by Simon Hawke
There was no question how far the giants could hurl their boulders. The one who had just thrown was some twenty-five yards off the starboard bow, and he had overshot them. As Sorak’s elfling gaze penetrated the darkness, he could see at least three others coming up behind him.
“Row, damn your eyes! Row!” the captain shouted hoarsely.
He couldn’t raise the beat any more; the oarsmen were already rowing as fast as they could. They were now roughly parallel with Ledo Island, halfway out across the estuary, and the giants were wading out to cut them off. The captain stood at the tiller, bending over it and steering to the left. The bow of the boat slowly swung around, describing a wide arc as the captain tried to put more distance between them and the giants.
With no way to tell how deep the silt was, the boat’s path was anything but sure. The silt rose up around the giants’ chests as they approached, so the bottom fell off sharply at this point. The question was, would it continue to deepen or level off?
There were three giants up ahead, closing on the starboard bow. The fourth giant, the first they had encountered, had now been left behind, but despite his wounds, he had not given up pursuit. With any luck, thought Sorak, he’d been blinded. Enraged, the creature slogged steadily through the silt, bellowing in pain and fury as he tried to catch up to the ferry.
The captain’s change of course was taking them obliquely away from the giants because he was still making for the opposite shore. But the giants were just ahead of them and closing. Their footsteps made a chorus of loud swishing, thudding, and sucking noises as they struggled through the silt.
Sorak looked out into the distance, ahead of the boat, and he could see torches flaring up along the partially completed section of the causeway extending out from South Ledopolus. The flames from some of those torches rose in a spiralling course, carried by mercenaries that climbed up onto the defensive towers to man the catapults. But were they in range?
The bow of the boat rose sharply as another boulder struck the silt just ahead of them. Every archer aboard was shooting bolts and arrows as fast as possible. The other passengers held tensely to swords, praying they wouldn’t have to use them. If they did, it would already be too late.
Sorak shot another bolt and was rewarded by an enraged scream of pain that shook the night. It was so loud, his ears rang. The giants were getting closer, and it looked as if the ferry might not make it.
The mercenaries on the defensive works of the causeway knew their trade. They brought the catapults into play quickly. Sorak saw trails of fire arcing through the night, illuminating the frightening tableaux of men scrambling over war machines. It took only a few shots to find the range, and then the flaming projectiles were coming down upon the giants.
Four beasts remained, counting the one still lumbering behind them through the silt, and all were now clearly visible. They were huge, ugly brutes, with dark red skin and matted hair reaching to their shoulders. Their powerful upper arms were thicker than Sorak’s torso, and their hands were large enough to crush the boat to splinters. Their facial features were misshapen; brow ridges protruded sharply over their eyes, and their noses resembled snouts. Several of them had grotesque canine teeth that grew outward, curving into tusks.
The creatures were close enough now that Sorak could smell their stench, and it made him gag. Another boulder struck the silt just off the starboard bow, landing close enough to scrape the hull as it fell. The boat heeled over sharply, and part of the gunwale broke away with a loud, cracking sound of splintering agafari wood.
They were over a deeper part of the estuary now, for the silt was coming up almost to the giants’ collarbones. Still they pursued, refusing to give up with their quarry so close at hand.
Several of them batted at the falling missiles as if at annoying insects, but one of the projectiles struck home, hitting a giant directly on the head. He cried out with pain and staggered, almost going under, and his oily, thickly matted hair caught fire. The giant’s panic-stricken screams rent the night as he batted wildly at his hair, trying to put out the flames. It apparently did not occur to the dim-witted creature to duck his head under the silt, which would have put the flames out in an instant. He simply stood there, screaming and swatting at himself with his huge hands.
The ferry captain was screaming, too. He was shouting himself hoarse as he urged on the rowers, who needed no urging, with death so close at hand. A giant loomed up just off the starboard bow, almost close enough to seize the prow of the boat. Sorak raised the crossbow and took careful aim. The bolt whizzed through the air and struck the giant right between the eyes, penetrating his skull and killing him instantly. He immediately sank beneath the surface, and the swell of the silt raised the prow of the boat high as he went down with a hideous sound. The other passengers cheered as the giant fell, but the rowers were oblivious to everything except the frantic drumbeat as they pulled for their lives.
