The Giant from the Fire Sea, page 12
“Newton.”
“BROONT! The sky still burns with the dragon’s anger. We have been of a long time in travel. We do not know what more has been set to flame since we left. Because YOU, Broont, YOU are too great a coward to stand and take in the Makers’ Voice!”
Newton turned to the third giant, who had remained silent. He was slightly shorter than the other two and considerably shorter than the Puncher. His bald head was covered in lumps, mapping a lifetime of head poundings by giants he had a knack for angering. “Who are you? This giant is guessing you are not here to be of help to him.”
“Aphanfel.”
“He found where Pryat was hiding after he freed you,” said Marlite.
“This one does a little spying. This one does a little catching. This one does a little adventuring,” said Aphanfel, in a dancing voice.
“And that one,” said Crag, pointing to the spy, “gets a little take-take if he returns with that one.” He pointed to Newton.
Newton wondered what the take-take would be for the giant who brought him back. To take without a give was a great treasure. A giant could take whatever he wanted, from any giant, without having to make balance.
“You are of an anger toward me because you get nothing when we bring him back.”
“Quiet, Aphanfel,” snapped Crag. “Elders do not need things they vow to not accept.”
“We all know that not to be true for you,” said Newton.
“Up, Newton. We are all going back,” said Marlite. “I am not sure yet how, but it is what we are doing.”
Newton got to his feet. This time the Puncher didn’t stop him. He turned and faced the Elder. “Oh, and I stood and heard the Makers, Crag. This giant will go with you. And this giant will face the Makers again. Then there will be no more Newton. Fi! No more Broont. But there will also be no more of another thing when we return.”
“What?” asked Crag.
“Skyfire!” said Newton. “It is ending. You were not of a need to seek me out.”
“You cannot know this,” said Crag. “You have been here, cowering in the sand.”
“Crag—” Newton gave up. They would not have come this far if they were of a mind that could be changed. He said simply, “If the skyfire still falls, I will take in the Makers’ words until I am a pile of ash. The skyfire will fall because the skyfire will fall. I cannot end it. You cannot end it. It will end when it ends, and it is ending now, if it has not already.”
Marlite seemed to consider this a moment. “How do you know this?” she asked.
“My eyes, Marlite! My eyes read the truth. I made a thing that shows me the stars. First at home. Then Ooda burned it. But I made one here, too. Their sky is our sky. If it ends here, it ends at home. And the skyfire, or shooting stars, falls less than when this giant arrived.”
“The more Broont talks,” said Crag, “the more Broont makes trouble, for Broont and all giants. Let this giant ask you a question: Do the Makers’ words consume you?”
Newton said nothing.
“Do they?” asked Marlite.
“Why?” asked Newton.
“Because,” said Crag. “It proves you are guilty of angering the Makers.”
“It proves nothing,” said Newton. For a while, he hadn’t noticed the pain buzzing in his chest. Crag’s words seemed to have awakened it.
“Can we go?” asked Aphanfel.
“How? How do we get back?” asked Newton.
“Our tree stacks float between the Great Sea and the sea of flames,” said Crag. “Gossan turned to Everstone to make this so. He sits at the sea bottom with the trees tied to him. Another giant who died for selfish Broont.”
“Who else died?” asked Newton.
Aphanfel started counting on his fingers. “Opal turned and sank. Tanzan turned and sank. Kaolin fed a serpent. Pryat…”
“PRYAT? What happened to Pryat?”
“His boots rode a different stream,” said Crag.
“There were five currents at the spinning waters,” said Marlite. “We took the red, because fire we know. And I thought fire you know. His tree stack was behind us and got caught in the white ice.” The giantess looked away from Newton. “He is … gone. Or he is where the ice current brought him.”
Newton glared at the holygiant through his good eye. “You say this as if it does not bring you sadness, Marlite.”
“You cannot read what is inside of me … BROONT!” she spat.
Newton sniffed in her direction and then smiled sadly. “I can, though.”
