To this, the Swordmainnir responded with silence and glowering. Linden felt their anger rise. The set of Rime Coldspray’s jaw seemed to rebuff Galt at every point.

For centuries or millennia, the Masters had rebuffed the Giants—

But if Stave felt any frustration at Galt’s attitude, he did not show it. Instead he continued to answer. Now, however, he spoke so slowly that he seemed to drawl, emphasizing every assertion.

“Then, Humbled,” he said as if he had assumed Covenant’s authority, “you will stay your hand while you await the Unbeliever’s return to himself. Your other persuasions are chaff. They are mere impatience misnamed devotion. But the reason of the Unbeliever’s need has merit. It is incontestable. Yet his absence is also incontestable. He cannot require the krill while he remains as he is. And it is neither honest nor honorable to kill the boy when no purpose is served. It is murder.

“Have the Humbled come to this? Do they commit murder, when the Haruchai have always refused assent to such crimes?”

Now Galt met Stave’s single gaze. Briefly he flexed his fingers on the haft of the krill, eased the pressure of his grip on Jeremiah. When he replied, Linden thought that she heard a subtle discomfiture in his tone.

“It may chance that the touch of the krill will restore the Unbeliever to himself.”

Still slowly, Stave said, “Or it may chance that it will not. Then the son of Linden Avery the Chosen will have been slain, and you will have accomplished nothing, and your vaunted devoir will be made a mockery of itself.”

Linden hung on Stave’s response. Inwardly she burned to hear what Galt would say next.

But he did not reply.

Without warning, he and Stave both stiffened as if they were about to leap at each other’s throats. Then Stave grabbed her arm, snatched her away from Galt and Jeremiah—

—turned her in time to see Clyme launch himself off the crest where he had stood watch.

In his right hand, Clyme gripped a long spear by its shaft. Blood marked the point of the spear and the side of his left shoulder. His tunic there had been rent.

“Ware and ward!” Stave shouted. “We are assailed!”

As Clyme plunged downward, the hilltop of his vantage-point exploded in a blast of heat and fury like brimstone.

Oh, God—!

Around Linden, Giants wrenched their swords from their scabbards. Rime Coldspray gave them no commands: they were Swordmainnir and knew their tasks. Long strides swept them into a defensive arc to protect their smaller companions. Those Giants carrying supplies threw their bundles southward off the ridge. The Ironhand brandished her glaive, loosening her arms and wrists.

As the Giants readied themselves, Stave called, “The Unbeliever’s son brings Cavewights against us! Concealed by some glamour, they eluded Clyme’s senses. Only the spear in its flight forewarned him!”