The Ogre's Pact

6. Runolf's Couloir

The disembodied head of Runolf Saemon sat thirty paces down the slope, fixed atop a small rock spire lodged between the craggy walls of the sleep couloir. The sergeant's face was pale with death, his cheeks hollow and his lips the color of ash, but his eyes still seemed very much alive. They were as blue as mountain columbines, with twitching crow's feel at the corners and watchful pupils fixed on Tavis's face.

For a long time, the scout sat on his haunches in the windy notch above the couloir, waiting for Basil and Avner to join him.

More than anything. Tavis wanted to avoid thinking about the gruesome scene below, but his mind would not allow it. His thoughts kept returning to what he saw, searching for an acceptable theory to explain why it was Runolf Saemon's head waiting down there.

There was only one conclusion for Tavis to reach: His mentor had been part of Brianna's abduction from the beginning. Runolf had been the guide who led the ogres past the outposts of the Border Guard. Later, he had been their spy, sneaking away from the party at the Weary Giant to warn the kidnappers of their quarry's approach. And now, having been ripped apart by Brianna's mountain lions, the traitorous sergeant continued to serve the brutes as some sort of undead watchman.

The only thing Tavis did not understand was why.

The scout fixed his eyes across the valley, where a long file of dark forms was climbing the glacier north of Needle Peak. A cold wind was blowing from that direction, and on its breath Tavis caught faint whiffs of the rancid, sour-milk odor of ogre flesh. Sometimes, he thought there was a more fragrant scent, one he remembered from the princess's visits to the Weary Giant, but his imagination was only playing tricks on him. Brianna was certainly with the ogres, but her perfume would long since have worn off.

The scout's stomach burned with a hollow pain he had felt not too long ago, upon learning of the death of his adoptive mother, Isa Wirr. This time, he could not say for whom he was mourning. Was it for Brianna, hopelessly lost in the midst of a thousand foul-smelling ogres? Or was he grieving for Runolf, whose unfathomable betrayal had left him feeling even more lost than the princess?

Tavis forced himself to look down the couloir and met his mentor's gaze. Runolf's eyes were filled with shame and regret, two emotions Tavis had never before seen on the man's face. In life, Runolf had been one of those rare humans as confident in his own moral code as firbolgs were in their laws, a dedicated man who always upheld the strict codes of duty and honor to the letter. How the ogres had corrupted a man of such character, the scout could not imagine. Perhaps when he knew that, he would also know why they had taken Brianna.

"Runolf, I know you led the ogres into Hartsvale." Tavis called down. "The thing I don't understand is why. Tell me."

"That I cannot do." replied the head. "But I will say this: Remember what I taught you about three-toed tracks."

Tavis remembered. He had still been a young boy, standing barely a head higher than his mentor. Something was eating serfs off Earl Ateal's lands, and Runolf's patrol was assigned to hunt it down. They searched for days without finding any sign of the mysterious killer, until Tavis discovered a set of strange prints left by long, narrow feet with three toes and two claws. The tracks did not look large enough to be dangerous, and like all young firbolgs, his curiosity sometimes got the better of him. So he followed them.

The trail ended on top of a rocky cliff. Tavis spent almost an hour trying to pick it up again, even going so far as to climb partway down the cliff to see if the creature lived in a hidden crevice. It never occurred to him to look up, at least not until he heard the muffled flutter of a winged creature diving through the air.

Tavis pressed his face light against the rocks, expecting to feel the talons of some angry raptor digging into his flesh. Instead, the strum of several bowstrings, sounded above. A terrible, manlike cry echoed off the cliff, then a blast of bone-chilling cold washed over his back. A heavy body crashed into the rocks beside him, lashing him with a leathery wing, and fell away an instant later. When the young scout looked down, he saw a white dragon plunging along the cliff face, its body peppered with the arrows of Runolf's patrol.

Runolf came to the cliff edge and looked down at Tavis, who was frozen in place-whether from fright or the cold blast of the dragon's breath, the firbolg did not know.

"What did you learn from that?" Runolf asked.

"I thought I was the one doing the stalking, but I was wrong," Tavis replied. "The dragon was hunting me."

