A Plague of Giants

by Kevin Hearne

  Shaping steel is all about the application of heat and pressure. Shaping the hearts and minds of a population is similar, except instead of the hammer and tongs, one uses words and gestures, and they generate their own heat and pressure. Before Mirana Mastik could sow any more discontent and get people thinking of sailing south, I gathered the survivors and told them to make themselves comfortable for the season at least.

  “The ash continues to rain down from Mount Thayil and spread south to any place we might think to land to start afresh. If you were inclined to think of Thayil’s eruption as some kind of judgment or punishment—and I am not one of those—then the judgment will hang over Hathrir for the entire season. So we must remain here, sow and reap here, build here, and yes, even prosper here. We have no other choice. Very soon, there will be no patch of sky in Hathrir where the sun is not blotted out by ash. I have brought you to the best possible place to start anew. So let us begin!”

  I gestured to Jerin. “My son, Jerin Mogen, will begin building a proper hearth for Thurik’s Flame under the supervision of La Mastik herself!”

  Applause broke out for this, and I grinned. Let her complain now when the very first thing I commanded was to do honor to her god.

  “And I will personally build our first smithy so that we may create the Hathrim glass and steel the world hungers for!”

  More applause.

  “There is employment for everyone here. Trees to be harvested. Land to be sown. Animals to be hunted. An entire city to be built! For though this is Nentian land and we are guests here, they will no doubt approve of our industry and be grateful to us for developing land they have long thought too wild to be tamed. And honestly, when the Nentians see the benefit of having quality glass and steel on their doorstep—in effect, becoming an exporter of it instead of an importer—why not let us remain here in this land of abundance, in harmony with them? Think of the new era of prosperity we will all enjoy—and again, what other choice do we realistically have? We could not choose when Mount Thayil erupted, but we can choose how to react to it, and I, for one, choose not to cower in defeat but to rebuild and prove, as La Mastik said, that the people of the First Kenning are first in civilization!”

  No one had anything but shouts of approval for that sentiment, and La Mastik’s opening play was effectively neutralized for the moment. Once we had something built and the people felt they had something to fight for, it wouldn’t matter that I had spouted pure dragon shit about living in harmony with the Nentians.

  Sefir would see to logistics as she always had, getting people to work; it was her particular genius, and she had done far more to make Harthrad an economic powerhouse than I had. She knew what needed to be done, and I provided her with a motivated labor force since my talents tended toward politics and persuasion.

  Before Jerin and I got started on our construction projects, I took hounds up into the hills with him so that we could talk away from the eyes and ears of others. We gave them rein to pick up trails, and when they caught the scent of prey and lowered their heads and ears, asking permission to hunt, we grinned at the danger, gave the hounds a chuff of approval, and held on.

  There are few rushes that can match riding upon such concentrated power and ferocity. Especially through a forest where the low-hanging branches threatened to knock us off our mounts or spear us—neither of us was wearing full armor, just the customary lava dragon hide. My hound cut too close to the trunks of a few old scaly pines, brushing my legs against them, scraping off chips of bark and bruising me through the leather. It was not long, perhaps only a minute, before our bone-jarring progress revealed the prey: a squalling herd of spotted khekalopes bolting from where they’d bedded down for the day, spraying panicked shit out of their asses as they ran before the oncoming teeth, and the hounds tore into the back of them, jaws snapping over necks, severing spines, taking out ten and letting the rest go. We called them to a halt, dismounted, and dragged the kills into three piles. Three khekalopes each for the hounds and four to take back to camp.

  We unsheathed our blades and began to dress them, sawing through hides and scooping out entrails. A perfect time to talk—anything to take the mind off the squelching of intestines and the sloppy chop-licking and crunching noises the hounds made.

  “So tell me how Olet is feeling,” I said. “I’ve not seen her since she first came to Harthrad.”

  Jerin grunted and sniffed, which meant he was thinking about it. “Resentful, if I’m reading her right.”

  “Of you?”

