Vaughn Heppner - Giants

“You have been deeply taught,” Adah said.

“I am of the line of Lord Uriah.”

Adah laid a hand on his brawny forearm. “When I lived in Poseidonis, I witnessed many strange things. Yorgash knew the blasphemy of necromancy. He used such spells against my people.” She paused. “There is a taint here. I-I cannot be certain, because anyone who follows Elohim does not know the exact workings of magic. But I remember…” She removed took her hand. “I am troubled. I fear for Elidad.”

“That he is injured?”

“Yes, but more so in spirit than in body.”

Herrek didn’t answer right away. When he did, he was angry. “Elidad is the great, great grand-nephew of Lord Uriah. He is a warrior, a brave man. He may not be turned from Elohim’s path.”

“Why did he travel inland?” Adah asked.

“Elidad must have scented a great danger or was chased by Old Three-Paws, whom I shall slay.”

“Would Elidad just drive off?”

“You told us before that Tarag is here,” Herrek said. “Maybe it was impossible for Elidad to return to camp.”

“I’ve debated with myself, and I’ve recalled horrors from Poseidonis that once haunted my dreams. Elidad’s journey inland seems unnatural. I fear we’ve stumbled upon something very grave indeed.”

“Do you suggest we abandon Elidad and Brand?”

Adah shook her head.

“What then?” Herrek asked.

Joash had to strain to catch her words.

“That we strengthen our thoughts, and that we are wary when we meet Elidad. Never forget that the evil ones are cunning. We must be on guard against their magic.”

Herrek lifted his chin. At last, he nodded. “I accept your advice, Singer. I see it as caution against the Nephilim. But I do not accept this slander against Elidad. Like us, he serves Elohim. For years, I have fought with him against the Shurites and against the treacherous Huri of the forests. Never have I questioned Elidad’s bravery, or his judgment. Maybe he is bolder than others are, but that is to be praised, not slandered. Do you understand my words?”

Adah nodded.

“Then let us see what the black smoke means.”

They moved into the sunlight. The heat hit Joash like a physical blow. His face hurt, and the back of his neck was dotted with sweat. He wore a hat, but too often the sunlight managed to sneak past the brim as he turned this way and that. He tried to keep his face aimed at the ground and saw the wilted grass and the puffs of dust raised by hooves. The sun mercilessly beat the strength and endurance out of the stallions.

“I’m going to walk,” he told Adah.

Joash strode beside Koton. The black dog panted, with his pink tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth. Beads of moisture dripped from the tongue. Herrek walked too, but shortly traded places with Gens.

Joash’s thoughts drifted. Old Three-Paws had slain Ard, perhaps at this terrible Tarag’s orders. Sabertooths were horribly strong brutes, like the young yellow-fanged male who had wounded Harn and broken Nestor’s leg. Joash had been terrified yesterday when the sabertooth charged. Adah said Tarag was the King of Sabertooths. What chance did they have against a creature like that?

Joash took off his hat and wiped his brow.

Maybe Tarag wasn’t the right beast to fear. Old Three-Paws was the one to fear, Old Three-Paws the hunter of men, Old Three-Paws the slayer of Jeremoth…

Old Three-Paws lay panting in the shade of the boulders. He had feasted well upon horseflesh and had delighted himself when he’d smashed the two-legs’ head. The helmet had crumbled under his blow and brain had leaked out. He’d licked some of the gore, but had left it for others of his pride to taste and enjoy.

That did nothing to ease their fear, however. The stink of it was heavy upon them. Three more members had slipped back to the god-creature.

A rock clattered against stone. Three-Paws looked up. The rock tumbled toward him, and then bounced off into the sunlight. He put his head back onto his good paw. The lone two-legs on the boulders still tried to hit him. It didn’t matter. The two-legs would die in time. Three-Paws wouldn’t leave the cubbing den area until this two-legs was dead. Not the god-creature, not an army of two-legs, not even a herd of trumpeting mammoths, could drive him from here. The cubbing den was sacrosanct. He would slay any that invaded it.

Another rock bounced toward him. This one sped truly. Three-Paws rose and stepped closer to the boulder. In a moment the rock thudded onto the grassy ground where he’d just lain.

Despite his full stomach and the pleasure of slaying a two-legs, Three-Paws seethed with malice toward the one up there. He roared. How he hated and wished to crush them all. How he yearned to smell the scent of him who had given him the crippled paw. He would never forget that scent. When he found it, he would slay its owner. On that point, he’d been certain for many turnings of the seasons.

“They travel straight for the old sabertooth,” Mimir said. He wiped sweat from his brow before re-settling the heavy helmet onto his head.

“True,” Tarag said.

“The old sabertooth will kill them.”

“Yes.”

“O High One, it will ruin our carefully laid plans.”

“No, for our charioteer is secure. Some from the old sabertooth’s pride have told me that the man hides at the top of the boulders.”

“Yes… But how will you remove the old sabertooth? It will destroy the spell if our charioteer sees us.”

“Do not question me, Giant.”

Mimir bowed his head. “Please forgive me, High One.”

Tarag grunted. “We must wait for the Old One to slay Lord Uriah’s charioteers. Then, at night, I will kill the Old One.”

“The one I spoke with rides with the charioteers.”

“That is unfortunate, but the treasure comes first.”

“As you will it, High One,” Mimir said.

Tarag turned away, and growled to the sabertooths around him.

Mimir peered over the hot plains. It was too bad about Joash. He had hoped to use the young man. Mimir shrugged philosophically and removed his heavy helmet. It was dreadfully hot, but that was all part of the curse of this region. He shuddered, then hardened his resolve for the terrible ordeal that they would be forced to endure.

“Vultures,” Adah hissed.

Joash followed her gaze and saw vultures circling the boulders. The plume of black smoke still threaded up. He knew that the lake they’d spotted earlier spread out behind the rock-pile. Joash yearned to splash in its water, maybe cut a pole and fish for perch or pike. His stomach rumbled at the thought of sizzling fish, and his skin crawled at the feel of sweaty grime that seemed to have penetrated everywhere. His leathers needed a thorough washing.

Herrek whistled and made a curt gesture.

Joash jumped aboard the chariot, Adah handing him the reins. She strung her small bow with catgut thread and notched one of her parrot-feathered arrows. A sticky green substance was smeared on the arrowhead. Poison. Joash shook his head. He recalled what she’d told him about Poseidonis, but this wasn’t Poseidonis. This was the steppe. Here they didn’t fight naked and smear themselves with smelly plant-juices. Here Herrek wore costly chainmail armor and wielded weapons forged in tall-walled Caphtor itself. Why then did they need poison?

The boulders were close, the three biggest were about two-and-a-half-times taller than Captain Maharbal’s tallest mast. The smaller boulders were like sheds. All were clad with yellow lichen, and Joash noticed swallow nests on the shadowed sides of the nearest overhangs. Yellow waist-high grass surrounded the rocks. The grasses didn’t waver, nor did black birds perch upon them or dart in and around them hunting insects. Joash saw clouds of flies that were always found near carcasses. Surely, birds should be feasting upon the flies.