THE FOREST OF BONES

THE FOREST OF BONES, by Christopher Chupik

 

The day was already waning when Lucan rode through the Forest of Bones. Trees loomed all around him, oak and ash, moss draped over their branches like beards. He saw no animals amidst the green shadows and the only birdsong Lucan heard was the cawing of crows.

But he saw their bones.

Underfoot, beneath the cover of dead leaves, they lay. Stripped of flesh, bleached by sun, abandoned unburied where they had fallen. Rib-cages of oxen, horns from rams and skulls of goats.

And not just beasts. The glint of sun on rusting iron caught Lucan’s eye and he reined his horse to a halt. Lying, half-buried in the dirt, was a rusted helmet with a human skull.

The villagers said that other warriors had gone before him. Nonehad returned.

Lucan was no common warrior. An inch short of six feet, he was powerfully built. Blue eyes blazed from his scarred and bearded face. His hauberk of iron scales gleamed in the late afternoon sun. The helmet he wore was crowned with a crest of stiffened horsehair. Sheathed at his left hip was a dagger and on his right was his sword, the legacy of his great-grandfather, a centurion of Rome who had remained in Britain when the legions withdrew a century ago. Its ivory hilt had given the weapon its name: Dyrnwyn, meaning White-Hilt in the British tongue. A red-dyed woolen cloak hung from his broad shoulders. Slung over his left shoulder he carried his spear on a strap and upon his back he wore a round shield of stout linden-wood with an iron boss and rim. The face was painted white, though it was weathered and scarred by blades and arrows. Emblazoned upon that face was a red dragon, the king’s dragon. For his lord was Artos Pen Draig, High King of the Britons.

“Hail, traveler!” A cracked and rasping voice called out.

“Who’s there?” Lucan demanded, his left hand gripping Dyrnwyn’s hilt.

“A friend!” Replied the voice. Lucan heard someone moving through the brush and pulled his blade an inch free from its scabbard.

“I have no friends here,” he said warily, glancing about. “Show yourself!”

A bent figure emerged from the trees. The old man looked rather like a skeleton himself, with skin like vellum stretched tight over his bones. Some straggling gray hairs clung to his mottled scalp like cobwebs. His tattered robes were roughspun wool and he wore wrappings on his feet. He walked with the help of a short staff and Lucan noted that his left foot was twisted and clubbed.

The old man smiled, revealing a mouth nearly empty of teeth. Dark eyes sparkled with delight.

“Peace, great warrior!” He said, raising a hand in greeting. “Your shield bears the red dragon. You serve the High King?”

Lucan nodded. “I am Lucan, son of Bedrod, a Companion of the King.”

The old man bowed stiffly from his waist.

“I am Guordic. Even here the fame of King Artos and his mighty warband is known. If you would allow me, I would share the hospitality of my meager hut. This forest is not safe by night.”

Lucan considered the old man’s words and agreed.

They came to a round hut with stone walls and a thatched roof. An ox-hide was draped over the entrance. Guordic pushed it aside, motioning Lucan to enter. Inside, the interior was lit by a hearth full of guttering coals. The floor was beaten earth strewn with rushes.

A young woman, slender, no more than seventeen or eighteen winters, was grinding something in a stone bowl with a pestle. She looked up as they entered, regarding Lucan with unhappy hazel eyes. Her chestnut hair hung unbound to her shoulders and she wore a plain dress of gray wool. The leather collar around her throat declared her lowly status.

“Pay my slave no heed,” said Guordic dismissively. “She is mute and simple.”

Lucan met her gaze and she glanced away.

“And very young,” Lucan said, his tone mild.

Guordic smiled. “No, no, it is nothing like that. Wenna is a virgin.”

Lucan tried to tell himself that it was none of his affair what a man did or did not do with his slave. But something still bothered him.

“Please, sit,” Guordic said, gesturing at a spot near the hearth. “Wenna, help make our guest comfortable.”

Silently, the girl set aside the bowl and helped Lucan take off his shield, helmet and hauberk. He unbuckled his sword-belt and handed it to Wenna, but kept his dagger. She made a neat pile of his things, leaning his shield, spear and sword against the wall. Lucan seated himself, crossing his legs. Guordic sat himself down opposite Lucan.

