The Ogre's Pact (14 page)

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.