The Giant Among Us Read online

  “Bad plan, Ugly!”

  As the head spoke, Arlien spun around, smashing the flagon into Basil’s cheek, then driving an elbow deep into his groin. The strength left the runecaster’s legs. He dropped to his knees, in too much pain to do anything except gurgle. Arlien grabbed a handful of the verbeeg’s thin gray hair and jerked his head up, driving a knee into the runecaster’s face.

  Basil’s nose shattered with a sickening crunch. His head erupted into throbbing pain and his vision fell dark. He tumbled onto his back, blood gushing from both nostrils. A sharp crack reverberated through his skull as it slammed into the floor. Something huge and heavy landed on his chest. He felt fingers—impossibly long fingers—clamping around his throat.

  Still blinded by the pain of his broken nose, the verbeeg clutched at the arm above his neck. The thing was so big he could hardly close his hands around it, and it seemed to be growing larger in his grasp. He tried to push the limb away. He may as well have been trying to topple a full-grown spruce. His windpipe grew scratchy and raw. He ached to cough, but that was impossible with the fingers around his throat pinching it shut.

  Think, Basil told himself. Only Arlien could be kneeling on his chest. The verbeeg did not understand why the prince weighed so much, and why he seemed to be getting larger. At the moment, that wasn’t important. All that mattered was getting that enormous hand off his throat. He could not accomplish that through force alone. To free himself, he had to apply his strength to his opponent’s weakness.

  Basil considered the structure of the opposable thumb, then knew exactly what to do. He reached across the back of Arlien’s hand and grasped the base of the thumb, then pulled straight back, using the heel of his own palm like a lever against his attacker’s forearm. The prince’s grip came loose, his wrist unable to twist in the direction Basil was bending it. The runecaster’s breath returned in a long wheeze.

  The verbeeg bridged on his shoulders and thrust his knee into the middle of Arlien’s back. The blow sent the prince pitching over Basil’s head. The runecaster rolled away and leaped to his feet. The sudden movement siphoned a wave of pain from his shattered nose, but the runecaster did not care. His vision was clearing, and he could see Brianna’s blurry form, trying to prop herself up on the altar.

  The verbeeg grabbed the small bench that sat before the platform and spun around. Through his hazy vision, he found himself peering at the murky form of what appeared to be a two-headed giant. The brute stood so tall that he had to stoop over even in the vaulted temple. His twin necks were so short that the pair of heads seemed to sit directly atop his broad chest.

  “Hiatea, save us!” the runecaster gasped. The two-headed giant was wearing the same armor Basil had nearly ripped off Arlien’s back earlier, save that the enchanted suit was now much larger. “An ettin!”

  “Wrong.” The silky voice sounded much like Arlien’s, save that it was much deeper and more resonant. “The ettin.”

  Basil wasted no time asking what Arlien meant by the correction. He swung the bench at his foe’s knee. The seat snapped down the center, sending the two halves clattering across the floor. The ettin’s leg did not buckle.

  It did not even twitch.

  Basil glimpsed an enormous fist descending from on high, then a horrific clap sounded inside his skull. His head snapped sideways, and his feet left the ground. He slammed into a wall. The entire flank of his body erupted into pain, and a loud crack reverberated through the chamber. For one awful instant, Basil thought some part of his body had made the terrible sound. Then he felt a stone crash into his hip and realized the impact of his body had merely knocked a block from the wall.

  The verbeeg raised his head and saw that his vision was no longer dim. He could see clearly enough to identify Prince Arlien’s cleft chin and patrician nose on the ettin’s second head. The features were, of course, three times their normal size.

  The ettin ducked under a low-hanging beam and dropped to a knee beside Basil. The runecaster pushed away, scuttling across the floor like a crab. The ettin reached out to grab him—and the sound of booted feet came pounding up the stairway.

  “In Stronmaus’s name, what’s happening up there?” It was Cuthbert’s voice. “Stop it at once, I command it!”

  “Help!” Basil yelled. “Hurry, we’re in danger!”

  The pounding in the stairwell grew louder and faster.

  One of the ettin’s arm’s pulled back, but the other continued to reach for Basil. The brute’s enormous body twisted sideways, as though it were suffering some kind of seizure.

