Troy Denning: The Giant Among Us

The halfhearted warning was enough to send Tavis clattering down the rubble-filled street. Brianna was impatient enough to do exactly as she had threatened, and that was the last thing the scout wanted. In the thick fog, High Meadow seemed little more than a gray-shrouded tangle of smashed walls and splintered beams. Even the renowned Winter Wolves could not guarantee the queen’s safety under such conditions.

As Tavis neared the center of the village, he saw a black, blurry cloud of crows hovering over what appeared to be a low mound of soft earth. He slowed his pace and cautiously stole forward, once again taking care to step quietly. The silhouette ahead grew more distinct. The scout saw two splayed feet the size of small sheep, and soon he could make out a flabby torso as large as a supply wagon.

This could not be the giant the stranger had just felled. A putrid odor of decay hung thickly about the corpse, and the crows had already reduced the body to a pallid mess of gore and bone. Only the heavy brow, drooping jaw, and gangling arms remained to suggest the carcass belonged to a hill giant.

Without a closer look, Tavis skirted the foul-smelling thing. He had long ago deduced the raiders’ race from clues left behind at other sites: the tracks of dire wolf pets, cudgels made from broken trees, and bits of clothing made from untanned hide. The scout found the corpse’s putrid scent more interesting than anything he was likely to discover on it. The body had been rotting for more than a month, and it was not like hill giants to linger at a massacre.

On the other side of the body, Tavis saw nothing but charred beams and more heaps of broken rocks, the shapes growing hazy with increasing distance. He found no sign of the stranger, or even of the giant the fellow had been battling. Save for the droning flies, High Meadow had fallen as quiet as stone.

The scout continued his search in silence. The razing of the village had left the ground so churned up that signs were difficult to read, but if anyone could find the man’s trail, Tavis could. As Brianna’s bodyguard, he was confined to Castle Hartwick much of the time, but the scout had not allowed his abilities to atrophy. He made a practice of delighting young pages and squires by showing them how to follow the sparrows from one perch to another, and once he had even won a wager for Brianna by tracking a trout for two miles up the Clearwhirl River.

The coppery aroma of fresh blood reached Tavis’s nose. He turned into the breeze and followed the smell to an egg-shaped depression more than a pace long. A pool of dark, steaming liquid sat in the bottom, slowly seeping into the ground. Though he had little doubt that an enormous head had hit here, the hollow seemed quite large for the skull of a hill giant. The scout inspected the area with redoubled caution, for few things were more dangerous than a wounded giant.

It took only a moment to find the marauder’s tracks, a series of oblong depressions with a string of blood puddles alongside. The footprints were spaced roughly every ten feet, the stride of a sprinting hill giant, which puzzled Tavis. The scout had heard no clattering or crashing, and he doubted any hill giant was graceful enough to run quietly across this rubble.

Tavis ignored the giant’s trail and continued to circle the area. About fifteen paces from the crater, he came across a muddy courtyard with a shattered fountain in the center. The area was covered with a human’s boot prints. The scout could see where the man had knelt beside the bubbling water to drink, and also where he had suddenly risen and turned.

Tavis worked his way around the edge of the courtyard until he saw a clump of fresh mud clinging to a rock’s edge. He slipped over the rubble for a short distance. When he came across a muddy boot print streaked across a ridge-timber, he knew he had discovered the stranger’s trail. The scout moved quickly over the debris, following sporadic smears of mud, until he came to another puddle of steaming blood. Here, the stranger’s tracks turned toward the far end of the village, tracing the course taken by the bleeding giant.

Tavis began to suspect the stranger of being a rather reckless fellow. Few warriors had the courage to hunt wounded giants alone, and even fewer could hope to survive the attempt.

The scout continued cautiously onward. As the mud wore off the stranger’s boots, the fellow’s tracks grew increasingly difficult to follow. Soon, Tavis had no choice but to pursue the giant’s bloody trail instead, trusting that the man would continue to pursue his quarry. Occasionally, he came across a tiny pellet of damp mud that confirmed his assumption, but eventually even these rare signs vanished.

The giant’s trail led straight to the edge of town. Here, the rubble gave way to pastures lined by walls of stacked boulders, testimonials to a more peaceful time when giants would trade an honest day’s labor for a dinner of three goats. The scout paused at the first wall, which acted as a boundary between the pastures and the village proper, and took the precaution of studying his back trail. The ruins were as calm as before, with nothing moving in the fog. Even the fly swarms appeared to hang motionless in the haze, their steady buzzing now so familiar that the drone seemed one with the silence.

Moving more cautiously than ever, Tavis followed the giant’s blood trail along the base of the wall. The scout did not see so much as a scuff mark on the soft ground, and he began to think the stranger had changed his mind about pursuing a wounded giant.

Tavis came to the remains of the town gate, a simple oaken door hanging splintered and cockeyed from its leather hinges. Dozens of human footprints covered the ground here, all ringed by crusts of dried mud and therefore old as fossils-at least as far as Tavis was concerned. In the gateway itself stood a puddle of fresh blood, and in the soft ground beyond lay the sharp outline of a fresh giant track. He started through the gate to inspect the print more closely.

Behind Tavis, the fly swarms in the village abruptly raised the pitch of their drone. He spun around to behold a hulking, man-sized blur rushing out of the fog. The scout saw a pair of horns curving up from the silhouette’s head, but the shape was so hazy that it was impossible to say whether the sharp points were part of a helmet or sprouted directly from the fellow’s head. Although the figure’s pumping legs were carrying him across the rubble at top speed, the man moved with such eerie silence that he seemed more apparition than human.

The stranger stopped a dozen paces away, bringing with him an arcane hush that spread over the ground like mist. Gray speckles appeared on his armor, creating a pattern of camouflage so perfect that Tavis nearly lost sight of him. The scout felt his mouth sag in wonder and promptly closed it, then raised his hand to greet the stranger. The warrior responded by cocking an arm to throw his warhammer.

“I come in peace!” the scout yelled.

“As do I.” It was the same euphonious voice Tavis had heard earlier. “Now dive!”

The warrior hurled his weapon high into the air. With a loud whooping trill, the hammer tumbled past, a dozen feet above Tavis’s head. In the same instant, the scout heard the hiss of a huge blade descending from on high. He threw himself toward the nearest rubble heap, barely clearing the top before the unseen instrument crashed down at his heels, spraying splintered timbers and loose stones in every direction. He hit the ground and rolled, spilling his quiver and scattering arrows all around him.

The stranger’s warhammer struck home with a loud crack. A booming voice bellowed in pain, then the ground began to buck as the injured giant stumbled away. Tavis came to his knees in time to glimpse his savior’s weapon sailing back toward its owner, then snatched one of his arrows off the ground. It was thicker than most, with red fletching, a stone tip, and runes carved along the shaft. The scout spun toward the gate, at the same time nocking the arrow in his great hickory bow, Bear Driller.