“Pegma and Gabroc made him go. This giantess thinks it was not much matter to him. He believes he was of a fault in what happened to you.”
“Oaf. It was not him. It was you,” said Newton.
“We go,” she huffed.
The wounded giant staggered forward. He was still unsteady after the bout with Greyelm. The Puncher stiffened, waiting for the smaller giant to try something. But what could he do? My prying has sent my friend to his icy death, he thought. Other giants have died. My mans friends here are in danger. If I had stayed on the Iron Thorn, much would be better for many. He thought again of Pryat, and a simmering anger grew from the sadness.
“Will Flintoak be back?” Aphanfel asked Crag. “We need food.”
“If there is food, he will find it.” Flintoak, the other Puncher, had been sent to find food before they left. He was to bring what he scavenged back to where they would reenter the flaming tide.
Newton feared what Flintoak would consider food. Would he have gathered some of his friends? He hoped they’d stayed at the falls. The Puncher would have been able to cover that distance in half the time it took him. And he knew the Apooncha could smell blood from a good distance, even when it still flowed inside a body. One small mans, maybe not, but many together?
Newton stopped. “Wait. An oath. You must give oath to leave here without hurting the mans and womans. Let Flintoak collect their ox cows and gooses. But he cannot harm the peoples.”
“Peoples?” asked Marlite.
“The mans.”
“What is that?” asked Crag.
“This giant can make our journey home one of ease, or one of struggle. Give oath, or it will be one of struggle.”
“What are peoples and mans?” asked Crag.
“They are as small giants.” Newton held up his hand. “They are of the size of a giant’s hand.”
“Huruuum,” said Aphanfel. “That sounds like a good bite of food.” He had not eaten in weeks, and drool trickled from the corners of his mouth.
“They are not food!” said Newton. “They are of two legs. Two legs, no wings. And they are my friends.”
“If they fill a giant’s stomach, they are food,” said Crag. “We must eat before we leave. I am hoping Flintoak waits with a feast of your peoples and mans!”
Newton realized too late the mistake he had made. He should have never mentioned the mans and womans. I will not let that happen.
“They have other food. They have ox cows and goats. You will eat those,” he said. “Or this giant will not go with you.”
Crag nodded toward the Puncher. “Greyelm is of a thought that you will come with us.”
Newton looked at the three giants, sizing them up. He could thrump Crag, maybe. But maybe not. Aphanfel, also maybe. Also, maybe not. Marlite would be of good trouble. She was his size, but holygiants were tricky. They could do things with thoughts and words others could not. Then he looked up at Greyelm. He would have no chance against the Puncher. The giant looked behind him. It was his only escape, but the fall would surely kill him, unless …
He closed his eyes and thought of his friends, of Jat. Of Fira and Abeleena. Grumpy old Hinson, and Flora, who fed him boooks. Mynar Blodge, who made him things. Fearless Constable Stoggin … yes, even him. If these giants found they had a taste for mans, they would stay until there were no mans left. A giant’s appetite was everlasting. They were always hungry and could never eat too much. One learned to control that hunger at an early age; it was part of growing into a full giant. But when the food was as plentiful as the hunger, there was no reason to stop eating.
Newton had no fear of the giants that surrounded him. He had no fear of the Puncher. They could only cause him pain and death. He already had the pain. Death, he had beaten back before. But a different terror began to creep through him. He thought of his friends thrown down the drooling maws of these giants. They did not deserve this. And there was nothing he could do to stop it! Not while he was a prisoner. Free, he might have a chance.
The giant took a step back. The rocks beneath his feet began to fracture. Fira, eaten by giants, he thought. Jat, eaten by giants … He pictured Crag’s teeth crushing his friend’s body. Jat’s screams of terror! The skin on his arm hardened. Pryat lost in the Great Sea … These were not tales but real savagery brought upon those he cared for. He took a step back and looked over the edge. It was a long drop—enough to pull the last breath from his body. He wondered what would happen if he jumped. If he knew, if his body knew it was a fatal act, would it turn to stone before he hit the bottom? Or had he lived through so much that nothing would turn him again?
