A Tale of Two Giants
Scott William Carter
Smashwords Edition. Electronic edition published by Flying Raven Press, September 2011.
A TALE OF TWO GIANTS. Copyright © 2011 by Scott William Carter.
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction, in whole or in part in any form. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
For more about Flying Raven Press, please visit our web site at http://www.flyingravenpress.com.
Also by
Scott William Carter
Novels:
The Last Great Getaway of the Water Balloon Boys
President Jock, Vice President Geek
Drawing a Dark Way [Rymadoon]
A Tale of Two Giants [Rymadoon]
Wooden Bones (forthcoming)
Short Story Collections:
For Katarina and Calvin,
my own two little giants
THE LOST LANDS OF RYMADOON
Fellow traveler, have you ever journeyed to the Lost Lands of Rymadoon?
Have you ever been to Morfen Sley or Ilia or the caverns of Mana Thune?
Have you ever been to Nogero or Willow Isle or the deserts of Giant Bone?
Or perhaps, like others, you've discovered a Lost Land all on your own.
Dear traveler, you must be warned of what awaits you in a world like Rymadoon.
There are towering peaks and deep chasms and great cities that now lay in ruin.
There are slumbering dragons and hungry giants and soldiers who never die.
There are even places in the Lost Lands where you never have to say goodbye.
Oh traveler, I fear this will not be your last sojourn to the world with the shadow moon.
I fear you will plunge into a hole or creep through a cave or sing an enchanted tune.
I fear, like me, you will find your way back here, not eventually, or someday, but soon.
For no warning or caution or even a rhyme can stop you from returning – to Rymadoon!
Mana Thune
Prologue
The Metal Men came for them at dawn.
Kyla was woken, as were all the gypsy children inhabiting the foothills of the Moghoven Mountains, to the creaking and clanking of the iron soldiers marching into their tent village. The awful noises were new to her, but when her eyes fluttered open — her mouth dry, her heart pounding — she knew them at once.
How could she not? The sounds had been described to her countless times, gathered around campfires in the bleakest deserts, huddled in the darkest caves, always accompanied with the dire warning that if children should hear those terrible sounds, they had better run. It meant the evil Rendon Thorne had come to take them away.
"Kyla!" Mother cried, jostling her out of her sleeping cot. "Kyla, get up now!"
After leaping onto the cold dirt floor in her bare feet, the first thing Kyla did was to spring for the flaps of their patchwork tent — but her mother grabbed her bare arm before she made it there.
"No!' she said. "No time!"
Her mother was a tall, stout woman, one of the tallest of the village — beautiful, to be sure, with long tresses of red hair and green eyes that glowed like the Liquid Lights of the Far North — but her beauty did not mean she was weak. She had been a warrior in her earlier days, one who'd ridden the dragons before they slept and tussled with the trolls before they vanished into the Vinderstahl, and her grip was as a strong as the steel traps they used to catch rabbits and other game. If she had hold of you, Kyla had learned many times, there was no getting free.
Still, Kyla couldn't help resisting, tugging on her arm. Mixed with her fear was a growing rage. These were the ones who'd killed Father!
"I want to see them!" she cried. "I want to see—"
It was at that moment that the screams and shouts of their fellow gypsies rose up from the far end of camp, joining the banging and the tinging and the other stranger sounds — the grumbles and groans of rusty guts, the hissing puffs of steam from vents, the grating squeaks of swiveling arms and swinging legs. Those sounds, they were getting louder. Closer.
"Get dressed!" Mother ordered.
"I'll fight them!" Kyla said. "I'll fight them all!"
"No!"
In the end, it was not fear of the Metal Men that got Kyla to cooperate, but the look on her mother's face. With the gray light of dawn streaming through the tiny holes in their tent, a hodgepodge of green and brown rags barely held together with rathka string, the inside was still a shadowy haze. But even so, there was no mistaking the naked fear on her mother's face. It was not something Kyla was accustomed to seeing — as far as she knew, Mother was not afraid of anything — and it froze her on the spot.
In a flurry, her mother tossed Kyla clothes and boots, then hastily stuffed the worn gray knapsack with what little food they had — a bit of dried fruit, half a loaf of bread, three strands of black ragaroot. When her mother saw that Kyla stood mutely clutching her clothes, she slapped her hard on the face.
"Now!" she shouted.
The stinging blow brought tears to Kyla eyes, but she fought them back, hurrying into her cold clothes. The boots still felt damp from the marshland they'd crossed previous afternoon, and her shirt and pants smelled of mud. By the time she'd slipped on her boots, her mother had the knapsack on Kyla's shoulders and was tightening the strap. Outside, the awful sounds of the struggle were almost on top of them. There was something else now too — a smell, the terrible stench of sulfur that burned in her nose and scorched her throat.
Then, only seconds since she'd woken, Kyla was hustled to the back of the tent. Her mother snatched the small dragontooth sword under her cot, with its black gleaming blade and white bleachwood handle, and with one swift motion sliced an opening down the middle of the fabric.
Chill mountain air streamed inside. Her mother pushed back the newly made flap, peering into the gray gloom of morning. Kyla looked beside her.
There were no Metal Men, though they could even feel their approach now, the pounding of footsteps that made the earth tremble. There were no tents either — just the tall trunks of the Moghoven Firs mixed with smaller oaks and maples, the ground a muddy mush of leaves and pine needles partially hidden beneath a web of fog. Her mother always made sure their tent was at the farthest edge of camp, which always irritated Kyla because of the long walks to Gathering it entailed, but for once she was grateful.
"Go!" Mother urged. "Run for the trees!"
"But what about you?" Kyla said.
"I'll be right behind you! I just need to make sure you get away first!"
"But—"
"Kyla, there's no time!"
