Vaughn Heppner - Giants

For millennia, he had waited. For millennia, he had listened to the Master rave about those who had entombed him. They had all quailed before Draugr’s rage, and they had all worshipped him in unholy terror. He had bidden them to make terrible promises. And they had made them. In the end, the Master disdained movement. He glared at them, and they discerned over time that his life seeped away. At last, he expired to go to a place of greater torment.

But, they couldn’t leave.

Nor, because of their horrible oaths, could they slay each other. They waited. They went mad. They grew drowsy. At last, they grew still as the Master had grown still, and they pondered in hellish silence the exchange they had once thought so glorious.

He had once been called Lord Skarpaler, the warchief of the Bloodspillers. The shores of a cold northern lake had been his home. His wives had loved him. He’d had many children, and he’d been accounted a mighty warrior, a champion.

That was lost, gone forever. It was dust to dust, ashes to ashes. He was an abomination, a trolock, a servant bound to a departed master. Only one goal, one thought, one mission, dominated his awakened spirit. He must punish the trespassers. He must slay the profaners of the crypt.

Inch by inch he moved about the crypt. His stone hands roved over his slain brothers. His anger grew. He bowed low before the Master, and then he rose and straightened the bones the trespassers had so rudely moved.

The broken weapons he touched brought back painful memories. Lord Skarpaler—

“No,” he said. “I am not he. I am the Avenger. I am the Doom from the Crypt. I am no longer a mortal man.”

He gathered his courage, and for a time he felt the fleshy corpse. It was strange, so very strange. He shook his head, marveling that an age ago he had been made out of such weak substance. It was madness. The Master had bestowed a great gift on him. He clenched his hands. After an age of slumber, he was awake. He must learn who the new powers were. He must be wary of them until he understood their strengths. But first he must slay the profane First Born and his companion giant.

After his courage and rage boiled to a frightful pitch, he went to the door and forced it open. He trod up the steep incline and came to the cave entrance.

Outside, the stars blinded him by their brightness. He had forgotten that such wonders existed. For uncounted centuries, the Shining One-made wall had barred them from the living world. How could he have forgotten such beauty? He could almost remember the touch of his long-lost wives. Such thoughts, however, would lead him to madness.

It was several hours before he moved. His awe of the stars and the soft waft of a breeze—he moaned, wondering once more upon the price of his exchange. He looked at his stony body. It still seemed so strange.

“No,” he rumbled. “I am strong, indestructible, a foe to all those who hate or hated my Master. I will survive until the end of the Age. I will destroy all who deserve death.”

By a facility given him upon his making, the trolock followed the trail of the First Born who had robbed Draugr’s Crypt.

Joash bolted upright, his face sweaty. He looked around and saw grooms on night-duty. He frowned. A moment ago, trolocks had held him down, waiting for Tarag to slash him with the adamant sword. He sagged back onto his mat. The stars overhead blazed with glory, and he was exhausted. Every muscle and joint ached. Maybe that’s why he’d had the nightmare. He rolled over and fumbled among his belongings, found his water-skin, uncorked it, and drank his fill. Unfortunately, the movement woke him up more than before, and he was so exhausted that he was almost too tired to fall back asleep. He’d been sleeping fitfully for half the night.

After putting the water-skin away, he noticed that Adah sat at one of the fires, staring into the flames. She’d wrapped herself in her colorful cloak, and her head nodded. She must be exhausted, but something kept her up. Maybe she had nightmares, too. Maybe after all she’d gone through in Poseidonis, being in the presence of a First Born again had shaken her all over again. He felt sorry for her. Maybe he should go over and console her, put his arm around her. As he pondered about getting up, he drifted back to sleep.

In the morning, it was torture to move. His muscles screamed, and his eyes felt like gravel pits. He rolled his mat, ran his fingers through his hair, and splashed water on his face.

“Go take a swim,” Herrek suggested. The warrior sat nearby, having his face tended to. Amery, a young girl, ministered to Herrek. Amery was Herrek’s niece, being Jeremoth’s daughter.

Joash bathed along with a few other runners.

“Is it true you’re a groom now?” a runner asked.

“Yes,” Joash said.

Joash held his breath and ducked underwater. It felt good, and it woke him up. He surfaced, scooped sand from the bottom, and scrubbed his skin until it was red. It would be nice to use soap, but he didn’t have any in his kit, and he didn’t feel like asking anyone else to use theirs. They’d start asking him questions, and he wasn’t ready to answer or fabricate a tale. Adah had told him to keep quiet about what had happened. For the time being, only Lord Uriah and Zillith would be told the truth.

He scrubbed his clothes and went to a fire.

“How are you feeling?” asked Gens, his eyes red.

“Tired,” Joash mumbled.

Shaggy-bearded Karim, wearing chainmail, sat down by the fire. “So you’re a groom now, eh?”

“Yes, Warrior.”

“Herrek says he’s been teaching you to throw a spear,” Karim said.

“He has,” Joash said, grimly recalling the night training.

Thick Othniel sat down, and his son Beker sat beside him. “You look tired. Drink some tea.” Othniel nodded to his son. Beker poured tea into a tin cup and handed it to Joash.

“Thanks.” Joash sipped the scalding liquid.

Another runner turned sizzling sausages in a pan. “These are for you,” the runner told Joash.

Joash’s stomach rumbled. He was ravenous.

Othniel laughed. “I’m glad to see you alive.” He frowned. “Elidad, Brand, and Ard all died, I hear.”

Joash nodded.

“Was it the old sabertooth who killed Jeremoth?”

“Yes, Warrior,” Joash said, his eyes on the sizzling sausages.

“Herrek says he slew the terrible beast,” Karim said.

Joash nodded.

“Good,” Karim said gruffly. “And a good thing you didn’t meet up with any more giants.”

Joash nodded, aware that Karim shrewdly stared at him in the sudden silence.

“You really didn’t meet any more giants, eh?” Othniel asked as he scratched his face, studying Joash. “We came across many giant tracks.”

“Groom,” Herrek called. “Come get your new spear.”

“Save those sausages for me,” Joash told the runner, before he hurried to Herrek.

“Don’t let them squeeze the tale out of you,” Herrek whispered, handing him a spear.

Joash wrinkled his nose. The ointment on Herrek’s bandaged face smelled. He nodded, however, and accepted the new spear. He went back to the fire, finished his tea and devoured the sausages.

“By the looks of you, it must have been rough,” Othniel said.

Joash nodded with a full mouth.

Horns blared. Dogs barked. Lord Uriah’s standard-bearer lifted the Gyr Falcon banner. One by one, the charioteers climbed aboard their chariots. Like Herrek, however, a few of the charioteers were without vehicles. They would march in the company of the grooms and runners, and with the spearmen who made up Lord Uriah’s guard. The rest of the expedition was at the main camp. Joash learned from Beker that Captain Maharbal had arrived at the island off the coast. Yesterday, a small boat of Further Tarshmen had rowed to the beach. This morning, no doubt, herders would lead the steppe stallions aboard the barges brought expressly for that purpose. The herders would be working hard all day. Joash didn’t envy them, and for the first time he was in no hurry to return to camp.