Giant thief

CHAPTER 22

Standing in the middle of what minutes ago had been a road and was now a lake of churned filth and freshly spilled blood, an odd thought struck me. If heroism meant making bold and ultimately suicidal gestures, I'd just proved myself every bit Alvantes's match.

I assumed there must be something more to it that I'd missed. Then, as I turned and sprinted towards Estrada and Saltlick, I remembered the sight of Alvantes cradling the bloody stump of his wrist.

Maybe I had the right idea after all.

Estrada had been busy in my absence. She'd freed two of our horses from the stand of trees where Moaradrid's men had tethered them, and stood with the reins knotted around one hand. If they were panicked from the sounds of violence, they were still a better option than an escape attempt on foot.

First things first, though. "Saltlick, get up!" I shouted, holding the giant-stone where he could see it. "You're free. You're going home."

Saltlick leaped to his feet, his face crumpling into the widest grin I'd ever seen. "Go home!" he roared.

Halfway there, I hazarded a glance behind me. Moaradrid was concentrated now on mustering riders from the mouth of the gorge. They in turn were struggling to force their way through the fighting, which had resumed as a series of isolated skirmishes. Alvantes was trying to loop back to where the Altapasaedans were making their last stand. Though his face was frozen with pain and his hauberk drenched with blood, he was still taking time to swipe at any nearby foe with the sword gripped in his remaining hand.

The man was astonishing. He had no idea how to give up and die. But there were Northerners all around him, and I didn't see how he could possibly keep it up for much longer.

I hurried on. Estrada was leading the horses towards me, dragging them as fast as she could without alarming them further. Saltlick trotted behind, still overjoyed, oblivious to the carnage.

I was badly winded by the time we reached each other. As I stopped to gasp for breath, Estrada thrust reins into my free hand.

"Rest later, if we're not dead."

She swung into the saddle. I jammed the giantstone into a pocket and followed her example. I recognised my steed, a pitch-black stallion with a demented gleam in his eyes, as having belonged to Alvantes. He didn't seem happy with his new circumstances. He whinnied frantically and pawed with his front hooves. I threw my arms around his neck, certain he'd rear. However, Estrada chose that moment to drive her own mount forward, and perhaps mine took the action as a challenge, because before I knew it we were moving too.

But "moving" does that first wild burst of speed no justice. Anyone who'd weathered a typhoon in a coracle might have an idea how I felt. I clung to the fiend, fighting the urge to clamp my eyes shut.

I gave up when we reached the first turn. I opened them again when the sickening sense of being at the wrong angle and too near the ground had passed, to see a long straight stretch ahead. The horse saw it too. To my disbelief, he actually accelerated. My stomach bobbed into my mouth and stayed there.

"Rein him in," cried Estrada from somewhere behind, the words almost torn apart by the wind shrieking in my ears.

"He'll murder me!"

"He'll exhaust himself, and they'll catch us."

I knew she was right. That didn't make the idea more realistic or my horse less crazy. It seemed far more likely he'd throw me off and trample my skull like an eggshell than submit to any sort of control. Yet if I didn't try, he'd be spent in minutes. Without letting go my grip around his neck, I tried to snare the loose-hanging reins. I only dared slacken my grasp a fraction when I had them firmly tangled around my fingers.

He didn't even notice. Whether through fear, excitement or sheer viciousness, he seemed determined to run himself to death. Moaradrid would arrive to find me sat on a dead horse, and perhaps he might even smile for once before he chopped my head off. The thought gave me courage enough for a tentative yank on the reins.

"Wooah, Killer!" I cried, as loud as I dared.

The newly renamed Killer whinnied deep in the back of his throat, tossed his head, and picked up speed. I could feel his flanks shuddering between my legs, jerking in rhythm with his labouring lungs. He was beginning to tire already. All it was doing was making him madder. What was he so angry about, anyway?

Maybe he missed his master.

I jerked back on the reins with all my might and, summoning my best impression of Alvantes, bellowed, "Stop, damn you!"

Though Killer didn't stop, he slowed dramatically. He'd been expecting Alvantes, and nothing could have confused him more than a timid rider. He was used to authority, to knowing his place in the world.

Saltlick picked that moment to trot up beside me and, remembering him sat stock-still at Moaradrid's command, I couldn't help drawing a comparison to the animal labouring beneath me. I knew it was unfair. The giants' system of leadership had probably worked perfectly for centuries when only giants were involved. It wasn't designed to cope with power-hungry warlords, or self-absorbed thieves for that matter.

