Giants

CHAPTER TWO Sabertooths

Two Years Later

The Elonite expedition into Giant Land was daring. Seldom did human ships disgorge warriors onto these wind-swept shores. When they did, it was usually so the warriors could gain the vainglorious trophies of mammoth, sabertooths, or great sloth. Then they hastily retreated to their ships and sailed for safety. That Lord Uriah, a patriarch of two peoples, and well over five hundred years old, had come to Giant Land to capture steppe ponies verged on madness.

However, for ten lucky days the Elonite charioteers had roamed the steppes unharmed. For ten fortuitous days, because no giants were seen, the charioteers cut selected stallions from the herds, and took them to the camp at Hori Cove where they stayed.

On the eleventh day, several unusual incidents occurred. Those with the gift could have read the signs and foretold the future, because like a cold gust on a muggy summer day the incidents gave warning of the hurricane to come. Unfortunately, fortune-tellers, like weathermen, did their best work from hindsight. Therefore, the Elonites did as others and stumbled from one moment to the next, unaware that the signposts to the future had given their final warning.

Long-limbed Joash skidded to a stop. He wore leathers, crisscrossing leather straps—one held a sloshing water-skin and the other his dagger—and he clutched a javelin. It was fashioned from black Tem wood, varnished smooth, and with a glinting bronze head, with the tiniest smear of blood on the tip.

Beside Joash, panted a huge, lion-colored dog, with a blunt, wedge-shaped head and strangely bright brown eyes. He was a fighting beast, built to attack bears, cave lions and sabertooths.

“Oh no,” Joash wheezed. “Look at the horses.”

“…What about them?” his friend asked.

In the distance, charioteers chased wild steppe ponies. Beyond the two-man chariots and the shaggy ponies waved brown summertime grass. Hidden hunters crouched there with twenty-foot long capture nets. The charioteers drove the wild ponies toward those hidden nets.

“Keep sprinting,” a chariot-runner yelled at Joash. Behind the runner, toiled others like him, lean young men with javelins, knives, and hounds. Most, like Joash, ran barefoot and had hardened calluses like leather boots.

“Wait!” Joash shouted. “The herd—”

In the distance, blaring chariot-horns cut him off. A steppe stallion, a black, shaggy beast with rolling eyes, reared on his hind legs. His front legs pawed the air, and his sharp hooves were like weapons. A charioteer’s lasso snaked at him. The black stallion nimbly dodged and bolted for freedom. Like the canny beast that he appeared to be, he then veered from the dangerous grass, galloped between the rattling chariots and back toward the following runners.

Joash brushed sweaty hair out of his eyes. The black stallion was fast. He marveled how it dodged other lassos, how smoothly it galloped, and how divots of grass and dirt-clods flew from wherever the hooves touched ground.

Another horn blew. It was a sharp, militant sound, higher-pitched than horse whinnies or shouting men. The clear noise cut the air like a razor and redirected the highly trained warriors.

Chariots wheeled after the black stallion. More lassoes snaked at him. The stallion dodged them all, stopped for a moment, and pawed the air again. Now, other steppe ponies responded to his call. The drum of hooves told of their dash for freedom. A signal pennon dipped from the lead chariot. Other vehicles turned and followed the fleeing stallion, the prize of the chase.

Unfortunately, the stallion ran back at the runners. The stallion might lead the entire herd, trampling onto Joash and his companions.

Feeling the thunderous herd through his bare feet from the tremors in the ground, Joash glanced at the nearby marsh. The wild horses hated swamps, the soft mucky ground, the tall bulrushes that hid predators, and the swarms of biting mosquitoes. Behind Joash, there stood a steep, cedar-topped hill with its jagged boulders. The stallion surged for the gap between the marsh and hill.

“Here they come!” a runner yelled.

“We’ve got to run back and block the gap!” Joash shouted. That would make the stallion and herd head for the hill, and likely mill there, making them perfect targets for the lassos. The other dust-stained runners knew he was right.

“Hurry,” Joash yelled.

They whirled and ran where he pointed. So did their dogs. Burs stuck to their leathers, and chariot-churned, dusty air burned down their lungs. To run faster, Joash shed water-skin, his leather kit of supplies, and javelin. Other runners did likewise, leaving a trail like the aftermath of a lost battle.

