"Now that it comes to mind, my wounded friend, there hasn't been an attack on the giants by a Cray for a long time. I wonder what their tiny brains were thinking last night."
"I don't know,” Birefin said. “Maybe they figured, since we are a great deal smaller than a giant, we would be easier prey."
"Yeah, that was my first thought too, Birefin, but it jest don’ make sense to me,” Farrin growled, displeased and perplexed. “Evil surely is stirring again here, more proof that you brought truth with you. Surely King Hrathis will be happy we have come."
"He will be,” Birefin said with an easy grin on his face, pleased with their success, moreover, their king's success.
* * * *
The villagers of Wiltrout had never laid eyes upon such immense beings. At first, the sight of the giants approaching from the stony paths above threw panic and fear into the hearts of the village. Women dropped their baskets of freshly washed linens, men dropped their tillers, and children let their kites float off into the winds.
"We're under attack by giants. They're coming!"
King Hrathis could hear the uproar from his war chamber. He rushed to the window facing west. Sure enough, there was Farrin and his followers, being led by his company of men. The king was overjoyed, and made his way down the tower so fast that his counselors were cursing and yelling for him to slow down. Once in the courtyard, Hrathis ordered the gate open, and went out on horseback to face the discombobulated people.
"People of Wiltrout,” he shouted. “Do not be afraid! They come to aid us!"
The people who heard him stopped dead in their tracks, and gazed at him. After a few questioning mumbles, a hush went out over the townsfolk.
"This is the resolve that I spoke of, Wiltrout. Will you now understand and be glad? I have summoned the giants here to bargain with us, so that they may aid us in tracking down the evil that still plagues the East! Will you not welcome them along with your courageous men who traveled long to find them?"
The crowd remained hushed, but glanced at each other. Finally, one man spoke:
"We understand, Sire, and we trust you."
With that, the crowd started cheering. The giants entered the courtyard from the rear gate to the sounds of praise. They were welcomed warmly, and King Hrathis knew that this day would be one of great legend. Giants and kings united as one to bring Drezdain's slayers to justice. From underneath a dark cowl, a smile formed on a rugged face.
"Just as you had foreseen. Now, it begins."
The snickering laughter could not be heard over the roar of the crowd as it pushed forth into the courtyard to behold the wonder of the huge giants.
* * * *
The coming weeks were full of festivities as both races of men and giants gathered to celebrate the reunion of Farrin and King Hrathis. The might of the union echoed throughout the lands, spreading like a feasting fire. Bounty hunters from afar came to Gudred Keep to offer their special style of service to the king. Though bounty hunting was frowned upon by nobles of the age, it was tolerated in such situations for obvious reasons.
The day came when the festivities ended and talks began between the giants and the king. Gudred was a stronghold built by men, for men. The passageways, though large and wide, could not contain the behemoth bodies as they tried to make their way to the war chamber. Giants were not known to grow taller than eleven feet, but Farrin's breed towered well over thirteen and a half, with Farrin himself hitting fifteen easily.
"Bah,” Farrin grunted. “We're never gonna be able to fit through here, Hrathis."
The king let out a hearty laugh that reverberated throughout the interior of the tallest tower of the citadel. “Do not be discouraged, my lumbering friend,” Hrathis said playfully. “We shall make accommodations fit for you and your giants. Come, let us retreat to the courtyard. The air is open there, there is plenty of space, and we are guarded. The gates shall be closed so we may have privacy."
The courtyard was the most airy spot in the keep. It was made large enough to contain the full population of Wiltrout in the event of a siege. The storeroom doors opposed each other so supplies could be distributed without having to push through the massive crowd. Much thought and preparation went into its design, another testament to King Hrathis’ devotion to his people. The floor was cold, but the giants sat down on the hard stone anyway without complaint. Timothy fetched a wooden stool for his king. The meeting began. The guards did not see the form crouching low in the shadows of the tower, a remnant left behind when the crowd was removed from the courtyard.
"Giants and men of Vaalüna,” King Hrathis began. “You have been summoned here for a purpose that most of you know full well. A plan needs to be formulated now on how to deal with the menace that grows once again in the East. Drezdain has been slain and his keep destroyed by what appears to be orcs of Dunandor."
Scowls appeared on the faces of the giants; grunts of disgust sprang forth from their lungs.
"There's not much to discuss here, Hrathis,” Farrin said with impatience in his voice. “Just send us to Dunandor to destroy them."
"Haste and overconfidence are two mistakes I do not wish to make a second time, Farrin,” Hrathis said. “Though I do not doubt you and your giants’ resolve, we have no confirmed knowledge of the whereabouts of the orcs, nor of their purpose. Hydrais was destroyed at El-Caras, the fortress was destroyed and sealed, and the underground hold of Trünith forgotten. It seems that the time for rediscovery is at hand. We know the Ünodin Pass is being watched for the first time since Hydrais’ disappearance. This may be a simple case of the remaining force of loyalists making their last stand, or it could be something more."
"Even so, it doesn't make much sense for us to sit around and talk about it now, does it?” said a frustrated Farrin.