"True enough, but that's not what I mean," Runolf said. "I want you to think about what happens when you go off chasing things you don't understand. The mountains are as cruel as they are mysterious, and they won't suffer curious fools for long."

With that, Runolf backed away from cliff edge and led his patrol away. It had taken most of the day before Tavis could move his frozen body enough to climb up and follow.

After considering the disembodied head's warning, Tavis called down the slope, "Is that what happened to you, Runolf? Did you get involved in something you didn't understand?"

Runolf's mouth twisted into a bitter sneer. "I understood it-more than I wished. I understood so well I dared question my duty." He lowered his eyes, directing them toward the stump of his severed neck. "And this is my punishment."

"What could make you question your duty?" the scout asked, puzzled. "Why would you ever betray the princess?"

Runolf looked more ashamed than ever, but did not answer the question. "Leave Brianna to her fate," he said. "Interfering will only bring harm upon yourself."

Tavis could not believe what he heard. Over the years, he had fought all manner of beasts with Runolf, and never had his old friend warned him off. In fact, the sergeant had always recited his motto before each battle-Forget your fear and remember your duty.-and advised each man to keep it close to his heart.

"You were doing your duty, weren't you?" Tavis surmised. "You questioned it because you couldn't betray Brianna!"

"Go back," Runolf warned.

"Who commanded you to be the ogres' guide?" the scout demanded. Even as he asked the question, he realized his mentor would have taken such an order from only one person. Before Runolf could reply, Tavis gasped, "The king!"

"That must remain secret!" Wisps of golden light began to cloud Runolf's eyes. "I'm sorry to do this, but duty demands it."

The misty glow in Runolf's eyes began to spin, forming a pair of tiny yellow cyclones. The two whirlwinds began to lengthen, hissing like dragon's breath as they shot up the couloir.

Tavis turned and threw himself down the other side of the mountain, landing on a broad scree slope. Above him, Runolf's attack struck the notch with a thunderous crash, rocking the mountainside and filling the sky with a yellow flash. The scout began to roll, tumbling head over heels. Before he could stop himself, a muffled growl rumbled down the mountainside, then the entire scree slope broke free and began to slide.

No stranger to avalanches, the firbolg spread his arms and legs to stop his tumble. When he finally managed to stabilize himself, lie was lying on his back with his head pointed downhill, still being carried down the mountain with the sliding scree.

Tavis jerked his knees toward his chest. The action flipped him into the air, with the result that he landed facedown on the avalanche. Although small stones and gravel were now pelting his head, at least he was descending feetfirst in a more controlled position. He began rolling to the side, across the landslide, and soon found himself within reach of a rock outcropping. After a few painful instants of clawing and kicking, he caught hold of a crevice and dragged himself out of the slide.

"What happened?" called a familiar voice.

Tavis looked up and saw Basil clinging to a boulder above. The scout had slid so far that he was more than a dozen paces below the runecaster, who still had a considerable distance to climb before reaching the notch above Runolf's couloir. The verbeeg's breath came in gasps as loud as the wind rasping through the crags above, for the steep climb was rendered even more difficult by the mountain's thin air.

"The ogres left a sentry on the other side of the notch," Tavis explained. A bolt of alarm shot through his breast as he noted that Avner was not clinging to the cliff near the verbeeg. "Where's Avner?"

Basil pointed down the slope. "When the slide started. Avner was about there." he said. "I didn't have time to see what happened to him."

Tavis looked down and saw that the avalanche had scraped the hillside clean, leaving a sheer scarp of dusty schist in its wake. There were several large crags onto which the boy could have scrambled to safety, but the scout did not see Avner clinging to any of them.

"Avner!" he yelled.

The boy's head popped out of a crevice. "Is it safe?"

Tavis breathed a sigh of relief. "It's never safe up this high, but at least the slide's over."

Avner scrambled up the rocky face like a mountain goat, his broad smile suggesting that he preferred the barren rock to the loose fooling of the scree.

