Giant Thief

by David Tallerman

  The ladder was sturdier than it looked. That wasn't saying much. With all three of us on it, it bucked and swayed with every slight motion. The climb took an unreasonably long time, and Estrada's silhouetted figure blocked the light from her lamp, leaving me in thick darkness. By the time I clambered out, my nerves ached to match my body.

  We'd arrived in yet another tunnel, this one apparently natural and faintly lit by patches of phosphorescent blue mould at intervals along the ceiling. Estrada closed and padlocked a hatch over the drop, and then led on, until the tunnel opened out again. We'd come to another junction, this one large enough to be considered a cavern. I was alarmed when a shape glided out of the shadows, until our lamplight revealed it as an elderly man in patched leather armour. He saluted Estrada and asked, "How goes it, Captain?"

  "As well as can be expected," she replied. "Any word?"

  "Nothing new."

  She nodded, and the man slipped back into the gloom.

  Captain? I remembered hearing something once about a mayor being expected to lead their townsfolk in a time of war. Surely that wouldn't apply to a woman, though? I'd always assumed Estrada's appointment had been meant as a joke, and it had never occurred to me that others might see it differently. Yet I could think of no other explanation for her presence on the battlefield.

  Estrada had moved to the cavern's far wall, where a low opening led onward. She turned back and said to Mounteban, "You can wait here." When he looked as though he'd debate the point she added, "No arguments. You can eavesdrop again if you like."

  She crouched to hands and knees and disappeared into the entrance. Mounteban waved me on when I didn't follow, and I could feel the elderly guard's eyes on the back of my neck. I dropped to all fours and crawled after Estrada.

  That short journey was worse than climbing the ladder had been. I couldn't lift my head without scraping it on bare rock, and the surface beneath my hands was just as uneven. Both were cold and moist, and once again I was travelling in near blackness. I was immensely relieved to see Estrada's shape ahead fringed with grey. The grey grew paler and paler, until suddenly she moved aside and dazzling moonlight filled my view. I clambered gratefully out into it, and if it hadn't been for Estrada's grasp on my elbow, would have stepped right off the cliff.

  For that was where we'd come out: dizzyingly high upon the cliffside, perched on a slender outcrop, looking down over the eastern Castoval. I could make out the contours of Muena Palaiya directly below, illuminated by occasional glimmers of lamp or torchlight. Grander fires burned in the triangle of ground before the north gate, seething puddles of yellow spread between the silhouettes of tents.

  Estrada, following my gaze, pointed down towards the encampment. "That's where Moaradrid's holding your friend."

  "My friend?"

  "The giant you travelled with."

  "Oh. I wouldn't have chosen that particular word."

  Her glance was disapproving. "No?"

  "Anyway, I'm sure he'll be all right. He'll explain, in his monosyllabic way, that it was entirely my fault, and they'll likely take him back to his real friends."

  "Even if that were to happen," she said, "It wouldn't fit with our plans."

  "These mysterious plans again. Tell me, why exactly have we come all this way, when I could be asleep in that nice, warm cave?"

  Estrada looked at me as if I was deliberately missing the obvious. "You can't very well rescue the giant from inside a prison cell, can you?"

  CHAPTER 8

  I squinted at the makeshift encampment.

  It was a bright, clear night and, if I concentrated, I found I could pick out the abrupt triangles of tents, the crooked shadows of olive trees, and even the figures of patrolling guards when they passed before a campfire or across a patch of moonlit ground.

  None of that told me where they were holding Saltlick. I couldn't imagine they'd waste a tent on him, or allow him near a fire. He would be out in the open, and most probably tied to something. I personally doubted he possessed the guile to try to escape again, but Moaradrid wasn't to know the details of his last elopement, and – despite my earlier claim – I didn't really believe Saltlick would blame me. Apart from anything else, it would involve the kind of multiple-word answers he seemed to detest so much.

  I noticed an irregular patch of darkness that wasn't a tent and, although it had protrusions that must be branches, wasn't quite the right shape to be a tree. There was something distinctly odd about its smudged silhouette. I stared at it, trying to tease its dimensions from the surrounding darkness – so that when it moved I nearly jumped out of my skin.

  I pointed. "That's him, isn't it, by that big tree?"

  Estrada nodded.

  "That's right in the middle of the camp. It's hopeless. I count at least a dozen men on patrol, and there are bound to be sentries as well. Moaradrid must know he's vulnerable out there. He'll be expecting an attack."

  "Yes. He sent back for reinforcements yesterday. Half his army will be here by tomorrow evening."

  "It's impossible."

  "You talk as if you have a choice." There was a new quality in her voice, inflexible and cold. "I don't like it, but there it is. We want the giant out of there and you have as good a chance of rescuing him as anyone. If they don't kill you, if you don't decide you like it better with them than with us, then perhaps we can trust you."