“I suppose that you have come to slay the giant?” Inquired the old man.

Lucan nodded. “It is my duty, as a Companion.”

He had been passing through the mountains of Eryri, on his way to Caer Cai, when he came upon a village living in fear. Not of bandits, which were rare now, nor of barbarians, whom the king had subdued, but of a giant. It preyed upon their livestock and when it could not find cattle, on men.

“Ancient are the giants!” Guordic said, eyes blazing with zeal, speaking with the fervor of a churchman delivering a sermon. “The oldest tales speak of fallen gods who fathered children with the daughters of men, who grew to be mighty lords of the elder world. They were a proud race, and the gods punished them for their pride with the Deluge. But a few survived and fled to the farthest corners of the world. When the forebears of the Celts and Picts arrived, they found the towering menhirs the giants had raised and made temples of them.”

In his youth, Lucan had seen the great ring of standing stones in the south that men called the Giant’s Dance. He remembered that the sight had filled him with wonder, but also sadness.

Guordic continued.

“Later, when Brutus of Troy came to these shores and became the first King of the Britons, he waged war against the giants. The rest fled and hid themselves in the mountains. Few now remain, and they live like animals, a mere shadow of their former glory.”

“You know much of giants.”

“I am an outcast.” Guordic gestured at his clubfoot. “My own mother despised me. No woman would have me. So I live apart, in the wilds of Eryri. I have spent my days learning the secrets of these lands, the half-forgotten lore of the Druids and those who came before.”

“A wizard?”

“Some might call me that,” Guordic replied with a sly smile. “Let us say that I know things.”

“You know anything about this giant?”

“Cawr, he is named. Proud and boastful like all his race. He is twice the height of a man, at least! And powerful enough to pull up trees by their roots. But his eyes are very poor and he relies upon his sense of smell to find his prey.”

“But he has not attacked you,” Lucan said.

“No, no! I have no livestock, you see.”

Lucan said nothing to that.

“But what kind of host am I?” Said the old man, suddenly rising from the floor. He hobbled across the hut to fetch a wine cask. Filling a wooden cup, he handed it to Wenna who accepted it with a frown and carried to Lucan. But as she was about to pass it to him, the cup slipped from her fingers, spilling its contents upon the floor.

“Clumsy girl!” Guordic snarled, slapping Wenna hard across the face. She shrank back from him, eyes downcast.

“It is only wine,” said Lucan, trying to keep his tone level.

“Yes, yes, I suppose you’re right,” Guordic replied, still glaring at the girl. “I’ll get you some more myself. You, pick that up!” Wenna hastily stooped to retrieve the cup.

“Here,” said Guordic, and Lucan accepted it. He raised the cup to his lips but despite his thirst he did not drink. When the old man glanced away, Lucan poured out a little of his wine on the damp patch where Wenna had spilled the other cup.

They spoke a little longer about nothing of consequence.

“The hour is late,” Guordic said at last. “You must be exhausted.”

“Yes, I am rather tired,” Lucan lied, allowing his eyes to droop.

“Then rest,” said Guordic, indicating a straw pallet. “My roof is yours tonight.”

Moving himself to the pallet, Lucan pulled off his boots and unpinned the the brooch from his cloak and spread it over his body like a blanket, the way he had countless times while on campaign. He turned himself towards the wall, his dagger hidden beneath his left arm. Then he forced himself to stillness, making his breaths slow and even.

If his suspicions were correct, there would be little rest this night.

***

It was not long before he heard the shuffling, uneven footfalls as Guordic crept across the hut. The old man was muttering quietly to himself, his words becoming clearer with every step.

“Yes, yes, he will be pleased . . . good meat . . . yes, yes . . . more bones for the forest, yes, yes . . .”

The footsteps stopped, and Lucan could feel Guordic leaning over him, the old man’s vile breath upon his cheek.

Lucan’s eyes snapped open.

Guordic’s skull-like face hovered over his own, eyes bulging in terror. Lucan jabbed his right elbow hard against Guordic’s chest, sending him sprawling on the floor. Seizing his dagger in his left hand, Lucan rolled around and rose to a crouch, straddling Guordic, the sharp tip of his dagger pressed hard against his scrawny throat.

