CHAPTER 13: THE RIVER CHARR

After the rains, the wetness of the summer night had turned into a thick hanging mist, and as the earliest morning began to descend upon them, the skies were of a blue-black, the orange glow on the horizon nothing more than the light of a soft bright lamp through the mists.

They came to the river’s edge—not the tributary the swordsman and the giant princess had crossed before, but a different river, a much larger river that would be difficult to swim with a weapon, and impossible with armor of any sort, which none of them wore currently.

Falinor narrowed his eyes as the silhouetted forms of the quay became visible through the mist, the glow of torches evident as they flickered in their sconces. Looking to the young giantess, the swordsman said, “Are you certain that stealing a boat is the right thing to do? Can we not get to the God’s Eye another way? I would prefer that we did not draw attention to ourselves.”

She shook her head. “Mm-mm,” noised Harrkania, her braids bobbing in the shadow as Orvin glanced nervously toward them from behind the pile of crates just on the other side of the walk.

Peering over their own crates, they provided good cover, but Falinor had to stand tall to see over them while his giantess companion merely rested upon one knee. The swordsman saw no movement, heard very little, save for a distant bell on the waters.

“We could walk, but that might take us weeks.” She hunched down further and looked Falinor in the eyes. “This is the fasted way—and besides, this village won’t miss a single boat. If they do, they will have no one to send after us.”

Nodding, Falinor glanced ahead. Above on the hill in the distance, the flicker of a lighthouse signaled riverboats with its complex array of lanterns, crystals and mirrors. He rubbed the hilt of his sword with his thumb, wondering if the giants were more cultured than people gave them credit for, or if they had looted the parts necessary to maintain and operate a lighthouse.

“We need to find a good river sloop,” she said. Then Harrkania stood tall. “Come on.”

Walking out of their place of cover, her boots thumped softly upon the ground as Falinor peered after her. “Wait!” he called, but she must have not heard him, because her back receded into the mist. “Dammit,” he muttered, and moved out to follow her.

They came to the water’s edge atop the quay as a gentle lapping of the current splashed beneath while moored boats gently bumped against the docks where they were tied.

There was a subtle breeze and the mists fell and swirled along with the wind. Falinor glanced at the boat before them, but the dingy was far too small to get them down the river. He shook his head as Orvin came up on their rear. Harrkania continued to move forward across the docks. Then she took to another direction and hissed in a low whisper, “This way. I think the river sloops are farther out.”

“You think?” asked Falinor.

It was clear to the swordsman and failed mage that the princess knew little of boats and quays, which meant he was following a sixteen-year-old as she figured out what to do as she went.

Gods, he thought. When most men decry their boredom and wish for adventure, they don’t wish for this—not in the least.

He followed hurriedly to catch her in the mist as she disappeared, her footfalls more hurried.

Did she not realize her long strides left humans in her wake? Far in her wake.

“My lady!” Orvin murmured. “Where are you?”

Falinor hushed him as he heard voices up ahead by putting his arm in front of the little hooded fellow. “Quiet, man—something’s not right.” He put weight over his hilt with the palm of his hand and the tip of his scabbard pushed up behind him, angling his weapon for a quick sword draw should he need it.

The voices continued, that of a young woman—clearly the young Harrkania—and a man, voice deep and hard to hear. Falinor glanced to Orvin who looked at him with a mixture of horror and alarm, and he put a finger over his lips.

More words were exchanged, but then came, “I am Princess Harrkania’Dar!’ cried the princess, “and you will step aside, Zal!”

The man’s voice was muffled. “Are you not banished to the Tower?”

“What?!—where did you hear that?”

Orvin turned his head and gasped. “Zal?”

“What?” asked Falinor. “Who is Zal?”

“Not who—what!”

“What is Zal?”

“House Zal,” said Orvin quickly. “Always discord between them.”

“Between who? What? Tell me, man.”

Ovrin growled impatiently. “House Dar rules the giant Isles, sir! House Zal is constantly causing trouble—though their leader Jok’Zal is too cowardly to outright challenge the king—understand?”

