[Greyhawk 01] - Against the Giants Read online

  GREYHAWK

  AGAINST

  THE GIANTS

  Greyhawk - 01

  Ru Emerson

  (A Flandrel & Undead Scan v1.0)

  The morning of 14 Harvester dawned muggy and too warm in the remote Keoland hill village of Upper Haven. The newly risen sun cast a ruddy pall over a crossroad just beyond the last huts as Yerik, the sturdily built, gray-bearded village headman, emerged from the hut that he shared with his mother. They had shared the small dwelling ever since his father and young wife had died of fever twelve years earlier. His beloved Aleas had been heavy with their first child, and the grief over their loss had hit him so that he hadn’t wed again, taking the village as his family instead.

  So far, Upper Haven’s year had not been a good one. The young baron had died of fever the preceding winter, leaving no heir. Since his death, there had been none of the usual hunting parties through the area. Baron Hilgenbran, who had paid in silver for all supplies needed at his lodge—from fowl and eggs for his table to wood for the enormous firepits—had been a stern but fair ruler. Without him, there had not been the usual drain on Upper Haven’s limited resources, but there had been no coin either.

  The village’s chickens hadn’t increased properly, thanks to the icy winter that had hung on well through Readying, and spring had been unusually cold and wet, lasting well into planting season—in mourning for the baron, some said. Whatever the cause, the grain hadn’t sprouted until nearly mid-Wealsun, and some of it was still underground at summer’s longest day. By this late date, the wheat and oats should have been threshed and stored in watertight clay jugs down in the communal root cellars where they would keep the winter.

  Now, with the grain barely ripe, even the youngest farmer of Upper Haven could look at that ruddy eastern sky and predict heavy rain by nightfall.

  “There’ll be lightning,” Yerik predicted gloomily, his eyes fixed on the ruddy sky where the sun would soon rise, “and fires down where we pasture the goats and horses. It was too wet all spring, and it’s been too dry since.”

  His mother stepped on to the small porch just behind him, deftly working her long white hair into a thick plait. Gran seemingly had no other name—at least none that the villagers could remember. Old as she was, her memory was astonishingly sharp. She nodded. “Like the year—was it almost forty years ago?—year 546, yes. A bad one, everything on-end. It was too wet all summer, too dry in fall, and a poor harvest because of it. What grain there was rotted when rain fell before we could reap.” She fastened the plait with a bit of faded blue ribbon. “At least the rain put out the fires that year. And it’s our good fortune that you were clever enough to call on High Haven to come in and stay last night, should the grain be ready today.”

  She glanced toward the low stable, usually empty this time of year since the herds grazed out all year except snow season. At the moment, the stable threshing floor was packed with High Haveners—twenty men from the upper village, who would exchange labor now for flour and fodder come winter. Fifteen young women who had come down from the mountain with them had taken over the common house for the night.

  Yerik sighed heavily. “The grain will have to be ready. We’ve no choice.”

  “Yes. The crop is your business today, son. Remember that if we go hungry this winter, those who like placing blame will blame you. Worse still, we’ll lose Bregya, and she is a fine tanner.”

  The headman nodded. “We’d also lose her father. Digos has not been well the entire year. A better b’lyka player we’ve never had.”

  “True.” Gran flipped the braid over her shoulder and came down the step to stand beside him. “Organize everyone able to help in some way. The herders are a sturdy lot. They’ll give you good time, and old Haesk and his brother can help keep watch over the babes. Get little Adisa to help Bregya tend her small ones. Take blankets so they can sit under the trees and weave us wreaths from the stems for good fortune. Make a game of it for the youngest. The children are useful at finding all the loose wheat-heads, if you plan it right.”

  Yerik nodded and smiled.

  Gran patted his arm. “Yes. I see you remember the game I made of it, when you were a small boy. Leave me Mibya and her sister. I’ll need them to start pots of soup for everyone. We’ll eat together once the crop is safely inside.”