As Tavis waited for the boy, he studied the mountain below. The slide had scraped the slope clean, not stopping until it reached a flat at the base of the hill. On the other side of this small plateau, the mountainside once again grew steep, dropping away into one of the many canyons through which the scout and his companions had passed since leaving Hartsvale. It was a deep, gloomy, gorge, made darker by the conifer forest creeping up its walls.

Tavis knew Morten and the earls were somewhere down there, for he had glimpsed them earlier as they passed through a clearing. The earls had abandoned their horses, along with their lances and heavy shields, to stumble along on foot. It had been difficult to tell more from a distance, but the scout had seen several silver glimmers as the sun flashed off polished steel, suggesting that they had kept at least some of their armor.

Although Tavis was not happy to know the king's men were still following, he was far from concerned. Even with Basil and Avner along, the scout knew plenty of tricks to increase his lead-and over the last few days he had employed only a few of them. But sooner or later, he would catch the ogres, and then he would have to slow down to rescue Brianna. It would be then that his own pursuers caught him. He only hoped they would be slow enough to arrive after the task was completed.

Avner joined Tavis and Basil on their outcropping, then the trio ascended to the notch above Runolf's couloir. They stopped just below the summit, lying on their bellies and being careful to keep their heads down.

As they peered through the gap, Basil exclaimed, "By the rock beneath my belly! That must be the entire ogre nation!"

The verbeeg was looking across the valley at the long file of ogres climbing the glacier north of Needle Peak.

"I don't know that it's the entire nation," Tavis replied. "No one knows how many ogres live in the Ice Spires. But there are certainly more than a thousand over there."

"A thousand or a hundred thousand, it's the same to us," Avner said. "How will we ever rescue Brianna from all those ogres?"

"We'll steal her," Tavis replied. "You seem to be pretty good at that."

"The best." If Avner noticed the irony in Tavis's voice, he showed no sign. The youth pointed down the couloir at the disembodied head of Tavis's former mentor, now encased by a dome of golden light. "But I've never had to sneak past a head before. What is he, some kind of spirit guardian?"

"Yes, and there will be no sneaking past him," Basil said. The verbeeg's hand dropped to his satchel, then added, "Fortunately, I have a rune that will repay him in kind for what he did to us. An avalanche won't destroy him, but it should bury him deep enough for us to pass without trouble."

Tavis shook his head. "I'd rather capture him."

"Capture him?" Avner hissed. "We'll be doing good just to get by him alive. Basil's plan sounds good to me."

"No," Tavis insisted. "He knows too much about Brianna's abduction. I want to interrogate him."

"You're mad!" Avner said.

"Whether that's so or not, I'm the leader of this rescue party." Tavis turned to Basil, then asked, "Can you force him to answer my questions?"

The verbeeg sighed. "I do have a rune that will grant me control over undead spirits, but I must paint it on his forehead."

"On his forehead?"

"It's not as difficult as it sounds," Basil informed him. "The shaman assigned your friend's spirit to watch this pass. When he can no longer see to do that, he can't draw on the shaman's magic."

"Are you saying we have to blind him?" Tavis asked.

"That's what I was thinking of, yes," Basil replied.

"If I could get that close, I wouldn't need you!"

"Runes are not spells," the verbeeg explained. "You can't hurl them about like spears."

Tavis considered the problem for a moment, then asked, "Is there any chance my arrow would actually destroy him?"

"Not unless a cleric had blessed it," Basil answered.

"Then I may know a way to blind him." Tavis said, nocking ah arrow. "Wish me luck."

He crawled up into the rocky notch and took aim. The globe around Runolf's head began to spin, forming a Whirlpool of golden light. Tavis exhaled in a steady breath, releasing the bowstring at the moment his lungs had completely emptied themselves.

The arrow flew straight for one of Runolf's eyes, then passed into the spinning light. For a moment, the scout thought the shaft would find its mark, but the wood stuck to the whirling glow as though snatched from the air. The arrow swung around the back of the disembodied head like a stone in a sling, and Tavis knew what would happen next.

He yelled, "Get down!"

Tavis pushed Avner's head down and dropped over the notch. He began to slide, the rocky scarp painfully gouging his flank as his own arrow sizzled past a mere hand's breadth above his head. He braced his feet on the slope and halted his descent, then looked back to see his arrow arcing down toward the small plateau.

