One of the Takers—taller than the rest, somehow, and thicker through the shoulders, with a bright red streak running through his white hair—stalked over to the tree and yelled into the criminal’s cringing face. When he stopped shouting, Red Streak stepped back several paces, then flung one hand back over his shoulder. He was holding the handle of a leather strap, like something you might use to prod livestock, only this was much longer. He whipped his arm forward and the strap cut through the air. As the end of it snapped, it made a tremendous crack that cut through the noise of the camp and opened a bloody slash on the villager’s chest. Kirra gasped, then covered her mouth. Tears sprang to her eyes and bile rose in her throat as she realized that the poor man already had several cuts across his bare torso, the fresh wounds glistening in the firelight. He screamed again and contorted his body against the tree trunk as if to get away, but there was no escape.
Kirra’s first instinct was to run back to Tiko, but fear had rooted her in place. She didn’t want to make any noise and risk being discovered by the man with the strap.
After stepping close to the villager again, Red Streak turned and addressed his group. He roared out a stream of unfamiliar words.
Kirra tilted her head and wrinkled her brow. During her travels with Taro, she had noticed that people from various villages had slightly different ways of talking, yet she was always able to understand them with no problem. This wasn’t even close to the same thing.
After Red Streak shouted, the general tumult of the camp quieted considerably. He was clearly the leader. As the big man gestured broadly at the prisoner he had been tormenting, and everyone else in the encampment shifted positions or drew closer to observe the little scene, the meaning of his words was clear enough: The man from Nafaluu was ready to talk now.
Red Streak planted his boots in a wide stance in front of the villager and crossed his unusually long arms over his chest. When he spoke again, it was in words that Kirra could make out, although in a rough, unfamiliar accent. The phrases came together haltingly, like when Tiko was just learning to talk.
“How many…number…people…in village?” Red Streak said, pointing in the general direction of Nafaluu. He then made punching gestures and mimed swinging some sort of weapon to emphasize his next words. “People…who…make war?”
The small man tied to the tree shook his head, eyes welling with tears. “Please. Nafaluu is a peaceful tribe. We have lived here for many years and had no problems with anyone. We only want—”
Crack! Red Streak snapped his cruel strap on the side of the tree, a clear reminder of what would happen again if his question wasn’t answered.
The villager—a captive, not a criminal, Kirra realized—looked around the camp desperately but saw only sinister gray faces looking in his direction. Kirra tightened her grip on the tree limb as the man swallowed heavily. “All Nafaluu men are trained to fight.”
Crack!
“Number,” Red Streak growled. “Give me number.”
The prisoner hung his head in misery and mumbled something inaudible.
Red Streak reared back again with the long leather strap, and Kirra winced, her whole body cringing in awful anticipation. But before he could deliver the punishing blow, another man emerged from the group. This new warrior, with a streak in his hair that brought to Kirra’s mind the color of yellow thatching grass, stepped in between Red Streak and his captive.
The first man—the leader—yelled something at this newcomer. Yellowgrass put up both palms in a placating gesture and spoke to Red Streak in more of those words that Kirra could not begin to understand. Finally, Red Streak took a few grudging steps backward and made a sweeping gesture with his hands at the prisoner as if to say, He’s all yours.
Yellowgrass approached the tree slowly and held a cup to the captive’s lips for a few moments. The poor man gulped gratefully. Red Streak waved a hand dismissively and shook his head in disgust at this small gesture of kindness.
When Yellowgrass spoke, it was in the language of the Nafaluu. The words came slowly, but not nearly as forced as they had been with Red Streak.
“Please to answer questions,” he said. With a quick but pointed glance at Red Streak, he continued. “I fear…more pain…if this you do not do.” Yellowgrass sighed. “How many…fighting men…living in the village?” He bent close to the prisoner to hear his whispered answer.
Yellowgrass turned and addressed Red Streak in that strange language. The number must have been low, because upon hearing the report, the great warrior chuckled, a rumble from deep in his chest that got louder and louder until he threw back his head in full-throated laughter. His campmates raised their cups and joined him.
