Giant Thief

by David Tallerman

  "Old pal?"

  "Go away."

  The words began as a deep rumble and ended in a whisper, like a landslide in reverse.

  "Saltlick?"

  "Leave alone."

  I couldn't believe it. Here I was, risking my life, and this was the thanks I received? All right, maybe I'd contributed to his current predicament, but shouldn't freeing him from slavery in the first place have guaranteed his eternal gratitude?

  "I said I'm rescuing you, you pig-ugly monster!" That came out louder than I would have liked.

  "Not want."

  Struggling to keep calm, I dragged down a deep breath. "Well, it's not open to discussion. You're going to shut up before someone finds me here, I'm going to cut you free, we'll make a run for it and probably we'll be cut down before we've taken five steps but that's what's going to happen anyway."

  Saltlick glared at me. At least, given how difficult I found reading an expression from those lumpish features, I thought he was glaring. It might as easily have been indigestion. Either way, he didn't contradict me.

  I hurried round, dragged the knife from my belt, and made a start on his bonds. They certainly hadn't taken any chances. I couldn't begrudge them that, they'd been dealing with a giant after all, but it made for tough work. I was grateful Estrada had picked me a good, sharp knife. "Saltlick, it would help if you'd relax."

  No reply, and certainly no relaxing. I grunted and began again, thinking how easy it would be to slip and cut something I shouldn't. One rope gave, and the whole bundle slackened a fraction. When another followed it, I found I could work the knife inside the tangle of knots. My progress began to improve.

  I was almost there when something – not a sound so much as a change in the quality of the silence – made me stop and tilt my head.

  There it was again, a soughing subtly different from that of the wind. I realised it was the swish of footsteps through wet grass, though incredibly quiet. Whoever was approaching walked with an almost preternaturally soft tread. They were coming from the direction of Saltlick's front. Was the risk of exposing myself and trying to pass with my disguise greater than the risk of being caught where I was? It was fear that swung the balance. I made myself as small as I could and huddled in Saltlick's shadow.

  The footsteps stopped.

  "You know I can't order you anymore."

  I recognised that voice. I'd only ever heard its owner say a half-dozen sentences, yet it was burned into my memory. I'd never heard anyone speak with such cold precision as Moaradrid did.

  "But understand. You will tell me. What you've suffered so far is nothing. A proper torturer is on the way, a craftsman who knows his business. You will talk to him. You'll beg him to listen. I am not a cruel man, giant, but I've come too far and I stand too close. Your friends won't fight unless they see I have it. Without them, I'll never take the throne from that preening fool in Pasaeda. So believe me when I say that this is the last time I'll ask you. Where is my stone?"

  Saltlick said nothing. I couldn't even hear him breathing.

  "Very well. You've made your choice."

  I heard the rustle of Moaradrid's cloak as he turned away, and then his footsteps retreating, louder this time. He was some distance away when he paused.

  "If I can't break you," he called, "then perhaps I'll go back for your family. Maybe watching them suffer will stir your tongue."

  The steps resumed.

  Saltlick was going to cry out, I could sense it. With him sat down, I could just reach his head. I clamped both hands around his mouth.

  "Don't!" I hissed. "I'll help you. We can even go find your family if you like. But if you call him back now then everything's lost."

  I could feel the tension in Saltlick's muscles. After a moment, it eased, by the barest fraction. I hesitated, and then took my hands away.

  "Go now," he said.

  "Fine. Just let me…"

  Saltlick flexed his wrists. The ropes snapped all together, and fell away in loops. He moved to stand. There was a creaking sound, and then the few remaining cords holding his torso split too.

  "Oh. Right."

  He stepped back. His face glistened and his chest was heaving. The exertion had reopened half a dozen cuts, and fresh blood mingled with a patina of sweat. "Must. Must go."

  "That's more like it. Let me climb up and…"

  Only then did it occur to me that they'd stripped the harness from his shoulders before they bound him. "Oh shit." No one would ever accuse me of bravery, but that night I was making a virtue of pragmatism. "Saltlick," I said, pointing back the way I'd come, "we're going that way, and you're going to have to run as fast as you can."

  Saltlick's eyes followed my finger, and then came to rest on me. His fingers twitched. I realised he was sizing up whether he could carry me.

  Well, there was no way I was about to die crammed beneath a giant's armpit. "Don't you dare! Run, keep running, and don't stop for anything."

  When he still didn't move, I did instead, lurching off at my fastest sprint. A moment later and Saltlick fell in behind. I cursed through gritted teeth. Whatever chance we'd had of a quiet exit disappeared the moment those massive feet began hammering the ground. It sounded like cattle were stampeding in my wake. I knew he could have overtaken me in a single bound, but he hung back. All I could hear was the slap of his bare heels in the grass.

  It was probably all anyone in the camp could hear.

  My fears were confirmed by a muffled cry from our left, where the tents were clustered. Another followed it, more urgent. I could make out the rhythm of other feet now, drawing closer. Lights blossomed, close enough to show the faces of their bearers. In an instant, the camp filled with streaks of orange and flickering shadows.