“What wickedness were you plotting, you devil?” Demanded Lucan, “Did you think to drug me and leave me for Cawr? Is that how you’ve kept yourself safe?”

“Yes, yes!” Guordic cringed from Lucan’s wrath, tears streaking his bony cheeks. “But stay your hand, great lord! I can help you!”

“I’ve had a bellyful of your ‘help’ already!” He twisted his dagger, drawing a bead of blood.

“Wait!” Guordic quivered. “I swear it, upon the Horns of Cernunnos!”

It did no harm to listen. He could kill the man after.

“Well?”

“You were already doomed! There is a reason that Cawr has survived long after so many of his kin have perished. His mother, a giantess witch of great cunning, laid certain spells upon him at his birth. No mortal weapon can do more than wound him, and those wounds will quickly heal. Even those I did not ensnare died when their swords and spears proved useless.”

“But I suppose you’re going to offer me a way in exchange for your life?” He did not bother to keep the scorn from his tone.

Guordic’s head bobbed like a bird’s. “Yes, yes! There is a spell, an enchantment that will allow you to kill the giant with a single stroke of your sword.”

Lucan pondered this. He was wary of magic though he had trusted the spells and prophecies of Emrys, the High King’s seer, many times. But Emrys, for all his uncanny ways, served the Light. This wretch did not.

“Convenient that you had a means of slaying the giant all this time and never used it.”

“What are men to me?” Guordic sneered. “Men scorned me and drove me into the wilderness. The lives of a few fools were a small enough price for safety. But if I must choose between Cawr’s life and mine, I choose my own.”

“Swear it by Mithras,” Lucan demanded.

At the sound of his god’s name, Guordic paled. Mithras was the enemy of Darkness.

“I swear —” The wizard swallowed, “by Mithras — to help you slay the giant.”

“Alright, then,” said Lucan, pulling his dagger from the wizard’s throat and rising from the floor. “Now, perform your rites. Summon your demons. But do not think to deceive me.”

And so Guordic bade his slave to gather several items and bring them outside. Lucan stayed at the wizard’s side, wearing his sword-belt, eyes watching the man’s every movement for treachery.

By moonlight, Guordic built a fire outside his hut. When he was finished, he gestured to Wenna and she carefully handed him an upside-down human skull. Guordic held the skull over the fire.

“Dust from an Egyptian tomb,” he explained, slowly pouring out the contents from the skull’s eye sockets into the fire. Hissing,the flames changed from yellow to azure. Bitter smoke filled Lucan’s nostrils.

Guordic stood before the flames and spread his arms like wings.

“Dread Powers of the Underworld, I invoke Thee!” He shouted, his voice strong and clear despite his years. “By my Words, I summon Thee! By my Will, I bind Thee! The gift of Death for Life, grant unto me!”

Despite the heat and light of the fire, Lucan felt an unnatural coldness in his bones and the night grew somehow darker with the invocation.

Guordic turned to Lucan. “Your sword, I must have it.”

Lucan hesitated.

“You must trust me.”

Reluctantly, he gave it to the wizard.

Guordic traced signs upon the blade, speaking a terrible Word with each one. Seven times he did this, and when the seventh Word was a fading echo, he held Dyrnwyn in both hands, point down in the flames. For a moment, witch-fire licked at the blade and then the flames burned yellow once more. The wizard handed the sword back to Lucan, hilt-first.

Lucan took it. The blade was not even warm.

“Be cautious,” warned Guordic. “Once cast, the enchantment may be used only once. Make certain to pierce the giant’s heart. Anything less will waste the magic.”

Lucan nodded his understanding.

“One thing yet remains, ere the spell is complete,” added the wizard.

“What?”

Unwholesome eagerness twisted Guordic’s fire-lit face into a wicked smile.

“The sword must take a life!”

Of course. Great sorcery always demanded a great price.

“What life?” Before the words had left his mouth, Lucan had an awful certainty as to the answer.

“A virgin’s!” The wizard tittered as if he had made a great jest.

