A Plague of Giants (Seven Kennings Book 1)

by Kevin Hearne

  “What?” I rose from my chair and demanded, “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know, man; she didn’t leave a note.”

  “Well, why did she leave?”

  “Don’t know that either. Maybe if she’d left a note I’d have a clue, but like I said, she just took off.”

  “She took her kids?”

  “Yeah.”

  Something in the way he said that raised my suspicions. “There must have been some reason you can think of. You were paying her and letting her live with you, right? So why would she leave without good reason?”

  Garst du Wöllyr fell silent, and before I could goad him, Kindin spoke. “We were doing so well, Garst. Let’s not stop now. I’d like to refrain from hurting you anymore and escort you to a hygienist so we can all breathe peace again. Please answer Master Dervan.”

  He sighed, coughed, and spat blood. “I didn’t mean to do it. I said I was sorry. But I hit her kid. Tamöd.”

  “You disgusting pink skink—”

  “Master Dervan!” The priest’s eyes flashed at me, and I pulled up short. “Put down the knife. We will have peace here.”

  I looked down, surprised to find the knife in my hand. I couldn’t recall picking it up even though I must have just done so. I let it clatter on the table and took a deep breath. “You’re right. Thank you.” I returned to my seat and said, “Garst, thank you for telling the truth. I will tell you the truth also. I do work with the bard but have no idea where he is. He sleeps in a different place every night, and I’m not told where. Basic security measure. I can’t reveal what I don’t know. Now, do you have any ideas about where we might find Elynea?”

  “None. I’m sorry.”

  “Then I would like you to lead me to your house—it’s only fair since you know where I live—and I’ll begin my search for her there.”

  “And what then?”

  “And then we let you go. As the priest said, no harm was done here.”

  “I don’t know, man; I’m feeling pretty harmed.”

  “I’m not sympathetic. You might wish to consider how your pain and powerlessness is exactly what Tamöd felt when you hit him. I’d say that’s justice.”

  He agreed to lead us to his home, and while I got prepared to go out, Kindin spoke softly about how he should behave and the impossibility of outrunning a Priest of the Gale.

  I blew out the candles, Kindin allowed him to rise, and Garst du Wöllyr exited ahead of us. I kept his knife. We wound through the dimly lit streets to the northeastern slums, passing the Randy Goat Inn at one point. Garst’s dwelling was even more structurally decrepit, though the space above his workshop was more expansive than mine. It was dirty, though. Elynea wasn’t there or her kids or any sign of their belongings. We searched the workshop, too, and found nothing of interest—not even my stolen furniture. There wasn’t a lot of lumber or other pieces lying around either; if Garst was as successful as Elynea claimed at first, I would have expected to see more.

  “All right,” I told him. “I’ll leave your knife with the baker across the street.” I’d seen lights through his windows; he was baking the morning’s loaves.

  “Live in peace,” Kindin told him, though one could tell he sort of doubted it was possible, and we left him there to find a hygienist on his own. We went to the baker’s first and asked if perhaps he’d seen Elynea or the kids before leaving Garst’s knife with him. No luck. We bought a pastry from his first batch and some tea while we waited for the sun to rise and the people of Pelemyn with it. Then we continued to ask after Elynea everywhere up and down the street and for blocks and blocks around. Some people had seen her but not for the last couple of days. It made me worry that perhaps something truly awful had happened to her. If we didn’t find her soon, I’d be revisiting Garst du Wöllyr with the constable. But eventually we had to leave off because I had to go meet Fintan.

  Kindin Ladd gave me a tired smile and hugged me. “May you find your friend and breathe peace from this day on,” he said.

  “Thank you. For everything. Especially the part where you stopped him from putting a knife to my throat while I slept. I owe you a legendary gift basket. I’ll send it to the embassy.”

