The Titan of Twilight

12

The birds would be a problem, Tavis knew. The birds and the cold. He had never seen so many birds, and he had never been so cold. He felt sick with cold. His clothes were frozen stiff with his own sweat, and his thoughts bumped through his mind like icebergs. The weather was not particularly frigid, but, as Munairoe had warned, the high scout’s system had been weakened by too much magic. After last night’s long run, his body lacked the stamina to keep itself warm, and now he would have to deal with the birds. There were thousands and thousands, from warm lands and cold, representing every species Tavis knew and a hundred he didn’t.

On the icy winds above wheeled a dozen glacier vultures, their black heads and blue-tinged wings all that showed through the dusky snowstorm. A clan of dervish owls sat perched on the battered rim of the queen’s tower, their huge golden eyes tracing every movement of the strange blue pheasants below. On the shoulders of the storm giants, kestrels roosted with sparrows, harriers with siskins, hawks with crows; only the egg-stealing skunkbirds sat apart, their white-striped bodies tangled like bats amidst the giants’ windblown hair. There was even a pair of condors waddling around the roasting fire, snatching slabs of moose off the spits when the cooks looked the other way.

Tavis was studying the scene from atop a thirty-foot knoll, where he and the three giant-kin chieftains lay belly-down in a deep blanket of wet graupel. The ’kin army was behind them, quietly gathering at the base of a long, gradual slope. Ahead of them, the hill descended in a steep, rocky scarp to the snow-covered meadow of an abandoned farm village.

In the center of the meadow, a low, snow-mantled drumlin spewed plumes of white steam into the air and occasionally stirred in its sleep: the titan lying blanketed beneath a thick jacket of snow. The queen’s tower stood nearby, with a storm giant kneeling beside it so he could peer into the second-floor chamber. At the west end of the field was the roasting fire, where two giants were tending a like number of spitted moose. At the opposite end of the meadow, two more were rummaging through the debris of the demolished village. The sixth giant was in the forest beyond the hamlet, his location marked by trembling treetops and a halo of circling birds.

The fomorian chieftain, Ror, shifted in the snow at Tavis’s side. “What we do now?” he whispered. “Them storm giants don’t let us kill baby, no.”

“Ror, we’re here to recover Kaedlaw, not kill him.” As he spoke, Orisino cast a sidelong glance in Tavis’s direction to make certain the high scout was listening. “What happens after that is up to Tavis.”

The fomorian’s froggish face winced, and he said, “Right. Ror mean rescue kid.”

The high scout paid the exchange little attention. He knew better than to think either chieftain would keep his word, but Raeyadfourne had pledged the Meadowhome firbolgs to let Tavis decide Kaedlaw’s fate. When the time came, that promise would go far toward countering the treachery of the verbeegs and fomorians.

“How shall we do it?” Raeyadfourne cast an uneasy glance toward the sinking sun. “We don’t have much light left, and I don’t fancy fighting storm giants after dusk.”

“Titan sleeping. Kill first, him,” suggested Ror. “Then storm giants leave, them.”

“That’s absurd, Ror,” said Orisino. “How will you kill that titan?”

It was Raeyadfourne who answered. “We wounded him last night, and many of our axes still bear Basil’s rune marks.” The chieftain squinted at the titan for a moment, then reluctantly shook his head. “But Lanaxis is no fool. Even Tavis couldn’t get within a hundred paces of him without being seen. One way or another, we’re going to have fight the storm giants first. I say we attack as soon as our warriors are ready.”

Raeyadfourne craned his neck to look down the back side of the hill. Tavis and the others did likewise. The firbolgs stood at the base of the gentle slope, clouds of white vapor spewing from their panting mouths. The short-legged verbeegs had gathered at the western end of the hill. They were leaning on their spears or kneeling in the snow, their ribs heaving as they gasped for breath. The fomorians, hindered by their deformities, were still scuttling or limping or slinking over to the eastern end of the hill, where they were collapsing in the shelter of a small spruce copse. Two companies of human footmen were also rushing northward at their best pace, but they would not arrive in time for the battle.

After studying the exhausted warriors for a moment, Tavis looked back to the meadow. “The f-firbolgs will ch-charge the t-titan,” he said. “I’ll sn-sneak into the t-tower to get B-Brianna and the ch-child.”

