he doesn’t deserve such an honor.”
Slagfid inclined his head, yielding to the chieftain’s logic. “If you wish,” he said. “But we should let the ogre fight first. Otherwise, we’ll miss half the fun.”
Hagamil smiled, then clasped an affable hand on Slagfid’s shoulder. “A good idea,” he said. “And you can tell me about Tavis Burdun while Sjolf and Snorri fetch a chain and spear for the ogre.”
The chieftain motioned to two warriors. They reluctantly turned to leave, grumbling about having to work while Slagfid related his story.
As the pair left, Slagfid said, “The honor of telling that story is not rightfully mine.” He grabbed Tavis’s arm and pulled him forward. “Sharpnose killed Tavis Burdun.”
A dark cloud descended over Hagamil’s face. “Is that so?”
Tavis met the chieftain’s gaze, but said nothing. Slagfid was hardly being noble. By gallantly sharing the credit, the wily leader was simply trying to make his superior angry enough to forget about Little Dragon. The scout would have been happy to cooperate, had it been possible to do so without lying.
“Well?” Hagamil demanded. “Did you kill him?”
“You may claim that honor for yourself,” Tavis responded. “I give it to you as a gift.”
Hagamil blinked twice, then shook his head in confusion. “You what?”
“The honor was to belong to your tribe. I return it to you, if you wish to claim it,” Tavis said. “It will not be written in the Chronicles of Stone that Gavorial killed Tavis Burdun.”
The frost giant considered this with a skeptical frown, then asked, “So you weren’t trying to steal it from us?”