The giant cocked its head slowly and stupidly, and only gradually turned its head to look for the sound. Its eyes widened slowly, almost comically, as it took in the company of armored knights already gathering into ranks for a charge. It rose to its feet, and water streamed from its body, its dangling beard, and its pelt of animal skins. Thirteen, fourteen feet tall, from the looks of it. A massive, meaty fist grabbed for its club and wrenched it from the river bottom. Mud dripped from the end.
By the Brothers, what an ugly beast. And huge, too, more than twice the size of Sir Gregory, the tallest man in the company, and several times as massive. Must weigh two thousand pounds, and it was said there were giants eighteen, twenty feet tall in the northern wastes; they would dwarf this one.
Wolfram had his sword in his right hand and his shield in his left, or he would have touched the crescent moon pendant for courage. It rested against his chest, a comforting weight, and he felt its whisper.
Bronwyn’s eyes seemed to glow with righteous anger. She pointed Soultrup at the giant. “Charge!”
The paladins had faced down marauders, had battled griffin riders swooping in on the backs of their horse-size mounts while swinging their slender blades with deadly skill. Last fall, forty of Bronwyn’s warriors faced off against the barony of Estmor, held a bridge for four hours against repeated mounted charges, and decisively beat an army of eight hundred men, forcing the king of Estmor to allow the paladins to pass unimpeded through his lands.
But a giant . . . this was a new experience for all of them. A thrill of fear raced through Wolfram’s body as he joined the charge and saw the creature’s features harden into rage as it drew back its club for a mighty swing. Club? More like a tree trunk. One blow could kill a horse and rider alike. Bronwyn, Andar, and Wolfram entered the shallow waters, with their companions pouring in after them.
Crossbow bolts flew through the air from behind. Some sailed wide or high, while others pinpricked the giant’s flesh, barely penetrating its tough skin. But the shots were enough to distract the creature, and it made a wild swing at the riders while trying to duck the bolts. Wolfram flattened himself against his horse, nearly dropping his sword as the club whistled above his head.
Andar came in from the other side and took a big, hacking swing at the giant’s wrist. The blow would have severed a man’s arm, but barely drew blood against the giant, who turned with unexpected swiftness and punched at the paladin’s horse as he went past. The horse went down and threw Andar into the river, where the giant tried to stomp him to death.
Before it could find the downed, flailing paladin, Bronwyn launched herself from the saddle. She slammed into its chest with such force that her shield drove under its chin, and Soultrup—a two-handed blade that she wielded lightly and expertly with one hand—thrust into its chest. The giant fell back with a roar of pain.
Bronwyn fell into the river with a splash, but quickly regained her feet in the knee-high water, and she took another swing even as Wolfram and a growing collection of paladins surrounded the giant and attacked from all sides. One man hurled himself from the back of his horse in an attempt to do from the rear what his captain had done from the front, but the giant slapped him away.
Blood streamed from the giant’s chest where Soultrup had penetrated its cloak of skins, and its rage turned to fear. It forced its way through the attackers in an attempt to reach the deeper water beneath the bridge. Bronwyn scrambled onto her horse and shouted for the paladins to follow her. They plunged after the giant, and the swirling waters rose almost to the horses’ chests as they approached the bridge, already too deep for some of the smaller mounts to fight through.
Bronwyn and Wolfram caught the giant first, followed by Marissa and a man by the name of Lucas, who wore a patch over an eye taken by a marauder’s dagger. The four of them hacked and chopped. Lucas landed a blow on the giant’s hand, and it dropped its cudgel, which floated harmlessly downstream. Now weaponless and bleeding heavily, but not mortally, the giant grabbed for one of the large wooden pillars that held up the center of the bridge.
Wolfram’s mare was in up to her neck and struggling against the current. Bronwyn’s horse was stronger and taller, but the captain, too, had a hard time getting closer. Behind them were the rest of the paladins, horses churning, men and women trying to close with the enemy. The water was too deep and the current too swift; they couldn’t get at it.
