Chapter 2: Sentries and Scouts

The warrior mage, if mage he could be called, buckled his sword belt around his waist and, putting his hand on the scabbard, angled the weapon so that he could draw the blade easily with a single movement if need be.

“Did you see the skulls on the beach?” a man behind him said to another in astonishment.

Falinor ignored them mostly, though he could hear them from behind as he stepped over leaves and rocks, their armor and leather jerkins scraping and making the subtle noises expected of such armor.

“Downright foreboding, that is,” said another.

“Evil tidings, I tell you,” a third said, his tone nasal and critical in character. Falinor knew the type—not the type he suffered for long.

He narrowed his eyes and pressed forward at the command of Lord Eiver, who wanted a line of sentries on the ridge. More footsteps hurried behind him—these heavier and meaning to catch up with him.

“What do you think?” said Joros in his deeper.

Falinor turned slightly to address Joros. He was a swordsman Falinor had met on the ship, but other than the man’s clear want of a close comrade to watch his back in battle, he was little more.

The warrior mage took in a deep breath. The air was stiff and clean and the smells of fish from the beach were gone here under the trees. “I am wary.”

Joros Blent, an altogether more muscled man than Falinor, stepped faster, leading the way to the ridge. Then he glanced about quickly. “You don’t think we can fight giants?”

“We can fight giants,” said Falinor, affirming the other man’s wrong assumption. “Can we win battles on their turf? That is another matter entirely. But only time will tell, Joros.”

The other man smiled as if brushing off his concerns, then he turned and led Falinor to the ridge atop the hill where there were several of the pallid rocks with pink vanes of marble jutting up from the land. They were covered with leaves and largely undisturbed.

A good sign, he thought.

Did the giants truly not have lookouts? Were they unprepared for this landing? Even after taking Princess Kindren away, they had not seemed to prepare.

Did that speak to their arrogance, or their confidence? And if the ladder, to what confidence? Men did not venture to the Giant Isles for a reason. They rarely returned. Those that did had false stories of slaying harrowing monsters with horns and fur, while in truth, Falinor believed they may have touched land for a spell before returning to their boats—if they even did that.

Glancing to his left and to his right, he saw the picket of sentries. Some of them were archers, some of them swordsmen. The dedicated scouts scurried down the hill and further into the forest, their hoods covering their heads and their short bows in their hands as dirks bobbed at their belts.

Most of the men in King Kindren’s fleet were mercenaries, but some small few were loyal king’s men—soldiers who would die for their leader. These men were generally skilled and highly dangerous in a scrap.

Many of the archers rushing headlong into the forest were just such men. Archers that could cut the sword strap off Falinor’s waist.

For the trees, it was difficult to get a look deeper into the forest.

They did not have enough scouts.

That much Falinor could see immediately. The giants could surprise them here easily, especially once they began to venture further into the woods.

Time would tell if their landing was truly secret, and the scouts would soon report back with anything they saw once returned.

It was not Falinor’s concern. His concern was to fight if need be—and his sword would be needed. The coin king Kindren was paying would line his pockets well and allow him to live in relative luxury for some months.

Or he could save that coin, put it away—possibly buy a ship and become a merchant. Falinor could hang up his sword for good.

But did he want to?

“You seem thoughtful, friend,” said Joros with a nod of his chin. “What are you thinking about?”

“The coin,” Falinor said. He glanced down at the damp and loamy earth at his feet. There was little if any grass under the dark canopy of red-barked trees. “What will you do with yours?”

Joros’ skin tone was somewhat darker than Falinor’s, his hair black and cropped short. He smiled. “Whores and drink. I’m going to travel to Aricosa and spend every copper.”

Falinor could not help but sniff with amusement.

“And you, friend?”

We are not friends…

“I have not yet decided.”

At that, Joros made somewhat of a mildly disappointed face. Perhaps the bigger man wanted him to go wenching his way to Aricosa with him. For some, that would not be a bad idea.

