The mul dismounted.
“Is that really necessary?” Magnus protested. “When she contacted me last night, Sadira made it clear that she wants you present when the meeting starts.”
Rikus scowled at this. “She should have thought about that before she sent us to inspect the outpost at the mine,” he growled. “She’ll just have to handle the council on her own until we arrive.”
He led his kank off the road and tethered it to a boulder.
Magnus sighed in resignation. “At least let me send word that you’ll be late.”
“After we see what’s happening,” Rikus said. “It’ll be better if we can tell her how long we’ll be.”
The mul led the way up the butte, clambering over sharp-edged rocks that had already grown hot in the morning sun. The boulder field soon gave way to a talus slope dotted with quiverlike clusters of arrow weed. Magnus grabbed whole handfuls of the yellow stalks and used them to pull himself up the steep pitch. As the canes snapped between his thick fingers, a tangy, foul-smelling odor filled the air. Rikus could only look on in envy and scramble up the loose gravel on all fours. His skin was not as tough as the windsinger’s, and the stems of the plants were lined with razor-sharp ridges.
When they reached the cliffs near the top of the butte, it was Rikus’s turn to gloat. He crawled up the vertical crags easily, while Magnus cursed and groaned with the effort of pulling his heavier body up the precipice. At times, the windsinger had to use his fist to beat a suitable handhold into the rock face.
Upon climbing onto the summit, Rikus found himself looking out over a wide, shallow canyon flanked on one side by this butte and on the other by the ashen crags of the Ringing Mountains. The orange soil was speckled by thickets of gray-green tamarisk and spindly catclaw trees, while crests of dark basalt wound across the valley floor like the shattered vestiges of some ancient and long-forgotten rampart.
The highest crest in the valley stood as tall as a small mountain and was known locally as Rasda’s Wall. Tyr’s newest relief farm, Pauper’s Hope, lay behind its bulk, completely hidden save for the green stain of a faro orchard spilling from behind the immense barrier. The field was made verdant, Rikus knew, by the waters of a deep well that the new farmers had laboriously chiseled through a hundred feet of granite bedrock.
More than a dozen figures were splashing down the shallow ditches of the faro field. Though the distance was too great for Rikus to tell the race or sex of any of the people, he could see that they were running hard, occasionally glancing over their shoulders at something hidden from view by Rasda’s Wall.
“I was right. There’s some kind of trouble.” Rikus looked down at Magnus. The windsinger was only halfway up the cliff, hanging by a single hand thrust into a narrow fissure. I’m going ahead,” the mul said. “Follow me as soon as you can.”
Without waiting for a response, the mul drew his sword and rushed down the gentle side of the butte. As before, a tumult of sounds filled his ears: gravel crunching beneath his feet, the hot wind sizzling through the brush, the alarmed hiss of a lizard scrambling for cover. Now that the high butte did not stand between him and Pauper’s Hope, the drone of the farmers’ voices came to Rikus more clearly. Some yelled for help, while others called the names of missing loved ones. Most simply screamed, their cries hoarse with terror.
Rikus heard other voices that worried him more. These were much louder than those of the farmers, with deep timbres and booming laughs like the one he had heard earlier. After dodging past half a dozen clumps of arrow weed, the mul reached the valley floor. He was close enough now to see that the fleeing farmers still wore the paupers’ rags in which they had dressed as Tyrian beggars, and they were sunburned and haggard from the struggle of adjusting to life outside the city.
From behind the fleeing paupers reverberated a sharp command, as loud as thunder: “Come back, you little vermin!”
At the shoulder of the ridge, where the crag was not as high as the rest of Rasda’s Wall, a pair of huge heads appeared above the crest. The size of small kanks, the heads had shaggy brows and greasy braids of matted hair hanging off them. They had eyes so huge that, even from an arrow’s flight away, Rikus could see that they had brown irises. Their teeth resembled long, yellow stalactites. One of the figures had a hooked nose as large as a kank mandible, while a pair of plump, bulbous lips distinguished the other’s face.
“Giants!” Rikus hissed, hardly able to believe what he saw.