Saltlick actually looked well. His wounds had knitted faster than a man's would, and his expression remained cheerful. It was as though the morning's carnage had been a mere preamble to his starting homeward. I couldn't find it in me to blame him for that. He'd suffered more than most because of Moaradrid, and with least reason.

Maybe making sure he got back home was the only worthwhile way left to end this. Moaradrid was bound to catch us eventually. I'd been so close to death so many times over the last few days that it was hard to work up much excitement over the idea. Anyway, we had to run somewhere. Perhaps the near-mythical hideaway of the giants was as good a place as any.

Estrada caught up on my left side, and called, "They're close."

I dared a glance over my shoulder. There were riders, sure enough, though Moaradrid wasn't amongst them. They'd just passed the last corner, and would still have been out of sight if this section of road weren't so straight. It was impossible to tell if they were gaining.

"Is this the right way?" I asked Saltlick.

He tried to nod, realised the gesture was futile when his whole body was bobbing with each stride, and pointed ahead. If I remembered the area rightly, we were near the Cancasa Bridge, the southern border of Castovalian civilisation. The road veered outward to avoid an outcrop of the mountainside, just before the point where it met the river. It was there that Saltlick indicated.

Once we'd rounded the next bend, the road dissolved into a series of long curves. It was impossible to see the northern riders after that. The fact made me both glad and nervous. I'd no desire to watch them drawing closer, but knowing they might be and that I couldn't see it was almost worse. If Moaradrid's men were remotely typical of the northern tribes, they'd probably been born in the saddle, whereas my lack of control over Killer was severely slowing us down. He only seemed to understand going too quickly or too slowly, and convincing him to keep a steady pace was a constant struggle. I did the best I could, and willed the outcrop to appear, as though it would offer some miraculous safety.

Inevitably it was a disappointment. Saltlick had taken the lead, his easy strides more than a match for our horses. Where the road jerked aside to avoid a wedge of rocky ground, a rough trail led off to the right. Saltlick turned onto it without slowing, undaunted by the incline. Killer was more nervous, slowing almost to a halt before he got the measure of the looser surface.

It occurred to me Moaradrid's men might miss the turn-off. But there was no real hope of that. Even if there was no one in the party who could follow our trail, it didn't take a genius to guess where we'd be heading. Moaradrid himself had come this way only a month or so ago. I wondered briefly how he'd ever known about the giant-stone. Or had he simply planned to make some deal, or somehow force the giants into service? I didn't dare guess how that wolfish mind of his might work.

I couldn't resist another look back as we began up the hillside, clinging to the absurd hope that for once luck would take our side. The trail curled between slabs of grey rock streaked with chalk, or sometimes banks of hard-packed earth where gaunt thorn trees bent towards us. The main road was hidden from view, and all the perspective we had was the occasional glimpse of river to our left and the ramparts of the mountain rearing ahead. I couldn't tell if Moaradrid's men had taken the turn-off.

As long as I didn't know for sure, I could hope.

The path, which had been steadily worsening, became abruptly steeper. Killer nearly lost his footing, and whinnied irritably. He wasn't bred for this kind of thing. This was literally donkeywork, and torment for an animal born to run on the flat. As distressing as it was to feel him struggling beneath me, my greatest worry was that we'd have to abandon our mounts. After the travails of the last few hours, neither Estrada nor I were in particularly good shape. Having to leave the horses could only work to Moaradrid's advantage.

Of course, I was still clutching to the faint hope that we'd lost our pursuers. It wasn't until the incline took us out from the region of shallow gullies and onto the beginning of the mountainside proper that we had a clear view. There was the river, tumbling from the mountainside to wind into the blue haze of the distance. There was the Cancasa Bridge, looking hopelessly fragile against the backdrop of tumbling white-water, and the road traipsing across it and away in each direction.

Lastly, there was Moaradrid's small band. I was surprised by how far behind they'd fallen. They'd barely made the turn onto the trail. At that distance, they were little more than large specks standing out against the grey of the path.

Nor did they seem to be rushing. I thought about what Mounteban had said — that Moaradrid's unpaid and ill-fed army was close to rebellion. Were they taking their time through half-heartedness, perhaps discussing whether it mightn't be easier just to turn around and forget the whole sorry business? But another detail made me think twice. The party had grown by at least a half-dozen riders, and a couple of what from their outlines must be pack mounts. It was just as likely that they'd waited for support and supplies, perhaps even for Moaradrid himself. Wouldn't he want to see this through?

So maybe they weren't hurrying because they knew we had nowhere left to run.

