A Plague of Giants

by Kevin Hearne

  He snarled and pointed his axe in my direction, and a gout of flame blossomed and arced toward me. It was a significant distance to project, fifteen lengths, perhaps, so I saw it coming and knew what would happen. I gritted my teeth around a sob and sent my final instructions through the roots with concentrated fury: fury that he thought he could take whatever he wanted, that he had in fact taken so much already, that he would take my life as well.

  The trail of fire split into three fingers as it neared me while behind Mogen thicker roots emerged from the earth and reached out for him like longarm tentacles. That was when the flame landed on me, and I shrieked my pain into the suffocating heat, my body a pillar of orange blossoms on a black bough, my skin crisping and melting, my silverbark turning into glowing coals, my final defiance and the dregs of my strength carried through the shoots before they crumbled into ash. Through the flames, I saw the roots wrap themselves over the giant’s shoulders, underneath his arms, and around his neck. His bellow of outrage was cut short as the roots constricted his throat. A moment later, my last command was executed and the roots convulsed, squeezing in concert and pulling in five directions. Gorin Mogen’s four limbs ripped free of his torso, and his head popped off, extinguishing his fires and showering the grasses with his blood, and though I still burned and felt only pain, cried only pain, I saw the sky, and it was so blue now, no longer gray, except it was moving and going dark at the edges, all black—

  Fintan dispelled the seeming of Nel Kit ben Sah and spoke into silence:

  “To Nef Tam ben Wat’s ears, there was no finer sound than the final heavy clank of Gorin Mogen’s armor hitting the ground. And there was nothing more horrifying than the sound of Nel screaming as she burned. She toppled backward, crying out, wreathed in orange and yellow, billowing black smoke, and Nef could think of nothing to do but kick dirt on her in an effort to smother the flames. He kept at it even after her screams passed into silence and her body crumpled and shifted as it was consumed. He kept at it so that something of Nel would remain long after Mogen’s corpse had rotted and fed the scavengers of the plains.

  “When he finally subsided, chest heaving and tracks of tears streaking his dusty cheeks, the fire was snuffed and what remained was only a vaguely human-looking mound of dirt. A shout caused him to look up. One of the Invisible Owls of Nel’s crew was pointing to the city. There, waving above the walls, a ragged white tent canvas affixed to a narrow pine trunk signaled surrender.

  “ ‘Good,’ Nef said, nodding once. He had forgotten that there were still plenty of giants hiding behind those walls, and just as quickly as he’d been reminded, he forgot them again. He knelt next to Nel’s body and waited for something to move. When it did, he leaned over and gently blew dirt away, brushing off small clumps of it with the tips of his fingers so that the leaves of the rapidly growing silverbark sapling could drink in the morning sun. Nef made a strangled sound halfway between a laugh and a sob, then smiled as fresh tears spilled down his face. ‘There you are, Nel,’ he said, his voice almost a whisper. ‘There you are.’ ”

  Fintan sighed and said nothing for a few moments, and some sniffles could be heard. Maybe one or two of those were mine. I thought perhaps he would end there, but instead he withdrew a new black sphere and held it aloft between his fingers. “The Mogens defeated, most of the lavaborn slain, and surrender indicated, the Battle of the Godsteeth was over. But for the aftermath, we’ll hear from that young Nentian man who trampled over the lavaborn with a boil of kherns.” He dropped the sphere, and a plume of black smoke rose around him.

  For both the hunter and the hunted, there is always terror right before death. The hunter terrified he won’t eat, the hunted terrified of being eaten. There is defiance and desperation and even bloodlust. But those kills are quick. A torn throat, a snapped spine, or a spear to the heart, and the suffering is over. There is no reveling in pain and grinning at screams the way the Hathrim do when they set people on fire.

  The smell of those poor burned Fornish people is in my nose, and I may be sick. And the khern that died in the charge—I was so involved in directing it to trample the lavaborn that I felt its agony and its confusion at what was happening as it burned and then took an axe to the head. That was my fault. I was responsible. I would add it to my toll.

