Giant Thief

by David Tallerman

  The banners there were particularly intricate and brightly coloured, and my first thought was that we'd come to the giant equivalent of a town square. Then, through the throng, I noticed the spike of rock thrust through the turf at its centre, its highest point reach ing a little above my head. Near the peak was a smooth, cupped indent, just wide enough that I could have sat up there if I could have climbed it.

  Unsurprisingly, however, the giants had chosen not to use the rock as a highchair for passing midgets. Rather, it held a plain wooden rod, almost as long as Saltlick was tall. At one end I could see a simple metal clasp, its prongs wrenched back as if something had been torn from it. I remembered what Estrada had told me that night before we'd reached Altapasaeda. This must be the chief's staff of office, which had housed the giant-stone until Moaradrid's catastrophic arrival.

  I was about to point it out to Estrada when the great horde parted, and one particular giantess came hurrying towards us out of the press. She was skinnier than most, her skin puckered and lined, and though she was clearly rushing she was making slow progress. She muttered under her breath all the while, and when she came close enough she hurled herself onto Saltlick, ringed her arms around his chest, and sobbed, "Shol Tchik! Shol Tchik!"

  It could only be his mother. I realised belatedly that those words the giantesses kept saying must be Saltlick's true name, which Moaradrid's men had mispronounced. Saltlick didn't hesitate this time to return the show of affection. He clung to her as if his life depended on it, and both their faces were soon streaked and grubby with tears.

  This was what he'd struggled for: his place, his people and his family. A sudden sadness knotted my throat. I had none of those things. Still, in that moment, I understood perfectly.

  With that insight, a new thought occurred to me. I drew out the giant-stone and held it up.

  "Saltlick," I called. "You need to take this now."

  Saltlick looked at me, with surprise at first and then with horror.

  "I know, I know, you're not good enough. Well, I'm not an expert on giant politics, but you seem popular at least. So maybe you can just be the stand-in chief until someone better comes along." I pointed. "Either way, that staff isn't going to mend itself."

  I could see he was about to protest again; but the nearby giants had seen the stone by then, and suddenly the air was filled with deafening, delighted cries.

  "Saltlick… take it." I had to shout to make myself heard. "Mend the staff. Make things right."

  Saltlick gave the barest nod. He reached down and plucked the giant stone from my hands.

  Abruptly, a cry went up from every corner of the square: "Shol Tchik! Shol Tchik!"

  He walked with slow steps to the centre of the clearing. He lifted the staff with one hand, holding it as gently as if it were a sleeping baby, and with the other pressed the stone into the clasp. Then he closed his fist around both stone and clasp and squeezed. When he took his hand away, the staff was whole again.

  The resultant cheer was so thunderous that I thought my eardrums would explode. When Saltlick reached out to put the staff back on its perch, the wail of protest was if anything louder. He hesitated. Then he drew it back, planted its base in the ground before him, and bowed his head. Every giant fell silent, so suddenly that it seemed all sound had been sucked from the world. As one, they dipped their heads, just as Saltlick had done.

  If there was more to the inauguration ceremony, I never saw it, because at that moment, a shout rang from the edge of the clearing behind us. I couldn't be sure, but I thought I recognised the giantess who'd opened the gate for us. She beckoned to Saltlick, cried his name, and rattled off a sentence in giantish. Then she turned and pointed back the way we'd come.

  Saltlick hesitated for just an instant, his eyes flickering over those gathered around him. Then he began to run, still clutching the staff.

  "What? What is it?" I cried as he bolted past.

  When he didn't answer, I fell in behind him, and Estrada followed us both. We charged out of the clearing, Saltlick gaining distance with each stride. I had no idea what the giantess had said, but the sinking sensation in my stomach gave me a fair idea of her meaning. I ran with all my strength, until my muscles shrieked with pain. I ran on and on, past the blur of endless trees, past the banner-walls, out through the suburbs of the giant settlement.

  By the time I caught Saltlick, we were in sight of the gate. He'd stopped at the base of the embankment and stood with his head cocked to one side. I came to a stumbling halt and hunched over with my hands on my thighs, gasping for breath. Estrada, arriving next to me, just barely managed to keep to her feet.

  At first, I couldn't make out anything over the sound of my own heartbeat pummelling my ears. Then, as the drumming subsided, I heard it. The shout was faint, distorted by distance. For all that, my blood turned to frost in my veins.

  "Giant! Thief!"

  It crossed my mind simply to ignore him. He was outside and we were safe inside, so why shouldn't things stay that way indefinitely? But if Moaradrid had come here, it stood to reason he had the means to make us listen to whatever he had to say.

  "We're here," I cried, as loudly as I could bear.

  "I have someone here who needs your help. A certain guard-captain of your acquaintance."

  Estrada put a hand to her mouth and made a small, choked sound.

  "This bridge clearly wasn't intended for cripples, so you may wish to hurry."

