by Brandon Mull
“Our queen is more than head and shoulders taller than the largest of us,” Dectus said. “She may not look it, but she is the strongest of our number as well. She is the only daughter of the titan for which this sanctuary is named. We giants gave up trying to woo her ages ago. Then along comes the giant killer.”
“Was he a spurned lover?” Kendra asked. “Did he try to slay her?”
“The title is a jest,” Dectus said. “The giant killer is your size. Prince Doranio from Selona. He is romancing her. And having a surprising measure of success.”
“A prince my size!” Kendra exclaimed.
“He is shockingly bold,” Dectus said. “Her jibes and insults have no effect on him. He is a brilliant conversationalist. He began as a novelty to her, a toy, but I believe she has grown to sincerely enjoy his attentions.”
“What about sizeism?” Kendra asked.
“In a way, his tiny stature works to his advantage,” Dectus said. “Responding to his interest has given the queen a new method to insult the rest of us. It’s yet another way to emphasize that none of us are big enough for her. Her flirtations imply that our value is less than his pathetic size. More than a few giants would squash the miniscule suitor given the chance. But of course, none would risk the wrath of the queen.”
“Could she be serious about him?” Kendra asked.
Dectus laughed. “No, Kendra, she isn’t serious. But she does enjoy his company. The toy will eventually lose its shine, but he has held her interest much longer than any of us expected.”
“Is he around now?” Kendra asked.
“He comes and goes,” Dectus said. “He understands the game he is playing. His limited availability prolongs her interest.”
“What does he want?”
“I often consider that question,” Dectus said. “Could he sincerely be after her hand? I suspect not. The logistics are ludicrous, and he plays it too much like a game. I would be interested to hear your reactions to him.”
“I admit I’m curious,” Kendra said.
Dectus scratched the side of his head above his ear. “Would you wait here a moment? Let me go see if I can arrange a meeting.”
“All right,” Kendra said, a little intimidated by the prospect of how dashing and handsome this prince might be to successfully flatter a powerful woman of such inhuman proportions. Then again, nobody could be more absurdly perfect than Bracken.
“I will return shortly,” Dectus said. “No offense intended.”
As the hulking wagon rumbled across the countryside, Seth reclined in the capacious bed atop a payload of turnips. Hermo hunched off to one side, Calvin relaxed in Seth’s pocket, and Reggie lay on his back, having borrowed dirt from the barnyard to fashion a new body, this version somewhat dustier than his previous incarnation.
Bogdun had invited Seth to sit up front with him, but Seth felt wary enough to stay out of easy reach. The ogre held reins attached to a monstrous ox, its shaggy hair a golden orange. Iron trinkets decorated the wide white horns, jangling as the beast walked.
That ogre calls me a ghost, Reggie communicated.
“Without any substance, you seem like a ghost,” Seth said.
But I am your assistant, Reggie maintained.
“Assistants aren’t always visible,” Seth said. “You really saved us back there.”
My other body was destroyed in the fight, Reggie conveyed.
“That’s an advantage to being made of dirt,” Seth said. “There is usually more when you need it.”
We are going to Humburgh, Reggie expressed.
“Bogdun agreed to take us,” Seth said.
Shifting in his seat, Bogdun spoke over his shoulder. “I agreed to get rid of you. Conjure no more hauntings and we can become strangers.”
“Him might still smash you,” Hermo cautioned.
“If he does, Reggie will haunt his farm forever,” Seth said.
At least as long as the buildings stand, Reggie communicated.
“Never attack shadow charmers,” Seth advised. “Most of us have an army of undead ready to curse anyone who harms us. We make better friends than enemies.”
“This is too much chatter,” Bogdun said. “The miles go faster without the yapping.”
Seth watched the countryside pass. Sometimes Bogdun followed a road; sometimes he made his own path over field and prairie. They forded a couple of streams.
Hermo bit into a turnip the size of a cantaloupe, crunching loudly. He took another large bite. “Why you no eat?”
“I had a little,” Seth said.