"So much for that idea," said Avner. "How about giving Basil's plan a try?"

"Even if I didn't want to interrogate him, what makes you think an avalanche would work?" Tavis countered. "Judging by what we've seen of Runolf's defenses, I don't think the shaman overlooked an obvious trick like that."

The scout scrambled back up the cliff and peered over the top of the notch. Runolf remained atop the stone spire, a yellow halo enveloping his head and golden flames crackling in his eyes.

"Avner?" Tavis asked. "What would you do if you had to steal a key from the pocket of a big sentry-back when it was necessary for you to do such things?"

The youth considered the problem for a moment, then said, "If there was no way to knock him unconscious, I'd sneak up as close as I could, then have someone else distract him while I picked his pocket."

"That won't work here," Basil said. "You cannot sneak up on spirit guardians, and they have no pockets to pick."

"No, but we can distract him," Tavis said. "Maybe we can get close enough to grab him."

"And then what?" Avner demanded. "Grabbing a wildcat's tail will get you clawed faster than anything else."

"Not if you do it right," Tavis said. He turned to Basil and asked, "Are you sure you can cause that rockslide?"

The verbeeg rolled his eyes at the foolish question. "Would you like me to prepare the rune?"

When Tavis nodded. Basil opened his satchel and pulled a hammer and steel chisel from it. He selected a flat rock, then set the chisel blade on it and began to tap.

While Tavis waited for the runecaster to finish, he slipped his bow over his shoulder. After a quick glance at the waists of his companions, he motioned at Avner's belt.

"Let me see that," he requested.

The youth promptly undid his buckle and handed the belt over."What do you want with it?"

"You'll see."

The belt was surprising new, made of black-dyed cowhide as stiff as shoe leather. Tavis slowly flexed the strap back and forth. It was almost too rigid for what he had in mind, but its bulk could turn out to be an advantage. The scout detached Avner's dagger scabbard and returned it to the boy, then grabbed a rock and began to pound the belt to make it more flexible.

"Hey!" Avner objected. "That's a new belt!"

"And where did you come across a new belt?" Tavis demanded. "I don't recall making it for you, and we certainly didn't have the spare coins to buy it."

"Forget it." Avner sighed. "There's always more where that came from."

This time, Tavis looked up. "There'd better not be."

The firbolg resumed his work, pounding each section of belt until the leather grew as soft and flexible as cloth. Beside him, Basil continued to tap his chisel, filling the air with a soft chime as erratic as a bell swinging loose in the wind.

Runolf's voice sounded from the other side of the notch. "Whatever you're doing. Tavis, it won't work," he called. The words were difficult to make out, for the yowling wind softened the consonants and swallowed the vowels. "My spirit serves Goboka, and only his death will release it."

Basil looked up. "That's fine with us," he said, speaking more to Tavis and Avner than to Runolf's head. "What we have in mind has nothing to do with freeing you."

The verbeeg put his hammer and chisel back in his satchel, then showed Tavis the stone he had been working on. The glowing rune etched on its face was surprisingly simple, just three blue lines capped by a white crescent.

"I'm holding it upside down," Basil said. "When you turn it over, it'll set the whole hill to sliding."

Tavis raised his brow. "And if I turn it over again?"

"It'll stop the landslide-but I don't know how quickly," the verbeeg replied. He handed the runestone to Tavis, then added. "I suggest you be very careful."

Tavis smiled. "This should work fine." With the runestone in one hand and Avner's belt in the other, he inched up toward the notch. "I'll go over and bring Runolf's head under control. Wait here until then, but be ready to paint the rune that gives you control over undead."

"I'm coming with you," Avner announced.

Tavis shook his head. "This is too dangerous-"

"If it's so dangerous, we should just bury him," Avner said.

"I can always do that later." Tavis replied. "I'll let the avalanche take him if I get into trouble."

"With two of us, you'll be less likely to get into trouble," Avner countered. When Tavis showed no sign of yielding, the boy's eyes grew hard, and he added. "You can let me come with you or after you. We'll stand a better chance if we work together."