  “Good.” He rubbed his hoary beard and nodded. “That will free up more of the women to help. The rain may hold off until middle night. It has that look. Still, we’ll get the crop in as quickly as we can. Remember Lharis and his son are out hunting. They should return with meat.”

  “Should,” she agreed with a smile. “We won’t count on it, though.”

  “No, but old Mikati swears he saw an entire herd of deer on the northeast plain two days ago. You know Lharis. If there’s a herd anywhere near, he’ll bring in at least one.”

  “I will count deer only when I can touch them,” Gran replied. “I’d welcome meat, but if not, we’ll manage. We always do.” She gazed at the eastern sky with visible misgivings. “I wish I liked the look of this morning better.”

  “You”—he eyed her sidelong—“recall a day like this?” he asked tentatively, emphasizing the word that also meant accessing the oral village history passed down to her, mother to daughter, wisewoman to apprentice, for all the years Upper Haven had been a village.

  She shrugged. “No. I’m merely worried. We know the weather has been erratic all year, and it will play us foul if it can. Go, shoo.”

  Yerik nodded absently. His eyes were fixed on the horizon, and she doubted he’d heard her. “Do you see an omen?” he whispered.

  “None of that!” she hissed. “They’ll not take it well—our people or the highlanders—to hear you say ‘omen’! Keep everyone busy as you can. The other women and I will bring midday food to you. Why”—she laughed softly—“we’ll make a picnic of it, and then a holiday tonight, especially if young Lhors and his father bring us game. Offer your reapers a proper harvestfest, dancing and music and a feast, good barley and beet soup with honeyed flat bread Filling stuff, even if there isn’t venison. A chance for the young men of the highlands to properly meet our girls.”

  “And the other way about.” Yerik smiled. His young wife had come from High Haven at just such a small harvestfest. He patted his mother’s cheek. “What will we do,” he murmured, “when you finally leave this world for a better?”

  She clasped his hand. “I do nothing special. I’m simply a woman with long years and a good memory. The village does as much for me as I do for the village—just as we keep an old warrior like Lharis happy by making him huntsman for all of us and letting him teach his skills to our boys. I can still cook, and I can see patterns that repeat over time.”

  “You make it sound so… so ordinary,” he protested.

  “It is ordinary, thank all the gods at once,” she assured him. “Certain things occur, now and again—like a too-wet planting season.” She released his hand. “Get everyone out there. We’ll bring black bread, apples, and ale at midday.” Her gaze moved beyond him toward the sunrise, and she looked briefly troubled. Before her son could question her though, she shook off the mood and shooed him away.

  Yerik straightened his tunic, settled the thick belt around his middle, then strode off into the midst of the village, rapping on one door and then another before he vanished into the stable to waken their visitors.

  Gran watched him go, nodding approvingly. The harvest would be in and safely dry before the storm hit. Nothing else mattered, except keeping the morale of both villages high.

  She drew a thread from the ragged hem of a sleeve and wound it around her finger so that sh
e would remember to have the common room readied after the soup was simmering. There’d be no dancing in the open square this night—not for long, at least. The ache in her bones told her that this would be the kind of storm her long-dead husband had called a giant killer.

  An interesting name, she thought. Why it was called that, however… She didn’t know for sure. Probably because it described a true fury of a storm, a storm that hit just short of midnight and pulverized the senses with forks of lightning and sent thunder to set the dogs howling and make the elders glad their ears no longer worked so well.

  After a full day under that hot, muggy sky, most of the harvesters would be exhausted, only the young still willing to dance. With luck, the worst of the storm wouldn’t hit until the children were sound asleep.

  She’d best remember to tell Yerik to make sure a few of the villagers had enough energy to patrol the fields. Lightning-fires could devastate what few grazing lands they had.

  She shoved the braid over her shoulders. Storm weather was making her feel broody and old, but there was work to do. She glanced toward the sunrise one last time before setting to her tasks. The sun had cleared the distant peaks and now seemed merely a little too bright. West, the mountains were still a dark mass, smothered in black towering cloud.