“Almost none,” Hermo said.
“I negotiated that we could eat all the turnips we want during the ride,” Seth said. “I didn’t know how they tasted. I’m just not hungry enough yet. You enjoy.”
“You crazy,” Hermo said. “Delicious and free.”
Seth saw a lonely farm go by. He noticed some ogres toiling in a stony field with hoes.
“Isn’t winter a bad time to farm?” Seth asked.
“Mild winters here,” Bogdun said. “The Giant Queen manipulates the weather. We can grow worthwhile crops all year. These winter turnips are nice.”
The turnip Seth tried had tasted sharply bitter. “They’re big.”
Bogdun grunted. “Maybe to a pipsqueak like you. I wanted my crop out of the ground before the Perennial Storm hits. Certain seeds will sprout only when the storm of all storms arrives.”
“What’s the Perennial Storm?” Seth asked.
Bogdun shook his head. “Ignorance is not charming.”
Seth waited for more, but the conversation ended there, and he doubted whether asking again would yield additional information. After some time, Seth spotted a trio of giants tramping through deep underbrush among slender trees, each led by his own smallish green dragon tugging against a chain.
“Do giants keep dragons as pets here?” Seth asked.
Bogdun chuckled derisively. “The dragons serve the giants. Those three are hunting pancake mushrooms, a rare delicacy that grows just below the surface. They are very hard to find without the senses of a trained fungus hunter.”
“The dragons are sniffing out mushrooms?” Seth asked.
“Hard to beat a fresh pancake mushroom,” Bogdun said.
They reached an especially broad road, and Bogdun stayed on it. Coming toward them from the opposite direction, ogres driving empty wagons grunted greetings to Bogdun as they passed. Seth hunkered down to be less conspicuous. Hermo settled deep into the turnips, blending so well that Seth could no longer see him. Bogdun steered his ox to the edge of the road as a huge coach rumbled toward him, massive wheels churning. A beefy female giant with her hair in a sloppy bun handled the reins of a chocolate brown dragon.
The sun had moved well past midday, and Seth became hungry enough to gnaw on a turnip. With some trial and error, he discovered that the smallest ones were less bitter, with a hint of sweetness. Hermo had shared a canteen with him, but it was empty now, and Seth saw no way to refill it.
Up ahead, a black castle with spindly towers rose into view. A lumpy gray dragon with misshapen horns was chained out front, apparently to guard the entrance. Seth heard desperate roars issuing from within the castle.
“Sounds like a party,” Seth said, having noticed that direct questions seldom got answers, but wrong guesses or offhand comments could lure Bogdun into conversation.
“It’s always lively at the Alchemy Academy,” the ogre said.
“Turning dragons into mice?” Seth guessed.
“The alchemists extract rare substances from the dragons there,” Bogdun said. “I hear they use a stench giant to elicit dragon tears.”
“Seems tough being a dragon at Titan Valley,” Seth said.
Bogdun harrumphed. “Welcome to reality. It’s tough all around.”
Before long, a town came into view, more expansive than Seth had anticipated. From a distance, the municipality looked lopsided, as if some neighborhoods had swollen disproportionately. Se
th realized that most of the town was built to human scale, but at least one district had been constructed to accommodate giants. A wall encircled the town, with farms and mills outside and a jumble of rooftops, turrets, chimneys, and towers within. Though the human-sized portion of the town had some impressive buildings, the giant side featured structures at least ten times larger.
Do I like townships? Reggie asked.
“You like them,” Seth said. “But you know that people in towns can be superstitious about those who are made of dirt. You avoid too much attention. And if people destroy your dirt body, you form a new one.”
Right.
“We’re meeting someone in town,” Seth said, speaking louder. He pulled out the envelope from Dante and read the address. “We’re going to 49 Pinnacle Street, not far from the arena.”
“I’m heading to the market,” Bogdun said. “You find your street yourself.”
“No worry,” Hermo said quietly. “Me find.”
Seth decided to drop the matter. He considered getting out his invisibility glove but decided it might draw too much attention from Bogdun. Instead he nestled back into the turnips and sought to appear nondescript.
