Giants (6 page)

Joash grew pale. First sabertooths had attacked two camps, now giants were near. If the giant should spot him—

Joash shook his head. The people in camp must learn that a giant possibly knew about them. It seemed unlikely a giant could have been this close to Hori Cove without spotting anyone. Joash picked up his end of the travois and dragged Harn faster.

A strange light appeared before him. It looked like lantern-light, but was too high, unless someone had put a lantern on the end of a long pole.

Joash moaned. Behind the light, he saw a face, a huge bearded face—a giant’s face. With heavy chainmail clinking the giant strode toward him. The giant wore a bronze buckle on his belt and was twice the height of Herrek. Although very broad-shouldered, the giant had a gaunt face, and his eyes were sunken in, as if he’d gone through terrible times.

Giants, Joash knew, were Nephilim, the children of First Born, who in turn were children of the
bene elohim
. All the old fear he’d felt in Shamgar, and later with Balak, returned. The giant towered above him, and held onto a monstrous axe with an anchor-sized blade. The giant didn’t look friendly, but rather like a hardened veteran of war. The eyes seemed haunted with dark knowledge. Giants lived longer than even the longest-lived patriarchs did.

“You survived the sabertooths,” the giant rumbled, as he strode near. He had an incredibly deep voice.

“Y-Yes, great sir,” Joash stammered. His knees felt weak.

He kept looking at that axe. Even in the moonlight, the axe’s iron seemed… unnatural—supernatural. It was black and curved gracefully as a lion’s back would as it leapt for the kill. Menace radiated from the axe, like poison dripping from a viper’s fang. It was double-bladed, the edge on each end the length from a man’s knee to his ankle. Joash could image the giant in battle, feet wide, bellowing, the long-handled axe swishing, the black iron sweeping three or four warriors at a time like a scythe chopping ripe grain. With such a weapon, the giant seemed invincible, the horror of war personified.

The giant lowered the lantern to better shine his light on Joash. “You drag a wounded hound,” the giant said, as if surprised.

“I-I do, great sir.” Joash wanted to run, but his feet wouldn’t obey.

“You aren’t wounded yourself?”

“No, great sir,” Joash said.

“What’s your name?” the giant asked, with anger in his voice.

Joash worked his mouth several times before he said, “Joash, great sir.”

“Do you belong to yonder camp?”

“I do, great sir.”

The giant’s haunted, knowledgeable eyes tightened. “What’s your station?”

Sick fear washed over Joash. The giant meant him ill. He meant the camp ill. Trembling, Joash lowered Harn to the ground and squatted beside him. He used his body to shield the sight of the spear.

“Answer me, manling.”

Joash squeezed his eyes shut, finding it hard to breath. He was about to die. For how could one outrun or outfight a giant? Begging for mercy wouldn’t sway one with eyes like those. To die with honor, with a weapon in one’s hands, to face the foe stoutly, a warrior strove for such things.

“Do not grovel before me,” the giant said. “Stand and answer me.”

In a daze, but determined, Joash undid the knots and lifted the spear.

The lantern rattled as the giant set it down. “What are you doing?”

Joash had sweaty palms and couldn’t feel his stomach.

“I said—”

Joash whirled and blindly charged.

The giant grunted with surprise. Then he swatted Joash with the back of his hand.

Joash crashed to the ground, with the wind knocked out of him. The spear was torn from his hands, and the point driven deep into the ground. Joash was lifted to his feet. He swayed, had blurry eyesight, and couldn’t breathe because his lungs had locked. Finally, he sucked air and his vision cleared. The giant sat cross-legged before him.

“Sit,” ordered the giant.

Joash sank.

“Why did you just attack me?”

Terrified, Joash still dared to look the giant in the eye. “Because you’re going to kill me,” he whispered.

The giant grunted. “You were dragging the dog back to the camp?”

Joash nodded, unable to speak further.

“How was he wounded?”

Joash worked his mouth and finally said, “By a sabertooth.”

“Something is badly wrong,” the giant muttered. “Tell me what happened.”