  * * *

  Out in the fields, the harvest went on as the sun rose to midday and fell toward the ever-thickening cloud in the west. Women and men, bent nearly in half, worked their way efficiently backward down the ranks of dry plants, grabbing a fat handful of stems and scything them right at the dirt before dropping them in place and moving on to the next handful. Behind them, others came to free a single stalk and use it as a binding cord around the rest. Boys and young women followed, gathering up the bundles and carrying them to the two handcarts, while children picked up whatever had fallen and tossed it into baskets.

  Yerik allowed a decent break for midday meal, knowing people would be able to work harder and longer for food and a short nap. The weather still held off, but the late afternoon air was pale gold and utterly still, as if some god had distilled it.

  The sun was still a full hand above the clouds when the last basket was picked up and the carts were hauled back under the stable’s low roof for the night. Abandoning the carts and baskets, villagers and their guests went to remove the layers of dust and chaff-coated sweat before gathering in the village square where two black pots bubbled, spreading the soothing odor of a familiar soup.

  Night came early, with a rising wind and heavy black clouds that blotted out the western mountains and even the near foothills. Thunder grumbled in the distance, and occasionally the western sky was briefly pale with lightning. But the air was cool and fresh for the first time in long hours, and the rain held off.

  After everyone had eaten well, Dikos broke out his three-stringed b’lyka, while Mikati unpacked the four flat drums from their hide case, settling them on his broad lap. People cheered and clapped as the two consulted before finally breaking into the familiar jigging tune they always played first. For some moments they played to an empty square while some of the older women clapped time. Then Emyas tugged her newly pledged Arkos to his feet, and got him dancing. Others joined them. A half dozen of the girls got up and formed a circle, dancing, giggling at the boys and at each other. Gran and the other cooks settled back, pleasantly tired, to watch and occasionally gossip about the dancers or those who sat close together, chuckling as they wagered on which would be the next pair to pledge.

  Song followed song as evening deepened into night.

  All at once, the air turned much cooler. Lightning forked across the southwestern hill country and thunder rumbled, louder and closer to the flash of light. The two players set aside their instruments as a gust of wind blew across the ground, sending a swirl of dust and cook-fire smoke high. At that moment, a dark, bulky man in leathers came into the open light, followed closely by a youth of perhaps seventeen years. The older man carried a strung bow in one hand and a drawn sword in the other—unusual in a peaceful village. His face, normally expressionless, was set and grim. Yerik wove between the suddenly stilled dancers, the old woman right on his heels.

  “Lharis, Lhors, what is it?” the headman demanded in a low voice. Lharis held a finger against his mouth and made a warning glance at the gathered villagers. His son Lhors was pale to the lips. Lharis beckoned urgently, drawing Yerik and his mother under their porch.

  “Giants,” he murmured. “We were crossing the fallow ridge at sunset to get help bringing in the kill, and we saw two giants, hulking brutes twice my height and breadth at least. I don’t think they saw us. They were angling away from here, north and west, but they seemed curious and interested in what they saw. We had to go to ground for some time until we were certain they’d left.”

  Lhors swallowed. His two thrusting spears clattered together.

  “We’d better ready for an attack,” the retired warrior added evenly.

  “Ready? Attack? Against—?” Yerik’s voice broke.

  The other man nodded firmly. “Hold together, man. It’s not impossible. We’ve a few who can use bow or spears. Find them, and warn them to move quietly but quickly to fetch their arms. Meanwhile, you get everyone else out of sight and kept quiet.” He glanced over at Gran. “See that those fires are put out. With luck, the creatures aren’t after this village, and they may not know exactly where it is.”

  He didn’t believe that last, Gran realized, her own mouth dry. “If we tell people what the threat is, everyone will panic,” she said.

  Lharis shook his head.

  “No, don’t do that. Just say there’s a danger. Say it’s bandits. Get the women and children to the root cellars where they won’t be heard. Pick some of the older boys to douse all those torches and ready as many others as we have, once they’ve put out the cook fires. Put them down next to the oven and keep it lit. The flames won’t show, and the torches will be right there to light, when it’s time.” The aged warrior eyed the headman, who was trying to say something. “Cheer up, Yerik. Giants aren’t immortals. They can die as readily as men.”