A sign on the wall above the city gate announced HUMBURGH in wrought-iron letters. Beneath the name of the town, in smaller letters, Seth read END NO LIFE. Armored trolls waved the wagon through the city gate with only a grunt or two from Bogdun.
As the ox pulled the wagon along the cobblestone road, Seth stopped trying to hide and sat forward, staring at the assortment of people thronging the streets. He saw humans and dwarfs, trolls and goblins, satyrs and centaurs, nymphs and fairies, and, standing notably taller than the others, an occasional ogre. Some in the crowd carried weapons and looked ready for a fight, but most seemed to be regular folk going about their daily business.
“I don’t see any giants,” Seth said.
Bogdun guffawed as if the observation were ludicrous. “You want giants, head over to Big Side.”
“Is this Small Side?” Seth asked.
“Small Town,” Bogdun corrected. “Unless an ogre is around.” He sat up straighter and rolled his heavy shoulders. “Then it becomes at least medium.”
The structures on either side of the street were packed in close and piled several stories high in a manner that suggested each story had been constructed by different builders at different times. Carved wooden animal heads projected from the facade of a wide building on the right like hunting trophies. The various heads chattered boisterously at passersby, inviting them inside. On the other side of the street, an eatery built on a scale for ogres had swinging batwing doors in the front. While ogres swaggered in and out, smaller folk scurried out of the way.
Up ahead, a troll in a bowler hat and plaid vest stood on the balcony of a morose building. The architect must have hated straight lines, because every column was twisted, every railing warped, every window droopy, as if the somber structure were slowly melting.
“Step inside the Mystery House,” the troll invited boisterously. “See the hidden wonders. Learn of treasures untold. Uncover the deepest secrets of the Games. Enigmas and opportunity await within the Humburgh Mystery House. Today, you have a date with destiny!”
Seth leaned forward with interest. Below the balcony, a young woman approached a painting of a black door on the wall at street level. She knocked on the painted door and it became real, then opened. After she entered, the door closed and became a painted image again.
“Can we get off here?” Seth asked.
“I agreed to ferry you to the marketplace,” Bogdun said. “You want to hop off early, so much the better.”
“Deal,” Seth said.
“I’ll slow but I won’t stop,” Bogdun said. “I could get cited if I halt without good reason. Off you go. May the Games claim you.”
The wagon slowed slightly. “Come on,” Seth invited, climbing down as low as he could before jumping off. From the ground he marveled anew at the enormity of the shaggy ox pulling the wagon. The bucket-sized hooves picked up their pace.
Hermo and Reggie landed beside Seth, and they moved away from the street. Drawing on his power, Seth scanned the area for the undead, but he could sense no entities.
“Me find Virgil?” Hermo asked.
“Just a second,” Seth said, approaching the painted front door of the Humburgh Mystery House. He knocked, but his knuckles thumped against a solid stone wall, and the door remained a painting.
“You want in, Junior?” the troll called down from his balcony. He pointed to an alley with his cane. “Head around the side.”
Seth looked in the direction the troll had pointed and saw a figure dressed in layers of dark rags, a black veil obscuring the face, skulking by the far corner of the Mystery House. The troll returned to barking out invitations to the crowd, and Seth went over to the veiled figure.
“Do I go through you to get inside?” Seth asked.
“To use my entrance, you must pay admission,” replied a creaky female voice.
“What’s the price?” Seth asked.
The veiled hag cackled. “Something I consider valuable.”
“Like money?” Seth asked.
“Make an offer,” the hag replied.
Seth had kept a single turnip in his pocket in case of an emergency. He had only taken a couple of bites from it. He pulled it from his pocket and held it out to the hag.
The hag made a fist and the turnip caught fire. Seth tossed it aside before he got burned, and the flaming turnip rolled to a stop in the alley beside the Mystery House.
“Insulting,” the hag said. “I will consider no more offers from you today.”