One of the mercenaries was struck squarely in the chest by a spear the size of a small tree trunk. It pierced his upper body completely and carried him over the side, dead before he struck the silt.
The flaming missiles continued to fall, lighting up the night sky. The giant whose hair had caught fire had managed to put out the flames at last, but he had given up pursuit and was staggering back toward Ledo Island, holding his head in his hands and moaning with pain. The giant they had first encountered had also given up pursuit and was wading unsteadily back toward the island, crying out his defiance as he stumbled toward the shore. One giant was dead, but that still left one more, and that last one was a bit more canny than his comrades. As the missiles from the catapults fell all around him, he ducked beneath the silt and disappeared from view.
“Row, curse you, row!” the captain screamed at the top of his lungs. The passengers waited tensely, their eyes scanning the surface of the estuary.
For a moment, the only sounds were the steady, rapid beating of the drum, the creaking of the oarlocks as the rowers pulled with all their might, and the hissing of the flaming missiles falling into the silt.
Then the giant broke the surface, right beside the boat, and Sorak found himself staring into a monstrous, silt-encrusted face with red-rimmed eyes that burned with hatred. One powerful blow, and the ferry would be smashed to kindling.
Sorak did not hesitate. He jumped between two of the oarsmen and leapt onto the gunwale, launching himself off the side and directly onto the giant’s head. In one motion, he unsheathed his sword and grabbed a fistful of the giant’s hair in his other hand, twisting it around his wrist.
“Sorak!” Ryana screamed.
Sorak leaned over and swung his sword, slashing into the giant’s neck and severing the large jugular vein. The giant roared as blood fountained from his neck, gushing powerfully out for a dozen yards. The giant clapped one hand to his neck to stop the massive flow of blood and, with his other hand, tried to sweep Sorak from his head, but Sorak anticipated the move and swung down from the giant’s head, holding onto his hair.
He dangled at the nape of the creature’s neck, bracing his feet against the giant’s spine, and with a powerful blow, chopped into the vertebra where the spinal column met the skull. The giant grunted and died, falling forward and barely missing the boat, which pulled past him.
As the giant sank beneath the silt, Sorak found himself struggling to stay up. It was like trying to swim through quicksand.
“Sorak! Catch the rope!” Ryana shouted.
A line arced out from the ship and struck the surface of the silt about a foot from Sorak. He grabbed it at, still holding onto his sword with one hand, and twisted it around his wrist.
“I have it!” he shouted.
“Hold on, stranger!” he heard the captain cry. The rope went taut, and Sorak felt himself pulled through the silt. He swallowed hard. Another second and the boat would have been out of reach. Several of the passengers, including the captain, pulled hard on the rope, drawing him in. Moments later, they were leaning
down and lifting him over the side. He collapsed, coughing, onto the deck and felt several hands on him, raising him to his feet. His body was encrusted with silt and caked with giant’s blood. His hair was thick with it, matted down and plastered to his face and skull.
The passengers gathered around him, patting him on the back and congratulating him. The oarsmen cheered, though without pausing in their rowing. They would not be completely out of danger until they were well past Ledo Island.
Ryana put her arms around him and crushed her lips to his, heedless of the crusty silt covering him from head to toe. “If you ever do anything like that again, I’ll kill you,” she said.
He grinned. “I’d sooner face a dozen giants than a scornful Ryana.”
The passengers around them, both dwarves and mercenaries, laughed. With the danger past, they were all giddy with relief.
The captain stood before him. “That was the most foolhardy thing I’ve ever seen,” the powerfully built dwarf said, “and the bravest. You saved all our lives. What is your name, stranger?”
“Sorak. And thank you for throwing me the rope.”
The captain nodded. “I feared you were lost. We could not have turned around in time, and in truth, I must confess I would not have risked it.”