Though the mul had never before seen a giant of the Silt Islands, he did not doubt that he was looking at two now. They were as tall as gatehouses and twice as broad, with huge barrel chests and limbs as thick as an ironwood. As they walked, they crushed faro trees and smashed irrigation ditches, leaving a series of small ponds behind where their feet had sunk into the ground.
Rikus didn’t understand what the giants were doing here. Their race lived near Balic, in the long estuary of dust that twined its way inland from the Sea of Silt. From what he had heard, they were an aloof people, using the dust sea to insulate their island homes from visitors. Occasionally they journeyed to the Balican peninsula to sell their hair, which made excellent ropes, or to raid caravans and farms. But he had never heard of them traveling inland as far as Tyr.
The mul’s puzzlement did not change the fact that the giants were here, and he knew it would not be easy to chase them away. As he sprinted across the valley floor, Rikus studied the terrain ahead, pondering the best way to save the farmers. He still could not see the plantation itself, for the buildings and most of the faro orchards remained hidden behind Rasda’s Wall.
A careworn woman holding a baby in her arms reached the end of the faro field then sprinted into the rocky desert. The hook-nosed giant chuckled in mad delight and stooped over to reach for her. His knuckles scraped along the ground, raising an orange cloud of dust. She dived to the side, barely escaping the long fingers.
The woman cradled her infant against her body and rolled several times. Rikus thought she might come up running, but upon righting herself, she stopped to look up at her attacker. The giant was already reaching for her again. She laid her infant beside a nearby bush, then fled in the direction opposite Rikus. As she ran, the woman screamed loudly to keep the titan’s attention fixed on her.
“This way!” Rikus yelled, still running.
The woman continued away, apparently unable to hear him. The giant’s hand descended and grasped her. As the brute plucked the woman off the ground, Rikus could see nothing of her except a pair of kicking legs. The titan chortled madly, then slipped her into his bulging shoulder satchel and reached for the infant. As the giant pinched the baby between a massive thumb and forefinger, it seemed to Rikus that he could hear nothing but the child’s wailing voice.
The rest of the farmers came spilling out of the faro field. With the Scourge’s magic, Rikus could hear their individual shrieks of panic as the second giant stooped over to scoop them up.
Suddenly, Magnus’s voice howled over the valley, amplified by the power of his wind-magic. “You giants, leave those people alone!”
The command filled Rikus’s ears with a painful ringing. His first instinct was to drop his sword, but he forced himself to retain his grip and concentrated on the cries of the farmers. As the windsinger’s voice faded away, the mul heard their voices crying out in astonishment. The paupers turned toward the butte, and two pointed toward the summit.
Rikus waved his arm to attract their attention. “Come this way!”
This time, the mul was close enough to make himself heard. Several farmers looked in his direction, then the whole group began to run toward him.
The hook-nosed giant stooped over and smashed half a dozen farmers beneath his fist.
“Don’t run no more!” The words were loud enough that even without the Scourge, Rikus would have had no trouble understanding them.
The giant raised his hand to strike again. To Rikus’s relief, the other one grabbed his partner’s enorm
ous arm before any more paupers were smashed. “Patch said to catch them, not smash them,” said the second titan. He pointed at Rikus. “Besides, here comes a dangerous-looking one.”
“That’s right!” Rikus yelled. Though he was still two dozen steps away, the mul raised his sword. “Hurt any more of my people, and I’ll make your death a slow one!”
The first giant crinkled his hooked nose and glanced at his partner. “I’ll smash him, Tay?”
“No, Yab,” Tay countered, pulling Yab back. “Your brother would crack my head if I let a little man cut you.”
Tay stepped past the farmers and lumbered forward. The giant stood taller than the four-story townhouses that lined the streets of the nobles’ quarter in Tyr. As he came within striking range, the mul had to crane his neck back to keep a watch on the titan’s enormous hands.
The giant reached down to grasp Rikus. The mul waited until the palm filled the sky above him, then voiced his mightiest war cry. The Scourge flashed up, its enchanted blade slicing cleanly through the sinew and bone of three sword-length fingers.
