Tavis had lost count of the days it had taken to cross this frozen waste, but it had been more nights than that since he had rested. He trembled almost constantly with exhaustion, and he moved about in a waking stupor that would long ago have given way to deep sleep, save for Sky Cleaver. It was not that the axe gave him strength-though perhaps it provided more than he knew-but that Tavis did not dare close his eyes. The verbeegs watched him constantly, their thieving gazes riveted on his weary eyelids, waiting for him to nod off so they could steal his axe. They were watching now, gathered below in the still, cold air, sitting on their haunches and staring at him with the gluttonous patience of vultures.
Tavis knew better than to think he could send them away. They came with Sky Cleaver. They would do anything he commanded-march across barren snows, jump into dark abysses, fight ancient titans-but never would they leave him. They would always flock to the One Wielder, as ready to serve as to usurp. Six of the boldest had tried already and died for their trouble; more would follow tonight. He could feel their thirst building.
Tavis hoped one would be Orisino. The verbeeg had actually touched the ivory handle, and he had heard the ancient words of command. Like the One Wielder himself, Orisino had not slept since Split Mountain, and his eyes never left the axe’s sable head. His lips often twisted into strange configurations, forming the half-remembered syllables of the ancient words of command. Sooner or later, the chieftain would try for the weapon. Then Tavis could kill him, but not until then.
The crunching of boots on ice sounded behind the One Wielder. He laid Sky Cleaver at his feet and jumped up, straddling the mighty axe and pulling his sword from its scabbard. Sky Cleaver was much too awkward and heavy for Tavis to heft in battle, and so far he had been forced to defend it with bow and blade.
“Easy, Tavis,” urged Galgadayle. The seer stopped a cautious distance away and turned up his palms to show that his hands were empty. “I didn’t come to steal your axe.”
Galgadayle looked as haggard as Tavis felt. The seer’s beard was caked so thick with ice that his cheeks sagged beneath the weight, making the circles beneath his eyes seem even darker and deeper. The cold had long ago turned his flesh as white as the moonlight, and the tip of his nose had lost several layers of frozen skin.
Tavis sheathed his sword. He picked up Sky Cleaver, resting the pommel in the snow and the obsidian blade against his shoulder.
“Come closer, my friend. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Tavis glanced around the base of the drumlin, where his verbeegs sat waiting on the milky snowpack. “But I must be vigilant. Orisino is waiting to steal my axe. They all are.”
Galgadayle’s face twitched with some emotion destined to remain hidden beneath his frozen flesh. “You belong more to that axe than it does to you. It would have been better for us all if you had died in the cavern and left Sky Cleaver unfound.”
“How can you say that?” The One Wielder was aghast. “Think of all I can do! Drive the giants from the northlands! Unite the ’kin under one law!”
“What if our brothers have no wish to live under the law?”
The question left Tavis confused and blank-minded, for it had never occurred to him to think of what they might want. He considered the matter for a moment, then decided there would be no need to compel the obedience of the verbeegs and fomorians.
“They will live under the law. Uniting will make them strong, and the only way to unite is to live under the law.”
Galgadayle shook his head. “The law is the firbolg way. Fomorians do not understand it, and verbeegs only twist it to their own ends-this journey has taught me that much.”
“Then they will follow me, ” Tavis insisted. “With the giant-kin behind me, I can drive evil from all Toril!”
“How?” Galgadayle scoffed. “You can barely lift Sky Cleaver, much less wield the weapon.”
Tavis stepped closer to the seer, carrying the axe with both hands. “I could if I were only a little larger.”
Galgadayle’s eyes grew as round as saucers. “What are you saying?”
“I’m as much a firbolg as you or any of Meadowhome’s warriors,” Tavis replied. “You could show me how to change size.”
“No.” Galgadayle raised his hands as though to push the scout away. “If the gods wanted the evil chased from Toril, they would do it themselves.”
“Why do you think they gave me Sky Cleaver?” Tavis was growing more exhilarated by the moment. It was all becoming so clear to him. “Why, of all the thousands of warriors who found their way down to the axe, was I the only one who could pull it free?”
“That had nothing to do with the gods,” Galgadayle growled. “If Basil hadn’t taught you the magic words, you’d still be down there fighting with Orisino.”
“But I’m not,” Tavis retorted. “The gods sent Basil to me so I’d know the magic words.”
Galgadayle stepped close enough to grab Tavis’s arm. “Listen to this madness spilling from your mouth! It’s the axe speaking!”
“What does it matter who’s speaking?” Tavis spun the seer around. He pointed past the looming shoulder of Othea Tor, toward the unseen mountains beneath the frozen horizon. “Think of it-a world without evil! Is that madness, from my mouth or Sky Cleaver’s?”
Galgadayle’s gaze did not falter. “Yes, if you think such a world can be won by might of arms.” His voice calmed. “Tell me Tavis, before you strike someone down, who will decide he is evil, you or the axe?”
“I will!” Tavis’s voice broke, making the statement sound more like a horse’s whinny than an honest claim. “I mean, I summoned Sky Cleaver. It serves…”
When his voice continued to squeal like rusty winch gears, Tavis dropped the axe into the snow. He let his sentence die and stepped away from the weapon, glaring at the thing as though it had suddenly come alive and cut off his arm.
Galgadayle’s eyes filled with sadness. “You retrieved Sky Cleaver to rescue your wife, and to…” The seer paused to choose his next words carefully. “And to prevent Lanaxis from turning her son against his mother’s realm. If you have forgotten that, you would do better to discard the axe and attack the titan with your bare hands.”
Tavis’s eyes remained locked on Sky Cleaver. It seemed to him that a shimmering mist of darkness was rising off the obsidian blade and slowly spreading across the snow in his direction. He glanced at Galgadayle, but saw no sign that the firbolg also saw the ebon fog.
Tavis shook his head. “Even if I could cast it off, it’s too late.” This time, his voice did not crack as he spoke. He slowly turned to study the verbeegs gathered below. Save for Orisino, who continued to sit on his haunches with his lips moving, they had all risen and taken a single step up the drumlin. Tavis bent down and retrieved the axe. “I have taken Sky Cleaver in hand, and now I must use it.”
“May Hiatea have pity on us.”
Tavis fixed his gaze on the seer. “Help me,” he pleaded. “Help me do what I came for. If I can’t wield this weapon, it will wield me.”
“And after you have freed your queen?” Galgadayle pointed at Sky Cleaver. “Who will you turn it against after the titan?”
“I have no idea,” Tavis answered honestly. “But I do know this: only Brianna can give me strength to make that choice wisely. Otherwise, it will be Sky Cleaver that decides.”
The seer closed his eyes and nodded. “I’ll help you,” he whispered. “But first, let me call Basil. We must find our way into Twilight, and he knows more about the place than anyone.”
Tavis clutched Sky Cleaver more tightly to his breast and glanced down the slope. The runecaster stood a short distance away from the other verbeegs, his thick brows arched expectantly.
“Call Basil,” Tavis said. “But stay between him and the axe. With his magic, he is more dangerous than any of Orisino’s warriors, and the temptation will be great for him. I think Sky Cleaver’s draw is stronger than even he realized.”
“I have no doubt about that.” Galgadayle cast a wary glance at the axe. “I have sworn not to touch the weapon, and all that vow has earned for me is the constant temptation to break my oath.”