  Three figures appeared ahead, as if from nowhere. One was on horseback, a bow in his hands, an arrow nocked. One held a drawn scimitar, and the third carried their torch. They looked as worried as people about to confront a creature twice their size should be, but they weren't about to move. The archer sighted. He'd know as well as I did that a well placed shot would put Saltlick down long before he got close enough to fight back.

  He squeaked, dropped his bow, and tumbled over. The torchbearer was forced to leap aside to avoid him. The horse shied, catching the last man with a flailing hoof, and he staggered backwards, blood streaming from his ruined nose. By then we were on them. The one still on his feet made a vague gesture with his torch, until Saltlick swatted it away and shoved him after it. As we plummeted past, I noticed the arrow sticking from the archer's torso.

  Before I could wonder how it had got there, the shouting started. It was coming from our left: one or two voices at first, then a high-pitched scream that seemed to open the floodgates. Suddenly Moaradrid's campsite was in an uproar. I couldn't begin to guess what was happening. I wasn't about to wait and find out.

  A clatter of hooves started ahead, thundering rapidly nearer. It sounded like at least half a dozen horsemen, more than enough to cut off our escape. I was beginning to realise that the chaos on the edge of camp must have something to do with Estrada. We were close enough to the cliffs that a handful of good archers could wreak substantial damage, at least until their opponents realised and extinguished the torches that were making them such easy targets. It was a bold move.

  It wasn't going to save us.

  I ducked, in a hopeless bid to stay alive a little longer. The riders plunged past in a deluge of noise, so near I could feel the heat from their mounts' flanks. I heard the animals complain as they wheeled behind us, muffled shouts, and then hooves churning wet ground as they urged forward. An instant later, we were flanked on both sides, running in a corridor of equine bodies. I bent low and kept going, dizzied by the scream of my exhausted muscles, knowing it was useless.

  An arm thrust towards me. I ducked, stumbled, and rolled headlong into the grass, yelping with pain. Saltlick swerved to avoid me and skidded to a halt, carving long ruts in the earth. Too exhausted to fight back, too
exhausted to beg, I stared up at my murderer-to-be.

  He looked surprisingly familiar.

  "Damn you, Damasco," shouted Mounteban, leaning half out of his saddle to reach for me, "do you want to be rescued or not?"

  CHAPTER 9

  I discovered later that there were a mere dozen archers perched on the cliff-side. However, they were all of them fine marksmen, and with their sturdy Castovalian bows and excellent vantage point, twelve men could wreak havoc. A hundred archers and a cavalry charge might have decimated Moaradrid's undersized army and ended the war in one fell swoop, but Estrada didn't have those resources to play with. Even chancing her few good bowmen was a terrible gamble.

  It was a bold move, a desperate trade-off between future gain and immediate disaster. It had purchased Mounteban and his men as much as a minute in which to penetrate the camp, find us, and get out again.

  It was nowhere near enough, of course.

  "This is the plan? The mayor is a donkey-bred idiot, and you're worse for following her!"

  Mounteban didn't bother to respond. He was focused on charging the last distance to the campsite border, and probably wondering how he was going to negotiate the small but well-armed force gathered to cut off our escape. It may also have been that my terrified grip around his waist made it hard to speak.

  I wasn't about to let that stop me. "You're insane! We're all going to die. We could have cartwheeled out with more chance of success!"

  I had more to say but suddenly no time to say it. A rider to our left went down in an incomprehensible blur of hooves and showering dirt. The beast's scream seemed to go on longer than it had any right to. I looked away, in time to see the man on my right jerk into thin air, as though suspended by ghostly hands, while his mount pitched from under him. He was spread-eagled on the ground before I saw the fletching jutted from his chest.

  The squad of troops ahead was three deep now, painted in inhuman colours by the shivering torchlight. Not one of them looked like they planned to get out of our way. We might have been able to ride down the scimitar-wielding front row; but behind I could make out the cruel glint of spears.

  Something passed us, a blur of movement against the sky. The other riders sheered away, barely in time. A rhythm like war drums drowned out our horses' thrashing hooves. I'd only just registered that the shadowy colossus was Saltlick when he struck the first line like a boulder rolled into a haystack.

  Most of Moaradrid's men had the sense to dive out of the way. Those that didn't he batted aside. One sailed past us, his strangled cry echoing behind him, blood streaming from his forehead. A spear-bearer was brave and stupid enough to prod his weapon toward the giant. Saltlick caught it without breaking his stride, plucked up man and spear together and hurled them effortlessly over one shoulder. He broke through the last rank without pause and plunged on, indifferent and terrible as an avalanche.

  Those Northerners still conscious and relatively whole were just beginning to reform when we struck in Saltlick's wake. One made a half-hearted swipe at us, and received Mounteban's boot in his face for thanks.