  And the Hathrim, too, of course. Though I supposed that my efforts, together with those of the Fornish, had prevented the Nentian army from suffering much in the way of casualties. By taking twenty or so lives I had perhaps saved thousands. I still wished it hadn’t been necessary.

  We drove the houndsmen to the sea, where I commanded the hounds to sit down in the shallows while the kherns formed a wall, an intimidating front in case any of the Hathrim had ideas about charging on foot. Most of them, unable to stay comfortably in the saddle when their mounts were sitting and refused to stand, dismounted and stood next to them in the shallows.

  Thornhands joined us, standing in front of the kherns, daring the Hathrim to try anything. If any of them were lavaborn, they didn’t reveal it. They didn’t surrender, but neither did they fight. We just stared at one another, promising violence if the other made any advances, and I was content to let that stand until someone thought of a way to defuse tensions. The white flag that waved over the walls of the city, signaling surrender, caused a ripple of dismay to run through the houndsmen, but they made no comment. I asked them politely to drop their weapons into the surf or the thornhands might have to take it as a given that they would attack, and after one of them with silver thread in his mustaches translated, they complied. We did nothing else, though, since none of the Fornish thornhands were in a position to accept surrender and neither was I as a contracted mercenary. We had to wait for the Nentian army to arrive.

  Viceroy Melishev Lohmet rode up eventually, along with a senior tactician he called Hennedigha and a somewhat short Raelech man carrying nothing but a harp. He looked at me sitting on top of a khern, a stalk hawk sitting on my shoulder and a bloodcat waiting patiently below, and his eyes grew to the size of dragon eggs. I smiled and waved at him so he would know I was friendly.

  The viceroy apparently had met one of the houndsmen before, a flame-haired brute who scowled as soon as the viceroy appeared.

  “Hello again,” Melishev said as he reined in behind the thornhands. “Your Hearthfire and hearth are both dead. The city has surrendered. Have you surrendered as well?”

  “We have not.”

  He craned his neck to look up at me. “Where are their weapons?”

  “I made them drop them into the tide.” So the giant was all bluster.

  “Perhaps you should rethink not surrendering,” the viceroy said, turning back to him, “considering the odds and the fact that your hounds won’t obey you.” The giant flicked a murderous glare up to me but said nothing. “Tell me your name again.”

  “Lanner Burgan. Where is Korda?”

  “He died in a terrible accident, I’m afraid. My condolences. So! Lanner. Who’s in charge of your city now? Who speaks for you?”

  He spat into the ocean. “I don’t know. We don’t even know who waved those surrender flags.”

  “Well. I’ll give you the same deal I’m going to give them: you can get on those glass boats and sail the fuck away from Ghurana Nent, or I have all these archers who are just itching to bring down a giant. You choose.”

  His eyes flicked to the giant with threaded mustaches standing next to him, indicating that perhaps he wasn’t the actual leader here, but then he scoffed. “Let me know who’s in charge in the city and what they say. Then I’ll give you my answer.”

  A play for time. The viceroy craned his neck to look up at me. “Are you okay with standing guard a while longer?”

  “I think the thornhands will do just fine, along with the kherns. Neither they nor the hounds will move until I say so. I’ll come with you.” Melishev didn’t look pleased by that, but he could hardly cast any doubt on my abilities thus far. I needed to stay close to him so t
hat he couldn’t give an order to have me meet with an unfortunate accident. And besides, I wanted to see the inside of this Hathrim city and talk to the Raelech, so I hopped down, realizing too late that normal people don’t hop off the backs of kherns. The bard was waiting.

  “I’m Fintan, Bard of the Poet Goddess Kaelin,” he said. “And you are?”

  “Abhinava Khose. A plaguebringer … of the Sixth Kenning, I guess.”

  “Plaguebringer! Fascinating. I do hope we get to talk more.”

  “I’d be delighted. This stalk hawk is Eep, and this bloodcat is Murr.”