She pushed Kyla through the opening, into air that was thick and moist on Kyla's face, then she started for the front of the tent before suddenly turning back and thrusting the sword into Kyla's hands. Kyla was surprised at how light it was, like dry tinder. Before now, Mother had never allowed her to even touch it.
"Take this," Mother said. "If anything comes at you, strike hard and fast."
"Mother—"
"It was your father's," Mother said. "It will bring you luck." Her eyes suddenly glistened. She dropped and clutched her daughter fiercely against her chest. On her knees, her mother was practically the same height; folded in her long arms, Kyla felt small indeed. "Oh my little girl," Mother whispered, "run as fast as you can. Run as fast as you can for the trees, and if you can imagine getting away, you will! Nothing's impossible if you can imagine it. Nothing."
With that, her mother pushed Kyla farther into the chill, then turned and ran for the front of the tent. Kyla meant to call after her, but her throat seized up, so she watched, paralyzed, as her mother rushed through the opening into the approaching melee. She hadn't taken a weapon of any kind, still barefoot and dressed in the simple brown smock that she wore only when she slept, her red hair loose and flowing.
The metallic maelstrom was deafening, so loud Kyla could barely hear the occasional screams that rent the air, but even so there was no mistaking her mother's piercing battle cry. It was the same sound her mother made when she felled a deer or seized a willowhawk in midflight. Even though Kyla had heard the battle cry many times, it still sent a tremor of fear through her — as it was intended.
To Kyla's right, in the uppermost branches of the pines, a flock of startled red birds with yellow feathers sprang for the gray sky. The Black Brothers, the tallest of the Moghoven Mountains, rose over the forest and the blanket of fog like a pair of massive fists. This was the moment when Kyla knew she should have run for the trees.
But she couldn't.
As far as Kyla was concerned, only cowards ran.
Brandishing her dragontooth sword, she crept around the tent, the mud sticking to the bottom of her boots. Her heart beat a steady drum in her ears. She was determined to do her part to fight off the Metal Men, but when she edged into the open, blinking away the moisture to get a clear view, all she could do was stare.
At first she didn't see her mother, only the dozens and dozens of iron soldiers wreaking havoc. They were taller than she'd imagined, ten feet maybe, though they were also more spindly and ill-proportioned than seemed possible for such feared warriors. With their stick-like arms and legs attached to thick, barrel round torsos, they made her think of big potatoes with pine needles protruding from them. She didn't even see how those tiny legs cold support the weight. Instead of fingers or toes, they had U-shaped clamps.
Spindly as they were, there was no denying their power as they ripped tents asunder or snatched up fleeing gypsies, holding them aloft like trophies.
Their hard metallic skin was a deep, dull black, a color that reminded Kyla of the Royal Express when she'd chanced to see the train. The iron had that same dusky quality, as if someone had painted it with black chalk. Compared to their torsos, their domed heads were miniscule, like little turtle shells they'd decided to use as hats. Peering from under these shells were pairs of yellow eyes that glowed like the embers of a dying fire.
The chaos in the clearing was almost too much for Kyla to take in at once. As the Metal Men rumbled about, with stutter-stepping jerkiness, black plumes vented from their ear holes. The smoke formed a low lying haze around the tents, and it was the smoke that made the air stink of sulfur — a foul, rotten-egg stench.
In this smog, Kyla's fellow gypsies both fled and fought — some shrieking as they ran, others striking the Metal Men with whatever objects were handy. Mallets. Pots and pans. Mossy stones. None of it made much of a difference as the villagers were snatched up and carried to a number of six-wheeled prison carts. Kyla saw a few of her friends inside, white-faced and trembling, kids she'd play hopstones with only the previous day.
"Kyla!"
It was her mother's voice, but at first she thought it was coming from the Metal Man who'd lurched into the open, his massive shadow falling upon her. Black smoke curled around him like a cloak. She thought how odd it was that he had hair, then she realized it wasn't his hair at all. Her mother rode on the Metal Man's shoulders; she was still barefoot, her legs caked with mud, both arms gripping the iron soldier's head.
She was wrenching the head from side to side, all the while dodging the Metal Man's flailing arms. He was doing everything in his power to get his hands on her.
"Mother!" Kyla shouted back.
"I told you to run!"
"But—"
"For once in your life, obey me!"
If Kyla had fled right then, things might have gone very differently, but even after her mother's stern command she still paused a few agonizing seconds before turning toward the forest. It was during those seconds that another Metal Man circled the tent to Kyla's side, stepping into her path. She managed only a single step before one of the U-clamps seized her around the waist and hoisted her into the air.
Kyla was so surprised that she dropped her sword. All she could do was beat helplessly on the clamps, which might have appeared spindly from a distance but were actually as thick around as her legs.
As she raged against her captor, each blow stinging her hands more than they damaged the Metal Man, Kyla also raged against herself. If only she'd listened to her mother, she would have escaped.
It was then that Kyla heard her mother's battle cry, followed by the terrible shriek of wrenching metal. The Metal Man lifting Kyla gazed over her at the source of this sound — right as he was hit squarely in the chest with a boulder.
Not a boulder.
An iron head.
The blow knocked Kyla's own captor back a step. It was not enough to cause him to topple, but enough, in his surprise, to get him to loosen its grip. Kyla slipped through the clamps and landed with a thud on hands and knees, lunging to her feet despite the wincing pain.
Her mother, wreathed in tendrils of black smoke, crouched victorious on the headless Metal Man. This would come to be the defining image Kyla had of her, the one she would call upon in the days ahead whenever she woke with a start to the creaking and the clanking that would haunt her dreams — her mother, the fearsome warrior, atop this headless soldier as clouds of smoke poured from its neck, her eyes bright with an inner fire.
