Riding the Giant

(This story was published by Astounding Tales as a 2-part mini serial. It's one of my very first short story efforts)

Let me tell you of a world that is very different from the one you know. It is a place where mythical creatures run free. Where the mysterious art of necromancy has real power and monarchs rule by blood and the sword.

It is a world that has spawned many tales of heroism and high adventure.

This is not one of them…

***

The apothecary smiled when a new customer darkened his door. His smile faded quickly though, because the tall fellow with the scar looked too healthy to be of any concern to him.

"Welcome to Pyger’s Potions, Lotions and Notions." He said more out of habit than anything else.

"I’m looking for directions to the archduke’s palace," stated the big barbarian with the rolling accent of a Khamorrahn.

"Go right past the fish-market, turn left on Squid-Monger’s Row onto Royal Avenue and follow that for five minutes. You can’t miss the palace." The pharmacist then leaned in and gave him a conspiratorial wink.

"You’re here about the giant aren’t you?"

"I’m Tyr the Nomad," answered the barbarian, "and I am after the giant. How’d you guess?"

"Sailors and fishermen don’t carry broadswords," he said as if his deductions were oh-so-elementary. "Ergo, you must be after the reward."

"Seen a lot of warriors around?" Tyr wondered about the competition.

"Not myself personally," he answered. "But my brother has seen them all."

"Is he another apothecary?" asked Tyr.

"Undertaker," Pyger laughed. "It’s a family joke that we’ll get you on either side of the final curtain."

Tyr smiled at the joke.

"So this giant’s pretty bad?" asked Tyr.

"It’s one of the hassles of having such a great fishing port so close to the Witch Realm," answered the apothecary, "but this fellow’s the worst. They call him Älaf the Skull Grinder."

"That’s a pretty name," added Tyr.

"Well, most giants you can deal with," said Pyger as he wiped off some imaginary dust from the counter with a cloth. "Bribe them, or hire them to do something useful, but this fellow insists on treating caravans as his personal buffet."

"Big, powerful, and dumb," mused Tyr, remembering how past experience showed that they were not only the most dangerous, but also the easiest to…

"How are you going to beat it? The most my brother could recover were bones and armour scraps."

"I’m not worried," answered the Khamorrahn, smiling, "I’ve got a plan."

"Tyr the Nomad," muttered the apothecary as the name seemed familiar, "wait a minute. You slew the giant of Blackmoor."

"That’s right," answered Tyr, "he was number three out of four, so far."

"Impressive score."

"Like I said, I have a plan."

"Perhaps I can interest you in the services of my other brother," said Pyger. "He can tell if your plan’s going to work. He’s a master of the art of cephalomancy."

"What’s that?"

"He can predict the future by boiling an donkey’s head."

Tyr shook his head, no thanks.

"He’s pretty accurate," defended Pyger. "He’s picked the winners at the royal racetrack more times than losers. Most of the time." Tyr shook his head again.

Several net menders entered the store, rubbing their sore hands. "I wish you luck," said Pyger, seeing greener pastures, "you’re going to need it." Pyger turned to the net-menders. "Some coelacanth hand ointment ladies?"

***

The palace of Archduke Ferdinand was surprisingly easy to find. Just a quick hop past the fish-market, a turn on Squid-Monger’s Row and he was on Royal Avenue. He could have just gone by his sense of smell, because Royal Avenue was the only place in the city that didn’t reek of fish.

Tyr approached the big grey stone slab of the Archduke’s palace. It seemed quiet. The kind of quiet found before a storm hit.

Suddenly, the palace gates burst open. Out poured a crowd of pleased peasants, jubilant journeymen, and merry merchants. At the head of this rough parade two soldiers held aloft a hastily painted banner.

All Hail Sir Hugo the Giant Slayer!

Tyr had only one thing to say.

"Damn it!"

***

The celebrations lasted deep into the night and although Tyr was disappointed, he’d never turn down free food and drink. Therefore, his new mission was to have a night that would make a hardened drunkard’s bender on Stygian wine look like a meeting of the Noble Widow’s Temperance Guild.

The man of the hour didn’t really participate in the evening’s celebrations. After presenting all of his reward money to the Royal Home for Widows and Orphans, Sir Hugo paraded up and down the main street on his milk white steed, basking in the adulation of the people.

Tyr had never met Sir Hugo personally, but he knew his type. He was a knight-errant: a highborn amateur who went around fighting wars, slaying monsters and stealing work from professionals like Tyr. Then, after doing it all for charity, he would waltz around acting so noble and pure that he made all mercenaries look like scum by comparison.

Tyr agreed that most mercenaries are scum, but they at least deserve to earn that status as individuals, and not as a class.

Sir Hugo embodied everything about knight-errantry that agitated Tyr’s one remaining nerve. His armour was so clean you could eat off it, and his golden locks were neatly trimmed and combed, this fellow had never scratched lice in his life. In addition, his delicately handsome face was unmarred by any scars or evidence of battle’s true nature.