  “Not necessarily me. Maybe. More resentful of you and her own father for putting her here, for depriving her of the chance to choose her own future.”

  “That’s created a chill between you?”

  “Oh, a mere chill would be nice. I think she arrived in Harthrad upon a glacier. And I don’t blame her. If she discovers that she likes me, then it will please both you and her father, and she’s not in the mood to please either of you.”

  “I see. And how do you feel, son?” Silence. Or rather, not silence but the savage tearing of flesh and the splash of blood and no words. “You can tell me how you feel, Jerin. I must know the truth of things to make informed decisions.”

  “I feel resentful as well, because you feel entitled to make these ‘informed decisions’ about my life and hers.”

  “We’ve discussed this before. Your union will prevent us from going to war with Winthir Kanek. You’re saving lives.”

  “Yes, we’ve discussed it before. Or at least you talked and I listened. All very noble, Father. But it doesn’t stop Olet and me from feeling like your playthings. It doesn’t stop me from feeling acutely embarrassed to be in her presence, knowing that she wouldn’t care to be breathing the same air as me if it weren’t for you.”

  “All right, back up. How do you feel about her? Separate from me and her father?”

  “How can they be separate? She is Olet Kanek, daughter of Winthir—”

  “Forget who her father is and who your father is and just think about her for a moment. What do you think of her?”

  Jerin sighed. “Her eyes possess a keen wit, and she carries herself like a well-trained fighter. That’s about all I know. She has not spoken to me beyond the most formal, distant responses. And I will not force my attentions on her when they’re not wanted—even if that’s conversation.”

  “I think perhaps I see.” Sefir and I watched five of our children jump into the lava boil at Olenik, and only our youngest, our last hope to continue the Mogen line, climbed back out lavaborn. And we raised Jerin to believe that by forging his future as a Hearthfire he would forge a better future for many people. Winthir no doubt did the same with Olet. Little wonder that they chafed at these circumstances, in which they were unable to shape matters as they wished. “Your best hope is a slow kindling based on respect, which may, in time, flare into something more. Perhaps if you speak to her frankly, as you are doing now, you can acknowledge the awkwardness and control it because you name it. She may yet prove to be a blessing. But if it doesn’t work out and she is of the same mind, you may have my permission, at least, to be free of the commitment. Winthir Kanek may take insult from it, and we may fall to fighting, and should that happen I honestly do not know which of us will emerge the victor, but we can let that hammer fall when and where it will. You have jumped into fire for your mother and me. We would not condemn you to a life of unhappiness.”

  The sounds of sawing flesh stopped, and I turned to look at Jerin, who had cocked his head, unsure if he’d heard correctly. Black-bearded and blue-eyed like me, he was already strong and still packing on muscle. Shorter than me by the width of a finger. Kinder than me by the width of an ocean yet still able to fight and sail well. His crew regularly stole from Winthir Kanek’s timber pirates based in Tharsif—or at least they used to. They’d have to stop that now, but at least there was no need for it anymore.

  “That’s … unexpected. And appreciated.”

  “It’s also deserved,
son. I couldn’t ask for a finer boy.”

  We bent to our work in silence for a while, savoring a moment of accord.

  “The hammer’s going to fall here soon enough, Father. The Nentians, and I imagine even the Fornish, will object to us being here. Do you know if we can win that fight?”

  “I have no doubt of it. It’s a fight the Mogens have been planning for a long time.”

  “But you made it sound earlier like the Nentians will welcome us.”

  “Yes. They will prove me wrong, and we’ll go to war. But the rest of what I said was absolutely true. There is not a place in Hathrir so fine as this. Should we try to start a new city in Hathrir, it would be under the cloud of Thayil’s ash, and should I decide to challenge another Hearthfire, I would win nothing better than what we have here. This will be a splendid city because we’ll make it so.”

  Satisfied and packing the dressed kills on the hounds, we took our time returning, and I admired all the timber as we descended. My timber. It was a day of hope and fine promises, one of the best in memory.

