Against the Giants Read online

  Some distance away, a man clad in mail and plate armor that shone like silver moved through the crowd. He was followed closely by a boy and a horse. The horse was a huge creature, blue-black with a well-brushed mane and tail that hung nearly to the paving. The steeds head rested on the knights plate-clad shoulder as if he were an enormous pet.

  That’s a paladin! Lhors thought in amazement. To think! His father had told him wonderful tales about paladins, and this past winter he’d openly spoken of his hopes that Lhors might become equerry to such a man. I might have liked that, Lhors mused, if only because Father would have been proud, but the village could never have spared me. Even Lhors’ hunting skills—nowhere near as good as his father’s—were needed.

  Lhors glanced after the paladin and the boy with renewed interest. Odd companions. The mail-clad man was an impressive figure, the boy a gawky creature of perhaps ten years with spiky brown hair and ragged clothing. Curious, Lhors thought. There must be some tale there, though he hadn’t the wit to work one out.

  Some distance on, a gray-bearded man juggled three lit torches. Lhors slowed but moved on almost at once. He had seen a boy moving among the awed crowd, using a slender-bladed knife to relieve people of their coin bags. Cutpurse. So that is where the word comes from, Lhors realized. He made certain of his own coins and kept going.

  He paused now and again to repeat the gate guard’s instructions to himself. Straight past the Shrine of Heironeous, which he would know by the huge stone hand clutching a lightning bolt. He tried not to think about the combination of huge hands and lightning. Who or what was a Heironeous? It must be a god to have a shrine, but who prayed to a god who called upon lightning?

  Upper Haven had prayed to all the gods in general—one never knew which might be offended by being left out. Lhors knew little of such things himself. His father now and again invoked the name of Trithereon, though when things went wrong, Lharis bespoke one he named as Dread Hextor. “One who was a warrior and is now poor is doubly in the care of Hextor,” was all his father would say.

  “Straight past the shrine,” he repeated to himself, “then turn south beyond the armorer’s and south again at the wall. Follow the wall around to the gate.”

  All at once, he could see the shrine—a small stone building with a massive lightning bolt and fist of shining black stone. Lhors felt suddenly very peasantlike and out of place. He hurried on, passing through a sprawl of stone buildings, small huts, and a few open-sided tents. This must be the armory, he decided, though other goods were sold as well—furs, wrought metal jewelry, and a variety of armor. The noise was incredible here. A massive brute of a smith on his left was beating red-hot metal, and just beyond him, two younger men were battering horseshoes and dipping the finished products into a vat of water.

  He caught the familiar reek of a tanners—rotting hides soaking in salt brine—and stopped short. Bregya. His throat tightened. He’d helped her this past year with the scraping after she’d become too ill and weak to do the heavy work. Upper Havens master tanner had become something of a substitute mother to Lhors, instructing him in proper manners, helping him to understand girls, and knowing when he needed to talk about things that he couldn’t tell his father. Lhors swallowed hard and moved on quickly.

  Do not think about Bregya! To come this far, only to weep in the city streets or worse, before the guards! His father’s shade would be horrified, and he himself would die of shame.

  Lhors had rehearsed the tale often on the journey here. A boy of his class would be given little time for an audience with a lord, however important his message. The more he ran the words through his mind, the less the words themselves would hurt. You must tell what happened as quickly and clearly as you can, and if the lord permits, you must ask his help.

  He ran through the words once again as he turned the corner. “They must be stopped. They destroyed our village and now are more confident. If they burn every village in the hills, then they will believe nothing can stop them. Then they will turn on the plain, perhaps even the king’s city. Better to end their terror with Upper Haven.” He stumbled over a badly angled cobble and glanced around furtively. No one was watching him, fortunately. “Upper Haven was small, but honest,” he continued to himself. “We paid the king’s tax every year, and we provided goods for the baron’s hunting lodge. Perhaps the coin is small compared to that of a town like New Market, but join our tax to that of the other villages…” And there I pause, Lhors told himself. Let Lord Mebree see the answer himself, as my father would say.

