Giant Thief

by David Tallerman

  I noticed other details. A hay barn extended from the right of the house, and abutting that were two fenced areas. The first, nearest the house, contained a herd of somnolent cattle. A pair of stallions stood in the second, taking an early breakfast on strands of grass that had slipped between the slats.

  "Saltlick, head towards that barn," I said.

  He slowed a little, and tried to angle his head to look at me. Finding it impossible, he mumbled something instead.

  "What?"

  This time he said it more clearly: "Run."

  His voice was hoarse, and as painstaking as a dying man's last gasp. I realised how utterly exhausted he must be. He hadn't lost his knack of communicating much with a minimum of syllables, though.

  "It's all right," I said. "They won't catch us. I have a plan."

  Saltlick didn't seem very sure, but he took the turn-off between the lemon trees. He loped through the low-walled courtyard fronting the villa and came to a halt outside the barn. I clambered down the netting without waiting for him to kneel and dropped the last distance to the dirt, gasping as the impact jolted tortured muscles.

  "You see the hay, Saltlick? You have to bury yourself in it, as quickly as you can. Then stay quiet, whatever happens."

  "Hide?" he asked doubtfully.

  "Yes, hide. Stay hidden as long as possible. They'll chase me. They won't be looking for you. The moment they've gone past, you head up into the hills. I'll come back and find you, as soon as I can."

  I've always been an excellent liar. Still, something caught in my throat as I spoke those last words. To regain the initiative I shouted, "Hurry, Saltlick! Do it now, or we're both dead!"

  I'd estimated we had about a minute's lead. Most of that was already gone. Our pursuers would turn the last corner at any moment. So though there were other things I might have said, I neglected them in favour of turning and sprinting from the barn. I momentarily forgot the battered state of my body and vaulted the first fence, ran through the first paddock – drawing lows of alarm from the cattle – and clambered over the second fence.

  The stallions turned from their meal and eyed me distrustfully. I slowed to a jog, hoping that would seem less threatening. Even so, they backed away skittishly when I came close, and shared a neigh of distrust. I had no time for niceties. I kept moving forward. The worst possibility was that one of them would panic and kick my head off, and I wouldn't be any deader than if Moaradrid's troops found me.

  Luckily, they were well broken. They merely continued to neigh anxiously and retreat. I didn't have time for that either. I darted forward and swung up onto the back of the nearest before he had time to react, then clasped my arms around his neck and dug in with my knees as he tried to shake me off. It was a brief, half-hearted effort. The horse really had been broken, probably with more than a little cruelty. Though he was clearly on the verge of panic, he quickly accepted that he had no say in his own destiny.

  I urged him towards the corral's gate with a sharp tap of my heels. I could hear the rumble of hooves in the near distance. When I looked, the lemon trees obscured my view. I reached for the looped rope that served as a latch, pulled it free, and gave the gate a push. It swung outward on well-oiled hinges. My mount seemed calmer, as though comforted by the familiar circumstances. I urged him through the gap, glanced over my shoulder – and my heart lurched up into my mouth.

  I could see past the line of trees now, along the road, all the way to the corner, where twenty or more riders were tumbling into view, amidst a whirling sea of dust. I knew they saw me too. For an instant, it was as though the distance between us was non-existent. They were near enough that I could make out details of armour and weapons, even the expressions on their faces.

  They looked pleased to see me, on the whole.

  The moment we were clear of the gate I rapped hard on my mount's flanks, and shouted something indistinct in his ear. He surged forward, bewildered and terrified, narrowly avoided a tree, and then swerved when he struck the road, almost hurling me loose. An arrow thunked into the ground between his front hooves. Another ricocheted from the road ahead. Suddenly they were everywhere, lightning of wood and metal spitting up dirt in every direction. Something tore across my shoulder; it felt as though someone had carved the meat with a hot knife. I screamed, and my horse reacted with another terrified burst of speed. I didn't dare look at my wound. I lay as flat as I could, my face mashed into his mane, blind to everything but a small, blurred patch of road ahead. I had no idea what kind of lead we had. In my mind's eye, they were right upon us. At any moment, I'd be so riddled with arrows that passers-by would mistake me for some deformed, leafless bush.

  The seconds passed. I remained alive. In fact, the cascade seemed to be slackening. Moments continued to stumble by, and with each, the rain of arrows lessened, from tempest to shower to drizzle. Finally, their clatter vanished altogether, to be replaced by distant shouts and curses.

  I dared a glance over my injured shoulder.

  I'd forgotten how the speed of our chase had been slackening for hours. It all came flooding back with the joyous sight of a horde of riders massed behind me, each trying to drive his horse to something faster than a trot. They had no hope of catching us. An expert archer on peak form would have had difficulty hitting us across that rapidly expanding distance. No one seemed inclined to humiliate himself by trying.

  "Fools for ever crossing Easie Damasco!" I shouted at the top of my lungs.