"Run!"
This time Kyla obeyed, snatching up the sword as she fled. The Metal Man who'd been stunned by the blow from his fellow soldier's head had recovered, and was reaching for her, but this time Kyla dodged. Another Metal Man, also circling the tent, lunged for her, but she eluded him too — sprinting as fast as her legs would carry her toward the safety of the trees.
Halfway to the forest's edge, she glanced over her shoulder. Her mother sprang from the headless Metal Man and set to running as soon as her bare feet touched the ground. This lifted Kyla's spirits, for her mother was as fast the wind. Watching her dart around one Metal Man, then another, Kyla had little doubt her mother would get away.
But a third Metal Man, emerging around the tent, did not try to grab her. Instead he picked up the head that lay at his feet and hurled it with great force at Kyla's mother.
"Look out!" Kyla cried.
The warning came too late. The head hit her mother squarely in the back, knocking her to the ground. Her fall was terrible to behold — a rolling tumble of arms and legs, head crumpled at an awkward angle, an awful thud.
Remarkably, the fall only stunned her mother for a few seconds before she staggered to her feet, but it was all the time the Metal Men needed. One grabbed an ankle, another a wrist, and though her mother struggled mightily, there was no getting free this time. They raised her, kicking and flailing, into the air. Behind them, the prison cart, packed with prisoners, was hauled in her direction. The village, only moments before teeming with fleeing gypsies, was now empty.
"No!" Kyla shouted.
She darted toward her mother, but then the Metal Men were everywhere. All of them turned their flickering eyes toward her, glowing yellow through the smog like the eyes of cats. They filled the clearing from one end to the other, a solid wall of black metal that lurched — creaking and clanging — in her direction. Smoke plumed from their ears. Hand clamps snapped at the air.
Kyla had only seconds to make a decision. As she watched her mother being shoved into the prison cart, she knew that as much as she wanted to help there was nothing she could do in this moment to save her. If she tried, she would be captured too, and what would be the point of that?
She told herself she was not a coward for running.
She told herself she was doing the smart thing, what her mother wanted her to do, and by running she was keeping hope alive.
She told herself, as she fled into the trees, vanishing into the shadows and the fog, that no matter how long it took, no matter what dangers she had to face, she was going to get her mother back.
And Rendon Thorne would pay for what he had done.
Chapter 1
The first time Grandon met Kyla, he was face down in the mud.
Even worse, it was raining harder than any time he could remember — a steady pounding, ice cold and as painful as nails on the back of his neck. The rain had started late in the morning and hadn't let up for even a second as morning blurred into afternoon and afternoon melted into night. He lifted his weary head, spitting the bitter muck off his lips, blinking furiously to clear his eyes, just as a huge shadow fall across his body. Behind him, he heard the boisterous laughter of the men who'd tossed him outside, their boots thumping on the wooden deck as they retreated into the inn.
His head was so foggy he couldn't even remember how he'd insulted them.
At least, he assumed he'd insulted them. That's usually how he ended up in this predicament. He may have been young, hardly more than a child in the eyes of his own people, but he'd already developed quite a knack for saying the worst possible thing at the worst possible time.
The shadow, cast from the lanterns hanging on either side of the inn's door, stretched so far — nearly to the smear of pine trees at the edge of Grandon's sight — that he felt a tremor of excitement. Was it a Tall One, come to claim him at last? If so, this was not the best first impression.
Yet when he rolled over, raising his hand to ward off the pelting rain, it was not a Tall One he saw. It was a child dressed in a gray cloak, and a small child at that; only the child's distance from him had created the enormous shadow.
What a fool he was. While the child stared, face cloaked in shadow, the twangs of the piano inside the inn started up again. Soon all the occupants were belting another drinking song.
All the child's staring was getting annoying. "Can I help you with something, little one?" he said sharply.
The child watched him silently for a few more seconds through the rainy mist, then finally approached. There was no sign of nervousness. The strut of little boots through the mud was almost arrogant, really, which Grandon found quite odd. Usually after people saw just how big and muscular he was, they weren't so eager to approach. If it hadn't been a child, this alone may have gotten a rise out of him.
Now he was just perplexed.
The light was at the child's back, so it was not until he reached Grandon's side and turned so the wavery glow from the lanterns lit his face that Grandon realized the child was not a he at all. It was a her — a girl with tawny brown cheeks and hair as ruby red as the apples he used to pick from his uncle's orchard. She was tiny and young — and if not for her eyes, he would have dismissed her as just another human child.
It was her eyes that set her apart. It was not just the color — a startling shade of green that seemed to glow even in the gloom — but the fire that burned behind them. There was an intensity of purpose, a focus, that Grandon had seldom seen before, and never in one so young.
"You're kind of small for a giant, aren't you?" she said.
If Grandon had been impressed thus far, the insult quickly dissolved the feeling. Grimacing, he brushed off as much mud as he could manage, then rose to his full height. Towering over her, twice her height at least, he gave her his most menacing stare, the one all Tall Ones were taught before they were allowed to walk among other races. Compared to her, he was as massive as the Great Pines of Moghoven and she was nothing but a rabbit. A rabbit pup, no less.
"Excuse me?" he said. Even without trying, his voice was quite deep, but he dropped it even lower for good measure.
Since he'd been expecting the girl to flee, he was sorely disappointed. In fact, she didn't just hold her ground; she stepped even closer, her gaze unwavering. Closer, he saw the downy lining of her cloak, the colorful beads around her neck, and the thin tandlehyde boots worn by only one kind of people. Gypsies.
"I said you're kind of small for a giant, aren't you?" she said.
"I heard you the first time," Grandon said.
"Well? Aren't you?"