He did now!

Glancing up ahead, Falinor took several strides forward, listening for the conversation—if it could be called a “conversation”—between Harrkania’Dar and the House Zal giant.

“What are you doing?!” she yelped incredulously. “My father the king will hear about this, you cretin!”

The giant laughed.

“Ouch! GET OFF ME!”

“Dammit!” growled Falinor as he ran forward to the structure, the door of which was flanked by torchlight. As the mists cleared, he spotted the princess struggling with a much larger giant and hesitated. If he revealed himself, that might cause an even worse scuffle to—“

“Help!” Harrkania cried. “Ow!—help me, Falinorrrr!”—she jerked her angry gaze to the swordsman, expectation etched on her beautiful angry face.

“Ah, shit!”

Falinor lunged forward and drew his sword, the double fullered blade hissing crisply as he drew it from his hardened and lacquered scabbard. The giant “manhandling” the princess flicked his gaze to Falinor like a river lizard and his eyes widened in sudden alarm at the sight of his sword.

Instantly he moved, pulling Harrkania between himself and Falinor, and pushed her. She cried out dumbly as she flailed backward, kicking her legs to keep balance, but it was too late, she slammed into Falinor and they fell into a heap on the docks.

The weight of the princess—she was a slim girl, young and probably short for a giant—but even still, she nearly crushed him and he grunted loudly, certain he would need time to recover after such a blow.

Harrkania yelped with alarm and rolled off him, her weight pressing down even harder as she did, and Falinor screamed, “Fuck!”

“I’m sorry!” she cried. “Ovrin stop him!”

“What?!” he shrieked. “Princess—what am I to do?” he asked, glancing back in horror as the giant stepped out of the structure. He raised his hand almost casually as he grabbed the rope hanging from a bell at the door beside the torch.

“No!” cried Falinor as he pointed. “Stop him!”

Orvin did not hesitate anymore, he ran toward the giant and screamed, but the huge figure looming before him, wearing rough sackcloth pants and tunic with leather bracers. He simply put out his arm and spread his hand wide, forcing Orvin to come up short. The giant then smirked as he yanked on the toll bell several times in very fast motions, that thick metal gonging across the docks in what Falinor knew to be an alarm signal.

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“Ow!” the princess moaned as she rubbed her upper thigh—more like her big giant ass—as Falinor rolled into a slightly coiled standing position. He scurried forward, his hand out defensively as he held his gleaming blade behind him, the move more threatening than it probably was practical.

The giant’s eyes widened as he bared his teeth. He moved quickly, shrinking back into the doorframe of the structure, which gave the swordsman pause. There was no way he would pursue that giant into an enclosed space—no way in the hells!

Turning his head quickly as shouts of alarm erupted across the docks, he snapped, “Pick a damn boat, Princess!”

She gasped. “Oh! Orvin!” As she got up her friend—servant—whatever he was—went to her and bent low to the floor and picked up her maul with a grunt. She grabbed it with a nod. “Thanks! Now come on!”

As the giantess and Orvin moved off, Falinor all but snarling glanced about for any sign of attackers, and that was when the giant appeared in the door frame again. As he left the enclosure, he grabbed the lintel above—giving him the look of a figure crawling out of a hole much too small for him, though in truth the giant barely had to duck his head to get through the doorframe.

The swordsman’s heart leapt in sudden alarm, but even so, he thrust out his chin in greeting. “Hey there, joke…”

“’Jok,’” the giant corrected in a deep and flat tone, clearly unamused. He dragged something across the boards from behind and revealed a club with iron studs. He brandished the weapon and smiled balefully.

Shit!

Backing away, Falinor glanced about again to make sure he was not going to be ambushed from another giant, then he flurried his sword and moved forward.

The giant came down with the club, but rather than block such a powerful blow—which he knew he could not--Falinor sidestepped it entirely, the heavy thunk it made in the dock wood revealing to him that, should he be hit with such a blow—he would surely share the same fate as Joros!