But for Falinor, he wanted more than to remain an adventuring mercenary to the end of his days. For in truth, there were few adventuring mercenaries who were old—just pretenders who bought drink with the coin made by way of telling tales in taverns.

No, he wanted to be comfortable—possibly rich.

That was not to say that he didn’t enjoy fighting.

Because he did.

Despite his apprehensions currently, sitting on a hilltop was boring. He saw a beetle crawling in the leaves at his feet. He kicked it away.

Just as he moved, something groused above him, its maw uttering something between a growl and a hiss.

Glancing up, the form of something large and monstrous moved. A thrill of fear and excitement coursed through his core as he ducked, drawing his blade as he shuffled away. “Look out!” he called.

Joros backed away as he unsheathed his own blade with a hiss of leather against steel. The creature detached from the trunk of the tree and spread its brown leathery wings. The scales on its underbelly and the curving beak, like that of an old cannibal’s nose, were not typical of the animals of the kingdoms of men.

His heart hammered inside his chest.

Falinor had almost hurled a fireball at creature. But then, now seeing that they were both safe, he and Joros looked at each other and laughed, though their humor was relief more than it was anything else.

“We will never kill giants if birds find us first.”

“That was no bird,” said Falinor.

“Did you see that?!” a man called from below the hill. It was Weslin, a scrappy little archer that carried multiple daggers he used for throwing.

“We saw it,” Joros said as he glanced that way. “Why did you not call out to us? Surely its motions drew your eye first, yes?”

As he climbed the hill to them, he came up short and shook his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see it.”

Weslin was younger than them both, but between the three, he was the only man with a beard. Though the red stubble on Weslin’s face could hardly be called a beard. It was more like unkempt growth of three to five days.

“You’re one of the archers!” Joros said, his tone somewhat stern. “You and yours are supposed to keep an eye for things to shoot.” He said the words while gesturing with a forceful hand of impatience.

Falinor said nothing as Weslin scratched his head. “Next time,” he said with a nod. “I’m certain, as the gods are my witness, that next time I’ll see it.”

“Good.”

“Leave off, Joros,” Said Falinor. “None of us saw the beast—and neither did the other archers.”

And there were plenty of them nearby.

“I suppose we have bigger things to worry about,” relented Joros.

Just then their archer “friend” seemed to spot something deeper in the forest. They all turned and watched as one of the scouts came running from behind the trees, his pace hurried and frantic.

“What is it, man?” someone on the line asked when he came up the hill.

“Yes,” said another. “What did you see?”

The archer, breathing heavily and frantically, turned halfway and pointed his finger. “Co—coming. The Giants! They’re coming!”

Heads swiveled.

Looking sharply to the trees, Falinor grasped his sword hilt as his heart started pumping faster. For a moment he saw nothing, then he regarded his companions. Joros had his blade half-bared and Weslin glanced about like a shifty thief looking for somewhere to run.

Another man came sprinting from behind—the direction from where the beach lay just outside of the forest. Falinor turned and glanced at the figure. It was Lord Eiver’s right-hand man. “Lord Eiver bids you return to the beach.”

“All of us?” Joros asked.

The man nodded. “We are forming our lines.”

“Here we go,” said Joros.

“I was not expecting to battle so soon,” said Falinor. He heard his own disappointment in those words. It was one thing to be a mercenary, and it was another thing entirely to go looking for battles to fight.

“Neither did I,” said Joros with a nod.

Weslin said nothing, he simply moved and started making his way down the hill. He flailed his arms jerkily as he kept balance.

Falinor’s steps were more measured, his swordsman’s balance perfect, even on the uneven terrain. That he had nearly tripped upon a skull on the beach earlier forespoke of an oddity—an oddity that he did not want to read into very deeply.

Even so, he could not help but swallow as he picked up his pace at the bottom of the hill. He made his way through the trees with Joros and Weslin as dozens of other sentries from the hilltop hurried back to find their positions in the small army king Kindren had landed with the hopes of rescuing his daughter.

Only the gods know what sort of trouble the princess is in, he thought.