"You can say that again." Ilien grimaced and spat his dinner to the ground. "Tell me I haven't really eaten dragon dung."
"No," Anselm managed to say while holding his sides. "It's not dung. It's Awefull.” He gathered himself and took a deep breath before finally explaining, “It's just Awefull, bread made from the rye grass of the Drowsy Wood. Awefull. It's good for you."
"Awefull?" Ilien turned it over in his hands, unconvinced. "I think I've lost my appetite."
"No matter." Anselm wiped his hands on his animal skin pants. "You've eaten enough to last all day and then some. Awefull goes a long way." He finished his and reached for Ilien's. "If you're not going to finish that—"
Ilien handed it over gladly and reclined in the grass. The night was still, the only sounds that of Kink's snoring and Anselm's chewing. The plains allowed for an unobstructed view of the night sky. The moon chased a swarm of bright, white stars across a black velvet canvas.
"Do you think the Swan is still alive?" Ilien asked. He closed his eyes, fearing Anselm's answer. The chewing stopped and there was quiet for a moment. Even Kink's snores fell silent.
"I think the Groll still lives," was Anselm's answer.
Ilien contemplated the blackness behind his eyelids. So many had fallen into the void. So many had perished because of him. Somehow he knew he should feel grateful for their sacrifices, but he only felt lonely, lonelier than ever.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, opening his eyes to take in the stars again.
Anselm swallowed loudly. "Don't apologize, Ilien. I know it seems you're to blame for everything that's happened but you're not. We've all chosen the course laid before us for our own gain. Despite the prophesy, you're perhaps our only hope against Reknamarken's rising. The fact that you alone have the power to save us is not of your choosing. Our path is."
Ilien sat up, his face flushing red and hot in the darkness. "I have choices too, you know. You talk as if my entire fate is foretold."
"But it isn't," Anselm said, putting down his Awefull. "Remember what the Swan told you, Ilien. Only when you accept your fate is it possible to do something about it. Then and only then will you be able to control your own destiny."
"That makes no sense whatsoever."
"It makes perfect sense." Anselm laughed.
Ilien hunched into a stubborn knot and Anselm regarded him with a kindhearted smile. "Look at me, Ilien." Ilien turned his back to the Giant. "Look at me." He grabbed Ilien's shoulder between thumb and forefinger. "Look!" Ilien had no choice but to look as the Giant swiveled him around. "What do you see?" Anselm asked.
"I see you," Ilien answered, rolling his eyes.
Anselm shook his head. "But what am I?"
"A Giant. What else?"
"Exactly. I am a Giant. My fate was foretold the moment I was born. I never had a choice. I was destined to be a Giant whether I liked it or not."
"So," Ilien said, turning away.
Anselm turned him back. "Have you ever wondered why you haven't seen anyone else like me in the Drowsy Wood?"
"There's your wife."
"Besides her," Anselm said, and Ilien fell silent. "She and I are the only Giants in the Wood precisely because we are Giants."
"Are you telling me the Swan doesn't like your kind?" Ilien asked, pulling away. "Because that doesn't sound like her at all."
"No. I'm telling you that Giants don't like her kind, or your kind, or any kind. Giants, Ilien, are evil. They have always been allied with Reknamarken."
Ilien’s face pinched with disbelief. "That's impossible. You're not allied with the Necromancer."
"Exactly."
Ilien shook his head and gazed back up at the stars. "You make no sense at all."
Anselm sighed and studied Ilien in silence for a moment. "When I was young," he said, but then he stopped and looked away, and Ilien waited for him to speak again.
When Anselm turned back, his face was grim and he continued in a low, rumbling voice. "When I was young, I was trained in the ways of my people, taught to fear others who were different, to hate those who didn't follow Reknamarken. To kill without feeling." He formed his hands into fists and examined them in the firelight. "I excelled in my training for I had a great teacher, the greatest among Giants. I was taught by my very own father." He regarded the flames of the firefly fire before him as he opened his hands and let them fall to his side. "But my heart was never in it, really. Even the simple things, like besting my fellow Giants in feats of strength never made me feel the way I was supposed to feel. And the more difficult things—” His brows darkened and the lines of his face filled with shadows. “I cringe now at my own cruelty."