Tay bellowed in pain. Rikus dived forward and rolled. Hot stones scraped at his shoulders and back, then the mul was on his feet again, running toward the open space between the titan’s ankles.
“Stomp him!” yelled Yab.
Tay lifted a foot high into the air. Rikus dodged toward the opposite leg, and the giant’s heel crashed down behind him. The impact was so hard that it bounced the mul off the ground.
Rikus swung his sword at Tay’s leg. Again, the ancient steel passed through the giant’s flesh easily, slicing through the vulnerable knee joint. The mul whirled around instantly, striking at the back of the giant’s other ankle. There was a sick sort of pop as the tendon separated, balling up into two gnarled masses beneath the titan’s skin. Rikus pulled the Scourge free and ran as fast as he could.
Tay screamed and spun around to catch him. The giant’s slashed knee buckled as soon as he set his foot back on the ground. When the titan tried to steady himself with his other leg, his severed ankle flopped about uselessly. He pitched over sideways, hitting the ground with a thunderous crash. He thrashed about madly, clutching at his wounds and raising a billowing cloud of orange dust.
The farmers fled toward the butte, giving Tay a wide berth and cheering Rikus. The mul waved them on, then turned his attention to Yab. The giant’s crag-toothed mouth hung open, while his gaze flickered back and forth between his injured partner and Rikus.
“You’ve had your fun,” Rikus called. He stopped and pointed his sword at the giant’s satchel. “Put those people down.”
Yab’s face turned crimson with anger. “No,” he boomed. “First return our Oracle.”
“What Oracle?” Rikus demanded.
“The giants’ Oracle,” the giant replied, glowering. “The one you Tyrians stole.”
“We never stole anything,” Rikus snarled, starting toward the giant again.
“Liar!” Yab bent over to scoop a boulder off the ground.
Magnus’s lyrical voice rang out from the base of the butte. He sang a deep, somber ballad that filled the entire valley with a strain of melancholy notes. The morning grew still for a moment, then the windsinger raised his voice in a pulsing vibrato that sent whirls of dust scurrying across the desert. Rikus heard a gentle whistle behind him, then felt a strong wind blowing toward the giant.
Yab hurled his boulder.
Magnus’s voice rose to a crashing crescendo, and a tremendous gust blasted past Rikus, so powerful that it swept the mul off his feet and hurled him to the ground. In the same instant, the gale caught Yab’s boulder and flung it back into the giant’s face. The stone bounced off the titan’s cheek, raising a shiny lump and opening a long gash below the eye.
Yab ran his hand along the cut then licked the blood from his fingers as if he were checking to make sure it was real.
Rikus returned to his feet. After glancing back to see Magnus’s thick-limbed form plodding toward him, he resumed his walk toward Yab. “Put those people down,” he yelled. “I won’t tell you again.”
The giant reached into the satchel and withdrew a gray-haired half-elf. He hurtled the man to the ground, smashing the man’s frail body on the rocks.
Snarling in anger, Rikus sprinted forward. Yab thrust his hand into the sack again, this time withdrawing the careworn mother Rikus had seen earlier. “Stop there!”
The mul came to a reluctant stop, realizing that he could not save the woman by continuing his charge. He would have to find some other way to make the giant obey.
Yab grinned maliciously. “Now, drop your little knife, and come over here.”
Rikus glanced back at Tay’s groaning form. “I don’t think so.”
The mul retreated toward the wounded giant, keeping his sword ready in case Tay lashed out at him.
“What’re you doing?” Yab demanded.
“The same thing you are,” Rikus replied, stopping a few paces from Tay’s head. The wounded giant growled and reached toward Rikus with his uninjured hand but stopped short when the mul placed his blade between the titan’s fingers and himself. “What you do to those people, I do to your friend.”
Yab frowned and scratched his ear. He stared at Rikus and muttered to himself in muffled tones, then shrugged and stepped into the faro fields.
“Where are you going?” Rikus asked, puzzled by the giant’s peculiar retreat.
“Don’t hurt Tay, or all these people die. And I can find plenty more, too.” The giant stepped behind Rasda’s Wall and disappeared from sight.