  "Oh no." Her eyes met mine. "Damasco…"

  I thought about pointing out how much Alvantes hated me, and how I didn't feel much more warmly toward him. I thought about pointing out that we'd won, that I'd done what I came to do, and couldn't we just leave it at that? I thought about a lot of things, but none of them did anything to change the look in her eyes – the desperation, the pleading, and behind all that, the faint glimmer of hope.

  "He's going to want the stone," I said to Saltlick. "He'll try and trade Alvantes's life for it. Maybe I could bluff him, or keep him talking while…"

  Saltlick reached up and tore the giant-stone free of its clasp.

  "Oh. That would work, too."

  He took a stride towards the gate.

  I darted in front of him. "Wait, wait! Let me. He'll want it to be me. And let's face it; you're not exactly built for rescue missions on narrow rock bridges. It has to be me, Saltlick."

  Saltlick considered for a moment. Then he reached down and handed me the stone.

  "We'll get it back."

  I knew it wasn't true. I could see in his eyes that he knew too: that he'd brought hope to his people only to snatch it away again. My witless attempts to help had only made things worse. I decided that overall it might be easier to have my head lopped off by Moaradrid – easier at least than having to see the results of more of my mistakes. I turned and hurried up the bank.

  Saltlick bounded ahead, caught hold of the rope and began to hoist the gate open. As soon as there was a gap, I ducked and slithered through. I sprinted through the crevasse and came out on the other side, to the narrow outcrop that met the rock span. I saw Moaradrid. I saw his men. I saw Alvantes, and my heart sank.

  He waited just in front of the warlord at the dead centre of the bridge. A half-hearted attempt had been made to bind and strap his mutilated arm, but it was largely defeated by the coils of rope that bound him shoulder to wrist.

  He was barely recognisable as the man I'd once found so formidable. His skin was sickly-pale, he was dishevelled and dirty, and only the way he held himself upright despite obvious pain and exhaustion hinted at his former strength.

  Moaradrid too appeared tired, and though his leg wound was better bandaged, the linens were pinkstained, and he stood uncomfortably. Even his men, waiting on the far mountainside, looked worn out.

  Moaradrid acknowledged me with a curt inclination of the head. "There you are."

  I stepped onto the beginning of the bridge.

  "Here I am."

  "Are you prepared to get
this over with?"

  I took a couple more steps. I heard Saltlick arrive on the outcrop behind me, and felt an urge to say something, anything, to delay the moment when I dashed his hopes for good.

  "You won't win, Moaradrid."

  He was smiling, but the smile seemed frozen in place. There was no trace of it in his voice as he said, "Stupid little thief. No understanding of anything bigger than yourself. Of course I'll win. What's more, I'll be a good king. Far better than that oaf in Pasaeda."

  I took another step. "Let him go."

  Moaradrid gave Alvantes a nudge that made him stumble towards the edge. "Please. Choose your words with a little care."

  "I mean… it's me you want. Me and the stone."

  "My stone. Yes, I'd like that back. You I care little for. Though maybe if you were dead you'd finally learn to keep out of my business."

  "I'll bring it to you."

  "And quickly, please. I think your friend is getting dizzy."

  I gulped, tried to keep my voice steady. "I can see that. So once he's safe on our side, you can have it."

  Moaradrid's smile dissolved. "What do you think is happening here, you ridiculous mooncalf? Have I come all this way to haggle like a market trader?" Abruptly, he caught hold of the rope behind Alvantes's shoulders and shoved him to the very brink, so that only Moaradrid's grip kept him from tumbling into the ether. "Be careful, thief. Irritation makes me careless."

  I took out the giant-stone, held it out over the edge. "I have a similar problem. Only in my case, it's blind terror and vertigo."

  There was that smile again. Then, with cat-like fluidity, Moaradrid drew Alvantes back to the centre of the span and gave him a light push, as of encouragement, towards our side. "You've been paying attention after all. Have your guard-captain then. He's a fair trade for a crown."

  Alvantes started towards me, and with each shambling step I feared he'd topple over the edge. I doubted very much that they'd fed him or given him water since the battle, and that combined with blood loss had left him on the very point of collapse. Alvantes might be a pompous ass, but I knew in my heart he was a decent man, and it appalled me to see how he'd been treated.

  It struck me that I truly wanted to hurt Moaradrid, as he'd hurt Alvantes, Panchetto, Saltlick, Estrada and so many others.

  Yet what hope was there of that?

  I began walking.

  There was barely room for Alvantes and me to pass each other. He looked round at the last moment. Though his face was knotted with pain, his voice was perfectly calm when he spoke. "Don't let him win, Damasco."

  "I don't think I can stop him."

  Alvantes gave me one last glance and stumbled on, towards where Saltlick and Estrada waited. Saltlick would look after them, far better than I could. Stone or no, he'd protect them – I had to believe that. I didn't dare look at them, for fear my resolve would evaporate entirely.