The hiss of the fire filled the pressing silence. "I was a hunter," Anselm said at last, "trained to track and kill unbelievers. To be a hunter was a great honor." He fell quiet, and Ilien could see that the Giant struggled with what he was going to say next.
Anselm stared back into the flames, and though Ilien couldn't tell for certain, he thought he saw tears in his eyes. "I was called on one night for a hunt. An important hunt. An unbeliever had fled into the hills. But this was no ordinary unbeliever. My prey had once been a leader among our people, the one who had taught me all I knew. That night, I was to hunt my very own father." He pulled a handful of grass from the ground and threw it into the fire. A shower of sparks rose into the night. "Hunting my father was a great show of faith, the kind of show that would prove my absolute allegiance to Reknamarken. After all, if my father could stumble from the truth, then surely I could too."
Kink whined and padded over to Anselm, curling up next to him. The Giant continued, hard eyes on Ilien. "I trailed him easily. With me were four other Giants to make sure I did the job right, to make sure I didn't lose my nerve.To make sure my father would die that night."
Ilien moved closer to the fire's warmth, suddenly aware how small he was sitting next to the Giant.
Anselm cleared his throat. "When we finally caught up to him, he was sitting alone with his back to a tree." His expression turned bitter. "I told the others to stay, that I'd take care of it myself so my faith could never be questioned again. I drew my knife and started forward, but halfway there I stopped. Before me, my father rested unaware. Behind me, the others urged me on, their eyes gleaming with murder from the shadows. I hesitated." Anselm lowered his eyes.
"I couldn't do it. I knew then that like my father, I too, was an unbeliever." The magical fire popped and let out a loud hiss. The muscles of Anselm's jaw tightened, knotting in the half-light of the flickering flames. He leveled his gaze upon Ilien once more. "When the others saw my lack of faith, they attacked."
"What happened?" Ilien asked quietly, feeling himself shrink even smaller before the Giant.
"I killed them." The Giant shook his head. "I killed them all."
A chill ran through Ilien. "Your father?"
"He was dead, dead before we even got there. He knew they had sent his son to murder him. He killed himself so I wouldn't have to."
Anselm rose suddenly and walked to the other side of the fire. Kink followed. Ilien watched him sit back down, not knowing what to say.
"Listen and listen good," Anselm said, peering through the dancing flames at Ilien. "I'll say this once and we'll never speak of this again. I finally accepted my fate that night, but it was too late for me to do anything about it. I was born a Giant, raised a Giant, trained in the Giants' ways. It was always within my power to change all that, to control my own destiny, like you. But I chose too late."
Anselm leaned forward. The fire lit his craggy face in bright shades of orange. "We're not so different, you and I. Your fate is to be the child of Nomadin wizards, to be the one who will loose Reknamarken upon the world, to doom us all. But I've seen the powers you have. You can change all that. Just don't wait until it's too late." He held Ilien's eyes with his own, then lay back in the grass and was silent. "Get some rest," he said suddenly. "We rise early."
Ilien rolled over, putting his
back to the Giant and his story. He thought of all the pain in the world, all the pain that seemed to come from him, all the pain he'd caused. Gallund, Thessien, Breach. He thought of Windy, too. A sudden sadness overwhelmed him and he turned back to Anselm. He wanted to say something, something kind and comforting, if only to hear the words himself, but he couldn't. He watched the magical firelight in silence, the orange flames licking the air like hungry little dragon tongues. Fighting back his tears, he closed his eyes and went to sleep.
Chapter XVIII
Kink's Revenge
The marble stairs felt as slick as ice, and Ilien gasped jets of steam as he labored to keep his footing. Where was he? He wanted to look but couldn't take his eyes off his feet. They were shod in huge black boots, man's boots. Ice crystals scattered around them and tumbled down the stairs as he climbed. His hand came into view, a man's hand, lean and hard. He looked up with a start. A row of mirrors on the wall beside the stairs revealed what he already knew. Tall, with streaming black hair, he stood wrapped in a long black cloak that hung loose to his knees. He marveled for a moment at the image before him, watching his hand in the mirror as it touched his mannish face.
