But his hearing seemed fine. As he continued to back along the corridor, he heard Rog's thundering voice behind him: "Gate! Open gate now!"

Tavis's heel touched the warm body of another wolf. He stepped over the furry corpse and silently continued down the corridor. If he had entertained any hopes of killing Goboka today, they were gone. Now he was just trying to escape alive, without losing Brianna.

"Blood tastes good." The whisper was deep and guttural, and it came from the floor right in front of Tavis. "Even firbolg blood."

Of course! The shaman was following his blood trail. Tavis stepped forward, slashing diagonally at the voice.

His blade skipped off the stone with a loud clatter.

"Wrong!"

The word seemed to come from behind him, but the blow that snapped his head back definitely came from the front. Tavis slammed to the ground on his back, then threw his legs over his head and rolled. The momentum carried him several more tumbles up the passage, then he came to a rest on his stomach. A few paces ahead, Goboka pounced, slashing at the stony ground where he had expected to find his quarry.

The scout silently cursed himself for striking at the voice. Brianna had warned him that Goboka was a mimic, so it was no surprise that the ogre could also throw his voice. Many shamans used such tricks to impress their followers when the spirits were not communicating.

Two could play that game. Tavis picked himself up and dropped his sword on the ground, making certain it clanged nice and loud. Then he drew his dagger and took three quick steps back, stopping when he felt the hot breath of one of his companions across the back of his neck. Realizing that only Morten was tall enough to breathe down on him, the scout reached back and tapped the firbolg's hip. Once the bodyguard knew where he was, Tavis felt sure he would help.

Goboka fell completely silent, but the scout could smell his rancid body coming closer. In his mind's eye, Tavis saw his foe creeping forward, running his fingers over the ground in search of the blood trail, hoping the dropped sword meant his enemy had finally collapsed. Could the shaman also sense how close he was to his true quarry, Brianna? The scout hoped not.

"Open gate!" Rog's booming voice filled the corridor.

Goboka's talons scraped sharply across the floor, then clinked against Tavis's sword. The ogre burst into a mystic chant. The scout smiled and flung himself forward, striking at the darkness just beneath the shaman's droning voice.

A thunderous clap echoed through the corridor, then, with a deafening clatter of chains, bright, glaring sunlight rushed into the narrow passage. Suddenly Tavis could see his dagger blade slashing through the air- and so could Goboka.

The shaman threw himself against the wall, narrowly dodging the gleaming steel. He brought Tavis's sword up to counter. The blade bit deep, lodging itself between two ribs and hurling the scout across the corridor. His whole body burned with pain, and he felt himself slam into a rocky wall. Still struggling to continue the battle, the scout rolled, bringing his dagger around in a desperate effort to deflect the final, killing stroke.

Morten's burly form flashed past, axe raised high and eyes burning with ire. The bodyguard's blow missed, but he followed it up with a series of furious assaults. Goboka, off-balance and blinded by the light streaming into his eyes, had no choice except to fall back.

Avner and Brianna were at Tavis's side instantly, the princess already tending his wounds and the youth trying in vain to pull the wounded firbolg into the light. The scout did not think the boy would succeed, for inside his mind the dark curtain was falling fast. * 11* Dale of the Gray Wolves

The iron plate rose into place with a deep, rumbling boom, and Rog slipped the enormous crossbar onto its supports, locking Goboka on the other side of the gate. The two hill giant guards released the hoisting chains and let them crash against the cliff, shaking the timber platform so hard Brianna feared the rickety thing would come apart. The ends of the chains slipped through a pair of slots, then hung beneath the huge shelf, dangling in the wind.

On this side of the mountain, the fault cave opened high on a wind-scoured wall of cold, sheer granite. Aside from a Umber road that hung suspended from the stone face, the cliff was so smooth and clean it could have been cut by the axe of Stronmaus. It stretched for hundreds of feet in both directions, abruptly ending at a craggy rib with nothing but empty air beyond. Below- far, far below-lay a wooded dale encircled by precipices similar to the one upon which the companions stood. In the center of this valley the hill giants had hacked a muddy clearing from the forest and erected a small village of rough-hewn lodges. Though the buildings were probably as large as castles, from so high up they seemed as small as shepherds' lean-tos, and the giants wandering between them looked no larger than sheep.

Brianna went a short distance down the timber road, then laid Tavis beside the cliff. Though his swollen cheek had almost closed one eye, the princess suspected that other injuries were more pressing. Taking the dagger from the scout's good hand, she cut his cloak away.

Tavis's body was strong and lean, with a powerful neck and shoulders. His chest was also larger than Brianna had expected, muscular and sharply defined, while his stomach was so flat and sinewy it looked like a stone giant had chiseled it from a granite slab. It was the kind of torso that the princess's eyes might have lingered on for a very long time, had she not seen several other things that concerned her deeply.

Where his skin color had not been tainted by the effects of his wounds, the scout was as pale as alabaster. His sternum had turned black and swollen up to form a dome as big around as Brianna's fist. There was a gash in his side so long and deep that she could have hidden the dagger in it. Most troubling of all was the steady stream of blood oozing from his mangled arm. If she did not halt that flow, Tavis would be dead within minutes.

"Will he be all right?" demanded Avner.

"I'll do what I can," Brianna replied. She found it difficult to speak around the catch in her throat. "But I am young, and Hiatea has not blessed me with her most powerful healing magic-and only two of her lesser remedies."

"You can't let him die!" Avner burst.

"The princess will do all she can," Morten said, coming up behind the boy. "You'll only make the task more difficult by disturbing her."

Brianna slipped her amulet from around her neck, then opened her waterskin and placed her goddess's flaming spear inside. "Valorous Hiatea, bless this water with your magic so that it may boil the enemy's contagion from the wounds of this…"

Brianna hesitated, trying to think of the kindest thing she could honestly say about Tavis. Hiatea was not profligate with her magic, seldom granting it to aid those who had proven themselves unworthy of her attention, and the princess feared that her goddess would not heed her call to aid the firbolg. To her surprise, she found herself terribly alarmed by that possibility, so much so that unsummoned tears were rolling down her cheeks.

"Bless this water so that it may scald the evil from this warrior's blood," she continued. "Many times has Tavis Burdun's bravery saved my life and that of an orphaned child. He has served you in that much, at least."

Avner demanded. "Does your goddess let people die just because she thinks they've done bad things?"

"We'll talk later," Brianna replied, hardly hearing the boy.

"But Tavis didn't know-"

"Later!" Morten grunted. He plucked Avner up and carried him across the platform to where the boy would not interfere with the princess's work.

Brianna brushed the tears from her eyes, then spoke the mystic syllables that would actually shape Hiatea's purifying magic. A gentle gurgle arose inside her waterskin, then the sides puffed out and white vapor gushed from the open neck. The princess sighed in relief. Her supplication had convinced the goddess of Tavis's worthiness.