Finally Red Streak collected himself, spread his arms out, and patted the air with his palms to indicate the need for silence. When the crowd had simmered down, he turned his attention back to the interrogation. He spoke to Yellowgrass while looking and gesturing at the captive, clearly wanting another question to be asked.
Yellowgrass spoke to the prisoner, using mimed gestures to augment the limited language between the two. The man from Nafaluu merely shook his head, eyes wide in confusion and watery from terrified tears.
Kirra watched as Red Streak grabbed something belted around his waist. It was a long handle of some sort, wrapped in cloth and completely benign looking. But then Red Streak flicked his powerful wrist, and a long, sharp implement came shooting out with a hiss.
Kirra shivered, reminded of the dangerous retractable claws of the mighty lion in the stories that Taro had told her. This weapon was silver-toned, about four feet long and ending in a sharp point, like a very long cutting tool. But it was impossibly lean, clearly not crafted from stone. Whatever material it was made of shone and shimmered in the firelight. Red Streak slashed it this way and that, carving a pattern as the brutal instrument whistled through the air. Then he stepped forward, pushed Yellowgrass out of the way, and held it right under the prisoner’s nose.
The Nafaluu man shook his head—carefully, so as to not come in contact with the sharp edge of the weapon in front of his eyes. “No,” he said. “I have never seen anything like that.”
More laughter erupted from the assembled crowd. Red Streak turned his head and barked another command at Yellowgrass.
“What do people of village…use?” the fair-haired man asked. “To…make war?”
The captive stared back with empty eyes. “We protect our village with spears.”
Yellowgrass turned to Red Streak and mimed throwing a spear. The big warrior chuckled again and thrust his face close to the prisoner’s. “Sticks.” He spat the word out like it was a profanity. Then he extended a crooked gray talon of a finger. “You—fight—with—sticks.” He poked the man’s chest with each word.
Then, with two hands, Red Streak raised his silver instrument in the air, spun around, and, in one fluid motion, brought it crashing down on a low-hanging tree branch. Kirra gasped as it went through the wood with no resistance, leaving a neat little circle poking out of the trunk as the branch fell to the ground.
She shuddered. You didn’t need a Storyteller’s imagination to picture what would happen if these men brought such weapons into battle with the people of Nafaluu. It would not be a battle at all.
Kirra’s whole body tensed as she felt the branch she was sitting on start to bounce. Oh no! One of their scouts? The thought flashed through her mind that if she were discovered, it would be bad for her, but much worse for Zedu. She whipped her head around, prepared to leap from the branch—
But it was just Tiko, slowly making his way toward her.
He must have followed her—at a distance. Kirra’s relief lasted only half a moment. She did not want her little brother to see any of this. She held up a hand and mouthed, Stop! but it was too late. Tiko’s eyes went wide as he surveyed the scene below them, a look of pure terror stealing across his face.
He pried his gaze away from the camp and shuffled along the branch, moving toward
Kirra. He took one hand off the limb and reached for his sister. The gesture broke her heart—he looked just like he had when he was a frightened toddler seeking comfort.
The branch dipped sharply as he moved to her end. On instinct, Kirra’s hand shot out and grabbed a limb above to stabilize herself.
The branch they were on cracked and broke in half. Kirra’s stomach flopped, but she had the presence of mind to tighten her grip overhead and was left dangling in the air.
Tiko reached wildly for her but was not nearly quick enough. He plunged down into the middle of the camp.
KIRRA WATCHED IN HORROR as Tiko fell to the forest floor in a heap. Every head in camp snapped around to look at him.
Run! she desperately wanted to shout to him, but the word stuck in her throat.
Tiko didn’t need any prompting. He bounced back up—thank the gods, nothing was broken—and dashed away into the darkest part of the forest.