Remembering how well the youth had obeyed his orders to wait at the Weary Giant, Tavis reluctantly acquiesced. "Then take this." He passed the boy's belt back. "Runolf will concentrate on me, so you'll have a better chance of actually reaching him."

"That makes sense," Avner replied. He held the battered belt up. "But what do I do with this old thing once I get there?"

"I should think that would be obvious." Basil said, "Use the belt to blindfold him until I can paint my rune on his forehead. If he can't see, he can't perform the task for which he was created, and his link with the shaman will be interrupted."

Avner's eyes lit in understanding.

"We'll go down opposite sides of the couloir." Tavis said. "I'll start the avalanche to distract Runolf, and we'll go down behind it. Then I'll try to stop the slide right before it buries him, but if either of us gets into trouble, I'll just let the slide take him. You understand?"

"Nothing could be simpler."

With that, the young thief hoisted himself upward. Tavis scrambled into the notch after the boy, then the two rose to their feet. Runolf's halo dimmed, the flames in his eyes burning more brightly as he regarded Avner's small form.

"How dare you bring a child into this!" the head stormed.

"I came on my own," Avner yelled down. "And I'm as old as Tavis was when you made a scout of him."

"And that's as old as you shall grow," Runolf replied in a melancholy voice. His golden halo began to dim, then he added, "It's not in my power to show mercy-even to a boy."

The scout turned his runestone over. The scree slope came loose with a tremendous crack, sliding down the couloir in a single huge cascade. Tavis waited an instant, then shoved Avner toward the far wall.

"Go!"

Tavis leaped into the couloir on the tail of the avalanche, springing toward the wall opposite Avner, hoping to draw all of Runolf's attacks upon himself. The tactic failed miserably. The sergeant's eyes rotated in different directions, one following Avner and the other the scout. A fiery stream of energy arced from each of the golden orbs, crackling arid sizzling up the narrow couloir.

Tavis ducked. The blazing beam flashed past, licking the back of his cloak with golden flames, and struck the craggy wall. A deafening bang echoed through the couloir. The scout's nostrils filled with the acrid smell of scorched rock, and he fell a heavy shard of stone slam into his shoulders, pitching him forward. He found himself flying down the slope and clutched the runestone to his breast. He glimpsed Avner, on the opposite wall of the canyon, sliding along behind the avalanche. The boy's clothes were smoking and his mouth was wide open with fear, but at least he was descending feet first and on his back, and that was all Tavis had time to see before he crashed face first into the sliding scree.

The scout went shooting down the couloir as though he were falling headlong down a frozen waterfall. He tried to look down the couloir to find Runolf, but all he saw was a billowing cloud of dust. A tremendous weight began to gather around his legs, and he realized that the landslide was overtaking him. He kicked himself free, trying to push himself down the slope faster than the scree, but did not turn the runestone over immediately. He and Avner would be easy targets without the avalanche to cover their descent and keep their adversary busy.

Tavis forced himself to wait five long heartbeats. He had to keep kicking his legs free to keep the rumbling heap from hurling his feel over his head and send him tumbling down the mountain. Rocks of all sizes clattered past, gouging his arms and legs, sometimes even bouncing off his flanks or back. The scout pressed his face into the gravel, shrugging his shoulders up to protect his head as best he could.

At last, Tavis counted five heartbeats. He raised his head and looked toward the center of the couloir, but still could not see anything except billowing dust. Nevertheless, he turned the runestone around-then immediately wondered if that had been wise. The scree beneath his chest began to drag against the mountain and slow, but the gravel behind him continued to press forward, pouring over him in a pelting, scouring tide of stone and dirt. Desperate to keep himself from being buried alive, the scout rolled onto his back and jerked his knees toward his chest.

The motion flipped Tavis over in a backward somersault, bid did not deposit him facedown on the slide as it had done on the other side of the notch. Instead, it merely righted him, so that, he stood on his feet with his back facing downhill and the landslide rumbling down in his face. The scout braced his elbows against his chest and touched his forehead to the runestone, forming a small air pocket in front of his mouth and nose. Then the scree washed over him, robbing him of all distinction between his body and the gravel that had swallowed it. The sky vanished into roaring, choking darkness. For a moment, he was vaguely aware that he was moving, but soon even that sensation vanished, and all he could see were the blue and white lines of the growing runestone.

