David Tallerman - Giant thief

The sun was just below the horizon. The sky was a miserable wash of grey, rising from a sickly shade touched with yellow just above the hills, through deep storm cloud hues, to almost black far above us. The light was at that tricky stage it reaches just before dawn, but I could see the giant clearly. He stood back from the rest of us, in a wide clearing amidst the forest of bodies. Lugos's orders seemed superfluous since no one was going anywhere near him. He was as tall as two big men and about as broad. He looked only slightly less like a rock than he had by moonlight.

Lugos had no illusions that we were anything other than what we were: a bunch of potential escapees. He didn't try to make us behave like professional soldiers, or any kind of soldiers for that matter. He had a couple of henchmen drawn from the regulars, both of whom carried bows and wore short swords. A few of us were armed too, with wooden cudgels and staves. If we'd been less dispirited, an insurrection might not have been out of the question. I would cheerfully have jabbed my new knife into Lugos's throat given the chance. What would it have achieved, though? In the midst of Moaradrid's camp, and with that giant towering over us, we wouldn't get far.

So we followed his orders, such as they were. Lugos bullied us into two straggling lines and, after a brief discussion with another officer who'd ridden up from the main force, set us off at a fast trot, angling slightly uphill and northward.

It was still dark below, and I couldn't tell much about the disposition of the two armies. Banners stood out as stains of colour in the defender's camp, but Moaradrid apparently disdained such frivolity, marking his divisions by some other means. He'd kept his army all together on the eastern bank, whereas the Castovalians had a small force on the western side of the Casto Mara, with their back line around the bridge. It was the only thing of any strategic value nearby, unless your strategy involved rice and olives. Their force, made up of militias from the towns, were mostly on horseback, and fast enough that if the fight went against them they could fall back and demolish the bridge behind them. It was a sound plan as far as I could judge, one that played to their strengths and the terrain.

They still didn't stand a chance.

As for us, our function was becoming clear. When we came to a halt, I could see two more platoons of bedraggled volunteers on our right. Lugos had us line up four layers deep, and the giant lumbered in behind us, Leon knelt clinging to a platform that rested over its shoulders. The other platoons assumed a similar arrangement; between us, we covered a good length of the hillside. We were a cordon, there to stop the defenders fleeing into the hills. It didn't matter if we were competent or not, or even if we fought back. While they were tangled up with trampling over us they would be cut down from behind.

Something had begun to happen in the valley. Horns blasted the air. A steady drumming started, which rose and rose until I realised it was actually the pound of feet, backed with a bass rhythm of hoof beats. A fine rain began at that same moment, and the sun finally breached over the horizon, deathly pale and shrunken by its blanket of cloud.

The lines of battle met with a crash that echoed between the hills and seemed outrageously loud even from our vantage point. Clashes of metal on metal joined the turmoil. The two dark masses swelled and churned against each other, until it was impossible to tell them apart, or to say if one was doing better than the other.

Moaradrid knew his business. What better time could he have chosen to unleash his new troops than at dawn, when they would be nothing but monstrous shapes plummeting out of the gloom? Had he planned for the rain as well? It was tearing from the sky, which had sunk back into nighttime blackness, with only odd shafts of light pricking through.

I don't know how long it went on for. Time didn't mean much right then. At some point, though, it became apparent that the defenders were losing ground. I imagined, with my lack of military knowledge, that they might just be feinting, backing off from one point only to swing round on another. Maybe to some extent I was right. Still, in general it seemed they were being forced back, and more and more as the morning wore on.

I was sure that Moaradrid must have more giants in reserve. I'd seen at least four dozen of the mysterious covered wagons go past before they'd caught me. Each of the three volunteer brigades had one giant as backup, and that was all I'd seen of them. We were too far away for the defenders to be aware of their existence, so Moaradrid's element of surprise remained intact. What was he waiting for?

There were signs that the defenders were falling back in earnest. They were drawing in their flanks around the bridge, although no one had made a move to cross as yet. Moaradrid's troops took the opportunity to spread out around them, manoeuvring northward and onto the higher ground beneath us. If the Castovalians would only flee towards the west, I'd be safe. The Castoval would probably be lost, but that didn't seem very important by then. Let them just escape over that bridge and it would all be over.

Below the bridge, beyond the fighting, something drew my gaze. The water was churning white, as if rocks had plunged up through the surface and the river was battering against them.

No. Not rocks. It was the giants.

The river was shallower there but men still couldn't have hoped to cross, not even on horseback. The giants could, though. Their heads were bobbing dots haloed with foam, moving with painful slowness. I hoped they'd be swept away. Surely, nothing could be strong enough to push through that rain-swollen torrent. Even as I thought it, a pair of shoulders bore out of the flow, grew a torso and arms, and thighs thick as tree trunks.

The defenders, caught up in their retreat, already focused on attacks from three sides, remained oblivious. Even as the last giant broke free and dragged itself ashore, even as they lumbered towards the Castovalians holding the west bank, no one looked their way. It was only when the rearmost riders started over the bridge and saw huge shapes striding inexorably down on them that the panic began. The handful of men holding the far bank routed instantly. The main force, unaware of what was taking place across the river, were still trying to withdraw. The giants marched nearer. Those already on the bridge found themselves pressed from both sides. The bridge itself began to weaken under the strain. Timbers splintered into the waves beneath.

The Castovalians were already in chaos by the time the giants reached them. I glanced away, my eyes stinging. When I looked back, one giant had a horse raised over its head, the rider still dangling from the stirrups. As I watched, both horse and rider were hurled back into the fray. I thought I could make out the animal's scream against the clamour of background noise.

Moaradrid's main force, meanwhile, was still hammering against their front. The defenders had collapsed into a clumsy wedge, with the horsemen — worse than useless in such close confines — pressed towards the centre. The bridge sagged at its middle, and then split like wet paper, plunging a last few bodies beneath the waves. That slowed the giants, at least. They lined up on the west bank, as if unsure what to do next.

The Castovalian cavalry, what few of them remained, chose that moment to try to break free. They charged in a single mass against their opponents. The ranks bulged, and held. The Castovalians wheeled back, and drove forward once more, clustered even more tightly. This time Moaradrid's lines buckled. The riders surged through, aiming directly uphill.

That meant they were heading straight towards the middle of the three volunteer platoons, which brought a ragged cheer from my own.