  “Stop it, Arno!” hissed Arlien. “We don’t have time.”

  “We gotta kill him, Julien!” Arno grunted. “If he lives—”

  “Let me worry about that,” growled Arlien—or rather, Julien. One of the hands placed itself over Arno’s brutish face and shoved the head back over the shoulder, and Julien said, “You go back where you belong.”

  As Basil struggled to his feet, both of the ettin’s hands busied themselves pulling the breastplate back into place. The giant began to shrink immediately. By the time the verbeeg had returned to his wobbly legs, the ettin was once again the size of a human. Basil grabbed the stone block that had fallen on him and raised it to hurl, but was checked by the sight of a guard rushing into the room.

  “Don’t!” the man ordered. He stepped over to point his halberd at Basil’s throat. “Put it down!”

  Five more soldiers streamed through the door and immediately rushed to stand at their companion’s side.

  Basil reluctantly lowered his stone to the height of his chest, but did not place it on the floor. “I’m not the dangerouth one here!” The verbeeg’s smashed nose gave his voice a heavy nasal accent, while the blow to his head had left him with several broken teeth and a thick tongue. “Ith Julien!”

  The guard frowned. “Who?”

  “Him!” Basil pointed at the ettin disguised as a human prince. “Prince Arthlien.”

  “I assure you, I pose no danger to anyone—except those who would harm Queen Brianna.” Arlien was glaring at Basil, at the same time tying his armor closed with the remnants of two torn straps. The prince glanced at the altar, where Brianna had pulled herself into a seated position. She was peering around the room with the blurry-eyed look of someone who had drunk too much wine. “Fortunately, she’s safe enough at the moment”

  “That seems something of an exaggeration,” said Cuthbert, stepping into the chamber. The earl wore only his long sleeping gown, but his eyes were alert and sharp. He walked directly to the altar and, making a face at the sweet odor hanging so thickly in the air, took the queen’s arm. “Majesty, what happened? Are you well?”

  Brianna tried to focus her eyes on the earl, then gave up and looked over his shoulder. “Your queen is tired,” she breathed. “Very tired.”

  Cuthbert winced at the smell of her breath. “So I see.” He pulled her tattered dress back up over her shoulders, then asked, “Are you injured? It looks as though you’ve had a struggle.”

  Brianna swayed, but shook her head. “Don’t worry. The queen’s not hurt.” She leveled a cross-eyed gaze at Arlien, then said, “She had a little fight”

  Cuthbert motioned three of his guards toward the prince, then asked, “With who? Arlien?”

  “Of course not!” the imposter snapped. He kept his eyes locked on the queen’s as he spoke. “I’m the one who came to her aid—isn’t that right, Brianna?”

  Cuthbert’s eyes flashed in anger. “Prince Arlien, tonight I will ask the questions! Is that clear?”

  “As you wish—tonight”

  The earl turned back to Brianna. “Who did you fight with, Majesty?”

  “The queen fought with … the prince,” Brianna answered, thinking hard. Her eyes turned in the imposter’s direction, then she asked, “Why would Arlien fight with her? He loves her! Maybe the queen was dreaming.”

  Cuthbert eyed her tattered dress. “You weren’t dreaming.”

  Brianna scow
led. “The queen was dreaming!” she insisted. “Don’t you argue!”

  The earl rubbed his fingers across his eyes, then turned to the imposter. “What happened here?”

  “It wasn’t a fight—at least not until Basil arrived,” Arlien replied. “When I came to check on Her Majesty, I found her extremely disoriented from her long vigil before the altar. I was trying to convince her to drink a restorative when Basil charged in and attacked. I don’t see how he could have thought I was threatening her, but I suppose it is vaguely possible.”

  Cuthbert looked at the runecaster and scowled. “Well?” he demanded. “What do you have to say?”

  Basil pointed his battered chin at the prince. “Thath man ith an impothter—an ettin!”

  The earl rolled his eyes. “An ettin?”

  “Hith armor keepth him dithguithed,” said Basil. “That’th why he never taketh ith off!”