“Pull out!” Bronwyn shouted. “We’ll attack it from upstream.”
Wolfram cast a final glance at the giant as he let his horse fall back. It clung to the post, wounded and bleeding heavily, trembling and seemingly terrified. If he hadn’t seen the creature sucking the flesh from a man’s skull, he’d have felt almost sorry for it.
No, he realized belatedly. Not terrified, and not clinging or trembling. It was wrenching. Pulling at the pillar and yanking it this way and that. Before he could shout a warning, the massive wooden column came loose from the riverbed. The heavy planks and posts of the partially collapsed bridge tumbled onto the giant’s head and splashed into the river. A wave of muddy water heaved up and threw Wolfram and his horse backward, followed by debris from the river. A chunk of it slammed into his shoulder, and he grabbed at the horse’s neck to keep from being thrown from the saddle. A plank struck a nearby paladin, and both horse and rider disappeared under the water.
“Brother!” a voice shouted. “Help me.”
Bronwyn was dismounted again, half wading and half swimming, but still fighting the giant, who’d been swept back with the debris. Blood streamed from its head where a falling beam had struck it, but it was still struggling. Wolfram pulled his horse toward his sister and the flailing creature. By some miracle, he still had his sword, and was able to position himself behind the giant as it fended off Bronwyn’s blows. He drew back his sword, waited for the right moment, and swung with all his might at the giant’s neck. It was like hitting a post, but the blade bit through its hide and drew blood. The giant roared, slipped in the water, and came up again with another roar. Grievously wounded now, struggles weakening, but not yet finished. The current had carried them back to the wider, shallower part where Wolfram had first spotted the giant picking over the bones of the murdered traveler. The paladins surrounded their enemy, and swung again and again while the giant lifted its arms in a weakening attempt to fend them off. It staggered, fell, struggled to get up, and fell again, even as the attacks continued. At last the giant lay facedown in the water, a small island in the middle of the stream, surrounded by beached logs and other debris from the bridge. They stabbed it repeatedly until they were sure.
Exhausted, shoulder aching from where he’d been struck by a piece of the collapsing bridge, Wolfram dismounted and waded toward the shore, leading his mare, her sides heaving. He and his companions struggled onto the bank, one after another, where they lay gasping or looked to injured companions.
A nearby paladin drew in her breath sharply. “By the Brothers, will you look at that.”
Wolfram followed her gaze to the far shore. Three riders on horseback stood on the riverbank, watching the aftermath of the battle. As word rippled through the paladins, the riders turned without a word and rode up the road that led deeper into the hills. But not before they’d given the paladins an eyeful. The three men had dead eyes and faces the color of ash.
Gray marauders.
Chapter Two
Wolfram stirred the campfire with a stick and rested a hand on his belly. Not full—one was never full on the road—but the dull ache of hunger had retreated, and he was satisfied. Men and women coughed and turned in their sleep in the surrounding tents. He and Bronwyn sat in the open, huddled near the flickering warmth of the fire, one half of the first night watch. The other two paladins on watch were in the darkness somewhere to their left, about a hundred feet out from the camp, where they could keep an eye on the road.
Six small warding stones had been placed at intervals around the camp to provide additional warning aga
inst a night invasion. Wolfram could sense the nearest one, about fifty yards to his right, pulsing with a subtle, comforting magic, like a rumble from the chest of a faithful watchdog.
“That was the last of the beef,” he said. “And there are no more villages to buy supplies between here and the high passes, so we’ll be eating lean through the mountains. Maybe longer if they won’t accept our coin on the other side.”
“We’re down five warriors,” Bronwyn said. “That will help the food situation some.”
“You sent the wounded back without provisions?”
“I assume the good people of Gronhelm will give them a hearty meal and a bit of flour for the road. It’s the least they could do—those paladins saved a good number of Gronhelmers today when we defeated the giant.”
“Gratitude will be hard to come by from that village,” Wolfram said. “Griffins have eaten their flocks, chased the villagers from the fields, and the children already looked pinched and hungry.”