Tyr, on the other hand, had a few marks on a face that some called ruggedly handsome, others damn ugly. His roughly cropped hair had a kind of drowned rat colour, and although he had always tried to be clean in a filthy world…

Well, things got messy when you worked for a living.

After the parade, Sir Hugo made a speech on the importance of his noble calling. It was beautifully composed and Sir Hugo was a trained orator, making it so powerful that liquor and anger obliged Tyr, to call out:

"Kiss my hairy barbarian buttocks!"

Things could have turned as ugly if the crowd had heard Tyr’s offer to Sir Hugo. However, waves of joyous exultation swamped his cry beyond rescue.

Ignored, unemployed, and just plain annoyed with the world, Tyr wandered into the night to sail the seas of free alcohol.

***

Morning sunlight cut through the curtains and smacked Tyr square in the face. The light felt like a blazing torch being shoved into his eye sockets, making them hurt almost as much as his head.

The warrior rolled away from the burning light, and opened his eyes. Through tunnel vision, he saw a small blue vial, an elegantly written note identified it as a special hangover remedy. It was a cure for his swollen head, and Tyr saw nothing else but that beautiful bottle.

His head throbbed like a thousand angry drummers were pounding a war beat directly on his brain. He was as weak as a kitten and as sick as a dog, a messed-up mixed metaphor desperate for relief. The great warrior, long thought invincible, laid waste by his own stupidity.

He pondered the bottle for a second. Potions like this were expensive, worth more than what an average man makes in a month. Drinking it could be costly in more ways than one.

Don’t mind the cost, his tortured brain scolded him, we’ll burn that bridge when we get to it, drink it!

It was worth every copper penny.

The moment it entered his body sweet relief engulfed him like a tide. The pain faded, his head cleared and he could now see beyond his soft clean bed.

Soft clean bed?

The room around him was luxuriously furnished, and, for a moment, Tyr thought he must have wandered into some highbrow brothel. However, he had never seen one laid out as richly like this, and he’d been in some classy operations.

The room was fitted with all the beauty money could buy, imported from the farthest corners of Agartha. Tyr stepped off the bed and his feet felt an expensive hand woven rug imported from the spider haunted cities of Hoth.

This was no brothel…

This was someplace important.

His clothes, freshly laundered, lay folded on a table next to a wash basin and a jug of hot water. Tyr lifted his cloak from the table and found his weapons, they had been thoroughly cleaned and polished.

Everything was present, accounted for, and in better shape than before. His mysterious host had even patched the draughty hole in his cloak.

Tyr took advantage of the hot soapy water and scrubbed off the sea-salt, sweat, stale liquor and bitter defeat. After he finished there was a knock on the door. Tyr opened the heavy oak door and a tall, elegantly thin man came in.

"Good morning Master Tyr," said the man with the cultured disdain of a life spent in the royal court. "We met last night. My name is Sir Somerloy, Chamberlain to the Archduke."

Tyr had only the vaguest recollections of the previous night, but nodded anyway. As he nodded, he silently and quickly prayed to the Great Maker that he didn’t do anything stupid the night before, like promising to marry this fellow’s ugliest daughter.

"It’s good to see you up and ready." The thin man seemed pleased at Tyr’s cleanliness. "You will have to be at your best meeting the Archduke."

"Meet the Archduke?"

"Of course," answered Somerloy, "You are meeting His Most August Presence in less than an hour. It’s an honour and you must be prepared."

Tyr’s mind locked on one question.

What the hell did I get myself into this time?

***

It was Tyr’s first visit to the Mountains of the Frozen Dead and the name fit. Before them lay a mountain of a man, frozen, clearly dead, and in the dead centre of the road.

"This is our problem," said the Archduke Ferdinand pointing to the frosty heap. "Twenty tons of frozen meat blocking the only road inland."

"It’s a hazard to navigation," added Somerloy. "Only the nimblest steeds can get around it, and you can just forget a wagon full of dried fish."

"What do you want me to do about it?" Tyr was curious.

"We want you to get rid of it," answered Ferdinand. The Archduke was a stocky, broad-shouldered man with a red beard as thick as a bramble bush and an internal energy that, if fully unleashed, could have melted this frozen mountain pass.

"What?" Tyr the Nomad was confused. He was a warrior; the only beasts he got rid of were live ones, and he never gave a thought or a tinker’s cuss about what happened after they were slain. This Archduke was sounding like a lunatic.

"We have investigated your personal history," said Somerloy.

"He means our spies checked you out," interrupted the Archduke. "And word is that aside from slaying monsters, you’re good at getting tricky jobs done. If the price is right."

"I’m a warrior," answered Tyr, "what you need is an engineer or a sorcerer. I assume they would handle this sort of thing."

"We don’t need engineers or sorcerers," said Ferdinand. "We’re up to our necks with them. One or the other could do the job. But you’ve dealt with them, they’ll go on and on about the building materials or the effect of the moons on their bloody auras, and they’ll have accomplished nothing. What we need is a man who makes tough decisions. Someone with a pair of steel ones between his legs, and who won’t let the so-called experts run them over. A man who can get them off their over-educated behinds and get the job done fast."