A stitch of pain shot up Joash’s ribs. His thighs burned. He pushed himself nonetheless, smoothly moving his arms. He passed slower runners. Beside him ran several huge hounds, those of Lord Herrek, which Joash had helped train. From the nearby marsh came croaks, trills, and insect hums. To his left, the edge of the hill grew closer. Then he entered the gap. Behind him galloped the wild horses, their hooves drumming the ground. Joash swore he could smell their sweat.

“Stop!” Joash shouted. He picked up a dirt clod and heaved it at the approaching horses. His dogs stopped with him and barked savagely.

“Spread out,” the oldest runner shouted.

As panic threatened, Joash shifted toward the marsh. He kept throwing dirt clods at the approaching horses. If they didn’t turn soon—

“Yell!” yelled a runner.

The runners shouted and waved their arms, threw dirt clods, and urged the dogs to bark.

The black stallion’s eyes rolled wildly, and he slowed. Because he led the small herd, the other wild horses slowed, too.

“Charge them,” shouted the oldest runner.

The well-trained runners charged, and the wild horses glanced about nervously. Then the charioteers arrived, their vehicles clattering and the wheels throwing up dust. Lassoes flew. Wild horses screamed in outrage as ropes fell onto them. The black stallion edged toward the marsh. A bear of a charioteer, with silvery hair, threw his lasso at the stallion.

“Elidad,” cheered Ard, Joash’s best friend. The silvery-haired warrior was Ard’s lord.

The loop dropped around the stallion’s glistening neck. Elidad roared with glee. The strong black stallion twisted and reared. Elidad shouted angrily as the rope slipped from his hands. The black stallion plunged into the marsh.

“Go after him!” Elidad shouted.

Joash and Ard stood nearest the marsh.

Hot-tempered Elidad pointed at them. “Get him. Don’t let the stallion escape.”

“You mean go into the marsh?” Ard asked.

“Go!” Elidad roared, his face turning red.

“Don’t argue,” Joash said. He pulled his friend and his favorite dog by the scruff of the neck. They ran past whispering bulrushes where the stallion had gone and moved toward water.

“We’re going to get wet,” Ard complained, running a thick hand through his long red hair. He was bigger, broader and a year older than Joash. He was a typical runner: tough, long-winded, and dreaming of the day that he would wield a chariot-lance.

They parted shoulder-high reeds and slapped the mosquitoes that whined around them. The horse tracks led to softer ground. Water squished under their sandals, and mud made sucking sounds.

“The tracks have vanished,” Ard said.

“Look at the path of broken reeds,” Joash said, pointing. “The stallion went that way.”

Behind them, the sounds of the roundup diminished. They tracked further. It became apparent that rather than simply skirting the charioteers, the black stallion had plunged deep into the marsh.

Ard lurched backward, yelling. Joash clutched at his dagger handle. A frog leaped out from under Ard’s foot. Joash and Ard exchanged glances.

“Sorry,” Ard said sheepishly. “It surprised me.”

“You should keep your voice down,” Joash whispered.

Ard scowled, but he nodded.

They kept toiling through the swamp. Joash didn’t mind the stagnant water, the frogs that splashed out of his way, or the spider-creatures that skittered to safety. They were harmless. He raised his hand, however, as a red snake swam by. He knew some marsh-snakes were poisonous.

A moment later, Joash motioned Ard forward.

“What was it?” Ard whispered, his eyes wide with fright.

Joash shook his head, waded, and parted reeds. Beside him moved his favorite dog, Harn. Lord Uriah had traded a mammoth hide for him, complete with the tusks and the prized sandal-making soles. The merchant who’d traded Harn claimed he was of the Azarel breed, the line of dogs that ages ago the Shining Ones had bred for war against the bene elohim. That was preposterous, of course. The Azarel bloodline had died out a century ago, or so any knowledgeable dog breeder said.

Harn was big, lion-colored, and brave, although still technically a pup at ten months of age. Harn’s hackles rose.

Joash cocked his head, wondering what had the dog excited. From within the marsh he heard frightened whinnying. Joash’s heart hammered, so he reminded himself that he’d scouted the marsh days ago. It wasn’t large, nor did any poisonous snakes or lions live in it. The marsh was a low spot, fed by a stream that drained into the Suttung Sea.

Joash parted reeds, withdrew his sandaled feet from the mucky bottom and stepped into deeper water, colder water. The stallion swam into view as his eyes rolled in fear. The loop was still around his neck, and the rope trailed like a snake.

“Hurry,” Joash hissed at Ard.