But the swordsman did not intend for such a thing to happen. He struck out with his blade in a sideways horizontal arc toward the giant’s midsection. Had he hit the giant, the blow would have cut him, but little more than that, since he had been forced to recover from his dodge of the cudgel strike, and he was still off balance.

Even so, the blow did not land.

With speed surprising Falinor beyond measure, the giant had tilted his elbow up, bringing down his leathern bracer where the swordsman’s blade nicked it with a subtle metallic chink—no other damage done.

The giant chortled.

“You will have to”—he swung the club suddenly—“TRY HARDER THAN THAT, HUMAAAN!”

Falinor crouched low, missing the swipe by a mere hand’s breadth as the wood behind him crunched and broke in a cloud of dust. Then the giant struck out again, but to avoid the oncoming elbow attack, Falinor lunged forward and rolled across the docks and turned around on his heel, his sword hilt held close to his chest, the pummel touching his hardened and flexing muscles as the tapered end of the blade greeted the giant.

He was ready to thrust out his blade in a killing blow. Stepping forward and pushing out with his powerful shoulders and forearms, the razor-edged point of his indestructible blade moved toward its target—the giant’s stomach.

The giant then pushed his forearm up and guided the blade away from himself, but he was too slow and the sharp edge nicked his chin.

With a flinch, he cried out and stumbled back, then touched the wound and saw blood—for him, just a shaving cut—perhaps a mild to severe “shaving cut” but a shaving cut nonetheless!

With a snarl, he screamed, his eyes narrowing with feral ferocity and frustration as he dropped the club and it thundered to the wood.

What happened next, the swordsman was not expecting. The giant lunged forward, his long arms outstretched and his big hands spread as he attempted to grab Falinor like an oversized doll.

The swordsman used the opportunity to affect a series of quick sword strikes, flicking his blade like the fencers of Arboricci.

Blood flowed, dropping to the boards in a dribbling splash as the thin skin between his opponent’s thumb and forefinger was sliced through cleanly. And yet he came forward.

Without thinking, Falinor crouched low and then kicked out, rolling across his back over the hard boards until his sandaled feet came back to the docks. His spine smarted as the giant came up short, realizing he had failed to do what he intended—which was to capture Falinor in a beastly embrace where he would have had the power to crush him to a pulp.

“Had enough, big Jok-man?” asked the swordsman with an arrogant quirk of his lips. That was surely to frustrate the giant further into making stupid mistakes—and yet this fighter seemed to be nothing more than a dockhand or a sailor.

The giant, now in a state of complete frustration and utterly incensed, looked at his hands and howled. “HERE! THEY ARE HERE!”

Shouting erupted anew from various giants searching for the intruders, their feet thumping against the docks as the bright spots of their torches moved through the mist. This was not good—if Falinor was surrounded by giants—even if they were dockhands, he might not be able to resist them for very—

“Falinooorrrrr!”

He turned to the sound of Harrkania’s call through the mist.

“Come quickly!” shouted Orvan.

Glancing to the giant before him one last time, he lunged to his left down the docks. The giant pursued, his feet thumping furiously across the docks as he cried out “HERE! THEY ARE HERE! COME QUICKLY!”

The mist cleared and a river sloop was revealed, the hull of which was moving lengthwise across the docks. “You were leaving without me?!” he cried angrily.

“Jump!” Harrkania said. “Falinor—jump!”

Orvin was at the wheel, his shoulders turned as he motioned with one hand. “You can make it! Run!”

As the boat floated across the waters and away from the dock, a space of dark river was revealed beneath when Falinor hurled his body across.

He landed onto the deck in a heap and rolled through a pile of lines and buckets and nets, his sword clattering heavily at the princess’ feet. She yelped, lifting her knees to protect her shins.

As his body stilled, Falinor grunted at the sudden onset of pain that assailed his elbows and hips.

“Falinor!” gasped Harrkania, “are you all right?”

