Land of the Giants, page 30
He was knocking back his second ale when one of the card players nearby threw his chair backward as he lunged over the table to wrap his large hands around a gnoll’s throat. “Cheatin’ furry bastard, I’ll kill ye!” he howled. Before the bouncer could make it to the card table, the gnoll had plucked a small dagger from his fur and jabbed it into the accusing jotun’s side several times. Chaos erupted around the table, thrilling Tryn with its vulgarity. This was one of the things he so enjoyed about the lower city taverns—you never knew when blood would be spilled.
He watched in amusement, thinking to signal for another drink, when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught something else of interest. The group of heckling jotnar rabble had moved away from their table and surrounded the stage, and the short, round-bellied one climbed the platform, leering at the human. Tryn felt his eye twitch and blood start pumping hard in his veins. He did not know why it should matter to him. It was not as if this was an uncommon occurrence, and what should it matter to him what happened to a scab?
Tryn was shocked to find he was already moving through the crowd, pressing for the stage. As he neared it, he could hear the fat jotun taunting the slave girl, who was doing her best to continue singing despite her obvious terror. The jotun jerked her head back by the hair and whispered something lewd into her ear. Her eyes widened like saucers, filled with dread. And yet she continued to sing.
Tryn climbed the stage from the side as the offender grabbed a handful of the human’s breast, licking her cheek while his men snickered.
“Take your hands off of the scab,” Tryn ordered, looking down at the stout jotun with a courage he never knew he possessed.
The group laughed even harder, thinking he was joking.
“Now,” Tryn added, channeling his father’s tone and air of leadership. All the while the human kept singing and the gnoll continued to play out his tune.
Two of the larger jotnar moved to teach this lout a lesson, but they were halted by their plump friend. He looked up at Tryn, wondering why in the seven kingdoms this lanky hooded jotun cared whether he toyed with the scab slut. “What’s the matter, pal, you got a crush on the little scab?” he teased, running his hand down her belly and into the folds of her clothing, finally stifling her song under fearful tears.
“I am warning you,” Tryn growled. The gnoll dropped his lute, throwing the human’s leash to the ground and scurrying off the stage.
“Warning me what?” the jotun snarled, spitting on the human and turning to his friends, who began climbing the platform and surrounded the cloaked stranger. “Looks like we got us a human sympathizer, fellas.”
Tryn’s face felt hot, suddenly aware that many eyes were on them, watching the spectacle of a jotun defending a scab on stage. He was more shocked than the spectators when his whip cracked across the air, licking the fat-bellied jotun’s face with its barbed tips. The fat man squealed, shuffling backward and gripping the stinging line of blood across his lips. He mumbled something incoherent, and one of his companions roared to his friends to tear Tryn apart.
Before they could move forward, Tryn tore his hood back, revealing himself in front of the common filth, his face a mask of indignation. The four jotnar stumbled, gaping that the marquess himself stood before them. It seemed to Tryn that everyone in the tavern gasped.
Upon seeing the teardrop of topaz on the unmasked jotun’s brow, Baxter called, “It’s the bloody duke’s son, you twits.” And one after the other, the patrons and workers alike fell to their knees. Tryn looked across the tavern, a swell of pride blooming in his chest as adrenaline pumped coarsely through his veins.
“My humble apologies, yer lordship. I meant no disrespect, sire, honest to me mother’s grave,” the toad-like jotun whined, his bleeding face pressed to the filthy stage floor. As much as Tryn relished the swift change in attitude, he knew he needed some excuse as to why he had stopped the jotnar from their lewd act.
“I was enjoying the little scab’s song. It displeases me to have my enjoyment taken away,” he growled, pacing slowly around the prone man. “Now, what was it you called me? Oh yes, scab sympathizer.” Tryn felt as if he were someone else, observing the events from the outside.
