by Lentz, P. K.
"Same as ever," I say dismissively.
"Why do I feel as though I won't see you again? At least not for a long while."
I look sharply at him and a feeling comes over me I have had once or twice before. "Perhaps because you and I are also somehow... connected."
He laughs. "It could be..." he says jovially. "But I will content myself to wonder. And if it comes to it... I will not scour valleys full of giants to find you."
I smile. "I hope you won't."
Crow embraces me. "Farewell," he says. "I'll say nothing to Ares. I hope you find her."
An hour later, I leave with four Atlanteans and three Chrysioi down the winding mountain path from Neolympus. I do not look back. When we reach the valley, we commence searching the woods. I endeavor to make it seem as though this search is no different than any other, even though it is not; I have hardly given up on finding Ayessa, but I have long since given up on finding her so near to Neolympus. Hunting parties—which we also are, since there is little reason to pass up game when we come upon it—would have find her by now, or she would have made her own way back.
After a day which yields us but a stag and a hart, we camp for the night, and the next dawn, following the typical pattern, we spend another half day searching and hunting before starting the arduous ascent to Neolympus. Often enough, I will remain out longer, sending the others back, and such is what I do this day. Only this time, I shall not follow them home one or two nights hence.
It will be at least three days before they understand that I have gone missing. A search will be conducted—a mere show of one, if Crow leads it—but it will not matter. By then, I shall be long gone.
***
For a day and a night I hike toward the pass, leaving behind all I have known. The going is hard, and I wake up mornings with frost on my cloak. I cannot risk sleeping beside a fire whose smoke gives away my presence. Not for an instant do I regret my choice, even though I know I have put the good of one before that of all.
That one, I understand, is not Ayessa but Thamoth. I could tell myself that this is a selfless act, that I fear for her safety and intend to rescue her. And I will, if she needs rescuing, but my true motive is more selfish. I must be made whole, and it is clearer more to me now than ever before that Ayessa is indispensable to that goal. It cannot be for nothing that my soul followed hers up from the abyss. I was a fool to have waited this long to embark upon my present path, thinking in vain that Medea could provide what I seek with her potions and sigils.
The approach to the pass is steep. The trees become sparser, the ground rocky. At every opportunity, I climb to a high vantage and scan in all directions, but I spy nothing but forests and mountains, none different from any other. Now and then I hear sounds that may or may not be giants. I try to catch glimpses of them if I can, while avoiding confrontation. Though it is possible that one or more of their kind might be holding Ayessa captive, I do not count it as likely. If giants had taken her, she would be dead by now, and I choose to believe she is not. Thus I am not interested in giants, at least not any resembling the brutes we have seen so far.
As the clouds glow pink with the onset of dusk on my third day, I reach the top of the ravens' pass and see for the first time what lies on the other side. Not surprisingly, it is another valley scarcely discernible from our own. The sight causes me neither hope nor despair. I will simply press on and hope that my bond with Ayessa will guide me to wherever she is now.
I halt for the night on the crest and sleep well—better than I have of late in Neolympus, on account of a feeling of rightness to what I am doing. When I open my eyes, it is nearly dawn. Something has awakened me. Sounds... unnatural ones. I lie still for a few seconds while my ears confirm it.
I hear the roaring battle cries of giants, loud cracks, heavy crashes: the din of combat. Their direction is the one in which I am traveling, through the pass.
Sleep forgotten, within seconds I am on my feet and running toward the fighting. Probably it is nothing more than a few of the brutes having a dispute. But maybe it is something more.
I throw my pack over my shoulder, clamp one hand on my sword hilt to keep it still, and I run, following the sounds. Since my path is downhill, I soon reach breakneck pace. The noises of conflict persist and include what I take to be a giant's wail of pain. Hearing how close that sounds, I slow my pace, lest I blunder straight into harm's way.
