Giants lc-1 Page 2

  The reeds parted again as a dripping Balak bulled into view. “He’s an escaped slave,” the beastmaster said.

  The warrior raised an eyebrow.

  “He’s mine,” Balak added.

  Joash wearily shook his head.

  “He holds an opposing view,” the warrior said, his voice hardening.

  Balak slapped his massive chest. He was like a bear, a half-giant compared to the warrior, and with Nephilim blood.

  “I purchased him in Shamgar,” Balak growled.

  “A pirate den,” the warrior said, standing, tossing his dish onto the sand.

  “I hold him by Gog’s writ,” Balak said. “The strong shall enslave the weak.”

  “Do you follow Gog?” the warrior asked Joash.

  “Never,” Joash whispered.

  “Your writ has no meaning here,” the warrior told Balak.

  Balak spat, and he shrugged off his sodden bear fur. He had thick muscles, more coarse hair, and strange tattoos. From his belt he drew a murderously long knife, a curved thing with a glistening edge. “Do you desire death?”

  “Yours,” the warrior said, and the short sword was in his rugged hand.

  “I am a beastmaster,” Balak said, implying that his Nephilim blood gave him supernatural mastery over his chosen animals. He was both taller and thicker than the otherwise tall warrior.

  Even so, the princely warrior laughed recklessly. “I am Herrek of Teman Clan, of Elon. I serve Elohim.”

  Balak roared wildly, his eyes blazing wrath, and he bull-rushed the smaller warrior.

  Joash witnessed the fight of his life. Herrek of Teman Clan was fast, nimble on his feet and obviously skilled with the blade. Yet, he lacked Balak’s sheer size and outlandish strength. Balak also moved like a wounded bear, with sudden and dangerous speed. The long knife flickered. There was a clink, and a piece of iron-link flew from Herrek’s mail, as the warrior staggered. He dodged the next slash, recovered his balance, and soon their blades clashed again. Balak roared with a gash along his ribs that dripped blood and trickled to his waist.

  “I’ll gut you for my wolves to feed,” Balak snarled. “I’ll lap your blood and feast on your spirit.”

  Herrek panted heavily. He was strong, fast, and a superb swordsman, but he was only human, without the blood of the divine that helped Balak. They must have both sensed it.

  “You were a fool to interfere,” Balak laughed.

  “Elohim has a strange affinity for fools,” the warrior panted. “So I am satisfied.”

  Balak roared rage at the mention of that name. His long, curved dagger blurred and beat aside the warrior’s sword. Balak plunged metal through mail, stabbing into Herrek’s side. The force of the blow snapped Herrek off his feet. He crashed backward, thudding onto sand.

  Joash moaned, and he launched himself from where he’d panted. Balak whirled. The beastmaster had fantastic reserves of strength and stamina. A grin spread across his coarse face. Joash hurled his fistfuls of sand. It was a basic tactic, but it worked, maybe because even beastmaster’s cannot run and fight forever. Balak bellowed angrily, wiped at his stung eyes, and swung his knife in an arc. He cut Joash in the hip. Then Joash crashed against huge Balak, staggering the massive man.

  Bleeding and exhausted, Joash sank onto the sand.

  Balak blinked wildly and rubbed his eyes. He snarled when he could see again. The warrior stood before him, waiting.

  “You should have attacked while I—”

  Balak didn’t have time to finish his admonishment. The warrior lunged, sinking his sword into Balak’s throat. A few moments later, the beastmaster crashed dead onto the sand.

  Herrek of Teman Clan looked gravely upon Joash. Blood leaked from the warrior’s chainmail where he held his hand. “Your lunge at him was unfair,” the warrior said. “I don’t approve, as we fought in single combat. But I’m alive and so are you. And it appears I now owe you my life.”

  “I owe you mine,” Joash said.

  The warrior nodded curtly and turned away. When he regarded Joash again, the warrior asked, “Do you follow Elohim?”

  “Now I do,” Joash said.

  The warrior rubbed his chin. “You’re bleeding. Let’s patch that… then you’d better join me. Gog claims this land, and the sooner we’re gone, the better for both of us. Yes?”