  Instead, I kept walking.

  I'd half-expected Moaradrid to scythe my head from my shoulders the moment I came close enough. I was a little surprised when he simply held out an upturned hand. His sword hung at his side.

  I could fight…

  I could wrestle him, force him over the edge…

  I placed the stone in his palm.

  In that split second, I felt nothing but relief. All I'd done since I first set eyes on it was run, and I was tired out with running. Moaradrid allowed himself a shuddering sigh, as if he too was briefly overcome. Then he drew himself together, held his head high to glare down at me.

  "So our business is done."

  I had to ask, for all I knew I shouldn't. "Isn't this the part where you kill me?"

  He laughed. "I thought you were starting to understand. No, thief, I'm not going to kill you. That's not how power works."

  I nodded, as though I had the faintest idea what he meant. "Well, then."

  I turned away. Of course I didn't believe him. Of course I expected a scimitar between my shoulder blades. But what could I do? Though I wanted to run, I didn't. There'd been a sense of sympathy between us, almost an understanding. Even if it only existed in Moaradrid's insane mind, it might still last, if only I kept calm. If I ran, I knew he'd change his mind.

  So I placed one foot ahead of the other.

  I walked across that sliver of rock, hardly daring to breathe.

  And I stepped onto solid ground.

  Alvantes was sat on a shelf of rock, while Estrada tried hopelessly to unpick the ropes that bound him with only her fingers. Alvantes, for his part, was struggling not to wince every time the slightest impact jolted his mutilated arm. I guessed he'd live, so long as the wound wasn't infected. Saltlick stood a little to one side, still holding the disfigured staff, and though he must have been devastated by the loss of the chiefstone, he didn't show it.

  Our fight for the Castoval, for the safety of the giants, was over. We'd lost, and Moaradrid had won. But at least we were all alive, and that was a better outcome than I'd expected.

  Of course, the day wasn't over yet.

  "Giant."

  The word rang out clearly behind me.

  "Giant, pick up your friend there and choke him to death."

  Saltlick jerked to attention. He gazed over my head to where Moaradrid still stood, stone held high in one hand, the other pointing towards me. Saltlick's eyes grew wide, his mouth hung slightly open, as though someone had slapped him.

  "I know you heard me. Obey your chieftain."

  Saltlick took a laboured step towards me.

  "Obey your chieftain."

  I wanted to back away. I knew there was nothing behind me except a very long fall.

  "Saltlick…"

  One moment his hand hung at his side, the next it was around my throat. I hadn't even time for a last breath. My lungs heaved in my chest. Pinpricks of light exploded, a waterfall of sound cascaded through my ears. Through it, dimly, I heard Estrada's voice. "Saltlick, oh no, you don't have to, you don't have to listen to him, not after everything…"

  The words continued. It was too much trouble separating them from the sluice of noise. Why listen when Saltlick wasn't? He'd been told to kill me. Killing me was what he was doing.

  Only he wasn't. Not quite.

  He was strong enough to crush my throat like a bundle of dry twigs. Yet I was alive. It hurt beyond imagination, but I was alive. Maybe Saltlick was having trouble after all – just as when he'd resisted me in Altapasaeda.

  Except that in Altapasaeda, he'd given in.

  Moaradrid's voice pushed through Estrada's pleading and the roaring surf. "Once that's done, you can round up your women and children."

  The pressure relaxed, just fractionally.

  "I was merciful before."

  I sucked air into scorched lungs.

  "Maybe your friends will be more committed with them in tow."

  And suddenly, I was free. I lay still, panting like a sick dog. Saltlick was staring past me once again. There was an expression on his face I'd never seen before. It was like the look of someone waking from a deep sleep, but with something terrible behind it, something fierce and sad.

  "Bad chief."

  Moaradrid looked taken aback for the first time. "What does that matter?"

  Saltlick's first stride carried him onto the rock bridge. "Bad order." He moved with the slow inevitability of an avalanche.

  "It doesn't matter. I have your stupid stone!"

  "Bad chief."

  "It doesn't matter!"

  But it did.

  I couldn't guess at what was going through Moaradrid's mind. He looked more stunned than afraid. Saltlick reached out with one huge hand. Moaradrid stepped back, raising his arms to shield himself.

  I wanted to cry out, "He just wants the stone!" The words fell in a gurgle from my crushed throat. Moaradrid drew back. Saltlick moved forward. It seemed very slow and precise, like a dance: Moaradrid back, Saltlick forward, Moaradrid back.

  Until there was nothing left beneath him.

 
; I saw him realise. I watched the knowledge light his face like a beacon fire. Saltlick saw too. He reached out. Moaradrid, even in the moment of falling, pulled away.

  There was nowhere to go but down.

  He didn't scream, exactly. But he did cry out. It was a guttural, animal noise, something wrenched from the darkness inside him.