The fat jotun squeaked again, knowing he was in for a world of hurt before Tryn’s whip even touched his back. The marquess thrashed the insolent pig over and over, letting out all his rage on the stage, his lashes cutting deep wounds that even Torture Master Pruett would be proud of. Ragged strips of flesh hung where his whip tore across the fat little bastard’s exposed arms, his neck, and even his skull. When the squealing little pig rolled unconscious to his back, Tryn continued to beat him, ripping apart the jotun’s flabby, blue-skinned belly.
When his rage finally played out, Tryn turned to face the horrified patrons. Collecting himself, the marquess smoothed back his hair with trembling hands and addressed the beaten jotun’s friends. “Get this dog out of my sight,” he ordered in a shaky voice. “And never interrupt me again,” he added, hearing how dumb it sounded and wincing inside. “Well? Get back to it!” he barked at the tavern.
Everyone quickly made an effort to go back to their festivities. Coiling the bloody whip, Tryn returned it to the folds of his cloak and crouched down to tap the prone human’s shoulder. When his finger touched her, the woman jerked and let out a squeak, terrified she was about to be beaten.
Tryn grasped her jaw between slender, gloved fingers, pulling her face up to look at him. Inspecting the scab for a moment, he wondered why the woman made his belly feel so warm. “Get up. You are coming with me,” he softly ordered, realizing it was a bit too kindly spoken and worrying that those nearby would get the wrong impression. But what was the right impression?
The human did as she was told, trying her best to stand up on shaking legs in the presence of the vicious marquess and quickly wiping the tears from her eyes.
As Tryn made his way to the door, he made an extra show of pulling the woman by her leash, roughly yanking on it when she did not keep pace.
Just as he neared the exit, the bow-legged entertainment master cut in front of his path. Raising his hands diplomatically, the jotun merchant smiled broadly at him. “Why, Marquess, where are you going with my merchandise?” he asked innocently, though his greedy eyes belied the jotun’s true intention.
“Wherever I want. Step out of my way,” Tryn replied evenly, trying to move around him.
The opportunistic man continued to smile, blocking his way once more. “My Lordship surely would not take away his humble, lowly, servant’s goods without some form of recompense, eh?” Kallix shrugged, speaking loudly enough for all nearby to hear and adding, “After all, the law is the law, and one cannot take a slave unless a fair bargain is struck, correct?”
Tryn snickered at the merchant’s tenacity. He knew the jotun was correct. The law was set up to stop over-eager jotnar from killing slavers or stealing their wares to increase their own rank. It was a law the duke had set up after doing exactly that to rise in power, and it was one he brutally enforced.
“Get out of my way,” Tryn repeated, forcing a smirk onto his face as he flicked a gold piece to the jotun, who practically drooled as he snatched the coin from the air and stared down at it as if it were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
Yanking the human’s leash, Tryn exited the building, the cool night air washing deliciously over his face again. Looking back over his shoulder at the woman and the tavern beyond, he let out a heavy sigh, relieved to be out of the dangerous pit of vipers.
“Well, that was most unexpected,” Fajik announced, revealing himself where he leaned with his arms crossed in the shadows by the tavern window. The blade-hand regarded Tryn with marked interest. “Not your usual night out, I would say.”
Disarmed, Tryn bobbed his head back and cocked an eyebrow. “What are you doing here? How long have you been watching?”
“My dear marquess, I am always here. You didn’t actually think I would let you sneak out of the palace without keeping tabs did you?” Fajik smugly replied, snorting at his charge’s naivety.
“But the ale…?” Tryn exclaimed.
“Yes, yes…I fake it. It takes a lot more than a couple pints of honeywine to get me drunk,” Fajik answered.
Tryn felt foolish. All the times he had slipped out of the palace, thinking he was alone and exploring the city, his bodyguard must have been silently following him. Of course the blade-hand could not let him wander around alone. If anything ever happened, the duke would have the jotun’s head.
“But on to the real question,” Fajik continued, pushing away from the wall and walking toward them. “Where are you going with the scab?” He moved her hair back to inspect the woman’s face with curiosity.
Tryn slapped the leering bodyguard’s hand away. “Back to the palace.”