The three chieftains all raised their brows at the sound of Tavis’s stuttering. A predatory grin crept across Orisino’s broad mouth.

“You sound… chilly.” The verbeeg glanced at Ror, then observed, “Strange; it doesn’t feel that cold to me.”

“That’s enough,” growled Raeyadfourne. “You know well enough why he’s cold. I doubt you’d make the same sacrifice for someone you loved.”

“Fortunately, verbeegs aren’t foolish enough to indulge such emotions.”

Tavis shot the verbeeg a warning glance.

“I’m w-warm enough to n-nock my bow.” The high scout glared at Orisino until the verbeeg looked away, then shifted his gaze to the western end of the field. He pointed to the storm giants at the roasting fire. “The v-verbeegs will attack those t-two. Ror and his f-fomorians will take the p-pair in the village.”

Ror scowled, then looked beyond the village into the forest. “Ror see three giants-one in wood. Firbolgs go to village, them. Fomorians sneak up on tower, us.”

Tavis shook his head. “There won’t be any sneaking during this battle. Even fomorians can’t-”

The sound of wings broke overhead. The high scout rolled onto his back and saw two glacier vultures swooping low over the knoll. In an eyeblink, the birds were past and diving toward the firbolgs at the base of the slope.

Tavis pushed himself down behind the hill crest, pulling his bow off his shoulder as he slid.

The vultures reached the bottom of the slope and beat their wings, one turning toward the verbeegs and the other toward the fomorians. By the time Tavis had nocked his first arrow, both birds were rounding the corners of the hill. Most of the warriors below showed no sign of noticing the creatures, and none made any move to down them.

Tavis returned his unfired arrow to his quiver and scrambled back to the summit. The vultures were racing across the field toward the queen’s tower. They flew straight to the giant kneeling there and landed on his shoulder, then began cackling and groaning into his cavernous ear.

“I think we’ve been spotted,” Tavis growled. “Damn birds!”

“To your tribes!” Raeyadfourne rose to his feet. “We’ll follow Tavis’s plan.”

Ror shook his head emphatically. “Ror like ambush better-”

“Do it, Ror!” snapped Orisino. “There’s no time to argue.”

Orisino stood and bounded down the slope. Ror scowled after the verbeeg a moment, then reluctantly hefted his great bulk and waddled toward his own tribe. Tavis fixed his attention on the queen’s tower and remained on the hilltop, aching to the bone with weariness and cold. The battle was off to a bad start. Without the confusion of a surprise attack, it would be difficult to sneak past the giants to the tower, much less steal away with Brianna and her child.

After listening to the vulture’s report, the storm giant rose to his full height, two full heads taller than the queen’s tower, and peered up the rocky scarp toward Tavis’s hiding place. The birds cackled into his ears again, and the giant looked toward the west end of the hill. He raised a hand and pointed in the verbeegs’ direction.

“Nikol and Ramos, there are verbeegs there.” The storm giant’s voice blustered across the field like a howling wind. “See to them.”

The two cooks looked first toward their leader, then toward the hill. They abandoned the spitted moose to the condors and started forward, drawing their enormous two-handed swords. The weapons were twenty feet long, with hawk-sized nicks on the blade edges and blemishes of orange rust on the flats.

The vultures continued to cackle in the leader’s ears. He turned to the other side of the field, where the two searchers had stopped their explorations. He gestured at the eastern end of the hill.

“Fomorians are gathering there,” he rumbled. “Call Eusebius from the wood. They are for him.”

One of the searchers took an owl off his shoulder and sent it into the forest. The other called, “What of us, Anastes?”

Anastes pointed toward the center of the hill. “Firbolgs for you, Sebastion, and for Patma as well.”

Sebastion and Patma nodded grimly, then drew their swords and angled across the field toward the center of the hill. Anastes pulled his own weapon and positioned himself squarely between the queen’s tower and the giant-kin, precluding any possibility of anyone slipping past his fellows during the confusion.

Tavis cursed the giant’s wisdom. It addition to protecting the tower, the storm giant was shielding Lanaxis from the firbolgs. The high scout shifted his gaze to the titan’s slumbering form, wondering how much of a factor the ancient colossus would play in the coming battle. The mere fact that he had stopped suggested his power was diminished in daylight, but there was no way for Tavis to guess to what extent. It seemed too much to hope the titan would be rendered completely helpless.

