Joash bent his head and dragged the travois faster. His lungs burned, and he couldn’t feel his fingers. The scrape of wood on ground sounded loud, and every time the ends clacked against a rock he winced. Finally, Joash reached the thorn bushes. He carefully pushed a sleeping Harn under the thorns. He slashed his shirt in the process and twice his arms, drawing blood. Joash sucked the blood off the thorns to keep the scent out of the air. Then he squeezed in beside Harn and lowered cut branches in front of them, barricading them in.
Joash watched through the thorns. In time, a huge sabertooth padded past. This beast seemed even larger when viewed while lying on the ground. Shortly, a second, third, and fourth sabertooth padded past. Out of caution, Joash waited for more.
Lying down, prone, resting at last, his eyelids became heavier and heavier. Although scared, the thorns gave him a feeling of security. As the fifth sabertooth padded past, Joash faded off.
A yipping cry caused Joash to jerk upward. A thorn stabbed him in the neck. He cursed and woke up faster. His eyes widened as he saw that the sun had set and the moon arisen into the night sky. Everything had become much more dangerous.
Joash listened but couldn’t hear any nearby animals. He glanced at Harn. The hound breathed raggedly. Joash wriggled out, drank water, ate deer jerky, and dragged Harn out. Guilt filled him. The others would think him lost and look for him. Joash spat onto his hands, picked up the poles, wincing, and dragged Harn.
The full moon cast a silvery sheen onto the landscape. The steppes seemed enchanted and eerie. It wasn’t hot anymore, but was refreshingly cool instead. A breeze rolled the silvery grasses like waves. Giant ostrich-like orns screeched their hunting cries, making Joash feel exposed. If—
He stopped, and stared at a footprint. In the moonlight, he couldn’t miss it. Joash lowered the travois, glanced about, and put his own foot in the print. The footprint dwarfed his. Although human-shaped, this was clearly the track of a giant.
Joash grew pale. First sabertooths had attacked two camps, now giants were near. If the giant should spot him—
Joash shook his head. The people in camp must learn that a giant possibly knew about them. It seemed unlikely a giant could have been this close to Hori Cove without spotting anyone. Joash picked up his end of the travois and dragged Harn faster.
A strange light appeared before him. It looked like lantern-light, but was too high, unless someone had put a lantern on the end of a long pole.
Joash moaned. Behind the light, he saw a face, a huge bearded face—a giant’s face. With heavy chainmail clinking the giant strode toward him. The giant wore a bronze buckle on his belt and was twice the height of Herrek. Although very broad-shouldered, the giant had a gaunt face, and his eyes were sunken in, as if he’d gone through terrible times.
Giants, Joash knew, were Nephilim, the children of First Born, who in turn were children of the bene elohim. All the old fear he’d felt in Shamgar, and later with Balak, returned. The giant towered above him, and held onto a monstrous axe with an anchor-sized blade. The giant didn’t look friendly, but rather like a hardened veteran of war. The eyes seemed haunted with dark knowledge. Giants lived longer than even the longest-lived patriarchs did.
“You survived the sabertooths,” the giant rumbled, as he strode near. He had an incredibly deep voice.
“Y-Yes, great sir,” Joash stammered. His knees felt weak.
He kept looking at that axe. Even in the moonlight, the axe’s iron seemed… unnatural—supernatural. It was black and curved gracefully as a lion’s back would as it leapt for the kill. Menace radiated from the axe, like poison dripping from a viper’s fang. It was double-bladed, the edge on each end the length from a man’s knee to his ankle. Joash could image the giant in battle, feet wide, bellowing, the long-handled axe swishing, the black iron sweeping three or four warriors at a time like a scythe chopping ripe grain. With such a weapon, the giant seemed invincible, the horror of war personified.
The giant lowered the lantern to better shine his light on Joash. “You drag a wounded hound,” the giant said, as if surprised.
“I-I do, great sir.” Joash wanted to run, but his feet wouldn’t obey.
“You aren’t wounded yourself?”
“No, great sir,” Joash said.
“What’s your name?” the giant asked, with anger in his voice.
Joash worked his mouth several times before he said, “Joash, great sir.”
“Do you belong to yonder camp?”
“I do, great sir.”
The giant’s haunted, knowledgeable eyes tightened. “What’s your station?”
Sick fear washed over Joash. The giant meant him ill. He meant the camp ill. Trembling, Joash lowered Harn to the ground and squatted beside him. He used his body to shield the sight of the spear.
“Answer me, manling.”
Joash squeezed his eyes shut, finding it hard to breath. He was about to die. For how could one outrun or outfight a giant? Begging for mercy wouldn’t sway one with eyes like those. To die with honor, with a weapon in one’s hands, to face the foe stoutly, a warrior strove for such things.
“Do not grovel before me,” the giant said. “Stand and answer me.”
In a daze, but determined, Joash undid the knots and lifted the spear.
The lantern rattled as the giant set it down. “What are you doing?”
Joash had sweaty palms and couldn’t feel his stomach.
“I said—”
Joash whirled and blindly charged.
The giant grunted with surprise. Then he swatted Joash with the back of his hand.
Joash crashed to the ground, with the wind knocked out of him. The spear was torn from his hands, and the point driven deep into the ground. Joash was lifted to his feet. He swayed, had blurry eyesight, and couldn’t breathe because his lungs had locked. Finally, he sucked air and his vision cleared. The giant sat cross-legged before him.
“Sit,” ordered the giant.
Joash sank.
“Why did you just attack me?”
Terrified, Joash still dared to look the giant in the eye. “Because you’re going to kill me,” he whispered.
The giant grunted. “You were dragging the dog back to the camp?”
Joash nodded, unable to speak further.
“How was he wounded?”
Joash worked his mouth and finally said, “By a sabertooth.”
“Something is badly wrong,” the giant muttered. “Tell me what happened.”
A new fear came over Joash. As Nephilim, children of First Born, giants were said to posses an accursed gift. Each gift was different, each unique. Each gift was a magical ability. Some turned water into wine, or made metal turn white with heat. Others ran without becoming tired. Some saw into the future.
“Listen to me well, manling,” the giant said. “I’ll give you your life if you will give me the tales I desire.”
“M-My life?” Joash stammered.
The giant made a dismissive gesture. “What’s one life, and that of a young man? Besides, small one, you’ve acted bravely. You didn’t rush back to your camp with your tail between your legs. No, you built a travois and dragged your wounded hound with you. I admire such loyalty. Then, when confronted by a giant, you were sly enough to secretly draw your weapon, and bold enough to attack, even when death would be the outcome.”