Stephen Donaldson - Fatal Revenant

Then she pulled away. For an instant, Linden thought that the Giant had suffered more fire and hurt than she could endure. But in her fist, she clutched a rancid pulsing mass.

With a hideous shriek that nearly split Linden’s eardrums, the skurj collapsed. At first, the conflagration of its fangs continued to throb and flicker. Slowly, however, darkness filled the creature’s maw, and she knew that it was dead.

Growling Giantish obscenities, the woman flung the monster’s organ far out over the trees.

The woman who had produced the shackles retrieved her stone longsword. When she had wiped it on the bank of the watercourse, she slipped it into a sheath at her back.

Fumbling as if he were disoriented, Mahrtiir felt his way to Linden; touched her face and arms to assure himself that she was unharmed. “Mane and Tail, Ringthane,” he murmured. “Are they Giants? Truly?”

She seemed to hear weeping in the background of his voice. But he was too proud to surrender to his astonishment and relief.

When she tried to answer, her throat closed on the words.

How many Giants were there? She counted ten women and the madman. Two stood guard over him, ensuring that he did not regain his feet. Seven quickly formed a protective perimeter around Linden, Stave, Mahrtiir, and Galt. And one-the Giant with the shackles and the stone glaive-turned toward Linden.

She was a bit shorter and less muscular than her prisoner, but she emanated great strength. Streaks of grey marked her short hair, which appeared to sweep back from her forehead of its own accord. The lined toughness of her skin suggested age-whatever that word might mean among people who lived as long as Giants-but there was no hint of diminished vigour in her demeanour or her movements. Combat and hardship smouldered in her eyes. The precise symmetry of her features was marred by a deep bruise on her right cheekbone. Rerebraces of hardened leather protected her upper arms: old scars latticed her forearms and hands.

Her manner announced that she was the leader of the Giants.

Both Stave and Galt bowed deeply, honouring the ancient respect of the Haruchai for the Giants; and Stave said. “We are timely met, Giant. Unexpected aid is twice welcome. And we”- he flicked a glance at Galt- “I did not anticipate your return to the Land.”

The woman ignored Stave and the Humbled. To Linden, she said brusquely, “You would do well to extinguish your flame. In this dire wood, darkness is less perilous than power.”

Linden swallowed heavily, struggling to clear her throat of relief and dismay and memory. The Giant’s air of command and obvious prowess reminded her poignantly of the First of the Search. This woman’s countenance did not resemble the First’s. Nor did her armour. Nonetheless she seemed to have emerged from Linden’s distant past, bringing with her Linden’s love for the First and Pitchwife, for lost Honninscrave and doomed Seadreamer.

And Linden had failed against the skurj . She was adrift in recollection, bereavement, inadequacy. Because she could not find any other words, she said dully, “You killed it.”

She had done little more than slow the monster. Soon it would have consumed her-

The Staffs light was all that kept the Giants from vanishing.

“For a short time,” the Giant replied. “Its death and your magicks will soon draw others of its kind. They will devour its remains and multiply. When they have feasted, two or three will become four or six. With each death, their numbers increase.

“Again I ask you to quench your flame. Then we must depart with as much haste as we may. These creatures-knowing nothing of them, we name them were-menhirs - are not laggardly. Ere long they will assail us in numbers too great for our strength.”

Linden stared in chagrin. With each death-? The skurj reproduced by eating their own dead? Trembling, she clung to Earthpower and Law; to herself. Without fire, she would be at the night’s mercy.

What in God’s name were the Giants doing here? And why did one of them want to kill her?

“You’re a Swordmain,” she murmured as if she were stupefied. All of the Giants were Swordmainnir. Even the madman- “Like the First of the Search.”

They could have been a war party-

Grimly the Giant answered, “And you are Linden Avery, called Chosen and Sun-Sage”- she grinned like a threat- “if the tales of our people have not been excessively embellished. As the Master has said, we are timely met. But if you do not-”

Sudden relief shook Linden. With a convulsive effort, she stifled her fire; let herself fall into darkness. She was known: these Giants knew her. She did not need to fear facing them without light.

The survivors of the Search had carried stories of their adventures back to their people. The Giants loved such tales; told and retold them in eager detail. And their lives were measured by centuries rather than years or decades. They would not have forgotten her. Or Covenant. Or the love for the Land which the First and Pitchwife had learned in Andelain.

For a moment, she was lost; blinded. The intense mephitic stench and sickness of the monster’s corpse overwhelmed her senses. She required other dimensions of perception in order to distinguish the figures around her, Stave, Galt, and Mahrtiir as well as the Giants.

Unsteadily she said, “I don’t know how to thank you. I couldn’t stop that thing.” It was only one of the skurj - “Kevin’s Dirt is worse than I thought. We would all be dead if you hadn’t found us.”

“Linden Avery”- the Giant’s tone was iron- “our cause for gratitude is no less than yours. We must exchange tales. Yet our foremost need is for distance from this beast’s remains.”

“Chosen,” Stave said at once. “the Swordmain speaks sooth. We have now no guard to the east, and the skurj surely draw nigh. We must gather our companions and make haste.”

“Companions’?” asked the woman sharply. You are not alone’?”

“Only some of us are here.” Linden’s voice still shook. “We have-” She was about to say, — a madman of our own to worry about. But the injustice of comparing Anele to the Giant who had tried to hack her down stopped her. “We have an old man with us. The others are protecting him.”

“They approach,” stated Galt flatly. “Though you do not acknowledge our presence, Giant, you hear us. Watch to the west.”

“The unwelcome of the Masters is not forgotten,” the woman rasped. “We-” Then she halted: Linden felt her stiffen. “Stone and Sea! Your companions are a beacon, Linden Avery. Surely every were-menhir- do you name them skurj? — within a score of leagues speeds hither.”

At once, the leader of the Giants shouted, “Quell your power, stranger! You summon a peril too swift to be outrun!”

Glimmering among the benighted trees, Liand’s Sunstone shone like a star.

“Linden?” he called in the distance; and Bhapa added, “Ringthane?” Then they fell silent. A moment later, the radiance of the orcrest winked out.

Linden felt them now, all of them: Liand and Anele, Bhapa and Pahni, Clyme and Branl. They were less than a stone’s throw away. She might have descried them sooner if the dead skurj had not occluded her health-sense.

Presumably Branl or Clyme had commanded Liand to obey the Giant. If so, Linden was sure that the Humbled had not deigned to explain why.

To reassure her friends, she shouted, “Hurry! The skurj is dead. We’ve met some people who might help us. But we have to get away from here!”

“You presume much, Linden Avery,” growled the Giant; but she did not sound vexed. Rather she conveyed the impression that she was grinning fiercely. “How do you conclude that we may be inclined to aid you?”