The Giant Among Us

11

A muffled creak came to Basil’s ears, or perhaps it was more of a squeal. Fearing his runes of silence had gotten smudged, the verbeeg stopped and looked down at his feet, then cursed himself for not bringing a lamp. The keep corridors were as dark as caves at this hour of night. He could hardly see his boots, much less determine whether the sigils on the insteps were intact, and he still had two squeaky staircases to ascend.

The sound returned, and this time the runecaster heard it more clearly: a sort of muffled, gurgling squeal coming from the corridor on his right. Basil sighed in relief. He had heard similar noises in Castle Hartwick often enough. They always came late at night from behind closed doors, when people seemed to believe darkness would smother their sounds. Foolish humans.

Tightly clutching the folio he had taken from Cuthbert’s library, Basil started forward again, running one hand along the wooden ceiling to keep himself from banging his head. He had already skimmed the volume once and knew it told the story of Twilight’s creation. There had been no mention of Arlien, but the folio did list all of the giants who had been present. With a few hours of study and contemplation, the verbeeg felt confident he would find the connection between the prince and Twilight.

The ceiling ended at a horizontal corner. The verbeeg ran his hand down the wall to an oaken door, then reached down around his knees to find the latch.

“Noooo!” The cry came from the same corridor as the squealing earlier. The voice sounded like Brianna’s.

A muffled thud came next, then the muted growl of an angry man. “Drink!”

Basil rushed back down the hall. Although the floor trembled under the impact of his heavy feet, the runes on his boots allowed him to move across the planks in utter silence. He heard no more sounds from the side corridor. He turned down the narrow passage, squatting down to listen at each door he passed. The verbeeg heard nothing but the rumbling of a few snoring sleepers.

At the end of the corridor, Basil came to a small stairway curving up one of the keep’s exterior walls. By the purple midnight blush pouring through the arrow loops, the verbeeg could see that this passageway had been built strictly for humans. It was barely large enough for a single man.

Basil peered up the corridor, trying to gauge whether his hunched shoulders would fit between its walls. In his mind appeared the unwelcome image of a verbeeg youth trapped in a cramped tunnel, and the runecaster felt runnels of hot sweat pouring down his brow. He wondered if he couldn’t find another, larger staircase that led to the same place. His shoulders would barely fit into this passage, and the corridor might grow narrower ahead. Besides, he couldn’t even be sure Brianna was up there, or that she needed help.

Brianna’s voice murmured down the stairwell, “Bastard!”

The word sounded thick and slurred, as though the queen had been drinking. Basil pondered going for help, but rejected the idea. If he embarrassed Brianna by calling the guard when she had only drunk too much wine, the verbeeg felt quite sure the rest of his time at Cuthbert Castle would be spent in the dungeon.

A sharp clatter rattled down the stairwell.

Basil slipped the folio inside his robe, then dropped to his hands and knees. He turned sideways and wormed his way into the narrow stairwell. The step edges dug into his bottom arm, and the walls squeezed his chest so tightly that he could not draw a deep breath. He worked his arms past his head and pulled himself into the gloomy passage.

The walls squeezed his chest more tightly, filling his body with a dull, throbbing ache. His breath came in shallow gasps, whether from panic or inability to expand his lungs he did not know. He squinted up the passage. The purple night glow was too dim to see whether the corridor grew wider above.

Basil reached farther and dragged himself farther up the stairwell. The passage narrowed slightly, and he found himself wedged in place. When he inhaled, his chest filled with crushing agony. The verbeeg pulled harder, twisting his shoulders back and forth, and felt the folio digging into his waist Then, for no obvious reason, his throat began to close up.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he gasped. Basil heard his pulse pounding in his ears, and he felt his eyes bulging in their sockets. “I’m panicking, that’s all.”

Basil’s body did not care. It wanted out of the dark corridor, and it wanted out now. The verbeeg found his arms pushing at the wall, trying to force his large mass down the stairway. Through the thin cloth of his trousers, the bottom of the folio snagged on a stone block. He pushed harder, driving the top edge into his stomach.

Only then did it occur to Basil to ask why he had tried to save Brianna. Strictly speaking, he wasn’t even one of her subjects, and even if he had been, no verbeeg had ever suffered the compulsion to perform his duty to a liege.

Perhaps it was her library, the runecaster thought. If Brianna perished, the new monarch would name a new librarian, denying Basil access to the thousands of ancient and obscure volumes in the Royal Archives. But what good were all those books if he failed to work himself free?

A loud thump rolled down the stairway, followed by a pained groan. Suddenly it no longer mattered why Basil had crawled into the stairwell. Brianna needed help, and verbeeg or not, the runecaster could no longer turn his back on a friend in need.

“I’m starting to act like a firbolg,” Basil grumbled.

The runecaster braced his feet against the walls and dug his fingers deep into a seam between two blocks of stone. He exhaled until he was certain all the air had left his lungs, then he forced himself farther up the stairway. He felt each separate rib grating against the wall, flexing inward and racking his body with pain. An anguished grunt escaped his lips and softly rumbled up the corridor.

Basil redoubled his efforts. His vertebrae and ribs shot sharp pangs of protest through his torso. He ignored them and pushed with every muscle in his body. The verbeeg heard a muted crackle and felt a series of pops run down his spine. He came free and bumped up the stairs. His lungs filled themselves with a sharp gasp, then he spied a sliver of yellow light less than ten steps away. It was dancing beneath a closed door on a small landing above. The runecaster pushed himself to the platform and listened at the door.

From inside came a scratching sound, such as rats make as they gnaw through wood, and the gurgle of flowing liquid.

Basil gently undid the latch, then pulled himself to his feet. He used his toe to push the door open. He could feel the hinges grating against their pins, but the runes painted on his boot kept the portal from making any sound.

Inside lay a modest chamber with a vaulted ceiling and a granite altar at the far end. Standing before this platform, with his back to the door and still wearing his enchanted armor, was Arlien of Gilthwit-or rather, Arlien of Twilight. He had Brianna’s feebly struggling form pinned to the altar, with his armored elbow resting on her sternum and his fingers holding her jaws open. The other hand was pouring the contents of a large silver flagon into her mouth.

Brianna seemed lethargic and half asleep, with glazed eyes and drooping lids. The prince was pouring faster than she could swallow, so the fruity-smelling concoction dribbled down her cheeks in runnels. One arm hung limply off the altar. Her other hand waved languidly in the air, the fingers curled into ineffectual claws. Her gown had been torn half off.

“That’s better, my dear.” Arlien’s voice was a mockery of gentleness. “Drink it all. You’ll feel much better.”

The runecaster crawled through the door on his hands and knees, moving slowly and carefully to avoid making any noise. Once he was inside the room, where the vaulted ceiling allowed him to stand upright, he pulled the folio from his trousers. He considered smashing the heavy book over Arlien’s head, but could not bring himself to destroy such a priceless treasure. Basil leaned the volume beside the door, then calmly walked to the altar. The prince continued to pour, oblivious to the angry verbeeg standing behind him.

Basil grabbed the collar of Arlien’s backplate and pulled. The prince did not even budge. Instead, three buckles popped loose and his backplate swung free.

Basil’s jaw dropped open and his bushy eyebrows came together. He blinked rapidly, squinting and shaking his head, absentmindedly allowing his fist to open.

Arlien had a second face.

It was where the prince’s right shoulder-blade should have been, hanging upside down with its dull eyes glaring at Basil. The face was ugly and brutish, with pale skin, a pug nose, and a double-chin encrusted with dried food. The thing’s thick lips formed a spiteful sneer.

“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 scowled. “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.”