  Joash nodded, too tired to say anything more.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Sabertooths

  “The land we explored devours those living in it. All the people we saw there are of great size. We saw the Nephilim there (the descendants of Anak come from the Nephilim). We seemed like grasshoppers in our own eyes, and we looked the same to them.”

  — Numbers 13:32-33

  Two Years Later

  The Elonite expedition into Giant Land was daring. Seldom did human ships disgorge warriors onto these wind-swept shores. When they did, it was usually so the warriors could gain the vainglorious trophies of mammoth, sabertooths, or great sloth. Then they hastily retreated to their ships and sailed for safety. That Lord Uriah, a patriarch of two peoples, and well over five hundred years old, had come to Giant Land to capture steppe ponies verged on madness.

  However, for ten lucky days the Elonite charioteers had roamed the steppes unharmed. For ten fortuitous days, because no giants were seen, the charioteers cut selected stallions from the herds, and took them to the camp at Hori Cove where they stayed.

  On the eleventh day, several unusual incidents occurred. Those with the gift could have read the signs and foretold the future, because like a cold gust on a muggy summer day the incidents gave warning of the hurricane to come. Unfortunately, fortune-tellers, like weathermen, did their best work from hindsight. Therefore, the Elonites did as others and stumbled from one moment to the next, unaware that the signposts to the future had given their final warning.

  * * *

  Long-limbed Joash skidded to a stop. He wore leathers, crisscrossing leather straps—one held a sloshing water-skin and the other his dagger—and he clutched a javelin. It was fashioned from black Tem wood, varnished smooth, and with a glinting bronze head, with the tiniest smear of blood on the tip.

  Beside Joash, panted a huge, lion-colored dog, with a blunt, wedge-shaped head and strangely bright brown eyes. He was a fighting beast, built to attack bears, cave lions and sabertooths.

  “Oh no,” Joash wheezed. “Look at the horses.”

  “…What about them?” his friend asked.

  In the distance, charioteers chased wild steppe ponies. Beyond the two-man chariots and the shaggy ponies waved brown summertime grass. Hidden hunters crouched there with twenty-foot long capture nets. The charioteers drove the wild ponies toward those hidden nets.

  “Keep sprinting,” a chariot-runner yelled at Joash. Behind the runner, toiled others like him, lean young men with javelins, knives, and hounds. Most, like Joash, ran barefoot and had hardened calluses like leather boots.

  “Wait!” Joash shouted. “The herd—”

  In the distance, blaring chariot-horns cut him off. A steppe stallion, a black, shaggy beast with rolling eyes, reared on his hind legs. His front legs pawed the air, and his sharp hooves were like weapons. A charioteer’s lasso snaked at him. The black stallion nimbly dodged and bolted for freedom. Like the canny beast that he appeared to be, he then veered from the dangerous grass, galloped between the rattling chariots and back toward the following runners.

  Joash brushed sweaty hair out of his eyes. The black stallion was fast. He marveled how it dodged other lassos, how smoothly it galloped, and how divots of grass and dirt-clods flew from wherever the hooves touched ground.

  Another horn blew. It was a sharp, militant sound, higher-pitched than horse whinnies or shouting men. The clear noise cut the air like a razor and redirected the highly trained warriors.

  Chariots wheeled after the black stallion. More lassoes snaked at him. The stallion dodged them all, stopped for a moment, and pawed the air again. Now, other steppe ponies responded
to his call. The drum of hooves told of their dash for freedom. A signal pennon dipped from the lead chariot. Other vehicles turned and followed the fleeing stallion, the prize of the chase.

  Unfortunately, the stallion ran back at the runners. The stallion might lead the entire herd, trampling onto Joash and his companions.

  Feeling the thunderous herd through his bare feet from the tremors in the ground, Joash glanced at the nearby marsh. The wild horses hated swamps, the soft mucky ground, the tall bulrushes that hid predators, and the swarms of biting mosquitoes. Behind Joash, there stood a steep, cedar-topped hill with its jagged boulders. The stallion surged for the gap between the marsh and hill.

  “Here they come!” a runner yelled.

  “We’ve got to run back and block the gap!” Joash shouted. That would make the stallion and herd head for the hill, and likely mill there, making them perfect targets for the lassos. The other dust-stained runners knew he was right.