  Volund somehow snatched three Raelech stonecutters away from Hashan Khek and played it perfectly. They arrived at dawn the next day, we told them they were in Hathrir, and they were gullible enough to believe us. Landlocked as they were and wedded to the earth, they had no knowledge of the sea and took our word for it. They probably could not conceive that we would have stones big enough to lie about something like that. Or else they were blinded by the stones we offered in payment.

  Sefir got two of them started right away on the outer walls she’d laid out with a wood frame for the foundation, the earth underneath it already salted. Volund had brought a shipment of quicklime with him, and a couple of men mixed and poured it ahead of the stonecutters, who lifted massive hunks of rock out of the earth with their kenning and shaped it into a solid wall. Once the living stone was set upon the lime, it was cut off from the earth and the stonecutters could no longer manipulate it except via direct touch, and they also could not undermine the salted earth below the wall. We’d never let them touch it after it was built; they’d have to walk through fire first. Judging by the rate they worked, we’d have our city walled up in ten days, possibly less.

  Jerin directed the remaining stonecutter to fashion irrigation canals for the crops and sewers underground. We were also going to make sure we had a deep and protected well within the walls. While the Raelechs worked, I summoned Halsten and Volund to my hearth to discuss our next moves.

  “What else did you bring from Hashan Khek besides the quicklime?” I asked Volund.

  “Brewing supplies and smithing tools—the basis of all civilization.” He produced a bottle of grain alcohol and waggled it for us. “And I brought something to tide us over until we make our own.”

  “What can you tell me about the city?” Volund’s mouth twitched in a sneer of disgust. He looked tired, or perhaps it was only his beard. Normally it was the most energetic part of him, brushed and shining with oil, but now it was dry and scraggly like summer wheat. He spat into my hearth, a summary judgment.

  “Miserable from top to bottom. They live like shitsnakes.”

  “Who’s the viceroy there now? Still Melishev Lohmet?”

  “Yeah. Worst of the lot.”

  “Well, he’s going to be curious about us now that you’ve stolen his stonecutters and put a halt to whatever he had them working on. How long do we have them?”

  “As long as needed, Hearthfire. They were impressed with your gems.”

  “Good. We need to restrict their access to others and warn everyone who does come in contact with them not to speak of this place as Ghurana Nent. Though I doubt it, they might quit as soon as they found out, and I don’t want to risk it. And we need to let fishermen and houndsmen and anyone else who might make contact on our borders know that they should call this a refugee camp instead of a city, at least in front of any outsiders. And you left a couple of men behind to plead our case to the viceroy?”

  “Yes. They will have done so by now.”

  “Excellent.” I turned to my master of hounds. “Halsten, have you got the patrols straightened out yet?”

  “The plains patrols are settled and simple, Hearthfire. Still working on the wooded foothills. It’s difficult going in there for us since the trees grow too close together in some places. It will take time to weave in and out and scout a path.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of the difficulty. Mark trees to be cleared and we’ll make that path a bit wider.”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. Volund, I’m putting you back on the boat—but don’t worry, I’ll let you sleep and oil your beard first.”

  He gave me a weary grin. “My thanks, Hearthfire. Where am I going?”

  “Down to Tharsif. Hearthfire Kanek needs to know his daughter survived the eruption and the wedding to my son will happen as scheduled, but it will be here. Issue him an invitation to our new city.”

  “We’re going to tell him it’s a city and not a refugee camp?”

  “Yes. It needs to sound like a destination and a trading center, not a collection of campfires. So you will tell Winthir Kanek I have a new city up here, a city with plenty of fuel, and he is welcome to send emigrants and traders if he wishes.”

  “He’ll send you his dregs and criminals and a spy or two,” Halsten warned.

  “I know. But they’ll be model citizens or we’ll give them a fresh grave.” I turned back to Volund. “You’re going down with a load of timber, and that should buy some things we need. I will give you a list before you go. Nothing like timber to establish that this is for real.”