The high scout glanced over his shoulder and saw his ’kin allies still struggling to organize their warriors.

“Q-Quickly! The giants are c-coming after us! ” Tavis began to shiver, more with cold, he thought, than fear. “Two for the v-verbeegs, two for the firbolgs, and one f-for the fomorians.”

The chieftains boomed their commands even louder. The verbeegs slipped around the corner and the firbolgs started up the slope at a trot, but the fomorians continued to mull about with no sense of direction.

A cacophony of bird calls erupted over the field, and stinging pellets of graupel began to pelt Tavis. The high scout looked back toward the heath and saw the first four giants already moving into attack positions. The fifth, Eusebius, was just emerging from the forest and starting toward the fomorians. Anastes remained in front of the queen’s tower. All six giants were hidden from the thighs down by a curtain of blowing snow, and they had thick clouds of birds whirling over their heads.

Tavis reluctantly pulled a runearrow from his quiver. By drawing attention to himself early in the battle, he was making it more difficult to reach Brianna. But he could not allow the storm giants to carry the fight to the hill’s back. Unless the combat occurred in the meadow below, he would have no chance at all of reaching the queen’s tower.

Tavis nocked his runearrow and rose, aiming at the giant who had been addressed as Sebastion. The high scout had to take a moment to steady his arms, for the icy wind had chilled him to the point of trembling. Peals of thunder rumbled across the sky, so loud that his ears throbbed and his knees ached to buckle.

Sebastion stepped onto the hill, with Patma close behind. Tavis had to angle his arrow only slightly downward to set the tip on his target’s breast. He emptied his lungs, then drew his bowstring and loosed the shaft.

A flurry of screeching falcons streaked down from the sky and struck at the arrow as though it were a lark. One of the birds snatched the missile from the air, then banked away over the field. Sebastion climbed a step higher, and Tavis had to crane his neck to look into the giant’s eyes.

“Damn birds!” The high scout’s cold-numbed fingers fumbled for another runearrow.

Sebastion raised his sword to strike. Tavis found a shaft and pulled it from his quiver, nocking and firing in one smooth motion. This time, the target was so close that there was no chance for the falcons to snatch the arrow. It flashed through the whirling birds and lodged itself deep in the giant’s breast.

Sebastion did not even wince. He simply squinted at Tavis and started to bring his sword down.

“esiwsilisaB!” Tavis cried.

A ray of sapphire light lanced from the wound. Sebastion’s chin dropped, and the strength left his swing. The giant’s chest opened across its entire width. His arms flew out to the sides and sent his great sword spinning through the sky, and his body folded around his mangled torso. He pitched over backward and disappeared into the blowing snow at the bottom of the scarp. A tremendous boom rolled across the meadow, and the hill bucked so hard that it bounced Tavis into the air.

The high scout came down on his side and felt the air rush from his lungs. Blowing snow blocked his view of everything around him, save for the whirling birds above and Patma’s head rising over the crest of the knoll. Tavis did not wait for his breath to return, or even for the pain of his fall to register. He pushed off with all fours and leapt to his feet, facing the back of the hill.

Raeyadfourne’s tribe was rushing up the gentle slope, concealed from the waist down by a blustering white curtain. Bolts of lightning skipped through their midst like dancers, hurling firbolgs and shattered stone in all directions. The air smelled of charred earth, seared flesh, and rain, and not even the howling wind could cover the cries of the wounded.

Tavis spun around to find Patma’s face glaring at him. The giant’s thin lips twisted into an angry snarl, his silver eyes flashed like lightning, and his sword came arcing down out of the sky. The high scout dived away.

A terrible screech sounded behind him; then the entire hill shuddered beneath the impact of the giant’s huge weapon. Tavis hit the cold ground rolling and came up on his feet. In his freezing fingers he held a runearrow he did not remember drawing. He turned around and found himself standing beside an enormous steel blade buried deep in the knoll’s stony summit. The birds were as thick as fog around him, and their angry cries drowned out even the rumbling of the thunder.

Patma jerked his sword free, leaving a smoking crevice where the blade had struck. Tavis fumbled his runearrow onto his bowstring and pointed it at his attacker.