A thought crossed my mind: If I ordered him to, Saltlick could kill them all. A dozen men — a thrown rock would probably do it. Maybe I should have done it days ago, in Panchetto's palace perhaps. Wouldn't Panchetto be alive now if I had? I glanced at Saltlick. He'd been running, or walking hard, for nearly an hour now, and his skin glistened with sweat. Yet there was no sign of tiredness in his face, only a look of steadfast pleasure.

I couldn't imagine what it would be like for going home to mean that much — enough to eclipse pain and tiredness, to wipe out days of fear and violence. I wouldn't see Saltlick reunited with his people with those bastards' blood still wet on his hands. Damn Moaradrid, let them catch us if they wanted.

Clearly, it was exactly what they wanted. His party were fractionally nearer whenever I looked back. They couldn't do much to narrow the gap with both of us travelling so slowly, but they didn't need to. If they gained a step an hour, it would be enough to overtake us eventually.

I became increasingly aware that I'd have to ignore that contracting gap if I didn't want to die much sooner. The trail was terrible, not really a trail at all. Apart from Moaradrid's force all those weeks ago, I doubted anything bigger than a goat had passed this way in years. There was no way he'd brought an army up here; I could only assume he'd camped them nearby. There was nothing under our horses' hooves but a narrow ribbon of rock, edging a precipice that fell steeply to the boulders below.

We came eventually to a section where the incline levelled out, and the gap between the cliff face to our right and the edge on our left was wide enough for the three of us to travel abreast. Saltlick automatically took the most dangerous position. He moved easily, unperturbed by the altitude or the lethally uneven surface. Estrada rode on the inside, and Killer and I were in the middle.

All fight had gone out of the poor beast. He trod anxiously, giving the occasional worried snort. More and more he expected constant guidance, and made no secret of resenting my over-the-shoulder surveillance of Moaradrid's men. He'd dance a little closer to the edge, as though my reassurance was the only thing keeping us from hurtling over. I realised I'd have to give him my full concentration if he wasn't going to sacrifice us both to prove his point.

That insight proved just a minute too late.

Estrada's mount screamed horribly. He'd completely lost his hoofing, and slid towards me. I reined Killer in, too roughly. Rather than retreat, he stopped dead. Estrada's mount struck his flank and he slipped too. My eyes fell to the cliff, which jerked nearer with nightmarish abruptness.

"Saltlick!"

He looked round to see both horses skittering towards him, hooves dancing out of control. He looked puzzled for an instant. Then he dug his toes in, gripping the very verge of the precipice, and held his palms out, just in time to brace against Killer's flank. That only scared Killer more. He reared, thrashing his forelegs, and I hurled my arms around his neck. Saltlick barely ducked out of the way.

Estrada, to my right, had restored enough control to drag her horse to safer ground. Killer, though, was half-mad with fear. He tried to bolt forward. He might as well have tried to run on ice. The burst only propelled him nearer the edge. He whickered in terror. Beyond the precipice beside us, a landscape in miniature span into view, toy trees and rocks an impossible distance below. Killer tried once more to regain the path, drove himself sideways again. His forelegs kicked against nothing.

We lurched into the void.

I could feel the wind tearing at me. I could hear its screech. I felt myself plummeting.

At least, that was what my brain insisted. My eyes told a different story. They were anchored to the ground far, far below. Seconds passed, and for all that my mind was convinced I should be plunging towards it, it drew no closer.

Even when that eye-watering view swung away, even when the path drifted back into focus, I couldn't believe it. I felt a tug on my right leg. Since when did falling involve having your leg pulled? I looked aside. There was Estrada, one hand still on my knee. There was Saltlick beside her, panting with exertion.

"What happened?" I managed, the words thick on my tongue.

"Saltlick caught you."

"He caught me?"

"Your horse."

"Nobody's that strong."

She managed a thin smile. "Clearly Saltlick is."

We didn't try to ride again after that. Chips of shale littered the trail, and flowed like water under the slightest pressure. That was what had caused Estrada's mount to slip. Leading the horses was only slightly safer, but it calmed them a little at least. Killer had suffered some sort of nervous collapse, and wouldn't do anything without my guidance. I kept a tight grip on the reins bunched in my hand and whispered outrageous lies I thought might keep his spirits up. "Almost at the lake of sugar, Killer," I said, and "don't worry, your barn's just around the next bend."

The accident had occupied less than a minute. Still, it was valuable time lost. If Moaradrid's men fared better, if their horses were more familiar with this sort of terrain, then they'd be on us by nightfall.

