Free The Mirror of Fate by T. A. Barron

to scale the slippery mountain that was the head of my friend. It took me some time just to climb over his tangled hair to the rim of his ear. Then, just as I mounted it, a new wave of mud slid over me, knocking me back to the ground. At the same time, a potent smell—heavy with fetid, rotting odors—filled the air, making my lungs burn.
    Without bothering to brash off my tunic, I started up his head again. By wedging my staff under a mud-crusted stone, I finally managed to reach the top of his ear. Pushing higher, I surmounted his temple and crawled over his cheek, trying hard not to slip in the layers of ooze, until at last I reached the base of his massive nose. There, I found myself facing a pair of cavernous nostrils, completely blocked with debris.
    Planting my boots firmly, I tried pulling out some of the muck and branches. Only a small amount came free: The nostrils were jammed tight. I tried poking at the blockage with my staff, without much success.
    “Give ub, Merlin,” moaned Shim, speaking softly so the force of his voice wouldn’t knock me off his upper lip. “It’s all too stuckly.”
    “Not yet,” I replied. “Maybe if I try something else, I can break through.”
    I slid the staff under my belt and took the hilt of my sword. As I pulled it from its scabbard, the blade rang in the air, echoing like a faraway chime. As many times as I had heard that sound, it always reminded me of the sword’s heralded destiny—and its connection, however mysterious, to my own. I turned the blade in my hand, flashing it in the sun. At one point, I caught the reflection of my own face, looking back at me with pride, and yes, even confidence.
    Carefully, I aimed the sword at one of Shim’s clogged nostrils. “Hold still,” I commanded. “Very still.”
    “You ith full of madness,” he muttered. “Just don’t sting me wid dat pokingly blade.”
    I drew back the sword and plunged it in. Though I twisted it vigorously, no muck came free. I jerked it loose, raised the gleaming blade over my head, and jabbed again. This time, I wrenched my whole arm as I thrust.
    At that moment, one of the other giants—the rust-haired female—turned around. “Hold!” she shouted, waving her long arms. “The manling is trying to kill Shim!”
    All but the two wrestling giants immediately froze. They let loose a unified bellow of rage. At the same time several giants charged up the slope, their faces contorted with wrath. Immense hands reached toward me, eager to crush every bone in my body.
    Whirling to face them, I pulled my sword free. Almost. Something in the jammed nostril caught the blade, holding it tight. I tugged and twisted—to no avail. I heard Hallia scream. At the same time, the sky above me went completely dark. The smell of sweaty hands replaced the odor of the swamp. In just an instant powerful fingers would close over me, squeezing the air from my lungs, the life from my body.
    Suddenly an eruption, as violent as any volcano, threw me high into the air. My ears almost burst from the simultaneous roar. Arms and legs flailing, I tumbled helplessly, aware only of my own flight—and of the slimy, gray-green ooze that covered my face and chest.
    For Shim, I knew beyond any doubt, had sneezed.
    I struck the ground. After much rolling and bouncing, I finally came to a halt. Though my head was spinning, I lifted myself into a sitting position and wiped my cheeks and brow. Far up the slope, I could see the giants gathered around Shim, slapping and shaking him. I smiled—and hoped that, in time, he would feel strong enough to walk again. And that, at long last, his nose was clear.
    A beautiful doe bounded over the grass toward me. Approaching a boulder, she leaped skyward, her muscular legs tucked beneath her body. As she sailed gracefully over the obstacle, she held perfectly still for a single, magical heartbeat. When at last she landed, the ground seemed to move toward her, lifting itself to greet her hooves. And