  The imposter stepped toward Brianna. “My injury isn’t entirely healed. As I’ve already explained, my armor’s magic won’t finish the process if I remove it, even temporarily.” The prince began to undo the straps he had just tied together. “But if the queen wishes, I shall remove my breastplate and show her what’s underneath.”

  “Waith! Keep away from the queen!” Basil snapped, remembering how quickly the ettin had appeared the last time Arlien’s armor had opened. Still holding the rock in his hands, the verbeeg waved the guards toward the prince. “Be ready. The change will come very fatht!”

  The imposter rolled his eyes, then stopped untying his breastplate straps. “I’ll wait until you’re ready, Basil.” The prince glanced at Brianna, who sat wobbling at the edge of the altar, then added, “Providing it is the queen’s wish that I ruin my armor’s enchantment to defend myself against the charges of a known thief and liar.”

  Brianna shook her head. “The queen wishes … no such thing,” she slurred. “She can attest to who you are.”

  “I don’t think you can attest to much of anything at the moment, Majesty,” said Cuthbert “Perhaps we would all sleep better if the prince did show us what’s beneath his armor.”

  “No!” Brianna shouted. She frowned, startled by the vigor of her own voice, then fixed her glassy eyes on the earl. “When the fighting starts … tomorrow, we’ll need him at his best. I—I forbid him to remove his armor.”

  The earl raised his brow, but inclined his head. “Then perhaps we should all return to our chambers. We’ll sort this out in the morning, when Her Majesty is, ah—” The earl gave Brianna a sideways glance, then finished, “When she’s feeling a little more like herself.”

  “No! Thath’ll be too lathe!” Basil blurted. “She could be gone by then!”

  “Gone?” Cuthbert demanded. “How could she go any place?”

  “Don’t you thee?” the runecaster explained. “The printhe ith an impothter. He’th here to kidnap her.”

  “I can assure you there won’t be any kidnappings tonight, my friend,” the earl hissed. “Everyone will be locked in his or her own chamber, and even an ettin can’t fight past all the guards I intend to post around Queen Brianna tonight.”

  Arlien’s eyes flashed with irritation, but he did not object. “A wise precaution, Earl.” He glanced in Basil’s direction, then said, “I’d like to make a suggestion myself.”

  “You can suggest anything you like,” Cuthbert replied.

  The imposter accepted this with a polite smile. “Thank you,” he said. “Given that our verbeeg friend has already escaped a locked chamber, perhaps he should be relocated to a cell in your dungeon.”

  “I hardly think that’s necessary,” said Cuthbert

  “Really? How many more of those do you wish to lose?” Arlien pointed toward the entrance.

  Cuthbert’s eyes followed the imposter’s finger toward the door. As soon as they fell on the folio Basil had left leaning against the wall, the earl’s face turned scarlet.

  A sly smile crossed the imposter’s lips. “It occurs to me we might be looking at the purpose behind Basil’s accusations,” he said. “He hoped to distract us with that ridiculous lie about the ettin so you wouldn’t noticed that he had filched one of your ancestral treasures.”

  “Quite so!” Cuthbert fumed. He tore his eyes away from the folio and bowed to the imposter. “Good prince, you have my thanks for bringing this to my attention, and my apologies for questioning your honor.”

  Arlien smiled politely. “All is forgotten.”

  The prince had barely replied before Cuthbert was spinning toward Basil. He motioned to the three soldiers guarding the runecaster. “Take that verbeeg to the dungeon!” he commanded. “Manacle him to the wall, and I swear if he escapes, it’ll be a month in the stocks for both of you!”

  “But you’re making a terrible mithtake!” Basil objected.

  “Go!” the earl roared. “And if he shows the slightest hint of resisting, run him through!”

  One of the soldiers prodded Basil toward the door. “You’d best be going.”

  The runecaster reluctantly moved to obey. “Tell me, are the dungeon thellth very large?”

  “Yeah, they’re real big,” snorted the guard. “You’ll just about have room to sit up.”

  12

  Worm Baiting

  With clenched jaw and sweating palms, Tavis watched the sentry herd Avner through the crowded ice cavern. The trip was a slow one, for every frost giant in the chamber insisted on inspecting the prisoner dubbed “Little Dragon.” Many even dropped to their hands and knees for a closer look, blocking the youth’s path until his puzzled escort shoved them away. Slagfid followed close behind the guard, trying not to look surprised by the boy’s unexpected arrival.