Fajik gave him a dark look, both surprised and annoyed to have the marquess get physical with him. “We have plenty of slaves. What do you need another human for?” he asked, carefully gauging the marquess’s response.
Tryn looked at the overly suspicious man, then at the human singer, who was dutifully staring at her feet. What did he need her for? Why in the world had he whipped that jotun over this scab?
He gave the most plausible answer his mind could muster. “The scab is going to be my personal concubine.”
Fajik smiled shrewdly. He liked the sound of that, and he liked the marquess’s change in personality. Both reeked of power, something which many had been waiting for the duke’s son to exhibit for years now. “Well, then it looks like we better sneak you and your new pet back into the palace then, eh?” Fajik smirked, regarding the marquess in a new light.
They were lost. Nero had no way of determining their position. His tracking skills were completely dependent on a point of reference, some familiar landmark he could calculate by. And since the entire surface of the land had been altered and overgrown, he had no way of guiding their course. Tiko had never been in these parts of the jungle, warning that they were avoided at all costs by the Agma. Fortunately, he did not need to know where they were to lead them in the proper direction. All Tiko needed were the stars as his guide, so at least they were headed north again.
The party stopped to rest several times. Hiking through the sweltering heat of the jungle was too much for the Falians to take, although Nero was perfectly fine, merely adjusting his core exhaust to adapt to the changes in climate. Even with the weariness that came from traveling under the hot surface light, which heated the jungle like an oven, Logan could not bring himself to fall asleep. He did not know if it was a guilty conscience playing tricks with his mind, or if it was more a matter of how uncomfortable he felt with sweat dripping out of every pore in his body. Either way, while the others rested, he stayed awake, alert and vigilant to face the next unseen enemy.
Tiko was correct about the area being dangerous, though Logan was not sure it was worse than any other place they had been since coming to the surface. At one point they almost walked into an entire nest of baby malbrix, man-eating plants whose long vines waved about at the prospect of trapping animals to feed on. If Tiko had not blocked Bipp’s path with the length of his spear, the little gnome would surely have become plant food.
Another time, Logan had stopped to admire some flowers around the base of some thin, oddly angled light-green trees that broke into segments as they reached for the jungle canopy. The flowers had three rounded petals that were a silky purple blending with a freckled white center, the stamens sticking out at him like teasing tongues. He found them intriguing and was lulled in by their heady perfume. Tiko did not know what they were called but seemed equally enthralled.
If not for Logan’s near-death experience in the winding tunnels that led to Bipp’s homeland, Dudje, he may have ended his journey right then and there. But thankfully, a nagging tickle in the back of his head made him look around the tall grass, where he saw several rotting carcasses of other animals that had wandered too close to the dangerous orchids. He felt lucky to have realized the flowers emitted an intoxicating endorphin which lulled its prey into sleep. Bipp grumbled that the flower’s poison would not have worked either way, since Nero would have been immune and woken them up. Logan laughed it off, as the gnome was still a little miffed over being taken by the imps.
After marching all night and halfway through the next day, they came to an area that felt cooler. At first Logan did not recognize the implications of the change, relishing the gentle breeze that offered some slight reprieve from the torturous heat of the musty jungle. He was smiling and had an extra pep in his stride when it dawned on him.
“Wait a minute.” He stopped, raising his arms to halt the group. “Where there’s a breeze, there is an opening!”
Only Bipp understood his friend’s meaning, having also lived his life in the claustrophobic confines of the Vanidriell caverns. Tiko was shaking his head, so the gnome explained, “The jungle itself is kind of like one giant cave. The air here is mostly trapped inside due to the thick canopy of trees and pressing cluster of vegetation. So if there is a nice breeze like this, then…”
“There must be an opening!” Logan happily finished for him. “Come on, guys, follow me!” He excitedly waved them on and ran in the direction of the cooler air. Logan was so excited by the prospect of escaping the muggy heat of the jungle that when a long viper crossed his path, he did not so much as hesitate, jumping right over it as if it were nothing more than another vine.