"It makes even less sense for us to send a force of giants and men into that land, when that might be what the enemy wants from us after all."
Farrin paused his thoughts, as he shifted his seat on the stone floor. “I think I just want to get off of this cold, hard floor, Hrathis,” he said jokingly. “Let's make our arrangements and be on with it."
"As you wish,” Hrathis addressed Farrin directly, “I would like you to lead your giants, save five, to Dunandor. With you will be fifty of my men. Together you will seek out, and destroy, any remaining force of Hydrais or that wretch Haarath! If possible, locate the secret entrance to the underground realm of Trünith. That was the fabled resting place of Hydrais himself."
Farrin stood, his giants all standing with him. The king stood too. Farrin took a look around, and picked the five who would stay behind to guard the city from attack. When the choices were complete, he turned back to the king.
"At dawn, we leave. Until then, we will rest on the grass fields outside the walls."
The king nodded. As the giants turned to leave through the main gate that was being prepared to open, a sinister form appeared in their midst from the shadows. With a whisk of a hand, the guards raising the gate were thrown aside. The gate came crashing back down. Swords and axes were drawn in an instant. Another gesture of the hand froze each weapon in the hand of its bearer. King Hrathis looked horrified as his men and the giants were rendered powerless in a heartbeat. There was nothing he could do! The being in their midst, like most practitioners of dark magic, wore pitch black robes that covered every feature except for the hands that twisted and formed the spells at will, and the evil smile that stretched across the face beneath the shroud. King Hrathis tried to move toward the form, but his feet were bound to the stone tightly.
"You will listen now, King Hrathis,” uttered the other in a chilling voice that sounded as if it came from the bowels of the earth itself. “I have the upper hand here. With the s-s-simple twist of my hand, your men and giants are dead."
Farrin's face was reddening, though he could not turn his head or move a muscle. The sorcerer chuckled aloud.
"So this is the great Farrin? Nothing more than a simple-minded
twit, your size means nothing to me."
"Who are you?” asked King Hrathis.
With a swift motion of the wretch's hand, the king was picked off of his feet and pulled close to the menace quickly. All that the men and giants could do was stare in horror while the wretch manhandled their king.
"You do not ask the questions of me,” hissed the writhing voice. “Your mouth would be better if it were shut."
With that, King Hrathis’ mouth was sealed shut, lips closed tightly, never to be opened again.
"Your mouth will trouble you no more,” said the other. “And one more thing,” he added. “Your force will never be dispatched to Dunandor."
Hrathis’ eyes opened wide with terror. With another move of the hand, the king was raised up high and cast into the open window of the tallest tower, which was then sealed with a barrier spell.
"And as for you,” he said as he turned to the giants and men. “Your simple minds will be made simpler, so as to never trouble me again."
The giants were released from the hold spell, yet they still did not move. Stupefied looks spread across their faces as their axes were lowered to the ground. The sorcerer held his hand up as he said aloud, “You will remain here as my slaves. Your job will be to tear down these walls with your own hands. Uproot the very fiber of Gudred, but leave the tower containing your king intact!” The giants dropped their axes and moved toward the walls slowly, like zombies of the Netherworld who obeyed the commands of their
Master.
He turned toward the men now. “And lastly, you will come with me. I have much use for you where we are going."
A shrill laugh rang out into the night air. Outside, Wiltrout village heard nothing. Their sleep was peaceful, full of dreams of pleasant things. In the morning they would be oblivious to what transpired, as their curse was ignorance of the truth. The gate of the stronghold would remain closed until the interior was gutted. The sorcerer knew that it would take a lengthy amount of time for any outsider to figure out what had happened. They would be powerless to reverse the spell. It would be thought that the giants and men went to Dunandor and were slain, never to be heard from again until the walls came crashing down.
* * * *
Years passed. No word ever left the castle walls, though work progressed. Hrathis was banished to the highest point in his tower, left alive purposely to watch his precious castle be dismantled piece by piece by the very force that once brought him hope. His cries for help never fell on wise ears. Timothy was permitted inside Hrathis’ chamber, but could do little for him. He stayed close at hand, and never abandoned his duty to his king. Once the king was banished to the tower, the seal around his mouth dissolved, which relieved Timothy. At least he could feed his lord.
All hope had drained from Wiltrout and Gudred. Evil grew in the East daily and the land grew darker as life was drawn from it from somewhere unknown.
Twenty-one years passed by slowly, each bringing more pain and suffering to Wiltrout and all regions of men, as no news of the giants was forthcoming. Hrathis could not be reached. His people had fallen into darkness; the light of Vaalüna was fading. The trees stopped whispering, falling silent as dismay filled their hearts as well. Little did the world know that, from the depths of Mernith Forest in the land of elves, a hero would arise to decide their destiny.