My stealthier approach puts me atop a ten-foot ridge of rock overlooking the site of the disturbance. From here, the roars loosed by giant lungs are ear-splitting. Setting down my pack, I crawl forward to peer over the edge. The sight which awaits is one I never could have anticipated.
I see two giants. One is on all fours, struggling to rise, with blood streaming from at least one wound in his torso. The second, roaring with every sweep of his great, spiked club, is presently engaged in fierce battle not with the other giant—but a lone woman.
15. Slayer
She is not Ayessa. That I know instantly, for this woman's hair is long and blond and bound in a thick braid that trails behind her head with each of her swift, darting moves. She never stops moving, using the giant's size against him, making him seem a lumbering statue by comparison. Her weapon is a long-handled ax with a small enough, light enough head that she can wield it one-handed if she chooses. She has landed several blows, judging by the gashes on her opponent's arms and legs, any one of which would be fatal to smaller folk. To this behemoth, they are but deep scratches.
After initial surprise has passed, I remain frozen for some seconds, uncertain. Do I sit and watch the fight unfold or rush to her aid? I have no wish to put the success of my search at risk for a stranger's sake—but what if she can help me in return?
When the fallen giant rises, reclaims his own huge ax and makes to rejoin the fray, instinct makes the choice for me. Leaping from my perch, I land a few paces from the injured giant and draw my sword. It hears my landing, turns and sees me. Its heavy, bristling brow furrows, and it roars, hefting its ax in my direction. I feint and lunge toward it, thinking I have a good chance of slipping under its defense, for all that my sword is capable of inflicting damage to its thick hide.
I never find out, for a sudden force from my right side drives the point of my sword into the ground. A second impact strikes my body just below the ribs, sending me onto one knee. Looking up, I comprehend that my attacker is none other than she whom I sought to help.
Before I can regret my choice, her attention turns to the giant I had been about to engage. Ducking a sweep of its ax, she catches it under the chin with her more graceful weapon, and it falls forward, wide-eyed in death, landing with a resounding thud.
The slayer turns her back on the corpse to face me. In a move as swift as her every one thus far, she hooks the hilt of my sword with her ax-head and flicks the long handle. Wrenched from my hand, the blade flies away, landing with a clatter on some nearby rocks. The look on the woman's face, for the few seconds it is aimed at me, is impassive, but I know it to be a warning. Then she spins and races back, ax raised in two hands, to meet the last remaining giant.
Defeated and forgotten, I begin to comprehend my error. This woman is no victim of a giant attack, fighting to escape them. No, she is the aggressor. Her sole purpose is to kill them, and if I understand correctly, it is a purpose in which she will brook no aid. And so I sit and watch as she resumes combat with a creature whose leg is thicker around than her whole body.
Next to her, the giant is slow and clumsy. She evades his every swipe and answers most with blows of her own, which do not miss. Most of her strikes only harry, however, causing the giant pain but little changing the battle's blazing tempo.
Until, at last, as if she has had enough of toying with it, the slayer sinks her ax into the center of giant's chest. It staggers back, its steps shaking the earth under me, and then it falls with a crash against a fir tree, one arm shearing off the branches it futilely grabs for support. Groaning, hairy face twisted
in an expression of bitter anger, the felled behemoth looks up at the small, approaching figure of she who has bested it. She stands regarding her foe for a moment in the same silence in which she fought, then lifts her weapon two-handed, takes two great strides forward—and buries the ax deep in the side of the giant's neck, finishing it.
Taking time neither to rest nor to savor the victory, the slayer braces her foot on the great corpse's hip and tugs her ax free, wipes the bloodied head on its vest of matted fur and turns to face me. Rising, I realize that the time I passed watching the battle might have been better spent retrieving my sword. For the same reason I did not do that, I make no move to remedy the lapse now. I sense she bears me no ill intent. Standing by the dead giant's foot, she stares at me with an unreadable expression, almost no expression at all. I gather that she is curious... but evidently not curious enough to ask who I am, for her mouth stays firmly clamped.