  As we hurtled clear, I fought down a whoop of joy at the sheer outrageousness of our escape. That was until I glanced over my shoulder, in time to witness the remainder of our band meet the remnant of the defenders. Shocked and disordered though they were, they'd had an instant to recover. It was all they needed. The front rider was torn down by a forest of spears, which sprung up as if from nowhere. The other two reined in to avoid his staggering mount and lost – in quick succession – their momentum, their saddles, and their lives.

  The exultation turned bitter in my throat.

  If Mounteban knew what had occurred, he didn't let it show. He veered to the left, leaning low over his mount's neck, placing the bushes and short slope that bordered the road on our right. Saltlick, who'd come to a halt there, fell in behind. Mounteban threw us into another sharp turn, this time up the incline. Our horse nearly stumbled, then caught its footing and burst through the tree line.

  I couldn't see what had guided Mounteban to this particular spot, but there was a faint trail visible through the undergrowth. There was just space enough for us to pass at a canter. Saltlick pounded along behind us. As branches lashed into my face, I wished Mounteban had had the foresight to make him go first.

  Almost immediately, I became aware of a light ahead. I couldn't identify its source until we came out right upon it. A crevice split the cliff face, men with torches guarding it to either side. They looked more surprised than pleased to recognise Mounteban. They'd likely had as much faith in our chances of survival as I had.

  "The others?" one called.

  "The same way we'll all be if you don't get inside," snapped Mounteban.

  As my eyes began to adjust, I saw how great stones had been piled to both sides of the entrance, amidst mounds of broken foliage. The passage had obviously been sealed and hidden, and only recently cleared. When we dismounted and ducked into its mouth, I noticed ropes leading from the beams supporting the roof.

  Further in were the two disgruntled mules to which they were attached. Mounteban's companions were trying to drive them forward, with hard slaps to the rump and a stream of curses. One chose to understand and strained forward, shifting its prop a hand's length inward. The other dug in its hooves, baring yellow teeth in a stubborn grin. The first heehawed appreciatively and followed its example.

  Shouts and heavy footfalls growing louder behind told me we hadn't evaded our pursuers. An arrow thunking into the rightmost beam confirmed it.

  Saltlick stood hunched inside the entrance, staring straight ahead. I called his name, expecting him to ignore me. Instead, he looked down. I hadn't appreciated quite how badly hurt he was until then. A fresh gash ran down his cheek to his shoulder, bleeding freely, and other cuts nearly as bad covered his torso and arms. He'd given worse than he'd received, though; the knuckles of each hand were wet with blood. I pointed to the beam beside him, the rope hanging slack from it. He seemed not to understand at first. His eyes travelled to the mules and hung there.

  Another arrow hurtled from the darkness, embedding itself with a wet thud in his shoulder. He didn't appear to notice.

  "Saltlick," I pleaded.

  He shook his head, as though waking from a particularly unpleasant dream. He looked at me, and back at the beam. Then he reached with one huge hand and shoved it aside, as lightly as if it were a bundle of twigs. The roof moaned, and sank visibly. Dirt showered down, followed by pebbles and then rocks as big as melons. A couple struck Saltlick, leaving scarlet welts in their wake. He didn't flinch, let alone try to move.

  The recalcitrant mule, panicked by the noise and dust, reconsidered its position. It drove forward, hauling the second, already weakened strut along with it. The wood split with a crack like thunder, and the ceiling dipped further.

  I caught hold of Saltlick's free hand and hauled. He gazed at me, or perhaps through me. I realised I couldn't possibly move him if he didn't want to be moved. Then abruptly he strode forward, dragging me with him. It was just in time. An instant later, the cave mouth was gone.

  I stood blind and choking, amidst dust so thick that it almost hid our frail torchlight. The earth grumbled and trembled around me, even after the last falling rock had rolled to a halt.

  Someone nearby heaved a sigh of relief, and a voice said, "Come on. We're not home yet."

  I recognised it as Mounteban's, though it sounded strange in the soupy air. The torch glow, still indistinct and a murky orange, contracted and darkened. I heard feet and hooves nearby, receding with the dimming light.

  "Wait!" I called, and for my trouble got a lungful of dust that set me choking again.

  I was still clutching Saltlick's fingers. They were unpleasantly sticky, his own blood mingled with that of Moaradrid's men. I didn't let go. In that filthy gloom, even the company of a gore-stained, sulking giant was better than being alone.

  "Let's get after them," I muttered, striving not to suck down mo
re dust.

  I tugged at his hand. I might as well have tried to shift one of Mounteban's obstreperous mules by pulling its ears.

  "I know you're hurt, but staying here won't help."

  "Did bad."

  Saltlick, as usual, spoke as if the words cost him the kind of effort usually associated with climbing mountains or swimming oceans.

  "All right, I shouldn't have left you. But I came back, didn't I? I could just as easily have made a run for it."

  "Saltlick did bad."

  I stared, aghast – a waste of a good expression, since our torches were nearly out of sight. "Are you insane? You saved our lives."

  "Bad. Not hurt. Not kill."

  "You were defending yourself! And me, and that fat crook Mounteban. Can't you even do that?"