* * *
It was nearly light by the time they’d placed the last rocks on the grave—a deep, narrow cut in one of the shallower caverns. Vlandar gazed at the down at the rubble. “Fool of a boy. His mother will tear her heart out. She deserved better.”
“She had what she created,” Malowan said quietly. “A pity, all the same. If we return to the king’s city, I’ll give her a tale to make her proud of the boy. It’s the least I can do for my dislike of him.”
Shortly thereafter, the others went back to the cave, but Lhors and Vlandar stayed behind.
“I should feel something,” Lhors said finally. “Even if he wasn’t very nice, he was alive and now he’s dead.”
“It was sudden,” Vlandar said quietly. “Sometimes a man doesn’t feel much when it happens like that.” He sighed. “I feel angry with the youth and angry with myself for not having a better grip on him.”
“My father told me that when things like that happen, you can’t change it, so there’s no point to being angry or upset. I did not like him, but his mother cared, and he might have changed if he had lived.”
“Your father sounds like he was a wise man.” Vlandar squatted down to sort through the slain youth’s weapons. He set aside the swords, serviceable daggers, the case of javelins, the bow, and one small dagger—a jeweled belt-toy Plowys probably used to clean his nails. Vlandar slipped the lock of hair he’d cut from the youth’s head into the sheath and put the dagger back. “This I will return to his mother, if I can. As for the rest of these, I hope your father warned you that a sensible man never leaves behind weapons that might be found and turned against him.” He handed the bundle of javelins to Lhors. “You are next to Maera at skill with these, and the daggers may come in useful.”
“Thank you, sir,” Lhors stuttered. “I’ll try not to let you down.”
Vlandar got back to his feet, wrapped an arm around the boy’s shoulders, and led him back to their cave. “I am not much worried that you will, Lhors. Maybe though, if there’s a little time today, you and I will get together, and I can show you a few tricks with those blades.”
“I’d like that.”
The next morning, the party again settled in clutches near the fortress door while Nemis used a spell to be certain no guards were immediately inside. Lhors stayed back on the road with Rowan, though he thought it unlikely giants would see them in the dense fog. He doubted that such massive creatures could sneak up on them either—until he remembered they had done just that at Upper Haven. But there had been music and thunder that night. Dancing. Singing. Joyous faces that he would never see again. Here it was very quiet, and all faces were solemn.
Somewhere in the distance, an owl called out. Up in the tower Lhors could hear the deep, rumbling voice of at least one guard. He drew his javelins as Malowan leaned against one door, holding it ajar for the others.
There was still very little light. Vlandar headed for the doorway into the banqueting hall while the rangers checked the other door. Both gestured a negative, but Vlandar backed quietly away from the main doors, a finger to his lips.
A good five paces away, Lhors could hear it: a distant noise of laughter, singing, and the loud clash of metal. A battle? he wondered. Vlandar got them all close together and whispered, “They are still feasting in there. Rowan, what of the right door?”
“Quiet back there,” she replied softly.
“Everyone go right, then and up to the council chamber. Remember, watch and listen—” He broke off and looked up as heavy, slow footsteps came down the stairs from the tower.
“This grows boring,” Khlened mumbled and drew his sword. Vlandar eyed his people, cast a quick glance at the main doors, and nodded sharply.
“We kill him quick before anyone else hears,” he ordered softly and pulled out his own sword. “One way to learn to fight as a team,” Lhors heard him mutter. Lhors’ own hands felt cold as he bunched his spare javelins and readied one to throw. For my father, he thought, and that seemed to steady him.
The giant who came down the passage was young, but solidly built and more awake than last night’s guard had been. He stopped when he saw Khlened and smiled unpleasantly before hauling a heavy club from his belt. “Thieves, be it?” His common was guttural. “Be a move up fer Fhrunk do I kill ye, red-hair.”
“Try,” Khlened said and bared his teeth as he threw himself forward.
