Before They Were Giants (32 page)

“Let’s go, lazy one!” barked the too-awake voice of Bagsnatcher Bracegirdle, a not-too-respectable at all sort of halfling. “Bags” had a bit o’ the dwarf in him, so it was said, and a fondness for adventure that kept him out of Inspirit Downs more than in. Indeed, he was a burly one, nearly as muscled as a dwarf, though of course he had no beard, and he bragged openly about dragon fights and goblin wars and other sorts of things that others loved hearing about, but generally scorned. On those occasions when Bags was in town, and always in the Floating Cloud Tavern, few went too near to him, but many remained within earshot of his continual spoutings. So it had come as quite the surprise, you can imagine, when Mayor Faltzo Furstockings announced that his tender and most respectable, if not overly cute, daughter Tippin and Bagsnatcher Bracegirdle would be wed on mid-summer’s morning.

Oh, the rumors flew wide and thick that day, I tell you! Some said that Bags had come into a fortune along in his adventuring and had promised Mayor Faltzo that he would settle down. There was talk of a dowry—they called it a bribe—paid by Bags to the mayor. Others, looking for a bit more fun out of the unexpected announcement, claimed that Mayor Faltzo had an inkering for adventuring himself, and that Bags and he would start off soon after the honeymoon on a most extraordinary journey. Whatever the intent, the news came unexpectedly, as I have told you, and so too, especially to Horatio, did Bags’s proclamation that Horatio Homer Hairfoot would stand beside him as his Best Halfling.

Horatio hardly knew Bags, had never even talked to the adventuresome fellow as far as he could remember, and being named as that one’s Best Halfling set off a whole new round of whispers, these speaking of most unpleasant things, like “yearning for a dragon fight,” concerning Horatio. None of them were true, of course; Homer had earned his nickname in heart as well as in reputation. To this day, no one knows exactly why Bags chose Homer, not even Bags probably, but most tavern-philosophers have come to agree that the wayward adventurer just wanted a most respectable fellow by his side to add the right flavor to the extraordinary wedding.

All in all, being named as Best Halfling had been an unwelcomed declaration to Homer, and sitting on the rocky, sloping ground, sore in a dozen places and his belly rumbling in protest of the bland and not-so-plentiful food, Homer’s glare at Bagsnatcher’s back was not a pleasant one! He had accepted the invitation to stand beside Bags, of course, not much choice is given in these matters (not if one intends to remain respectable). Homer figured that if he could afterward stay low-key enough, the damage to his reputation would heal in a year or so, though he knew that he would hear a whispered laugh at his back every now and again, whenever he chanced a visit to the Floating Cloud. If, however, Homer could have imagined the trouble his acceptance would land him in, he would have become ill, or broken his foot, or done anything else that would have allowed him to bow out gracefully, so to speak.

For now Homer had his own adventure, it seemed, and he did not like it, not one bit. A chill and moist wind blew in with the dawnslight, making the creaks all the more prominent in Homer’s backbone. The night had been crystal clear—far in the west and far below, the traveling companions had spotted the lights of Inspirit Downs—but now the mist hung thick as dwarven ale.

“A fine day to be climbing over hard rocks,” grumbled Homer before he even got all the way out of his tangled blankets. The sarcasm in his voice was even more evident now than it had been on the previous three days of his trek, though it was quite lost on Bags, thoroughly pleased by the morning, foggy or not, and by the adventure in general.

“We’ll be picking our paths careful, is all,” Bags snorted in reply. “There’s just the one way to go, ye know—up!” He chuckled and swatted Homer playfully on the back. Homer took it with a grunt and did well to hide his cringing at Bag’s dwarven-flavored accent, an accent that only reminded Homer of his predicament.

“Up,” Homer echoed grimly. Now he cast a scornful look at his companion, barely more than a dark silhouette in the thick fog. “You do not have to enjoy this so much!”