  Not only did that make my wound hurt more, it shocked my steed into another panic. Once again, I barely resisted being thrown. I realised I was better off concentrating on my course and on staying in one piece.

  I couldn't help noticing one last detail, though, before I turned back. A detachment was peeling off from the main column, in the direction of the barn.

  My wound didn't seem severe. That isn't to say it didn't hurt astonishingly, or that I was any less appalled to have received it.

  The cut on my shoulder was really just a scratch, the arrow having grazed the flesh and carried on, but it was bleeding profusely and looked worse than it was. I could still move the arm, though it was already starting to stiffen.

  I took a calculated risk on the lead I'd regained and drew my horse up by the side of the road. I climbed down, trying to favour my hurt shoulder. Pain still jarred through me when my feet struck the ground, from that and my countless bruises. I cried out, and a flight of crows erupted, cawing madly, from the roadside foliage. My horse winced, but thankfully didn't try to bolt. He seemed to have exhausted his supply of fright, and become indifferent to the whole business.

  I cut a strip from the hem of my cloak and used it to make a tourniquet around my shoulder. It was next to impossible to tie the knot, or once tied to tighten it, and what I ended up with was little more than an embarrassing accessory. I could hear the rattle of hooves again by then, closer than I'd like, so I swung back onto the horse and drove him to a canter. Feeling suddenly sorry for him, I tried to be gentler, and even whispered some encouraging words in his ear. Perhaps my concern was misdirected, but I didn't feel like wondering what had happened to Saltlick.

  It wasn't long before we'd outdistanced our pursuers once more. To my relief, I saw that we'd also come almost to Muena Palaiya. Though it was a while since I'd been there I remembered the area well. The road, having run roughly southeast for the last few miles, was forced aside by a cliff of grey-white stone and baked red mud, the western rim of the mountains. It continued in the shadow of the rock face, while the land sloped steadily down on our right. A line of stubby trees cut off my view, which otherwise would have been spectacular in the pale dawn light.

  Not that I felt much like sightseeing. Muena Palaiya meant the end of my acquaintance with the horse, which I was starting to grow attached to and – perhaps through slight delirium – had nicknamed "Lucky". There are few more serious crimes than horse-thievery in the Castoval; a man can steal another's wife or rob his gold and still hope for leniency from th
e law, but if he's caught on a horse that isn't his he may as well lock himself up and throw away the key. It wouldn't pay for me to try to ride into Muena Palaiya.

  I waited until the way broadened out. I knew it would split beyond the next bend, with one fork continuing along the cliff to the gates of Muena Palaiya, and the other dipping lower to skirt the town on its west edge. An open, grassy area marked by the occasional tree lay before the gates, where travellers who couldn't afford the local hospitality were prone to camp. It offered little in the way of concealment, and I'd be visible approaching from the gates. I didn't want to have to answer any questions or risk meeting old acquaintances, most of whom would be likely to arrest me. I didn't want anyone to be able to identify me to Moaradrid's troops, either, or to confirm my presence in the town. Fortunately, I knew another way inside. If it was more difficult, it would be infinitely more discreet.

  I dismounted just before the turn, with a grunt of discomfort, and patted the dejected horse hard on his rump. "Be off, Lucky!" I slurred. "Go, live your life. You're free!"

  He stared at me with red-flecked eyes, then wandered to the far roadside and began cropping grass.

  I realised I was feeling distinctly unwell. No doubt it was the combination of hard riding, scant food and water, blood loss and the general stresses of the night. My brow was sticky, my mouth was dry, and even short steps made my head swim. I tried to remind myself that it would feel far worse if Moaradrid's thugs hacked it off.

  Parched bushes of washed-out olive green and a few small trees lined the side of the road meeting the cliff, offering plenty of cover. As I pushed through them I realised I could hear hoof beats again, and that the sound was becoming so familiar it hardly shocked me anymore. I forced myself to hurry. Once I'd passed the bend, I could see the north wall of Muena Palaiya as speckles of ivory through gaps in the foliage. I carried on, scrambling sometimes on hands and knees, though it was particularly painful to do so.

  It was slow progress, and I suffered countless scratches, along with tears and briars in my cloak. The rumble of hooves behind me became steadily louder and then stopped, presumably as they inspected the area around my abandoned mount. A few minutes later, it began again with renewed vigour.

  I'd skirted most of the way round the open area by then. I could clearly see the reinforced wooden gates, still closed at that hour, and could just discern the figure of a guard on the rampart above. He was looking down and pointing, not in my direction thankfully.

  I'd also reached the point I was looking for, and decided to take a moment's break. It was a mistake. The instant I stopped crawling I sagged to the ground, overwhelmed by fatigue.

  At least I had a good view from where I lay. Through a gap, I could see out onto the grassy plain before the gates, where riders were massing. There might have been fifty already, with more arriving in a constant stream. Would they attack Muena Palaiya? Even with the garrison undermanned, they'd be hard-pressed. Those walls were sturdy and easily defended.

