Giants (3 page)

Joash brushed sweaty hair out of his eyes. The black stallion was fast. He marveled how it dodged other lassos, how smoothly it galloped, and how divots of grass and dirt-clods flew from wherever the hooves touched ground.

Another horn blew. It was a sharp, militant sound, higher-pitched than horse whinnies or shouting men. The clear noise cut the air like a razor and redirected the highly trained warriors.

Chariots wheeled after the black stallion. More lassoes snaked at him. The stallion dodged them all, stopped for a moment, and pawed the air again. Now, other steppe ponies responded to his call. The drum of hooves told of their dash for freedom. A signal pennon dipped from the lead chariot. Other vehicles turned and followed the fleeing stallion, the prize of the chase.

Unfortunately, the stallion ran back
at
the runners. The stallion might lead the entire herd, trampling onto Joash and his companions.

Feeling the thunderous herd through his bare feet from the tremors in the ground, Joash glanced at the nearby marsh. The wild horses hated swamps, the soft mucky ground, the tall bulrushes that hid predators, and the swarms of biting mosquitoes. Behind Joash, there stood a steep, cedar-topped hill with its jagged boulders. The stallion surged for the gap between the marsh and hill.

“Here they come!” a runner yelled.

“We’ve got to run back and block the gap!” Joash shouted. That would make the stallion and herd head for the hill, and likely mill there, making them perfect targets for the lassos. The other dust-stained runners knew he was right.

“Hurry,” Joash yelled.

They whirled and ran where he pointed. So did their dogs. Burs stuck to their leathers, and chariot-churned, dusty air burned down their lungs. To run faster, Joash shed water-skin, his leather kit of supplies, and javelin. Other runners did likewise, leaving a trail like the aftermath of a lost battle.

A stitch of pain shot up Joash’s ribs. His thighs burned. He pushed himself nonetheless, smoothly moving his arms. He passed slower runners. Beside him ran several huge hounds, those of Lord Herrek, which Joash had helped train. From the nearby marsh came croaks, trills, and insect hums. To his left, the edge of the hill grew closer. Then he entered the gap. Behind him galloped the wild horses, their hooves drumming the ground. Joash swore he could smell their sweat.

“Stop!” Joash shouted. He picked up a dirt clod and heaved it at the approaching horses. His dogs stopped with him and barked savagely.

 “Spread out,” the oldest runner shouted.

As panic threatened, Joash shifted toward the marsh. He kept throwing dirt clods at the approaching horses. If they didn’t turn soon—

“Yell!” yelled a runner.

The runners shouted and waved their arms, threw dirt clods, and urged the dogs to bark.

The black stallion’s eyes rolled wildly, and he slowed. Because he led the small herd, the other wild horses slowed, too.

“Charge them,” shouted the oldest runner.

The well-trained runners charged, and the wild horses glanced about nervously. Then the charioteers arrived, their vehicles clattering and the wheels throwing up dust. Lassoes flew. Wild horses screamed in outrage as ropes fell onto them. The black stallion edged toward the marsh. A bear of a charioteer, with silvery hair, threw his lasso at the stallion.

“Elidad,” cheered Ard, Joash’s best friend. The silvery-haired warrior was Ard’s lord.

The loop dropped around the stallion’s glistening neck. Elidad roared with glee. The strong black stallion twisted and reared. Elidad shouted angrily as the rope slipped from his hands. The black stallion plunged into the marsh.

“Go after him!” Elidad shouted.

Joash and Ard stood nearest the marsh.

Hot-tempered Elidad pointed at them. “Get him. Don’t let the stallion escape.”

“You mean go into the marsh?” Ard asked.

“Go!” Elidad roared, his face turning red.

“Don’t argue,” Joash said. He pulled his friend and his favorite dog by the scruff of the neck. They ran past whispering bulrushes where the stallion had gone and moved toward water.

“We’re going to get wet,” Ard complained, running a thick hand through his long red hair. He was bigger, broader and a year older than Joash. He was a typical runner: tough, long-winded, and dreaming of the day that he would wield a chariot-lance.