Some time later, Tavis's chest trembled with the effort of coughing. He did not hear the sound, only felt it, but it meant he had survived. More than that, it meant his attempt to create an air pocket had succeeded-though that was difficult to believe, with all the dirt and dust clogging his nose and throat. Though a tremendous pressure crushed down on him from all sides, he felt strangely weightless, almost separated from his body.

Tavis tried to move, first his head, then his torso, and finally each limb. He strained with all his might, pushing and pulling, pressing outward in every direction. Nothing happened, except that he felt the heat of his own breath fill the tiny pocket in front of his face. How much longer would his air last? A minute-maybe two or three?

As he contemplated this horrible question, Tavis realized he still might be able to move one set of muscles. He tried to wiggle his fingers, and discovered that he could wobble the runestone back and forth. Something that might have been a whoop of joy rose from his chest, but he could not hear it to be sure. The scout did not care. He slowly worked his fingertips over the runestone's surface, spinning it a tiny amount with each effort.

Dust fell in his eyes. The scratchy grains burned horribly, but all he could do was blink and try to wash them out with tears. He kept turning the stone. The gravel around him shuddered. The scout felt himself slip along with it, dirt and stones dropping onto his face.

Tavis turned the runestone once more, and then his body trembled as the whole hillside crept into motion. The scout stopped working the stone and tried to kick his legs and flail bis arms, as though trying to fight free of the Clearwhirl's cold currents. Dirt and pebbles streamed through the gap between his arms, covering his chest and spilling into his mouth.

Suddenly, Tavis's elbow broke loose. Cool air rushed in, and gray light filled his tiny world. Dropping the runestone onto his chest, the scout pushed his free arm out of the hole and clutched at the dirt, pulling himself upward as the scree continued its gentle slide.

His head slipped into the light. A harsh, rhythmic rasping filled his ears: the sound of coughing. Tavis twisted his body uphill, freeing his other arm, and pulled the runestone out of the hole. He turned the crescent uphill, and the scree slowly stabilized. Holding his chest and head out of the dirt, the scout waited, coughing and wheezing, for the gravel to stop moving.

"Tavis!" Avner shouted. "There you are!"

Tavis looked toward the voice and saw the boy balancing on the surface of a large boulder. He looked dusty and bruised, but did not appear to have suffered any serious injuries. He still held both his belt and dagger. There was no sight of Runolf or the spire on which the disembodied head had been resting.

"Where's Runolf?" Tavis asked. Being careful to keep the crescent turned uphill, he laid the runestone aside and began digging himself free.

"After all your talk about capturing him, you buried the spirit guardian anyway," muttered Basil. The verbeeg's report was barely understandable, for he was clambering down a barren face of schist where there had been scree a few moments earlier. "I believe he's just about even with Avner, though it's difficult to be certain-there was so much dust."

Avner spilled. "What a relief," he said. "I wasn't sure this blindfold idea was going to work anyway."

The boy let his sentence trail off, for a circle of light had formed beneath the talus just a few paces in front of him. The ground heaved upward. Golden rays streamed into the air, hissing and writhing like snakes.

"Oh, dear," said Basil. "This could be a difficulty."

Tavis braced his hands on the ground and worked his hips from side to side, at the, same time trying to kick himself free. "Avner, get away!"

The youth leaped off his boulder, but did not retreat as Tavis had commanded. Instead, he put the dagger between his teeth and crept forward to the edge of the heaving ground, the belt stretched taut between his hands.

Tavis's legs came free all at once, sending him tumbling down the hill. He stopped after his first somersault, then jumped to his feet. Already, he could see the crown of Runolf's halo rising from the scree. The scout drew his sword.

"No! Attack with the stone!" Basil called. The verbeeg stepped away from the schist scarp, covering the remaining distance to the scree pile in a single jump. "Its magic will slice through what steel cannot."