Rather than think about that, I concentrated on keeping my footing, and on my one-sided conversation with Killer. Neither went well. I couldn't go ten steps without my feet slipping from under me, and there are only so many absurd promises you can make to a horse. My body, already battered from riding, complained more with each step. My legs felt weak and elastic. I found myself remembering that moment of almost plunging to my death, and my head swam. Added to all those discomforts, the light was beginning to fade. The encroaching night played tricks with my eyes, and brought with it a ferocious cold.

I'd half convinced myself that the razor's edge path across the rock face would never end, so that when it did I halted in confusion. Saltlick, who'd been leading, had disappeared, seemingly into the stone itself. Only when Estrada followed did I see the narrow crevasse they'd entered. It was a sheer split in the mountain, reaching down from high above. It was almost like an open doorway, and the sense of boundary made me nervous.

Weariness had just about worn through the last of my courage. I thought seriously of leaving the giantstone there on the path in the hope that one of Moaradrid's men would find it — or perhaps trip over it and break his neck.

"Hurry up," called Estrada. "We're out of the wind here."

"Come on, Killer," I muttered, "nearly at the magic castle of hay."

The region beyond the gap was surprisingly spacious, a wide hollow between two slanting planes that tilted together to almost meet far above. It was like a tent of rock, and as Estrada had said, it cut off the worst of the wind. The change in temperature was dramatic.

Saltlick stood in the gloom at the far end. The chasm narrowed beyond him, and curved steeply upward. That must be the next leg of the path, though it looked even less deserving of the term than the route by which we'd arrived. The idea of attempting it made my legs turn to jelly, from my thighs to the tips of my toes. The still-rational part of my brain reminded me that Moaradrid's men must be less than an hour behind us. The remainder, numb with weariness, pointed out how little I cared.

"We'll have to leave the horses here," Estrada said.

Leave Killer? Was she serious? "They can't get down on their own."

"Of course not. But we can't take them any further. If we make it we'll come back for them."

"And if we don't?"

Estrada sighed. "Then it's not going to make any difference, is it?"

It was hard to fault her logic, especially with my brain melting from exhaustion. "Maybe we should take a minute to think about it."

"We don't have a minute. Be reasonable, Damasco."

"Reasonable?" The word came out as a sob. "What's reasonable? We've been on the run all day and I can't keep going! My legs won't work. I'm not made for heroics, Estrada. Please, just let me rest for a little while."

I expected her to shout at me, to accuse me of selfishness and cowardice. I expected an argument. What I didn't expect was for Saltlick to reply before she could. "Saltlick carry." The words rolled out of the shadows, tolled back and forth between the crevasse walls. "Go home."

"What?"

"Saltlick carry." He stepped into the thin streak of light from the fissure far above. Kneeling, he cupped his arms together, hand locked to hand to form a sort of cradle.

"You're joking."

"Carry. Not tired. Go home."

It was as many words as I'd ever heard Saltlick string together. There was a new tone to his voice too; even his monosyllabic grammar couldn't disguise the note of longing. I wanted to tell him it was all right, that I could go on. The truth was, I couldn't. I'd meant what I said. I felt as though the muscles in my calves and thighs were dissolving like ice in a fire.

"All right."

I moved nearer, let him scoop me off the ground. I thought I'd be embarrassed, but all I could feel as my feet left the earth was relief. I let my eyes slide closed, and soft blackness wrapped around me.

"Damasco, you can't… I mean…"

I felt Saltlick straighten up. He held me as carefully as any mother ever had her baby.

"It's okay," I murmured. "Just for a little while. Then it's your turn, promise."

"It isn't that. You'll wear him out."

I let my body go loose when he began to move, let myself bounce along with his steps.

"It's really okay."

"Damasco…"

I woke to a velvet sky splashed with shimmering, fluid stars.

The moon was gibbous, almost full, shining brightly through shreds of cloud. The rock stood out like alabaster beneath its light, glowing faintly, seeming slightly unreal. There was no transition from sleep to wakefulness, and no hint of what had roused me. I had the vague memory of deep, dreamless sleep. My nostrils filled with a musky scent like damp, warm straw, and I breathed in deeply, until I realised it was the smell of unwashed giant.

I remembered where I was.

"Hey, hey… put me down, Saltlick."

Saltlick lurched to a halt, bent his knees, and set me on my feet.

"Better?"

I thought about it. I ached from head to toe, yet it was almost pleasant compared with the numbing weariness of before.

"I am. I can feel my feet again."

"Quiet, Damasco. They're close."

I barely recognised the voice as Estrada's. I stepped around Saltlick, saw her, and gasped. She was skeletal and deathly pale under the moonlight. I fell into step between them and said softly, "Saltlick, can you carry Estrada?"