“They have no choice. If the villages of the hill country won’t keep us fed, we’ll fall back, and they’ll be overrun. Then what? They’ll be dead or slaves or worse. And that will be a good lesson for the rest.”
“You are a hard woman, Sister.”
“Hard times call for hard people.” Bronwyn’s sword lay across her lap, and she touched the hilt. Her tone turned even darker. “As several of our paladins discovered this afternoon.”
Thankfully, only one had died in the battle, a woman from Alsance who’d only joined the paladins two months earlier. The other four had suffered broken bones or other wounds that would necessitate extended rest. Of these, the most grievous loss was Sir Andar, his sword arm broken, and his horse lamed, both of them struck by debris when the giant pulled down the bridge. He was going to return to his homeland of Greymarch to recover.
“How many marauders will we face?” Wolfram asked.
“I’d hoped to face none. Had hoped we’d slip through the mountains undetected. Once down in the plains, we’d be hard to catch. Turn the tables on the enemy as we surge and then feint, and all the while making our way toward the sorcerer.”
“Yes, well . . . we were detected. So how many do you figure?”
“Might be only those three—a scouting party, nothing more. But I wouldn’t count on it. Could be an entire company, their twenty against ours. Against our fifteen, since we’re down five.”
“Sixteen,” he corrected. “You’re not counting yourself.”
“I’m not counting myself for a reason.”
Wolfram frowned and studied Bronwyn, who looked down at her sword, her hand on the hilt as if she wanted to draw it from its battered leather sheath. The dying campfire shimmered and reflected off her face.
“Add a few more sticks to the fire, Sir Wolfram.”
“Bronwyn?”
“Please, I’m cold.”
He obeyed, and the sticks crackled and popped and flared into life as the fire caught hold. They gave off a cheery warmth, but it was small and temporary, and the chill would return soon enough. He didn’t stop studying his sister, and her troubled look lingered.
“Are you leaving us?” he asked.
“The road is as good as closed already. Gray marauders, giants, and griffins in the higher passes. Gronhelm should be evacuated. A dozen marauders could carry off the entire population in chains.”
“We’ll mount an expedition. Gather the other companies and apply maximum force. Sir Andar’s brother is the baron of Donevale, not three days’ march from here—he could lend us archers to drive off the griffins. We’ll clear the road. Rebuild the watchtowers, the bridges.”
“You do all of that, Sir Wolfram.”
“While you . . . what? Go it alone?”
“This won’t stop until the sorcerer is defeated.”
“Which is why we are sending a company of paladins through the mountains.”
“We fought a giant and lost five of our number. There are marauders on the road, and they know we’re coming.” Bronwyn kept staring into the fire. “A lone rider stands a better chance of getting through.”
“Maybe,” he said, dubious.
“And there is something else.”
She drew Soultrup slowly from its sheath. In contrast to the worn, battered leather sheath, the sword had a clean, beautiful line to it, with hilt and pommel of impeccable workmanship, yet not in a showy way. The edge of the blade glinted red, and whispers sounded in his head. Voices.
“Take it,” she said.
“What? Me? No, I don’t want the thing.”
“I mean hold it, that’s all.”
“Oh.”
“Did you think I was giving it to you?” A smile played at the corner of Bronwyn’s mouth. “No, but I want you to touch it so you’ll understand. Soultrup will talk to you.” She held it out. “If your muscles begin to move of their own volition, don’t fight for control, put it down at once. There’s a war inside, always a struggle for command.”
He put his hand tentatively on the hilt, and the whispers grew urgent. So many voices—dozens it seemed, or hundreds. Had this blade killed so many? He set it across his lap, and his sister took his free hand, spread his fingers, and placed it palm down on the flat of the blade.
“Good, now close your eyes and let your mind go blank,” she said. “When it’s clear, ask the sword to show you the sorcerer.”
“I’m not much for meditation, you know that.”
“No need to meditate. Just open your mind, and the sword will do the rest. Believe me, you’ll see things whether you want to or not.”
