Giant Thief

by David Tallerman

  "Good luck, volunteer," called Costas. He spat after me, missing by an arm's length.

  "May your aim be as precise when your life depends on it," I shouted back.

  My escort glared at me, and fingered the handle of his sword where it hung from his cloth belt. The sash was a reddish-purple, like a fresh bruise: the colour of Moaradrid. That meant he was a regular. I decided it might be better not to annoy him further.

  "Shall we go?" I suggested.

  He grunted again, and set off into the camp. I fell in behind.

  Moaradrid's campsite was, frankly, a shambles. I got the impression that the vast majority of his troops had spent the last few nights in the open, with only the officers and veterans housed in the tents and commandeered farm buildings down by the water's edge. The fact that they hadn't bothered to make more permanent arrangements suggested they didn't intend to stay much longer. That in turn meant a battle was probably imminent. I knew our army was located nearby to the north. Now that Moaradrid was back from his mysterious journey, it seemed inevitable that the long-brewing conflict would come to a head.

  Of course, it wasn't really "our" army – or at least, not mine. I was now the enemy, strictly speaking. It was a depressing thought, on many levels.

  To cheer myself, I drew from the folds of my cloak the stash of food I'd taken from the cart: a hunk of bread, a quarter of wilted cabbage, and some foulsmelling fish. The bread seemed least unappetising, so I tore a lump and chewed ruminatively. I broke it in half when my escort stopped to glare at me and offered him the remainder.

  "Stolen?" he asked.

  "Not from here," I said, fairly truthfully. In fact, I'd acquired it just before the officer stopped us at the camp border.

  "I'll have some fish as well then," he told me, so I halved that too.

  After he'd eaten his share and kept it down, I followed his example. It was surprisingly good – though since I was starving, my own boots would have probably tasted delectable right then. The soldier finished his bread as well, then took a swig from a water skin and handed it to me. It turned out to contain wine. Though objectively I knew it was vinegary and heavily diluted, it too seemed delicious. I grinned at him gratefully, but he only grabbed the skin back and kept walking.

  We'd been heading upwards all the while. I couldn't tell much beyond that. While the moon was almost full, it was cloudy, with a storm brewing over the eastern hills. The only real light was from campfires, and there weren't many of those, maybe due to the scarcity of wood this close to the river but perhaps also because Moaradrid didn't want to betray his numbers. My escort seemed to know where he was going, which implied that there was some order to the gaggles of men and bright spots of firelight. That didn't help me much. If I was going to escape before the battle, as I was determined I would, I'd need a better idea of where I was.

  We came to a halt. There was a pitifully small fire, close to a stunted olive tree and what appeared to be a large upright rock like an obelisk. There were figures around the fire, though I couldn't judge how many. I could only count the innermost few and those were evidently a favoured minority. My escort glanced around. His night vision was better than mine, because he focused on one black shape no different from any other and called, "Lugos, how are your numbers?"

  A stocky man loomed out of the darkness. "I've lost two to sickness, and one in a knife fight." His voice was coarse yet high-pitched, and the flickering orange glow upon only half his face served to emphasise his ugliness. "Why, have you brought me a new body?"

  "I have if you want him. He's skinny and a thief. That hardly matters for what you want, eh?"

  The man named Lugos turned to me. "Not at all," he said. "Skinny thieves die just as well as other men."

  "My name is Easie Damasco," I said, "and stealing once to fend off starvation doesn't make me a thief."

  "Who cares? Sure, I'll take him off your hands," he said, and my escort nodded and turned back the way we'd come. Then, to me, he continued, "Damasco is it? There's a few rules you'll need to know. Do what I tell you. Don't argue. When it comes to it, don't run away. And don't mess with Leon and Saltlick."

  "I think I can remember all that. Who are Leon and Saltlick?"

  "Here, I'll introduce you, and you'll know who to keep away from."

  He led me around the campfire. One or two men cried out as we trampled blindly on their extremities, then shut up quickly when they recognised Lugos. We stopped near to the large rock I'd noticed before. There was a lean figure sat at its base, and he looked up as we drew close. He seemed surprisingly young to have been singled out for whatever special authority he had.

  "This is Leon," Lugos said, and Leon waved a skinny hand at me. "And that," he went on, pointing to the black mass the boy was resting against, "is Saltlick."

  "What? Behind that rock?"

  Leon chuckled, and Lugos barked out a laugh. I wondered what could be so funny – until the rock moved. The clouds flurried away from the moon for an instant, and I saw a monstrous hand, each finger as long as my head. I leaped backward, and Lugos gripped my arm and held it tight.

  "Careful," he said. "Or Saltlick might just decide you're food."

  CHAPTER 2

  The night wore on. I tried hard not to think about what was coming when it ended.

  A pack of cards materialised from somewhere, and one of my shadowy companions suggested a few rounds of Lost Chicken. In an hour, I managed to turn my quarter of cabbage into a hunk of unidentifiable meat, a few coppers, two more loaves of bread, and a small, cheaply crafted knife. Normally I'd have found such success cheering, but my thoughts kept getting in the way, however much I tried to avoid them.

