Vaughn Heppner - Giants

Mimir snorted. “Tell me, manling, how did your hound come to be wounded?”

Joash told him about the fight with the sabertooth.

Mimir studied the stars. At last, he asked, “What happened to the other sabertooths?”

“Sir?”

“Don’t lie, manling. What about the other sabertooths?”

“There were no others, at least not at the roundup camp.”

“What do you mean?”

Joash told Mimir about the sabertooths he’d hidden from in the thorn bushes.

Mimir tugged at his shaggy beard. “You’re lying,” he said ominously. “Where were the other sabertooths, the ones who attacked with the slain young male?”

“I do not lie,” Joash said. “There were no others with the young male.”

Mimir studied Joash with fierce intensity. “No,” he said, “you’re not lying. Then… then why did your charioteers dash off?”

“In order to drive away the sabertooths who attacked the southern herd,” Joash said.

Mimir swore under his breath, but because he so huge, and his voice so deep, Joash heard some of the curses. They were vile. Joash also heard, “Something went badly wrong.”

“May I go, great sir?”

Mimir studied the stars, making Joash fear anew. He didn’t like the giant’s odd manner.

“I should enter your camp and slay everyone there,” Mimir said slowly.

“You’re mighty indeed, sir. And I know what people say about giants; that they dare any deed. But why bother with the camp? We’ll leave anyway.”

“Yes, after plundering the herds.” Mimir laughed, almost at himself, it seemed. “Tonight, it is peace between us. And what fame would I gain by slaying a gnat as you?” The smile drained from Mimir’s face, as he leaned forward, and put his hands on Joash.

Terrified, Joash squirmed.

“Be still,” warned Mimir, as he tightened his hold.

Mimir had huge, callused hands. They were strangely warm, and gripped Joash’s shoulders with unconquerable strength. Mimir’s eyes rolled up into his head.

Fear filled Joash. Was this a spell?

Mimir released him and stared in surprise. Then, the giant mopped his forehead and tugged his beard. “Tell me, manling, do you crave adventure?”

Joash shrugged, not trusting himself to speak.

“Would you join me if I asked?” Mimir said.

“Great sir,” Joash said, “why would you wish a fool like me to join you?”

“A fool is it?”

“Yes, great sir.”

The sly smile returned. Mimir nodded. “Tonight, I grant you peace, manling. But beware of crossing my path again.”

“Have I angered you?”

Mimir rose, picked up his axe, rested it over his shoulder, and then he picked up his lantern. “Angered me? No, manling. I but used my gift upon you. It revealed much.” He snorted. “Greet that old rat Lord Uriah for me. Tell him Mimir the Wise hasn’t forgotten him.”

Joash nodded, hardly daring to believe that the giant would allow him to leave.

Mimir shook his head and muttered, but this time he remained quiet enough so Joash couldn’t hear the words. Mimir strode away and soon disappeared into the night.

Joash picked up the poles. It was time to warn the camp.

“…Joash,” a man whispered.

Joash mumbled in his sleep.

“Joash, get up.”

Joash opened bleary eyes. He saw Herrek, with a lamp in his hand.

Several hours ago, Joash had arrived at the seaside camp, the ancient pile of stones. He’d given Herrek his tale, seen Harn taken to Zillith’s sod house, had promptly staggered to the Warrior Barracks, and fallen asleep.

“What’s wrong?” Joash asked.

“Lord Uriah wishes to speak to you,” Herrek said.

Joash arose, quickly tying his sandals. No other people were up in the Warrior Barracks. The hearth-fire was only a mound of glowing coals. Outside, by the height of the moon, Joash saw that he’d gotten two hours sleep. This was the sleepiest time of the night, the perfect moment for an attacker to make his move. He wondered if Mimir would really try to attack the camp by himself. He might. He was a giant after all.

“Has Elidad returned?” Joash asked.

“No.” Herrek nodded to the guard at Lord Uriah’s door. Joash ducked his head, stepped downstairs and into the soil-smelling gloom. Leather curtains partitioned the small sod house. Behind the farthest curtain, the edges of the leather glowed red. Herrek cleared his throat.

“Enter,” said a deep voice from behind the curtain.

Joash swallowed, and followed Herrek into Lord Uriah’s bedroom. It was small, with a wooden-frame bed, two beautifully carved sea chests, and a table with a flickering candle. The room smelled of whetstone oil and ale, and at Lord Uriah’s feet curled a white-nosed hunting dog. Lord Uriah sat in a wooden chair. He was a big man, although not as tall or as broad as Herrek. He had blue eyes and a closely cropped white beard. His skin was leathery-tough, but only slightly wrinkled, and he kept himself wrapped in a white cloak. In the bronze brazier before him coals glowed. Although he was old, somewhat over five hundred years, Lord Uriah came from the longest-lived line of humans. As it had been in the beginning at the Garden, so it still was with certain bloodlines.

Without looking up, Lord Uriah nodded solemnly, and sipped ale from his golden horn.

Herrek sat in the room’s only other chair, one without armrests. Joash sat cross-legged on a rug, near the sleeping dog.

“I am uneasy,” Lord Uriah said. He used a stick and poked the coals in his brazier. “I wonder upon Elohim’s ways.”

Lord Uriah had big hands, a warrior’s hands, as if made to wield weapons. He had long, thick fingers like Herrek. The right was wet from dipping the horn into the beer vat. The fourth finger was missing from the second joint up. The middle finger bore a large brass ring, engraved with the head of a Gyr Falcon—Lord Uriah’s totem.

Joash wasn’t certain, but from the redness of Lord Uriah’s eyes, and the way he cocked his head, he almost thought the patriarch drunk. Surely that couldn’t be. It wasn’t that Lord Uriah was above ale, but he seemed so solemn now, so intent upon finding Elohim’s guidance.

“Steppe stallions have been lost,” Lord Uriah said slowly. “They were prized stallions young enough to be trained to the harness. We can ill-afford such losses, for soon the ships will take us home.”

Herrek nodded, but respectfully kept silent.

Joash understood why the stallion losses were so bitter. Wild steppe ponies were difficult to break to the harness. Most never could be, becoming breeding stock instead. Only a few could be properly broken, usually the younger ones. They could learn to pull a chariot and to follow the chariot driver’s instructions. Among wild steppe ponies, mares learned better than stallions. But no warrior would harness mares to his battle-cart, because all the other warriors used stallions. Mares would shy away from battle-frenzied stallions. Therefore, for Lord Uriah’s special needs, young stallions were the prized catch. Young enough to be trained, but old enough to enter battle several months from now.

“Drink,” Lord Uriah told Herrek, thrusting the horn at him.

Herrek sipped, and then he handed the golden horn back to his great, great grandfather.

“You sip rather than gulp, warrior. Why?”

“Soon I must search for Elidad, as we agreed.”

Lord Uriah nodded sagely, his bleary eyes riveted upon Herrek. “And I gulp because Elidad has headed north, and a giant has been seen.” The Patriarch’s head moved abruptly, and he stared at Joash.