  He bore south at the wall, fingers trailing over its greened stones. The way was narrower here and the wall very tall and sturdy looking. On his right was a long row of joined buildings that might be houses, but they had few windows or doors, and there was no sign of people anywhere.

  As the wall curved away to the left, he came upon a small baker’s shop where the smell of fragrant bread filled the air. His stomach rumbled, and he fingered the twist of fabric that held a silver and three copper pieces in his right pocket. He’d left the hill garrison with three silver pieces the captain had pressed upon him—more money than he’d had for himself in all his life. It appalled him how quickly it had gone, frugal as he’d been and as little as he’d eaten. And there was still the return journey. But it would be foolish to come so far and faint from hunger at the king’s feet. He eyed the display, finally choosing a plain roll for a single copper.

  The baker’s wife eyed him appraisingly as she took the coin, then split the roll and spread a generous dollop of runny cheese on it for him. “You’re too thin, lad,” she told him severely and waved him away when he tried to pay for the extra. “Most young ’uns as lean as you are would try to steal their bread. I appreciate honesty in a boy.”

  He thanked her as graciously as he knew how, suddenly grateful for Bregya’s lessons. Odd, though, he thought as he walked away with his mouth full of soft bread and spicy cheese. It would never have occurred to him to steal food.

  The tough little loaf would have been almost enough by itself. With the addition of the cheese, his stomach was properly full, and he felt alert for the first time in days.

  He drank from a fountain where water poured from the mouths of oddly shaped stone fish. There were more guards here and the long row of houses gave way to a series of pens and stables. Two horsemen, helmets eased back off their faces, rode past him at a slow amble, heading in the direction he was going. Some paces on, they dismounted, handed their reins to a barefoot boy who led the horses into a fenced enclosure close by and began unsaddling them. The men vanished, and moments later, Lhors could see the broad opening that breached the innermost wall and beyond that, the high wall.

  He hesitated at the intricately wrought metal gates that gave entry to the lord’s courtyard. There were two armored and armed men flanking the opening. They looked at him sternly. To his surprise, once he’d stammered out his name and village, they’d conferred by hand signal, then simply passed him through.

  Once inside, he slowed to look around, but there wasn’t much to see. The grounds were raked dirt and gravel or sand—clean, plain, and utilitarian. A few plain benches of hardwood or stone were scattered here and there, but there was no other ornamentation.

  The keep was smaller and much plainer than he’d have expected, but then this was not a king’s palace. Still, it rose high above his head—four sets of windows, one above the other with a guard-walk above that. The walls went straight up, the stone dressed so smooth there were no visible handholds anywhere. Two mail-clad men paced back and forth on the roof above the parapet. The lower windows appeared to be set at random, but their sills were deep and the openings so narrow that he couldn’t have squeezed through the entry. Structures such as this were for siege fighting, his father had told him. Archers could shoot from reasonable safety, and a small force could hold off an entire army.

  But there had been no such siege warfare in Cryllor in long years and with the gods’ blessing, there would no
t be again. Lhors smiled as his eye caught the large blue banner snapping in a suddenly brisk breeze. Lharis had worn that same patch of blue on the breast of his jerkin. He had been very proud of that bit of blue.

  “I won’t shame it or you, Father,” Lhors whispered. “I swear it.”

  He could see a walkway along the wall he’d just come through, with enclosed towers on the corners where guards could shelter from harsh weather.

  The grounds were busy. Someone was hauling a cart away from the near stable. A boy steadied a nervous ass tethered to a wagon that was piled high with dull green hay while two men in grubby leathers forked the feed into tubs for other boys to carry inside.

  Half a dozen men paced between the gate and keep. Three were in full armor, but the rest appeared to be servants, clad alike in dark blue trousers and shirts.

  Four men lounged on a bench, and just beyond them, two servants were working on a saddle. At their backs, a boy in roughspun clothes sat cross-legged near a pile of stirrups. He was busily polishing one to a gleaming bronze and audibly groaned when a middle-aged fellow wearing only loose, greasy leather pants dropped another load of stirrups atop the pile. The older man laughed raucously, then pulled a polishing cloth from his pocket and settled down to help.