  He smiled. “I’ll look forward to it.” He was familiar enough with Brynts to know that when they said you were going to get a gift basket, you were pretty much doomed to receive one and there was no use protesting that it wasn’t necessary. It was a cultural compulsion. My imagination was already composing and arranging items to give him. Maybe a nice handkerchief to offer his opponents when he had them immobilized, to wipe away their blood in style.

  There were two mariners waiting at my home to escort me to Fintan. The Nentians, they assured me, had been arrested, along with some fish heads eager to do their bidding. The bard was safe. I ducked inside to get my writing materials, and we met him at a Kaurian restaurant owned by strict pacifists who served no meat of any kind, eschewing violence against animals as well as against people. We ordered marinated grilled mushroom sandwiches.

  “Have an exciting night?” I asked him.

  “Quite relaxing, actually,” he said, his tone upbeat. “I stayed at the home of a tidal mariner.”

  “You mean Tallynd du Böll, or the pelenaut?”

  “The former. She’s delightful. Great kids. And I learned how she got that limp, which I’ll share with everyone in a few days. How about you? Restful night?”

  I lied and told him yes. I’d let the Lung brief him on security matters. It wasn’t my place. We worked and picked at our cruelty-free food until it was time for his performance.

  Fintan’s voice floated over Survivor Field. “I learned a new Drowning Song last night—new to me, anyway. It’s one of your old ones to which my tutor knew only a couple of verses and the refrain. If you know more verses and manage to see me, I would enjoy learning more of them. If you know this one, please join in on the refrain.” He got them clapping or stomping in a slow beat, and then he began:

  When the storm blew the ship out to sea

  The mariners knew they were dead,

  Oh, yes, they knew they were dead

  And the ocean would be their bed.

  (Refrain)

  When the krakens rise from the deep

  Then you will be sinking down,

  You will be sinking down, down,

  And you will never be found.

  The currents and winds can be unkind

  And you could lose sight of the shore,

  You could lose sight of the shore, friends,

  And then you will be done for.

  (Refrain)

  “My first tale tonight,” the bard said, “will be told by a slightly younger version of myself, since I had a unique perspective on the Nentian march on Gorin Mogen. The slightly younger me had never witnessed actual battle before, and so he had a fresher face than the slightly older and wiser me.”

  When he took on a seeming, his clothing had changed to a nakedly martial appearance—the full hardened leather kit of Raelech armor—and his features had altered subtly to present a more youthful face—fine wrinkles gone, markers of stress as much as age.

  It was a slow march to the south of Hashan Khek compared to the blistering pace we’d adopted in Numa’s company. The Nentian forces were sluggish at best because half of them were not professional soldiers at all but ragged people who wanted free meals and some pay in return for marching around. I am not sure they realized that they might actually have to fight. And I am not sure if the Nentian tactician, Ghuyedai, realized that if he asked them to fight, he would not get much value for his orders. They would break at the first charge or counterattack of the Hathrim.

  His regular forces were much tougher; one could see the capacity for murder and cruelty etched into their features, hear it in their cynical laughter and in the targets of their jokes, which were always the weak or unfortunate. It made me reflect on the role religions play in shaping cultural attitudes to war. Those pledged to the Huntr
ess Raena killed out of necessity only. When the words of the poet goddess failed, Raena was there to protect and rescue until words could be heard again. Hence the makeup of our party and our orders from the Triune Council: words first from the courier, and if that failed, Tarrech the juggernaut would speak in the warrior’s tongue.

  But to Kalaad in the sky, everything was plants or meat, and he thought of them the same way. To Kalaad and thus to the Nentians, there was little difference between cutting down a tree or a human, except in spirit. Spirits returned to Kalaad, and he distributed them again or kept them in his company. Although I’m sure that the immortality of the spirit was a comforting thought, it was a worldview that to my own admittedly biased eyes placed little value on life.