She turned him over and he grunted. “I am fine, princess.” He lifted himself up with his hands perched behind his waist to peer at the docks, the mist enclosing behind them quickly as half a dozen giants stopped at the edge and hollered commands to come back, insults, and general outrage that one of their river sloops had been stolen.

“We made it,” he said, and sucked in a deep breath of air before letting it back out quickly, feeling an enormous sense of relief as he purposefully fell back down. The dry deck and the dusty smell of the dry and salted nets never smelled so good.

“Mm,” Harrkania noised with a nod, then she glanced down at him and smiled. She offered him her hand and he took it. He rubbed his back.

“Oh,” she said and bent to pick up his blade. “You dropped your sword.” She moved to pick it up, then handed the blade to him, hesitating slightly as her eyes widened and she marveled at the weapon. “Your sword! It’s beautiful, Falinor.”

“Thank you,” he said, sheathing it with a quick metallic clip as he slid it into the scabbard. “It’s a family heirloom, passed down to me by my father.”

“Is he still alive?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry.” There was a quick silence between them as her eyes were cast down to the decking for a moment. Then she glanced back up. “Your sword. Is it special in any other ways?”

“There is a minor enchantment upon it,” he said. “The blade will not break—but that is all.”

She nodded, interestedly, her curiosity not feigned or forced. “It has served you well—hey, does that mean the sword never blunts?”

Feeling a mite self-conscious at her intense curiosity, Falinor glanced to Orvin, who simply looked at him, then turned his eyes up to the sails as he steered the river sloop. “A sharpening removes metal from the blade in order to reveal a finer edge, Princess.”

She nodded, though he was not certain she understood what he said. She was no warrior—and in fact, on the docks, she appeared quite clumsy. But even Falinor had his moments where he flailed like a sack of grain that had rolled off a wagon intend for the road.

With a clearing of his throat, he asked, “So, now where are we off to, Princess?”

“Right!” said Harrkania with a nod. “This is the River Charr. It leads to the Gods Eye.”

“I know. You told me that before. But is it truly not more difficult than that?”

“Mm-hm,” she said with a nod. “That river we swam before was merely a tributary that leads to the sea—but this river is called Charr for a reason.”

“What is that reason?”

“It is derived from the giant’s language. It comes from the word ‘charruce’ which in your tongue, means ‘chalice.’”

Nodding, the swordsman did not know where she was going with this line of reasoning. Was she always so vague?

“You know,” she said, as if he should simply know, “’Chalice’?”

He looked at her.

“’Chalice of the Gods’? ‘The God’s Eye’?”

“Very good,” said the swordsman. “The Chalice of the Gods leads to the God’s Eye. I understand.”

“Mm,” she nodded.

Glancing back to Orvin, he motioned subtly with a smile on his face. It was only now that the small man’s age really showed. Surely he was in his forties, the stubble on his face greying and the lines more visible as he smiled through the lamplight of the river sloop.

“Anyway—“ said Harrkania, but she was cut off, distracted.

Shouts suddenly came from over the water from behind the sloop. They all turned to regard those sounds with reactions of alarm, alertness and annoyance. A bell was tolled and the lamplights of the river boar behind them could be seen through the mist.

“Oh no!” cried Harrkania. “We are pursued! Orvin, can we go fasted?”

With a nod, he pointed to a line coiled upon a cleat leading to the sail at the fore of the boat. “Pull the jib sheet tighter,” he said, glancing behind. Then he groaned. “There is very little wind—look for ores!”

“Ors?” asked Falinor with incredulity. “There is no way we will stay ahead of a pursuing boat with just the three of us.”

The giantess pulled on the line and tightened the jib sheet, as Orvin had called it. They all glanced about, but Orvin looked to the sails, his knowledge of the boat beyond either the princess of the swordsman, clearly.

“We have not gained much,” he said finally, an air of disappointment cast on his features.

“Then we have to fight!” exclaimed Harrkania, and she made a fist as her eyes flicked down to Falinor.

The swordsman glanced back at the pursuing lantern lights in the mist, knowing their escape had been far too easy. The princess was right.

They had to fight—would have to fight.