  We followed the viceroy and tactician into the “city,” which was nothing more than a wall surrounding a bunch of tents and fire pits and a very large well. There were, to be fair, a couple of buildings under construction: a forge, no doubt, and perhaps a public house. Still, it had potential as a city site now—a Nentian one. We could benefit from those walls and the well, too.

  The mass of Hathrim had collected against the walls nearest the harbor gates, away from where the Fornish had launched those exploding gourds full of spores. Some of them were prone and coughing up blood anyway, loud racking heaves that sounded like imminent death.

  “Who’s in charge?” Hennedigha called to them. Two women came forward. One was twelve feet tall and had some light armor on but no helmet. She had red hair and might have been attractive if she weren’t so huge. The other was a couple of feet shorter but was completely bald. She had earrings and a brightly colored chain leading from her nose to her ear and wore a shimmering dress of white and orange.

  “I am Olet Kanek,” the redhead said, “daughter of Winthir Kanek, Hearthfire of Tharsif, and this is La Mastik, Priestess of the Flame.”

  We introduced ourselves, including the Raelech, and then the viceroy asked Olet, “Are you lavaborn?” The priestess would be by default.

  “Yes. I’m a firelord.”

  “Can you put out that fire on the mountain?”

  She looked at the blaze for a few moments and shook her head. “Not by myself. But I can contain it, keep it from spreading.”

  “That would be appreciated,” he said. “We’ll let you get to that in a moment. But first, why is a daughter of Winthir Kanek here?”

  “I was betrothed to Jerin Mogen.”

  “I see. And where is he?”

  “Dead. And his parents with him, I imagine.”

  “Right you are. So, the terms of your surrender are simple: Stop the fire. Then get on your boats and sail back to Hathrir. Or die here.”

  She glowered at him for a moment, then nodded. “May I offer a third option that will be to our mutual benefit?”

  He made her wait before saying, “Go ahead.”

  “There is nothing for me—or for many of us—back in Hathrir. My father will simply arrange another political marriage for me, and most of us can expect less welcome than that. We will choke on ash from Mount Thayil, and our keeping will be begrudged. But we can be of use to Ghurana Nent, and you can offer us a home—in the Gravewood.”

  Hennedigha gave a short bark of laughter. “In the Gravewood? Nonsense.” He shook his head, but the viceroy pretended he hadn’t spoken.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “A city surrounded by rich resources open to people of all kennings or of no kenning. Far in the north, above Ar Balesh. We’ll build the road to the northern coast as we go. All the taxes benefit Ghurana Nent, and you will have a new center of commerce in addition to this site’s potential. We few Hathrim can help fuel your country’s expansion.”

  Melishev looked perplexed. “But you’ll be eaten by gravemaws or worse.”

  “Even gravemaws are afraid of fire.”

  “If it were that easy, it would have been done already.”

  “You have not heard me say it would be easy. You are correct that we may die. And if we do, what do you care? But if we succeed, Ghurana Nent’s coffers will be filled. To us it is preferable to returning to Hathrir. Please consider it. We were not brought here of our own free will. We came with the Mogens because they had a way to escape Mount Thayil, that is all. Now they are dead, and we reject their plan to take this land by force. We have no desire to invade but a desire to coexist and fill the coffers of your government—with your permission.”

  “Let me think on it,” the viceroy said. “How many more lavaborn do you have?”

  “There are only we two,” Olet said, hooking a thumb at the priestess. I wondered why she shaved her head.

  “If I may,” the bard broke in, “which tent was Gorin Mogen’s?” Olet pointed out a large one near the southern gate. “May I look inside?”

  The giantess shrugged. “Of course. Take whatever you like. They are gone. They are no relations of mine. We have no interest in their possessions or secrets.”

  The bard spun around immediately and ran at top speed for the tent. He emerged a short while later carrying a journal, and it reminded me that Melishev carried one as well. I stole a glance at his tunic and saw the telltale outline of it in his pocket. He only had eyes for Olet Kanek.