Lucan glanced at the slave girl. Her face was a mask of silent horror.

“A virgin can be very useful in certain rites, yes, yes,” Guordic explained gleefully, reflected flames dancing in his eyes. “She is not my first, nor dare I say, the last.” Uncertainty must have been written upon his face, for Guordic’s expression hardened and he stabbed a warning finger at Lucan. “Do not think to cheat me now! Life for Death! Without it, the spell is incomplete. I have done what you asked of me. Now you must do what I ask!”

“A virgin’s life?” Lucan’s hand tightened on Dyrnwyn’s hilt. “Very well.”

He thrust his sword through the wizard’s throat.

Guordic’s eyes bulged and his mouth opened, but nothing came from his lips save a bubble of blood. Lucan jerked the blade loose and the wizard slumped lifeless to the ground.

He watched with horrified fascination as the wizard’s blood flowed up the length of his sword. As if drawn by an invisible finger, the blood painted itself into seven crimson symbols, exactly where Guordic had traced them. For a heartbeat, the symbols burned with blue witch-fire and then dissolved into reeking smoke. When the curls of smoke cleared, the steel was clean and unmarked.

Lucan shuddered. Sorcery. No matter how often he witnessed it, he would never grow accustomed to it.

“Oh!” Cried a very surprised, and very female voice.

Lucan wheeled around. Wenna stood, eyes wide with shock, her hand at her throat.

“What’s this?”

“Guordic . . . when he stole me from my parents . . . he cast a spell on me that stole my voice.” She spoke slowly, hesitant, sounding as confused as Lucan felt. “He said that if I harmed or disobeyed him, I would never speak again. She glowered at the body. “I’m glad you killed him.”

“You tried to warn me, with the cup?”

She nodded.

“My thanks.”

“But how did you know that he was a virgin?”

“When he spoke of his past, he mentioned no woman would have him.”

“You could have been wrong.”

Lucan shrugged. “I would have been no worse off.” He sheathed Dyrnwyn.

“You wouldn’t have . . . if he hadn’t . . . ?”

He shook his head. “A man who would kill a helpless woman to get what he desires is no man at all.”

That answer seemed to satisfy her and she relaxed a little. Lucan used his dagger to cut the collar from her neck. The skin was pale where it had been covered.

She looked at her rescuer, frowning.

“You said you are one of the King’s Companions, but I have never heard your name before.”

“What of my brother, Bedwyr?”

“Oh! They say he is very brave and handsome.”

“I suppose he is. The bards love him, as they love Gwalchmai the Hawk and Caius the Tall. Few songs are sung of my deeds.”

She glanced over at Guordic’s body.

“Yes. I understand.”

***

After a few fitful hours rest, Lucan awoke just after dawn. He and Wenna broke their fast on the bread from Guordic’s larder and drank his wine without fear.

“Tell me of the king, Lord Lucan. Please!” Wenna implored. The girl’s eyes eyes were wide with wonder, her meal forgotten. “Is it true that he defeated the Picts and the Saxons? That nine hundred men died by his hand in a single battle?”

Lucan chuckled. “Artos is mighty in war, but he is still only a man. It is true that he drove the barbarians from the kingdoms of the west and the north, though. I fought for him at my brother’s side. Now that those wars are won, we spend our days defending the king’s peace.” He sighed, his smile fading. “But there is no peace for men like me.”

His answer seemed to quench her curiosity. When she was finished her bread, she spoke again.

“I think we should bury . . . him.”

“Did any of the men he delivered to Cawr get burials? Let the crows have him.”

She scowled. “Might I move his body, at least?”

He nodded and she dragged Guordic away from the hut and out of sight.

“What exactly did Guordic do with the men he captured?” Lucan asked her as she returned.

“He left them tied to a tree for Cawr to find. Sometimes they would awaken early and I’d hear them, pleading, screaming . . . until the giant came.” She shook her head.

“Did he ever give some hint as to where the giant keeps his lair?”

Wenna pondered this a moment.

“Guordic warned me never to venture north of the hut, though he would sometimes go there himself. He never said why.”

North, towards the mountains.

“If only we had something to lure the giant with!” Wenna said with a sigh.