This giant can only do the only thing he can do. He felt his back stiffen at the thought. Newton leaned back and fell.
“GRAB HIM!” shouted Marlite. Her ponytail whipped out to snare the falling prisoner.
She was too late. The giant toppled over the edge of the ravine, just another boulder bouncing in a tumbling avalanche.
SIXTEEN
Thunder in the Mountain
It was dark. Was it night? Am I dead? Newton tried to turn his head side to side. He could barely move. His whole body itched. Oh, he remembered. I turned and fell. Giants’ bodies itch ferociously when they turn from stone to flesh. Must have been knocked out. Head didn’t turn to stone fast enough? The rocks from the side of the ravine had buried him; how deeply, he could not tell. He tried to move his arms and legs, but they were pinned beneath the rubble. If he didn’t break free soon, the giants would do it for him. Father had a saying for this: “The mallet missed your thumb but cracked your knee.”
“Your son cracked his thumb and his knee on this one,” he murmured. He took a deep breath. Breathing hurt. It nearly always did, since the Iron Thorn, but this felt worse. “And maybe cracked his shortbones, too,” he added. It did not matter; nothing mattered but breaking loose. He had to get back to help his friends. The giant balled his fist, focusing all his strength into his one arm, and hammered at the rocks. They didn’t budge.
“You WILL move!” he grunted. He hammered at them again and again. They began to give way. The more room he made, the harder he could hit. At last, his fist broke through to the surface. The debris chinkled and thudded as it skidded down from the opening he’d created. His freed arm reached over and pushed a heavy boulder off his chest. He sucked in a deep breath. Breathing was easier. He rolled to his side and pulled his other arm from the pile. A few moments later, he was standing atop the mound of rubble. Straining his neck and back, he looked up to the ledge from which he’d fallen. Long drop, he thought.
The other giants were nowhere in sight, but he knew they would be working their way around to come after him. Time to move your boots …
He rounded a pinnacle of rocks and something caught his arm. It yanked him back, spinning him around and dropping him onto his face. Newton rolled over. Crag stood above him, madly scratching his chest. He just turned back.
Crag stopped scratching. He barreled forward and battered Newton’s body with his fists and boots. Newton’s raised arms deflected many of the blows, but enough were landing to keep him down. He spun on his back and kicked Crag in the knee. The Elder’s foot shot out behind him and he crashed down onto his chin. Newton took the opportunity to get to his feet.
“You jumped?” he asked.
Crag stood up, too. “Do not like high places. Knew I would turn before I hit.”
“Why do you want me so bad? I am of a thought it is about more than skyfire.”
“Sometimes,” said Crag, between breaths, “a giant just does not like a giant. Or his Everstone father, or Everstone mother.” He ran forward and threw himself at Newton. They both tumbled back down to the ground. Crag got up first. He picked up the other giant and slammed him into the mountain wall. The Elder was twice Newton’s age but strong as a moundbull. The ground shuddered and rumbled as the rocks above broke loose and buried both of them. Newton broke free first. He could barely breathe again. The fall had hurt him, but this battle with Crag was burning up the last of his strength.
Crag kicked away the boulders that covered him and climbed slowly to his feet. He stumbled toward his enemy, arms in the air, and pounded on Newton. Newton pounded him back, matching him blow for blow. The valley echoed with the thunderous booming of giants’ fists on giants’ bodies. This went on and on, neither willing to concede defeat. In time, Newton could barely raise his arms.
“Wait,” he said. “Wait…” He heard something dripping and looked down. It was the blood pouring from his battered nose. A puddle of blue gathered on the flat rock, spilling over the sides. He had taken a bad beating. Newton tried to close his fingers into a fist. His skin had grown so rigid, they were hard to move. But I’m not turning. He looked at Crag. He was banged up, too.
Crag sniffed. “I smell Broont’s insides … on the outside … His blood smells of fear. And of the sickness of the Makers’ Voice. It does live inside you! They did choose to … punish you!”