They parted shoulder-high reeds and slapped the mosquitoes that whined around them. The horse tracks led to softer ground. Water squished under their sandals, and mud made sucking sounds.

“The tracks have vanished,” Ard said.

“Look at the path of broken reeds,” Joash said, pointing. “The stallion went that way.”

Behind them, the sounds of the roundup diminished. They tracked further. It became apparent that rather than simply skirting the charioteers, the black stallion had plunged deep into the marsh.

Ard lurched backward, yelling. Joash clutched at his dagger handle. A frog leaped out from under Ard’s foot. Joash and Ard exchanged glances.

“Sorry,” Ard said sheepishly. “It surprised me.”

“You should keep your voice down,” Joash whispered.

Ard scowled, but he nodded.

They kept toiling through the swamp. Joash didn’t mind the stagnant water, the frogs that splashed out of his way, or the spider-creatures that skittered to safety. They were harmless. He raised his hand, however, as a red snake swam by. He knew some marsh-snakes were poisonous.

A moment later, Joash motioned Ard forward.

“What was it?” Ard whispered, his eyes wide with fright.

Joash shook his head, waded, and parted reeds. Beside him moved his favorite dog, Harn. Lord Uriah had traded a mammoth hide for him, complete with the tusks and the prized sandal-making soles. The merchant who’d traded Harn claimed he was of the Azarel breed, the line of dogs that ages ago the Shining Ones had bred for war against the
bene elohim
. That was preposterous, of course. The Azarel bloodline had died out a century ago, or so any knowledgeable dog breeder said.

Harn was big, lion-colored, and brave, although still technically a pup at ten months of age. Harn’s hackles rose.

Joash cocked his head, wondering what had the dog excited. From within the marsh he heard frightened whinnying. Joash’s heart hammered, so he reminded himself that he’d scouted the marsh days ago. It wasn’t large, nor did any poisonous snakes or lions live in it. The marsh was a low spot, fed by a stream that drained into the Suttung Sea.

Joash parted reeds, withdrew his sandaled feet from the mucky bottom and stepped into deeper water, colder water. The stallion swam into view as his eyes rolled in fear. The loop was still around his neck, and the rope trailed like a snake.

“Hurry,” Joash hissed at Ard.

The water deepened even more, so Joash waded up to his shoulders. Ahead of them, the stallion swam faster, reached a shallow area, and plowed through the muddy bottom. Foam flecked the horse’s mouth as his nostrils flared. Then the stallion pulled himself out of the mud and crashed through reeds. He had reached the other side of the marsh.

“What will we do now?” Ard asked.

“He might snag the rope somewhere,” Joash said. He was beginning to wonder what had the stallion so panicked.

A loud roar froze them into immobility. The black stallion rose up, pawing the air. Another roar sounded, and then a huge sabertooth leaped onto the stallion’s back. They went down and more sabertooths rushed in. In moments, it was over.

Joash ducked lower in the water, while Harn stuck close.

“Let’s get out of here,” Ard hissed.

“Wait,” Joash said. “The water will protect us from the sabertooths.”

“Are you crazy?”

“The sabertooths are like the lions back home, and they hate to get wet.” Joash now thought of the Plains of Elon as home. He’d come a long way since escaping Balak.

Huge sabertooths with luxurious gray fur snarled at each other as they dug their fanged mouths into the horsemeat. The ground was solid there, about a hundred feet away.

“I’ve seen enough,” whispered Ard. He and Joash had slid behind a clump of reeds.

“Wait,” Joash said. Without being aware of it, he was grinning. The big cats were beautiful. This was amazing.

“Wait for what? Do you want those monsters to eat us?”

“They’re feasting,” Joash said. “We’re not in danger.” He studied the huge cats. Then his eyes narrowed and he tapped his chin.

“What is it?” asked Ard, who glanced at him.

“I haven’t seen those sabertooths before.”

“Huh?”

“Haven’t you noticed all the sabertooth tracks we’ve come across?” Joash asked.