He blinked away the rain dribbling into his eyes. "Who are you?"
"I'm Kyla," she said.
"Well, good for you," Grandon said. "Did your gypsy parents teach you to be so rude or does it just come naturally?"
"I'm not a gypsy."
"Ah. Well, you could have fooled me."
"I just lived with them for a while."
"I see. Very interesting." He thought of telling her that he wasn't a full grown Tall One yet, that he might still have a bit of growing to do, but what would be the point? It would just make her ask more questions, and it wasn't the real reason he was on the short side anyway. Holding his hand over his eyes to block the rain, he gazed at the inn, debating whether they'd allow him to stay for the night or whether he should just shove on to the next inn. It all depended on how much he'd insulted them. "Well, as I have better things to do than to argue with some little girl in the rain—"
"I'm not little," she insisted.
"Hmm. Well, you're kind of short for a human girl, aren't you?"
Those bright green eyes narrowed to slits. It pleased Grandon to no end. If there was something he liked more than anything else, it was turning a person's insult back on them. He had a knack for it, too. It was also a knack that often got him into trouble.
He was waiting for her to come back with some kind of retort, but she surprised him again: "Well, maybe I am," she said, "but I don't let it stop me. Anyway, I want to ask you a question."
Grandon was cold and miserable, with no desire to stay in this cursed weather even one more second, but he couldn't help being a little intrigued. "Oh? And what question would that be?"
For the first time, he saw what might be nervousness from her — an ever so slight swallow.
"I want to know," she said, hesitating, "whether I can hire you."
The rain chose that moment to pick up its pace, a noisy patter on the mud and leaves, so Grandon wasn't sure he'd heard correctly.
"What's that?" he said.
"I want to hire you," Kyla said.
"You want to hire me?"
"That's right."
"To do what exactly?"
"To help me rescue my mother," she said.
"To help you . . . Ah. I see. Right." He peered past her at the inn. The music had stopped and he thought he heard snickering over the unyielding drizzle, though it may have just been his imagination. "This is a joke, right? Someone put you up to this. A good one, yes. Now run along and earn your two coins. A fine little actress. You should be in be in the Royal Theater."
None of this fazed her in the slightest. "This isn't a joke," she said.
"Uh huh. And where is your mother?"
"She's been captured by Rendon Thorne. By the Metal Men." He voice caught but she pressed on gamely. "They took her away. I want — I need to get her back. I will get her back."
"Hmm."
"But that's not all," she added.
"Oh? I was thinking it was sounding a little too easy."
"I also plan to kill King Rendon Thorne."
"Ah."
"And destroy his empire."
Grandon glanced around uneasily to see if anyone else had heard. It was well known that Thorne had spies everywhere. Though he saw no one hiding in the bleary shadows, he still wasn't going to put up with such nonsense. "Assuming what you say is true—"
"It is."
"— you're either very brave or very stupid. Actually, you're definitely stupid even if you are brave. People have been separated from their heads for talking like that."
"I don't care."
"Being a child won't save you. Thorne has no mercy."
"So? I don't either."
Grandon laughed. The girl didn't. The rage in those eyes of hers burned all the brighter. She certainly had spunk, he'd give her that. Regardless, it didn't change that he was standing in the cold rain for no reason other than simple curiosity.
"Well," he said, stepping past her, "I really do wish you all the luck. Now, if you'll excuse me—"
"So that's a no?"
Grandon didn't stop, heading for the inn. "Sorry."
"Fine. I figured you'd say that anyway."
"You should have trusted your instincts."
"Not everyone is brave, I guess."
Grandon stopped dead, boots sinking into the mud. This, finally, was too much to ignore. Calling him short was one thing. Calling him a coward was quite another. No one, no one, ever questioned his courage. He turned slowly, glowering at her, hating that she was keeping him in the cold. And a child at that!
"You want to say that again?"
"I said not everyone is brave."
Not even a pause. He shook his head, astonished she had so little regard for her own safety. Still, Grandon had done many foolish things in his life and was sure to do more, but he would never hurt a little girl. "I'm going to pretend you didn't say that."
She shrugged. "Whatever."
"But I feel I should teach you something. Indifference is not the same thing as cowardice. People often make that mistake about me. Usually they feel my fist when they do."
She stared at him with simmering anger. "I don't know what that word means."
"What word?"
"Indifference."
"Ah. It means — well, it means not caring."
"Oh. You mean you don't care about my problem?"
"Child, I don't care about anyone's problems. I just want to be left alone."
She appeared to contemplate this. Even if he was still outside in this awful weather for no good reason, her reaction pleased him because it was the first sign of humility from her. Maybe she wasn't completely hopeless.
"Seems like the same thing," she said.
"What?"
"You know, not caring about anything. It's kind of like not being brave."
Of course, he should have expected she'd destroy any positive in the moment. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he said tersely. "You're not making any sense at all. It's not even remotely the same."
"If you don't care," she said, "it just means you don't want to try. Maybe because it's too hard or something. That's kind of like being afraid, I think."
This time, Grandon really did have to keep himself together. She was finding new and better ways to irritate him. "That's nonsense!" he bellowed.
"So are you going to help me?"
"No!"
"It'd probably make you feel better about yourself," she insisted.
To stand here and be lectured by this child, this little miscreant, was beyond insufferable. How dare she! He was losing a battle of wits with a gypsy toadstool who didn't even reach his knees. Clenching his teeth, he stomped over to her, and was even more irritated when she didn't so much as cringe.
"You think you're so smart," he said.
"Not really," she said. "I just know what I'm going to do."
