Giant Thief

by David Tallerman

  About the Author

  David Tallerman was born and raised in the northeast of England. A long and confused period of education ended with an MA dissertation on the literary history of seventeenth century witchcraft that somehow incorporated references to both Kate Bush and H P Lovecraft.

  David currently roams the UK as an itinerant IT Technician-for-hire, applying theories of animism and sympathetic magic to computer repair and taking devoted care of his bonsai tree familiar.

  Over the last few years, David has been steadily building a reputation for his genre short fiction and increasingly his writing has tended to push and merge genres, and to incorporate influences from his other great loves, comic books and cinema.

  DavidTallerman.net

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks...

  First, always and above all to my mum. For endless support and faith. For reading every word before anyone else had to.

  Giant Thief would never have gotten started without Rafe, let alone finished - let alone been any good. Meanwhile, Tom gave me the right ending, along with countless other improvements, and Grant encouraged me tirelessly through the long months of rewrite, when this point seemed impossibly far away. Likewise Loz, who gave me a kick up the arse when I most needed it. Without a particular pep talk on a rainy day in London, I might never have been in the right place at the right time to make Giant Thief a reality.

  That place turned out to be Fantasycon 2010. Thanks to the British Fantasy Society and the Fantasycon committee for making it possible, and to Al for nudging me in the right direction.

  Seriously. Thank you all.

  This couldn't have happened without you.

  Extras...

  Imaginary Prisons

  First published in Theaker's Quarterly Fiction

  His sword arced up from the body of the second Goblin, ending its trajectory in a glancing blow upon the third. There was hardly any strength behind it, but somehow the blade found flesh, slipping beneath the nape of the creature's helmet, slicing neatly through its throat.

  Corin nearly dropped the weapon, fatigue compounded by surprise. It had been an improbably lucky blow; he should be dead now. Then, as his breath began to return and his sides to stop heaving, he thought, no, not luck. For how could he die, here and now?

  Having checked the bodies of the three Goblins, Corin started again up the rough trail that diagonally traversed the foothills. It wasn't long before the way became more difficult: by mid-afternoon the pines and wild foliage of the low ground were thinning into brush and tangled grasses and by evening the path served only to join one mound of boulders to another. By the time night fell there was no path at all.

  He had been travelling for fifteen days, he was exhausted, and it was disheartening when he finally had to fall on hands and knees. Before him Torbeth reared up, inconceivably high, and as the last light faded and the way became ever harder he considered making camp. Then he remembered – he shall journey for fifteen days and fifteen nights – and he knew that he couldn't stop, that it was impossible. Steadfastly he crawled from ledge to ledge, finding his way by touch alone, trying to drive the fatigue from his mind.

  Corin had lost any track of time when, drawing his aching body over a jut of rock, he glanced up to see light glittering far off in the darkness. Then the fog shifted and the light became indistinct, only to be obscured altogether an instant later. It had seemed to be the flicker of a campfire, though he couldn't be sure. Crouching on the projection, shoulders hunched against the bitter-cold winds sweeping from above, he found that he wanted nothing more than to seek the distant fire out. But such a moment of weakness was nowhere to be found in the predictions that had guided him here.

  Finally, as the stupefying weariness let go a little, it occurred to him that it was a cave he sought, and that high on a gale-torn mountainside, where else could a fire burn? This logic was so convincing that he immediately stumbled to his feet, and set out again in the direction he thought the light to have come from.

  Sure enough, as the mist lifted for an instant he saw it again, nearer now. A little strength returned to his aching muscles and he clambered with new vigour, keeping his eyes upon the spark of shivering fire. It was a hard ascent, and obstructions frequently blocked his view and made him doubt his course. But the thought of warmth and comfort, and even the slight hope of having found his object, drove him on.

  Eventually, after a tortuous climb up a particularly steep crevasse, he collapsed onto the overhang above. And there it was, the hectic dance of firelight reflected from the wall of a cave-mouth ahead. Corin leaped to his feet, and in something between a run and a stagger made his way there and all but fell through the wide opening.

  Inside he came to an abrupt halt. Sure enough there was a fire burning, uncannily bright in the darkness, and hot enough that he could feel its luxuriant warmth the moment he entered. But, as he turned a corner into the heart of the grotto, he was alarmed to find something other than the blazing pile of brands that had brought him here.

  Beside the fire there stood an old man.

  Corin could only stare. He wore a long robe of deep crimson, which covered all but his hands and feet, was of fine silken cloth, and glimmered with reflected luminance. His face was skeletally thin, with the brittle skin stretched taut around the skull, and his expression showed no surprise whatsoever; in fact, it was closer to impatience.

