Giant Thief (33 page)

  "I know he said you can't move, but what are you going to do, stay here forever? Sit until you starve to death? How is that going help your people or your family or anyone? You're being ridiculous! Moaradrid isn't your chief. He
stole
the stone from you. You don't owe him any loyalty."

  "He won't listen," I told her. "That stupid stone, I wish I'd thrown it in the river when I had the chance."

  I thought Saltlick's eyes flickered at that.

  "What can we do?"

  "I don't know. Hope our side wins, I suppose."

  I turned back to the drama behind us. I'd been right, surprise had offered only the briefest advantage. All momentum had gone from the Castovalian thrust, and now the Northerners were regaining ground and taking lives with equal ease. Alvantes's farmers were suffering the worst, but even the Altapasaedan guardsmen were taking horrible losses. Only Alvantes and his entourage continued to advance. The Castovalian irregulars were more a distraction than an actual help, but it was a distraction he was making the most of.

  Moaradrid, though he'd drawn his scimitar, was concentrated on retreating through the press of his own forces. His troops tripped over themselves to clear a path for him without risking their own lives. He'd already had to abandon the centre. Each step was taking him closer to the western bank, where the fiercest fighting was.

  That was Alvantes's plan. It always had been. He couldn't win the battle, but perhaps he could end the war.

  Moaradrid realised it in almost the same instant I did – understood that he was being herded towards the Altapasaedans. His reaction was as rapid as it was astounding. He hurled himself with a ferocious cry at Alvantes, who barely had time to throw up his sword. The toll of their blades sung out above the clamour. Moaradrid followed with another strike, another, his blade weaving furiously, each blow ringing like a gong. Alvantes could hardly block, let alone fight back.

  A circle was opening around them. Rather than risk getting in the way of their warlord, the Northerners backed frantically away. Alvantes's entourage took the opportunity to stab at anyone who looked as though they'd try to interfere. The pitiful remainder of the Castovalians fell in to shore their line. On the far side, the surviving Altapasaedans seized on the respite to withdraw up the slope.

  Suddenly, the entire skirmish had diminished to the two men battling in its midst. Their duel was drawing them further from the northern mouth of the valley, closer to us. Moaradrid was still forcing the attack. If his scything blows had slowed a fraction, they were more than enough to keep Alvantes off balance.

  At least Alvantes was beginning to do more than block. Every few steps he'd parry or sidestep, seeking an opening he couldn't find. Moaradrid's style lacked subtlety, but he was strong and fast. His scimitar acted like sword
and
shield, always moving, always outstretched to protect his head and body. Alvantes was the better swordsman, it showed in his every motion. Yet all his skill seemed useless in the face of that onslaught.

  Then, for the first time, Alvantes struck back. He stepped deftly around a stab aimed midway up his chest, slid the scimitar aside, and lunged. His blade sliced against Moaradrid's thigh, drew a widening splash of crimson. Moaradrid howled – more with rage than pain, it seemed, as he renewed his attack with even greater fury.

  Alvantes was once again forced to lose ground. Yet something had changed. Now he retreated with easy leaps and sideward steps, and an unexpected grace. Now every other block turned into a parry, sapping force from Moaradrid's offensive. The warlord's face was warped with rage. A deep-throated cry accompanied each swing. It did no good. Alvantes anticipated his every motion, was always in the wrong place.

  His blade darted again. The blow wasn't so well placed this time; the edge glanced off the sash around Moaradrid's waist. Even from a distance I could see that Alvantes's sword had failed to find flesh.

  He'd hit something, though – something that fell free, bounced, rolled to a standstill in the dirt.

  It was the giant-stone.

  Whether Alvantes had struck there deliberately, he seized the opportunity. He crouched, leaped, grasped the stone and rolled on, avoiding a swipe that passed not a finger's width above his head. He bounded to his feet and threw his sword around to ward off the inevitable next blow.

  He was almost quick enough.