A new fear came over Joash. As Nephilim, children of First Born, giants were said to posses an accursed gift. Each gift was different, each unique. Each gift was a magical ability. Some turned water into wine, or made metal turn white with heat. Others ran without becoming tired. Some saw into the future.

“Listen to me well, manling,” the giant said. “I’ll give you your life if you will give me the tales I desire.”

“M-My life?” Joash stammered.

The giant made a dismissive gesture. “What’s one life, and that of a young man? Besides, small one, you’ve acted bravely. You didn’t rush back to your camp with your tail between your legs. No, you built a travois and dragged your wounded hound with you. I admire such loyalty. Then, when confronted by a giant, you were sly enough to secretly draw your weapon, and bold enough to attack, even when death would be the outcome.”

“We speak in peace?” Joash asked, thunderstruck.

“Yes, tonight a giant and a manling speak in peace. You have the word of Mimir.”

Relief swept through Joash, and it made him giddy. He laughed. Then he looked up at the giant. Mimir smiled slyly.

That scared Joash again. He thought furiously. He knew that the best way to work upon warriors was through their vanity. Surely, giants weren’t any different. Joash gathered his courage, saying, “I’ve heard it said that a giant’s word is worth more than gold, jewels, or Caphtorite steel.”

Mimir snorted. “Tell me, manling, how did your hound come to be wounded?”

Joash told him about the fight with the sabertooth.

Mimir studied the stars. At last, he asked, “What happened to the other sabertooths?”

“Sir?”

“Don’t lie, manling. What about the other sabertooths?”

“There were no others, at least not at the roundup camp.”

“What do you mean?”

Joash told Mimir about the sabertooths he’d hidden from in the thorn bushes.

Mimir tugged at his shaggy beard. “You’re lying,” he said ominously. “Where were the other sabertooths, the ones who attacked with the slain young male?”

“I do not lie,” Joash said. “There were no others with the young male.”

Mimir studied Joash with fierce intensity. “No,” he said, “you’re not lying. Then… then why did your charioteers dash off?”

“In order to drive away the sabertooths who attacked the southern herd,” Joash said.

Mimir swore under his breath, but because he so huge, and his voice so deep, Joash heard some of the curses. They were vile. Joash also heard, “Something went badly wrong.”

“May I go, great sir?”

Mimir studied the stars, making Joash fear anew. He didn’t like the giant’s odd manner.

“I should enter your camp and slay everyone there,” Mimir said slowly.

“You’re mighty indeed, sir. And I know what people say about giants; that they dare any deed. But why bother with the camp? We’ll leave anyway.”

“Yes, after plundering the herds.” Mimir laughed, almost at himself, it seemed. “Tonight, it is peace between us. And what fame would I gain by slaying a gnat as you?” The smile drained from Mimir’s face, as he leaned forward, and put his hands on Joash.

Terrified, Joash squirmed.

“Be still,” warned Mimir, as he tightened his hold.

Mimir had huge, callused hands. They were strangely warm, and gripped Joash’s shoulders with unconquerable strength. Mimir’s eyes rolled up into his head.

Fear filled Joash. Was this a spell?

Mimir released him and stared in surprise. Then, the giant mopped his forehead and tugged his beard. “Tell me, manling, do you crave adventure?”

Joash shrugged, not trusting himself to speak.

“Would you join me if I asked?” Mimir said.

“Great sir,” Joash said, “why would you wish a fool like me to join you?”

“A fool is it?”

“Yes, great sir.”

The sly smile returned. Mimir nodded. “Tonight, I grant you peace, manling. But beware of crossing my path again.”

“Have I angered you?”

Mimir rose, picked up his axe, rested it over his shoulder, and then he picked up his lantern. “Angered me? No, manling. I but used my gift upon you. It revealed much.” He snorted. “Greet that old rat Lord Uriah for me. Tell him Mimir the Wise hasn’t forgotten him.”

Joash nodded, hardly daring to believe that the giant would allow him to leave.

