Land of the Giants, page 39
As the afternoon rolled around, they became almost lost in the repetitious labor they were dutifully pretending to perform while keeping a keen eye out for slavers and the Overseer.
“It is almost time,” Kyra said, judging they were ready to make their move based on Themis’ position overhead.
As if on cue, a slaver gave three short blows on his horn, signaling it was time for the quick break Eir had told them about. Without missing a beat, Corbin laid down his shovel and followed Kyra between the crates and out past the rows of waiting slaves. As they made their way around an oversized trough being filled with food, Stur said, “Where are those jotnar going?”
Corbin followed his gaze, seeing a pair of armed jotnar making their way to the back of the granary. They seemed full of purpose, heading in the exact direction of the sewer entrance. “Isaac, I think your cover may be blown!” Corbin thought in alarm.
“Nonsense, lad, they are nothing more than a standard patrol. Worry yourself naught and get to Fivan,” Isaac replied, unconcerned with the patrolling guards, secure that Corbin’s masking psionic shield would keep his low chanting muffled.
“We are almost there now,” Kyra replied, motioning Stur to one side while she worked her way around the other, circling a pair of human slaves that kept watch while their esteemed leader ate his lunch, removed from the swelling crowd around the trough. The unarmed slaves were caught off guard, roughly pulled behind the stack of crates by the Acadians and strong-armed until they calmed down.
Fivan moved to rise, ready to shout at the sudden attack, when Corbin held his hands out and smiled. “No need for alarm. We are not here to hurt you. We just came to talk.”
Fivan grimaced. He was old by slave standards, with thin, grey hair around the crown of his head and a loose, wrinkled face. Corbin could see he must have been impressive by slave standards as a youth, with a broad-shouldered build, square jaw, and flat nose that had deteriorated in his old age and left him crooked and bent. However, he did still possess the same foreboding stance. Pulling his dirty robes around his legs, Fivan sat on the ground once more. “Got a strange way of showing it,” he said.
Kyra and Stur led Fivan’s men back and had them sit beside their leader while Corbin plopped down in the dirt opposite the old man, waiting for Kyra to join him.
Fivan gave a curt nod to his men and resumed his meal. “Who are you three?” he asked. Corbin could see the old man was making an effort to show that their abrupt intrusion meant little to him.
“We are your friends,” Corbin replied.
“To be sure? Normally my friends have a name and a good reason to disturb my lunch,” Fivan coolly replied, biting a strip of meat off a greasy drumstick. Corbin noticed his lunch was not the same slop being served to the rest of the rabble, and his clothes seemed just a little less filthy.
“We have no time for your banter, old man,” Kyra said.
The men on either side of the slave leader bristled at her impertinence, but Fivan held up his drumstick, signaling for them to relax. “Ah, a man who gets to the point. I like this fella,” Fivan said. Corbin snickered. It was easy to forget that everyone saw Kyra as a male slave. “So tell me, what is it you came here to discuss?”
Kyra looked around. The slavers were fully intent on goading the scabs, and none seemed concerned with the old man or with whom he was conversing. Deciding it was safe to speak, she said in a low voice, “You need to join the resistance.”
The old man coughed and sputtered at her bold proclamation, chicken catching in his scraggly beard. One of his men moved to help, patting Fivan’s back and offering a drink.
“These scabs bothering you, Fivan?” a slaver asked gruffly from behind them with whip in hand.
Fivan held up his hand. “No, no, everything is fine. Just went down the wrong pipe, Frederick,” he assured the slaver, who searched their expressions for a sign of trouble.
“Okay, but let me know if you need anything,” the slaver said and stalked away.
“Are you mad?” Fivan hissed, clenching his fists as soon as the slaver was safely out of earshot. “You can’t just walk up to me and make such a statement. I don’t even know you lot.”
Kyra ignored his outrage and continued. “We have come here to help free your people. I am Kyra Tarvano and this is my companion Corbin Walker. Our trustworthy friend there is Stur Skorsgard.”