  Other soldiers hovered at the buttery, drinking from leather cups. Lhors eyed them sidelong. Many of them were older, hard looking, and not all wore the blue patch. I wonder if any of them knew my father, Lhors thought wistfully. But he felt suddenly shy. He wouldn’t know what to say to such men, and likely they’d ignore him.

  There were two guards at the broad step leading to the main door—a massive, bronze reinforced slab of wood that stood open. Lhors swallowed past a very dry throat and walked up to them. The guards drew two swords each and stepped to block his way.

  “Name, affiliation, and business,” one of them snapped.

  “Affiliation—that means what village you’re from,” the second added with an unpleasant grin.

  “Be polite, Efoyan,” the first chided, but he was grinning, too.

  Efoyan simpered. Lhors blinked. He hadn’t expected their kind in the lord’s employ—young men who were full of themselves and what little power their duties gave them. Well, the trick was to keep his irritation in check. If they couldn’t get him angry, they’d give over.

  “I am Lhors, son of Lharis,” he said, “of the village Upper Haven to the north. I bring the Lord Mebree word of danger.”

  “‘Son of Lharis’, indeed!” Efoyan smirked. “Imagine, Doneghal! Here’s a peasant who believes he can name his sire!”

  Lhors decided to let the insult pass. He would never receive an audience with the lord by quarreling with guards. He waited. Doneghal finally waved him to continue. “Some nights ago,” Lhors said, proud that his voice did not tremble at the memory, “Upper Haven fought giants—”

  Both men broke into spluttering laughter, again silencing him. “Giants?” Doneghal jeered. “There are no giants in Keoland!”

  “What? Did you attack the brutes with torches and scythes, or merely feed them bad village stew and ale?” Efoyan snickered.

  Lhors set his jaw and grimly plunged on. “We did fight. My father was once a guard here in this very city, and he trained us boys.”

  “Oh, it gets better. His father a Cryllor guard, yet! And he’s trained himself!” Both men laughed harshly, then Efoyan drew himself upright. “Go away, boy. It’s a clever tale but we’ve heard many better.”

  “Giants indeed,” Doneghal snorted, narrowed eyes fixed on Lhors, who suddenly realized what a picture he must present after three days of hunting in the hills followed by Upper Haven’s final, bloody night, and then days of journey on short rations with no time or place to properly bathe.

  “You, boy,” Efoyan said, “I know what you are. You’re a grubby little market thief trying to get in to steal something or catch a glimpse of the king and win a bet with your fellow grubby thieves, aren’t you? Well, it won’t work! Not while we’re on guard!”

  Lhors stared at him. “Steal?” he managed. The guards seemed to find this wildly funny.

  Efoyan swallowed laughter. “Look, peasant. If there really were giants about, we’d know it, see? The Lord Mebree’s steward would’ve sent orders for us to pass anyone who could tell him about giants.”

  “Yes, he would,” Doneghal added. “Because, if anyone was to be told, it would be us, d’ye see? Because we two are the ones who’d have to know it was all right for you to be inside, wouldn’t we?”

  “But we haven’t been told one gods’ blessed word about giants. So you see what that means, don’t you? Means you’re lying to us, doesn’t it?”

  “Lying!” Doneghal finished triumphantly. “So! Just you be off, right now! You aren’t getting into the keep, not today or any day soon! Not with a stupid tale like that!”

  “Your pardon, sirs,” Lhors broke in sharply, “but Upper Haven is in the foothills well to the north of here—many days’ ride. Until our village was attacked, no one around there had seen giants, so I must warn the lord or get a message to him—”

  “You grow boring,” Efoyan said flatly. He set his spear against the wall and gave Lhors a shove. Lhors fought for balance, managing to right himself as the guards stalked toward him.

  “Boring,” Doneghal echoed and tossed his spear aside so he could grab Lhors’ shirt. Efoyan shoved him aside.

  “Let me, friend,” he said flatly and slammed one open hand against Lhors’ chest, driving him back into the courtyard. He drew a long, braided leather whip from his belt. “I know how to teach a stupid peasant not to waste my time.” He snapped his wrist. Lhors jumped convulsively as the leather thong cracked just short of his ear.