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Chapter 8—Seaborne
Caran, the land of the sea pirates, sat between the borders of the Farrin Ranges of the west and the ocean of Arthea. This land was home to a wide variety of folk, many of them merchants and peddlers trying to sell their wares to the vast amount of travelers who graced the free shores of Vaalüna. Almost entirely separated from the other realms by mountains and the hideous beings dwelling therein, Caran was more advanced in technology than other regions. Large ships carrying weapons of great destructive power dotted the water. It was a world all its own, and on its own. Pirates and other sea-loving men roamed the vastness of the Arthean Ocean in search of treasures. Some kept to themselves, choosing to ignore others unless, of course, their services were needed. A few bands of Wave Raiders lurked on different paths and chose to pillage, burn, and murder to get what they desired. While these were dangerous, the most dangerous were the Senantor Pirates. Most travelers cared not for the awful stories of pirates, or for the foul creatures that plagued Caran. The promise of a better opportunity called to them, in part due to King Hrathis’ legacy.
The notorious seaport, Drameda, sprawled along the edge formed by water and land on the westernmost point of Caran that stretched out into the ocean like the arm of a great giant. Drameda, like most seaports of the region, was infested with an unhealthy dose of thieves, gamblers, and, of course, pirates, who were merely a mixture of the two former. The town contained a few inns, warehouses for storing goods from merchant ships, and several taverns. These ale houses were the gathering places for the gangs of “madmen", described by the locals who lived and worked in Drameda. Many ships docked there, bringing merchants to sell goods from all over the world. People came from near and far to Drameda, risking their own lives, to trade and buy from the foreigners. Few of them traveled alone through the mountains. Groups were formed with armed escorts, who were paid handsomely for such service.
Sitting alone at a corner table at the infamous Dew Drop Tavern, Mortwar Brendain took a long drag from his smoke pipe, the glowing ash illuminating only his eyes for that brief moment. Long locks of messy, dark hair flopped down about a face that looked like it had been beaten by sun and sea salt for a great many years. He leaned back in his chair, and watched the crowd closely for any sign of his quarry. His dusty leather overcoat looked golden in the soft firelight emanating from the center brick oven. Activity was all around him. The house chef was busy flipping his knife and spatula around like a juggler at the traveling circus shows. He was quite good, tossing sliced pieces of fish and grilled beef onto customers’ plates playfully. The drunkards laughed as they spilled their ales on each other. Yarns and tales, as tall as mountains, were told between them, exaggerated beyond realistic measure. Although Mortwar did not join in the general ribaldry, a smile graced his face as he puffed again on his pipe. He smoked a weed called lynathia, a sweet smelling herb that was pleasurable to the nose as well as to the palate. Fortunately, it was not intoxicating in any way, or Mortwar would have been under its spell for a long time to come.
Mortwar was an escort guard, a tracker, known to have a sense of direction and kinship with the earth that was unheard of in other races of men. He did not fit in the world of the pirates and heathens, so he kept a low profile when he was called to Drameda. Mortwar enjoyed life's simple joys, like the lapping waves and the freedom of travel on the land, sea, or by air if called to do so. His travels took him to the farthest reaches of the world, and into most of the existing realms. There were few creatures, magical or otherwise, that he had not encountered. He had no need for plundering riches, and certainly no need to drink himself into a state of utter paralysis like most pirates and sea dogs. No, he much more preferred to sit and watch others mingle and make fools of themselves while he smoked his pipe. To mistake his mild manner for weakness was another matter altogether. On his left hip, hidden underneath his waistcoat, was holstered an instrument of immense power. To ask of it anywhere else in Vaalüna would have been met with confusion and ignorance, even from wizards. It was little more than a piece of beautifully crafted wood that contained a cast iron metal tube cradled inside. The gold-accented hand grip was elaborately engraved. A small piece of metal stuck out from its bottom, guarded by a wider piece to seemingly prevent accidental use. Its full use was unknown, since Mortwar never had to draw the weapon. A unique contraption, it was much rarer than even the diamonds or Mythrill mined by the Dwarves. The tracker also carried a large scimitar in plain view on his right hip. It was a common weapon around town.
Just as Mortwar took the last puff of his pipe before he would have had to repack it with lynathia,
the door to the tavern was flung open. A storm had started outside, the wild rain pouring in violently as the wind wasted little time in finding the opening. Some of the people standing closest to the door moved quickly away. One man, passed out from far too much ale, let the rain soak his back. The figure stood in the doorway a bit longer before stepping inside. Mortwar had abandoned his pipe already, and pulled his large hat down over his eyes. This was the man he had been told to watch, to track. He had been paid extra to do so. The story was confusing to him, but he was not one to ask questions when the purse was hefty.
The man grunted and slammed the door hard behind him. The man's boisterous gestures and strident command for a drink replaced the howling winds. The happy atmosphere of the tavern died. The young chap tending the bar shook as he fixed the drink as ordered. Mortwar stared hard at the man from his dark corner table, never moving as the other sat down on a tall stool with his back to his watcher.
The man, named Callaway, was known to be a bold pirate of a different sort. Not only was he a looter and a thief, but he also, on occasion, took liberties with women in any town where he was seen. He often disappeared before any justice could be enacted. Most bounty hunters would not come within fifty miles of Drameda due to its less than appealing reputation, so his crimes went unpunished. Callaway knew this and fled to Drameda often to escape his pursuers, who were always watching and waiting for him to show up elsewhere.
Chronicles of the Planeswalkers Page 16