Lucan looked to the ox-hide hanging over the hut’s doorway.

“Perhaps we do.”

***

“A child would not be fooled!” Protested Wenna.

Lucan’s horse had been draped with the ox-hide from Guordic’s hut. A pair of horns recovered from the forest had been tied to the poor animal’s head with leather cords. The illusion was somewhatspoiled by the outline of his spear and shield plainly visible beneath the hide. His steed bore its burdens well, but Lucan would rather have rode him into battle against a shield-wall than subject him to these indignities. He stroked the beast’s mane to soothe him.

“It is not a child I intend to fool.”

“Wherever did you get such an idea from?”

“A tale my father’s bard told, about a great hero of the Greeks who had to sneak past a giant. Of course, he was luckier than we.”

“How so?”

“His giant only had one eye.”

“It won’t work,” she insisted. “And what will I do if . . . if Cawr kills you?”

Lucan pondered that. The girl would be alone, unprotected. Her death at the giant’s hands would not be pleasant. Reaching to his belt, he drew his dagger and handed it to her.

Wenna frowned.

“How will this help me against Cawr?”

“It’s not for the giant.”

Understanding deepened her frown.

“Oh.”

They set out towards the mountains.

The sun climbed high as they made their way through the forested hills.

“Look!” Wenna said, pointing.

Up ahead rose a twisting plume of smoke.

“The giant?” She asked.

Lucan shrugged. “Who else lives in these mountains?”

Following the smoke, they reached a gorge. A river had flowed there once but had long since dried up, leaving the ground strewn with gravel and boulders. Trees leaned over the sides, some having fallen down and the mossy logs made the gorge into a tangled maze. There were more human bones than animal among the rocks, as well as rusted armor and fragments of weapons. The breeze carried the scent of wood smoke and burnt meat, but also a trace of something else as well, an animal stench Lucan did not recognize.

Ahead, there was a bend in the gorge and beyond that was the source of the smoke. Lucan motioned Wenna to stop.

“Stay here,” he told Wenna, and left her with the horse.

Reaching the bend, Lucan stopped and peered around it.

The gorge ended at the base of sheer crags where a waterfall had once flowed. A black cave yawned at the base of the crags and at the mouth of that cave —

“Mother of Mithras!” Lucan breathed.

— was the giant.

In shape, Cawr was much like a man, but one that Lucan judged would be at least twelve feet tall standing erect. Leathery gray skin covered his naked, muscular body, which was hairless except for the shaggy mane of rust-red hair upon his head. Cawr’s face was manlike, but brutish, with a low, sloping forehead, a flattened nose, and heavy brows shadowing his eyes. The giant slowly turned a deer on a spit over his fire, licking lips stained brown from old dried blood.

Lucan returned to where Wenna waited.

“When the giant draws near, run,” he said. “Don’t turn back. I’ll join you, after, if I succeed.”

No need to tell her what was likely to happen if he failed.

Lucan lifted the ox-hide, ducked under his horse and crouched under its belly. Wenna coaxed the beast forwards and Lucan walked on all fours as fast as he could to keep up with it. He imagined how ridiculous he must look, a Companion of the King, crawling on his hands and knees like a child, beneath a horse disguised as an ox. What would his brother do if he could see him? Laugh, most likely. Lucan might have been laughing himself, if not for the danger he would soon face.

The horse trotted slowly behind Wenna, snorting and whickering nervously.

“He sees us!” Wenna said, her voice rising with fear.

Lucan could hardly walk up to a giant twice his height and lop off his head or stab him in the heart. To have his chance the giant needed to be lured close. Cawr would have to bend low to examine the “ox”, and in that moment, Lucan would strike. Emerging from under the horse, he would have the advantage of surprise and he could use Dyrnwyn’s magic, slaying the giant with a single stroke.

But first, he would have to get closer.

“Call him,” he whispered.

“I bring an offering to the great Cawr!” Wenna cried out.

“Who brings cattle to Cawr?” Demanded the giant, speaking crude British in a deep voice like grinding rocks.

“I-it is a gift . . . from Guordic.”

“Ha! Guordic is good to Cawr! Leaves man flesh for Cawr to eat!”