"Right. And let's say, pray tell, that I decide to help you. Rescuing your mother sounds insane enough. I don't know where she is, but if she ended up in the mining camps it will be almost impossible to get her out — especially for a little girl who doesn't know her limits. But why in the name of Rymadoon's Makers would you want to try to kill the king? Why isn't rescuing your mother enough for you? Really. Enlighten me, please."
Grandon expected a flippant reply, something equally sarcastic as his own diatribe, but instead the girl took a long time to consider. Beads of water glittered on her hood like diamonds. When she spoke, it was not in anger or in jest, but with a kind of quiet earnestness of someone who spoke from the heart.
"I thought about this a lot," she said. "It would be easier just to rescue Mother. But I realized it would just happen again. He'd just take some other kid's mother or father. I don't — I don't want them to feel like I feel. Not if I can do something about it."
Despite his wounded pride, despite his insistence about not caring, which was completely and totally the truth and had nothing to do with cowardice, somehow, in spite of all this, in spite of the miserable dark and the cold rain and mud the sticking to his face, she still managed to get to him. It was impossible to hear such total honesty, borne from such genuine empathy for the suffering of people she did not know, without being touched in some way.
He also felt more than a little shame. His throat tightening, he cast his gaze toward the darkness.
"Well," he said, "there's lots of things we'd all change if we could."
"But we can."
"I wish that were so."
"It is. It really is. All you have to do is believe—"
"Goodbye, girl."
Despising himself, but not wanting to prolong his own self-loathing any longer than necessary, Grandon headed through the downpour for the solitude awaiting him in the trees. Forget the inn. He'd sleep outside and return for his belongings in the morning. Hopefully the owners would have forgotten his boorish behavior by then.
"All right, fine, goodbye," Kyla said tartly. Though he tried not to look at her, he saw through the corner of his eye that she was heading toward the inn.
"Where are you going?" he said.
"To find somebody who'll help me."
He stopped, watching her march toward the inn. "In there? I wouldn't go in there. It's no place for a child."
"We'll see."
"It's full of thieves and drunkards and — and — and other bad sorts! You'll be sorry!"
Not heeding him, she stepped on the platform, her boots leaving muddy prints on the slick wood. He kept waiting for her to drop her bluff, for her to throw a tirade at him for not yielding to her demands, but as she reached for the iron door handle she didn't even look at him. As if in response, inside the raucous laughter rose to a roar. He thought about the girl going in there and all he could think of was a tiny tanglefish dropped into a pool of ravenous shankle. She didn't have a chance.
"What you want is impossible!" he declared.
Hand on the door handle, she glanced at him over her shoulder. In the darkness of her hood, and with the rainy mist separating them, it was difficult make out her face, but he still caught the glint of her green eyes. Saw the resolve there. The determination.
"Nothing's impossible if you can imagine it," she said.
Then she opened the door.
Chapter 2
Before Grandon could offer up a response, the girl disappeared into the inn.
If he'd gone right then, he might have been able to convince himself that some well-meaning stranger would dissuade this poor deranged girl from her insane endeavor. Surely, as awful as the inn was, there had to be at least one kind soul in there. Moghoven might have been the heel of Mana Thune, as others called it, where the misfits and the miscreants of all races ended up when they had nowhere else to go, but certainly there were still a few good people who'd help a child.
Weren't there?
As much as Grandon reminded himself that his number one rule was to not get involved in the affairs of others, he could not get his feet to budge. The maddening rain chose that moment to finally relax its grip, the drizzle fading to a light mist, and he was thankful for that at least. It also meant the crackle of the rain was gone, so he was able to hear the inn's response to the girl's entrance.
Nothing.
Or not nothing — silence. The boisterous laughter, the slurred slinging, the tinny piano, all of it vanished. The inn was a squat, stone building with no windows, so there was no way to know what was happening inside. All Grandon could do was stare at the door and wonder.
And wonder.
And wonder.
"Oh curse it all," he said, trudging up to the door. He hesitated with his hand on the cool handle, telling himself this was a bad idea, that if he went inside he was just a big fool following a small fool, but he watched his hand yank open the door just the same.
" . . . and that's what I'm going to do," the girl was saying. "Now I want to know who's going to help me?"
The scene that awaited Grandon was not as bad as he'd feared, but it was bad enough. There she was, this tiny thing in the center of a room full of the worst scum of Mana Thune, all eyes turned in her direction. Every race might have been represented in that sweltering pit that smelled of cheap ale and stale bread. There were dozens of humans, of course, as there were everywhere, but there were also big, bear-like Bandos with their crimson fur, several spindly Bornalia with their stick-like bodies, and a pair of Narwols flicking their lizard tongues at a table in the corner. Most leered at her like a pack of wolves who'd the good fortune to find a willowhawk chick which had inexplicably wandered into their lair.
The pulsing heat from the hearth pushed at him like a hand in the chest. As he closed the door, no one glanced his way. The pause that followed her final heartfelt plea was long and tortuous. Grandon had no idea what they were going to do until they finally did it.
They laughed.
It was not a polite laugh. It was a mean, in-your-face sort of laugh, the way someone laughs when you're the butt of the joke and they don't care if you know it. It was loud and long, full of snorting snickers, booming guffaws, back-slapping and red-faced wheezing. A few Toady Dwarves even rolled off their stools, they were laughing so hard. There were sloshing drinks held aloft and some toe-kick dancing by the hearth. There was lots of merriment all around — and it all came at Kyla's expense.
During this spectacle, Grandon watched her from his place in the doorway, crouching so his head wouldn't hit the frame. He expected her to bolt from the place in shame. But she didn't move. She remained in the center of this tornado of laughter, hands on her hips, glaring at everyone until finally the noise subsided.
"So no one?" she said.
