Laeknir could not think what to do for the life of him. His mind flashed back to the whispers he’d heard in the snowstorm, but he couldn’t make sense of them. They had told him to wait, and it must have been for this boy.

Of course he knew that the boy wanted to run. He would likely try it any chance he got. Laeknir hoped that it wouldn’t come to that. He’d have to tie him up again, and then it would become even more confusing, and he’d have to think for an even longer period of time. For now the boy sat calm enough, warming his hands as the day droned on.

“If I did let you go,” said Laeknir. “You would not come back?”

“No,” said Fenris. “I promise.”

“Promise of short-one,” frowned Laeknir. “Is not promise.”

“Why not?”

Laeknir remembered an old story and tried to retell it best he could.

“Short-ones once promised giants that they would not come to their home. They promised that there would be peace. But there was not peace. Now I am last giant.”

“But that was other humans,” said Fenris. “Not me.”

“Hm,” said Laeknir. He took a few moments to mull this over. It was true that this boy was not like other short-ones. He had the markings, first of all. Markings that proved he was dear to the Sculptor in the same way giants were. “You are not like other short-ones. Yes.”

“So I won’t tell!” said Fenris. “I’ll probably have to leave. If I don’t come back with a trophy.”

“Trophy? What is trophy?”

“Oh,” said the boy, looking back into the fire. “I’m supposed to come back with a piece of you, to show that I killed you.”

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

“Ah, bones.”

“No,” said the boy. “Not bones. They’d be too heavy for me to carry. I’m just supposed to come back with a toe.”

“A toe!” Laeknir chuckled. There was something funny about this to him. “Of all pieces they say toe!”

“Yes,” said the boy. “Except nobody has ever done it, or not that I know of.”

“It is an evil thing,” Laeknir said, stroking his beard, as he often would when in deep thought. “To send young ones to come to fight giants.”

“Well,” said the boy. “Because I am etched, they do not care much for me.”

“Oh,” said Laeknir. “Why is it that they say the markings are bad?”

“It’s supposed to be a curse,” said the boy. “It’s supposed to make me unlucky.”

“Ah, like a giant born too short.”

“Yes,” said the boy, after a while. “Something like that.”

“I see. But this is not fair, for you hold the power of the Sculptor in your skins.”

The boy did not respond for a moment, then asked, in a very small voice:

“What do you mean by power?”

“Oh, much power in those old markings. Oh yes. Power of the Sculptor. He has given you blessing so you can become strong.”

“But, how?” said the boy. “They don’t do anything, other than glow.”

“Mhmm… this is where you are wrong,” said Laeknir. How was it that short-ones could be so oblivious about such things. “This skis has power to move mountains, has power to destroy giant, even.”

The mention of power made the boy’s eyes grow ten sizes.

“And you know how this works?” he asked. “This power?”

“Oh yes,” said Laeknir. “It is known among giants.”

This stopped the conversation dead in its tracks, and for a long while Laeknir just waited as the boy looked into the fire. Night would be coming soon. Laeknir supposed he’d have to tie him up again to make sure he didn’t get away. He didn’t want to. This boy was quite different to any of the other short-ones he’d ever met. This was because of the markings. The Sculptor had made him different.

“We made a deal before,” said the boy, finally. “Do you remember?”

“Yes. Of course. It was not long ago.”

“So then, maybe we could make another deal?”

Laeknir leaned close, as the pot with the goat inside began to boil over.