He barely came to the monster’s belt, and the stab that might have gutted a man his size went into Fhrunk’s calf, angling up to the knee. The brute drew breath to yell in pain, but Rowan fired three arrows in rapid succession. The first bit deep into his neck, silencing his scream. The next bounced off his hardened leather cap, and the third just missed taking out his eye. Maera’s throw was more accurate. Her javelin plunged deeply below the brute’s sternum. The choking giant pawed at the javelin and slid to the floor. Khlened and Vlandar ran up and plunged their swords into the back of his neck, and the giant went limp.
Rowan was already at the east door. Nemis spoke in a low voice, then signed for her to come back. “There are no others in the tower and none nearby—no closer than that feast yonder.”
“Help us drag him out of the way,” Vlandar whispered urgently. “There’s blood, but no help for that.”
“Toss one of the cloaks over it,” Maera said. “It’s such a mess here, that might go unnoticed until he’s missed.”
It took all four men to drag the dead giant. Nemis and Rowan kept watch while Agya and Lhors hastily piled two rugs and a cloak atop the brute. “Good enough,” Vlandar said. “Let’s go.”
They could hear at least one more guard snoring up in the tower. Rowan eased an arrow into place, slung her cloak off the left shoulder so she could access more bolts, then nodded once. Maera stepped aside so Khlened could ease the door open. Rowan backed up with the heavy slab of wood, then took one long stride, spun halfway around and backed along the other side. A scant breath later, those still outside heard the zip of an arrow slicing the air, a faint, “Uhff!” followed by a nasty, deep cough, then the sound of something large sliding to the floor.
Rowan backed into view and met her sister’s eyes, making a complex gesture with her free hand before hauling another arrow to the string. Maera pelted past her as the rest of the company came into the chamber to find a guttering torch, a spilled cup of mead, and one very dead giant. Rowan’s arrow was buried deep in one of the creature’s eyes.
Maera was nowhere in sight, but just then the ceiling groaned with the weight of another falling body. The ranger came back into sight moments later. She met Vlandar’s eyes and held up a finger before drawing her hand across her throat. One giant there. Dead.
The right-hand door opened onto a relatively narrow hall—still so wide that Agya and Nemis, holding hands, could just barely have touched both walls. The air reeked of sour bodies, ill-washed clothing, and stale beer. So far, Lhors thought, it resembled the map Vlandar had shown him. A passage went a few paces west before turning north. A longer passage went east. The lighting was poor—only a few torches at odd intervals.
Vlandar led the way, putting Lhors behind him and letting the others follow. Rowan brought up the rear, walking sideways with her bow strung and ready to shoot should anyone come up on their rear.
Someone was snoring behind them. The wall to their left seemed to tremble, and they could clearly hear shouting and sounds of battle. Malowan leaned forward to murmur against Lhors’ ear. “Nemis says it’s the long room on the map—it must be a sleeping chamber. He says there are at least ten young male giants wagering on two others who are wrestling, and they’re all very drunk.” The paladin eased past him long enough to tell Vlandar the same thing. Both men flinched as something massive slammed into the other side of the wall.
Vlandar was making his way to that long chamber on the west wall that Malowan had spoken of, the one with the nasty trophy heads. He sincerely hoped the warrior did not plan to invade the chamber with the cave bear. At the bend the warrior tur
ned left and moved close to the left wall, hesitating at the first door there. Lhors eased up against the wall next to him and tried to loosen his grip on the shaft in his right hand.
This north-facing passage was shorter than the previous one, the door at its far end ajar. That must be the one that would open into another corridor and connect with the feasting hall. It did seem he could hear drunken laughter coming from that direction, though it was hard to tell with so much noise still coming out of that dorm.
Vlandar edged past the door. The noise began to fade a little. By the time they reached the next door to the left, Lhors could be certain the other shouting came from beyond the partly opened door. Vlandar hesitated, then beckoned Malowan to join him. The paladin listened intently, nodded, and held up four fingers. He frowned and waggled one—he wasn’t certain if there were three or four inside, Lhors thought.
Lhors jumped as a high-pitched scream came from inside the room.