  “Hurry,” Joash yelled.

  They whirled and ran where he pointed. So did their dogs. Burs stuck to their leathers, and chariot-churned, dusty air burned down their lungs. To run faster, Joash shed water-skin, his leather kit of supplies, and javelin. Other runners did likewise, leaving a trail like the aftermath of a lost battle.

  A stitch of pain shot up Joash’s ribs. His thighs burned. He pushed himself nonetheless, smoothly moving his arms. He passed slower runners. Beside him ran several huge hounds, those of Lord Herrek, which Joash had helped train. From the nearby marsh came croaks, trills, and insect hums. To his left, the edge of the hill grew closer. Then he entered the gap. Behind him galloped the wild horses, their hooves drumming the ground. Joash swore he could smell their sweat.

  “Stop!” Joash shouted. He picked up a dirt clod and heaved it at the approaching horses. His dogs stopped with him and barked savagely.

  “Spread out,” the oldest runner shouted.

  As panic threatened, Joash shifted toward the marsh. He kept throwing dirt clods at the approaching horses. If they didn’t turn soon—

  “Yell!” yelled a runner.

  The runners shouted and waved their arms, threw dirt clods, and urged the dogs to bark.

  The black stallion’s eyes rolled wildly, and he slowed. Because he led the small herd, the other wild horses slowed, too.

  “Charge them,” shouted the oldest runner.

  The well-trained runners charged, and the wild horses glanced about nervously. Then the charioteers arrived, their vehicles clattering and the wheels throwing up dust. Lassoes flew. Wild horses screamed in outrage as ropes fell onto them. The black stallion edged toward the marsh. A bear of a charioteer, with silvery hair, threw his lasso at the stallion.

  “Elidad,” cheered Ard, Joash’s best friend. The silvery-haired warrior was Ard’s lord.

  The loop dropped around the stallion’s glistening neck. Elidad roared with glee. The strong black stallion twisted and reared. Elidad shouted angrily as the rope slipped from his hands. The black stallion plunged into the marsh.

  “Go after him!” Elidad shouted.

  Joash and Ard stood nearest the marsh.

  Hot-tempered Elidad pointed at them. “Get him. Don’t let the stallion escape.”

  “You mean go into the marsh?” Ard asked.

  “Go!” Elidad roared, his face turning red.

  “Don’t argue,” Joash said. He pulled his friend and his favorite dog by the scruff of the neck. They ran past whispering bulrushes where the stallion had gone and moved toward water.

  “We’re going to get wet,” Ard complained, running a thick hand through his long red hair. He was bigger, broader and a year older than Joash. He was a typical runner: tough, long-winded, and dreaming of the day that he would wield a chariot-lance.

  They parted shoulder-high reeds and slapped the mosquitoes that whined around them. The horse tracks led to softer ground. Water squished under their sandals, and mud made sucking sounds.

  “The tracks have vanished,” Ard said.

  “Look at the path of broken reeds,” Joash said, pointing. “The stallion went that way.”

  Behind them, the sounds of the roundup diminished. They tracked further. It became apparent that rather than simply skirting the charioteers, the black stallion had plunged deep into the marsh.

  Ard lurched backward, yelling. Joash clutched at his dagger handle. A frog leaped out from under Ard’s foot. Joash and Ard exchanged glances.

  “Sorry,” Ard said sheepishly. “It surprised me.”

  “You should keep your voice down,” Joash whispered.

  Ard scowled, but he nodded.

  They kept toiling through the swamp. Joash didn’t mind the stagnant water, the frogs that splashed out of his way, or the spider-creatures that skittered to safety. They were harmless. He raised his hand, however, as a red snake swam by. He knew some marsh-snakes were poisonous.

  A moment later, Joash motioned Ard forward.

  “What was it?” Ard whispered, his eyes wide with fright.

  Joash shook his head, waded, and parted reeds. Beside him moved his favorite dog, Harn. Lord Uriah had traded a mammoth hide for him, complete with the tusks and the prized sandal-making soles. The merchant who’d traded Harn claimed he was of the Azarel breed, the line of dogs that ages ago the Shining Ones had bred for war against the bene elohim. That was preposterous, of course. The Azarel bloodline had died out a century ago, or so any knowledgeable dog breeder said.