"He's here!"
The shout came from farther up the stairs. It was followed by the echo of booted feet on the cold stone floor and Ilien looked up. A wizened old man clothed in emerald green robes stood above, looking down at Ilien with eyes hewn from the frosty marble beneath him, a long, golden wand clutched in one hand. The ringing of boots on stone stopped as a dozen men clad in armor appeared behind him.
"You are a fool to come here, Reknamarken," the old man declared, pointing his golden wand in Ilien's direction. "Do you really plan to defeat us all?"
His own boots were silent as Ilien began climbing the icy stairs again. "Yes," he heard himself say in a deep, commanding voice. "I do."
The guards behind the old man shuffled their feet and their armor filled the hall with clamor. The old man frowned and fingered the tip of his wand as if to test its sharpness. "You were always arrogant," he said. "Now you will pay for that arrogance."
Ilien expected the soldiers to step forward, but they held their positions like so many empty suits of armor. As if a bystander, Ilien watched his broken image in the mirrors beside him as he ascended the stairs. His enemies waited above, making no move to stop him.
Something's wrong, he thought suddenly. The cold in the air seemed to deepen. The light in the room dimmed, adding fear to the foreboding silence. But the man whose body he possessed was oblivious to the sense of dread he felt. His boots kept their steady march up the icy stairs, his smile unflinching, yet something was very wrong and the further he moved up the stairs, the closer Ilien knew for certain he came to danger.
"You misunderstand me," he heard himself say in a voice that echoed off the rising stairs. "There is no need for fear. Your defeat will not be painful. I have no intention of causing you harm."
Still the old man waited with his clutch of soldiers. Still they made no move. But when Ilien ascended the next step they flinched as a sharp click sounded at his feet. He froze where he stood.
"Your intentions mean nothing to us," the old man proclaimed. With a smile he turned and left and the soldiers followed, the clanging of their armor fading quickly to silence. Ilien remained as still as stone. The click at his feet could only have been one thing. His eyes searched the walls and ceiling for traps, holes designed for poisonous darts, slits for blades, anything out of the ordinary. He saw nothing. Unbidden, his mind reached outward, combing the smooth stone for signs of danger. The magical search was dizzying, and he nearly fell, but everything seemed normal. Cold, seamless marble surrounded him in every direction, but before he could proceed he heard another sharp click. This one from behind him. This one distinctly familiar. This one claws on stone.
A grin of curving fangs splitting its face from ear to ear, the Groll crouched at the bottom of the stairs. Smoke rose beneath its drooping tail where poison pooled on the floor.
Something flashed in the mirror to Ilien's left and he gasped. The reflection he saw was no longer a man's. It was his own. Ilien spun back to face the deadly Groll as a twelve year old boy draped in baggy man's clothes. A shrill howl pierced the cold silence and the mirrors along the wall shattered, shards of glass flying around him like stinging bees as the Groll lunged forward.
Ilien jumped up in the darkness, trying to recall where he was, fighting off the urge to scream. His heart thrummed in his chest. His breath steamed the air. The cool night breeze chilled his damp skin and slowly he came to his senses. It was just a dream. He breathed deep and lay back down, pulling his discarded blanket all the way up to his chin. Just a bad dream, he thought. He curled into a tight little ball and stared out at the inky darkness. He wondered how long it would be until morning and began to shiver.
He sighed and rolled onto his back. The sky above looked thick and perilous. Low hanging clouds covered the stars. He listened to the soft hiss of the wind through the grass, Anselm mumbling in his sleep, Kink softly snoring. He closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep, but he couldn't shake the fear that began to settle over him. The dream had felt so real. The confrontation with the old wizard played out in the air before him. His middle aged reflection stared back at him with that unflinching smile. The Groll's howl echoed in his ears. You are a fool to come here, Reknamarken, the old man had said. But where was here? Who was the old man? Was it a scene from the past, and if so, why was he witness to it?
He let his mind wander to more comforting thoughts of fishing in the small stream behind his house back in Southford. He drew his pencil from his pocket, clutching it to his chest. He was glad it remained quiet, and felt a measure of comfort holding it close. He wondered if it ever slept.