"Why the rush?"

"Spring begins in six weeks." The Archduke was showing his worry. "The snow will melt, the grass will grow and that heap will thaw and then rot."

"Oh," said Tyr.

"Our economy," Ferdinand explained, "is based on carting fish every spring to the Inland Kingdoms, and it’s not good for the fish to be trucked through a pile of scavengers and pestilence."

"It’s a danger to public health and safety," added Somerloy, "and will have to cleared away."

"Will you do it?" asked the Archduke.

"I don’t know…?" pondered Tyr. "Don’t you have someone in your government who can do this job?"

"All I have are bureaucrats," answered Archduke Ferdinand. "They will hold meetings with the sorcerers and builders, draw up proposals, make plans, and hold meetings to schedule more meetings. By the time they make a decision that thing will be crawling with maggots and stinking like death on a stick. You can get this job done, it’s simple compared to getting soldiers to build a bridge while under attack by firbolgs."

"I’m not sure I’m-" Tyr realised that Ferdinand’s spies really did check him out. He had organised a ragtag troop of soldiers and with the help of an engineer had built a bridge that allowed the army he worked for to rescue a city under siege. The engineer brought his expertise and Tyr was the unofficial foreman, keeping the company at work despite the hazards. It was a hard and dangerous job, because they were under constant enemy attack, but it was nothing like moving a dead giant. Or was moving a dead giant simpler?

"There’s three thousand thalers budgeted for the project." A broad smile emerged from the Archduke’s beard. "You’ll set your own salary to cover your personal expenses, and you can keep whatever’s left over. That’s only fair, isn’t it."

"Hmmm," mused Tyr, his smile matching Ferdinand’s. It was a dirty job, and lacked the glory of battle, but the money was very tempting. And Tyr couldn’t resist that kind of temptation.

***

Word spread through Fayrport like a brushfire on the Plains of Dusty Death.

Engineer wanted, now,

he, or she must be good, fast, and most important: cheap.

***

"I’m the man you’re looking for," Manzo Greenleaf said to Tyr as he scratched behind a sharply pointed ear. "Well, actually, I’m the elf you’re looking for, to be specific. I’m a certified master builder of everything from siege engines to impregnable fortifications." He took off his brass-rimmed pince-nez and began to polish the lenses. "Last year I was Chief War Engineer for Viscount Bismal at the siege of Taoloose."

"Wasn’t the siege a failure?" Tyr already knew the answer. "Because I distinctly remember seeing Bismal’s head on a pike."

"I’m not responsible for the tactical failings of my employers," snapped Manzo. "I only build what they ask for."

"I’m not sure," muttered Tyr. "I’ve got a few more people to get through today."

Desperation shone through Manzo’s thick lenses, Tyr knew he had him.

"I’ll do it for a hundred thalers."

"It’ll be a pleasure working with you."

They shook hands and sealed the deal. Tyr smiled, the project had only just started, and he was already under budget.

Now to show him the plan.

***

"This is the plan," shouted Tyr over the howling mountain wind. "We clear the trees from this slope."

"Forming a path for our frozen friend?" said Manzo, examining the slope’s smallest detail through his thick lenses.

"These are strong trees," continued Tyr, "and we can use them to build whatever you need."

"That’ll save money."

Tyr nodded and led Manzo away from their frosty charge to the top of the slope. The other side was a steep tree-lined slope that dropped precariously into the waters of a deep fjord.

Tyr pointed toward the fjord and said: "Once we get it to the top, we tip him over and let him slide down into the water. There he’ll sink and feed the fish. The Archduke will be happy, the fish will be happy and I’ll be happy."

"Sounds simple enough," said Manzo, before he began to complicate things as engineers do. "We’ll need at least a thousand feet of heavy chains. I can build some basic big-scale wooden pulleys and levers and have it all ready to go in three weeks."

Tyr did some quick calculating, factoring in his self-appointed salary and Manzo’s estimates. "Make it five. There’s no need to rush."

"Sure, but we’re going to need a place for the workers to sleep near the site." Manzo looked around. "Dragging fifty men out for a frigid two hour ride every morning is something I don’t want to worry about, and this weather isn’t exactly good for camping."

Tyr turned to point to a two-story building nestled deep in the trees on the other side of the road. Although they were too far away to read the sign Tyr already knew that it said:

Mountain View Inn, Food, Lodgings, Baths

***

The innkeeper, an amazingly ugly, box of a man named Dragget, eyed Tyr suspiciously. "I’ve heard about you," he said. "You’re the foreigner they hired to cart the giant away." Dragget paused to pick his nose, a bulbous mass, as big as a man’s fist. His thick finger completely disappeared into its cavernous depths. "What brings you here?"

"You have rooms available," asked Tyr, studying the publican’s pockmarked face and thick sloping brow, and wondering if birth or cruel fate that made him that way.

Dragget snorted and spat into a rusty metal bucket. "Got nothing but rooms, food, and liquor going to waste! Winter’s usually slow for casual travellers but that fool giant ruined it completely." He spat again. "May he rot in the Deepest of Hells."

