Raising a hand, Lydia touched quintessence. She shoved the man before her as he brandished his spear. He rocketed away, yelping, his weapon clattering to the ground while he thudded and rolled, his companions gaping.

“Surround her!” said one, and they sprang into action. In seconds, the wicked tips of three blades were close enough she could taste them. Soon, a fourth joined in.

She allowed it. Their bodies limited their attacks, whereas she could act at the speed of thought. Since she was in control, she wanted to see where this went. She couldn’t have them chasing, and getting in her way again, so she’d let them think they’d won. She’d let the leader come and gloat.

Then she’d destroy them all.

“Gentlemen,” she said, “can’t we simply sit down and chat?”

“Like ‘ell,” said one of the spearmen, scrawny with thinning hair and missing teeth. “Witches gotta burn.”

“Well said, Luke.” A bulky man stepped onto the trail. His thick brown hair tumbled to a sharp chin, and he wore the same cloak better than the others. He had a broadsword on his belt, and he exuded an air of authority and intimidation, like a viscous pressure on her senses.

It was almost cute.

“A witch must not be suffered to live,” he said, approaching. “She must instead repent for her sins in Hell.”

“Allow me to correct you on,” — she lifted her index finger, prompting a tensing of arms — “one thing. I am a magus, not a witch. I am Lydia Blackwell, and I have the primordial powers of the universe at my command. Are you sure you want to do this?”

“A Blackwell?” he said, stopping short of the others—presumably his subordinates—and drawing his sword. “And I thought that was a myth. Imagine: never mind a coven, an entire clan of witches. I am Witchfinder Major John Cunham, and of all the ones I’ve caught, you may just be my favourite.”

She smirked.

“Is something funny?”

“Quite,” she said. “I knew there would be a hidden leader waiting to strike, the same way I knew that you’d never let me go. You’re all so predictable, really; I’m grateful you showed yourself so eagerly, though.”

She lashed out. Static pressed against her brain as she manipulated each of their gravitational energy, anchoring them to trees. One per Witchfinder, of course—she wasn’t that cruel.

They had no time to react as they were yanked toward a cluster of ashes. They squealed and screamed, their spines cracking on impact. Weapons fell, and she strode toward Cunham.

Should she have mercy? She’d slaughtered the last lot, bar the priest, and she didn’t need more blood soaking her. But did she truly care, or was she trying to uphold her mask? If so, who for?

Nobody would ever know. Besides, they’d all tried to murder her first.

“You know, I have better things to do than kill anybody.” She sidled up to Cunham, putting her face inches from his and grinning. Baulking, he spat. Slimy wetness spread across her forehead, and she growled, wiping it away with her sleeve. “But if I let you go, you’ll chase me until one side is wiped out, won’t you?

“So unfortunately, you all have to die.” She intensified the pull. They screamed as wood creaked. It was a contest of which would shatter first, and her money wasn’t on their brittle skeletons.

Her skin crawled. A presence had appeared behind her. As her innards did somersaults, she extended her senses, still processing the change. She wasn’t quick enough.

Dull agony reverberated across her back, heat pulsing through her hips as thick blood poured into the seat of her jeans. With a choking sound, she fell prone. The pain was unbearable, and she couldn’t move, but she was alive. It hadn’t severed her spinal cord.

She could heal.

Relief flooded her as she began reknitting the flesh. Black spots dominated her vision, and a peculiar ringing pierced her eardrums. The aroma of metal coated her tongue, and though she wasn’t dead yet, she was close. Who had cut her? Why hadn’t she sensed them until they were right behind her?

She didn’t have time for answers. Luckily, they wouldn’t expect her to stand up, smiling and waving, so she could use that surprise to wipe them out, then revert to her search before Jack ended up on a Giant’s dinner plate.

“Levi,” panted Cunham. “Good timing.”

“Shackle her,” said the voice above her—Levi. All she saw were glossy black boots.

“Why?” said Cunham. “You’ve already—”

“Do it now!”