  "Prince Corin, I presume?" he asked, as though it were the most natural thing in the world that they should be meeting here in this hidden cave, high upon the face of Torbeth. His voice was fragile with age, but there was a resonance in it that suggested authority. Corin nodded hesitantly, while fighting the urge to bow.

  "You took your time, boy. It's nearly morning you know. Do you always have such a lackadaisical approach to your destiny?"

  A little of Corin's self-possession was beginning to return. "Who are you? And how do you know my name?"

  "I am the sage Calaphile, of the Grand Ziggurat."

  "That means nothing to me, and you've only answered my first question. Have you been sent here to try me? Are you a servant of the Goblins?"

  Calaphile gave a wheezing laugh, which sounded to Corin like two plates of rusted armour grating against each other. Eventually the self-proclaimed sage composed himself enough to reply, "You may be certain that I'm not a servant to anyone. As to whether I'm here to try you – well when you reach my age, should you be careful and fortunate enough to do so, you'll find that most things in life are a trial of one sort or another. But I ask for only a little of your time. I choose to view it as a lesson, and if you think of it likewise it may pass quite amicably."

  "I've no time for lessons, old man!" exploded Corin, who was beginning to find the whole situation unbearably irritating.

  "Then you'd prefer to consider it as a test?"

  "I've overcome enough tests!"

  "There's always another test, my boy; that's something else you learn at my age. But really, all I wish is to read you a few passages from the book I have here." Saying this, he drew a tome from within the folds of his cloak, bound in red leather that matched the garment. "Perhaps you could humour one who has seen more than his share of life? You might even learn something, and that's always worthwhile, is it not?"

  His anger beginning to give way to tiredness and the lure of the fire, Corin leaned against the rough cave wall. As one final protest, he exclaimed, "I have a destiny to complete, old man. There's a prophecy that must be fulfilled!"

  At this, his companion began to leaf through the book. "Ah yes, I have it here."

  "What do you have?"

  "Prince Corin, the twenty-first to bear that name… da da da… it shall fall upon him to defeat, once and for all time, the Goblinish foe… da da… fifteen days and fifteen nights… da da… shall seek out the sword Cymerion, left by his ancestors upon the mountainside of Torbeth, that he may unite the people before it… yes, that's the one."

  Corin stood aghast.
He had heard these phrases three times before, read on each occasion by the most venerable priest of the temple of Corinil, in utmost secrecy. "How do you – "

  "Rather prosaic, isn't it? The Goblin version is far more entertaining."

  "The Goblin– ?"

  "It's only short, I can read it all if you'd like. Only a rough translation of course, they have such an erratic approach to grammar… ah, here we are:

  "'Thinking he can beat wise and mighty Goblins, foolish boy-man goes looking for rusty trinket-sword lost by grandfather after much ale. Fifteen suns and moons he goes, getting lost and falling over often, until he is lucky and finds cave where useless sword is. Greatly I've done, he thinks, but just as he is picking up blunted pig-sticker, stupid man-child stumbles over own feet, falling on arse and smashing puny head into many pieces.'

  "Not the most literary people, are they? But it's always nice to see a sense of humour exhibited in these things."

  Bewildered, Corin sat down on the rough stone floor. He had been prepared for many trials, had trained long and hard so that he might best any man or beast in combat. But he'd never expected anything like this. He felt sure that his best course would be simply to seek out his prize and be gone. But a seed of doubt had been sown, and he couldn't bring himself to do anything except sit and listen.

  Seeing he had a rapt audience, the old man continued cheerfully, "Now, the account told by the high priests of Zor-Tola is quite similar to your own. You succeed in recovering the sword and make it home in one piece. The only difference is that you still lose the war, Corinil is put to fire and the sword, and your people are wiped out. But other than that the details are largely identical."

  Corin had never heard of the high priests of ZorTola and had no idea why they might have seen fit to prophesise upon his fate. However there seemed no point in asking, and in any case the old man had only paused for breath.

  "A tale kept in the Grand Library of Forpoth is basically the same, until the point where you return to find that in your absence the Goblins have invaded your home and all your friends and family are dead. Understandably, you're driven mad by grief. It dwells at great length upon this part, to a rather depressing degree."

  Finding he could keep silent no longer, Corin cried, "What's your point, old man? That the prophesy of Corinil is a lie? That I'm doomed to failure or madness? Do you seek to dissuade me with your stories?"

  Calaphile appeared a little hurt by this outburst. "Nothing of the sort, my boy. Why, in the manuscript held by the king of Far Brinth you actually succeed in repelling the Goblin invasion, and single-handedly end the war. You do then become rather crazed with power, only to be assassinated by your own most trusted advisor and recorded by posterity as Corin the Cruel. But if I've given the impression that all versions purport an unsuccessful end to your venture– "

  "How many are there," Corin interrupted, "how many versions?"