Sorak nodded. “I understand.”
The captain frowned. “Sorak. Are you by any chance the one they call the Nomad?”
“That is the elvish meaning of my name,” said Sorak.
“Then I have heard of you,” the captain said. I “And I would be pleased if you and your companion would dine with me tonight.”
“The pleasure would be ours,” said Sorak. “But I shall have to find a place to bathe first, and make myself presentable.”
“Then allow me to extend to you the hospitality of my humble home,” the dwarf replied. “Then I’ll treat you to the finest night of entertainment my village has to offer. Now please, sit down and rest. Give him room, the rest of you!”
Sorak gratefully sank to the deck and stretched out.
“Here, rest your head in my lap,” Ryana said, sitting down beside him.
“No,” said Sorak, shaking his head. “I am filthy, and I stink with giant’s blood.”
“Here, take this,” one of the mercenaries said, offering him a waterskin. “You can at least rinse off your hair and face.”
“My thanks,” said Sorak. He leaned over the side while the mercenary poured the water over his head and Ryana helped him scrub the filth off. A few moments later, he was relatively clean from the neck up.
“Are you injured?” the mercenary asked, looking him over.
“No, just a little tired,” Sorak said.
“You were lucky,” said the mercenary. “Either that or very skilled.” He smiled. “Which was it?”
“A bit of both, I think,” Sorak replied with a slight smile.
The mercenary grinned. He had perfect teeth, unusual for a man in his midthirties. The usual remedy for a toothache was to pull out the offending tooth and, if the patient could afford it—which most could not—replace it with an artificial one made of obsidian or silver. Most people took poor care of their teeth and suffered the consequences.
This man was an exception. His teeth and well-muscled physique showed he took good care of himself, and kept well groomed. His skin was clear and tanned, his shoulder-length blond hair clean and glossy, his face clean shaven. Few mercenaries bothered to take such scrupulous care of their appearance. He was a handsome man, and he knew it and took pride in his good looks.
Out of habit, Sorak glanced toward the man’s weapons. Two long, stiletto daggers were tucked into his belt, and he wore a heavy sword in an elegantly crafted and embossed leather scabbard. The crossguards were simple, straight, functional, and made of iron, as were the daggers. The hilts of all three weapons were wrapped with silver wire. Weapons made of iron were uncommon and expensive. This mercenary had not stinted on his equipment.
Neither had he stinted on his wardrobe. His feet were shod in well-made drakeskin boots cuffed at the knee, expensive not only because drakes were dangerous reptiles, but also because their hard black-and-red pebbled hide was extremely tough and difficult to work. A true craftsman had made those boots. The black-and-gray striped kirreskin breeches and the matching forearm bands were equally expensive, as was the mercenary’s sleeveless, laced-up tunic, made from the brown speckled hide of a cloud ray and studded with black onyx.
Everything the man wore was made from highly dangerous game. The only way he could afford such apparel on a mercenary’s salary was if he had provided the skins himself, and that spoke volumes about his prowess as a hunter.
“A bit ostentatious, perhaps,” said the mercenary, noting Sorak’s scrutiny, “but I find that flamboyance makes a strong impression. A poorly dressed mercenary is a poorly paid one. I am called Kieran.”
“Sorak.” They shook hands.
“I know. I heard you tell the captain. Apparently, your reputation precedes you. He seemed impressed when you gave him your name.”
Sorak shrugged uncomfortably. “Whatever reputation I may have is much exaggerated.”
Kieran smiled. “Oh, I doubt that, judging from the way you handled that giant.” He glanced toward Ryana.
“Oh, forgive me,” Sorak said. “This is Ryana.”
“It is an honor, priestess,” Kieran said, inclining his head respectfully. “The reputation of the villichi sisterhood is known far and wide.”
“You are most gracious,” said Ryana.
“Are you seeking employment in South Ledopolus?” Kieran asked Sorak.
“I have not yet decided,” Sorak replied.