  I'd reached the conclusion that escape was possible but unlikely. Moaradrid wasn't an idiot. Realising that most of his troops would rather be somewhere else, he had sentries patrolling all around the camp borders. I'd heard them whistling to each other in bad imitation of various night birds. There would be plenty of guards within the encampment as well. The risk of fleeing, in my state of borderline exhaustion, far exceeded the hope of success. I was stuck there. I would likely get my first taste of war before the sun came up.

  And that wasn't even the worst of it.

  I had no doubt, after what I'd seen, that I'd be on the winning side. I would normally have taken some consolation from that, but just then it was difficult to do so. While I had no love of its authorities, who insisted on putting my name on "wanted" lists and generally trying to catch and jail me, the Castoval was my home and I was fond of it. I didn't want to see it crushed under the heel of a tyrant. I didn't want to see it overrun by monsters.

  Yet that was apparently to be its fate. Moaradrid had found himself a weapon that the Castovalians couldn't defend against.

  Later, when the sky had lightened to a drab charcoal grey, Lugos stoked the fire and heated some soup, which was doled out in dirty wooden bowls. In a rare act of charity, or more likely defeatism, I shared my bread and meat amongst my closest companions. I received a little weary gratitude in return. Most of them spoke with such wild accents or thick dialects that they might as well have been talking another language for all I understood. We were a group of strangers gathered from the length and breadth of the land, and all we had in common was our future, which was likely to be short. No wonder the atmosphere was grim.

  The soup – mostly water and rice, with a few chunks of turnip and scraps of goat meat floating on the surface – was warming, at least, and my appetite made it seem better than it was. That, together with my acquisitions from cards, left me feeling full for the first time in longer than I could remember. I wouldn't die hungry, at any rate.

  We'd barely finished eating when Lugos, now dressed in a hauberk and tattered leather helmet, stepped up close to the fire and shouted, "Listen up, fifth volunteers."

  I assumed that was us.

  "We'll be going into battle soon. It won't be fun, but if you do your best you might just survive. Don't try to run. There'll be arc
hers on hand and they'll make sure you don't get far. Most importantly, keep away from the giant. He answers to three people only: Moaradrid, Leon, and myself. Anyone else he's likely to step on. That's all. Fight like the bastards you are."

  It wasn't the most motivating speech I'd ever heard. It did, however, make me wonder again about the hulking thing they called Saltlick. We Castovalians knew in theory that the giants existed, somewhere high in the southern mountains, but they'd always minded their own business and we'd been more than happy to leave them to it. The arrangement had stood for generations – we didn't bother them, they didn't bother us – until their existence had become little more than legend. What could have drawn them down into the Castoval? What threat or promise could Moaradrid have used to bind them to his cause?

  The sun was just below the horizon. The sky was a miserable wash of grey, rising from a sickly shade touched with yellow just above the hills, through deep storm cloud hues, to almost black far above us. The light was at that tricky stage it reaches just before dawn, but I could see the giant clearly. He stood back from the rest of us, in a wide clearing amidst the forest of bodies. Lugos's orders seemed superfluous since no one was going anywhere near him. He was as tall as two big men and about as broad. He looked only slightly less like a rock than he had by moonlight.

  Lugos had no illusions that we were anything other than what we were: a bunch of potential escapees. He didn't try to make us behave like professional soldiers, or any kind of soldiers for that matter. He had a couple of henchmen drawn from the regulars, both of whom carried bows and wore short swords. A few of us were armed too, with wooden cudgels and staves. If we'd been less dispirited, an insurrection might not have been out of the question. I would cheerfully have jabbed my new knife into Lugos's throat given the chance. What would it have achieved, though? In the midst of Moaradrid's camp, and with that giant towering over us, we wouldn't get far.

  So we followed his orders, such as they were. Lugos bullied us into two straggling lines and, after a brief discussion with another officer who'd ridden up from the main force, set us off at a fast trot, angling slightly uphill and northward.

  It was still dark below, and I couldn't tell much about the disposition of the two armies. Banners stood out as stains of colour in the defender's camp, but Moaradrid apparently disdained such frivolity, marking his divisions by some other means. He'd kept his army all together on the eastern bank, whereas the Castovalians had a small force on the western side of the Casto Mara, with their back line around the bridge. It was the only thing of any strategic value nearby, unless your strategy involved rice and olives. Their force, made up of militias from the towns, were mostly on horseback, and fast enough that if the fight went against them they could fall back and demolish the bridge behind them. It was a sound plan as far as I could judge, one that played to their strengths and the terrain.

  They still didn't stand a chance.

  As for us, our function was becoming clear. When we came to a halt, I could see two more platoons of bedraggled volunteers on our right. Lugos had us line up four layers deep, and the giant lumbered in behind us, Leon knelt clinging to a platform that rested over its shoulders. The other platoons assumed a similar arrangement; between us, we covered a good length of the hillside. We were a cordon, there to stop the defenders fleeing into the hills. It didn't matter if we were competent or not, or even if we fought back. While they were tangled up with trampling over us they would be cut down from behind.

