Jotnar horn

The horn of the Jotnar, of doom, sounded again, nearby. It was the sound of my city’s death.
I saw a massive silhouette appear in the haze bordering the south side of the park.
Ethniu glanced that way, then turned back to us, contempt scorching the edges of her smile.
But the fool, the Knight of Faith, held his ground.
And it turned out that I was wrong, and the fool was right.
Sometimes that’s all faith is.
Sometimes that’s enough.
The enormous form in the haze dwindled with the rapidity of a backlit shadow, and suddenly River Shoulders staggered out of the pall of destruction into the clear air of the park. His old tuxedo had been torn away completely. One of his shoulders hung as if dislocated, and his fur was singed and matted the grey of falling ash, darkened in places with blood. But he’d apparently found his spectacles, and one of their lenses was sharply cracked.
And over his good shoulder, he lugged the horn of a Jotun.
The Sasquatch’s gaze swept around the park and his expression lit with an abrupt fierceness. The enormous muscles of his arm bulged and strained and hauled the horn into position, and he blew three long, wailing blasts from the instrument that shook the air with the clarity of their tone and sent fresh cracks spreading through the bone of the horn.

Battle Ground Chapter 31, Page 293