It didn’t matter. Clinking metal came closer, but she’d more than stabilised herself. A length of flesh was still raw and open, but her senses had returned, and soon, she’d be able to stand. Her finger twitched as Cunham grabbed her wrist.

Cold iron locked her hands together. The greater the illusion of victory, the greater the despair when it shatters. That would make them sitting ducks.

Easing to her feet, she harrumphed. “Come now, boys, do you really think a pair of shackles is enough to hold me?” She aimed scorching heat at Levi, and—

Nothing happened.

She started. “What?”

***

Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

As they exited the forest, Jack winced and covered his eyes, having adjusted to the darkness beneath the canopy. The sun shone on acres of farmland spread across grassy plains, wood and stone structures dotting the vista. A cluster of these were central to the others, with a fast but narrow stream burbling through. It stunk of fertiliser.

He fought not to gag.

All around, the din of livestock vibrated the warm, stiff air, birdsong emanating up and down the tree line.

From Salia’s shoulder, he surveyed the landscape, stroking her jaw. “Looks nice,” he said.

“It’s beautiful,” said Salia, bending down to study a trio of quivering cows. “Why are all these animals fenced in?”

“They’re farms,” said Jack. “What do you think they’re for?”

“I don’t know.” She stretched toward the bovines, and they scattered. “All they do is eat and mate, right?”

He sighed. “They’re for food.”

“Really?” she said, wrinkling her brow. “So they're bred for the sole purpose of being killed and eaten, with no chance of ever living a normal life?”

“Yep.”

“And I’m meant to be the monster?” Straightening, she glanced at the cluster of buildings. It was a village, probably; their next stop, and another potential problem.

“Self-righteousness is a huge red flag, so you’re aware.”

He scowled. Look, I dunno what the burly blacksmiths with their dirty hammers did to make you so cynical. But where I’m from, we call it ‘morality’, and it’s a good thing.

“Where you’re from, as in Blackpool, or do you mean the mystical Land of La-La, where you currently reside?”

He paused. Shut up.

“I should probably find someone to talk to, shouldn’t I?” said Salia, twirling her foot.

“Depends,” he replied. “Are you having dark thoughts, wanna harm yourself or others?”

“Um…” She gawked at him. “What?”

“Never mind,” he said. “Maybe I should head in first, grease the wheels a little bit.”

“What do you mean?”

He flinched. It was a harsh truth, but she could take it. “Look, when people see you, they don’t see Salia, the kindest, gentlest person I’ve ever met. They see a thirty foot monster that could crush them like ants.

“And when people get scared, they get stabby.” Swallowing, he eyed her sympathetically. “But if a fellow human convinced them you were no danger, you’d be fine.”

She stared at the ground. “So there’s nothing I can do to stop them hating me? I just rely on someone else to convince them of my benevolence?”

His chest ached. He wanted nothing more than to lay himself bare right then, to tell her that eventually, it would get better. There would be a time when giants could walk freely.

That he’d only heard of them in legends was of no consequence. If he changed one thing, it altered the course of history, right? So maybe he could stop whatever wiped them out. Maybe he could save her.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

And maybe in the new timeline, Hitler would be dancing atop the wreckage of the Twin Towers.

“It’s fine,” she said. “You can be my herald.”

“Alright then,” he said. “Let’s get down to business.”

***

Wandering through the pastures, Jack sighed to himself. Though he’d rather have stayed with Salia, he could accept the mastication in his midsection. This was important. Both their futures rode on it.

“Why?” Razor’s voice was scathing. “Can you tell me exactly what’s so crucial about playing referee between a Giant and a batch of terrified humans?”

Are you an idiot? Nothing says ‘Jack woz ‘ere’ louder than a monstrous beanstalk that wasn’t there before!

“I see. And tell me, what happens if it’s felled before ever being of historical note? Or if you get driven away before anyone arrives to pick you up?”

He strolled along a dirt lane, which cut through fenced allotments with rustic farmhouses. The fields appeared bare—not without growth, but patchy and gloomy—and a couple of skinny farmers peered at him from beside barns. It wouldn’t have surprised him to learn the animals were hiding, sparse as they were. Dark clouds rumbled overhead.