The head's eyes appeared at ground level, looking up the hill toward Basil. The golden halo dimmed, and golden flames licked the stones in front of the spirit guardiant. Avner stood less than a pace away, at Runolf's side where his peripheral vision would detect the slightest movement. The young thief froze instantly, standing so still even his nostrils did not flare.

"Over here, traitor!" Tavis called. Though it pained him to ridicule his mentor, it was the best way he could think of to prevent Runolf from noticing Avner.

"Who do you call traitor?" Runolf demanded. He rose the rest of the way out of the ground, slowly spinning around to face Tavis. "I have done my duty!"

"By delivering your princess into the hands of ogres?" Tavis demanded. "I think not."

With that, the scout dropped his sword and snatched the runestone off the ground. He flung it in Runolf's direction, and the head's halo flashed brilliant yellow, sending Avner stumbling two steps back. In the next instant, a spray of blue and white sparks filled the air as the runestone sliced through the protective sphere. The rock struck a glancing blow off Runolf's chin, then clattered to the ground, its runes dark and gray.

Runolf fixed his eyes on Tavis. "I was no traitor," the head said. "You must know I always performed my duty."

"To whom?" Tavis scoffed. "Vaprak, the ogre god?"

Avner sprang forward even as Tavis spoke. The boy slipped his belt over Runolf's brow in an instant, then pulled the head off the pedestal and laid it facedown In the scree.

"Well done!" called Basil. The verbeeg rushed down the hill with brush in hand. "But keep that belt tight. If Runolf spies us for even an instant, the shaman's magic will return to him-and we'll pay with our lives."

"Don't worry," said Avner. He looped the strap around Runolf's head once more, then buckled it tight. "I'm not going to let him see anything."

Once Tavis arrived, the youth carefully passed Runolf to him. The scout waited for Basil to arrange his tools, then turned Runolf over so the verbeeg could paint the brow. A faint glow of yellow shone around the edges of the blindfold, but otherwise Runolf looked more or less normal for a disembodied head, with pallid flesh and a scalp as shriveled and dry as unoiled leather. He did not say anything or struggle at all, but seemed properly quiet, and still for a dead man.

Basil touched his brush to Runolf's brow. A wisp of yellow steam began to hiss from the spirit-guardian's mouth, but the lifeless head still did not resist or object. The runecaster worked slowly, showing no anxiety as he traced his lines. He did not use ink or paint. Rather, magic flowed from the brush itself, the tip trailing glowing green pigment wherever the runecaster drew it. The process took many minutes, and by the time the verbeeg had finished, the distance between Runolf's temples was completely covered with an intricate tangle of sticklike lines.

Basil lifted bis brush and wiped the tip on his cloak, then returned it to his satchel. "It's safe. I've usurped the shaman's magic-at least temporarily," he said. "Remove the belt, and Runolf's spirit will be ours to command."

Tavis turned the head facedown, then did as asked, keeping the blindfold ready just in case Basil's magic was not as effective as the verbeeg claimed. Runolf's flesh seemed to come alive beneath his fingers, once again growing supple and full. When the head did not try to attack, or show any objection to the runecaster's magic, the scout slowly turned him over. The pall of golden radiance that had covered Runolf's eyes was gone, replaced now by a shimmering yellow mist that was slowly evaporating into the air.

"Tavis," Runolf said. There was neither anger nor regret in his voice, only acknowledgement and recognition. "What I have done I did not choose."

"I know, Runolf," the scout replied. "And in my heart, the things I'll remember are those you did choose: to teach me well, and to serve your king in good faith."

"Thank you." he said, his face showing his relief. "You know you were a son to me."

Tavis nodded. "And I hope I made a proud father of you," he said. "But now we find ourselves facing each other like enemies, and you must tell me why."

"I'm not your enemy," Runolf replied. "And if you're loyal to Camden, you'll turn back and never mention what you've seen."

"The king has given me no commands, so I am free to pursue Brianna, and I will," Tavis replied. "But you must tell me why he gave his daughter to the ogres."

"I beg you, do not ask. To answer is to violate my duty-and yours."

"But I have asked," Tavis replied.