"How would you like to make a little money?" asked Tyr in the nonchalant tone of a negotiation’s opening volley. "There are going to be over fifty workers coming here. Renting your rooms, eating your food and drinking your…"

"I get what you’re saying," said the innkeeper as he scratched his pockmarked chin. "You’re looking for some consideration."

"It depends on the kind of consideration," Tyr mused aloud.

"Kickback, eh?" Dragget knew he was right, but he had to ask, for tradition’s sake.

"Twenty percent," said Tyr.

"Five!" answered Dragget, offended at the offer.

"Fifteen."

"Ten!"

"Deal! But not on the rooms." Tyr knew getting a kickback on the rooms weren’t worth it. Most of the labourers were going to pay a few pennies for a straw lined nook in the inn’s main hall. Tyr had bigger fish to fry. "You can keep that. What I want is ten percent of the food and the booze."

Tyr knew who he was hiring, young, unmarried males looking for a few extra coins for the off season. Lacking the distractions of the city and any feminine presence would leave them with only one thing to do. Drink, and drink a lot, every night. Good old Dragget was going to see a disastrous winter bloom into a glorious spring, all for just ten percent and a favour for his new partner.

"I also understand that you’ve got baths here," asked Tyr.

"Our ‘Royal Suite,’ squire," answered Dragget. "It’s a private room with a bathtub you could float a boat in. It’s the only one in the place."

"I’ll be taking that," said Tyr. "As part of our arrangement."

"Understood." In spite of the fact that he didn’t like giving up ten-percent and his best room to this foreign mercenary, he had to admit, if only to himself, that he was going to make a nice packet.

"By the way," Tyr needed a question answered. "How did you survive the giant? I thought he ate everyone around."

"That’s easy." Dragget laughed. "My dad was a firbolg of the Blood-Shedder clan before he met my Mom and settled down as an innkeeper. I told Älaf that firbolgs are poisonous and bad luck to harass. Didn’t help my poor customers though."

That answered how Dragget survived the ravenous monster. The firbolgs, or bog dwellers, were nasty brutish humanoids that terrorised anyone foolish enough to go near their wasteland homes. Some theorised that they were a less evolved human that survived the age when demons ruled this world. All Tyr really knew about them was they were vicious on the battlefield and damned ugly. Proving that Dragget really was born that way.

Manzo and the workers would begin arriving in the morning. Everything, so far, was going according to plan, leaving him with just one more task to do tonight.

"Can you get some hot water for the bath?" He asked the half-firbolg innkeeper. A day of riding back and forth from Fayrport had left him with the clinging odour of horse and he had to get rid of it.

The innkeeper’s laugh revealed knobby yellow teeth set in his thick bony jaw. "All the help ran when the giant came. So you’ll have to wait ‘til tomorrow."

Tyr sighed at the injustices of the world. "Where’s the well and the firewood? I’ll do it myself."

The half-bog dweller chuckled. "You do get what you pay for in this world, don’t you?" The chuckle exploded into hoarse laugh that tempted Tyr to flatten Dragget’s bulbous nose, but he had money to make, and was man enough to endure petty insults for the greater good.

***

Dawn started a busy day in the Mountains of the Frozen Dead. Workmen arrived and started unloading axes, saws, hammers, nails, and most importantly: chains. Two of the planned five mammoths arrived to haul lumber while the rest were to come when it was time to heave the big bastard over the top. Everything was coming along nicely.

Naturally, as engineers do, Manzo had concerns.

"I’m not so sure about these chains," stated the builder after he built up enough courage to face the burly warrior.

"They’re the right gauge, aren’t they?"

"Yes, and in theory they should work, but…" stuttered Manzo, before his voice trailed off.

"But what?" Tyr didn’t need the aggravation.

Manzo held up a length of chain to Tyr. "See this?"

"There’s nothing there," answered Tyr. "It’s a chain."

"That’s right!" Manzo exclaimed, as if arresting the murderer in some stage melodrama. "There’s supposed to be an Iron Mountain Guild mark on every thirty-fifth link. That way you know it’s the best quality."

"Don’t tell me," said Tyr. "That a man as educated as you has been fooled by the Iron Mountain Guild. You’re a worldly man, you’re not supposed to fall for this scam."

"But!"

"But nothing," answered the Khamorrahn, "Chains are chains, no matter where they come from. Those guild marks are a dwarf ploy to sell goods at inflated prices. We’ve spent the chain budget and we’ve got chains, so stop worrying and do your job."

Manzo shut up; he needed the money, and he knew it wasn’t going to be his head on the block for blowing it.

That was a relief.

The next five weeks flew by. The labourers worked all day and drank all-night, making Tyr happy. When in his cups, Manzo occasionally vented his suspicions of the chains to anyone who’d listen. Few did.

The day to move the giant had come; meaning the remaining money was his. To Tyr there was nothing like gold and silver in one’s hand, it felt like a job well done.

It felt like victory.

A tap on the shoulder broke Tyr’s reverie.