But he was no match for this group of grown-ups, especially since they had clearly been trained for battle. The camp moved like an individual unit, fanning out to cut off his retreat, the warriors covering so much ground with each step of those long strides. Tiko cried out in surprise as he looked up and saw a towering wall of warriors in front of him. He nimbly switched directions and jumped over a log to light out for another part of the woods, but the wall shifted and blocked him again. While he managed to make it several yards away from the spot where he had first landed, Kirra watched in silent horror as her little brother was quickly surrounded.
What have I done? Kirra’s first instinct was to let go of the branch and land down there with him, do whatever she could to protect her little brother.
But that would be foolish. What could she possibly do against Red Streak, with his cruel lash and clothing that seemed designed to protect him from a leopard attack? To say nothing of all his followers.
So she could only observe helplessly as Red Streak pushed his way through the crowd to where Tiko was cowering in terror. Hands on hips, the big man loomed over her brother. He reached down, grabbed Tiko by the scruff of his neck, and easily lifted him to his feet with one hand. Red Streak shouted some strange words into her little brother’s face and then gestured overhead at the canopy of branches. “How many…in trees?”
Several of the warriors craned their necks to scan the branches above. Kirra was suddenly very glad that Tiko had been able to make it so far from the spot where he landed or they would all be looking directly up at her right now. Still, she knew she wasn’t safe. Kirra carefully used both hands to hoist herself up and over the branch she was gripping. Then she slowly stood on trembling legs and stepped around to the other side of the thick trunk, concealing herself from the great circle of warriors. She peered around the trunk to take measure of the situation.
“Answer!” Red Streak thundered. He drew back his arm as if to deliver a backhanded slap to the small, trembling figure in front of him. Kirra covered her mouth to stifle a gasp as Tiko dropped to his knees and covered his head with both hands. This huge man could kill her little brother with one blow, no question.
Something broke inside of Kirra. She had to do something—now. But what?
She could feel the seconds racing past, her chance of helping Tiko before they tied him up, too (or worse, much worse), slipping away. Her chest felt squeezed almost shut, like she could hardly force in a breath.
Gripping the branch so tightly that the bark cut into her skin, Kirra had enough presence of mind left to try something that Paja had taught her. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and held it. She pictured her all-consuming panic as a great cloud and mentally compressed it until it was just a little ball in her chest. As she let out a long, controlled breath, she imagined the ball floating away on her breath and disappearing into the forest.
It worked. The fog lifted and she could think again. She snapped open her eyes and scanned the camp, looking for any kind of advantage. And because she was a bit calmer now, she was able to realize that the attention of the entire camp had shifted to Tiko. The Nafaluu prisoner, tied securely to the tree, had been forgotten for the time being.
That’s when she got an idea. The use of force was not an option, obviously. She would have to do something sneakier. Having a plan—even a desperate one—helped to further calm her nerves.
It also helped when Yellowgrass made his way through the crowd and into the clearing where Red Streak was threatening her brother. He stepped past the huge warrior and helped Tiko get back up to his feet.
Sneering, Red Streak wielded that cruel silver weapon high over his head. But after a pointed look from Yellowgrass, he turned it upside down and jammed it into the ground close to the boy. The handle stretched above her brother’s head.
Yellowgrass got down on one knee. “Are you…from village? Nafaluu?” The warrior pointed to the north.
Tiko shook his head.
Don’t tell. Don’t tell. Don’t tell, Kirra pleaded silently.
“No? Hmm. Where you live? Where…your people?”
Kirra’s heart stopped.
Tiko didn’t even shake his head this time. He just set his jaw and glared back at the warriors in front of him.
Good boy, thought Kirra.
Red Streak grunted in frustration and pushed Yellowgrass out of the way. “Answer. Now. How many…in forest?” The command came out almost conversationally, hardly more than a whisper, but Kirra could hear the menace behind it, as sharp as the weapon that was mere inches from Tiko’s face.
Her brother just silently stood his ground.
At this show of defiance, Red Streak glared at Yellowgrass and reached for his weapon, but the fair-haired warrior stepped closer to Tiko. “Please…little one…talk to us.”