Runolf clamped his mouth shut, fighting against the command. The golden mist poured from his eyes in billows, and the glowing runes on his forehead shined as bright as flames. He began to tremble, and Tavis feared the strain of the internal battle would destroy the head.

Finally, Runolf's lips parted, and a low, croaking voice issued from his throat. "Payment," he said. "It was the price Camden paid the ogre shaman, Goboka, for helping him win the War of Harts."

A cold knot of outrage filled Tavis's stomach. "Camden sold his daughter for a kingdom?" he gasped. "A man who could do that is no king!"

"Not a firbolg king, perhaps," replied Basil. "But most other races-especially men-are easily capable of such betrayals. In fact, among my own people, treachery is considered a virtue for the ruling class."

"I'm not interested in the dishonest ways of your people," Tavis growled. "Nor am I interested in serving a king who holds power in such esteem that he betrays his own flesh to secure it."

"You're judging him too harshly," said Runolf. "When Goboka offered the ogres' help in return for Camden's firstborn daughter, the promise was an easy one to make. Brianna had not yet been conceived, and girls are rare among the Hartwicks."

"So I have heard," Tavis replied. Brianna herself had once explained that her husband would be the first king not descended by direct male lineage from the original Hartwick king. "The princess told me she was only the tenth girl-child in her line, and the first woman to become sole heir to the throne."

"Then you know the king never intended to give away his child," said Runolf. "But now, he must honor the promise. To refuse would mean war with the ogres, and thousands would suffer in Brianna's place."

Tavis's knees grew weak, his thoughts spinning in his head. Still holding Runolf in his hands, he sat on the ground and felt tears running down his cheeks. "Why?" he asked. "What do the ogres want with her?"

"I don't know," Runolf replied. "Neither does the king."

"A more interesting question is how this Goboka knew Brianna would be born," said Basil. "After a thousand years of kings, it seems strange he should ask for a princess shortly before one becomes the first female heir to Hartsvale."

"Goboka set him up!" Avner exclaimed. "I'll bet the ogres arranged the whole war, just so he'd need them. I've helped-er, I've seen-charlatans use tricks like that to cheat people at the village fair."

"That thought has crossed the king's mind, I assure you," Runolf said. "But it makes no difference. If Goboka has the magic to do such a thing, then refusing to honor the promise would be even more dangerous."

Basil shook his head. "This shaman's magic is powerful, but not that powerful. He couldn't do such a thing without help-very powerful help." The verbeeg fell silent for a moment, then asked, "Do you know where the ogres were taking Brianna?"

Runolf's face went rigid. "They didn't tell me," he said in a strained voice.

"That's not what I asked you," Basil pressed. "Do you know where they're going?"

The mist in Runolf's eyes suddenly grew hot, then shot out in two great plumes of searing steam. Tavis dropped the head and scrambled away, his chest and arms throbbing with pain from the scalding he had just received.

"What's happening?" the firbolg demanded.

"The shaman's fighting my magic," Basil said. "Amazing!"

The verbeeg backed away, motioning for his companions to do the same. Then he looked back to Runolf's head, which was now completely engulfed in the golden steam. "Where are the ogres taking Brianna?" he demanded.

The runes on Runolf's brow flared, filling the boiling cloud with a brilliant green glimmer.

"I overheard a name," came the croaking reply. "Twilight Vale."

The steam cloud began to whirl, draining back into the eyes of the disembodied head. Basil's runes flashed like lightning, and a deep, sonorous roar rumbled from Runolf's mouth.

"Let's move!" Tavis yelled.

The companions turned and rushed for the couloir walls, grasping for handholds even as they leaped onto the stony ramparts. With a tremendous crack, Runolf's head flew apart. A wall of sheer force slammed into their backs, driving the breath from their lungs and pinning them tightly against the crag.

Tavis did not care. His face pressed against the rock, he clung to his handholds with a death grip. Behind him, the talus shuddered, then, with a deafening roar, it released its hold and went crashing away.

As the dust began to billow out of the valley below, the scout looked toward Needle Peak. There, standing a little apart from the long ogre line with his eyes fixed on the couloir, was a single burly figure: Goboka.