"We’re all set sir. Give the word and we can start." Manzo was polishing his lenses again, a ritual, Tyr noted, he did when nervous.

"The word is given Mr. Manzo."

"Are you sure about those chains?" Those chains again.

"The word is given," snapped Tyr, having heard enough already. Tyr then climbed onto the scaffold Manzo had built for him to observe his victory in comfort. Tyr considered giving the elf a bonus for this nice touch. A very little bonus, but a bonus nonetheless.

"All right!" bellowed Manzo in a voice too booming for his size. "Get those mammoth’s moving!"

At the command of their handlers, the ponderous creatures pulled the chains tight. The frozen behemoth moved a few inches, its colossal weight grinding the gravel and ice beneath into powder.

Älaf moved a foot at a lurch, better than Tyr’s expectations. Then it happened.

Tyr’s keen ears heard it under the grunts of the mammoths. A high pitched whine growing more intense by the second.

He knew what it was.

"Damn it!"

The chains snapped with an echoing crack and lashed out in every direction.

Time itself slowed for Tyr. He could see the Manzo and the workers dive for shelter from the flying metal.

He could see the great mammoths howl in fright.

He could see the length of chain coming at him like the blade of a scythe looking to harvest his head.

He had just enough time to say:

"Damn it."

End of Part 1

Riding the Giant, Part 2

The length of chain whipped across the cold air and dug deep into the wooden front legs of Tyr’s makeshift watchtower.

Tyr felt the scaffold lurch forward, then it pitched him out into the open air. For the half second that Tyr the Nomad was airborne he experienced visions flashing before his eyes, they weren’t of his whole life, just the past few weeks.

He saw himself arriving in Fayrport to earn the reward for slaying a giant called the Skull-Grinder, he relived the bitter disappointment on discovering that an asinine knight errant had beat him to it, foiling his perfect giant killing plan. He remembered the Archduke Ferdinand, a stocky man of boundless energy, who made him an offer he should have refused. Get rid of the dead giant before it starts to stink and a small fortune would be his. He relived his first meeting with Manzo, the elven engineer, and he could hear the elf whining about the cheap chains that Tyr had bought to move the giant. Then he relived the previous half-second, when Manzo’s whining about the chains proved to be right.

Then Tyr hit the ground.

The air rushed from Tyr’s lungs, his face scraped against the grit and gravel, and his knee hit a jagged stone.

One of the mammoths howled and charged up the slope as if the horned hoplites of hell were in pursuit. The other beasts panicked and tried to flee in other directions, tangling their harness even worse.

Walls of fur and stench tripped and tumbled over each other, transforming Manzo’s elaborate pulley system into an avalanche of wrenched lumber, rocks, and broken chains.

Workers fled, horses reared in terror. Manzo screamed for order but none listened.

Tyr rose to his feet, just in time to see the behemoth head of the dead giant charging toward him. He tried to leap out of the thundering monstrosity’s way, but his recent tumble slowed his normally excellent reflexes.

The Skull Grinder’s frozen head collided with Tyr’s legs while he was in mid leap. Tyr’s world spun madly for a second, then another always-shocking impact with the ground.

Tyr tumbled and rolled across the frozen road. When his body finally came to a stop, he looked up at the scene around him.

Manzo was crawling out of a ditch, covered in dirty snow. The workers stood staring at the carnage their labours had wrought with stunned awe, and the Skull Grinder, terror of the Mountains of the Frozen Dead, was lying face up, just inches from his original spot on the road.

All their effort, all their pain, and all their terror had only succeeded in shifting him three inches to his left.

In his years of combat, Tyr had never seen a battle won by the already dead.

None that didn’t involve sorcery, that is.

"Manzo," he ordered. "Send a messenger to Dragget. I want a hot bath and a bottle of his strongest wine waiting for me in my room. Understand?"

"But sir?" asked Manzo, his arms flailing at the destruction around them.

"No buts!"

***

Tyr lay in the steaming tub, sipping wine till his fingertips wrinkled. Despite their barbaric reputation, Khamorrahns are a fastidious breed and Tyr needed to scrub off the heady musk of panicked mammoth and sour defeat. The stench was breaking his concentration and he needed to think clearly.

Tyr thought clearest in two places, in battle, and the bathtub. Since his foe was already dead, he settled for the bath.

It was an uncomfortable situation. He blew most of the "real" budget on the workers, the mammoths, and those blasted chains. That left him under twenty-one hundred thalers, money that rightfully belonged to him. He wasn’t going to give it back, and he’d be damned if he was going to blow it all on another attempt to move the giant.

There was no way he was leaving this mountain with less than he came in with.

He had to think, because when he put his mind to it, a solution always came up. He closed his eyes and took another slug of wine.

"Congratulations barbarian," said a silky voice from behind him. "Your solution’s here."

Tyr didn’t need to open his eyes, he knew that voice, and she could be the solution he was seeking, or the cause of even bigger troubles.

"Sela," he said with a smile. "How’s the sorcery game?"

"Great," she said with typical magician’s confidence. "I was passing through and I heard of your trouble with Skull Grinder and I thought you could use my help."

