“Thank you, Lord.”
Lord Uriah drove in silence. “I do what I do in order to make the world a safer place for those whom I care about.”
Joash listened, but was bewildered as to why he was being told this.
“Look at Amery.”
Joash did. She petted one of the dogs as Eber talked to her. Joash knew Eber was crazy about her.
“She is of my blood.”
“Yes, Lord.”
“Her father was slain by Old Three-Paws, her mother killed by raiding Shurites. Now I protect her, thus I keep her at my side. Unfortunately there are many like Amery, many of mine who have been hurt, or will be hurt. Yet there are more terrible things out there, Joash, than mere beasts or raiders. There are beings that plan great evil. These beings must be stopped. Otherwise the world will suffer even worse pain. And then, my kin shall know even greater sorrow and suffering. That I would stop, if I can.”
“Yes, Lord.”
“Because of that, I sometimes send grooms into frightful danger. Because of that, young men sometimes have to grow up quickly.”
Joash’s chest felt hollow. What was Lord Uriah saying?
“Our world can be a harsh place, Joash. Once, however, it was harsher still. Shining Ones were sent to help humanity. Now we must help ourselves overcome the legacy of that time.”
Lord Uriah uncorked his ale-skin and took a swallow. He offered some to Joash, but he declined.
“You are gifted in ways that you don’t yet understand,” Lord Uriah said. “And you have been severely tested these last few days. I am glad you passed the tests.” Lord Uriah studied him. There seemed to be pain in his eyes. “Because of who I am I make many difficult decisions. Thank you for keeping a little more blood off my hands. I cannot apologize for where you were sent, but I can rejoice in your return.” Lord Uriah put a hand on Joash’s shoulder.
Joash didn’t know what to think. But he dared ask, “Lord, do you think Tarag will try to stop us from leaving Giant Land?”
“Yes. But let us see if we can outfox him at least one more time.”
Afterward, Joash found himself walking again. That had been a strange talk. He wondered where Mimir was, and how quickly the giant and First Born would learn the sabertooths hadn’t slain them. He hoped Tarag wouldn’t learn until he was safely aboard ship.
Mimir ran his big thumb along his axe. A spot of blood spurted. His Bolverk-forged weapon was sharp and ready for the grim work ahead. Behind him were his brethren, towering giants who had met them since they’d left Draugr’s Crypt.
To his right, Tarag gathered his sabertooths. The massive First Born wore the adamant mail and helmet, and he readied his adamant shield and sword.
Tarag and he, after a grueling march from the crypt, had come upon the manslayers, Tarag’s special sabertooths. Each was a vicious beast, each as big as Old Three-Paws. From cub-hood to maturity Tarag had trained these sabertooths. They obeyed him with precision, and they fawned upon him in a way that puzzled Mimir. Perhaps only in the company of such beasts did Tarag have a sense of belonging. Mimir had noticed that while Tarag freely sent untrained sabertooths to their doom in order to further his plans, the manslayers were used only when the odds favored a quick victory. Whether the First Born did this out of love for his brethren, or out of cold calculation to keep his own elect troop intact, Mimir hadn’t yet decided.
In any regard, Tarag had been surrounded by his manslayers when they came upon the giants at the cedar-topped hill. Ygg the Terrible would have dared to march to Draugr’s Crypt, but Tarag had declined his offer. None of the other giants had offered to join the quest but had awaited the outcome. Among the giants, Ygg was the only necromancer. The others practiced their gift when the need arose. Otherwise, they refrained from magic. Like Mimir, they relied on their powerful limbs, their Bolverk-forged swords, spears, and axes, and their unmatched valor.
The giants wore horned or nasal-guarded helmets, heavy scale-mail shirts that hung down to their knees, and leather leggings, which like their shoes, had been reinforced with iron plates. The legendary Bolverk, the mastersmith of the giants, had forged each piece of armor, each weapon.
“The human scouts are dead,” said Ygg the Terrible.
Mimir nodded. This was his idea. He had talked Tarag into it. No one must learn what had occurred in the crypt. Otherwise the humans and their champions might find a way to thwart them. Nor did he trust cunning Lord Uriah. That old fox thought he was safe in his camp. The coming surprise would badly startle Uriah.
Mimir rose and carefully peered below, being sure that no one spotted him. Ships were anchored in Hori Cove. Out of the circular stone fort herders dragged steppe stallions. They dragged them to the waiting barges brought close to shore.
No one could leave Giant Land to warn others that giants had joined with Tarag.
Light flashed off Tarag’s sword. It was the signal.
Mimir lifted his axe and jumped up. He roared his battle cry and led his giants down the gentle slope. The slaughter was about to begin.
The screams of the dying lessened as the sabertooths feasted upon human flesh. Ygg the Terrible reveled in the death. By his heinous arts, the necromancer managed to contain several spirits in his sun-bleached skulls. Later in an underground vault, or upon a raging battlefield, the spirits would be consumed. The spirits would fuel Ygg’s grisly spells.
Mimir had little taste for such magic, nor did he care to observe the monstrous manslayers lap blood from the brave, from dead charioteers and herders. There seemed to have been fewer charioteers here than he’d expected.
The attack had been sudden and swift, and had caught the humans in the midst of their horse loading. Only one ship and a barge had limped out of the cove and into the Suttung Sea. Unfortunately, neither cunning Lord Uriah nor iron-willed Zillith lay among the slain. It was too much to hope that they’d drowned with the panicked throng on the beach.
As he sat near a boulder, Mimir poured over Zillith’s notes jotted on a roll of Iddo papyrus. In her haste to escape she must have forgotten it. The other giants tended to their minor wounds or sharpened weapons. Stout, white-haired men bred as hereditary slaves and burdened as mules waited patiently nearby. Mimir lowered the papyrus roll. It was a list of herbs and plants discovered by Zillith in the nearby marsh. It was of slight interest. Mimir scowled. She should not have been allowed to escape. They needed to kill the Seraphs. They could yet prove troublesome.
“Look,” Gaut said, a cousin of Mimir’s.
Two sooty sabertooths padded toward them. Mimir saw they were manslayers. Their fur was singed, and they smelled like smoke. He’d seen the night-fire, but midsummer flash fires weren’t that rare. The manner of these cats worried him.
The two sabertooths ignored the giants. They zeroed in on the feasting Tarag.
Watching the two cats, Mimir wondered once more upon his father Jotnar’s wisdom. Tarag’s hatred of anything human-like was consuming. Tarag often boasted how he ate meat raw, how he needed nothing in the way of civilization, how even the giants had turned soft in their quest for luxuries. And by luxury, Tarag meant books, boats, fine clothes, and works of art, anything that made life bearable. From these ravings, Mimir had learned that Tarag envisioned a much different world than Jotnar, or his children the giants, did. The humans were to be slain, their edifices burnt to the ground. Only the pristine glory of the wilderness would be left. In that wilderness would rule the Pride of Tarag.
Mimir returned to Zillith’s journal.
Sometime later Mimir looked up sharply. Tarag roared with rage and shook a fire-singed sabertooth like a rat. With a final snarl, Tarag sank his fangs into the sabertooth and hurled it away. The furry body twitched on the beach of bloody sand. The massive First Born, clad in the adamant armor and with the adamant sword at his side, clanked toward Mimir. Sabertooths trotted behind him like dogs.