  Harn was big, lion-colored, and brave, although still technically a pup at ten months of age. Harn’s hackles rose.

  Joash cocked his head, wondering what had the dog excited. From within the marsh he heard frightened whinnying. Joash’s heart hammered, so he reminded himself that he’d scouted the marsh days ago. It wasn’t large, nor did any poisonous snakes or lions live in it. The marsh was a low spot, fed by a stream that drained into the Suttung Sea.

  Joash parted reeds, withdrew his sandaled feet from the mucky bottom and stepped into deeper water, colder water. The stallion swam into view as his eyes rolled in fear. The loop was still around his neck, and the rope trailed like a snake.

  “Hurry,” Joash hissed at Ard.

  The water deepened even more, so Joash waded up to his shoulders. Ahead of them, the stallion swam faster, reached a shallow area, and plowed through the muddy bottom. Foam flecked the horse’s mouth as his nostrils flared. Then the stallion pulled himself out of the mud and crashed through reeds. He had reached the other side of the marsh.

  “What will we do now?” Ard asked.

  “He might snag the rope somewhere,” Joash said. He was beginning to wonder what had the stallion so panicked.

  A loud roar froze them into immobility. The black stallion rose up, pawing the air. Another roar sounded, and then a huge sabertooth leaped onto the stallion’s back. They went down and more sabertooths rushed in. In moments, it was over.

  Joash ducked lower in the water, while Harn stuck close.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Ard hissed.

  “Wait,” Joash said. “The water will protect us from the sabertooths.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “The sabertooths are like the lions back home, and they hate to get wet.” Joash now thought of the Plains of Elon as home. He’d come a long way since escaping Balak.

  Huge sabertooths with luxurious gray fur snarled at each other as they dug their fanged mouths into the horsemeat. The ground was solid there, about a hundred feet away.

  “I’ve seen enough,” whispered Ard. He and Joash had slid behind a clump of reeds.

  “Wait,” Joash said. Without being aware of it, he was grinning. The big cats were beautiful. This was amazing.

  “Wait for what? Do you want those monsters to eat us?”

  “They’re feasting,” Joash said. “We’re not in danger.” He studied the huge cats. Then his eyes narrowed and he tapped his chin.

  “What is it?” asked Ard, who glanced at him.

  “I haven’t
seen those sabertooths before.”

  “Huh?”

  “Haven’t you noticed all the sabertooth tracks we’ve come across?” Joash asked.

  “When?”

  “The past few days,” Joash said.

  Ard shook his head.

  “I’ve been noticing them.”

  “So?” asked Ard.

  “So, a pride of sabertooths are like the prides of lions back home. That’s what Herrek told me, and from what I’ve seen of these sabertooths, that’s true.”

  Ard grunted, as if saying he should have realized. Everyone knew that Joash loved animals.

  “Each pride has a territory,” Joash explained, “and they fight off other prides.”

  Through reeds, Ard peered at the feasting cats. “Are you saying one pride of sabertooths has invaded the territory of another?”

  Joash nodded.

  “What does that mean?” Ard asked.

  “Strange things are supposed to happen in Giant Land. I’d better tell Herrek about this.”

  “Good idea,” Ard said. “Let’s go.”

  Joash took one last look. The sabertooths were rakish, with powerful shoulders and low hindquarters. Joash spied one especially huge sabertooth, an old monster that stood at least four feet tall at the shoulders. The great cat limped, favoring his left paw. Joash recalled the sabertooth footprints he’d seen yesterday. The footprints had shown him a strangely crippled left paw.

  Old Three-Paws, Joash thought to himself, unconsciously naming the beast.

  “Let’s go,” Ard insisted.

  Joash slowly backed into the deeper water.

  “Wait,” Ard said.

  Joash raised his eyebrows. Unlike the others, he was black-haired, darker-skinned, and lanky. As a rule, Elonites were red or blond-haired, fair-skinned, and muscular.

  “I don’t want to go through the marsh again,” Ard said. “Let’s skirt around it?”

  “We dropped our javelins, remember?”

  “We’ve got knives,” Ard said, “and you have Harn. Besides, if we run into anything dangerous we can wade into the marsh.”