Tyr’s blue eyes opened and aimed a piercing stare straight at her. She was a princess of the Lemurian Kingdom of Torgus, and looked the part with her slender build, flawless dark skin, matching eyes, and regal bearing. She had left the court of her great-uncle, King Kenatta to study magic with the Grey Order of Sorcerers.

Tyr normally didn’t associate with scholars, royalty, or royal scholars, but knew Sela well because she found academia dull and often set out in search of adventure. Since adventure was Tyr’s vocation, they’d had many dealings, both personal and professional.

"Just passing through, eh?" Tyr said suspiciously. "I thought you went home to finish your thesis."

She ran a delicate hand through her black curls. "Things came up and I thought it would be educational if I travelled more."

"Things?" Tyr smiled. "Did you turn your uncle into a cat again?"

"Is that water hot?" She wanted to change the subject. Tyr still wanted to know what happened, until she slipped off her heavy clothes and slid into the tub. Then the question went down his list of priorities.

"This brings back memories," he said, thinking back to balmy nights in Atlantis.

"It does." Her lips gently caressed his. "How do you northlanders survive winter?"

"It’s not always this cold," he answered. "Of course these long winter nights force us to conserve body heat through constant physical contact."

"That’s why there are so many of you," she kissed him again.

He looked deep into her eyes and asked: "What did you do this time? Was it a botched teleportation?"

Sela smiled, and with a strength that belied her delicate build shoved Tyr’s sizeable head under the steaming water. His horse-like laugh came up with the bubbles and echoed around the room.

Later, dressed, dry, and with a fire roaring in the stove, they discussed how she could help.

"There’s a spell for your problem," she said, pulling the heavy fur quilts in closer, eager for their comfort.

"There’s a spell for everything…"

"I know," she interjected. "You’re going to say ‘but.’"

"Well…" he paused, composing his thoughts. "Yes. I’m not saying you’re a bad sorcerer. Hell, you pulled my bacon out of the fire more than once, but you have a tendency to get ahead of yourself."

Sela snorted, offended at the implication. "I’m just ambitious."

"Ambitious and talented." Tyr sighed; a Khamorrahn warrior upbringing didn’t give him the emotional diplomacy needed with Sela. "It’s just that you’ve put my bacon into the fire more than once. Is your solution something the Grey Order would sanction as within your training?"

She lay her head on his broad chest. "Of course," she laughed. "I covered it during first year at the College of Souls."

"That simple," he looked at her with suspicion. "You mean even a First Degree sorcerer can do it. You haven’t got your Master’s ticket yet, but you’re still allowed to do it."

"Well," she answered, "you’re supposed to have the certificate to make it official, but that’s nothing more than paperwork. My thesis is practically done, I’ve just got to touch it up here and there, editing you know, and pass it in to the High Prelate."

"Really?" This reduced the element of terror, but only slightly. "What’s it about?"

"I am," she stated proudly, "the author of the definitive translation of the Scrolls of Quess."

"Sounds impressive."

"It isn’t," she answered. "It’s mostly about making things weigh more or weigh less through sorcery."

"That could have practical uses," he said.

"Yep," she looked him square in the eyes. "And it’s going to get your bacon out of the fire."

"How?"

"We’ll talk about in the morning," she said revealing her sparkling smile, a welcome change from the sight of Dragget and the others. "Right now I want to discuss my fee."

"Your fee?" He failed to sound naïve.

"Yes my fee." She gave Tyr’s chest a hard whack, he didn’t even wince. "My sudden, but necessary, departure has left me short of cash."

"I knew it!" Tyr smirked. "I knew you were on the lam again!"

"All right," she admitted. "There was a little trouble involving an exploded temple——It’s not funny!"

Tyr couldn’t stop laughing. "It’s damn funny!"

"Nobody got hurt," she sighed, "but I’m not exactly welcome at home until I can pay for the damage."

"I wish I could help, but temples are expensive."

"I’m patient," she said, "I just want half of what you’re clearing on this deal or big, dead, and frosty stays put."

"You’re going to be the death of me woman," snorted Tyr. "The way you manipulate my soft-hearted nature."

Sela laughed and kissed him to seal the deal.

***

Rosy fingered dawn came, like the poet said, and Tyr was ready for Sela’s plan.

Naturally, Manzo, a man of science, had concerns.

"Sorcery," Manzo’s protested while he polished his lenses so hard that he risked cracking them. "You can’t let a Grey Order charlatan take over the project!"

"I know you’re upset, but…" Tyr tried to placate the raging engineer but Sela’s wasn’t helping.

"Who’s calling me a charlatan?" she screeched, drowning out any voice of reason.

"What are you going to do," snapped Manzo, "turn me into a frog?"

"I can make your teeth disappear without breaking a sweat!" Sela balled up a fist, forcing Tyr to act.

"CHILDREN QUIET!"

Sela and Manzo froze in mid-consternation. The bellow echoed off the valley’s walls for what seemed like an eternity.

"Really," said Sela, collecting her wits. "Calling us children wasn’t necessary."