  Efoyan struck again. Lhors just managed to duck as it cracked over his head. Behind him, a deep man’s voice snarled, “Why don’t you pick on someone closer to your own size, Efoyan?” Lhors scuttled back as a dark, solidly built man caught hold of the tip of the lash and yanked. The guard yelped as the whip was torn from his grasp. The dark man slid the lash through his fingers, gripped the handle and slammed it into the guard’s brow. Efoyan sagged, went flat, and stayed there. Doneghal leaped across his companion, eyes narrowed as he went into fighting stance, but the newcomer simply grabbed him by the shoulders, spun him halfway around and kicked him, hard. Doneghal staggered and slammed into the palace wall, head first. He slid down, dazed or unconscious.

  Lhors gazed blankly up at the bronze-skinned man who turned away from the fallen pair to give the youth a hand up and a smile. “Sorry about your reception, lad.”

  Before Lhors could fathom a suitable reply, the man walked over and began to nudge the two guards, who were beginning to moan and look around, obviously still dazed.

  “Up!” the man shouted. “Up, the both of you! Up I say! Now!”

  The two guards reluctantly complied. Outrage and embarrassment played over their faces, though both of them had obviously lost all will to fight.

  “Do you know who I am?” the man demanded. They both nodded dumbly. “Very well. You”—he jabbed at Efoyan with his finger—“will report to Sergeant Storrs and tell him what has taken place here. You will leave nothing out, and I will know if you do. By the time your watch has ended, I’m sure the sergeant and I will have come up with a suitable punishment for the both of you.”

  Glowering, Efoyan turned to go.

  “Stop! I have not dismissed you yet.” The guard halted, and the man continued. “Both of you will apologize to this young man… and make it good, or you’ll both be mucking stables till next season’s snow melts.”

  Both guards stammered an apology. Though their words dripped sincerity, they looked at Lhors with pure hatred. When they had finished, the man let the silence hang until both guards began to eye one another nervously, obviously wondering if their apology had been accepted.

  “Very well,” the man said. “Efoyan, dismissed. Do as I have ordered you. Doneghal, resume your post.”

&nbs
p; The two of them complied, and the man turned his attention to Lhors. “So, you’re Lharis’ son, are you?”

  “You… you knew my father?”

  “I met him once or twice,” the man replied. “But come. You have urgent news. Best we get you inside so Lord Mebree can hear it. I’m Vlandar by the way, captain of one of the hill companies.”

  Lhors stared. He could feel his face heating. “Captain? I’m sorry to be so much—”

  The older man merely laughed, wrapped an arm around Lhors’ shoulders, and drew him through the palace doors into a broad, high ceilinged hallway. “Trouble? You’re no trouble, lad. And I’m merely a captain, not the lord’s commander. My job is to ride the hills between here and the Yeomanry, making sure the villages are safe from bandits and the like. It’s only fitting I should escort you to the lord’s council chambers. He should be meeting with his council now, but if not, there’ll be men to whom you can give a full report. I’ll need to hear what you have to say in any event, if we’ve more to fight out there than bandits and river pirates.”

  As they walked through the passageways, Vlandar kept a hand on his arm, which Lhors suspected kept anyone from asking what business a grubby peasant had in such vast halls. And they were vast. Corridors branched all along the main hall. Now and again, he could see staircases spiraling up to upper levels of the keep. There were people, most in servants’ garb, carrying trays or bundles of clothing, stocks of linens, and other things. The place was surprisingly plain. No statues or fine hangings graced the walls, and the floors were plain polished stone. Here and there, black wrought lamps hung from chains. What doors he could see were closed, and the view beyond the windows was all of dirt courtyards.

  A few guards glanced at Vlandar but made no attempt to stop him. The warrior must be someone of importance, despite his modest remarks, Lhors thought. Father told me about men like that. The best fighters don’t need to brag.

  A boy came running up behind them, swerved around Lhors and his companion, then pelted down the hallway, a small leather pouch slapping against his back. Vlandar turned down yet another hall and stopped before massive double doors. Two more guards stood here, but these were older, grim-faced men who stood at attention with drawn blades before them.