After a few moments, she evidently has her fill of looking. Resting the long handle of her ax over one shoulder, she turns to leave.
"Wait," I call out.
She twists to look back, but only briefly, as if I am but some woodland creature that has chittered at her.
"Can you understand me?" I ask as she starts to walk away.
She spares no further look and seems ready to let us go our separate ways. I am not so willing to let this be the end of our acquaintance.
"Wait!" I call again, fetching my sword. She casts an even more cursory look but does not stop, leaving me only one choice. Racing back up to the ridge via a more circuitous route than the sheer drop by which I descended, I grab my pack and make the same leap again. I land hard and recover quickly.
My scrambling wins me another glance. Like those looks which preceded it, it is all but expressionless, neither aggrieved nor particularly interested. The impression I receive is of one who simply does not care whether I follow her or not. That being the case, I shall. Since the slayer has not yet spoken a word, or even made a sound for that matter, I cannot know whether or not she understands me. Clearly she hears, but either my words sound to her like so much babble or she comprehends them but deems them unworthy of reply.
Either way, I realize as I chase after her, this encounter is significant not only to me personally. Unless Ares secretly knows of the existence of non-giant others in these mountains—which is not unthinkable—then I am the first of our city to make contact with this woman's kind. She may lead me to others like her. Perhaps not all of them will be as... detached. They may prove friends or fresh enemies. They may be the ravens' masters. For that reason, for the sake of Neolympus, I realize I must be cautious in what information I reveal to this woman—if she even understands me, and if I can keep her attention for more than an instant.
The slayer dresses differently than we do, in form-fitting leathers which cover her legs, a long-sleeved tunic, and hide boots reaching to the knees. Plates of thin, rather battered armor are strapped to key points on her person, including a plain breastplate bearing no insignia.
After a short walk, she stops and stoops down at the base of a tree. I see that she has more equipment waiting there: a canvas pack, larger than mine, water-skin, and sheathed sword. Leaning her ax against the trunk, she picks up the skin, unstoppers it and drinks.
I halt a dozen paces from her and wait. Seeing her drink makes me acknowledge my own thirst, and I consider taking my own almost empty skin from my pack. But that can wait.
When she has taken a long draft, she spares me another look. It is not blank, not entirely devoid of expression. There is something in it. Less than interest, certainly not worry, but she must have a reason for not ignoring me completely.
After a second, she steals back her scrap of attention, seals the skin, and then surprises me by throwing it in my direction. It lands heavily in the needles a few feet away.
I pick it up and say, "Thank you."
But the giant-slayer is already otherwise occupied. Drawing a short-bladed knife from the small of her back, she sets its blade against the long handle of her ax and carves two notches into the wood of the handle, which already bears a great many such notches. They can only represent the giants she has slain, I realize with astonishment. They number in the dozens.
I see now what a laughable notion it was that I, with but half a giant-slaying notch to my credit, could have helped her.
By the time she has stood, affixed sword to belt, slung her pack and ax over her shoulders, and extended her free hand for the return of her water skin, I realize that I have forgotten to drink. Quickly, I take a swallow and replace the stopper. Instead of throwing the skin back, I close the distance between us on foot to set the strap in her hand.
The slayer's eyes are of the brightest blue, as I vaguely believe an unclouded sky ought to be. They watch me with that same nonchalant uncuriosity she has shown from the start.
"Thamoth," I say, setting palm to chest. "Who are you?"
Her look does not change; much less does she answer. She merely turns to resume her descent of the pass. I allow her a short lead before I commence walking behind her. It feels strange to travel thus, in utter silence with someone I have just met, instead of learning all we can about one another. But that is her choice, and this is her world more than it is mine. I can still hope that she will lead me to someone else more willing to converse.