The piercing shriek of a tarn hawk stabbed Tavis’s ear. Something sharp slammed into his shoulder and dug in. His bowstring slipped from his fingers, and the runearrow arced harmlessly over the hill crest. He toppled onto his side, then slid across the icy ground, wings beating madly about his head, talons tearing at his shoulder.

Tavis twisted onto his back and brought Mountain Crusher up, hooking the end around the bird’s neck. Its head came down instantly, the beak darting at his eyes. The high scout turned aside, then cried out as the raptor’s powerful mandibles tore into his cheek. He reached up blindly and, when he felt the creature’s nape in his cold grasp, gave a sharp twist. The hawk squawked briefly and fell limp, shrouding the scout’s face beneath its feathery wings.

“Damn birds!” Tavis pushed the creature off his head. “Surtr’s flames t-take you all!”

Tavis leapt up and faced the hill crest, expecting to feel a huge sword biting through his shivering midriff at any moment. Instead, he saw Patma’s rust-flecked blade sweeping along the ridge, spraying a cone of hail at the charging firbolgs. So fierce was the icy stream that it swept the burly warriors off their feet and hurled them, bloody and groaning, back down the slope. Even those who eluded the hail were not spared. A fan of silvery sleet trailed from the back edge of the weapon, coating everything it touched beneath a suffocating mantle of blue ice.

Knowing better than to waste another runearrow, Tavis nocked a normal shaft and fired at the giant’s eyes. A swarm of birds streaked to intercept the missile, startling Patma and temporarily blocking his view. A gray harrier caught the shaft in its breast and careened out of the bevy, and the hail stream veered from its targets.

That instant was all Munairoe needed. The shaman’s voice rang out from the rear of the firbolg ranks, and a crackling tongue of flame arced up the slope to strike Patma’s sword. The crimson streak sizzled up the weapon’s length. The hail and sleet gave way to a hissing geyser of white steam, then the blade shattered, spraying jagged shards of hot steel in all directions.

A pattern of bloody stains blossomed across Patma’s white shift, and a dozen firbolgs clutched at their faces and went down. Something hissed past Tavis’s head. He reached up and discovered blood trickling down his neck. His ear had been sliced open by a steel shard he had not even seen.

Several of Raeyadfourne’s warriors thundered past Tavis, hurling themselves off the hill crest at Patma. Their axes struck his chest with a series of wet-sounding thuds. The storm giant blasted the ridge with a ferocious bellow of pain. He toppled out of sight with three firbolg axes lodged in his chest, the warriors still dangling from the handles. All four combatants tumbled down the rocky scarp in a clamorous maelstrom of crashing bodies and shouting voices.

Raeyadfourne rushed past with the rest of the Meadowhome firbolgs, and Basil stopped at Tavis’s side.

“Look at you! You’re covered in blood again,” the runecaster panted. “You can’t take much of this. Munairoe said-”

“I know what M-Munairoe sssaid,” the high scout stuttered. “But Brianna’s d-down there.”

Tavis charged over the summit in time to see the Meadowhome firbolgs swarming Patma. Only the storm giant’s wildly flailing limbs were visible, for he had fallen beneath the veil of wind-driven snow at the base of the scarp. The high scout bounded down the rocky face, stealing glances at the rest of the battlefield as he bounced between outcroppings.

At the eastern end of the meadow, the furtive fomorians were nowhere in sight. But the giant Eusebius was swinging his blade back and forth through the ground blizzard, flinging gore in all directions. At the western end of the field, the battle looked to be bloody on both sides. One of the storm giants had fallen to his knees with several verbeeg spears in his midriff, but the other was standing his ground against Orisino’s orderly ranks, cleaving through his foes’ waists two and three at a time.

By the time Tavis reached the bottom of the scarp, Patma’s limbs had disappeared beneath the ground blizzard. A thick cloud of birds wheeled over the body, crying mournful songs and raking at the firbolgs’ heads. The high scout skirted the fringe of the crowd. He was just tall enough to see over the curtain of blowing snow. Directly ahead, Anastes remained at his station in front of the queen’s tower. The storm giant’s eyes were melancholy and resigned, but he held his rust-flecked sword in one hand and a crackling ball of lightning in the other.