  To Tavis, the wait seemed forever. A dozen different questions were pounding inside his head, most notably how he was going to get Avner out of the cave before Hagamil returned. The scout was also curious about where the boy had come by the bearskin parka he now wore, and what had happened to Bear Driller. Neither the boy nor his guard were carrying the firbolg’s bow or quiver.

  But, more than any other answer, the scout wanted to know how Halflook had discerned that the sentry had captured the boy. Did the shaman’s mystical sight also allow him to see through Tavis’s disguise? That would certainly explain why the giant had insisted that his guest stay until the “surprise” arrived.

  At last, the sentry pushed his way past the last curious frost giant and stopped in front of Halflook. Standing between the two giants, Avner seemed incredibly small. The thought of him holding Slagfid’s war party at bay seemed as absurd as a mad squirrel holding a bridge against fifteen armored knights.

  “Halflook, call Hagamil,” ordered the sentry. “Tell him I caught this traell trying to sneak into camp.”

  “Hagamil’s sleeping,” the shaman replied. “He already knows about this captive—though he’s under the impression that Slagfid bears the honor for capturing him.” Halflook’s red-veined eye shifted to Slagfid’s face.

  “That’s a lie!” The sentry scowled at Slagfid. “You can see for yourself I’m the one who gots him!”

  “But Slagfid had him first,” Tavis pointed out, taking a lesson from Avner. If he could start a fight between the two giants, he stood a reasonable chance of snatching the boy and escaping during the confusion. “By rights, the honor belongs to Slagfid.”

  “That is not for you to decide, Sharpnose!” Halflook’s voice had turned deep and gravelly. “You are no chief.”

  Tavis turned and saw the shaman’s single eyeball rolling back in its socket. Hagamil was returning much earlier than expected.

  “Halflook!” the scout shouted. “Our business is not done!”

  “Go with Slagfid.” The voice was Halflook’s, but it sounded rather strained. “He’ll show you to one of Bodvar’s mammoths.”

  “I no longer wish a mammoth,” Tavis said. “I’ll trade the beast for this little traell.” He gestured at Avner.

  A chorus of thunderous laughter echoed off the ca
vern walls.

  “Do not insult us, Sharpnose,” warned Slagfid. He glanced into the pit, where the remorhaz was devouring the last of the ogre. “Watching Little Dragon fight the worm is worth at least ten mammoths.”

  “Is it worth—”

  “It doesn’t matter what you pay!” To Tavis’s astonishment, the speaker was Avner. “I’d rather stay and fight than become a stone giant’s slave!”

  Tavis scowled down at the youth. Avner couldn’t have forgotten his true identity!

  “Even if they gave me to you, I wouldn’t go.” The boy pointed to the exit. “So you might as well leave, Gavorial.”

  The scout raised his brow. Avner was trying to tell him something, probably that he had hidden Bear Driller someplace nearby. Unfortunately, Tavis did not see how that helped matters.

  Still peering down at Avner, the scout said, “At the moment, what you want is not important. I have better uses for you than feeding ice worms.”

  “But the traell is not your catch,” growled Hagamil’s voice.

  A mass of yellow hair was sprouting on the shaman’s head, but the giant still had only a single, red-veined eye. The orb was fluttering up and down in its socket, as though Halflook were fighting to retain control of the body.

  “Leave!” the shaman urged. “I doubt Hagamil will honor my promise.”

  “You heard him!” Avner called. “As far as I’m concerned, the sooner you’re gone, the better!”

  Tavis shrugged. “It seems I have no choice.” He looked down at Avner, hoping to give the youth one last warning. “But I think you’ll be surprised at how difficult it is to kill a remorhaz. I’m sure you’ll wish you were going home with me instead of dancing across its back with a burning spear in your hand.”

  An expression of bewilderment flashed across Avner’s face, but he quickly replaced it with a disdainful sneer. “The only place I’d rather be is with Tavis.” The youth cast a nervous glance toward the pit, then added, “And I’ll be joining him soon enough.”