  Every hint of softness was gone from her face. I realised then, really understood for the first time, how she'd been allowed to run a town and even to lead men into battle. In that moment, I found her no less frightening than Moaradrid.

  Much to my own surprise, fear made me brave – or at least pragmatic. "I could get to him, perhaps, maybe even untie him. But the two of us sneaking out together? Possibly you haven't noticed, but Saltlick isn't exactly built for subterfuge."

  Her features relaxed into the barest hint of a smile.

  "Oh, don't worry about that, Damasco. We'll be ready when the time comes."

  If that cryptic reply was supposed to comfort me then it failed miserably. Either way, it was clear that pleasantry or even discussion was off the menu for the remainder of the night. I was actually a little glad. The more I prevaricated, the more I'd consider what I was about to do. If I really had no choice, it was probably best I think about it as little as possible.

  Still, there remained certain practical considerations. "So how do I get down there? Is flight amongst the miracles you're expecting from me?"

  Estrada, by way of answer, motioned to her right. A thick wooden beam jutted from the rock wall near the passage mouth, extending out into space. A line of rope lay on the outcrop close to the overhanging end, and fed up through a simple pulley mechanism to a coil near the cliff. It was probably another relic from the mining days, or from the smugglers. Either group would have been glad of a way to move goods rapidly up and down the cliff face.

  Of course, no sane person would have considered people amongst those goods. "You're joking."

  "Do you have a better suggestion? No? Then start tying that rope around your waist."

  I shrugged and did as instructed, reminding myself that a quick death on the ground below would be preferable to a slow, elaborate one at the hands of Moaradrid. I didn't hurry though, and by the time I'd finished, a dozen sturdy knots bulged around my waist. Estrada took up the main length, curved it round her body, drew it tight and braced. "I've got you. You can step off now."

  I'd understood in theory that this moment was coming. Now that it was a reality, I still found myself staring at her as though she were speaking some incomprehensible language known only to the congenitally mad.

  "Damasco, step off! I can take your weight, believe me."

  Rationally, I knew this was probably true. The pulley would do most of the work, and in any case, here was a woman who could wield a sword in battle, which was more than I could honestly say about myself. It takes a lot of trust to put your life in someone's hands, however, regardless of what sense tel
ls you.

  I shifted closer to the edge, looked down. Darkness masked the base of the precipice, with nothing visible except vague shapes that must be bushes. I could see the cliff face clearly, though, and the sight of it sheering away beneath me made my guts melt.

  I glanced back at Estrada. She was glaring impatiently. When she saw my expression, her own relaxed a little. "You'll be all right," she told me. "If you've proved anything over the last two days it's that you're a survivor."

  I couldn't help but laugh – a slightly hysterical bark that came out too loud.

  "I never looked at it that way," I said, and stepped out into nothingness.

  For a hideous moment, I fell. Then the cord jerked taut.

  Estrada called from above, "Look for the package!"

  I had no idea what she meant, and didn't much care, because my downward momentum had turned into rapid spinning that swung me dangerously close to the mountainside. I was starting to get used to that when I began to drop again – in abrupt steps at first as Estrada got used to my weight, and then in a steady slide. Meanwhile, the spinning continued, stone and sky rotating round my head with nauseating speed. My sense of space buckled. I seemed to be plunging in every direction at once.

  I was just beginning to right myself when I struck the ground, with a yelp more of shock than pain. It took me a minute to establish that I was lying on my back, with my limbs dangling and my head mostly in a bush. The rope was still taut, leaving my waist suspended above the grass. It only occurred to me then that I had no way to cut myself free, and that no slack meant no hope of loosening the knots. Estrada might realise eventually, or grow bored. In the meantime, my extremities were starting to go numb.

  I began to panic, and stared into the blue-limned gloom, hoping for a jagged rock, a sharp stick, or anything I could use to try to rescue myself. I discovered instead the package that Estrada had warned me about. If I hadn't been confused and dangling, I'd have seen it immediately. It was large enough, and wrapped in vividly coloured cloth.

  It took some manoeuvring to get hold of it and more to open it, but I was glad of the effort when the first thing to fall out was a long curved knife. It proved wickedly sharp. A couple of strokes were enough to free me, and left me panting flat on my back in the damp grass.

  I struggled upright and inspected the package's other contents. The outer wrapping turned out to be a cloak. It was coloured Moaradrid's bruise red, though so dirty and faded that it wasn't obvious at first. Inside was a jacket of studded leather, with a ragged tear in the seam. It could only be meant as a disguise. The ill-kept armour wouldn't be out of place in Moaradrid's ragtag army, and the knife had probably been looted from a Northerner's corpse.

  Was this Estrada's plan? I wander into Moaradrid's camp dressed not unlike one of his men, wave hello to the guards, cut Saltlick loose and march back out, with no one any the wiser? I'd come up with worse in my time, but only with the excuse of copious amounts of alcohol. It had audacity on its side, and the fact that the guards were expecting a full-blown attack, not a lone and woefully ill-prepared thief. That was about it.

