David Tallerman - Giant thief

We passed alongside rice paddies at first, endless expanses of green rising out of mottled water. Farmers sloshed amongst their crops, old men with their wizened chests bare and women with sodden dresses scrunched around their thighs. Their skin was tanned to leather and regardless of sex they wore widebrimmed hats, leaving every face disguised by shadow. They hardly looked up at our passing, showing the traditional peasant aptitude for ignoring things that were none of their business.

The rice fields began to peter out towards noon. We'd travelled mostly across the flat until then, with the road always within sight of the Casto Mara, flowing bloated and sluggish on our right. As we drew closer to the region called the Hunch, that wide offshoot of hillside that splits the whole eastern portion of the Castoval in two, the river began to drop out of sight. It would only be for a moment at first, when it was obscured by a turn; but the periods soon became longer, as our path took us further inland or the waters disappeared into a stretch of gully.

I was glad to reach the Hunch. A man riding by on a giant was the kind of thing the locals would pick up on, however much they feigned disinterest, and there hadn't been a speck of cover amongst the paddies. While the lower slopes of the Hunch weren't much better, there were dips and rises on the top that would hide us. The more the day wore on, the more I was convinced we were in need of hiding.

The camp had been out of sight all morning thanks to a low mound just beyond its southernmost boundary. It came back into view as we started up the fringe of the Hunch, flecks of black and occasional colour in the far distance shifting like an ant nest. About a third of the way between the camp and us, a column was threading along the white surface of the road. I estimated a hundred men on horseback. It seemed incredible that they would be after us. The obvious and sensible course would have been to send an officer and at most a dozen fast riders. Saltlick and his brethren might have been formidable in the confines of the battle, but out in the open we'd be helpless to archers. One well-placed shot — through my head, say — would settle any fight. To commit any more men than that made no sense. They'd travel more slowly, and if they kept together they'd be easier to evade.

Perhaps that column was heading south for some other purpose, then. Yet that didn't make much sense either. It was too many men for an envoy, and far too few to stand a chance against any decent-sized town, even one that had committed most of their defenders to the morning's battle.

Still, those troops were there for some reason, they were heading our way, and they weren't taking their time. The sooner we got higher up the Hunch and gained some decent cover the better.

There was, however, another more immediate consideration — and that was the severely bruised state of my arse. I'd taken to sitting backwards, with one leg slung down Saltlick's back and the other stretched behind his neck, my right arm bent behind to hold the pole, my left tangled in the netting, and my torso twisted round so I could see ahead. It had practical benefits, that I hadn't fallen off being the most obvious, but it was far from comfortable. I ached through every inch of my body, my fingers and toes throbbed with the pain of hanging on. My backside, though, had suffered worst. I'd convinced myself through mile after mile that it couldn't get any worse. My rump had been pounded into mince and that was that. For mile after mile, I'd been proved wrong.

Finally, I called through gritted teeth, "Stop, Saltlick! Stop while there's still a chance I'll walk again someday."

We were perhaps a third of the way up the Hunch, and the road was gently inclining. The fields of the lowlands had given way to small rock outcroppings, ragged bushes, and the occasional wiry tree jutting out from the red earth. The sun was at its apex and viciously hot, having burned away most of the morning's cloud over the last few hours. I was drenched in sweat, and Saltlick reeked, something like a horse but worse.

I cursed myself for not acquiring some supplies during our escape; a couple of skins of water, perhaps even some food. It wouldn't have been difficult. Saltlick could probably have dragged a whole cart without much loss of pace.

I eased myself down onto a ledge of rock beside the road, whimpering as my bruises made contact. I glanced at the column, which was now about half way between the camp and the beginning of the Hunch. It was still a fair distance, but I swore they'd closed the gap slightly over the last hour. It would have to be a short break.

"Have a rest, Saltlick," I said. "We've a long way to go yet."

The giant grunted, marched over to one of the small trees, and snapped off a branch. He stripped the leaves with one ham-sized fist and crammed them into his mouth.

"Hey, don't eat that!"

He looked at me quizzically.

"That won't make you sick? Eating leaves?"

"Good," he said, through a half-chewed mouthful.

"Well all right, you enjoy it then," I said, a little peevishly. Saltlick wasn't about to starve, even if I was. At least I didn't have to worry about finding giantsized portions of food. I still intended to ditch him once I was certain we were in the clear, but in the meantime, I couldn't have him dropping dead beneath me.

Water would still be an issue. Even if he had the stomach of an ox, he was bound to need watering like any creature. That meant finding a village, assuming we couldn't divert back towards the river.

I didn't want to think about that right then, though. My mouth was drier than the rock I sat on and it was only getting hotter. I slipped the pouch out of its pocket instead. I hefted it in my hand, enjoying its weight. I took to toying with the drawstring, easing it apart by fractions, watching for glints from inside. Then, bored with tormenting myself, I opened it all the way and gazed again at its contents. A sigh parted my lips. I thought for a moment I might actually cry.

The pouch contained three things: a few onyx coins and a half-dozen coppers, enough money to buy a good horse or a week's hard drinking; a rock, dull brown striped with red, the size and shape of a flattened goose egg; and the biggest ruby I had ever seen.

The reason I wanted to cry was that it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever laid eyes on and I knew I couldn't keep it. The most valuable haul of my life, worth more than all the others put together, and it was practically worthless. No fence in the Castoval would give me a hundredth of its value, especially if they had the faintest inkling where I'd acquired it. It was too valuable to risk keeping on my person for long. Common sense demanded I get rid of it, and the sooner the better.

Just thinking about it made my heart want to break.

I drew the pouch shut, replaced it, and turned my attention back to Saltlick, who was still absorbed in feeding from the now almost naked tree. My initial estimate of his height — the same as two tall men — had been about right. His proportions were basically human, though his arms were longer, and they and his legs were stockier. He was splendidly ugly: his head was very round, with a wide rectangular jaw, large oval eyes, and an almost comically small nose. His skin was pale, faintly grey, and he was mostly hairless, with only a few feathery tufts sprouting from the dome of his skull. There was something appealing in his expression that I hadn't really noticed before, a certain good-natured idiocy. I wondered again what Moaradrid could possibly have done to convince such formidable yet docile creatures to fight his battles for him. It was hard to imagine anything that could be used to manipulate a whole mob of giants.

"Saltlick," I said, "how are you feeling?"