Vaughn Heppner: Giants

“Oh no,” Joash wheezed. “Look at the horses.”

“…What about them?” his friend asked.

In the distance, charioteers chased wild steppe ponies. Beyond the two-man chariots and the shaggy ponies waved brown summertime grass. Hidden hunters crouched there with twenty-foot long capture nets. The charioteers drove the wild ponies toward those hidden nets.

“Keep sprinting,” a chariot-runner yelled at Joash. Behind the runner, toiled others like him, lean young men with javelins, knives, and hounds. Most, like Joash, ran barefoot and had hardened calluses like leather boots.

“Wait!” Joash shouted. “The herd—”

In the distance, blaring chariot-horns cut him off. A steppe stallion, a black, shaggy beast with rolling eyes, reared on his hind legs. His front legs pawed the air, and his sharp hooves were like weapons. A charioteer’s lasso snaked at him. The black stallion nimbly dodged and bolted for freedom. Like the canny beast that he appeared to be, he then veered from the dangerous grass, galloped between the rattling chariots and back toward the following runners.

Joash brushed sweaty hair out of his eyes. The black stallion was fast. He marveled how it dodged other lassos, how smoothly it galloped, and how divots of grass and dirt-clods flew from wherever the hooves touched ground.

Another horn blew. It was a sharp, militant sound, higher-pitched than horse whinnies or shouting men. The clear noise cut the air like a razor and redirected the highly trained warriors.

Chariots wheeled after the black stallion. More lassoes snaked at him. The stallion dodged them all, stopped for a moment, and pawed the air again. Now, other steppe ponies responded to his call. The drum of hooves told of their dash for freedom. A signal pennon dipped from the lead chariot. Other vehicles turned and followed the fleeing stallion, the prize of the chase.

Unfortunately, the stallion ran back at the runners. The stallion might lead the entire herd, trampling onto Joash and his companions.

Feeling the thunderous herd through his bare feet from the tremors in the ground, Joash glanced at the nearby marsh. The wild horses hated swamps, the soft mucky ground, the tall bulrushes that hid predators, and the swarms of biting mosquitoes. Behind Joash, there stood a steep, cedar-topped hill with its jagged boulders. The stallion surged for the gap between the marsh and hill.

“Here they come!” a runner yelled.

“We’ve got to run back and block the gap!” Joash shouted. That would make the stallion and herd head for the hill, and likely mill there, making them perfect targets for the lassos. The other dust-stained runners knew he was right.

“Hurry,” Joash yelled.

They whirled and ran where he pointed. So did their dogs. Burs stuck to their leathers, and chariot-churned, dusty air burned down their lungs. To run faster, Joash shed water-skin, his leather kit of supplies, and javelin. Other runners did likewise, leaving a trail like the aftermath of a lost battle.

A stitch of pain shot up Joash’s ribs. His thighs burned. He pushed himself nonetheless, smoothly moving his arms. He passed slower runners. Beside him ran several huge hounds, those of Lord Herrek, which Joash had helped train. From the nearby marsh came croaks, trills, and insect hums. To his left, the edge of the hill grew closer. Then he entered the gap. Behind him galloped the wild horses, their hooves drumming the ground. Joash swore he could smell their sweat.

“Stop!” Joash shouted. He picked up a dirt clod and heaved it at the approaching horses. His dogs stopped with him and barked savagely.

“Spread out,” the oldest runner shouted.

As panic threatened, Joash shifted toward the marsh. He kept throwing dirt clods at the approaching horses. If they didn’t turn soon—

“Yell!” yelled a runner.

The runners shouted and waved their arms, threw dirt clods, and urged the dogs to bark.

The black stallion’s eyes rolled wildly, and he slowed. Because he led the small herd, the other wild horses slowed, too.

“Charge them,” shouted the oldest runner.

The well-trained runners charged, and the wild horses glanced about nervously. Then the charioteers arrived, their vehicles clattering and the wheels throwing up dust. Lassoes flew. Wild horses screamed in outrage as ropes fell onto them. The black stallion edged toward the marsh. A bear of a charioteer, with silvery hair, threw his lasso at the stallion.

“Elidad,” cheered Ard, Joash’s best friend. The silvery-haired warrior was Ard’s lord.

The loop dropped around the stallion’s glistening neck. Elidad roared with glee. The strong black stallion twisted and reared. Elidad shouted angrily as the rope slipped from his hands. The black stallion plunged into the marsh.

“Go after him!” Elidad shouted.

Joash and Ard stood nearest the marsh.

Hot-tempered Elidad pointed at them. “Get him. Don’t let the stallion escape.”

“You mean go into the marsh?” Ard asked.

“Go!” Elidad roared, his face turning red.

“Don’t argue,” Joash said. He pulled his friend and his favorite dog by the scruff of the neck. They ran past whispering bulrushes where the stallion had gone and moved toward water.

“We’re going to get wet,” Ard complained, running a thick hand through his long red hair. He was bigger, broader and a year older than Joash. He was a typical runner: tough, long-winded, and dreaming of the day that he would wield a chariot-lance.

They parted shoulder-high reeds and slapped the mosquitoes that whined around them. The horse tracks led to softer ground. Water squished under their sandals, and mud made sucking sounds.

“The tracks have vanished,” Ard said.

“Look at the path of broken reeds,” Joash said, pointing. “The stallion went that way.”

Behind them, the sounds of the roundup diminished. They tracked further. It became apparent that rather than simply skirting the charioteers, the black stallion had plunged deep into the marsh.

Ard lurched backward, yelling. Joash clutched at his dagger handle. A frog leaped out from under Ard’s foot. Joash and Ard exchanged glances.

“Sorry,” Ard said sheepishly. “It surprised me.”

“You should keep your voice down,” Joash whispered.

Ard scowled, but he nodded.

They kept toiling through the swamp. Joash didn’t mind the stagnant water, the frogs that splashed out of his way, or the spider-creatures that skittered to safety. They were harmless. He raised his hand, however, as a red snake swam by. He knew some marsh-snakes were poisonous.

A moment later, Joash motioned Ard forward.

“What was it?” Ard whispered, his eyes wide with fright.

Joash shook his head, waded, and parted reeds. Beside him moved his favorite dog, Harn. Lord Uriah had traded a mammoth hide for him, complete with the tusks and the prized sandal-making soles. The merchant who’d traded Harn claimed he was of the Azarel breed, the line of dogs that ages ago the Shining Ones had bred for war against the bene elohim . That was preposterous, of course. The Azarel bloodline had died out a century ago, or so any knowledgeable dog breeder said.

Harn was big, lion-colored, and brave, although still technically a pup at ten months of age. Harn’s hackles rose.

Joash cocked his head, wondering what had the dog excited. From within the marsh he heard frightened whinnying. Joash’s heart hammered, so he reminded himself that he’d scouted the marsh days ago. It wasn’t large, nor did any poisonous snakes or lions live in it. The marsh was a low spot, fed by a stream that drained into the Suttung Sea.

Joash parted reeds, withdrew his sandaled feet from the mucky bottom and stepped into deeper water, colder water. The stallion swam into view as his eyes rolled in fear. The loop was still around his neck, and the rope trailed like a snake.