  The Godsteeth grew larger and larger as we marched along the coast, defending ourselves against occasional attacks from creatures of the plains. Despite our numbers and weapons, we lost a few people to grass pumas and a small flock of cheek raptors that typically preyed on herds of ruminants and thought an army looked a lot like a herd. They dive directly at one’s face, their talons designed to puncture and tear, scoop out gobbets of tender cheek meat, and fly away, leaving you to die and feed the scavengers of the plains. They killed three conscripted soldiers that way—ones who weren’t wearing helmets—and then more died because a panicked volley of arrows to bring down the raptors wound up falling on the army. Others died of flesh eels burrowing into their bodies in the night.

  “I fully understand why the Nentians like to stay inside their walls now,” I commented, which earned me an appreciative grunt from Tarrech.

  But eventually we saw walls rise from the horizon at the foothills of the mountains, and there were docks for the Hathrim fleet and glass boats deployed to intercept anyone approaching.

  When Numa spied a patrol of houndsmen that obviously had spotted us, she snatched a flag of parley and ran to catch them. She had no fear of them; she could run faster than the hounds with her kenning. We saw her greet them and speak briefly.

  “I told them,” she said upon her return, “that Rael’s delegation is traveling with but separate from the Nentian army and we wish to speak first. I requested a parley outside the walls and guaranteed their safety.”

  Tactician Ghuyedai was not pleased with her initiative when he demanded to know what she’d done.

  “You should have consulted me first,” he growled. “This is a Nentian matter on Nentian soil.”

  “I remind the general that we are accompanying him in friendship but are not subject to his orders,” Numa said, refusing to apologize.

  “You should not have made any guarantees in my name.”

  “I made the guarantee in my name. And we will guarantee the safety of any who come to parley with us, Tactician.”

  He ground his teeth and turned his back on her, calling for his junior officers. Presumably one of them would be going to parley for him.

  The parley occurred an hour later, the three of us and one of Ghuyedai’s junior tacticians on one side and two Hathrim women on the other. The tactician sat astride an armored horse, and we stood on foot at parade rest. Numa was in the middle, I on her left and Tarrech on her right.

  One of the Hathrim women was visibly shorter than the other but had shaved her head bald and set it on fire. She was introduced as La Mastik, High Priestess of Thurik’s Flame. The taller one radiated confidence and wore a smirk of condescension the entire time.

  “I am Hearth Sefir of Baghra Khek, betrothed of Hearthfire Gorin Mogen. I speak for him.”

  Ghuyedai’s tactician introduced himself as Nasreghur and said without art and with more than a little aggressiveness, “You have invaded Nentian lands, and we demand your immediate relocation to Hathrir.”

  The hearth blinked, but her smirk remained. If anything, it widened. “I would not call it an invasion. We have no wish to conquer, and since you have marched all this way, you’re aware that we are quite some distance from any Nentian city. We are refugees who had no place else to go after the eruption of Mount Thayil and still have no place else to go. The ash cloud from Mount Thayil pollutes and sickens all of Hathrir right now. We sent spokesmen to Hashan Khek to explain and to ask for desperately needed food weeks ago, but we haven’t heard back.”

  “We received that request and sent food immediately but have not heard back from our viceroy’s representative. Are you keeping Dhingra and his men prisoner?”

  “I have no idea of whom you speak. We have received no word from Hashan Khek until this moment, much less food.”

  It was most likely a lie but a smooth one. The tactician would need a moment to think of an adequate response, so I cleared my throat and introduced myself. Numa and Tarrech followed my lead. I noticed that Sefir’s eyes flicked to our Jereh bands, visually confirming what we said aloud by checking our stones.

  Numa spoke for us after that. “I notice that you have erected walls quickly with the help of Raelech stonecutters. Our information indicates that they are still in your camp. Is this true?”

  “It is. Their work is a credit to your nation and their kenning.”

  “Kind of you to say,” Numa replied. “Rael formally requests the return of those stonecutters to our care this instant regardless of work in progress.”

  “Of course,” Sefir agreed immediately, and I almost blurted out, “Really?” but turned it into a cough instead. The hearth continued, “We will deliver them to your care as soon as our parley is finished.”

