Chapter 6: Chains and Promises

Blinking, Falinor felt a warmth envelope his body.

And pain.

The pain of his fall, of the head bash he had taken in the chest. He felt them… more than he thought he should. The warmth flowing into his bodied coalesced around his hurts, and they throbbed.

And yet that warmth soothed them.

The sky was bright, and yet the sun was gone. Grey clouds loomed overhead. The warmth enveloping his pains felt good.

His pains began to recede. They felt numb.

Blinking.

The sounds around him were still muffled. There was the crash of the waved upon the rocky beach. There was the cry of the sea birds.

Someone shouted in the distance.

And there was another sound. Muttering? An incessant muttering.

He tried to turn his head, but his neck would not move.

That warmth enveloping him that turned to numbness went away, and became cold. Very cold.

Falinor wanted to shiver suddenly.

All of this, this change in his body’s heat, from warm to numb, and then to cold, seemed to take an eternity, and without the ability to move, he wondered if he was dying.

Was he?

The swordsman wanted to scratch his forehead. There was an itch there, but he could not move his arm. He felt heavy—as if he were part of the beach—like a rock, perhaps.

The muttering and babbling continued. Someone was there, his voice muffled, far away, and yet close all at once. Was there a hurried nature to the tone?

The last thing Falinor remembered was Joros’ broken body.

The blood.

His eyes and the terror of his face in his moment of death.

Falinor remembered slicing off the arm of an attacking giant in a spray of hot blood that had covered him face and chest—and then being slammed into. He had fallen.

But how far?

And then…

Then that javelin and the explosive tip.

Was he dying?

The soldier—the failed mage— did not want to die, and yet, if his eyes closed and blackness took him right now, he would not struggle against it. He would meet the gods and not feel a sense of remorse for the life he had led.

The coldness was now a searing pain.

With a groan, he shook, his limbs moving slightly.

The voice around him came into focus.

“Almost,” the man said. “You are almost there.”

Falinor turned his head, and the grimy and grubby face of a man was there, as he leaned over him, his hand over Falinor’s upper chest.

Upon the man’s head was a white cowl, his robes underneath a swath of yellow and dark brown. He was one of the mages in king Kindrin’s army.

But how was he here now?

Where were the giants?

“You have to get up,” the man muttered.

He tried to move, but the pains were immense. Falinor grunted loudly.

“Silence!” the sorcerer hissed, “You will draw attention.”

Sharp pained, like fire and electricity blossomed out from the core pains in his back and chest. Falinor tried to cry out, but the sorcerer covered his mouth and sand went into his throat. He coughed hoarsely, the searing and pricking pains racking his body, his chest and his back.

And then suddenly they began to lessen. The pains continued to recede, and Falinor no longer shook or tried to scream as he glanced about with his eyes, but all he could see was the sky and the man leaning over him.

“There,” the mage said. “You are almost healed.” He nodded with nervous satisfaction. “I am going to lift my hand now, yes?”

Falinor nodded.

The mage did as he said he would, and he lifted his hand from the swordsman’s mouth. He groaned, the pains in his body, like a deep soreness after a dangerous fever, smarted. “Gods!” he snarled. “What have you done to me?”

“Shh!” said, the sorcerer as he put a finger over his lips. “We are the prisoners of the giants. They are still killing the wounded, but I believe they are also taking prisoners. You are the only man alive in this area—so I have healed you, yes?”

Groaning, Falinor sat up on the sand and glanced about, at the blackened pits on the beach, at the bodies of the dead soldiers from the army, the giants. Sprays of blood covered the sands.

There were giants in their midst. Dead, and alive. They meandered over the battlefield of sand and rocks. They looting and occasionally used their swords to hack at the bodies.

Sometimes those bodies did not move. Other times the fallen forms cried out and then died a quick death.

“Can we escape?” asked Falinor, though his hope of doing such a thing was very little, especially when he glanced toward the water and saw giants there.

One of them, taller than the rest, pointed to the waters, to the ships in the distance. Those were king Kindrin’s ships. There were no signs of rowboats on the waters, though the boats that had scraped up onto the shore were fewer now than they had been before the battle.

“You are wondering where the army has gone?” said the sorcerer. “No need, warrior. They fled, back to the ships. Some of them got away to the west, but I believe they are being pursued by the giants even now.”

As he glanced across the dark blue waters, king Kindrin’s ships were indeed sailing west. Perhaps they thought they could save the men.

Falinor nodded, stood and glanced about for his sword.