  Moaradrid swung his blade in a wide upward arc, leaving his whole left side exposed. Alvantes saw the opening, moved to exploit it – and screamed. The scimitar flicked back, now trailing a slash of crimson. Something sailed into the air, geysering red. It fell into the mud half way between the fight and us.

  I don't know what made me run for it. Suddenly I was on my feet, and though a part of my brain was ordering me to stop, I pounded down the slope with all my strength. Moaradrid twisted to look at me. His lips moved, but no words came that I could hear. Alvantes was staggering away, his face rigid and contorted. He was nursing his left arm in the crook of his right, the sword dangling loose in his fingers.

  Moaradrid took a step towards me. He held his scimitar with the tip pointed at my head, and gave an indistinct cry. Then he began to lope towards me, hampered by the slash across his thigh. All his characteristic dignity was gone. He struggled on like a rabid dog, driven by hate and animal desire.

  The distance was too great. I reached the spot well ahead of him, and slid to my knees. There, spattered with filth and gore, lying like an overturned crab that would never right itself, was Alvantes's left hand. The giant-stone sat next to it, its surface drizzled with scarlet.

  Scooping it up, feeling its coldness against my fingers, I made a silent vow.

  This time, it was going back where it belonged.

 
 
 

Standing in the middle of what minutes ago had been a road and was now a lake of churned filth and freshly spilled blood, an odd thought struck me. If heroism meant making bold and ultimately suicidal gestures, I'd just proved myself every bit Alvantes's match.

  I assumed there must be something more to it that I'd missed. Then, as I turned and sprinted towards Estrada and Saltlick, I remembered the sight of Alvantes cradling the bloody stump of his wrist.

  Maybe I had the right idea after all.

  Estrada had been busy in my absence. She'd freed two of our horses from the stand of trees where Moaradrid's men had tethered them, and stood with the reins knotted around one hand. If they were panicked from the sounds of violence, they were still a better option than an escape attempt on foot.

  First things first, though. "Saltlick, get up!" I shouted, holding the giant-stone where he could see it. "You're free. You're going home."

  Saltlick leaped to his feet, his face crumpling into the widest grin I'd ever seen. "Go home!" he roared.

  Halfway there, I hazarded a glance behind me. Moaradrid was concentrated now on mustering riders from the mouth of the gorge. They in turn were struggling to force their way through the fighting, which had resumed as a series of isolated skirmishes. Alvantes was trying to loop back to where the Altapasaedans were making their last stand. Though his face was frozen with pain and his hauberk drenched with blood, he was still taking time to swipe at any nearby foe with the sword gripped in his remaining hand.

  The man was astonishing. He had no idea how to give up and die. But there were Northerners all around him, and I didn't see how he could possibly keep it up for much longer.

  I hurried on. Estrada was leading the horses towards me, dragging them as fast as she could without alarming them further. Saltlick trotted behind, still overjoyed, oblivious to the carnage.

  I was badly winded by the time we reached each other. As I stopped to gasp for breath, Estrada thrust reins into my free hand.

  "Rest later, if we're not dead."

  She swung into the saddle. I jammed the giantstone into a pocket and followed her example. I recognised my steed, a pitch-black stallion with a demented gleam in his eyes, as having belonged to Alvantes. He didn't seem happy with his new circumstances. He whinnied frantically and pawed with his front hooves. I threw my arms around his neck, certain he'd rear. However, Estrada chose that moment to drive her own mount forward, and perhaps mine took the action as a challenge, because before I knew it we were moving too.

  But "moving" does that first wild burst of speed no justice. Anyone who'd weathered a typhoon in a coracle might have an idea how I felt. I clung to the fiend, fighting the urge to clamp my eyes shut.

  I gave up when we reached the first turn. I opened them again when the sickening sense of being at the wrong angle and too near the ground had passed, to see a long straight stretch ahead. The horse saw it too. To my disbelief, he actually accelerated. My stomach bobbed into my mouth and stayed there.

  "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.