Lucan rose slowly to his feet, still hunched over. His legs and back hurt from the strain of crouching. From his lowly vantage, he could see little of the giant save his legs. The giant sat up, abandoning his spit. He heard the giant sniffing.

“Your cow smells strange, little one,” Cawr said as he neared them. Lucan tensed. Crouching low on his haunches, the giant reached out to feel the horse’s back. The ox-hide fell away and as it did, Lucan arose from under the horse, drawing Dyrnwyn.

Wenna ran back towards the gorge. His horse whinnied and reared up in fear. The giant saw Lucan and a very human look of surprise crossed his face. With a speed and grace Lucan did not expect from a creature that size, Cawr reared up to his full height, a living colossus that towered over the warrior.

Cawr casually backhanded Lucan across his chest, the force of the blow knocking the breath from his lungs and sending him tumbling backwards. His helmet struck a rock. Noise and pain filled his skull. Black stars danced across his vision.

Lucan blinked, dazed. The giant loomed over him. Through the haze of pain, he realized he was no longer holding Dyrnwyn. It lay several paces away, near Cawr’s foot.

He heard his horse whicker in terror. Looking up, he saw Cawr had seized his horse and was lifting the struggling animal over its head with both hands. The warhorse, brave in battle, was thrashing and kicking in its desperation to escape the giant’s iron grasp.

“You think to trick Cawr?” The giant shouted and hurled the horse down at its feet. Lucan rolled away as the warhorse hit the stony ground with a heartbreaking crunch of shattering bones. Lucan stood, head reeling, and staggered out of the giant’s reach. Cawr advanced, forcing Lucan to fall back, each step taking him further from Dyrnwyn.

Had it nicked the giant? From where he stood, he could not see if there was blood on the blade. Closer, he saw his spear and shield, laying where they had fallen from his horse’s saddle. His shield was useless, flattened by the giant’s foot, but the spear . . .

Lucan lunged for it, fingers closing around the wooden haft. He gripped his spear with both hands and assumed a spearman’s stance, slightly hunched, legs spread and feet planted firmly. Cawr grabbed at him. Lucan ducked under the sweep of the giant’s arm. Like a striking viper he stabbed, his spearhead slashing a vicious red line across the creature’s right thigh.

The giant laughed.

“No weapon forged can kill Cawr!” He boasted, beating his chest with his fist. “The spells of his mother protect him!”

Already, the gash had ceased to bleed.

Lucan thrust again and his spearhead sank into the soft, unprotected flesh of the giant’s groin.

Cawr’s laughter turned to screams. His rage echoed down the gorge, startling crows into flight.

Lucan had seen men bleed out and die from groin wounds before. Death was certain and ugly.

But Cawr was not a man.

“CAWR KILL!” The giant bellowed. Blood gushed down the giant’s thighs. As Lucan tried to pull his spear free, Cawr wrenched the weapon from his grip and jerked it loose himself. The edges of the wound closed in mere heartbeats. Cawr snapped the spear like a dry branch and tossed the pieces aside, then raised his massive fists over his head like hammers.

Lucan dove and snatched the spearhead, taking it by the broken haft. He spared one brief, backwards glance at his mangled warhorse and then turned and ran down into the gorge, the giant close at his heels.

In the narrow, tangled confines of the gorge, the giant’s size became an impediment. He slowed to shoulder logs out of his path, allowing Lucan to slip away and escape into the maze. Lucan hid himself behind a toppled log, making himself small and still against it.

The giant stalked down the gorge, sniffing the air as he sought the warrior.

“Cawr will find you! Cawr will roast you on his fire and laugh while you scream!”

Lucan could not keep running forever. Already his limbs were sore, his hauberk felt ten pounds heavier and rivulets of sweat ran down his face and soaked his tunic. But neither could he stand and fight when his only weapon was a broken spear. He needed to slip away from Cawr, double back, and retrieve Dyrnwyn. What he would do once he had the sword, he did not know, but without it he stood no chance at all. The giant would kill him and then Wenna . . .

Wenna.

He had not seen her since he had first tried to slay the giant. Lucan hoped she was safe. Whatever happened to him, the girl had suffered enough and did not deserve to share his fate.

