CHAPTER 3: THUNDER IN THE SUN

The wind blew onto the beach from the sea in cold, choppy gusts, but because he kept his hair tied back with a thread, his hair remained in place. Falinor glanced about the lines. He was on the front with Joros beside him.

“Where is Weslin?” the bigger man asked.

“With the archers.”

Why Joros had asked such an obvious question was clear to Falinor. He was nervous, and indeed as the swordsman who could hardly call himself a mage glanced about the straight battle lines that had been formed as part of king Kindrin’s army sent to the Giant Isles, he saw fear and apprehension.

One man turned around completely and glanced back further down the beach, at the ships in the water, where king Kindrin no doubt watched from afar—from a position of safety.

That safety loomed in the minds of all the men, he was certain—including himself. But had he truly needed to scape, Falinor knew how to swim—and swim well. But as if Joros was reading his mind, the muscled man spoke.

“Do you believe the giants can swim?”

“Of course they can swim,” said Falinor, his tone holding an edge. Not because he was annoyed with Joros, but because of his own apprehension. “Did you not hear of the Raid of Scodgran?”

“No.”

“Nevermind,” said Falinor, deciding not to instill fear in the other man. “Put your attentions on the battle.”

“No,” said Joros. “Fal—tell me.”

He groaned slightly. To be quick, he cut the story to its bare bones. “Giants swam across the Strait of the Leviathan’s Eyes and attacked the village of Scodgran, then swam back with their loot and hostages.”

The other man let out a heavy breath. “I knew I should have stayed in the South.”

His mouth twisting wryly, Falinor said, “You damn foreigners.”

“What is that?” said a soldier as a general murmur went into the air.

“Steady men,” Lord Eiver said from atop his horse. He had his sword in his left hand and behind him his small honor guard waited, men heavily armed and armored who would protect him in the battle. In his other hand rested his silver helmet.

“Is it thunder?”

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“There’s a storm, you ninny!”

“No it’s not!

“Shhh!”

“They’re all wrong,” said Falinor in a breath.

“What do you mean?” Joros asked.

Just then Lord Eiver called, “Archers!”

Their captain then called similarly and the archers filed through the general ranks, formed up in a thunder of boots farther on the beach, though Weslin was nowhere to be seen. Surely he was in that group. There were at least two-hundred men.

“That storm,” said Falinor. “Listen. It’s moving.”

As the archers’ column moved up to the lines of dunes on their left flank further down the beach, Falinor continued to listen, the din of the rumble on the horizon distinguishable from the thunder of the archer columns advancing.

“That’s…” Joros began, but his tone carried confusion. “The giants do not ride horses.”

“Perhaps another beast of burden,” Falinor suggested.

“Yes,” Joros said, as if that brought him comfort.

“But I do not believe that is what we are hearing.”

“What?” Joros’ eyes were wide. “Tell me, Falinor. Please.”

You are greener than the grass in spring.

“They are giants, friend.”

Joros swallowed visibly.

As the man did so, that thunder on the horizon separated and moved in two directions. Yes, beasts of burden or not, the heavy footfalls of hundreds of giants would indeed sound like thunder on the horizon—or a large host of horse-mounted warriors.

“They are coming,” said Falinor.

More commands were given and the archers moved, splitting to the flanks of the army. A pinion appeared ahead as a mounted scout came back from further up the beach with half a dozen scouts on foot.

Falinor was no scout, but even so, the hurried nature of their pace, and the direction they came from—from where the thunder of giant’s footfalls came on the left flank… Even he knew that was a terrible sign.

He would have never admitted it to Joros, but Falinor’s heart was hammering the inside of his chest as imaginings flickered within his head. He saw the terrible battle playing out before him, the snarling giants and their dirty bodies, their heavy feet stamping the heads of the men into chunky pulp as the death knells of men filled the air—the screams of warriors crying for their mothers.

“You’re shaking?!” Joros exclaimed.

“Shut the hells up, man,” snapped Falinor. Not because he was embarrassed, but this army needed every scrap of morale it could get, and panic in the lines would not help.

So he lied.

“I am going to grind them to a pulp,” he snarled, making fists with his hands. “For taking the princess!”

Joros looked at him, but he said nothing.

*

Two lines from the very front, the archer Weslin Forgost could see nothing over the swiveling heads of his comrades. Even had he been able to, the dunes would have obscured his view.

Ahead, scouts watched the giants approaching, gave distance signals to the captain behind the column.

The rumble of thunder coming toward them was so near, he could feel it in the sand. It made him shake like a leaf as he lost control of himself.

The warmth running down his leg was not a comfort.

Dammit! Godsdammit!

With a running nose and a wet spot in the sand at his feet, Weslin moved to wipe at his face with the back of his hand, but he had very little control over his own arms.

Through the blur, he could barely make out the faces of the others around him. Had the army had a chance in the upcoming battle, the men would have laughed at him.

They should have laughed at him.

Fuckfuck! Fuck!

They didn’t laugh.

“Fuck!”

“Fuck is right!” the line captain said. “We will fuck them all up, boys!”

No one responded to their captain.