Wolfram did as she said, still skeptical he could calm the anxiety, the worry about the sword, and the memory of the battle, of dragging the dead paladin out of the river and turning her over to see where the beam from the falling bridge had caved in half her face. The thought of Sir Andar cursing his broken arm and complaining that they should have bypassed the giant—the stupid thing never would have known they were there—and continued up the road without fighting. All of these worries and more crowded his mind.
But almost instantly, a clear vision swept everything aside. The camp was gone, and it was daytime, not night. He stood in the middle of a forest, surrounded by the largest trees he’d ever seen, their trunks as wide as houses, rising like towers into the sky. One massive tree had fallen and battered a path of destruction through the forest where it had crashed to earth. Ferns and giant, finlike mushrooms grew along the side of the fallen tree, which also sprouted saplings, these alone the size of a maple or birch from the forests he knew. Somewhere nearby, a woodpecker was hammering away in its endless search for insects.
Wolfram opened his eyes in shock, and found himself once again in front of the little campfire. His eyes took a second to adjust to the change in light, as if he’d really moved from a forest in daylight to the foothills of the Dragon’s Spine at night.
“You were in a forest, right?” Bronwyn asked.
“How did you know?”
“I can feel it coming off you. And I’ve seen the place before. That wasn’t long enough. Close your eyes and try again.”
“But what is it? How did I . . .”
“It’s not real. It’s a vision sent by one of the more powerful souls trapped in the sword. Now close your eyes until you see the garden.”
Bronwyn’s tone was impatient, and he obeyed.
The forest reappeared, but only for an instant, and then he found himself walking a road as it bisected a stretch of fertile farmland. But not any road. This was made of finely cut and fitted stone, its surface even except for a slight rise in the middle so water could drain off the sides. He had never seen a road so precisely built, except perhaps over the stone bridge crossing the Thorft east of Arvada, and that was only thirty feet long and ten feet wide. This massive construction seemed to continue for miles.
“The work of the sorcerer,” a voice said.
It wasn’t his sister, but a man walking next to Wolfram in the vision. T
he man wore a robe with its hood drawn, and carried a walking stick of pale carved wood. A gnarled hand with bent knuckles emerged from the sleeve to grip the staff.
“This road will soon penetrate your own lands unless something is done to stop it,” the man said. “The sorcerer’s highway will cross all lands and kingdoms until his dark hand controls every land, every people.”
“But how?” Wolfram asked.
“Thousands upon thousands of slaves. And evil magic to bind their pain to the stones.”
“He must be stopped. Must be killed.”
The old man’s stick clicked on the paving stones. “It might not be possible.”
“We will do it. By the Brothers, we’ll cut him down. Where is he? How do we find him?”
He caught motion out of the corner of his eye, something shadowy slinking along behind his right shoulder. A chill raced down his spine as he turned, expecting to see an assassin coming up behind him with a dagger. But there was nobody there, only a breeze that gusted dust onto the road from the ditch on the edge of the farmland. When he turned back, his companion was gone.
Wolfram glanced behind him once more to be sure that whatever he’d spotted was gone, too, and then suddenly he was gone. Gone from the road, gone from the forest, gone from the campsite in the foothills of the Dragon’s Spine where he’d been talking to his sister.
Instead, he was in a small garden. Vines with flowers and ripe fruit snaked up the surrounding walls. Birds with crimson plumage and long iridescent tails chattered in the boughs of orange and lemon trees. Bees the size of his thumb hummed past his ear. The air smelled rich and alive and yet deadly; the threat of it surrounded him. Indeed, the entire place throbbed with sorcery.
The stones beneath his feet murmured angrily at his presence. A breeze ruffled the vines, and they seemed to bend toward him, the leaves curling and beckoning, and he knew that if he stepped closer the vines would strike like snakes and drag him in. If he took a single step, the ground would heave and throw him down, and the roots of the trees would break from the ground and pull him under.
The Black Shield (The Red Sword Book 2) Page 2