As Tavis started toward the center of the meadow, the snow suddenly avalanched from the flanks of the little drumlin behind the queen’s tower. A long aquiline nose emerged from beneath the white blanket, followed by a wiry, square-cropped beard and the rest of Lanaxis’s head. His crown sat upon his pate, cocked forward and lopsided, with a few wisps of coarse white hair poking out from beneath the band. His face was shriveled and white with age. A crossbow bolt had pinned shut one of his haggard eyes, which was now inflamed and oozing infection.

The titan gathered his feet beneath him and stood, voicing a deep, soul-drained groan that made him seem as old and weary as the mountains.

Raeyadfourne caught up to Tavis. “Wait! We need to regroup!” he yelled. “We cannot-”

“ I can! Take your tribe and go!” Tavis shoved Raeyadfourne toward the eastern side of the tower. “Circle around there-and if you reach Brianna first, remember your promise!”

Tavis circled in the opposite direction, plowing through waist-deep snow at his best sprint. He happened upon Sebastion’s corpse and scrambled onto the body, startling hundreds of birds from their roosts. Seven quick paces took him the cadaver’s length. When he jumped back into the deep snow, the birds followed, assailing him with angry screeches and raking talons.

A deafening volley of thunder rolled across the field. Tavis glanced eastward. Anastes stood no more fifty paces away, looming above the ground blizzard like Stronmaus himself. The storm giant was hurling lightning bolts down upon the firbolgs’ heads and shoulders, the only parts of the Meadowhome warriors that showed above the whistling curtain of snow.

Tavis turned directly toward the queen’s tower. Lanaxis stood beside the battered structure, peering over the top to survey the battlefield. The high scout continued to rush forward, unconcerned about being seen. The titan’s good eye was looking the other direction.

Tavis had closed to within twenty paces of the tower when a black spire eagle swooped low over his head and turned toward the titan. The bird voiced its shrill cry, drawing Lanaxis’s attention at once. The titan’s gaze lingered a moment on the reeling birds above the high scout’s head, then seemed to pierce the feathery cloud and fall directly on Tavis’s face.

He stopped and drew a runearrow from his quiver. The titan simply looked away, then knelt in the snow and wrapped his arms around the queen’s tower.

Tavis nocked his arrow. The spire eagle appeared before his face, talons extended to strike. The scout leapt sideways and loosed his shaft, then tumbled backward as the raptor slammed into his shoulder.

“esiwsi-”

The eagle sank its beak into Tavis’s gullet, and they dropped into the snow together. The high scout released his bow and twisted toward his attacker, at the same time drawing his belt dagger. The raptor tore a hunk of flesh from Tavis’s neck. He drove his knife deep into the bird’s feathery breast, drawing a startled squawk and a last, feeble peck at his face.

“Damn damn damn birds!”

Tavis leapt up and turned toward the center of the meadow. Lanaxis had already risen to his full height and was cradling the queen’s tower in the crook of his elbow. The runearrow was lodged in the shoulder of the same arm, but if the titan noticed it, he showed no sign. He was already limping away from the battle.

Tavis started to utter the command word that would detonate the runearrow, then realized how far the building would drop if he blew the arm off. A cold, sick ache more painful than any wound filled his body, for he knew better than to think his wife and child would emerge alive from the rubble. He stood motionless in the snow, torn between the futile impulse to stumble after them and the wiser decision to turn back and help his allies regroup.

Basil’s hand grasped his shoulder. “You’re as mad as Memnor!” the runecaster puffed. “Attacking the titan alone!”

“He’s weak during the day,” Tavis croaked. The effort of speaking pained his savaged throat, but he barely noticed. “I almost had him.”

Basil cocked an eyebrow. “I’d say you’re lucky you didn’t.” The verbeeg retrieved Tavis’s bow from beside the dead spire eagle. “But we have other problems at the moment. Ror has betrayed us all.”

The runecaster pointed Mountain Crusher across the blowing snow, toward the eastern end of the meadow. It took Tavis a moment to find what concerned Basil, then he saw them: a long line of hulking shapes in the forest beyond the village, slipping through the trees as quietly as thieves. In the lead was a massive figure with a potbelly and spindly legs.

“Ror!” Tavis exclaimed. “He’s chasing Lanaxis!”

“And leaving the firbolgs to the storm giants,” Basil said. “Look.”

Tavis turned his gaze back across the field. Raeyadfourne and his warriors were forming ranks to charge Anastes in mass, completely oblivious to the huge figure rising over the hilltop behind them.