The giant’s footfalls ceased.

“Cawr smells you, little one!”

Lucan bolted from his hiding place and into the open. Cawr saw him. Reaching down, the giant uprooted a small boulder and heaved it through the air. It fell short of Lucan and smashed through the log in a spray of splinters and churning earth. The giant charged after him with a furious roar.

A small rock caromed off the side of Cawr’s head. Lurching to a sudden halt, the giant turned, growling, seeking the source of his annoyance.

Wenna stood behind him, a rock clutched in her fist. She hurled the rock at Cawr’s chest and ran. Angered, the giant gave chase.

“Lucan!” She cried. “Here!”

He looked to the girl, trying to understand what she meant, when the gleam of sun on ivory drew his eye.

There, thrust into the ground near where she had stood, was Dyrnwyn.

In an instant, the girl’s design became clear to him.

He ran towards Dyrnwyn, seizing the sword with his left hand and jerking it free from the ground. No time to check the blade. Either it still possessed its magic or it did not.

Despite Wenna’s speed, Cawr’s strides were long and he caught up with her effortlessly. The giant stooped and seized the girl, hoisting her up by her armpits and holding her level with his head.

“Cawr will grind your bones and drink yo—”

Cawr’s head suddenly snapped back and the giant howled. The hilt of a dagger jutted from his left eye socket. Crimson tears flowed down his screaming face. Cawr dropped Wenna and clutched at his wounded eye, staggering drunkenly.

With the giant distracted and enraged, Lucan had his chance.

Holding the broken spear like a dagger in his right hand, he savagely hacked at Cawr’s left calf. The spearhead tore muscle and tendon and hot blood sprayed Lucan’s face. Screaming, the giant fell to his left knee, the leg collapsing under the weight of a body it could no longer support.

Both head and heart were now within Lucan’s reach, but he had only moments before the wounds healed.

Dyrnwyn flashed as Lucan drove it through Cawr’s ribs, burying the blade up to its hilt in the giant’s heart.

Blue witch-fire blazed where hilt met flesh. The uncanny flames burned without burning. Blood poured down the giant’s chest. Cawr clawed uselessly at the sword and when he could not pull it free,he threw back his head and screamed imploringly at the heavens.

“MOTHER!”

But his mother’s sorcery had failed him at last. This wound couldnever heal. Cawr toppled, crashing heavily to the ground and rolling on his side. His body gave a spasmodic twitch and he slumped in death, bloody drool spilling from his open mouth.

Lucan rushed to Wenna’s side.

The girl was dirty, smeared with blood, and alive. Lucan pulled her to her feet.

“You were lucky . . . your giant only had one eye.” She smiled weakly.

“That was very brave.”

“Didn’t feel brave.”

“It never does.”

She looked at her bloody hand and her smile was gone.

“The songs make it sound . . . cleaner.”

He snorted. “Let the bards make a song of it. Thank your gods it’s over.” Looking her over, he found nothing but some bruises.

Lucan gripped Dyrnwyn by its hilt and pulled the sword free from the giant’s chest, wiping the blade clean on its stomach. The enchantment was spent and the sword was merely steel once more. He was glad of that.

The warrior gazed down upon the fallen giant and felt a melancholy settle over him.

“Already the memory of his kind fades into legend,” he said. “And we too shall be reduced to legends, if we are remembered at all. You will become a noble lady and your rescuer shall be some pious champion with the strength of ten. Even King Artos might one day be only a story told to children. For what are the deeds of men and giants, but passing shadows and smoke scattered upon the winds?”

“I think it would be better to be a legend than to be forgotten,”said Wenna thoughtfully.

“Perhaps.” Lucan shook his head. “But enough of this gloomy maundering! I would be gone from this place of death. If we start now, we should make it to the hut by nightfall.”

As they left, crows descended and began to feast.

THE END

 

____________________________________

As a boy, Christopher M. Chupik dreamed of heroic adventures in far-off lands. As an adult, he finally gets to write his own. His short stories have previously appeared in the Enigma Front anthologies, as well as Rocket’s Red Glare, from Rough Edges Press. He lives in Calgary, Alberta and is currently working on his next project.