Bags chuckled in reply, understanding, but hardly accepting, the respectable fellow’s gloom. “‘Ere, go on yerself,” said Bags. “I’m the one what’s injured here, bein’ a newlywed and all! Should be back with me best girl, not up here leading yerself into a fine and, if we’re lucky, dangerous journey! Ye get a bargain, by me seeing! Ye get an adventure easily bought ‘n handed right to ye!”

Homer did not reply, realizing that he and Bags saw things simply too differently for him to explain this point of view. Homer did want to throttle Bags for his claims of being the “injured one,” though, for it was Bags, and Bags alone, who had landed them here. The wedding had gone splendidly, but the reception was quite another matter. The unusual circumstances had provided a good deal of mirth to the whole town, and the gathering had howled even louder when Bags, tipping his twelfth mug of black dwarven mead (another testament that he had a “bit o’ the dwarf in him,” for none but a dwarf or dwarf-kin could put down even an eight pack of that stuff without being put down himself!), made a somewhat crass and undeniably stupid remark about his soon-coming adventures with his new wife. Always the protective father, Mayor Falzo had promptly invented a “vital” mission, and Bags, without ever remembering it, had promptly volunteered, and had volunteered, too, to take his Best Halfling and best buddy Homer along with him.

So here they were, Homer miserable and Bags three days married and with his waiting wife miles away. Back in the town they were all laughing, Homer knew, for even Tippin Furstockings-Bracegirdle, always ready to join in on the fun, had thought the whole thing hilarious.

“We’ll be reaching the summit this day, by me guess,” Bags remarked after they had silently, and sullenly for Homer, eaten their breakfast.

“To find a stone,” Homer grumbled.

“The
stone,” the adventuresome fellow corrected with a gleam in his pale gray eyes. “If the rumors hold to true, the heart stone o’ the One Mountain’s sitting at the top for our plucking! Such a gem’d be worth many thousands o’ gold coins, I don’t mind telling ye!” Bags rubbed his hands eagerly together, and if he missed his new wife in the least, Homer could not see it. “Heart stone!” he declared.

“Hearth stone would be better,” Homer muttered under his breath. His family was well off, and Homer saw no need for any adventures, however they might add to the treasury. Besides, Homer knew it, even if Bags was too blinded by the thought of excitement to see it, that Mayor Faltzo’s sudden proclamation that the heart stone was just sitting out in the open atop the One Mountain was only just a ruse. Rumors of that fabled stone had been tossed about for years, centuries even, and if anyone had ever actually seen it, then no one had seen him see it, if you understand my meaning.

“Ofttimes the greatest treasures be sittin, for the grabbing right in front of us, lad,” Bags replied to Homer’s obvious disbelief. “Just waiting for to be plucked!”

Homer narrowed his eyes and firmed up his hairless jaw at Bag’s choice of words, a similar phrase to the one Bags had used at the wedding reception, the one that had landed them in this lousy adventure in the first place.

Bags gave up against that unrelenting stare, a vile grimace that only an underfed and uncomfortable halfling could properly produce. “Might be we’ll catch sight of a dragon,” Bags growled, stealing every bit of Homer’s bluster, and pulled his weapon off his backpack to heighten the other’s terror. It was a curious thing, unlike any weapon Homer had ever seen (not that he had seen many), with a hammer head on one side, an ax head on the other, and a cruel barbed spear tip topping the whole of it off. Bags just called it his banger-chopper-thruster and left it for his enemies to see what it could do. Whatever it might have been, it looked unwieldingly heavy to Homer, and even he—though not inclined to magic—could sense the powerful enchantments on the thing. Homer should have been comforted to have one who could wield the weapon well standing beside him, but the mere sight of the thing unnerved him and turned his stomach so that it made him think that eating might not be a very fine thing.

Homer stood up then and looked all about, a futile attempt in the wall of fog. Before he could begin to grumble about the weather, though, Bags scooped up his pack and started off at a quick pace. Homer swallowed his complaints, and then, when he realized that he was alone, swallowed his fear and ran off to follow.