“My name is Chiarro.”

Falinor looked at him. Chiarro was a small man, slight of build, with dark features and a learned look. Of course, he appeared that way—he was a mage. Clearly a man of Menniccia, though he did not have the accent of a Menniccian.

“Falinor Serdrin. Swordsman, failed mage, mercenary in king Kindrin’s army.”

“Ah,” Chiarro said with a nod. “Vanelli. My apologies. Also of king Kindrin’s army.” He smiled wryly.

“No need to apologize, man.”

Chiarro sighed heavily and spread his arms. “Now what?”

Glancing to the small sorcerer, Falinor also was aware of the approaching giants. There were two of them—one far shorter than the other, and by the looks of it, a woman. The smooth skin of her milk-white stomach was completely exposed, as well as her upper legs. The giantess’ breaches were cut short to expose her hips. But what drew Falinor’s gaze was the little skull serving as a buckle ornament that punned the silken red sash hanging between her legs.

The coiled whip at her side was a curious choice of weapon. He had not seen her on the field before this moment, otherwise, he knew he would have recognized her easily.

“Human,” the giant man said. “Come here.” As he said the words, he pointed, dragging a finger as he indicated that Falinor was to go to him.

“Both of you,” added the woman.

Falinor and Chiarro shared a nervous glance. The sorcerer did as he was told, if unwillingly. But Falinor remained where he stood, his eyes shifting to his sword lying in the sand not ten paces away.

Both of the giants still wore their helmets. The woman’s had no mouth guard, so her lips, soft and full, he noticed, were clearly visible, and upon them a sullen and contemptuous smile.

They both carried swords, though the female’s was decidedly smaller, which indicated to Falinor that it was a side weapon, with the strange whip being her primary usage. The male still had his chains coiled in one hand, the morning stars crusted with dried blood.

“I said come,” the woman intoned as if speaking to a naughty child.

The swordsman narrowed his eyes and glanced toward his sword again.

Her lips quirked even more. “Try.”

He wanted to. To try that is, just to resist—even though he knew he could not. Without thinking any further, Falinor lunged for his blade, bent his knee and reached out for the hilt of his sword when suddenly a loud cracked filled his ears and the sword shrieked and flung away from him, the blade and guard cutting through the air with a sharp cut of the open space.

Falinor leaned back slowly, realizing he had been utterly defeated before this fight even began. The woman laughed as he looked up into the eye slits of their horned helmets.

Then the swordsman who had no sword stood tall, waiting for what came next.

“Do not resist,” the man said, his eyes narrow and dangerous. “You cannot escape.”

“I know,” said Falinor.

The woman flung her forearm forward. It was almost a casual gesture, but her long arm managed to reach Falinor’s face. The blow was not a powerful one, for had it been, Falinor’s neck would surely have snapped like a twig and he would be lying on the sand now.

Even though she was female, the giantess stood head and shoulders taller than him. This fact alone put her strength at many times that of his own.

But he had not flailed to the ground. No, he stood, his body unmoving as his gaze was jerked to the side. Then he looked at the giantess pointedly.

“Hmm,” she noised pleasurable. “Speak when you are questioned,” she said. “Not before.”

Her skin, though milky-white, was surprisingly human—soft even. Was this giantess some form of battle sorceress? The way his sword and snapped away like that. Only magical energy could do that.

Lightning.

Saying nothing, Falinor stood still and did not look to Chiarro.

“Now,” said the giant man, his voice carrying, “come with us.” He stepped forward and cupped his large hand behind Chiarro’s head. Then he pulled the little mage forward with a swift yank of his arm.

Chiarro nearly fell on his face as he kicked furiously to stay on his feet, his hands flailing about as if he were on ice. He glanced back in a hurry, worry and terror on his features.

“Move!” the giant said. “Scurry along, little sorcerer.”

The small Menniccian glanced back several times, looking to Falinor. For… for what?

Falinor gave the man a subtle nod as the woman pushed him forward. “Stop slacking!” she snapped. “Next time I have to tell you—you get cuffed!”

Stalking forward up the beach and toward the trees, Falinor saw that there were other prisoners in a line, the chains around their wrists preventing them from escaping. There were several giants there. Guards—interspaced in the general area in case the prisoners tried anything.

Among the bodies on the beach the odd giant corpse, surrounded by pools of blood and dead humans with mangled corpses lay.

The giants had been worth ten of theirs for every one of their own.