“No,” huffed Newton. “I was speared by lightning atop … a tall stick.”
“Will you give in to the fear I … smell in your dripping blood? Will I be soon pounding a stone giant into sand?”
“You will notice … this giant … has not turned,” said Newton. “But wait.” He held up his hand. “You need me … alive … for the Iron … Thorn.”
“No,” said Crag. “We … do not. The Makers will thank this giant … for sparing their ears … from your words.”
“I end this fight … Newton ends it…” said Newton. He dropped his hands and bowed his head.
Crag stepped forward. He reached out to grab the defeated giant’s shoulder. Newton launched his fist with everything he had left into the ribs just below Crag’s armpit. It struck with a deep crunch, cracking several of the bones. Crag fell back and then stumbled forward onto his knees. His throat gurgled with each breath.
“Broont … lies? Broont grinds a … a giant’s honor … into the sand?”
“No,” said Newton. He stepped up to Crag and yanked on his ear, a sign of contempt for a giant not worthy to pound. The Elder winced in pain. “Newton spoke true … Newton ended this fight.” He released Crag’s ear and limped off to Blackpoint Falls.
SEVENTEEN
Ring Around the Moon
It was late evening when Newton finally stopped to rest. He knew this would allow the other giants to close the distance between them, but at this point he was falling forward more than running. Even if he kept moving, they would soon overtake him. Crag was hurt, but his legs still worked. He might have trouble breathing, though, I am of a hope. I do not like breaking another giant’s bones. But I do not like more them breaking my own. Aphanfel, Marlite, and the Puncher would have long since caught up with Crag and would be following his scent. As careful as he was to leave behind as few tracking clues as possible, one could not hide the smell of one’s blood from the nose of a healthy giant, whether it ran inside him or out. It lingered in the air long after the giant had passed.
Newton leaned back against a tall tree and slid to the ground. His legs felt like two dead stumps. He wondered if he’d be able to stand on them again. He rapped his thighs with his knuckles and thought they felt almost halfway to stone. The giant stared through the branches, searching the stars. It calmed him, slowed his breaths. So great a place above him, endless giants could walk endless nights and never reach the end of it. It was a forever place.
Here, for a moment, on this tiny land, his problems were as nothing. No, they are of something. But in a far time to come, something will be as nothing again. Why does my heart reach for the sky after all the trouble it has brought to me? Have you no answers for your friend down here? The night sky was too bright to see much of what it held, the full moon dimming the stars. He turned his focus to the glowing orb, avoiding looking at it directly, as it would make seeing in the dark more difficult. Then he saw the ring. It circled the moon in a frosty haze. The ring around the moon. The giant had seen this before, but it was Jat who had taught him what it meant. Just a winter ago he and the boy sat beneath a ringed moon on the shore of the Fire Sea:
“I don’t know how, or why, but that circle around the moon means a storm’s coming,” Jat said.
“I have seen this through my farlooker back home,” said Newton. “The ring is not around the moon. It is the light of the moon shining through haze high in the sky.”
“Whatever makes it happen, rain’s coming soon,” said the boy.
And he was right. It poured the next day.
Giants cannot smell giants in the heavy rain, thought Newton, back on the mountain. I am of a thought I can use this. Water, he knew, drowns a giant’s blood odor. It could hide where he was going. The problem was, the plan growing in his head would place him right in the hands of his pursuers if the rain did not come at the right time—or if it came and was not enough. Or if it doesn’t come at all … While he knew they would catch him if he simply kept running, he didn’t want to just give himself up to them. He looked up at the moon, encircled by the glowing ring. It looked like a great eye, staring back at him. His finger scratched out the shapes in the dirt between his feet.
“What is in the sky is now at Newton’s feet. This giant hopes it will stay with him and keep him safe.” He stared down, smiling dreamily at circles. Suddenly the Makers’ Voice exploded inside him. He had held it back for days, but the pain slipped past his guard and pulled him down into a ball. It was so great, it turned him to stone.