The water deepened even more, so Joash waded up to his shoulders. Ahead of them, the stallion swam faster, reached a shallow area, and plowed through the muddy bottom. Foam flecked the horse’s mouth as his nostrils flared. Then the stallion pulled himself out of the mud and crashed through reeds. He had reached the other side of the marsh.

“What will we do now?” Ard asked.

“He might snag the rope somewhere,” Joash said. He was beginning to wonder what had the stallion so panicked.

A loud roar froze them into immobility. The black stallion rose up, pawing the air. Another roar sounded, and then a huge sabertooth leaped onto the stallion’s back. They went down and more sabertooths rushed in. In moments, it was over.

Joash ducked lower in the water, while Harn stuck close.

“Let’s get out of here,” Ard hissed.

“Wait,” Joash said. “The water will protect us from the sabertooths.”

“Are you crazy?”

“The sabertooths are like the lions back home, and they hate to get wet.” Joash now thought of the Plains of Elon as home. He’d come a long way since escaping Balak.

Huge sabertooths with luxurious gray fur snarled at each other as they dug their fanged mouths into the horsemeat. The ground was solid there, about a hundred feet away.

“I’ve seen enough,” whispered Ard. He and Joash had slid behind a clump of reeds.

“Wait,” Joash said. Without being aware of it, he was grinning. The big cats were beautiful. This was amazing.

“Wait for what? Do you want those monsters to eat us?”

“They’re feasting,” Joash said. “We’re not in danger.” He studied the huge cats. Then his eyes narrowed and he tapped his chin.

“What is it?” asked Ard, who glanced at him.

“I haven’t seen those sabertooths before.”

“Huh?”

“Haven’t you noticed all the sabertooth tracks we’ve come across?” Joash asked.

“When?”

“The past few days,” Joash said.

Ard shook his head.

“I’ve been noticing them.”

“So?” asked Ard.

“So, a pride of sabertooths are like the prides of lions back home. That’s what Herrek told me, and from what I’ve seen of these sabertooths, that’s true.”

Ard grunted, as if saying he should have realized. Everyone knew that Joash loved animals.

“Each pride has a territory,” Joash explained, “and they fight off other prides.”

Through reeds, Ard peered at the feasting cats. “Are you saying one pride of sabertooths has invaded the territory of another?”

Joash nodded.

“What does that mean?” Ard asked.

“Strange things are supposed to happen in Giant Land. I’d better tell Herrek about this.”

“Good idea,” Ard said. “Let’s go.”

Joash took one last look. The sabertooths were rakish, with powerful shoulders and low hindquarters. Joash spied one especially huge sabertooth, an old monster that stood at least four feet tall at the shoulders. The great cat limped, favoring his left paw. Joash recalled the sabertooth footprints he’d seen yesterday. The footprints had shown him a strangely crippled left paw.

Old Three-Paws, Joash thought to himself, unconsciously naming the beast.

“Let’s go,” Ard insisted.

Joash slowly backed into the deeper water.

“Wait,” Ard said.

Joash raised his eyebrows. Unlike the others, he was black-haired, darker-skinned, and lanky. As a rule, Elonites were red or blond-haired, fair-skinned, and muscular.

“I don’t want to go through the marsh again,” Ard said. “Let’s skirt around it?”

“We dropped our javelins, remember?”

“We’ve got knives,” Ard said, “and you have Harn. Besides, if we run into anything dangerous we can wade into the marsh.”

Joash glanced over his shoulder. The sabertooths were already hidden. He wondered how long until hyenas spotted circling vultures and came to investigate the kill. He breathed deeply. He was tired. They’d been running hard today. He didn’t really want to wade through any more marsh either.

“This way,” Ard said, climbing onto solid ground.

After a long, circuitous route, they pushed through tall bulrushes and came upon a clearing. To their amazement, they saw silver-haired Elidad and his chariot driver. Elidad sat on the chariot, reading something like a scroll.

“What’s he doing here?” Joash asked. “Lord Uriah said chariots are always supposed to drive in teams.”

Ard snorted. “So go tell Elidad that.”

Joash didn’t want a whipping. Elidad wasn’t like Herrek. Elidad lived the difference between Elonite nobility and everyone else.

As they approached Elidad looked up. It seemed he scowled, but Joash was too far away to tell. The warrior thrust whatever he read into his broad belt, jumped up, and patted his driver on the back. The chariot soon rolled toward them.