And yet, Falinor did noticed that the giants did not seem vengeful or rancorous over the loss of their own in the battle—a battle that they probably saw as an aggressive foray into their territory, despite Princess Kindrin’s kidnapping.

Once they reached the line of prisoners—there seemed to be twenty or thirty—the male giant cuffed Chiarro into his manacles and the woman did the same for Falinor. As she clicked the manacles onto Falinor’s wrists, she looked at him through the holes in her helmet, her gaze lingering for a moment before she tilted her chin to get a better look at him as a whole.

There was a wry, but contemptuous smile on her lips as she loomed over him. She then did something that took Falinor off guard. She took his chin in her fingers. “Very pretty,” she said, then released him with a sullen flick of her wrist.

Did she see something she liked—or was she inspecting the crop of new slaves?

She turned and followed the other giant away as another of their comrades bellowed something in a tongue Falinor could not understand.

It spoke to their confidence that they had allowed Chiarro to live, that they had not reacted to the fact of his mage craft, evidenced by his cloak and robes. In all truth, he probably could have killed the two giants who had found them on the beach, but then what?

They would have surely been run down and slaughtered moments later.

The giant in the lead, wearing brown leathers picked up the chains and said something in the giant tongue. He turned to the group of prisoners then. “If you fall, you die.”

He then yanked the chain and the two prisoners at the front nearly toppled over with the force of that impatient gesture.

“MOVE!”

The giant led the way and the prisoners marched. Chiarro and Falinor were at the very end, and he noted the two who had captured them circled around to the rear of the train.

They were then marched into the forest, toward the inner landmass. “Where are they taking us, do you suppose?” asked Chiarro after he glanced about to make sure he would not be overheard by their guards. His gestures were overt, wild, as if he thought might find some way to quickly escape.

“I do not know,” Falirnor said, “but do you think you can break our chains in a hurry if you have to?”

With a nervous chortle, he nodded. “Indeed, swordsman. I can do just that.”

“Then at the opportune time.”

“Yes.”

“And not before,” said Falinor.

“It seems our fates are intertwined now,” Chiarro said. “I knew the gods were speaking to me when I decided to save your life.”

Falinor sniffed with bemusement at that, though not because he had a lack of faith in the gods, no, but because Chiarro had saved him for no other reason than that he thought the gods wanted it of him.

Glancing about, Falinor kept a lookout for a possible opportunity when suddenly heavy footfalls in the grass behind him swooped up. He almost wanted to cringe, but he did not as a grip like steel enveloped his shoulder. “I see what you are doing, human,” the giantess from before, her tone not altogether a snarl, but not far from it. “Do not think that you can escape—for when the moment the sorcerer strikes off your chains, I will behead you both!”

“What makes you think I believe I can escape?” asked Falinor. Then he turned and glanced up at her.

He was expecting to be cuffed, like she said she would do, and yet she did not. Instead she sniffed loudly with bemusement. “It is the only thing in your mind, human.”

“And what is in your mind, giant?” he asked, remembering how she had looked at him with that contemptuous smile.

She laughed, though she said nothing.

“Do you have a name?” he asked. “I am called Falinor.”

“I don’t much care what they call you, human,” she said arrogantly. “You are now a slave of Malik’Dar. I promise you, you will not escape.”

“Malik’Dar?” asked Falinor.

Saying nothing, Chiarro did turn his head slightly as he listened to their conversation.

“Yes,” the giantess said. “You humans might call them, the ‘Giant Isles,’ I believe.”

He nodded. He had heard of the name Malik’Xor, he just did not know why she called the Isles Malik’Dar. “Slaves, you say?”

“Yes,” said she plainly, and said no more.

“So it seems,” said Falinor, his tone not evincing of any level of aggression. Only acceptance.

Only defeat.

I slave I may be now, he thought. For now… Giantess.

*

She should have hit him the the first time he opened his insolent little mouth, but the truth was, Orchan’Da liked it when they misbehaved.

The mage was of little interest to her. He was weak and did not move her passions the way she liked. The man—this Falinor—was stirring her in ways she had not known in years. She wanted him, yes, for his body—for his magic—but also for his raw primal strength and fearless pride.

As a human, he was far weaker than a giant—even a female such as herself—but his form, the lean muscular build, and the way he carried himself. He had the bearing of a true warrior.

And the way he had challenged her on the beach… The memory was stuck within her mind.

She could not stop looking at him.

Watching—could not wait to taste his magic! This one will make an excellent bedmate, she thought, the slick wetness between Orchan’Da’s legs a promise barely hidden by her silken sash.