Vaughn Heppner - Giants

Mimir ran his big thumb along his axe. A spot of blood spurted. His Bolverk-forged weapon was sharp and ready for the grim work ahead. Behind him were his brethren, towering giants who had met them since they’d left Draugr’s Crypt.

To his right, Tarag gathered his sabertooths. The massive First Born wore the adamant mail and helmet, and he readied his adamant shield and sword.

Tarag and he, after a grueling march from the crypt, had come upon the manslayers, Tarag’s special sabertooths. Each was a vicious beast, each as big as Old Three-Paws. From cub-hood to maturity Tarag had trained these sabertooths. They obeyed him with precision, and they fawned upon him in a way that puzzled Mimir. Perhaps only in the company of such beasts did Tarag have a sense of belonging. Mimir had noticed that while Tarag freely sent untrained sabertooths to their doom in order to further his plans, the manslayers were used only when the odds favored a quick victory. Whether the First Born did this out of love for his brethren, or out of cold calculation to keep his own elect troop intact, Mimir hadn’t yet decided.

In any regard, Tarag had been surrounded by his manslayers when they came upon the giants at the cedar-topped hill. Ygg the Terrible would have dared to march to Draugr’s Crypt, but Tarag had declined his offer. None of the other giants had offered to join the quest but had awaited the outcome. Among the giants, Ygg was the only necromancer. The others practiced their gift when the need arose. Otherwise, they refrained from magic. Like Mimir, they relied on their powerful limbs, their Bolverk-forged swords, spears, and axes, and their unmatched valor.

The giants wore horned or nasal-guarded helmets, heavy scale-mail shirts that hung down to their knees, and leather leggings, which like their shoes, had been reinforced with iron plates. The legendary Bolverk, the mastersmith of the giants, had forged each piece of armor, each weapon.

“The human scouts are dead,” said Ygg the Terrible.

Mimir nodded. This was his idea. He had talked Tarag into it. No one must learn what had occurred in the crypt. Otherwise the humans and their champions might find a way to thwart them. Nor did he trust cunning Lord Uriah. That old fox thought he was safe in his camp. The coming surprise would badly startle Uriah.

Mimir rose and carefully peered below, being sure that no one spotted him. Ships were anchored in Hori Cove. Out of the circular stone fort herders dragged steppe stallions. They dragged them to the waiting barges brought close to shore.

No one could leave Giant Land to warn others that giants had joined with Tarag.

Light flashed off Tarag’s sword. It was the signal.

Mimir lifted his axe and jumped up. He roared his battle cry and led his giants down the gentle slope. The slaughter was about to begin.

The screams of the dying lessened as the sabertooths feasted upon human flesh. Ygg the Terrible reveled in the death. By his heinous arts, the necromancer managed to contain several spirits in his sun-bleached skulls. Later in an underground vault, or upon a raging battlefield, the spirits would be consumed. The spirits would fuel Ygg’s grisly spells.

Mimir had little taste for such magic, nor did he care to observe the monstrous manslayers lap blood from the brave, from dead charioteers and herders. There seemed to have been fewer charioteers here than he’d expected.

The attack had been sudden and swift, and had caught the humans in the midst of their horse loading. Only one ship and a barge had limped out of the cove and into the Suttung Sea. Unfortunately, neither cunning Lord Uriah nor iron-willed Zillith lay among the slain. It was too much to hope that they’d drowned with the panicked throng on the beach.

As he sat near a boulder, Mimir poured over Zillith’s notes jotted on a roll of Iddo papyrus. In her haste to escape she must have forgotten it. The other giants tended to their minor wounds or sharpened weapons. Stout, white-haired men bred as hereditary slaves and burdened as mules waited patiently nearby. Mimir lowered the papyrus roll. It was a list of herbs and plants discovered by Zillith in the nearby marsh. It was of slight interest. Mimir scowled. She should not have been allowed to escape. They needed to kill the Seraphs. They could yet prove troublesome.

“Look,” Gaut said, a cousin of Mimir’s.

Two sooty sabertooths padded toward them. Mimir saw they were manslayers. Their fur was singed, and they smelled like smoke. He’d seen the night-fire, but midsummer flash fires weren’t that rare. The manner of these cats worried him.

The two sabertooths ignored the giants. They zeroed in on the feasting Tarag.

Watching the two cats, Mimir wondered once more upon his father Jotnar’s wisdom. Tarag’s hatred of anything human-like was consuming. Tarag often boasted how he ate meat raw, how he needed nothing in the way of civilization, how even the giants had turned soft in their quest for luxuries. And by luxury, Tarag meant books, boats, fine clothes, and works of art, anything that made life bearable. From these ravings, Mimir had learned that Tarag envisioned a much different world than Jotnar, or his children the giants, did. The humans were to be slain, their edifices burnt to the ground. Only the pristine glory of the wilderness would be left. In that wilderness would rule the Pride of Tarag.

Mimir returned to Zillith’s journal.

Sometime later Mimir looked up sharply. Tarag roared with rage and shook a fire-singed sabertooth like a rat. With a final snarl, Tarag sank his fangs into the sabertooth and hurled it away. The furry body twitched on the beach of bloody sand. The massive First Born, clad in the adamant armor and with the adamant sword at his side, clanked toward Mimir. Sabertooths trotted behind him like dogs.

Mimir cleared his throat. The giants arose, their weapons in hand.

Soon, Tarag motioned for Mimir to approach. Reluctantly, Mimir did. Despite the nearby giants, Mimir cautioned himself to follow all the rituals of protocol. He knelt on one knee before Tarag. The First Born’s yellow eyes shone with fury. Mimir bent his head.

“The humans who went to the crypt still live,” Tarag snarled.

Mimir blinked several times as he gathered his thoughts. This was bad.

“They used fire to drive away my manslayers.”

Mimir nodded, but still didn’t look up.

“Speak!”

“High One, we must stop the humans from reaching the ship which escaped.”

“Well spoken, O wise one.”

The First Born Gog, Mimir knew, sometimes saw Lord Uriah and Zillith in his visions. But Gog never saw Lod, nor had Gog ever seen this Joash. Could the manling be as dangerous as Lod? How otherwise to explain this disaster? He’d been a fool not to enslave Joash the first night of their meeting.

“You will take your giants and insure the death of these humans,” Tarag was saying.

“High One, surely your sabertooths can better track these interlopers than I or my kinsmen can.”

“No! You will repair the damage.”

“High One, it was your sabertooths who failed the simple task.”

Tarag hissed with rage.

Mimir kept his head bowed in submission. “O High One, we must destroy these humans before they spread word of our deed. Therefore, let us each send a team to destroy them, or perhaps we should all go and make certain of this killing.”

“I must leave immediately. The Gibborim will grow suspicious if we do not show up in time.”

“We should both send a team then to slay these humans, and slay Lord Uriah.”

“I will send two parties of manslayers. They will drive any local sabertooths onto the battlefield and thus increase their numbers.”