The two-man chariots of Elon were light and maneuverable, a terror on the battlefield. The chariot flooring had matted weaving like a basket, which helped absorb shock when the wheels struck rocks or uneven ground. The wheels were bronze-rimmed with four narrow spokes and balanced toward the rear of the cart so it could turn sharply. Because of its light construction made for speed, a warrior like Elidad or Herrek could carry such a chariot on his back for many hours.

“Where’s my stallion?” Elidad demanded.

Neither runner said a word.

“Speak,” the charioteer said. He had long, silver hair, bulk like a bear—although nothing like Balak—and he had too many battle scars to be called handsome.

Joash nudged Ard.

Ard bowed his head. “Lord, sabertooths pulled down the stallion.”

When Elidad didn’t start yelling, Joash looked up. Elidad was an impatient warrior, known for his temper, although few were braver. He wore gem-encrusted bands from Ir around his thick arms, and a sea-green Shalmaneser cloak fluttered from his shoulders. His eyes appeared glassy, perhaps from too much drink.

“The stallion is dead, Lord,” Ard said.

Elidad shook his head and grinned. “Climb aboard,” he told Ard.

The unwritten custom among charioteers was that low-ranked runners always ran, never rode, in the chariot. Starting from the bottom, the hierarchy was runner, groom, driver, and the pinnacle of an Elonite warrior’s career, charioteer.

“Did you hear me?” Elidad growled.

Ard scrambled to obey, and hopped aboard the chariot.

“What about me?” Joash asked.

“Return to the hill,” Elidad said. “Some grooms are waiting for you to straggle in.”

Joash grabbed Harn’s collar and dragged him along.

“Not that way!” Elidad shouted.

Surprised, Joash looked up.

“Leave the clearing,” Elidad said, “and head directly onto the plains.”

“Yes, warrior,” Joash said, knowing that meant going through the marsh.

Without another word, Elidad nodded at his driver. A whip cracked, and the chariot pulled away, taking Ard with it. As Elidad headed north, Ard and Joash exchanged a last worried glance at the charioteer’s odd behavior.

Curiosity won out over obedience. Joash didn’t head directly onto the plains as ordered. First, checking that Elidad had left, Joash hurried into the clearing. He followed the chariot-wheel tracks of crushed grass and flowers, two parallel lines of flattened plants that slowly rose to their former position. Some stalks had snapped, like a tall dandelion white with seedpods. The bottom of the snapped stalk oozed milky fluids, and it would never rise again.

Joash halted when he saw the skeleton, and knew at a glance that this is what Elidad had wanted hidden. The bones were white, cracked with age, and spotted with dry lichen. It was a giant’s skeleton, with a smashed skull. Footprints showed where Elidad had walked around it. Upturned soil and scattered finger-bones indicated that Elidad had taken something from it.

“It’s ancient,” Joash told Harn.

The lion-colored dog wagged his tail.

“Why didn’t Elidad want me to see this?”

Harn sniffed the skeleton.

In the distance, an auroch-horn blared. Joash could tell its type by the low flat note. A warrior’s horn would have pealed higher. He snapped his fingers at Harn and headed onto the plains. He wondered how the roundup went and which warriors had roped the most stallions.

Soon, Joash spotted two people near the cedar-topped hill. He shouted and waved until they jogged toward him.

It was Eber and Nestor, the latter a tall groom with a red band around his head. “You’re late,” Nestor said.

“Where did everyone go?” Joash asked.

“To the birch tree,” Nestor said. “We’re supposed to bring water. Oh, and make sure you keep Harn out of danger, especially from attacking sabertooths. Those are direct orders from Lord Uriah.”

“Why would he order that?” Joash asked.

“A Kenaz charioteer told us a new pride of sabertooths was spotted prowling around the cooking-wagons.”

“More new sabertooths,” Joash said.

“What’s that mean?”

Joash told them about the sabertooths, the marsh and the black stallion.

“And you think this is another new pride?” Nestor asked.

“I’ll tell you if I’m going blind,” Joash said.

Nestor stroked his beak of a nose. “There’s nothing we can do about it now. You can tell Herrek later. Ready? Let’s go.”

Big Eber lifted two water-skins. Nestor slung one over his shoulder and gave the lightest to Joash. They followed chariot-wheel tracks, avoided thistle patches, and kept a sharp lookout for sabertooths. They came across a lone set of chariot tracks. The grass-crushed lines headed north instead of east with the others.

