Uncanny Tales of Crush and Pound 9
Page 7
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The next morning, the giant sat up against a tree as dawn broke over the forest, and he wasted no time in gathering his things together for the long day’s journey. When he stood to his feet, he licked his lips in thirst and mulled over the consequences of drinking the water of the polluted creek.
“I may as well keep moving,” he reasoned as the stench of the creek curbed his body’s thirst. Mouchard had not slept well that night, but there was no reason to add to his misery by drinking the contaminated water that flowed downstream. “It may be fine for slugs and bugs, but I will wait for the river ahead. At least the stream water that flows in there will be diluted with the fresh water from the distant mountains,” he told himself. With the skill of an accomplished tracker, he silently paced along the streambed and kept his footsteps quiet as he maneuvered through the thick underbrush. When there was a wall of brush on either side of the creek, he found it necessary to step into the creek to pass the barrier, but he made sure to remove his boots so as not to ruin the expensive leather with the sewage. In this world, leather of that sort was made from the skin of a malcoon, a large deer like animal with sharp, hefty horns that roamed the forests on both sides of the river. These animals could run through the forest much faster than a giant could, and they were known to have quite a nasty temper when cornered by a hunter. The boots that Mouchard wore were made from a malcoon that he had cornered and trapped him on a hunting expedition recently, and he still bore the scars of the confrontation on his chest. For the giants of the castle, wearing boots was a sign of bravery, proof that they had captured and killed a malcoon in the wild. The scars were held to be medals of strength among the giants, though some giantesses might consider them to be medals of arrogance and stupidity. Funny enough, the ladies never seemed to mind eating a delicious meal of malcoon steak though.
A couple of hours later, Mouchard found himself standing on the edge of the river in the morning light. There were no humans roaming the banks, and he quickly began a thorough search of the shore. Within a few minutes, he stumbled upon a tiny set of footprints, and he followed them as they disappeared out by an abandoned dock. The dock was severely damaged, and by the look of the breaks in the wooden structure, it had not been long since the damage had occurred.
“Perhaps something happened here last night,” he thought to himself as he weighed the possibilities. At any rate, there were no other clues left behind for him to follow so he surmised that the prisoners had chosen one of two paths. They may have backtracked up the creek and made a turn somewhere else in the forest, or they may have crafted a raft or floatation device from the missing pieces of wood. If they had chosen to go back into the woods, then they would eventually find themselves at the mercy of the other giants that roamed the forest. That was not a likely scenario in his mind, and he thought about what he would do if their places were switched. If he were on the run by the riverbank, he would find some way to cross the river and place as many obstacles as possible between Queen Dowager and himself. “Something I may have to do if I fail to return the pendant,” he contemplated as he reflected on his own options. Then Mouchard took out his sword and started to hack the lumber loose from the sides of the abandoned dock. If he could do nothing else, he would build his own raft of wood and paddle across the width of the river to the other side.