He seemed to appreciate my candour.
With a bright sun above and no one pursuing behind, it was actually quite pleasant to trudge down the uneven path. I felt almost wistful when the end of the cliff trail loomed into view. I tried not to think about the carnage we'd have to pass on the road: the familiar faces frozen and lifeless, the reek of two-dayold death. I focused on that inn I'd promised Killer, on wine, good food, a night in a proper bed.
Whatever I was looking forward to, it wasn't an ambush.
One moment we were trudging down the last stretch of broken path. The next armed men surrounded us on all sides. The two ahead held swords outstretched. The dozen on the rocks to either side aimed taut-strung bows. There was no time to react, nowhere to run. They had us at their mercy.
"Gueverro?"
Alvantes hobbled forward, and seeing him, the leftmost swordsman lowered his blade. I recognised him as the leader of the Altapasaedan guardsmen whose intervention had saved us from Moaradrid.
"Guard-Captain?"
Alvantes's face cracked, just for a moment. All of the cold arrogance, the world-weariness, the stubborn nobility slewed away, leaving nothing but joy. "I thought you'd be dead to a man."
Gueverro grinned crookedly. "Moaradrid's troops gave up and ran. They'd have beaten us eventually, but we'd shown them what it would cost. With Moaradrid gone, their hearts weren't in it."
"Then why are you still here?"
"We waited to see if you'd come back. A party of riders came down in the night and managed to fight their way through. We thought Moaradrid must have been with them, but there was still a chance…"
"Moaradrid's dead."
Gueverro nodded wearily. "Well, that's good news. The man was poison. It isn't done, though, is it? His army's still spread through the Castoval."
"Tomorrow we'll worry about Moaradrid's army," said Alvantes. "Just for tonight, it's done."
Barely a hundred men had survived that battle three long days ago. Perhaps half were Altapasaedan guardsmen, the remainder from the bedraggled force Estrada had brought together. They'd built a crude camp near the river, sheltered by stands of silver birch, and besides waiting to see if anyone came down from the mountain they'd mainly passed their time recuperating.
There was good hunting in the woods on the other bank, so at least no one had gone hungry. We dined that night on freshly shot venison bolstered with fresh fruit and the remainder of our own supplies. We talked about nothing of consequence. True to Alvantes's word, no one so much as considered out loud tomorrow.
We lay out once more beneath an open sky, and again I found that I had little desire for sleep. A hundred questions darted through my mind, and seemed to dance in time with the shimmering lights above. I felt as if I'd come to the end of something. Now the future lay before me, enormous and vague.
In the morning, Alvantes gave a brief speech to his ragtag army. He thanked them for their courage, their steadfastness in the face of hopeless odds. Those that wanted to go home could, without question. Those who had no families to go back to or wanted to serve the Castoval yet further were welcome to stay with him. He was heading back to Altapasaeda to see how things stood.
A couple of men took him at his word, and left – but only a couple.
Alvantes joined Estrada, Saltlick and I.
"What then?" Estrada asked.
"I'll see. If the dregs of Moaradrid's army are in Altapasaeda then perhaps we can persuade them to move on. I have a few resources left in the city, enough to deal with a handful of stragglers. Either way, it can only be a passing visit. Someone has to officially tell the king his son is dead."
"How will he take the news?"
"I have no idea. Still… it's the right thing to do. After that, I can start looking for that traitorous wretch Mounteban. He's got plenty of good men's blood on his hands." Alvantes sighed. "What about you, Marina? Where will you go?"
"Home, of course. Muena Palaiya still needs a mayor."
"Things may not be how you left them."
"Then I'll deal with that when I get there. Anyway, Saltlick will need a travelling companion."
Saltlick nodded, and grinned from ear to ear.
Estrada turned to me and said, "Will you be travelling with us, Easie?" Seeing Alvantes's expression, she added, "We'd never have made it if not for him. He's learned his lesson, Lunto."
I'd learned plenty of lessons over the last few days. I chose not to guess which one she was referring to.
"I don't think you'll be returning to your old ways, will you?"
Ah,
that
lesson. Well, I'd given the question some thought last night, and she was right in a way. Stealing from the poor was never going to be profitable. Stealing from fat merchants was better, but before you knew it people were chasing you out of town and you had a price on your head, which tended to mitigate your already hard-earned profit.
"So will you join us?"
Thieving from invading warlords, on the other hand…
Oh, it might bring its share of problems. Perhaps I'd worn my shoes out quicker than I'd otherwise have done, accumulated some cuts and bruises, even narrowly avoided death on a few occasions. Hadn't it been worth it though, in the end? I'd helped fend off an invasion that would have left the Castoval in shackles. I'd rescued a giant, and made sure he saw his home again. I'd made a little money, and even managed to hang on to some of it.
"We'd be glad to have you along. I think Saltlick would miss you after everything you two have been through."
Maybe I'd even made a friend or two.
If purloining one unremarkable stone and one hopeless, homeless giant could bring about so much, what else might I be capable of?
The fact was, I'd been stealing from the wrong sorts of people. I'd been failing to fulfil my potential, picking easy targets. I'd been lazy, maybe even a little cowardly.
In short, I'd been aiming too small.
I grinned – at Estrada, at Saltlick, even at Alvantes.
"I'd be honoured to travel with you. Now, did I hear something about visiting the king?"
About the Author
David Tallerman was born and raised in the northeast of England. A long and confused period of education ended with an MA dissertation on the literary history of seventeenth century witchcraft that somehow incorporated references to both Kate Bush and H P Lovecraft.
David currently roams the UK as an itinerant IT Technician-for-hire, applying theories of animism and sympathetic magic to computer repair and taking devoted care of his bonsai tree familiar.