“When?”

“The past few days,” Joash said.

Ard shook his head.

“I’ve been noticing them.”

“So?” asked Ard.

“So, a pride of sabertooths are like the prides of lions back home. That’s what Herrek told me, and from what I’ve seen of these sabertooths, that’s true.”

Ard grunted, as if saying he should have realized. Everyone knew that Joash loved animals.

“Each pride has a territory,” Joash explained, “and they fight off other prides.”

Through reeds, Ard peered at the feasting cats. “Are you saying one pride of sabertooths has invaded the territory of another?”

Joash nodded.

“What does that mean?” Ard asked.

“Strange things are supposed to happen in Giant Land. I’d better tell Herrek about this.”

“Good idea,” Ard said. “Let’s go.”

Joash took one last look. The sabertooths were rakish, with powerful shoulders and low hindquarters. Joash spied one especially huge sabertooth, an old monster that stood at least four feet tall at the shoulders. The great cat limped, favoring his left paw. Joash recalled the sabertooth footprints he’d seen yesterday. The footprints had shown him a strangely crippled left paw.

Old Three-Paws, Joash thought to himself, unconsciously naming the beast.

“Let’s go,” Ard insisted.

Joash slowly backed into the deeper water.

“Wait,” Ard said.

Joash raised his eyebrows. Unlike the others, he was black-haired, darker-skinned, and lanky. As a rule, Elonites were red or blond-haired, fair-skinned, and muscular.

“I don’t want to go through the marsh again,” Ard said. “Let’s skirt around it?”

“We dropped our javelins, remember?”

“We’ve got knives,” Ard said, “and you have Harn. Besides, if we run into anything dangerous we can wade into the marsh.”

Joash glanced over his shoulder. The sabertooths were already hidden. He wondered how long until hyenas spotted circling vultures and came to investigate the kill. He breathed deeply. He was tired. They’d been running hard today. He didn’t really want to wade through any more marsh either.

“This way,” Ard said, climbing onto solid ground.

After a long, circuitous route, they pushed through tall bulrushes and came upon a clearing. To their amazement, they saw silver-haired Elidad and his chariot driver. Elidad sat on the chariot, reading something like a scroll.

“What’s he doing here?” Joash asked. “Lord Uriah said chariots are always supposed to drive in teams.”

Ard snorted. “So go tell Elidad that.”

Joash didn’t want a whipping. Elidad wasn’t like Herrek. Elidad lived the difference between Elonite nobility and everyone else.

As they approached Elidad looked up. It seemed he scowled, but Joash was too far away to tell. The warrior thrust whatever he read into his broad belt, jumped up, and patted his driver on the back. The chariot soon rolled toward them.

The two-man chariots of Elon were light and maneuverable, a terror on the battlefield. The chariot flooring had matted weaving like a basket, which helped absorb shock when the wheels struck rocks or uneven ground. The wheels were bronze-rimmed with four narrow spokes and balanced toward the rear of the cart so it could turn sharply. Because of its light construction made for speed, a warrior like Elidad or Herrek could carry such a chariot on his back for many hours.

“Where’s my stallion?” Elidad demanded.

Neither runner said a word.

“Speak,” the charioteer said. He had long, silver hair, bulk like a bear—although nothing like Balak—and he had too many battle scars to be called handsome.

Joash nudged Ard.

Ard bowed his head. “Lord, sabertooths pulled down the stallion.”

When Elidad didn’t start yelling, Joash looked up. Elidad was an impatient warrior, known for his temper, although few were braver. He wore gem-encrusted bands from Ir around his thick arms, and a sea-green Shalmaneser cloak fluttered from his shoulders. His eyes appeared glassy, perhaps from too much drink.

“The stallion is dead, Lord,” Ard said.

Elidad shook his head and grinned. “Climb aboard,” he told Ard.

The unwritten custom among charioteers was that low-ranked runners always ran, never rode, in the chariot. Starting from the bottom, the hierarchy was runner, groom, driver, and the pinnacle of an Elonite warrior’s career, charioteer.