“Oh, look lads. We got us Her Highness and her man-at-arms come back from the dead,” Fivan said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “And I’m the Archduke of Canterbury.” Fivan rolled his eyes and laughed with his men.
Kyra bit her lip, cursing herself for using her real name. She had assumed the slaves were uneducated, but it seemed Fivan knew a bit of Acadian history.
A metal dagger appeared in her hand, plucked from thin air, as far as the slaves were concerned. It was tempered from fine Agartan steel, the like of which had not been seen in Acadia for centuries. The sight of it made Fivan’s laugh catch in his throat, and his face grew serious.
“If you waste any more of our time, I will gut these two buffoons and be long gone before that fool of a slaver can even think to come over here.” Kyra’s voice was cold and determined. They had very little time to have this discussion, and she could not afford to waste it convincing the old man just to talk in the first place.
“Where did you get that?” Fivan asked slowly.
“As my companion here has already informed you, we are here to help rescue your people from captivity. We are from a faraway kingdom, where jotnar do not exist. The resistance has sent us to ask you to reconsider joining their ranks,” Corbin said, worried that Kyra might actually stay true to her word and cut down the other slaves.
“You are Thiazi’s men, then,” Fivan stated as a matter of fact.
“I just said—” Corbin started.
“Yes, yes, I heard your outlandish claims,” Fivan said, cutting him off with a scowl, “and I’m not so daft as to mistake the threat of your dagger neither, young man. Go tell your master, the Duke of Belikar, that I’ve never been nor will I ever be a part of this mysterious resistance he believes is festering.”
Kyra shot the man a look that could have melted steel, but he had called her bluff. She had no intention of cutting Fivan or his men down and remained still as the old man rose. Before Corbin had a chance to react, the horns were blown again, signaling the break had passed, and whips cracked to get the slaves back to work.
“This conversation is not over,” Kyra promised the old man.
“It is for me,” Fivan replied, casually motioning for his men to follow and heading back into the granary.
As they made their way to their previous posts, Corbin sought Isaac’s guidance. “What should we do? He does not seem to be easily convinced.”
Kyra cut in while retrieving her shovel. “What do we expect, coming to him with such a story? How can we blame the old man for being a skeptic?”
“It would appear,” Isaac added, “that you will need to get the nonbeliever alone and show him your true nature.”
“But how can we hope to do that?” Corbin asked. “Our next break is not for hours yet, and we don’t dare try to find him in this warehouse for risk of raising unwanted suspicion.”
“I have an idea on that,” Stur chimed in to the telepathic conversation, while grunting under the strain of moving the grinder. His bandaged back was not enjoying the physical effort. “First we—”
“Hold, someone is coming!” Isaac shouted in their minds, the alarm in his voice clear as a bell.
The slavers unexpectedly blew their horns again. The men and women all around Corbin raised their heads, puzzled by the signal. There was not a moment lost for questions, as they were quickly rounded up at the end of whips and told to line up against the outside wall of the granary for the archduke’s inspection.
Kyra quickly spotted Fivan among the gathered slaves and worked her way through the pressing group of uneasy people to get to him. Fivan had his men at either side, but Kyra and her companions sidled in right between them and the old man.
“They are saying it is the archduke,” Corbin informed Isaac, unsure whether he had caught the slavers’ comments. Up and down the line, slavers paced, whipping the slaves and barking for them to remove their clothing.
“Not there, here!” Isaac corrected in a panic. “Someone is coming down into the tunnels!”
Using his connection to the mage, Corbin could see through Isaac’s eyes, which darted back and forth, peering down the tunnel to his left. The splashing of footsteps announced there were indeed several people approaching. Corbin could feel the fear clinging to the mage as the old man gently floated above the floor and fled out of sight around the corner.
Kyra nudged Corbin, motioning at the other slaves, who were beginning to take off their clothing. He did not understand her urgent look of concern, but then it hit him: They could not remove clothing that was not really there in the first place! Their choices were to remain clothed, practically begging for a lashing and drawing unwanted attention, or remove their armor, which would stick out like a sore thumb among the tatters of filthy clothing at the humans’ bare feet.