  “Stop the fire,” he said to her. “Remain here until the morning. Understand that you’re surrounded by twenty thousand men and your good behavior will go a long way toward deciding what we choose. We’ll give you an answer then.”

  She nodded, and we departed, returning to the standoff at the oceanside. Once we explained, Lanner and the other houndsmen agreed to throw in their lot with Olet Kanek, and then, much to everyone’s surprise, I said I’d join them.

  “You’ll join … the Hathrim?” Melishev said.

  “Well, if they’ll have me, sure. I’d like to see the Gravewood if you let them do that. I can protect everyone from the animals there. And I’ll be out of your way, Viceroy.” I saw immediately that this idea appealed to him.

  “As you wish,” he said, and the sly look in his eyes told me he’d do his best to make sure we met misfortune somewhere along the way.

  A horrible accident when the archers were taking target practice.

  An unfortunate food poisoning—I must have eaten some spoiled meat on the plains!

  An outright ambush arranged somewhere around Ar Balesh.

  And it occurred to me then that if I could imagine the viceroy doing such things so easily, he should not be a leader at all. Tamhan would do so much better. Though I may simply be paranoid.

  Fintan dispelled the seeming of the plaguebringer and sighed. “The aftermath of a battle will haunt you; it certainly haunts me. The bodies you see are the ends of so many stories, and most of them never get told. It was my duty to collect what stories I could—a duty drilled into me as an apprentice—but as I went about it, I felt somewhat guilty, as if I were a blackwing picking over bones. Gorin Mogen’s journal was mine to take, the viceroy caring nothing for the machinations of a dead man. I’ll tell you more as my former self,” he said, and transformed to his armored, slightly younger seeming.

  Abhinava Khose told me much of his personal journey that morning after dismissing the kherns, and he allowed me to read what he’d written in the journal his aunt gave him. I determined to follow him around for a while—how could I not? It had been millennia since a new kenning had been found. We met Nef Tam ben Wat together after inquiring about the small saplings the Fornish were guarding. While the Nentian army was setting up camp around the walls of Bagrha Khek and Olet Kanek was busy containing the fire Gorin Mogen had started, Nef moved quickly up the mountain, around and above the fire, to the cache the Fornish had left before the battle—a standard practice of theirs. Nel Kit ben Sah’s journal was buried there, and he fetched it down for me. If I was going to tell all these other stories, he wanted hers to be told also.

  “She was our Champion, you see,” he said, placing it gently in my hands with both of his. “And it was she who brought down Gorin Mogen for the Canopy—and our Nentian allies.” He stared at the small journal, and I didn’t move it, sensing that he had something more to say. Finally, he wrench
ed his gaze up to mine. “I read some of it. She didn’t know, but she was well loved.”

  I nodded. “Of course she was. Tell me more of her?” I asked, and invited him to sit with me and Abhi. He told me much of what happened during the battle since most of it had happened out of our sight and coached me on what Nel looked and sounded like. He and most of the Fornish were going to return to Forn the next day, carrying back their dead to return to the roots, but some would stay behind to look after the silverbark saplings. “Once they’re strong enough for the journey, they will be transplanted to grow in the Canopy.”

  Noon passed us by before we knew it, and Nef bid us farewell to rejoin his countrymen.

  “You now have my journal, Gorin Mogen’s, and Nel Kit ben Sah’s,” Abhi noted after he departed. “Everything a bard would need to tell the story of this battle but the journal of Viceroy Melishev Lohmet. Would you like to take a look at that?”

  “Sure. Does he have one?”

  “Yes. And I’m pretty sure I can get you a look at it. But you have to be ready to leave right now.”

  “Right now?”

  “Right now. We get on our horses and ride north all the way to Talala Fouz. It will be perfectly safe.”

  “All right. I’m game.”

  Packing only water skins, we walked out past all the soldiers, and then the plaguebringer called a couple of horses to us from somewhere—they were his, apparently, waiting for him to hail them. Once we mounted, the young man searched the skies above and then turned his gaze toward the trees to the south still untouched by fire.