The bartender, a big burly human with curly hair the color of rust, waggled a thick finger at her. "I'll tell ya one thing, girlie," he said. "Ya got a lot of nerve comin' in here spoutin' that nonsense. You're lucky no Royal Soldiers passin' through. But enough with ya — off now. This place for drinking away your sorrows, not for tall tales."
"I'll pay for the help," Kyla insisted.
That elicited more laughter.
"Oooooh, she's got money," the bartender said, chuckling. "Let's see it, darling. Show us what you got."
"Not unless you're going to help me."
"Har har! You hear that, everyone? If you sign up for her little army, then you'll get to see her pot of gold! After that, she'll also take you for a ride on her unicorn!"
There was more rollicking laughter. Grandon reached for her, thinking the least he could do was get her out before she endured more such punishment, but he wasn't fast enough.
"Well," Kyla said, "I guess I'm surrounded by cowards."
Grandon cringed. She hadn't waited until the noise died, so he held to the slim hope that no one heard her — until he saw the way the bartender's twinkling eyes turned hard.
"What's that, girlie?" he said.
If it was quiet when Grandon first entered the room, it was deathly quiet now — so quiet that each crackle and pop from the fire boomed off the stone walls. These people didn't have laughter in their eyes any longer.
"She said she's leaving," Grandon offered.
The bartender turned to him, red eyebrows raising. "You again. I thought I made it clear you weren't welcome."
Grandon noticed his worn leather pack was still sitting by the door, where he'd left it earlier. Thank the Makers for small favors. "I've only returned for my things," he said, slipping it over his shoulders. "Come, girl, nothing here for you."
"What, you her proud papa?" the bartender said. There was snickering, and the bartender soaked it up, clearly enjoying it. "Oh wait, wait, I know — you be workin' for her. You heard her tale and you want that pot of gold. Maybe that's why you're all muddy — you been diggin' for it."
There was more laughter, but the cold rain had cleared Grandon's head enough that he wasn't going to let himself do anything foolish. He just nodded gamely and opened the door. Unfortunately, the girl didn't move.
"He's not my father," she said, her tremulous voice rising. "He's not that much older than me. And anyway, my father fought with the All-Races against the Royal Empire. He — he was a hero."
"Ooooh," the bartender said. "You hear that everyone? He was a hero."
The girl's face was roughly the same color as the bartender's hair — bright red. "He was a brave man!" she cried. "He certainly wasn't a coward like all of you!"
Now it was the bartender's face which turned scarlet. "All right, enough. Girl or no, I don't put up with disrespect like that. Urkin, Slonder, show her the door."
The bartender signaled to a pair of square-jawed fellows leaning against the back wall, huge meaty men with slow eyes and perpetually open mouths, all but their faces covered in tattoos. They certainly weren't as big or as tall as Grandon, but they were huge by human standards, and they'd had no trouble taking care of Grandon earlier — at least in his foggy state of mind. Reaching for the girl, they loped forward as dumbly and stiffly as the King's Metal Men.
Grandon was fully prepared to let them toss the girl out — it might have taught her a lesson about the value in keeping one's mouth shut — but then the girl did something truly unexpected.
She pulled a sword out of her pack.
It was not just any sword, either. It was a dragontooth blade, as black as a sliver of darkness.
There might have been more laughter had it been a different kind of blade, one not so rare and deadly, and if the girl had not swung the blade so viciously. She might have only been doing so as a warning, but even so, one of them just barely avoided having his hand sliced. This, of course, made them mad, and by the look in their eyes Grandon knew there was little chance now they'd stop with tossing her in the cold. They were going to hurt her too.
Regardless of how irritating she was, that was not something Grandon could abide.
The girl was quick on her feet, and not all that bad with the blade for one so young, but these were experienced brutes. When she swung at one of them, the other stepped in to grab her. That was when Grandon acted, using the long reach of his arm to backslap the man hard across the face.
It was a glancing blow, really, but even a glancing blow from Grandon was enough to send the man sprawling onto one of the tables.
Beer and bread went flying, one mug hitting a Bando squarely in the snout. Enraged, the bear-faced creature came roaring at Grandon, who swept the girl aside before taking the charge in the gut. More people were knocked aside, drawing their ire, but in the chaos it was forgotten who started what. It exploded into an all-out brawl. Soon every creature in the room was punching, pawing, scratching or biting.
Grandon managed to extricate himself from a stranglehold of sweaty, crimson fur, but then the two brutes each took hold of an arm and heaved him into the bar.
He slammed hard against the wood, splintering it. The blow knocked the wind out of him, stars flashing before his eyes. Before he could gather himself, the bartender had a one arm clamped around his neck and a knifepoint pressing against his throat.
"This ends," the bartender hissed, leaning in close.
His hot breath smelled of garlic. That might have been the end of Grandon right there — all it would have taken was one quick thrust — but then there was the sound of breaking glass. The bartender slumped to the floor, releasing his hold on Grandon.
When Grandon turned, still a bit dazed, he saw the girl standing on the bar, a broken glass mug in hand. She was smiling.
He couldn't believe it — smiling, at a time like this.
Maybe it was the sound, but something about the tenor of the melee changed. Everybody turned their rage toward him, a mass of bodies flowing toward him like a wave.
For a moment, there was a clear path to the exit. Grandon knew there would not be a second chance. He grabbed the girl — who immediately started to struggle — and sprinted toward the door. A couple people grasped at his clothes, but he managed to jerk free.
Then he was outside, sprinting through the darkness, boots smacking on the mud. He headed for the trees. He hoped that would be the end of it, but then he heard the bartender's gasping, strangled shout from inside.
"Get them!" he cried.
At least half the inn heeded his command — and an angry mob fell into pursuit.