Kink's snores fell silent. Anselm sat up in the darkness.
"What was that?" the Giant asked.
Ilien squeezed the pencil tight, shutting his eyes against his fear. As if from out of his dream, the Groll's howl rose like a distant siren in the night.
The darkness exploded as Anselm shot to his feet.
"Kink?" he shouted. "How far?"
Kink was already up, his nose tilted to the wind, his ears on end, searching. Anselm didn't wait for an answer. He rushed around the campsite, hastily packing the gear. He saddled Runner and turned to Ilien, but Ilien had already gathered his blankets and was shoving them into his hands even then.
Another howl sounded over the plains, louder, more urgent.
"I knew we shouldn't have had a fire," Anselm said. "Kink! How far?"
The giant dog's nose continued to test the air.
"Kink!"
Kink's shining eyes grew wide. "Less than a mile."
Anselm pulled the map from his pants pocket. "Open up, you filthy piece of paper!"
Slowly the map unfolded. "Keep your pants on! Even maps need their shut eye, you know."
"Wake up!" Anselm shouted. "I need to know how close we are to the Quinnebog River bridge."
"What's your rush?" The map wrinkled in obvious annoyance.
Anselm snapped it tight. "Just tell me!"
"The Quinnebog River bridge is exactly 2.3 miles away, 3.7 kilometers if you want it in metric, that's precisely 1.75—"
"Show me!" Anselm roared.
The words 'You Are Here' appeared in red on the map, followed by an X in blue a little to the north.
"Let's go." Anselm stuffed the map into his pocket and lifted Ilien onto Runner's back. "Follow me and stay close."
They fled their camp like ghosts in the gloom. Runner followed behind Anselm, the invisible horse a silent gust of wind propelling Ilien forward. Kink brought up the rear, casting furtive glances over his shoulder. Ilien, too, looked back at the receding darkness, wondering how fast a Groll could cover a mile. At any moment he expected to see its sprinting form emerge from the shadows.
"Runner!" Anselm shouted. "To the bridge!"
Before Ilien could argue, the invisible hor
se surged forward and Ilien fell back, his hands grasping for the invisible reins. Runner galloped into the night and Ilien soared alone through the darkness away from danger, but he had the presence of mind to keep hold of his pencil.
"Wake up!" he shouted. "I need you!"
The wind drowned out the pencil's complaints as Ilien peered back at the condensing gloom. He couldn't leave his friends to deal with the Groll alone. He had to help them.
"Runner! Stop! We have to go back!" He hauled back on what he hoped were the reins but Runner only sped on faster till the ground became a blur beneath him. The rushing wind threatened to rip Ilien from the saddle and soon all he could do was hunch forward, hoping not to fall off a horse he couldn't see.
A moment later the wind subsided. The ground slowed to passing grass once more and the whistling in Ilien's ears eased as Runner checked her speed. A growing rumble shook the air and Runner pulled to a sudden stop as Ilien looked up in surprise. Not ten feet away, the river thundered past them in the darkness, a boiling black scar across the plain.
Ilien tried to turn the invisible horse around. "Runner! We have to go back!" He wasn't sure if the horse could hear him over the coursing river, or even understand him, and no matter how he kicked and screamed Runner wouldn't move. All he could do was turn and look back, waiting for Anselm and Kink to catch up, his pencil held ready.
"The bridge!" he cried suddenly, spinning in his saddle. "Where's the bridge?" He beat at Runner's neck. "We have to find the bridge or we'll be trapped!"
Suddenly Giant and dog emerged through the gloom. To anyone else they would have seemed straight from out of a nightmare, two behemoth monsters rushing forward in the night, but to Ilien they were—
Ilien's blood ran cold.
The Groll ran fast behind them.
Runner leapt forward. "No!" Ilien screamed, but she sped toward the river, picking up speed. The water's rumble grew deafening. He shut his eyes. He couldn't watch. She was going to jump. He held on to the air in front of him as tight as he could, but at the last moment Runner veered away, galloped wildly along the shore and raced up a steep rise. Ilien looked back. Anselm and Kink still followed.
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