  "Well, no more than a dozen."

  Corin sighed deeply. For as long as he could remember his destiny had been the sole certainty in his life; the prophecy had guided and moulded his every thought and action. That it should be nothing more than a tale amongst a dozen others, a possibility not a certainty – the thought filled him with despair. Finally, he looked up wearily, and said, "It's clear that you know more about my fate than I ever will. So tell me, what do I do now?"

  "Well you might as well take the prize you've come all this way for. You'll find it over in the back of the cave."

  Corin looked past the ancient scholar. Sure enough, sunk into a recess in the rock face was a long, ornate box of dark wood. He could just make out his family crest glittering above the latch. He stood hesitantly. "Will any good come of it?"

  "My boy, don't be so pessimistic. You may be surprised. It may even be that you'll surprise yourself."

  "Perhaps," said Corin, "and perhaps I have no choice in the matter. Either way, I've dallied here long enough."

  He walked over to the alcove. The box was handsomely carved, an elegant piece of craftsmanship hardly diminished by age or weathering. If the container is so impressive, he thought, what must its contents be like? And a shiver of hope returned to his heart.

  There was no sign of lock or keyhole so he placed a hand on the clasp and drew it up, and with his other hand tried to raise the lid. Sure enough, it opened freely. Using both hands now, he strained to draw it wider. Finally it fell back with a dull thud against the stone, and he gazed with awe into the shadows inside.

  The box was completely empty.

  Corin didn't even have time to be taken aback before something struck the back of his head, at the exposed point where his helmet met the hem of his chain-mail. He found himself collapsing forward helplessly. His last dazed thought, before he lost consciousness completely, was that perhaps the Goblin prophesy had been right after all.

  When Corin awoke, daylight was filtering into the mouth of the cave and the fire had burned down to ash and glowing brands. As his head began to clear he struggled to a kneeling position and strained to look around. He wasn't surprised to find that his antiquated assailant had vanished. What did startle him was that where he'd stood and proselytized there was now a scroll of old paper, bound with a strip of red cloth that must have been torn from his robe. Not feeling ready to stand quite yet, Corin crawled over to the parchment, curious despite himself. He was groggy, his fingers felt numb and bloated, and it took a few minutes to unravel the scroll. But by the time he'd done so the agony in his head had faded to a steady throb. Feeling capable of standing, he walked to the cave-mouth where the light was better. He saw then that the paper was actually a torn page, presumably ripped from the same tome that the old man had carried with him. There was a title followed by three short paragraphs:

  The Prophecy of Calaphile of the Grand Ziggurat

  In his hundredth year, it shall fall to the sage Calaphile that he shall seek out a sword named Cymerion, hidden treasure of Corinil, which he shall find upon the mountainside of great Torbeth.

  Another will also hunt this prize; Prince Corin shall come seeking his inheritance, that he may end the war between his people and the Goblin hordes. But he shall be easily overcome, for he is a slave of his destiny and cannot see beyond it. Then Calaphile shall secure Cymerion, and it shall >serve as the capstone to his Grand Ziggurat. He shall die in peace, and his spirit shall pass safely beyond the bounds of >this world.

  As for the Prince Corin, in his undoing will be found his greatest victory, for on his return he shall craft a peace between the races that will benefit both peoples for a hundred generations.

  Corin found that he was laughing, despite himself. He wasn't sure exactly what he found so funny. Nevertheless he continued to laugh, long and loud, until his sides ached to match his head. When he finally calmed himself he read through the scroll again, with a broad smile on his face.

  It struck him that he held no resentment towards the old sage, who had toyed with him and beaten him and had given him a new future as recompense. And suddenly it occurred to him that he had little grudge against his Goblin enemies, either. In retrospect it had been his own father who'd sparked off this latest fracas between the two races, when he'd encroached upon Goblin lands. It had never occurred to Corin that they were anything more than dumb brutes; certainly he'd never imagined they might be reasoned with except by the blade. But then nor had it crossed his mind that they might write prophesies, indeed that they could write at all, or that they were astute enough to use satire as a weapon. In any case, the war had been at a stalemate almost since it began. Perhaps an attempt at peace wouldn't be such a bad alternative to rallying his people behind some antique sword.

  Corin hoisted his pack onto his shoulder. In the daylight he could see now that there was a trail down the mountainside; a rough one, certainly, but far preferable to the climb of last night.

  He began towards it – his eyes set on the far silver towers of Corinil, his thoughts upon the terrifying wonder of an uncertain futu
re.

  ANGRY ROBOT

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  Saltlick's City

  Originally published by Angry Robot 2012

  Copyright © 2012 by David Tallerman

  Cover art by Angelo Rinaldi

  Distributed in the United States by Random House, Inc., New York.

  All rights reserved.

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