Chapter 3
Strange as it might seem, it was not the first time in Grandon's life he had been pursued by an angry mob. Even though he'd only been on his own a couple of years, these were just the sorts of things that seemed to happen to him on a regular basis. Usually, though, he could see that he'd at least partially deserved it.
In this case, however, he was definitely not to blame.
"Put me down!" the girl cried.
"No! "
"I don't want your help!"
"Too bad!"
The mob yelled and cursed, pursuing them into the cover of the trees. He expected most to fall back when the darkness thickened, the roof of the forest blocking out what little moonlight squeezed through the dense cloud cover, but dozens still pursued. A few even had torches. Where did they get torches so fast? It was like a mob formed and suddenly there were torches. It was just one of those things about mobs.
In his arms, the crazy child wiggled without end. He was tempted to thump her on the head to still her — it would be for her own good, really — but his fist was too big and her head too small to even take a chance. Instead, he did the best he could with her fighting him every step of the way. Thankfully, his steps were long, so he was able to outdistance most of his pursuers within a few minutes.
Still, the Bandos and some of the heartier men did not give up the chase. It didn't help that they had those torches, allowing them to see the way ahead, and he had to rely on his poor night vision — which wasn't even as good as a human's. More than once, he tripped over a slick log or felt the prickly branches of some scraggly tree rake across his cheeks.
The air closed about him like a wet blanket. He veered back and forth through the maze of trees, but the mob was persistent. Suddenly the ground disappeared beneath him and he slid into a leafy ravine reeking of mold. Panicked, he started to climb out, knowing he had only a few seconds lead, but then he saw a gaping maw of darkness inside the ravine, partially hidden under fallen pine branches.
He ducked inside, wet pine needles poking his face. The hole was bigger than it had seemed, big enough that he could mostly stand, the muddy, root-infested ceiling brushing against his head and shoulders. The darkness was so deep that he couldn't tell how far back the cave went, but there was a dank whisper of air that gave him the sense it went back a ways. The mud inside was stickier than the mud out on the forest floor.
"Hey!" the girl protested. "What are you—"
He clamped his hand over her mouth to silence her, making sure to leave her nose uncovered so she could breathe. Within seconds, he heard thumping footsteps. The girl must have heard the sounds too, because thankfully she stopped trying to talk. Both of them stood absolutely still, Grandon holding his breath while he listened to the mob arguing about where he'd gone. He prayed that they wouldn't be able to see the cave.
Finally, after what felt like a month, someone shouted he'd heard something up ahead, and the mob took off in that direction. He waited until he was sure they were gone, until the sounds of boots, feet, and hooves crunching on mud and twigs faded to silence, then waited some more just to be sure. He waited so long that the girl finally had enough — and bit his hand.
He let out a muffled yelp and dropped her in the mud. She rolled quickly to her feet, still brandishing her dragontooth blade, all but the hilt of the sword invisible.
"Are you completely out of your mind?" he whispered.
"I didn't ask you to carry me!"
"Shh! They could still be out there. They would have killed us if I wouldn't have carried you."
"I would have fought them!"
"I told you to keep your voice down! Do you have a death wish? Is that what you want, girl? You want to die?"
"My name is Kyla," she said. "Not girl. Kyla."
"Well whoop-de-do," Grandon said. "Congratulations, you have a name. Maybe King Thorne will throw a parade in your honor. Oh wait, I forgot — you want to kill him!"
It was difficult to see all but a hint of her in the darkness, but Grandon saw the hilt of the sword drop slightly.
"You're being sarcastic," she said. "You shouldn't be sarcastic so much. It's not a very good quality."
"Oh, thanks for the advice," he shot back. "You're very wise. I'll make sure I consider your suggestion deeply."
"You're doing it again. It's not a very nice thing to do after I saved you."
This was almost too much for Grandon to bear. "Saved me? Are you mad? I just saved you! If I wouldn't have carried you out of there, you would be dead! "
"I would have made it."
"Never!"
"And anyway, I saved you by hitting the bartender. If I hadn't done that, you wouldn't have been around to carry me in the first place."
"But — but — but that's because I stepped in when you pulled out that stupid sword! If I hadn't—"
"I was doing just fine," Kyla sniffed.
" — stepped in at that moment—"
"I could handle it."
" — they would have torn you to bits!"
"No, they'd be dead."
Grandon was so flabbergasted he couldn't even muster any words. He just glared at her in the darkness and shook his head, mumbling and muttering to himself. He tried several times to say something, but he was so twisted up that it all came out a jumble. Finally, he raised his arms and moaned frustration.
"Shh!" she warned. "They'll hear you!"
Grandon's jaw dropped. "They'll hear me? I'm the one who told you . . . told you . . . Aaargh! You are the most insufferable girl I have ever met!"
"I told you, my name's Kyla."
"Whatever!"
"Anyway, I'm glad you decided to join me."
"Join you! I'm not joining you. I was just being nice, saving your skin! Though I don't know why, fat lot of good it did me."
"So are we going now or not?"
"What? No! I need to wait to make sure they don't—"
"Well, I'm going. Maybe you can catch up."
"Will you just—"
"Goodbye."
"Kyla!"
Even saying her name didn't stop her. He heard the mucking of her boots, saw her silhouette pushing back the pine branches — and grabbed her by the scruff of her jacket before she could get far. She resisted, waving her sword awkwardly at him. Rather than suffer a cut, he tossed her to the side. She fell hard, and though he couldn't see her eyes, he could practically feel the heat of her glare.
"How dare you!" she said.
"Will you just hold on," he said. "Where are you going, anyway? It's pitch dark!"
"I'm going to save my mother!"
"Right, of course. But now? Can't it wait till morning?"
"No!"
"Do you even know where she is?"
"I know where she's going to be. They'll take her to the mines in Kalta-Vent — at Thorne's castle! That's where all the prisoners go — to dig for Dalacore!"
