Vaughn Heppner - Giants

“Do I speak the truth?” he asked Joash.

Joash checked a strap, pretending he didn’t hear Gens’s question. For almost two years he had been their runner. For almost two years, he’d watched Herrek and Gens build fame with their exploits. Their foemen however, except for Balak, had always been beast or man, not Nephilim nor the dreaded First Born. Did the evil reputation of such foes wilt the driver’s courage?

Gens called Herrek. The mail-clad warrior entered his chariot and signaled to Adah. She and Joash stepped into their chariot.

“Keep your spear ready,” she told Joash.

They rolled over the steppes and toward the lake. Behind them, dust swirled from the bison herds, while beyond waited tall grasses and whatever lay hidden in them.

“Are your eyes sharp?” Adah asked Joash.

“I hope so.”

“A good answer. I hope so, too. I would teach you about your adopted people.”

“Singer?”

“Do you understand the futility of trying to wound Tarag?”

Joash said nothing, thinking rather of how Herrek had been able to beat Balak, although only a beastmaster with a touch of Nephilim blood.

“We are on a desperate mission,” Adah said, “One fraught with sudden death. You must understand that.”

Joash tried to maintain a cool pose, but was shaken.

“I do not wish for you to have a false front like Gens.”

“You shouldn’t say such things,” Joash said, trying to reprimand her.

Adah gave him a sympathetic look. “Yes, you judge my words by charioteer valor. I understand. But, you must understand the horror we ride toward. Only then can you be prepared to face it.”

He waited.

“Know, Joash, that my clan fought Yorgash and his minions. In the steaming jungles of Poseidonis, we struggled to remain free. Our courage wasn’t the valor of charioteers, but of a desperate people clawing for the last purchase of life. Herrek is a proud warrior. He has strong armor and a mighty arm. His Asvarn stallions are swift and his chariot is his joy. He is a champion and is on a quest to slay Old Three-Paws. However, we face the First Born and their progeny. Their arms are mightier than ours, their armor made with more cunning. Their valor is awful.”

“How can we win?” Joash asked. If she and her people had been like him with Balak, then his heart went out to her. He understood hopelessness.

“Herrek thinks by fighting with valor that he will overcome all,” she said. “So has been his experience under his great, great grandfather’s tutelage. With First Born, it must be otherwise.”

“Like it was for you in Poseidonis?”

Adah nodded approvingly. “You ask probing questions. Yes. Maybe Lord Uriah is right about you. Know that in Poseidonis we fought naked, smeared from crown to heel with the juices of repugnant plants. Yorgash’s Gibborim couldn’t abide the smell. The silent bow winging poisoned arrows was our way, and cunning traps laid for the unwary and the proud. Even now, viper-poison coats the tips of my arrows.”

“Poison?” That was a coward’s weapon, Joash knew. Courage and honor, on those alone did a warrior rest his pride, and on his skill with weapons.

“We do not play a game, Joash, but war to the death. Valor is a wonderful armor, but it rests too much upon ignorance.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I mean that wits, and an undying hatred of the enemy, are better tools than merely fighting and dying well. Tarag is our master in a straight-out fight. Hundreds of sabertooths are his to beckon. He must simply give the word and we will be swarmed. Therefore, wits, and the willingness to use any tool at hand, must be our way.”

Joash looked away, troubled by her words. A warrior fought with honor and courage. He made himself brave by being willing to die for what he fought for, and to fight for glory. Herrek would fight until the end. But so, it seemed, would Adah, even if she was willing to flee. She feared, there was no doubting that, and she was trying to get him to fear too. Why? Ah, suddenly he understood. She wanted to see if he had the courage to face Tarag. He nodded to himself. This was a secret test.

“Think upon my words,” Adah said.

Joash pondered. Herrek thought that some day he might make a fine warrior. The warrior had said so in the sod house. Joash swore to himself that whatever else happened, he would not let Herrek’s faith in him prove false.

“Smoke,” Herrek cried. “I see smoke.”

Joash shaded his eyes. Sure enough, far away, atop a huge boulder, black smoke threaded up. The boulders were near the lake.

“We ride for the smoke!” Herrek cried.

The midsummer sun reached its zenith, and the air lost any hint of moisture. Horse-sweat was borne away before Joash could smell it. The wild steppe animals lay down or grazed sleepily, because the dire wolves, orns, and sabertooths had vanished. Most likely the carnivores would not leave their cool cave hollows or the shade of lonely trees until the sun had lost some of its horrid power.

Herrek slipped a white tunic over his mail and took off his heavy helmet. Sweat oozed from him nevertheless. Gens, less encumbered, suffered less. Still, whenever he shifted his grip he left damp spots of sweat on the elk-leather reins.

The boulders grew as the chariots crawled toward them. The boulders stood tall, like sentinels, and were an odd shade of yellow, no doubt from the Kragehul lichen that crept upon any stone left in this land. As they traveled, the black ribbon of smoke continued to thread its way skyward. Joash couldn’t imagine having to feed a fire in this heat. If Brand and Elidad had found safety there, they would surely be suffering.

Despite the urgency of their quest, Herrek called a halt under the shade of a tall sycamore tree, lest the horses suffer heatstroke. Gens and Joash watered the stallions while Herrek crouched upon his heels and eyed the boulders. He looked tired. Dried sweat left faint runnels of grime on his face, while dust left his hair chalky-looking. Adah joined Herrek. Joash strained to hear them.

“Sabertooths hate this heat,” Herrek said.

“This is a killing heat,” Adah agreed. “I wonder if it is natural.”

Herrek tore himself from his tight-lipped study of the boulders. “Do you think this heat is the work of First Born?”

Adah stirred uneasily.

“They do not wield such powers,” Herrek said.

“Certain of the bene elohim once did.”

Herrek frowned thoughtfully.

“Maybe this power has been passed on to one of the First Born,” Adah said.

Herrek sipped from his canteen. He didn’t look convinced.

“Each First Born and Nephilim is born with a gift,” Adah said, “The Accursed gift. Each child, unto the third generation, can do things not natural to us. Some gifts are trifling, others baleful. Maybe this heat is one of those gifts, for it is much hotter today than yesterday.”

“It is hot,” Herrek agreed.

“The awful among the evil ones have learned another terrible magic,” Adah said in a subdued tone.

“Necromancy?” asked Herrek.

“You have heard of it?”

Herrek was slow in answering. “Once, many years ago, Lord Uriah took twenty great, great grandchildren into his inner study in Havilah Holding and instructed us about the terrible arts used by the evil ones. He told us about their gift, and about legends that made us shudder. He also told us about necromancy, how the bene elohim Necroman long ago learned to use immortal spirits for his obscene spells. Lord Uriah said anyone who learned such arts was to be stoned and left for the dogs to gnaw.” Herrek scratched his cheek. “But such a skill, if it may be termed that, is incredibly difficult to master. The consequences of the improper usage of spirits may destroy the wielder.”