  Either way, I was in too much of a corner to consider changing my plans. Maybe they imagined I was already inside, but it was just as likely they'd decide to make a search of the area. I hauled myself to my feet and squeezed through the gap in the rocks behind me. It was alarmingly narrow at first. On the other side it opened out a little into a sort of slim crevasse. Familiarity guided my exhausted steps, for I'd been this way more than once before. It had been known then, in certain circles at least, as the side door to Muena Palaiya.

  The path – if path it could be called – crawled up and around the cliff face, which was less sheer at that point, a tumble of huge stones and jutting rock formations. At best the route was a narrow seam of loose dirt between boulders. At worst it meant sliding down perilous slopes of shingle or clambering over trees that jutted from the cliff face. I was in no shape for the endeavour. I soon noticed that I was leaving a snail-trail of scarlet over the white stone; my shoulder was bleeding again. I imagined myself tumbling over the cliff edge in a faint, and then bewildered townsfolk gathering round my broken body. The journey seemed to go on forever.

  What made the route so difficult, however, made it secure. There were only a few points where I was visible from the town below. When I eventually reached Back Way Rock, I was confident I'd made it there unseen.

  I lay flat on my face. I felt dizzier, and very muddled. Where was I? What exactly was I supposed to be doing? I decided I'd ask Saltlick, who I could hear behind me, chewing a mouthful of foliage. Memories jarred back into place. I recognised the sough of wind through leaves for what it was. The feverishness receded a little.

  I dragged myself to the edge of the crag, and looked over cautiously. The eastern wall of Muena Palaiya was built around and partly into the cliff face, and the advantage of Back Way Rock was that it projected a little way out over the parapet, beside a particularly gentle and uneven decline. It was possible to climb down from there and, with more exertion, back up. It was a well-kept secret amongst those of us who liked to come and go without interference. At least it had been the last time I was in Muena Palaiya; the guards might keep a permanent watch on it these days for all I knew.

  There was no one to be seen nearby, or anywhere on the eastern stretch of wall. A glance to my right told me why. What must have been the entire remaining garrison were gathered in a row on the northern wall around the gate, their helmets and cheerful blue cloaks bright in the early sunlight, staring down at some spectacle below. I could hear raised voices too, now that I listened. Was Moaradrid's force attacking? Their weapons weren't drawn, but perhaps that was only a matter of time. I decided to make my move, while they were otherwise occupied and I was fairly lucid. I pulled myself over to the side, looked down, and regretted it. The wall seemed unfeasibly far below.

  Perhaps they'd shrunk it? Or raised the rock?

  No, that was the fever talking, just as the distorted distance existed only in my fuddled brain. Focusing, I could see the first "step", a narrow outcropping worn by countless boots. I gritted my teeth, swung over, and managed to land a foot there whilst gripping the edge of the overhang. I looked for the second step once I was steady, and found that too.

  Vertigo tugged at my brain. Sweat seemed to flow from my palms, making them slide wetly on their holds.

  I couldn't remember where the third step was. I didn't dare look. I crouched, and lowered an exploratory foot. It found nothing but sheer, unbroken surface. I tried to pull it back, only to find that somehow I'd twisted around, my body angled away from the cliff.

  I made to swing back, and my right hand slipped loose. I clawed frantically. My left foot slid free.

  Scrabbling helplessly, I fell.

  CHAPTER 6

  I landed hard.

  A part of my mind reported with grim satisfaction that I was dead. That was it, every bone in my body was shattered, probably a few organs had burst too. It had been a tolerable life, on the whole, but it was over now. You can't win them all.

  Another part pointed out that it still hurt. It still hurt a lot. I hadn't even fallen that far, nor had I landed on my head. In short, there was no reason I should be dead.

  Does there have to be reason, the first part wondered.

  Yes, replied the second.

  Really?

  Absolutely.

  Well then perhaps we're not.

  I opened my eyes and groaned. Death might have been preferable, overall. I hurt in places I'd never known I had.

  The reality was that I lay across the parapet, limbs spread-eagled like dropped firewood, one foot and a hand dangling over the edge. I reclaimed them quickly, sat up, and propped myself against the cliff. Seeing that the guards were still focused on the north wall, I managed a sigh of relief. I didn't even seem to have acquired any new injuries. A quick survey told me that everything was in at least a semblance of working order.

  I clambered to my feet and tried to get my bearings. Muena Palaiya was built on a slope; it was barely noticeable when you were with
in the town, but there on the highest edge the decline was obvious. Most of the houses, like the walls, were built of stone and many even had paved roofs. They tumbled down in a series of irregular whitewashed steps, following the contours of the hillside. Narrow alleys intersected everywhere, passing under countless arches and – where the buildings stretched to two storeys – even under floors. There was only one thing wide enough to be called a road, and that was Dancer's Way, which ran diagonally from the northern entrance to the other gate in the southwest corner. Below me, just stirring into morning activity, was the Artisans' Quarter. It was a warren even by the town's own standards, a region of cramped passages, odd smells, and countless disparate trades.