  On the other hand, I didn't have any better ideas. With a little improvisation, it might prove marginally less suicidal than simply throwing myself from the cliff would have been.

  I spent a few minutes in preparation. The cloak was warmer than the one I'd acquired the day before, at least. I wore it open, to display the battered armour and the dagger stuck into my belt. I looked as much like a northern soldier when I'd finished as Costas and his idiot fishermen had done. I hoped that would be enough.

  It took me a while to pick my way through the bushes and trees in the dark. When I broke out on the other side, I made sure to make myself as visible as possible. There was a shallow slope to the road, and I was half way down it when the challenge came: "Stop there!"

  I did as instructed.

  "Who are you?"

  "Damn it, who are you? A man goes to relieve himself out of anyone's way, and not only does he find strange garments hung in trees, he can't come back into camp without an uproar."

  A figure stepped from the blackness around the nearest tree. I could only make out the barest outline, at first. Then his sword became visible as moonlight caught the flat.

  "Strange garments?"

  "This cloak," I said, holding out my old one, "was hung from a branch. Not only that, someone has cut a mark into the back." This was true; I'd carved a ragged cross there before I set out. "It's suspicious, if you ask me."

  He came closer. The sword point dipped. "Let me see."

  I held it out. "What do you think it means? Some signal?"

  Needing both hands to take it from me, he tucked his sword into his belt.

  "It's filthy. Torn too. It probably belonged to some vagabond." He sounded uncertain.

  A gruff voice called from deeper within the camp: "Shut up, dog-lovers. Get back to your bloody posts!"

  My interrogator, looking suddenly nervous, called into the darkness, "Sorry, Captain." To me he said, "Get on. Stay inside the boundaries. Next time it might be an arrow not a challenge." He handed me back the bedraggled cloak.

  "Watch out," I told him. "It's fishy, I tell you."

  I strode past with all the bluff confidence I could muster, and he drifted back towards the inky environs of his tree. I was terrified that the mysterious captain would come out to question me. He hadn't sounded the type to be so easily fooled.

  No one appeared. Nothing moved. There were only the tents, in a loose circle, and between them campfires with prone bodies scattered nearby. Apart from the occasional snore or grunt, it was deathly quiet. Rain had fallen while I'd been in the caves, and the air smelled fresh, with only the slightest intermingled odour of unwashed fighting men and cooked meat.

  It was too good to be true. I felt sure I was being watched. All my thief's instincts sang out together. Nevertheless, I kept walking, and aimed for the centre of camp. If they came for me, I'd run – that way they were more likely to shoot me and less likely to take me alive. Moaradrid had chased me for two days. He wouldn't let me off with a spell in the volunteer brigades this time.

  After a while, I thought I could make out Saltlick, still hunched beneath the tree as I'd seen him from the cliff. He was apart from the main region of the camp, perhaps due to that distinctive smell I'd often noted. Still, there were the store tents and corrals further out, and a perimeter of guards, not to mention more than ample moonlight for archers to pick us off at their leisure. The plan didn't seem any less preposterous close up.

  On the positive side, there were no guards near Saltlick himself. I realised as I drew closer that it would have been a waste of manpower. He was securely bound, with his arms tied behind the tree and countless coils securing his waist, torso and neck to its trunk. He could move his head and perhaps twitch his fingers, nothing more. It might take me the rest of the night to cut him free.

  I approached him from the front. It was too late for subterfuge now. No one came running. Either I really wasn't being watched or my disguise had actually worked. I learned early in my thieving career that once you get into somewhere and don't look dramatically out of place, nine guards in ten will assume you're supposed to be there. Even my interest in Saltlick wouldn't be suspicious in itself. Not all of Moaradrid's men would have seen a giant close up; passers-by had probably been stopping to gawp at him all night.

  What worried me more was how Saltlick barely glanced up as I approached. Gruesome theories sprang to mind. Perhaps they'd burned his eyes out, or beaten him into a stupor? As I got close, I could see that I wasn't far from the truth. None of the wounds were deep or mutilating, but that was only because the intent had been pain rather than longterm damage. There were cuts beyond number, bruises clustered on his arms and legs, even a few raw-looking burns. A half-hearted effort had been made to clean the worst of them but none were bandaged, and some of the nastier gashes were still leaking sluggishly.

  "Saltlick."


  I could have cried, seeing him like that. It was a horrible sight – not just the physical damage, but his utter helplessness.

  "Saltlick, I'm here to rescue you."

  Except perhaps for the twitch of an ear, there was no response. Surely they wouldn't have deafened him? Or cut his tongue out? Only an idiotic interrogator would make his victim unable to hear or answer questions.

  "Saltlick, old friend?"

  It wasn't my imagination. There was definitely some acknowledgement in the fractional tilting of his head.