Manzo nodded, at least they agreed on something.

"I don’t care," barked Tyr, he was back to one nerve, and they were both on it. The workers had taken their pay and scurried home like rats from a sinking ship and all he had left were these two. "I got a letter from Fayrport yesterday. The Weather Seer has predicted an early spring, starting tomorrow. You know what that means."

Manzo shuddered at the implications.

"Can I get to work?" Sela had dampened her temper, because she too didn’t want to be around when Älaf went back to nature.

"Excellent," said Tyr. "What’s your plan?"

Sela took out a small pouch. "These will get rid of him." She snapped her fingers. "Like that!"

"What are they?" Tyr was curious.

"Bo-Ku seeds." She gave Tyr that confident smile that always scared him. It was a bit too cocky for his health.

"How will seeds lift a twenty ton giant?" Manzo was unimpressed.

"Magic you swamp sucker," she snarled. "There’s a spell I cast over the seeds. Then whatever I put the seeds on will weigh less."

"How much?"

"Up to one ton per seed," she shook the pouch to show that she had plenty to spare.

"If we used enough seeds…" Tyr mused aloud.

"He’ll become lighter than air and float away," Sela completed the thought. "A perfect solution."

"I’ll have no part of this!" whined Manzo, his rage faded into a sullen pout. "Practical problems need practical, scientific solutions. Not a bunch of hokum about magic beans."

"They’re seeds you worm," replied Sela. "And I don’t see your plan working."

"You callous shrew!" Manzo’s dander shot up again. "It would have worked if your hairy boyfriend hadn’t blown the budget on those chains!"

Tyr put his body between them like a wall of muscle. "All right! Enough! Yes Manzo, your plan would have worked. The chains were an error on my part and I’m sorry. I really am, but Sela’s plan, as far fetched as magic always seems, is our last shot."

"Good," said Sela. "Can I get started now?"

Manzo watched in disgust as Sela ritually enchanted the seeds. Calling the spirits in the forgotten tongues of lost realms, commanding them to work her magic, and the spirits obeyed.

She climbed onto the giant’s chest, seeds in hand, crying arcane commands to the heavens. Tyr, meanwhile, begged, pleaded and bargained with The Great Maker or whatever Powers That Be to make sure she wasn’t jumping too far ahead only to fall on her face.

Sela gingerly placed the seeds onto the dead giant’s chest and climbed off, a smug grin on her face.

"And now the final incantation," she said as she turned with a flourish and bellowed the finale.

"By the Great Maker," Tyr blustered. The corpse began to rise, first a few inches then a few feet. Even Manzo the sceptic was impressed when it really began to take off.

Sela wet the tip of her finger and tested the air. "Winds are going to take it out to sea."

"I have to admit it," said Tyr, "I’m impressed."

Tyr, like his partners, looked up at the floating giant. But Tyr, unlike the others, was the only one to see a tiny black fleck falling from the sky.

It looked like a seed…

A Bo-Ku seed.

Damn it!

"The wind is blowing off the seeds," Tyr asked. "What’ll that do?" Tyr feared the answer.

"He’s coming down," she answered, "now!"

Manzo screamed and fled into the forest.

Tyr took Sela into his strong arms and ran.

The great behemoth crashed with the force of a thousand thunders. A tidal wave of snow and debris engulfed Tyr and Sela, tossing them into a ditch like discarded rag dolls and burying them.

Tyr surveyed the damage after they dug themselves out. Älaf had crushed what was left of the trees and slid back to his home on the road. They were back to square one again.

"That explains how Quess got crushed by an elephant," Sela shrugged. "My thesis needs a new ending."

All fell dead silent, except for a distant cry coming from behind a rock.

"It’s a burden always being right!"

"Manzo," Tyr boomed. "Get your skinny elf behind down here! There’s work to do!"

Sela glared at him, thinking he had finally snapped.

"What," she said, "you’re giving that weed a second chance! I can make the spell work! We just have to make sure the seeds stay on!"

The engineer came running, victory radiating from his face. "I told you so. These quacks like to say they’re all powerful but magic’s so unreliable! They’re just a pack of pseudo-intellectual…"

His rant was cut short by the iron grip of Tyr’s hand on his throat.

"I want you to shut up!" ordered Tyr. Sela made a move to speak, but a wave of his hand silenced her. "Both of you! You were both wrong, but you were also both right. So here is what we’re going to do…"

***

All they had left were those apparently useless chains.

Sure the chain couldn’t pull a twenty ton giant. It was too weak, but that didn’t stop Tyr from getting Sela and Manzo to help him form a rough harness around the behemoth’s arms and head.

"The chains are useless," said Manzo, puffing and sweating from their labours.

"Yeah," concurred Sela, "What are you planning?"

"All I need," he said, "are a few magic seeds to lighten him enough for me to pull him over the ridge myself."

"You magnificent bastard," exclaimed Manzo and Sela in unison.

"Sela, I want you to figure out how many seeds you need," instructed Tyr, "and this time we’re putting them in a pouch sewn to his tunic."

"I’ll rig up the pouch," offered Manzo.