“Serving giantesses, I think,” Malowan whispered. “Someone is being beaten,” he added grimly and set his hand on the latch.
Agya glanced back the way they’d come and rasped, “Where’s Khlened?”
Malowan and Vlandar swung around, swords at the ready. Lhors skin prickled and he clutched the spear close. Beyond the rangers, the hall was empty. The barbarian was gone.
Vlandar cursed, but before he could pass along more instructions, Khlened slipped through a door at the south end of the hall and tugged it closed behind him. Malowan sighed heavily, and Vlandar glared as the barbarian came up, a rough hide pouch in his hand. “Coin—and plenty of it,” the man whispered.
Vlandar leveled a finger at his nose and whispered, “Go off alone like that again and you’ll pay. I gave orders that we all stay together!”
Khlened’s mouth twisted, but he nodded and handed over the purse. Vlandar shoved it into his pack and turned away. “Mal?”
“Someone is in dire pain in there,” the paladin replied softly as another agonized scream came from the other side of the door. “I cannot walk away from this,” he added, but he waited for Vlandar’s nod before he eased the door latch aside, and threw himself into the room.
Lhors stared in open astonishment at the massive bedchamber and the four female giants to whom it must belong. All were clad in loose, plain garments like a villager’s winter sleeping shirt. Three looked youthful to him, dark-haired, olive-skinned, and rather handsome. The fourth was a creature out of nightmare. Taller than the other three by at least a head, gaunt and wrinkled, her eyes were mere slits in pasty white skin. Two old, purple scars ran down the left side of her face, and she wore a gold ring through the corner of her mouth. She loomed over the smallest of the maids, a whip upraised to strike a back bared by ripped fabric. The other two cowered in the corner behind a bed, one holding another, who was bleeding from an ugly weal across her bare shoulder.
“You horrid creature,” Malowan said in a deep, stern voice as he drew his sword. “What have these children done to deserve such scars? If you will strike someone, dare to battle me instead!”
The matron might not have understood his words, but she surely caught his meaning. Her eyes narrowed as she took in the armed humans. She dropped the whip and hauled a long dagger from a sheath strapped to her leg. It was nearly as long as the paladins sword.
Malowan stepped away from his companions, and the young giantess scrambled out of the way, trying to hold her ripped garb together. She really is a child! Lhors thought. She looked no older than Agya, and he was surprised to feel sorry for her pain. The young giantess cast them a terrified glance and then crawled into the corner with her companions.
“That’s good, lad, keep an eye on them,” Vlandar said quietly as the aged horror advanced on Malowan. “Mal may need my help. The young ones look helpless, but they may choose to aid the old one.”
Lhors nodded and cast a quick look at Malowan. The matron was an arm’s length taller than her adversary. When Lhors looked back at the corner, the three young ones were crouched behind the bed, only their hair visible.
“Mal!” Agya sounded afraid.
“Do not distract him,” Vlandar said sharply. “You know he must let her strike the first blow. His code requires it.”
“I know what you are,” Malowan said flatly.
Lhors risked a glance, but the combatants were motionless—sizing each other up, perhaps.
“You enjoy hurting children. What harm could they do to deserve your wrath?” He had swung his sword to ready. The aged female sneered and countered his move but still did not strike. “Your masters have taught you well, but you shall answer to me!”
Lhors moved to where he could keep an eye on the three serving maids and see the paladin fight. The matron might have understood some of what Malowan said after all. She glared at him, teeth clenched and muscles bunched under her sagging skin as she brought her weapon up two-handed. The aged giantess snarled, “Enemy of Nosnra! I kill you! Kill all! Scar them as I please! You do not stop old Jhuka!” She brought the blade down in a slashing overhand. Malowan sidestepped the move and ducked as she brought the blade around in a sweeping arc from the other side. The paladin evaded with what looked like ease to Lhors.
“Gea nukh!” she swore in Giantish. She clutched the hilt two-handed, high above her head, and plunged it down.