As he continued, the settlement came into view, a loose cluster of buildings gathered around a square in the centre. This contained a well, a church, and a wooden structure thrice the size of any others, with stairs leading up the front. Homes and businesses were painted with clay, its odour wafting into his nostrils. The distant noise of grunting and bleating mixed with the rustling of civilisation as he entered.

He smelled a bakery, and there was probably a butcher, too. Did he have anything to trade?

“Don’t ignore me!”

Right, of course. Staying on target was key—he had to find someone in a position of authority, and convince them not to burn the beanstalk down the moment it sprouted.

“That’s not what I’m saying!”

Advancing on the big construction, which he assumed was a community centre of sorts, Jack spotted an old man leaving the well. Though slight, he carried a bucket of water bigger than Jack’s skull—almost overflowing—like it held feathers. Noticing Jack, he ambled over.

“Hello there,” he said. “Don’t think I ever seen you before; traveller?”

“That’s right,” said Jack.

“You’ll want the inn, then,” said the man, twisting and pointing. “Right across from the Village Hall, here. And welcome to McDale.”

Jack blinked. “Who’s McDale?”

“The village is McDale.”

“Who named this place?” Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he focused where the man had indicated. A two-storey wooden structure with splintering beams and a sign reading ‘The Hungry Boar’ had double doors hanging open, a boozy scent filtering out. Its pull was almost magnetic.

“Actually,” he said, cutting the man off as he turned to leave, “I’m looking for someone in charge.”

The man scoffed. “Why? What business you got?”

Gulping, Jack revised his pitch. This was vital, so he had to sound professional, and selling a Giant next door wasn’t going to be easy. He only needed a foot in the door, though. If he could get an audience with the leader, he’d be laughing.

“Okay,” he said, clearing his throat. “So, I happen to represent a certain… supernatural creature—”

“Is it that Giant what popped out the forest earlier?”

He paused. “Wh—How—”

“She’s bloody massive!” The man thrust his arms up, sending water sloshing. “Everybody seen it.”

“I see,” said Jack. “That makes this easier. The thing is, said Giant is currently seeking somewhere to plant her magic beanstalk, and we find this place quite… pleasant.” Sweat soaked his back.

The man curled his lip. “You wanna pitch up here, what? So she can eat us?”

“No, no-one’s gonna be eating any—”

“And what’s so magic about a beanstalk, anyway?” His expression dropped. “Don’t tell me it’ll curse the land?”

“Have a gander, moron; this land’s already cursed! Your fields are patchy and your livestock’s lonely, but you don’t have to worry. That beanstalk’s gonna reach into the sky. You know what that means?” Without waiting, he continued, “more beans than you’ll ever be able to eat.”

“Oh, so you’re trying to fatten us up, are ya?”

“No! Come on man, bountiful harvest—people have worshipped gods for less!”

“Not a god though,” said the man, blanching. “Just a monster.”

“So were the rest of them!” Bristling, he gripped his head. “Probably.”

“Is there a problem, Brian?” Jack pivoted toward the new voice; a slender man descended the steps, scrutinising Jack with narrowed eyes. He looked middle-aged, with a crisp white shirt and pressed trousers, short blonde hair framing oval features. His gait was ginger.

“No problem,” said Brian, “unless you count the Giant wants to eat us all.”

“That’s not it at all!” said Jack, grinding his heel. This routine was exhausting. “First off, I’m pretty sure she’s a vegetarian, and second, fuck you!”

The newcomer frowned. “I’m afraid I’m lost.”

“We all will be, he gets his way,” muttered Brian.

“To reiterate,” said Jack, “fuck you!”

“Please,” said the well-dressed man, “be calm, traveller. I am Robert, the reeve of McDale. What may I call you?”

His stomach tumbled. Had he been making a fool of himself in front of the person he’d been trying to find?

He had to salvage it.

“Jack,” he said. “So you’re in charge round here, right?”

“Indeed I am,” said Robert, “though this village isn’t wealthy, I am proud to call it my own.”

“Good.” Jack grinned. “‘Cause there’s someone I want you to meet.”