The sounds of rushing grew louder as they moved through to the edge of the jungle. Soon the way ahead grew brighter, which neither he nor Bipp cared for, since the daylight stung their eyes. But still he ran toward it gleefully, like a child going to a party. Bursting from the cramped confines into open air, cool and crisp against his damp skin, Logan spread his arms wide, spinning to embrace his freedom.
“Hee hee hee, you look like an idiot,” Bipp teased. The gnome mocked his movement, spreading his stubby arms wide and spinning while laughing.
Logan grew a little red-faced, but everyone was equally happy to have found a way out of the never-ending labyrinth of trees. The ground only stretched forward from where they stood about twenty feet, jutting out in a long, toothy peninsula that rested high above a gently winding stream. Logan could see far into the distance from here. A long mountain range curved around them, as if nature had created it as a barrier to protect the jungle.
“Is this what you call a canyon?” he asked Nero, marveling at the sheer magnitude of the ravine below.
“In Nero’s estimation this would be considered a gorge by geologists,” Nero replied pragmatically.
“Either way, it’s impressive.” Logan stared out at the sprawling network of ravines, which were lush as any forest he had seen in Vanidriell with trees and all manner of plants dotting the steep cliffs and a blanket of green following the shallow river below them.
“Can you get a better angle on where we are now?” Logan asked, hoping the android recognized some nearby landmark from this vantage point.
Nero flicked a seamless compartment on his wrist, punching some keys to engage the override on his global positioning system. Within moments, numbers in strange patterns flickered across the front of his face, hovering in the air as a hologram. The planet of Acadia came into view, zooming in to their location, and the screen flickered out of view again.
“Nero does see our current position, Logan Walker,” the android finally answered. “Take a look at that large mountain to the northeast. If Nero is correct, that formation matches with the peak of Mount Soltus. With that landmark, the directions are clearer.”
“Seriously, you have to stop that third person crap. It’s getting annoying,” Logan said, cocking an eyebrow and nudging Bipp for a little backup.
“Understandable, Logan. This one will do his best to fill your request,” Nero promised, giving a stiff bow.
Logan rolled his eyes. It was like talking to a machine. Then again, I am talking to a machine, aren’t I? “Okay, Nero, shoot. Which way do we go from here?”
“Based on Master Isaac’s estimation and Lady Kyra’s notes, the Aegis is in the ruins of Ithiki. Now that this one has re-triangulated our position, it is abundantly clear that we head in this direction, which will take us north.” Nero pointed out over the edge of the cliff.
“Hmm, that’s going to be tough,” Logan mumbled, thinking out loud while he looked down the steep cliffs. “We can manage it if we head down into the ravine, but that’s going to be tricky.”
“Yeah, and it looks like a good two-hundred foot drop,” Bipp said, peering over the edge. “We trip on this slope made for mountain goats, and that’ll be all the gods wrote for us. Maybe we should try a different route.”
The way down was a path of crumbling rocks and loose weeds barely clinging to the face of the cliff, and to make matters worse, the lower half was sprayed with a light mist from the wind blowing across the frothing waters of the stream below.
Despite the gnome’s protest, all members of the group were able to descend the dangerous slope in less than an hour. By the time they reached the bottom, Logan could feel the sweat soaking through his clothes, just as badly as it had when they were in the jungle. Except now the stiff breeze blowing through the tight valley pressed his wet tunic uncomfortably against the skin of his back.
Reaching the base of the gorge, they all stopped to break for a bit. Logan used the time to switch shirts, splashing the clean water of the stream against his chest and face to cool off. He thought it was the most refreshing water he had ever tasted. Bipp dunked his head below the surface then shook his silver hair and mutton chops like a pup drying off.
Logan decided the simplest route would be to follow the stream northward. If at any point it veered too far off track, they would decide a different path, but until then, sticking to the small river nestled at the base of the canyon would provide them with food and water for their long trek. Everyone agreed with this reasoning, and they marched on through the late afternoon.
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