  Something had begun to happen in the valley. Horns blasted the air. A steady drumming started, which rose and rose until I realised it was actually the pound of feet, backed with a bass rhythm of hoof beats. A fine rain began at that same moment, and the sun finally breached over the horizon, deathly pale and shrunken by its blanket of cloud.

  The lines of battle met with a crash that echoed between the hills and seemed outrageously loud even from our vantage point. Clashes of metal on metal joined the turmoil. The two dark masses swelled and churned against each other, until it was impossible to tell them apart, or to say if one was doing better than the other.

  Moaradrid knew his business. What better time could he have chosen to unleash his new troops than at dawn, when they would be nothing but monstrous shapes plummeting out of the gloom? Had he planned for the rain as well? It was tearing from the sky, which had sunk back into nighttime blackness, with only odd shafts of light pricking through.

  I don't know how long it went on for. Time didn't mean much right then. At some point, though, it became apparent that the defenders were losing ground. I imagined, with my lack of military knowledge, that they might just be feinting, backing off from one point only to swing round on another. Maybe to some extent I was right. Still, in general it seemed they were being forced back, and more and more as the morning wore on.

  I was sure that Moaradrid must have more giants in reserve. I'd seen at least four dozen of the mysterious covered wagons go past before they'd caught me. Each of the three volunteer brigades had one giant as backup, and that was all I'd seen of them. We were too far away for the defenders to be aware of their existence, so Moaradrid's element of surprise remained intact. What was he waiting for?

  There were signs that the defenders were falling back in earnest. They were drawing in their flanks around the bridge, although no one had made a move to cross as yet. Moaradrid's troops took the opportunity to spread out around them, manoeuvring northward and onto the higher ground beneath us. If the Castovalians would only flee towards the west, I'd be safe. The Castoval would probably be lost, but that didn't seem very important by then. Let them just escape over that bridge and it would all be over.

  Below the bridge, beyond the fighting, something drew my gaze. The water was churning white, as if rocks had plunged up through the surface and the river was battering against them.

  No. Not rocks. It was the giants.

  The river was shallower there but men still couldn't have hoped to cross, not even on horseback. The giants could, though. Their heads were bobbing dots haloed with foam, moving with painful slowness. I hoped they'd be swept away. Surely, nothing could be strong enough to push through that rain-swollen torrent. Even as I thought it, a pair of shoulders bore out of the flow, grew a torso and arms, and thighs thick as tree trunks.

  The defenders, caught up in their retreat, already focused on attacks from three sides, remained oblivious. Even as the last giant broke free and dragged itself ashore, even as they lumbered towards the Castovalians holding the west bank, no one looked their way. It was only when the rearmost riders started over the bridge and saw huge shapes striding inexorably down on them that the panic began. The handful of men holding the far bank routed instantly. The main force, unaware of what was taking place across the river, were still trying to withdraw. The giants marched nearer. Those already on the bridge found themselves pressed from both sides. The bridge itself began to weaken under the strain. Timbers splintered into the waves beneath.

  The Castovalians were already in chaos by the time the giants reached them. I glanced away, my eyes stinging. When I looked back, one giant had a horse raised over its head, the rider still dangling from the stirrups. As I watched, both horse and rider were hurled back into the fray. I thought I could make out the animal's scream against the clamour of background noise.

  Moaradrid's main force, meanwhile, was still hammering against their front. The defenders had collapsed into a clumsy wedge, with the horsemen – worse than useless in such close confines – pressed towards the centre. The bridge sagged at its middle, and then split like wet paper, plunging a last few bodies beneath the waves. That slowed the giants, at least. They lined up on the west bank, as if unsure what to do next.

  The Castovalian cavalry, what few of them remained, chose that moment to try to break free. They charged in a single mass against their opponents. The ranks bulged, and held. The Castovalians wheeled back, and drove forward once more, clustered even more tightly. This time Moaradrid's
lines buckled. The riders surged through, aiming directly uphill.

  That meant they were heading straight towards the middle of the three volunteer platoons, which brought a ragged cheer from my own.

  Then, at the last minute, having drawn that middle platoon a little way down the slope, they swung in our direction. They were incredibly fast. They'd succeeded in creating a diagonal gap in our lines, and they pushed hard for that slim chance of an opening. There were perhaps two hundred of them, nothing compared with how many must have ridden out in the night. I recognised insignia from five different towns. In the forefront, two horsemen were picking the way: the leader small and slight, wearing a close helm over dark hair that streamed behind, the other large to the point of fatness and somehow familiar-seeming.

  I'd no time to wonder why. They'd be on us in seconds. I decided I'd stay close to Lugos. Either he was a good officer who'd try to protect his men or, a thousand times more likely, he was a rodent who'd sacrifice every one of us to keep his own skin whole. Whichever the case, it seemed sensible to be near him. I edged forward a row, and darted to my left.