"Excellent," said Tyr. "We’ve no time to lose."

Everything was ready within a few hours.

Tyr gave Älaf a slight shove, moving its whole body easily. The giant now weighed less than fifty pounds.

Perfect.

Absolutely perfect.

"Here we go," Tyr announced as he strode to the head of the great cadaver. The pouch, made from a piece of Manzo’s own cloak, was full of enchanted seeds and tightly sewn to the giant’s filthy tunic.

Tyr pulled the lead of the harness to his shoulder and with a less than mighty heave dragged the tremendous corpse up the slope.

It only took a few minutes to get to the ridge. Nevertheless, it was a few minutes too long; the giant’s matted hair was already beginning to thaw, filling Tyr’s nostrils with the stench of decades of filth.

I better have another bath tonight, he thought happily to himself. Hopefully, not alone.

Tyr carefully balanced Älaf at the ridge’s summit and smiled. All he had left was to lower the frozen behemoth gently into the bay.

Tyr spotted a distant shape at the mouth of the fjord; it was a ship watching him work. Since victory was at hand, he didn’t mind sharing his moment with an audience.

Tyr turned back to Älaf only to see an obese black crow perched on the dead giant’s chest. The giant was still too frozen to be of any interest to the feathered scavenger. That must mean…

It wanted the seeds.

"Damn it!"

Tyr scurried onto the giant’s chest, but as soon as he got within range, the crow chose the better part of valour and fled to the skies.

Of course, that was after its sharp beak had picked open the pouch, spilling its contents onto the ground.

"DAMN IT!" screamed Tyr as gravity reasserted itself.

The plummeting giant generated a velocity so powerful that the slope’s mighty pines couldn’t even slow it down.

Tyr held on tighter than he had ever held on before as great hunks of trees hammered his body, and their splinters scraped his flesh like animal’s claws. The immense roar of the giant’s destructive slide overwhelmed his ears.

Suddenly the ground below him vanished, replaced by cold air and deep water far below. Tyr held his breath and clung tighter as the air whipped past and the water’s icy darkness engulfed him.

***

Tyr’s lungs screamed for air as he broke the surface. He was never a good swimmer, so he dog-paddled for what looked like shore and dragged his battered body up.

Only what he sat on didn’t feel like land.

It felt like coarse, dirty cloth and animal skins. It felt like Älaf’s tunic.

His grand theory that giants sink instead of float was just so much troll-spit.

"Well," he thought aloud, "at least it’s off the road. I’ve earned my money."

Tyr would have laughed, but he was too damn cold.

"Ahoy there," cried a gruff voice behind him. He saw that boat again, coming in on all oars.

"Ahoy," he answered back.

"Is this your giant?" asked the caller from the ship.

"I guess so," answered Tyr.

The ship drew closer to Tyr. The captain was so brilliantly ugly he could have been a relative of Dragget’s. The seaman called out: "We’ll pay a good price to tow it away. How does two thousand thalers sound?"

Tyr laughed with all the strength he had left, and enjoyed every raucous note.

***

Sela applied both ointments and unguents to Tyr’s many cuts and scratches. The boat had dropped him off with some dry clothes, a hot drink, and a fat purse. Tyr was happier than any injured man should be. The steaming waters of the tub eased his pain and he was enjoying Sela’s company.

"You know," he said. "It’ll be cold tonight. We’ll have to…"

"For survival," she asked.

"My survival, definitely," he said, she laughed. "I’m a wounded man here."

"I’ve seen you chewed up a lot worse than this," she said with a smile. "And you always survived."

"Well then, let’s do it for you," he pleaded. "You’re not used to winter weather."

"You’re in a really good mood for a man who just fell off a cliff with a twenty ton giant."

"You know the boat that picked me up?"

"Fished you out."

"Whatever. The boat was a kraken hunter," said Tyr with a grin.

"Kraken? Those giant man-eating squids?" Sela shuddered at her old childhood phobia.

Tyr’s grin broke into a huge smile. "They paid me two thousand thalers for Älaf’s carcass."

"What for?"

"Bait."

"That’s disgusting!" she exclaimed.

"It is, but if he didn’t want to be squid bait he should have lived peacefully. They paid a great price and if you check your purse, you’ll find a bonus that should ease your way home. Manzo sure was happy with his share."

"I’m sure he was, thanks." Sela kissed him.

"You did a good job," Tyr said, leaning back into her slender arms. "But I think you should pass in your thesis as soon as possible. The world needs a certified, if ambitious, sorceress like you."

"Would you like to come with me?" she asked, "Hadrianople is beautiful in the spring."

"If you’ll have me," he said. She hugged him tighter, which was all the answer he needed.

"By the way," he said, moving onto a new subject. "I looked that giant over and couldn’t find a mark on him. Do you know how Sir Hugo killed him?"

"Oh yeah," she answered. "It was a really clever plan. He strapped a big bag of poison to the belly of a cow, and let the giant eat it."

That sounded familiar, too familiar…

It was his bloody plan!

All Tyr could say was…

"Damn it!"