David Tallerman - Giant thief

"Rein him in," cried Estrada from somewhere behind, the words almost torn apart by the wind shrieking in my ears.

"He'll murder me!"

"He'll exhaust himself, and they'll catch us."

I knew she was right. That didn't make the idea more realistic or my horse less crazy. It seemed far more likely he'd throw me off and trample my skull like an eggshell than submit to any sort of control. Yet if I didn't try, he'd be spent in minutes. Without letting go my grip around his neck, I tried to snare the loose-hanging reins. I only dared slacken my grasp a fraction when I had them firmly tangled around my fingers.

He didn't even notice. Whether through fear, excitement or sheer viciousness, he seemed determined to run himself to death. Moaradrid would arrive to find me sat on a dead horse, and perhaps he might even smile for once before he chopped my head off. The thought gave me courage enough for a tentative yank on the reins.

"Wooah, Killer!" I cried, as loud as I dared.

The newly renamed Killer whinnied deep in the back of his throat, tossed his head, and picked up speed. I could feel his flanks shuddering between my legs, jerking in rhythm with his labouring lungs. He was beginning to tire already. All it was doing was making him madder. What was he so angry about, anyway?

Maybe he missed his master.

I jerked back on the reins with all my might and, summoning my best impression of Alvantes, bellowed, "Stop, damn you!"

Though Killer didn't stop, he slowed dramatically. He'd been expecting Alvantes, and nothing could have confused him more than a timid rider. He was used to authority, to knowing his place in the world.

Saltlick picked that moment to trot up beside me and, remembering him sat stock-still at Moaradrid's command, I couldn't help drawing a comparison to the animal labouring beneath me. I knew it was unfair. The giants' system of leadership had probably worked perfectly for centuries when only giants were involved. It wasn't designed to cope with power-hungry warlords, or self-absorbed thieves for that matter.

Saltlick actually looked well. His wounds had knitted faster than a man's would, and his expression remained cheerful. It was as though the morning's carnage had been a mere preamble to his starting homeward. I couldn't find it in me to blame him for that. He'd suffered more than most because of Moaradrid, and with least reason.

Maybe making sure he got back home was the only worthwhile way left to end this. Moaradrid was bound to catch us eventually. I'd been so close to death so many times over the last few days that it was hard to work up much excitement over the idea. Anyway, we had to run somewhere. Perhaps the near-mythical hideaway of the giants was as good a place as any.

Estrada caught up on my left side, and called, "They're close."

I dared a glance over my shoulder. There were riders, sure enough, though Moaradrid wasn't amongst them. They'd just passed the last corner, and would still have been out of sight if this section of road weren't so straight. It was impossible to tell if they were gaining.

"Is this the right way?" I asked Saltlick.

He tried to nod, realised the gesture was futile when his whole body was bobbing with each stride, and pointed ahead. If I remembered the area rightly, we were near the Cancasa Bridge, the southern border of Castovalian civilisation. The road veered outward to avoid an outcrop of the mountainside, just before the point where it met the river. It was there that Saltlick indicated.

Once we'd rounded the next bend, the road dissolved into a series of long curves. It was impossible to see the northern riders after that. The fact made me both glad and nervous. I'd no desire to watch them drawing closer, but knowing they might be and that I couldn't see it was almost worse. If Moaradrid's men were remotely typical of the northern tribes, they'd probably been born in the saddle, whereas my lack of control over Killer was severely slowing us down. He only seemed to understand going too quickly or too slowly, and convincing him to keep a steady pace was a constant struggle. I did the best I could, and willed the outcrop to appear, as though it would offer some miraculous safety.

Inevitably it was a disappointment. Saltlick had taken the lead, his easy strides more than a match for our horses. Where the road jerked aside to avoid a wedge of rocky ground, a rough trail led off to the right. Saltlick turned onto it without slowing, undaunted by the incline. Killer was more nervous, slowing almost to a halt before he got the measure of the looser surface.

It occurred to me Moaradrid's men might miss the turn-off. But there was no real hope of that. Even if there was no one in the party who could follow our trail, it didn't take a genius to guess where we'd be heading. Moaradrid himself had come this way only a month or so ago. I wondered briefly how he'd ever known about the giant-stone. Or had he simply planned to make some deal, or somehow force the giants into service? I didn't dare guess how that wolfish mind of his might work.

I couldn't resist another look back as we began up the hillside, clinging to the absurd hope that for once luck would take our side. The trail curled between slabs of grey rock streaked with chalk, or sometimes banks of hard-packed earth where gaunt thorn trees bent towards us. The main road was hidden from view, and all the perspective we had was the occasional glimpse of river to our left and the ramparts of the mountain rearing ahead. I couldn't tell if Moaradrid's men had taken the turn-off.

As long as I didn't know for sure, I could hope.

The path, which had been steadily worsening, became abruptly steeper. Killer nearly lost his footing, and whinnied irritably. He wasn't bred for this kind of thing. This was literally donkeywork, and torment for an animal born to run on the flat. As distressing as it was to feel him struggling beneath me, my greatest worry was that we'd have to abandon our mounts. After the travails of the last few hours, neither Estrada nor I were in particularly good shape. Having to leave the horses could only work to Moaradrid's advantage.

Of course, I was still clutching to the faint hope that we'd lost our pursuers. It wasn't until the incline took us out from the region of shallow gullies and onto the beginning of the mountainside proper that we had a clear view. There was the river, tumbling from the mountainside to wind into the blue haze of the distance. There was the Cancasa Bridge, looking hopelessly fragile against the backdrop of tumbling white-water, and the road traipsing across it and away in each direction.

Lastly, there was Moaradrid's small band. I was surprised by how far behind they'd fallen. They'd barely made the turn onto the trail. At that distance, they were little more than large specks standing out against the grey of the path.

Nor did they seem to be rushing. I thought about what Mounteban had said — that Moaradrid's unpaid and ill-fed army was close to rebellion. Were they taking their time through half-heartedness, perhaps discussing whether it mightn't be easier just to turn around and forget the whole sorry business? But another detail made me think twice. The party had grown by at least a half-dozen riders, and a couple of what from their outlines must be pack mounts. It was just as likely that they'd waited for support and supplies, perhaps even for Moaradrid himself. Wouldn't he want to see this through?

So maybe they weren't hurrying because they knew we had nowhere left to run.

A thought crossed my mind: If I ordered him to, Saltlick could kill them all. A dozen men — a thrown rock would probably do it. Maybe I should have done it days ago, in Panchetto's palace perhaps. Wouldn't Panchetto be alive now if I had? I glanced at Saltlick. He'd been running, or walking hard, for nearly an hour now, and his skin glistened with sweat. Yet there was no sign of tiredness in his face, only a look of steadfast pleasure.