  Volund nodded. “And what name shall I give him for this city, Hearthfire?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that. If we give it a Hathrim name, that will only make the Nentians bristle. Give it a Nentian name and that gives us some leverage with everybody, the veneer of legitimacy. You’re better with the Nentian tongue, Halsten. How would you say ‘Giant Plains’ in their language?”

  “Uh.” He scrunched up his face. “I think you’d say ‘Baghra Khek.’ ”

  “That is fantastically ugly. I love it. Volund, tell Winthir Kanek that the Hearthfire of Harthrad is now the Hearthfire of Baghra Khek and would like to resume trade as before, except now with timber.”

  “It’s a fine, hideous name,” Halsten said, rising to his feet and extending his right fist. He poured the remainder of his drink over it and then sparked it up. “Shall we light a tower and write it in fire?”

  “Aye!” Volund said, springing up and setting his clenched fist on top of Halsten’s. I added mine on top of theirs, and on the count of three, we opened our fists just enough to create a sort of chimney out of our stacked hands, allowing air and a gout of fire out of the top. As it spiraled orange over our heads, fanned and shaped by our combined powers, the city of campfires saw its name spelled out in the flames.

  Presumptuous of us, perhaps, but ideas and names are at times far more important than substance. A collection of buildings cannot inspire people to action, but the ideas behind them, the associations with their names—those can be so powerful that people will fight to the death for them. That was exactly the power I needed.

  “Meanwhile,” Fintan said, briefly returning to himself before taking on another seeming, “Nel Kit ben Sah was crossing the Godsteeth to deprive the Hearthfire of that power.”

  During our journey to Ghurana Nent, Tip and Pak predictably trailed complaints behind them like thorny vines:

  “Why don’t we use the Leaf Road as long as we can?”

  “Why do these horses smell so bad?”

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  Because you need to get used to riding a horse before we find the Hathrim. Because horses don’t bathe in perfumed oils like you. And because you are rotten fruit.

  I didn’t say any of that aloud, of course, but I certainly thought it, and I know I wasn’t the only one thinking along those branches. I traded a look
with Kam, and we rolled our eyes at their ridiculous whining. We ignored them most of the time, but when Pak Sey ben Kor directly addressed me, demanding to know why we must operate in such foul conditions, I carefully composed my features and answered him in bright tones: “I see no foul conditions, good benman,” I said, using the formal term for the blessed. “Why, I see only sun and a chance to serve the Canopy. You and I and benman Tip have been blessed by the First Tree, and I’m delighted to suffer any hardship in return, especially one so small as riding a horse up a steep mountain. Do you not feel the same?”

  Yar and Pen chortled, and Kam smiled broadly. “I’m equally delighted,” he said, “and I’m not even blessed. It’s a beautiful day in Forn.”

  Pak scowled and was about to reply when his horse sneezed for perhaps the tenth time since he had climbed on her back.

  “I worry about the good benman’s horse, Kam,” I said. “Does she normally sneeze so often?”

  “No, but she seems fine otherwise.”

  Yar saw where we were heading and chimed in. “I do not think she is used to smelling such concentrated florals. What’s that delightful perfume you’re wearing, ben Kor?”

  “It’s … never mind.”

  The complaints from Pak and Tip stopped after that, and I felt good about handling it without descending to their level of nastiness. The White Gossamers believed that one could be both strong and gentle, and I had forgotten the latter in my time away from home. It was good to be with my clansmen again.

  We had a party of eight all told and ten net launchers. Pak and Tip refused to carry them as I assumed they would, but Kam and I carried two each.

  Two members of the party were new acquaintances. Both were clansmen, but I had never met them before. They were younger, and their eyes shone as they took in my sleeves and Pen’s upon our meeting that morning.

  “We have two greensleeves again!” one said.

  “What do you mean, ‘again’? We have three now.”

  Kam cleared his throat. “Mat Som ben Sah returned to the roots last week, Nel.”