It was Eusebius.

Tavis grabbed his bow and plowed through the snow, shouting and gesturing as he ran. The thundering storm drowned out his voice, and the Meadowhome warriors were too intent on their charge to notice his waving arms. Balls of lightning filled Eusebius’s hands. He began to hurl the bolts into firbolg’s rear ranks, but they were too determined to notice the attack from behind.

Raeyadfourne himself led the first rank into the fray, flinging his axe into Anastes’s midriff. The storm giant bellowed and stumbled, then his great sword came down, reducing the chieftain and three more warriors to a crimson spray.

Behind the firbolg column, Eusebius hurled his last lightning bolt, then drew his sword and descended the scarp in two strides.

Tavis drew a common arrow from his quiver. He had one more runearrow left, but he could not use it without also detonating the one in Lanaxis’s shoulder. He stopped and nocked the shaft.

Eusebius stepped away from the hill and was upon his quarry. Tavis fired his arrow, aiming low so that it would skim the heads of the last two ranks of Meadowhome warriors. A flurry of birds flashed down to intercept the shaft, but the bustle caused several firbolgs to duck and look over their shoulders.

Eusebius’s sword came down, slicing through the last rank from one end to the other.

An alarmed cry rose from those who had seen the attack, and the rear ranks slowly wheeled around to face their menace. Munairoe’s voice briefly lifted above the clamor, beseeching the aid of the fire spirits. A fountain of molten rock erupted beneath Eusebius, drawing a long and agonized wail.

With his legs still flaming, Eusebius stepped out of the fiery column and swung his mighty sword. Munairoe fell with five warriors at his back. Then Eusebius and Anastes, each as bloody and battered as the other, hacked their way toward one another, hewing firbolgs as though they were harvesting hay.

Tavis nocked another shaft, then heard Basil’s heavy breath at his back. The high scout turned to his panting friend and presented the tip of his arrow to the runecaster.

“I need magic!” Tavis said. “Something to keep the birds off!”

“No time… for anything powerful.” Basil pulled a runebrush from his cloak and traced a quick pattern on the arrowhead.

A tremendous crash shook the field, and Tavis glanced back to see a shroud of birds settling over Eusebius’s fallen body. Anastes stumbled another step forward and brought his sword down, cleaving his comrade’s killer down the center. The last three firbolgs, Galgadayle among them, buried their axes in the storm giant’s leg. His knee buckled with a loud crackle, then he dropped into the snow with a long, mournful groan.

“Done!” Basil reported.

Tavis brought his bow around and fired. The arrow streaked away, a great plume of red smoke roiling from its tip. The birds dived after the missile and disappeared into the crimson cloud, then emerged on the other side disoriented and hardly able to fly. The shaft reached Anastes unimpeded. He twitched slightly as it planted itself in his ribs, then struck a glancing blow off the heads of Galgadayle’s companions. Both firbolgs collapsed with crushed skulls.

Basil yelled an arcane command word, and a spout of green flame shot from Anastes’s arrow wound. The storm giant roared in surprise and glanced down to look at the hole.

Galgadayle stepped forward to attack, throwing all his weight into the blow. The seer’s axe bit deep, splitting the giant’s chest cleanly down the sternum.

As if by instinct, Anastes’s hand rose and closed around the seer. A long rasping gurgle sounded from the storm giant’s throat, then the howling wind fell silent and the blowing snow settled over the meadow.

Tavis drew his bowstring with no conscious memory of having nocked the arrow between his fingers. It was not the runearrow.

“Stop!” Tavis’s voice cracked as though he were lying. He could probably finish the storm giant with a common arrow, but not quickly enough to save Galgadayle. “Let that warrior go!”

Anastes looked at Tavis, his face grave with the unfathomable weight of his race’s ancient remorse. For several moments, they stared at each other more in pity than menace or anger.

Finally, Tavis lowered Mountain Crusher and took the arrow off his bowstring. “The battle is done,” Tavis said. “I see no more sense in killing.”

“Nor I. What will be will be.”

The storm giant lowered his hand and released Galgadayle, then closed his eyes. A warm, wailing wind rose out of the south. The air pulsed with the beat of a hundred thousand wings and the sky dimmed beneath a myriad of feathers.

Anastes gasped, “The matter is entirely out of my hands.”