"Right, right, so you're just going to march in there—"
"Yes!"
"— and take on Thorne's army —"
"Yes!"
"— all by yourself, just you."
"Yes!"
Despite Grandon's irritation, he had to admit that there was something compelling about her. Whether it was stupidity or bravery, he couldn't say, but whatever it was that gave her such conviction was a rare quality indeed. It would get her killed, of course, he had no doubt about that, but she was still one-of-a-kind. And it would be sad to see such a one-of-a-kind wonder die needlessly, especially if there was something he could do to prevent it.
That's why, when she again headed out of the ravine, he made a decision.
"Wait," he said with a sigh. He didn't need her problems. He had enough problems of his own. "Just wait second, Kyla," he said, and then, reluctantly added: "I have an idea."
"I'm not staying here," she insisted.
"Hear me out, will you?" He sighed again. He was full of sighs now. "Just hear me out. I'm not asking you to stay. I'm saying I might know how to save your mother."
"How?" There was suspicion.
"It's just an idea, all right? I'm not promising anything. We might not get there in time. But there's a chance."
"What are you talking about?"
He sighed. It was like an epidemic now, a plague of sighs that had infected his every waking thought. He couldn't help himself. "When was your mother taken?"
"What difference does that make?"
"Just answer the question, please. Was it today?"
"It was this morning," Kyla sniffed.
"And where was this?"
"In the mountains. Over on the east side."
Grandon scratched his chin. "All right, all right then. We'll really have to hoof it, but we might just get there in time — if we go all night."
"Get where in time?"
This was Grandon's last chance to back out of the plan he was about to propose. He could suggest something insane, like they should go find some unicorns to help them, or better yet, something practical, like maybe it was best if he took her to one of the monk orphanages. She'd reject either option out of hand, and that would be that, she'd be on her way and he'd never have to see her again.
But could he really just let her walk away? It seemed to him the choice to help her had already been made. Maybe it had occurred when he'd followed her into the inn, or maybe it had happened the first moment she'd spoken to him. Or perhaps instead of one big choice he'd made lots of little choices that took him to a place where it only seemed he'd made a bigger choice. Life often went that way, at least in Grandon's experience. You thought you were only deciding you wanted eggs for breakfast and before you knew it you were running a chicken farm and wondering why.
"Sit down," he said. "I'll explain."
"I don't want to sit down."
"Fine, whatever. Here's what I know: All prisoners eventually end up in one place — the boarding depot outside of Carmeen, on the north side of the mountains. That's where they're loaded into train cars and carted up to Kalta-Vent."
"I've never heard of it," Kyla said.
"No, of course not. It's hidden in the forest. That's the way the Royal Government wants it. They don't want anyone knowing the mines exist."
"Everybody knows the mines exist."
"Well, there's a difference between knowing something because someone told you and seeing it with your own eyes. Everybody may know the mines exist, but it's different when you see the prisoners being transported like caged animals. People might revolt. Thorne doesn't want that. If there's something really terrible happening, even if it's happening right under their noses, most people will believe a lie if given a chance — even when they know, deep down, the lie is a lie. Seeing something under the light of the sun takes that chance away."
"That's stupid," Kyla said flatly. "Just because you don't see something in person doesn't mean it's not true."
"Fear does funny things to folks," Grandon said. "Listen, here's what I'm thinking. Those Metal Men aren't all that fast, especially having to cart those prisoners around the mountain. They'll take the roads, which are twice the distance. If we go up and over, we can get there about the same time."
"And then what?"
"Well, I guess we rescue your dear old mother."
"She's not old. She's really young, actually."
"Right. It's just an expression. Look, I'm not promising anything. But because the depot's hidden, it also allows us to hide from the guards. I'm thinking as the train pulls away, we might be able to jump on board and get her off. It'll still be tricky, but we'll have a chance."
There was silence. The clouds must have thickened because he couldn't see her at all now, not even a hint of her.
"You'd help me do that?" she said softly.
Grandon did his best to suppress the sigh that desperately wanted to escape his mouth, but a tiny one still slipped out. "Yes," he said.
"And we'll go now?"
"We have to go now."
"Will King Thorne be there?"
"I highly doubt it. Everybody knows he's too sick to leave Kalta-Vent much these days."
"Oh." She sounded disappointed. "Be hard to kill him if he's not there. I guess we can go to Kalta-Vent after—"
She was interrupted by a low rumble. It made the hairs on the back of Grandon's neck rise.
"What that your stomach?" she asked
"I thought it was yours," Grandon replied.
"Don't be silly. I'm just a girl. My stomach isn't that loud."
The rumble came again, louder this time. It occurred to Grandon that he didn't have any idea how deep this little cave was. It occurred to him that maybe it wasn't so little after all.
"I think it's time to go," he said.
The sound of Kyla swallowing wasn't as loud as the rumble, but it was loud enough to be heard. "I think you're—" she began.
This time she wasn't cut off by the rumble, but by a foul rush of air. Before Grandon could react, there was a burst of mud that sprayed him in the face and a shape emerged from the deeper darkness of the cave, rumbling like a train that had flown its tracks and was barreling through the dirt. The shape was huge and round, filling the entire space, and it slammed into him like a giant fist — crashing him through the wall of pines
Even before he was outside, affording him at least a glimpse of his attacker, Grandon had a good sense what it was. The skin was slick and rubbery and coated with a thin gloss of slime.
A Gargan Worm.
There was a smell, too — a dank, wormy smell that was overpowering in its own right. If Grandon had any doubt what it was by touching it, those doubts were erased when he saw the glowing amber eye.
The eye, actually a prism of hundreds of eyes like a piece of shattered glass, blinked.
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