We have hardly begun our journey together when the slayer suddenly stops and unslings her pack and water skin. Dangling them briefly by their straps, she drops them. Then, burdened only by ax and sword, she resumes walking.
Without speaking so much as a syllable, she has made her meaning clear: if I am to insist on following her, then I must make myself useful.
The decision requires no thought. I do as requested and pick up her gear. I also decide that, although I could pepper her with questions in the hope she might eventually begrudge me an answer or two, I will not so risk ending the indulgence she has shown me. If she favors silence—or lacks a tongue, for that matter—then I will grant her wish.
16. Red Clouds
For hours, I act as the giant-slayer's unspeaking beast of burden. Yet my mind is far from silent; it runs rampant with conjecture on who she is and where she will lead me, a dozen questions I wish I could ask, but must be content to save for another audience.
We are following the track of a babbling stream when suddenly the slayer whirls, halts, and falls into a crouch. She does not signal me to do likewise; she need not. Instinctively, I mimic her, and presently hear the voices which surely prompted her action. I recognize the voices as those of giants speaking in their guttural tongue. I can tell too that the speakers are unaware of us, for their tones are jovial and they make no effort not to be heard. My untrained ear puts their number at a minimum of three.
The slayer quietly moves nearer to me, but that is only coincidence. I am part of the landscape and have nothing to with her plans from this point. I can see in her bright blue eyes that she is focused on a task, which can mean only that these unsuspecting giants are soon to become more notches on her ax handle. I am not pleased with the development, having no desire to lose my guide, but I am reasonably certain that any counsel of caution I might give her would be wasted. My assistance would be likewise rejected. All I may do is wait and hope.
Reaching into her pack, which sits beside me on the ground, she pulls out a thin strip of rawhide. In mild surprise, I watch her proceed to wrap the strip several times around the crossbar of my sword, pass it twice through the thong which holds my scabbard to my belt, and tie the ends tightly in a knot. The result is that my sword is fastened such that it now would require considerable effort before I could think of drawing it.
I get the message: I am not to try to help her, no matter what. To drive the point home, she fixes me with a stern glare. It gives me a chill, but not of the fearful kind—no, if anything, I fear for the giants—but so stingy has the slayer been with her attention that I find myself savoring it when it comes, even
in this form.
Having thus dealt with me, she moves off in a crouch in the direction of the giants. One hand holds her notched ax close to its head, the other resting on sword hilt. I have been warned to stay silent and lend no aid, but not to stay put. When the slayer is a small figure ahead of me among the trees, I begin to creep after her, leaving our packs behind. Before long, I lose sight of her, but peering between needled boughs, I catch a glimpse of the giants. They are on the far side of the stream, which here measures about ten feet from bank to bank and looks shallow enough for someone my size to ford on foot. A giant would barely get its knees wet.
There are three of them. The largest looks rather like every other giant I have seen: dressed in hides and furs, jaw and arms bristling with hair, but the other two are different. The second largest has facial hair that grows in mere wispy tufts, less pronounced bulges in the forearms, hips wider in span than shoulders, and clothing of plain linen. A female, I surmise. The third, much smaller and wearing only a loincloth, must be a child.
The grown male stands in the water, filling large clay vessels. The female squats upon the bank scrubbing the youth, who sits in the shallows at the water's edge. It has never occurred to me to wonder about the seemingly solitary brutes' social and biological functions, but here is proof that they reproduce by means familiar to us (even if my new body has yet to put theory to practice) and live in some semblance of a family unit.
The sight makes me wonder whether I had a child in Atlantis. The thought fails to resonate, so my presumption is no. But a wife... perhaps.
If so, I know her name.
I locate my guide again. The first thing I see is her long blond braid, afloat as she creeps fully submerged downstream toward the three unsuspecting prey. As they lack my advantage of looking down from several feet above the water, their chances of seeing their attacker are slim unless something should prompt them to turn their eyes in her direction for a careful look. I wonder, does she mean to slay the whole family?