Malowan finally acted. He sidestepped her attack and stabbed up into her belly, twisting his sword almost all the way around. The giantess cried out, but a sudden gush of blood muted her scream into a gurgling choke. Malowan jumped back, hauling his sword with him. The giantess’ dagger rattled onto the floorboards. She took one staggering step back, righted herself, and came back at him, her eyes glittering with hate. Three strides from the paladin, her gaze went blank, her knees wobbled, and she fell.
Lhors made certain the maids had not moved, then he dared a glance at the paladin. Agya was already beside Malowan, one of her short daggers in hand as she tested the giantess’ throat for a pulse. The serving maids slowly came to their feet, peering at their fallen elder.
Vlandar had moved over to ease the door open a little. After a quick glance, he pressed it shut and came over to Malowan. “It is still quiet out there. Rather, there is no one in the corridor except our people. Are you done here, Mal?”
“Nearly,” he said. “I need Nemis to translate for me.”
Malowan and the mage approached the serving maids. Nemis asked them something in a low, guttural language. Lhors listened but could not understand a word. One of the three maids—the only one who looked uninjured—got to her feet and answered him.
“What’s it about, then?” Agya asked quietly.
Malowan shrugged and said, “I asked Nemis to ask if they would help us in exchange for me healing their injuries.”
“You’d heal ’em anyhow,” the thief said sourly.
“Of course. It may help cleanse me of that creature’s death—necessary as it was.”
“What makes them better then?”
“They may not be,” the paladin replied, “but they deserve the chance, do they not?”
“Huh,” Agya said shortly. “Not if they warn others we’re here.”
“That will not happen,” Vlandar said mildly. “We can see to that, if we must. Nemis?”
“The aged one was the matron of all the serving girls,” Nemis said. “This one is called M’na’vra, which is ‘butterfly’ in their speech, though among her folk it is not a complimentary tide. She tells me to thank the armored one who saved them from the rages of Jhuka. She tells me she and her two companions came here from their own land to the north. They have no family to protect them, and they swear to keep quiet about our presence here if you will only let them live. All they want is to leave this place and return to their homeland where there is always snow, but at least there is sun and blue sky, and maidens—even the orphaned and impoverished—are treated with some respect.
“They also offer—if you do not trust them—a bribe. Old Jhuka has
a collection of potions in a case in her closet. There are also coins,” he added. “M’na’vra asks if they might keep the coins in exchange for the bottles and powders. They are young and pure, but even the young and pure need coin for dowry if they wish to wed.” The mage was watching Khlened.
Lhors glanced at the barbarian and to his surprise, Khlened seemed to accept this.
“Some sense in that,” Khlened allowed. “Who’d want a lass with no coin to bring to the marriage?”
Agya glared at him. “Not you, for certain,” she growled, “but these creatures—why let ’em loose to breed more of their kind? Kill ’em all, I say!”
The paladin gripped her shoulder and gave it a brisk shake. “When there is time, I will explain better. For now, accept that they have had enough of violence. They may well choose mates who are less warlike, and they may raise offspring who aren’t monsters like that”—his eyes flicked toward the dead matron—“or like those brutes in the next chamber.”
Agya’s lips twitched, but she said nothing further.
Malowan moved to the mage’s side and smiled at M’na’vra, who cautiously smiled back. “Tell her,” he told Nemis, “that we agree to this bargain, and furthermore that I will heal their wounds before we go. Tell them to show us the potions and keep the coin.”
“And tell me, Nemis,” Vlandar said, “that you can use that spell of forgetfulness on them. Otherwise, we will need to bind them. Khlened, you and I need to get that body out of sight in case someone looks in here. Under the nearest bed will be good enough.”
“I have a spell that will serve,” the mage said. He translated Malowan’s brief acceptance of terms. The maids broke into nervous but happy laughter. The smallest—Ilowig, which Nemis said meant “swan”—was the only one daring enough to dig through the matrons pockets for her keys and unlock the closet where her valuables were hidden. Nemis took possession of the rough-hewn box and rummaged through it quickly, choosing several bottles and setting the others aside. Several went back into the box, which he shoved back in the closet.
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