The two warriors continued their interrogation, but Kirra was no longer watching. The window for her being able to be useful was rapidly closing. Racing along the branch, she leaped to a neighboring tree, climbed through the thick limbs there, and jumped to the next tree. In this way, she circled over the heads of the warriors below, making her way toward the captive.
When she reached his tree, she scrambled down the back of it to the ropes that were binding his arms. Wrapping her legs around the trunk, she glanced quickly at the gathering of warriors to make certain Tiko was still unhurt and holding their attention, then she whispered to the prisoner.
“Hey! Up here!”
Startled, the poor man from Nafaluu twisted his neck to look at her. Kirra put a finger over her lips to make sure he didn’t cry out. When he had recovered from the shock of seeing a young girl appear from the dark canopy of the forest, she went on. “If I free you, will you do a favor for me?”
The man nodded enthusiastically, eyes wide.
Kirra fished out her cutting stone and furiously went to work on the rope that held his right arm above his head. She continued to whisper as she sawed. “As soon as you can, start running to your village. Warn them.” The man wriggled his wrist free as the rope fell. Kirra started in on the bonds lashing his other hand to the tree. “But here is the favor: Count to a hundred as you run. When you reach the end, stop in your tracks, scream as loud as you can, and then take off running again. Will you do this?” The man gulped but silently nodded.
Kirra released both of his hands and then dropped to the ground to work on freeing his left ankle. The man stooped over to untie the right. As her cutting stone ate away at the thick rope, she kept one eye trained on the group of men surrounding Tiko.
Oh, dear gods, no.
Red Streak was now screaming at Tiko. But that wasn’t what suddenly had her heart in an icy grip.
It was Yellowgrass. His gray head was turned, and he was looking directly at her.
There was no use running, nothing she could do. So she redoubled her efforts and sawed as quickly as she could.
Then suddenly the man was free.
And when she looked back at the group…what was happening? Yellowgrass had not raised the alarm. He had t
urned his attention back to Red Streak and her little brother. But she knew he had seen her. She would have staked her life on it.
The Nafaluu prisoner jolted her out of her jumbled thoughts. “Oh, thank you. May the gods bless you. I must—”
“Go,” Kirra whispered fiercely, shoving him in the direction of his village. “Just remember our deal.”
The man nodded once and stealthily took off through the forest.
There was no time for his words of thanks. Besides, Kirra knew that she didn’t really deserve them, anyway. She had untied the man more for Tiko’s sake than his own.
Kirra looped a coil of rope over her shoulder and scurried her way up the tree trunk again, counting in her head.
Fifteen…sixteen…seventeen…
“Show us you are…big warrior.” Below her, Red Streak was trying a new tactic with her brother. The man grabbed the handle of his weapon and pulled it out of the dirt. He swung it with ease over Tiko’s head, the boy trying to be brave and stand still as the silver blade whistled through the night air, just barely missing him. Yellowgrass had backed up to a safe distance but was keeping a steady eye on the proceedings. And he still had not raised the alarm.
Twenty-four… twenty-five… twenty-six…
Kirra scooched across a thick tree branch, trying to balance her desperate need for haste with an even greater need to be silent.
Red Streak stopped slashing the air with his weapon. He brought it down and, carefully holding the blade with both hands, presented it to Tiko handle-first with a formal bow.
“You try, big warrior.”
Forty-one… forty-two… forty-three…
Tiko looked warily at Red Streak, unmoving, until the big man thumped him in the chest with the handle. “You…hear me,” he growled.
Tiko grabbed it with both hands, but as soon as Red Streak let go of the blade, the weapon fell to the dirt. Tiko staggered to his knees.
Raucous laughter erupted from Red Streak’s platoon of fighters. But Tiko planted the point in the dirt again, climbed hand over hand along the weapon’s handle to get back up, placed his feet apart, braced himself, and slowly raised the weapon.
If We Were Giants Page 5