“Isaac, you must alter our dweomers!” Corbin said, pressing his back tighter against the warehouse wall to avoid being spotted still clothed by the slavers down the line.
“Easier said than done!” Isaac complained, stopping with his back against a grimy sewer wall, crouched just around the corner from where he had been. In the background he could hear the search party still wading around in the muck not too far away.
Corbin felt his heart racing. Fivan stared at him with a serious expression, wondering what the wide-eyed, panic-stricken scabs were doing.
“Hold, I’ll have it in only a few moments,” Isaac whispered in Corbin’s mind. The mage had to work hard to change their appearance, only able to guess at what it would look like. His magical hold over them was not as strong, being farther away and distracted to boot. “There,” he said, finishing the incantation and blowing on the small, glowing tree floating above his palms.
Before Fivan’s eyes, the strangers’ clothing vanished, leaving them naked against the wall, just as a slaver was making his way down the line. The old man gasped, as did his companions and some nearby slaves, who grabbed each other and stumbled away from the three.
“What’s this, then?” the slaver asked, spotting the sudden commotion. Fivan was fast to gather himself, and his men wisely fell in step.
“But he…they…,” A slave to their left fumbled for words, unable to comprehend what he had just witnessed. His mumbling earned him a sharp rap across the chest, sending him tumbling to the dirt.
“Out with it, man? What’s the big hubbub?” the slaver demanded.
Down the line, Corbin could see another slaver taking interest in the weasel and knew he had to act quickly. “I think the scab was just in awe at seeing the size of my manhood,” he jested, momentarily channeling Logan.
The slaver stared blankly at Corbin then began laughing hoarsely. “His manhood…oh, that’s rich.” He waved down the line that everything was all set to his partners, who fell back into a formation of their own as the sound of hoofbeats came from around the warehouse. Corbin’s shoulders sagged and he puffed up his cheeks, exhaling in relief. Fivan could not stop eyeing them.
“Isaac, are you still there?” Kyra asked.
Isaac sent them the telepathic equivalent of a nod. From where he hid, pressed against the tight corner of the sewer tunnel, he could see the two jotnar guards Corbin had warned him of earlier.
“How did they find out you’re down there? Has my field of silence failed?” Corbin asked anxiously, while he watched a sleek, golden carriage pulled by black mares arrive in front of the granary, far down the line of slaves.
“No, I can still sense the field is there. At least I believe so…wait a moment.” Isaac carefully wrapped the tree and placed it inside the folds of his belt, channeling a new spell that wove a small circular glyph in the air, allowing him to hear his trackers’ conversation. “Hmm…they seem to be discussing something about detecting a strong magical presence in the tunnels. I think they were sent down here by…a city wizard,” Isaac slowly replied. It was expending a good deal of his energy to stay afloat over the sewage, keep up their disguise, cast the listening spell, and hold his telepathic link at the same time.
“Just stay out of sight until they leave,” Kyra said coarsely. Corbin knew she did not mean to let her annoyance at the turn of events show, but nevertheless a flash of thought permeated into the group’s shared conversation. “If I had more real soldiers here, none of this would be happening.” Hearing her own impulsive thoughts bubble to the surface, the military leader blanched.
Archduke Marius emerged from the carriage with a small entourage of jotnar. They were speaking about the granary operations, pointing out how the production line worked to the brooding archduke. The group was too far down the line for Corbin to understand them properly, but it was obvious the archduke held an extreme distaste for humans, snarling at the scabs with an upturned nose.
In his mind, Corbin could feel Isaac’s fear grow tighter, slinking farther down the tunnel to keep out of view of the tenacious guards continuing to make their way in his direction. Without speaking to the mage, he knew that if Isaac were pulled too far away, the dweomer would weaken, perhaps revealing them to all.