They made good headway, despite the mist, but even though the dawn soon moved fully into day, the gloom only increased. Soon the companions couldn’t see each other, couldn’t even see their own furry feet.

“We shall tumble down to our deaths,” Homer moaned at Bags’s back.

Bags, ever alert, was too engaged to respond to the comment. The ground had become soft under his feet, springy as a thick bed of moss, a curious fact since they had left the trees and most other vegetation far behind. Also, the ground had leveled off, though Bags had noted no upcoming flat regions along the chosen trail when they had set camp the night before. Instinctively, his experienced hands went to his banger-chopper-thruster. With a word to the magical weapon, “Foe-faces,” he enacted a blue faerie light along the weapon’s multiple heads. But the glow only reflected off the pressing fog back in his face, and though he was not a tall creature, and though he stooped to get even lower, Bags could not even discern the nature of the ground beneath him.

Homer came rushing up then, having lost sight of Bags when Bags dipped low, and bounced off his sturdy companion and tumbled down in a heap.

“You should warn me when you plan to stop!” the respectable halfling cried. Poor Homer was quite unnerved, and you would be too, I should guess, if you were half a head more than three feet tall, with a belly wider than your shoulders, and caught in a strange fog on a strange mountain, expecting a dragon to swoop down at you, or a ghoul to jump in your face, or a wolf to snap at your behind, or a million other things, terrible things, that were said to happen  on adventures. Even a low-flying bird could pose a threat to one of Homer’s stature!

Again Bags let the comment pass. They were in the Wilds, after all, and should take every step with measured caution. Bags could not believe that Homer, however inexperienced, would be so reckless as to run up all of a sudden, with not a hint of a warning. Shaking his head, he hoisted Homer to his feet, placed one of Homer’s hands squarely on his hip, and told him to stay quiet and not let go for any reason.

A short time later, the wind kicked up and the fog thinned for just a moment. Bags was indeed relieved to see that the summit of the mountain, above them on the left, had grown much closer, though the sight only reminded Homer of his aversion to places higher than his top cupboard. Bags slapped his banger-chopper-thruster across his open palm and proclaimed, “This day’ll see the end of our road!”

Homer glanced around nervously at the echoing blasts of the adventuresome halfling’s cry. The ground was still soft, something quite out of the ordinary, or a bigger and thicker patch of moss than Homer had ever heard of. And, Homer, most respectable, as I have said, understood well enough that “out of the ordinary” inevitably signaled trouble. But Bags, undaunted, pounded on, no longer giving his unusual surroundings a second thought. He wanted to get to the summit, find the stone, and get back to Tippin (and to thousands of gold pieces!).

When another wind gust thinned the mist again a few minutes later, though, even determined Bags began to understand clearly that something was not as it should be and took pause. The mountaintop was still on their left, and still not high above them, but it was much farther away.

“How is this?” Homer cried, letting go of his companion and nearly swooning. He wandered right by Bags, eyes fixed on the curious sight, then caught himself after a moment and turned back, seeing the blue faerie light of Bags’s enchanted weapon and, behind it, the shadow of a burly halfling.

”Take ye not another step,” Bags whispered. Before Homer could begin to ask why, the end of a rope slapped into his chest and fell at his feet. “Tie it about yer waist,” Bags instructed.

”Where are we?” Homer demanded in a high-squeal, much like a pig that sees the farmer’s cleaver and knows that a holiday meal is not far off. Homer was thinking that Bags knew something that he did not, and trying to catch up with the reasoning, he looked helplessly back in the direction of the mountaintop. The opaque veil had returned.

Bags walked by him then, again taking up the lead and starting out at a slow and cautious pace. He did indeed have his suspicions, but they seemed too outlandish to be taken seriously or to be shared at that time. “Keep yer steps right behind me own,” he explained to his flustered companion.