“Who headed north?” Nestor asked.

Eber shifted his water-pole. “Are we stopping?”

Nestor nodded, and they crouched in the shade of thorn bushes.

“I wish we would have come during winter,” Joash said, as he wiped his sweaty brow.

Nestor chuckled. “My brother came with Herrek ten years ago. The steppes howled with blizzards then.”

Joash studied movement along the eastern horizon, the direction they were traveling. A strange cry came from there.

“Are those hyenas?” Nestor asked. His eyesight was poor.

“They slink like them,” Joash said.

“I hate hyenas,” Eber said ponderously.

Joash didn’t know of anybody who loved them.

Old Three-Paws the sabertooth bitterly hated hyenas.

The hatred had started long ago. He’d been a cub then, barely able to eat solid food. His mother’s mouth had become swollen from giant porcupine quills. She’d wasted away, and had finally lain down, as the pride had padded away to hunt mammoths. Sensing her weakness, hyenas had come in their howling pack. As a cub, Old Three Paws had squeezed into an abandoned jackal hole and had snapped and clawed at the hyenas who had tried to worm in after him. The nightmare still haunted his sleep.

A pack of hyenas prowled in the reeds, watching him eat the stallion. Three-Paws roared, spittle flying from his bloody mouth.

Although past his prime, Three-Paws was still the pride leader and grotesquely powerful, over nine-hundred pounds in weight. Bad-tempered and mean, his long-ago wounding by a two-legs fueled his constant rages. For all his cruelty, however, Three-Paws kept the pride safe from foreign sabertooths. He also had a fanatical loathing of any beast that came near the sacred cubbing den.

A new sound filled the clearing: a blistering roar. The sabertooths looked up in alarm while the hyenas fled with their tails between their legs. In the reeds moved a creature that dwarfed the sabertooths. The creature roared again.

Old Three-Paws cowered, his ears laid flat against his head. The god-creature that had driven them here sounded angry.

One by one, the sabertooths slunk on their bellies toward the god-creature. Three-Paws hesitated. It enraged him that the god-creature wanted him to leave meat. He’d fought the god-creature a week ago and had lost. Now, he must obey, even as he’d obeyed the god-creature’s orders to leave the cubbing den and come here. Three-Paws finally slunk on his belly and licked the god-creature’s snout in submission. He endured the harsh snarls and the buffets to his head.

Attack the two-legs now, the god-creature ordered. Obey.

Three-Paws and his pride hurried away. Three-Paws dared look back, and saw hyenas dashing toward the horse carcass. Terrible anger filled him, but he obeyed the god-creature.

His crippled paw soon throbbed with pain. Combined with his belly-rumbles, he knew growing hostility toward the god-creature. Never, since he’d become the pride leader, had he been driven from his meat. It left him baffled and enraged.

The pride crossed the stream and headed onto the plains. The scent of two-legs, horses, and hounds lingered. Three-Paws’s belly rumbled, and the thought of hyenas feasting upon his kill made him angrily shake his head. Each time he set down his injured paw, he yearned to stop and rest. Just then, Three-Paws noticed a distant flash of light. He thought it might be a two-legs and his sun-reflected hide of bright skin. A low rumble sounded in his throat. The flash came from the same direction as the cubbing den.

In Three-Paws’s feline brain, an odd and imprecise contest took place. The terrifying god-creature had a strange right to demand obedience from the pride. Yet Three-Paws had little intention of obeying anything other than his belly’s constant demand for meat. His crippled paw throbbed anew. Old Three-Paws stopped and tried to make the others turn north. The pride followed Yellow Fang instead, sensing from the young male that the god-creature must be obeyed. In disgust, Three-Paws followed too.

In time, the pride came across a lone chariot track. Three-Paws sniffed it. A two-legs headed toward the cubbing den. He roared savagely and tried again to turn the pride north. Once again, the pride followed Yellow Fang.

Eyes blazing, Three-Paws attacked the smaller male. Yellow Fang tried to submit. Three-Paws bit and clawed him. Yellow Fang finally hissed in alarm, leaped up, and trotted east, driven from the pride.

With Three-Paws in the lead, the pride reluctantly turned north. Three-Paws wished to find the lone two-legs and slay him, and slay any who came near the cubbing den. Yet, what if the god-creature returned…? Old Three-Paws glanced nervously over his shoulder. He increased his pace in order to leave this strange and sinister territory.