“And these humans work solid fourteen-hour days with no complaints,” Marquess Tryn bragged to the archduke, stopping to feel the bicep of a naked male. “Just look at them, hearty and firm. Good stock we raise here in Belikar, strong enough to last into their late thirties before needing to be put out to pasture.” Tryn clapped the slave’s arm. The man stood impassive, staring blankly past the jotnar rulers.
“Interesting. So you still refer to them as humans, eh?” the archduke asked, inspecting the slave as if he were a horse. Marius gave the human an unexpectedly firm backhand across the face and stepped back. “Hmm, you are correct, though. The scab does not so much as whimper.”
Tryn was surprised but said nothing about it. “Ah, yes…as I said, this is the strongest human in the flock.”
Marius leaned toward the younger jotun. “The best you have to offer, then?”
Tryn nodded, eagerly hoping to earn the archduke’s approval. “As you requested, and I would be more than happy to give him to you as a gift, Your Lordship, so that he may serve your House as well as he has served Belikar.”
“Are you a born liar or does it take effort on your part?” Marius calmly asked the marquess, who stepped back, shaken at the abrupt accusation. “Or perhaps you have been around your dimwitted father too long and it has dulled your wits?” Archduke Marius tightened his eyes, studying Tryn’s reaction. He could see the young jotun had much potential, all of it being wasted under the leadership of his father. “Yes, that does seem to be it. You’re not a liar, are you? Just a moron.”
Corbin tensed as the archduke made a beeline for Kyra, stopping just in front of her. “This is your strongest scab,” he proclaimed, slithering around her like a snake and sniffing her shoulder. Kyra did her best not to flinch at the unexpected attention.
When the marquess approached, Corbin thought surely they would be recognized as infiltrators. It took all of his willpower to remain still. However, the jotun noble did not seem to share the same knowledge about humans as the healers. A sideways glance at the overseer told Tryn that the man Marius was inspecting was nothing special.
“Archduke Marius, surely I can procure you a finer human than this?” Tryn offered, waving his hand back at the slave they had walked away from. Marius eyed Kyra once last time. Corbin’s heart was beating so hard in his chest he feared the jotnar would hear it.
Marius growled, glaring at his tour guide over Kyra’s shoulder, which he ran a razor sharp talon across. “This is exactly what is wrong with our empire today. Too many young fools raised by buffoons. These are not humans. They ceased to be so when we conquered their filthy species. What you see now is a scab, good for nothing more than wallowing in their own shit. It’s beyond me why we even keep them around. They are not even fit to lick my boots.” The archduke roughly shoved Kyra aside and grabbed Corbin by the back of his head, forcing him to his knees. “This is the only position a scab should ever be in when in the presence of nobility,” he sneered.
Fivan quickly dropped to his knees at the dangerous jotun’s statement, which was immediately followed by everyone down the line. Marius let go of Corbin’s head, looking down at the slaves with only the faintest hint of being impressed before returning to his lecture.
“When I ask you for your strongest scab, your answer should be that there are no strong scabs.” Marius sneered, rapping his staff on the ground. “If I ask for the best scab you own, your answer should always and ever be that there are no good scabs, let alone best,” he added, placing the base of his short staff against Fivan’s temple and knocking the man sideways to the ground, where he remained, knowing better than to move.
Tryn regarded the great and powerful leader, one of the mightiest jotun of his empire, with deep interest. He did not understand the cryptic archduke’s perspective. Surely the humans were strong enough to do many of the tasks that jotnar no longer did on their own? But, though he may be naïve, Tryn was no fool, and he gave Marius a formal bow. “I am humbled in the face of your teachings, Archduke.”
Marius grunted, thinking the boy had much potential indeed. He was a fast learner.
“Corbin, we’re in trouble. I’ve nowhere left to run,” Isaac groaned, looking back and forth between a pile of rubble which blocked his path and the approaching jotnar, who saw him and pulled out their swords.
“Not yet, we need a little more time,” Corbin urged.
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