  Lightning flashed, and thunder boomed almost on its heels, shaking the ground. “No one should be out in this anyway. Get our people under cover because the storm’s setting up strong. I saw only the two, Yerik. Our men can deal with two giants.”

  “Deal… with…” Yerik echoed blankly.

  “Do what he says, my son. Go!” Gran gave him a shove. She waited to be sure he was moving in the right direction then turned back to the two hunters. “Your spears, Lhors, have you more of them?”

  The boy stared at her, his eyes wild, then jumped convulsively as a small child screamed. The village flared with blue light, thunder cracking on top of it. Gran felt the hair stand up on her head and arms. She turned to see terrified people suddenly running in all directions, her son standing in the middle of the square staring up into the trees. And up. Darkness was followed in a blink by a brilliant blue-white flash that cast strange shadows.

  “That isn’t one of our oaks,” Gran said to herself. Sudden dread seized her as lightning illuminated trees, roofs, and a huge snarling face looming above the roofs.

  The heavily bearded giant was more than twice her size, and most of his head was covered in a metal cap. His body was clad in heavy-looking hides that bared massive arms, and several long spears dangled from one meaty hand.

  Bellowing, part laugh and part battle cry, the giant strode forward into the square, hefting an enormous spear as he searched for a target. Panicked villagers streamed in every direction—all except for one. Lharis stood in the midst of the chaos, waving his sword and trying to direct the hysterical crowd. The giant spotted him and hurled its massive spear straight for him. The deadly missile sang through the air and slammed into the warrior.

  Lharis choked. He was knocked off his feet a man’s length or more before he went down. Blood—too much blood—ran down his chin. His hands clawed at the thick wooden haft that s
wayed above his belly and pinned him firmly to the ground.

  “Father!” Lhors’ voice cracked into treble. He threw himself at the older man. Lharis tried to speak, but no words came. His eyes found Gran. She nodded, caught Lhors by the shirt and dragged him back.

  “Don’t!” she shouted. “That’s a killing blow. You can’t help him. You’ll only cause him more pain, and he knows it! Get all the children you can and get them to the cellars. Go!”

  “I can’t!”

  “You can! Go!”

  The boy glanced back at his father. Lharis lay still, his hands suddenly limp at his sides and his eyes staring sightlessly up. Lhors shuddered and turned away.

  Gran paused to take stock. People were running in all directions, girls screaming shrilly, men bellowing and cursing. A hideous, deep laugh drowned them out. The giant who’d killed Lharis stepped into the square, overturning the empty soup pot as he shouted what must be an order, but she couldn’t understand a word of it. Three more giants—huge-muscled, fur-and hide-clad brutes—immediately came from the trees to stride after the villagers fleeing into the stable. Somewhere beyond them, she could hear her son shouting, “No! Don’t go in the buildings! Get out of the stable! Get to the stream or the cellars!”

  She turned back to see what she could do. Across the square, much too near the still ruddy fires and the giant who’d killed Lharis, she could see Mibya and her nearest sister. They’d scooped up four of the little ones, and the sister bent her head over the two children she held, letting dark cloth hide her white hair as she edged cautiously sideways. With a sudden spurt of movement, the woman turned and ran between two huts and vanished into the night, but Mibya stared up, frozen in place.

  The wisewoman yelled at her, but Mibya either didn’t hear or was too terrified to move. The giant flung back a hide cloak, sheathed his sword, and bent down to shove a finger in the still nearly full pot of soup.

  That’s boiling, Gran thought, stunned. But if it burned him, he gave no sign. He licked broth from his finger, then smiled, baring yellowed teeth the size of shields, and moved with appalling speed, slapping Mibya aside with the back of his fist. With one swift bound and a snatch, the giant scooped up the children she’d been carrying and dropped them into the boiling soup. He clapped a round shield over the open top, holding it down with one huge hand.