"Yes. Go home."

"Easie, I don't need carrying."

"Then do it, Saltlick. As your chief, I command you — whatever she says or does."

"Damasco, you…"

Estrada hadn't time to finish her sentence before Saltlick swept her from the ground. She glared down at me and looked as though she'd try to struggle free.

"Listen to sense for once. He can manage."

"Not tired," agreed Saltlick. Though it couldn't possibly be true, he sounded as if he meant it.

"Easie," she murmured.

"Quiet."

And for once, she was. I held a hand near her face and felt gentle, regular sighs of breath. She was fast asleep.

"All right, Saltlick," I whispered, "let's get going."

Estrada and I swapped places twice through that interminable night, one carried while the other clambered up the rock-strewn trail. At least, I assumed there was a trail. I saw no sign of one, but Saltlick seemed to be guided by something. I followed in his footsteps as well as I could. Whenever I diverged even slightly I'd trip over some obstruction or slip on a loose patch of ground.

My first shift on foot ran to around midnight. I remember the moon hanging directly above me like a pendulum, fat and heavy, ready to fall at any moment. Saltlick clambering over a particularly awkward outcrop roused Estrada, and she insisted we change places.

My second shift began a little before sunrise. I woke, saw Estrada labouring beside Saltlick and was overcome with guilt. I'd already regretted my nobility by the time we'd swapped places, but it was too late. Estrada was fast asleep in Saltlick's arms and I was stumbling around boulders beneath the flush of a new day.

It was a glorious dawn, the sky streaked with shades of crimson and orange and bright, brittle pink. It was spoiled only by the crawling black dots far below that represented Moaradrid's men. They were still on our trail. But they were no nearer. Thanks to Saltlick, we'd kept our lead through the night.

If the three of us might not be good for much, we were good at surviving. When Saltlick chose that moment to point with his free hand to a gap in the peaks above and whisper, "Home," I couldn't help but laugh aloud. Against all the odds, through everything Moaradrid and fate had conspired to hurl at us, we'd made it.

That final stretch of mountainside was almost a pleasure. It was as hard as everything that had gone before, and worse for the fact that I could see now how broken the terrain I clambered over was. Yet what did it matter? I'd kept a promise for the first time in my life. It was a good promise and I hadn't broken it. That victory seemed more important to my giddy, sleep-starved brain than the ferocious battle in the valley ever had. I scrambled with gusto, smiling to think of Moaradrid's thugs suffering below. They had no giant to help them, no small triumphs to keep them going.

For the longest while we clambered up wide steps littered with splintered chunks of rock. Then near the summit, those gave way to a wide slope of pebbles and loose shale. If there was the faintest suggestion of a path, it was no less treacherous than the rest of the climb had been. I tripped frequently, only saving myself each time by driving my fingers up to the knuckles into the scree. Even Saltlick, who so far had managed to compensate for the loss of his hands with sheer strength, began to struggle. Estrada gurgled unhappily in his arms whenever he slipped.

The opening was tantalisingly close. Estrada stirred and mumbled something. It seemed a shame for her to sleep through Saltlick's homecoming.

"Wake up," I called. "We're almost there."

She shook her head and wriggled, forcing Saltlick to set her on her feet. She stared around, rubbing her eyes, clearly not quite awake.

"What? Where are we?"

I pointed.

She followed my finger, looked drowsily at Saltlick and back to me. Then her eyes widened, as realisation dawned.

"Oh! Is that it?"

I nodded, grinning hugely.

"Way home," agreed Saltlick.

Estrada gazed back in the direction we'd come from, to the indistinct, dark shapes that represented our pursuers.

She smiled, and the smile widened and ended in a ringing, bright laugh. "We did it. After everything…" The smile flickered, and was gone. "Everything that's happened."

I could practically see the memories parading behind her eyes: that first, hideous battle all those days ago, Panchetto's death, the fight in the canyon and Alvantes's terrible injury. But there was nothing there that could be changed now, and nothing I was about to let spoil my good mood.

I punched Saltlick on the thigh, and said, "Come on. Lead the way."

Saltlick, perhaps following the situation for once, set off hurriedly towards the gap above. I fell in behind, taking more care, and after the slightest hesitation Estrada moved to join me. By the time we'd caught up, he'd come to a halt on the narrow outcrop that topped the incline. Twin crags towered ahead of him like miniature mountain peaks. Between ran the narrow cleft of the opening, and beyond that…

I heard a choking sound, and realised it was me.

" You can't be serious! "