Rikus started to pursue, then thought of the plantation behind the ridge and decided to wait. By pursuing immediately, he would only provoke Yab into a fit of destructive rage. Instead, the mul thought it wiser to interrogate Tay about the condition of the farm and its inhabitants, then decide what to do.
Before Rikus could begin his inquiries, Magnus stepped to his side. “I sent a wind-whisper to Sadira.”
“Is she coming?” Rikus asked.
“Not yet,” the windsinger replied. “She and the others were just leaving for the council meeting, and at the time it looked like you had things well in hand. Should I tell her I was wrong?”
Rikus shook his head. “Let’s see what Tay has to say.” He waved a hand toward Rasda’s Wall. “Keep a watch and let me know if you see Yab coming back from the farm.”
“He’s probably too busy gathering more hostages, but I’ll keep an eye turned in that direction.” The windsinger positioned himself so that one of his round eyes was directed toward the ridge and the other toward Rikus.
Gripping his sword with both hands, the mul laid the blade across the giant’s immense gullet. “What are you and Yab doing here?”
“We c-came for our Oracle.” Tay could not keep his plump lips from quivering as he spoke. “Two Tyrians stole it, your king and a nobleman.”
Rikus frowned. “Tithian and Agis of Asticles?”
“That sounds like what our chief called them.” Tay kept platter-sized eyes fixed on the mul’s face.
“Don’t lie to me,” the mul said. He pressed down until a trickle of blood ran from beneath his blade. “Agis is no thief. Besides, he wouldn’t help Tithian.”
“Not even to kill the Dragon?” asked Magnus, still watching Rasda’s Wall.
“What do you mean?” Rikus asked.
Instead of answering, the windsinger asked Tay, “What does this Oracle of yours look like?”
“A ball of black obsidian, no bigger than you,” replied the giant.
“It sounds like the Dark Lens,” Magnus noted.
“The Oracle!” the giant insisted. “If you don’t return it, we’ll raze every farm in the valley.”
Paying the giant’s threat no attention, Rikus asked the windsinger, “How did you know he was talking about the Lens?”
Magnus shrugged modestly. “Tithian had to be looking for something when he snuck out of Tyr,” he said. “My guess is that Agis caught him,
and they both found the Lens in the giants’ possession.”
“They stole it!” Tay growled. “And you’ve got to give it back—or something bad’s going to happen to us all.”
“What?” Rikus demanded.
“Only the chiefs know,” Tay answered. “But giants won’t be the only ones to suffer. We were guarding the Oracle for everyone on Athas.”
“You’re going to have to do better than that,” Rikus threatened.
“Not at the moment,” said Magnus.
The windsinger pointed toward Rasda’s Wall, where Yab’s head had just appeared above the low shoulder. He was looking back toward the plantation, yelling, “Come quick, Sachem Patch! Tay’s hurt.”
“What hurt him?” From the faintness of the reply, Rikus guessed that this giant was a considerable distance away—probably in the fields on the far side of the farm.
“A little bald man,” yelled Yab. “He looks kind of like a dwarf.”
“Tay let a dwarf hurt him?” chuckled a fourth giant. “What did Tay do—slip on the blood when he stomped it?”
A storm of laughter erupted behind the outcrop, and Rikus knew he had seriously underestimated the number of giants attacking the plantation. Apparently, while Yab and Tay chased down the escaping paupers, most of the war party had remained behind to destroy the farm itself.
Rikus looked back to Tay. “How many warriors in your group?”
“Eight,” Tay said. He smirked at the mul.
“We’d better run for it,” Rikus said. He stepped away from Tay, pulling the windsinger along with him.
“No!” boomed Tay. “Stop!”
Rikus looked up and saw the giant’s hand descending toward their heads, balled up in a tight fist as large as a shield. The mul shoved Magnus in one direction and dived in the other. Tay’s fist landed between them, cracking stones and raising a plume of orange dust. In the next instant, they were both on their feet and scrambling over the rocky ground at their best sprint.
It took a dozen steps and two more close calls before they were safely out of the crippled titan’s reach, and even then they continued toward the far end of the valley at their best pace.
The Cerulean Storm Page 3