The hag withdrew into the alley and Seth walked off, not wanting to prolong the interaction. He felt foolish for offering an item he didn’t even like.
“It was worth a try,” Calvin said from Seth’s pocket. “If she’d been starving, a turnip might have seemed valuable.”
“Or if she had a taste for partially eaten roots,” Seth said.
“At least you didn’t lose something you’ll miss,” Calvin said.
“This way,” Hermo said, stabbing a grubby finger down the street.
“How do you know?” Seth asked.
“Follow,” Hermo said.
They passed a mercantile where the sale of armaments extended out onto the walkway. A dwarf haggled with a troll over a mail shirt. A centaur hefted a broadsword, sighting along the blade. A goblin rummaged through a bin of used boots.
As Seth paid attention, he noticed several enterprises devoted to outfitting contestants for the Games. He also passed inns and banks, eateries, a gambling house, and several ambiguous establishments, like the one where pungent fumes drifted out through beaded curtains, or the brick wall where people climbed knotted ropes to entrances high above the street.
As the little group made their way through the crowded avenues, many eyes strayed to Reggie, as if a figure made of dirt were a novelty even in this diverse crowd. Seth stayed ready for more than glances, but nobody approached Reggie or openly made comments.
Hermo tugged on Seth’s sleeve, leading him down a long, narrow alleyway. Somewhere above him a baby cried. A puddle in a depression had a faint glow and a sweet, rotten odor. They came out onto a less populated street where a small band of centaurs laughed loudly.
Seth kept his eyes down and followed Hermo. Hoping to find a wraith or phantom who could give him information, Seth reached out with his power, but he still sensed no undead nearby, though several of the dilapidated townhouses on the street had a peculiar energy, and he suspected he was being watched by someone who meant him harm.
Hermo led them on a winding route down other streets, including a shabby dirt footpath behind some noisy inns. When they reached a street lined with identical brick residences, Seth noticed a street sign that labeled it Pinnacle, and he pointed it out to Hermo.
“Yes,” Hermo said, stopping in front of a doorway. “Number forty-nine.”
&nbs
p; Seth pulled out the envelope addressed to Virgil and confirmed that Hermo had the correct number. “Let’s go,” Seth said, starting toward the door.
Do I know Virgil? Reggie wondered.
“I think we’re all meeting him for the first time,” Seth said.
Can I try introducing us? Reggie asked.
Seth stared at the crude dirt figure. “I think only I can hear you.”
I am your assistant, Reggie conveyed. I should speak. I should be heard. I’ll do my best.
“Go ahead,” Seth invited.
Reggie took the lead and knocked. As he was raising his hand a second time, a satyr answered, holding a sandwich. The goatman might have been in his twenties, with thick, messy hair and a green, unbuttoned shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
“Can I help you?” the satyr asked.
We are looking for Virgil, Reggie communicated earnestly.
The satyr glanced past Reggie to Seth. “Small for a golem,” he commented.
I am Reggie. My master wishes to speak with Virgil.
“Are you all mute?” the satyr asked.
He doesn’t hear me, Reggie concluded.
Seth motioned at the dirtman. “Reggie is my assistant.”
“And a hermit troll?” the satyr asked. “How’d you lure him out of hiding?”
“We’re looking for Virgil,” Seth said.
“You found him,” the satyr said, seeming a little more guarded. “You’re not here about the Games, are you?”
“We’re new to Titan Valley,” Seth said.
“You’re a kid,” Virgil said. “And a hermit troll. And a dirt guy.”
“I have a letter for you,” Seth said, handing over the envelope.
Virgil held it up. “Dante?” He gave Seth a more interested look, then opened the envelope and started reading. He looked up from the page. “You’re a shadow charmer?”
“Yes,” Seth said.
“Why come to Humburgh?” Virgil asked. “We have no undead.”
Seth glanced at Reggie. “I came to learn about the Games.”
“That’s what I live and breathe,” Virgil said. “Dante has a good track record with me, but I would hate to encourage a kid toward the Games. Those who get involved in the Games tend to die.”