Over the last few years, David has been steadily building a reputation for his genre short fiction and increasingly his writing has tended to push and merge genres, and to incorporate influences from his other great loves, comic books and cinema.
Acknowledgments
Thanks...
First, always and above all to my mum. For endless support and faith. For reading every word before anyone else had to.
Giant Thief would never have gotten started without Rafe, let alone finished - let alone been any good. Meanwhile, Tom gave me the right ending, along with countless other improvements, and Grant encouraged me tirelessly through the long months of rewrite, when this point seemed impossibly far away. Likewise Loz, who gave me a kick up the arse when I most needed it. Without a particular pep talk on a rainy day in London, I might never have been in the right place at the right time to make Giant Thief a reality.
That place turned out to be Fantasycon 2010. Thanks to the British Fantasy Society and the Fantasycon committee for making it possible, and to Al for nudging me in the right direction.
Seriously. Thank you all.
This couldn't have happened without you.
Imaginary Prisons
First published in Theaker's Quarterly Fiction
His sword arced up from the body of the second Goblin, ending its trajectory in a glancing blow upon the third. There was hardly any strength behind it, but somehow the blade found flesh, slipping beneath the nape of the creature's helmet, slicing neatly through its throat.
Corin nearly dropped the weapon, fatigue compounded by surprise. It had been an improbably lucky blow; he should be dead now. Then, as his breath began to return and his sides to stop heaving, he thought, no,
not luck. For how could he die, here and now?
Having checked the bodies of the three Goblins, Corin started again up the rough trail that diagonally traversed the foothills. It wasn't long before the way became more difficult: by mid-afternoon the pines and wild foliage of the low ground were thinning into brush and tangled grasses and by evening the path served only to join one mound of boulders to another. By the time night fell there was no path at all.
He had been travelling for fifteen days, he was exhausted, and it was disheartening when he finally had to fall on hands and knees. Before him Torbeth reared up, inconceivably high, and as the last light faded and the way became ever harder he considered making camp. Then he remembered –
he shall journey for fifteen days and fifteen nights
– and he knew that he couldn't stop, that it was impossible. Steadfastly he crawled from ledge to ledge, finding his way by touch alone, trying to drive the fatigue from his mind.
Corin had lost any track of time when, drawing his aching body over a jut of rock, he glanced up to see light glittering far off in the darkness. Then the fog shifted and the light became indistinct, only to be obscured altogether an instant later. It had seemed to be the flicker of a campfire, though he couldn't be sure. Crouching on the projection, shoulders hunched against the bitter-cold winds sweeping from above, he found that he wanted nothing more than to seek the distant fire out. But such a moment of weakness was nowhere to be found in the predictions that had guided him here.
Finally, as the stupefying weariness let go a little, it occurred to him that it was a cave he sought, and that high on a gale-torn mountainside, where else could a fire burn? This logic was so convincing that he immediately stumbled to his feet, and set out again in the direction he thought the light to have come from.
Sure enough, as the mist lifted for an instant he saw it again, nearer now. A little strength returned to his aching muscles and he clambered with new vigour, keeping his eyes upon the spark of shivering fire. It was a hard ascent, and obstructions frequently blocked his view and made him doubt his course. But the thought of warmth and comfort, and even the slight hope of having found his object, drove him on.
Eventually, after a tortuous climb up a particularly steep crevasse, he collapsed onto the overhang above. And there it was, the hectic dance of firelight reflected from the wall of a cave-mouth ahead. Corin leaped to his feet, and in something between a run and a stagger made his way there and all but fell through the wide opening.
Inside he came to an abrupt halt. Sure enough there was a fire burning, uncannily bright in the darkness, and hot enough that he could feel its luxuriant warmth the moment he entered. But, as he turned a corner into the heart of the grotto, he was alarmed to find something other than the blazing pile of brands that had brought him here.
Beside the fire there stood an old man.
Corin could only stare. He wore a long robe of deep crimson, which covered all but his hands and feet, was of fine silken cloth, and glimmered with reflected luminance. His face was skeletally thin, with the brittle skin stretched taut around the skull, and his expression showed no surprise whatsoever; in fact, it was closer to impatience.
"Prince Corin, I presume?" he asked, as though it were the most natural thing in the world that they should be meeting here in this hidden cave, high upon the face of Torbeth. His voice was fragile with age, but there was a resonance in it that suggested authority. Corin nodded hesitantly, while fighting the urge to bow.
"You took your time, boy. It's nearly morning you know. Do you always have such a lackadaisical approach to your destiny?"
A little of Corin's self-possession was beginning to return. "Who are you? And how do you know my name?"
"I am the sage Calaphile, of the Grand Ziggurat."
"That means nothing to me, and you've only answered my first question. Have you been sent here to try me? Are you a servant of the Goblins?"
Calaphile gave a wheezing laugh, which sounded to Corin like two plates of rusted armour grating against each other. Eventually the self-proclaimed sage composed himself enough to reply, "You may be certain that I'm not a servant to anyone. As to whether I'm here to try you – well when you reach my age, should you be careful and fortunate enough to do so, you'll find that most things in life are a trial of one sort or another. But I ask for only a little of your time. I choose to view it as a lesson, and if you think of it likewise it may pass quite amicably."
"I've no time for lessons, old man!" exploded Corin, who was beginning to find the whole situation unbearably irritating.
"Then you'd prefer to consider it as a test?"
"I've overcome enough tests!"
"There's always another test, my boy; that's something else you learn at my age. But really, all I wish is to read you a few passages from the book I have here." Saying this, he drew a tome from within the folds of his cloak, bound in red leather that matched the garment. "Perhaps you could humour one who has seen more than his share of life? You might even learn something, and that's always worthwhile, is it not?"