“Ah, well in that case, perhaps I may tempt you with an offer. I am on my way to Altaruk, where I have accepted a post as the new captain of the guard for the merchant house of Jhamri. I could use a man of your abilities, and the merchant houses pay top wages, as you doubtless know.”
“Thank you, I shall consider it,” said Sorak.
“Take your time,” said Kieran. “The caravan of Jhamri is even now in South Ledopolus, but it is not scheduled to depart for another day or two, and you can leave word for me with the captain.”
“Thank you, I shall,” said Sorak.
Kieran nodded. “I will let you rest,” he said, then moved off to give them some privacy.
“Why did you agree to consider his offer?” asked Ryana. “We do not even know if we are going to Altaruk.”
“I did not wish to seem impolite, after his courtesy,” Sorak replied. “Besides, the merchant houses pay very well.”
“But we are not in need of money,” said Ryana, glancing at their packs sitting on the deck beside her.
“Yes, but it would not be wise to advertise that fact,” said Sorak.
She nodded. “I see your point. Good thinking.” She looked up toward the bow. “It seems we have a welcoming committee.”
The boat was pulling up to the dock at South Ledopolus, where an anxious crowd was waiting with torches, having seen the battle from the shore.
“Well, it seems your arrival in South Ledopolus is destined to cause quite a stir,” the ferry captain said, gazing at the crowd as they approached the dock. “By tomorrow morning, the whole village will have heard of your battle with the giant. It’s likely you won’t have to pay for any of your drinks during your stay.”
Sorak sighed wearily. “I was looking forward to a bath. The last thing I want now is to be peppered with questions.”
The captain grinned. “A lot of men in your position would relish the prospect of an audience eager to hear a tale of battle. But never fear, I will have one of my crew escort you to my house while I distract the crowd. Please make yourselves at home, and I will join you after I am finished here.”
“You are very kind,” said Sorak.
“Nonsense. You saved my boat. I am happy for the chance to show my appreciation. Make ready the bowlines!”
The lines were thrown out to waiting ha
nds on the dock as the rowers stowed their oars and the boat drifted gently up against the moorings.
“This way,” said the captain’s mate, coming up beside them. “We will disembark from the stern while the others file down the gangplank. That way, we can lose ourselves quickly in the crowd and make our way into the village. I will take you to the captain’s house.”
“Thank you,” Sorak said, lifting his pack.
“No need,” the dwarf replied. “It is we who are in debt to you. Come, let’s go.”
As the crowd on the dock surged around the gangplank, anxious to hear firsthand reports of the battle, the mate jumped off the stern and landed lightly on the dock. Ryana followed, then Sorak, and they quickly made their way around the outer fringes of the crowd and down a narrow side street of the village.
It occurred to Sorak that he and Ryana were forever either sneaking out of a town or sneaking into one. This time, however, a welcome awaited them and there was no one on their trail. It made for a refreshing change. It would be nice if things remained that way for a while.
Perhaps that was too much to hope for.
Chapter Four
The ferry captain’s home was much larger than they had expected. It was a two-thousand-square-foot adobe house built around an atrium, with a walled courtyard entrance. It had been constructed to human rather than dwarven scale, as were most buildings in the central part of the village. The floors were flagstoned with attractive, pale pink slate, and throughout the house, the doors were made of beautifully figured, hand-carved pagafa wood. Inside, everything was neatly arranged. Most dwarves liked order, and the ferry captain was no exception. His home was elegant, yet simple, with well-made, functional wood furniture and few decorations save for some house plants and some exquisite black-fired dwarven pottery. He was unmarried but had two servants, an elderly dwarven couple who kept his house and cooked for him. His job was hazardous, but judging by the way he lived, his pay reflected that accordingly.
Sorak luxuriated in a heated bath while his clothes were taken to be cleaned. As he washed, Ryana relaxed by the fireplace and enjoyed some herbal tea and fresh-baked biscuits with kank honey. Soon afterward, the ferry captain arrived, bringing Sorak a change of clothing, which he had borrowed from one of the mercenaries.