Mimir shook his head and muttered, but this time he remained quiet enough so Joash couldn’t hear the words. Mimir strode away and soon disappeared into the night.

Joash picked up the poles. It was time to warn the camp.

Chapter Four

Lord Uriah

Altogether, Methuselah lived 969 years, and then he died.

-- Genesis 5:27

“...Joash,” a man whispered.

Joash mumbled in his sleep.

“Joash, get up.”

Joash opened bleary eyes. He saw Herrek, with a lamp in his hand.

Several hours ago, Joash had arrived at the seaside camp, the ancient pile of stones. He’d given Herrek his tale, seen Harn taken to Zillith’s sod house, had promptly staggered to the Warrior Barracks, and fallen asleep.

“What’s wrong?” Joash asked.

“Lord Uriah wishes to speak to you,” Herrek said.

Joash arose, quickly tying his sandals. No other people were up in the Warrior Barracks. The hearth-fire was only a mound of glowing coals. Outside, by the height of the moon, Joash saw that he’d gotten two hours sleep. This was the sleepiest time of the night, the perfect moment for an attacker to make his move. He wondered if Mimir would really try to attack the camp by himself. He might. He was a giant after all.

“Has Elidad returned?” Joash asked.

“No.” Herrek nodded to the guard at Lord Uriah’s door. Joash ducked his head, stepped downstairs and into the soil-smelling gloom. Leather curtains partitioned the small sod house. Behind the farthest curtain, the edges of the leather glowed red. Herrek cleared his throat.

“Enter,” said a deep voice from behind the curtain.

Joash swallowed, and followed Herrek into Lord Uriah’s bedroom. It was small, with a wooden-frame bed, two beautifully carved sea chests, and a table with a flickering candle. The room smelled of whetstone oil and ale, and at Lord Uriah’s feet curled a white-nosed hunting dog. Lord Uriah sat in a wooden chair. He was a big man, although not as tall or as broad as Herrek. He had blue eyes and a closely cropped white beard. His skin was leathery-tough, but only slightly wrinkled, and he kept himself wrapped in a white cloak. In the bronze brazier before him coals glowed. Although he was old, somewhat over five hundred years, Lord Uriah came from the longest-lived line of humans. As it had been in the beginning at the Garden, so it still was with certain bloodlines.

Without looking up, Lord Uriah nodded solemnly, and sipped ale from his golden horn.

 Herrek sat in the room’s only other chair, one without armrests. Joash sat cross-legged on a rug, near the sleeping dog.

“I am uneasy,” Lord Uriah said. He used a stick and poked the coals in his brazier. “I wonder upon Elohim’s ways.”

Lord Uriah had big hands, a warrior’s hands, as if made to wield weapons. He had long, thick fingers like Herrek. The right was wet from dipping the horn into the beer vat. The fourth finger was missing from the second joint up. The middle finger bore a large brass ring, engraved with the head of a Gyr Falcon—Lord Uriah’s totem.

Joash wasn’t certain, but from the redness of Lord Uriah’s eyes, and the way he cocked his head, he almost thought the patriarch drunk. Surely that couldn’t be. It wasn’t that Lord Uriah was above ale, but he seemed so solemn now, so intent upon finding Elohim’s guidance.

“Steppe stallions have been lost,” Lord Uriah said slowly. “They were prized stallions young enough to be trained to the harness. We can ill-afford such losses, for soon the ships will take us home.”

Herrek nodded, but respectfully kept silent.

Joash understood why the stallion losses were so bitter. Wild steppe ponies were difficult to break to the harness. Most never could be, becoming breeding stock instead. Only a few could be properly broken, usually the younger ones. They could learn to pull a chariot and to follow the chariot driver’s instructions. Among wild steppe ponies, mares learned better than stallions. But no warrior would harness mares to his battle-cart, because all the other warriors used stallions. Mares would shy away from battle-frenzied stallions. Therefore, for Lord Uriah’s special needs, young stallions were the prized catch. Young enough to be trained, but old enough to enter battle several months from now.