  That changed our objectives considerably. Our primary reason for sending the juggernaut, after all, was to rescue the stonecutters if the Hathrim refused. Now Tarrech had no reason to employ his kenning against the Hathrim, and I wondered if that was not her design all along. If she was well versed enough in our culture to read our Jereh bands, she might know much more and realistically conclude that if she gave us no reason to attack, we would refrain. Like the Kaurians, we use force only after a triggering event. It is no secret that in a way this allows us to be controlled: do nothing to trigger our military response and you will be safe. It dawned on me that her superior smirk might be deserved. At this time, anyway, she appeared to have all the answers.

  Until Junior Tactician Nasreghur spoke again. “We have received reports from Forn that your houndsmen attacked their peaceful scouts without provocation.”

  “Then the Fornish are lying to you,” Sefir said, and her expression finally hardened for a few moments. “The Fornish attacked us because we harvested a few trees to cook our food, even though this side of the Godsteeth is not part of their precious Canopy or their country. In fact, they are invaders much more than we are. We lost six houndsmen to them. We are clearly the party with a grievance here, and even though we are refugees, we reserve the right to defend ourselves.”

  Nasreghur was having none of that and continued with his aggressive language. “You have no rights to harvest Nentian timber or occupy Nentian land without our prior approval. Refugee status does not confer to you the right to do whatever you wish within our borders. You are in violation of the Sovereignty Accords, and your navy is also illegally blockading our national waters. We insist that you end your blockade immediately and relocate to some other place in Hathrir.”

  “The citizens of Baghra Khek, together with their lavaborn and military and naval forces, retain the right to defend their lives wheresoever they are regardless of official status or international treaties. And it is the height of callousness to demand that we relocate to a poisoned land on the instant. We offer you no harm and will gladly compensate you for timber harvested without permission in our hour of dire need. I formally request permission to continue timber harvesting with the understanding that we will pay in steel and glass for such resources; indeed, we would like to trade with Hashan Khek and other Nentian cities as we did in Harthrad.”

  I noticed the entirely unsubtle use of “lavaborn,” just in case we had not yet noticed that there was a lavaborn giant standing there with her head on fire. I did
not know at that time, however, if Sefir was lavaborn herself. Nasreghur shook his head and ceded nothing. “This is not a trade negotiation, though we would of course be delighted to trade once you are back in Hathrir.”

  “Are we not to be allowed basic needs? You would have us die because we temporarily occupy a space you are not using?”

  “The fact that we do not use a space within our borders does not create a right for you to occupy it any more than unused land in Hathrir is available for Nentian use. You continue to cast yourself as the victim when it is you who are victimizing Ghurana Nent. You are occupying land you have no permission or right to occupy regardless of whether a volcano erupts in your land or not. So answer me plainly: Will you agree to remove yourselves from this land at the formal request of Viceroy Lohmet?”

  “Yes.” The Hathrim hearth’s smirk returned. Either she was lying or she was relying on a nebulous definition of when she would agree. Nasreghur was ready for that, however, and quickly moved to pin her down.

  “When?”

  “I’ll agree when a formal request is made.”

  “I formally request that you leave Nentian soil immediately.”

  “You misunderstand. I meant I would agree to leave when Viceroy Lohmet formally requests it. You are not he, nor is your puffed-up superior over there. When Viceroy Lohmet appears here in the flesh and formally requests that we leave, we will agree to leave. The Raelech delegation bears witness.”

  “We do,” Numa said, and I saw how we had been outmaneuvered. Hearth Sefir could speak with Hearthfire Gorin Mogen’s authority, but we could not speak for the Triune nor could Nasreghur speak for the viceroy. She therefore had the advantage and could play on that.

  Nasreghur ignored the exchange and tried to bluster his way through. “We are the viceory’s duly appointed representatives and speak for him.”

  “I do not recognize this. I require his personal request.”

  It was a transparent delaying tactic, and we all knew it. Nasreghur continued, always probing. He might be bereft of all subtlety, but I had to admire his determination to score whatever points he could.