No one from Fairmistle had ever felt the mountain shake like it had that night. The rumble began at Mount Ream and vibrated through the underground so violently that the villagers ran out of their earthen homes to watch. Fire bubbled from the peak of Mount Ream, and a dark, ash-covered mist floated from the hillside into the valley northeast, blocking out the stars.

“The giants are waking,” Grayson whispered to his band of Potamian guards keeping watch in the courtyard. In charge of the small militia and every bit a seasoned soldier, he ranked as one of King Tobias’ captains and had volunteered for this extension. He had a soft spot for the country people and had often complained that no one gave Fairmistle—and the river towns south of it—the protection they needed. Some of his grievances reached Prince Barin, and so the prince offered him the opportunity to lead a brigade and stand watch over the river folk.

At the edge of the plains, the quaint village of Fairmistle greeted visitors before they reached River Ream. No greater than perhaps a few hundred residents—enough to warrant a name and win an icon on King Tobias’ maps—the adjacent structures of the village comprised of whitewashed adobe that shone in the moonlight. No two homes or shops were the same shape but built like cones and acorns, domes and boxes all interlocking to form a vast half circle surrounding a courtyard, a fountain, and vegetable gardens. They had built an inn on the road to the river where the visiting militia billeted.

Since Grayson’s occupation several weeks ago, and because of the vulnerability of the village, the militia had dug ditches away from the village nearer the plains where they would fight should the enemy attack.

For nights now men had patrolled the empty courtyard, keeping a keen eye out for skura and any other cruel puppets that threatened the land. Until now, there’d been no disturbance. Everyone in town suspected something would happen. That’s why the curfew. Even Grayson, an unbeliever in the apparition of Skotádi, feared the mountains. He took his hat off and scratched his bald head.

“Wonder what that means?” Jobin, a rather chunky enlistee from Prasa Potama muttered, as he pulled his dagger from his belt. His dirty uniform showed wear and his metal buttons were tarnished from being out in the elements too long. Tonight, he wore his jacket opened, a half-coat over his dusty shirt. Grayson, his captain, cared little what the soldiers looked like. No one did. Jobin could have been in peasant clothes for all it mattered in these parts. Jobin had served King Tobias for several years and requested to go to Fairmistle. “Less bloodshed and more women and wine,” had been his reasoning. This assignment gave him the excuse.

So far, all the troops had plenty of wine as Tellwater’s vineyards were a day’s ride from Fairmistle. The river women loved the soldiers and their coin.

“Don’t know what a rumble on the mountain means these days.” Grayson regarded Jobin’s dagger with a curious eye.

“Leastwise mountain giants don’t come off the mountain. Never had, won’t never,” Jobin picked his teeth with his knife blade.

“We don’t know that. It’s breedin’ ill, that mountain is,” red-haired Stormy cautioned. He was too young to enlist in the King’s army—fifteen was all—but he had a heart for defending his country folk. “Nothing’s right in these parts. Wish King Tobias would let my brother come here. He’d take care of skura and those mountain giants. Ole Rory would save us all.”

Grayson patted the youth on his shoulder. “You’ll see your brother again. Prince Barin will bring Rory here with more soldiers than you’d ever seen. We’ll get rid of the menace. You’ll see.”

No sooner had he spoken when the dark cloud, the one everyone had expected coming, swooped in from the north, rising out across Casda de Moor. Shrill calls of winged demons spread out over the sky, making the night starless.

“Skura!” Grayson warned and signaled his troops to the ditches outside of the village. Others called men from the inn. Boys from inside houses flew out their doors, grabbing whatever they could use as a weapon, axes, pitchforks, shovels. The troops drew their bows, Jobin his flail, and Stormy the axe his father had made of forged steel.

Soon the entire Fairmistle army—enlisted Potamian soldiers, along with villagers who had volunteered—took position in the dugouts. If their plan succeeded, they would stop the entourage before it swept into the village.

Grayson ducked low, throwing the patch of grass over his head, and patted a patch on top of Stormy.

“Stay down until they’re directly overhead,” he told the others, his own heart beating hard. He’d been in battle with these beasts before, but he knew the younger villagers had only seen the destruction they do. He watched their faces closely, ready to offer an encouraging word if panic set in. “You won’t like the looks of ‘em, they’re ugly as sin, so when they come, just kill ‘em,” he instructed. “Don’t pause or think twice. Just shoot or flail. Get rid of ‘em. Lay ‘em down dead!”

“Don’t need to be telling me twice, Grayson. I’m ready,” Jobin assured him.

That’s what they all say, Grayson thought to himself, before their bones are picked clean. He studied the volunteers of his forces somberly. They weren’t all in armor like the troops he led from Prasa Potama. The volunteers from Fairmistle wore dirty linen trousers and knee-length boots tied by gaiters to keep the flaps up. Dusty earth-tone tunics were torn and ragged for no other reason but that the boys were too poor to afford new clothing. What with skura raiding their lambs these last few years, wool had become scarce and expensive.

Grayson whispered a brief prayer asking for mercy of whatever god might hear—that if these young men died it’d be quick—and then he peered out over the bank.

The massive black cloud of winged beasts had disappeared. He squinted, focusing on the hills north of them, toward the mountain. The mist which had crept from the peaks now covered the foothills.

“Anyone got a spyglass?” he asked. One soldier offered the requested tool and Grayson pulled it open, focusing on the mist in the foothills. It validated his suspicions, for the creatures in the fog were devouring the skura. He grunted in satisfaction.

“Them are mountain giants,” Stormy whispered.

“They’re pulling the skura out of the sky and crushing them,” Grayson stated with a smile on his face.

“Maybe so, but them killing the skura is giving them bodies of iron, and they’re coming this way.”

It didn’t take long, either. Out of the creeping vapor, giants rose, their deadly stone bodies stomping across the plains toward Fairmistle. The earth shook with every footstep of every giant, and there were at least thirty.

“We’re dead,” someone exclaimed.

“Get inside,” someone else hollered. The village soldiers dropped their bows and ran. Grayson didn’t bother calling them back. They had just as much chance of survival running as if they fought. Their only hope would be to hide far away from town. He hardly blamed them for panicking. Adolescents who had only learned to shoot a bow a few days before. Grayson watched the boys skip away. Some dove into the river, some swam to the other side.

“Maybe they’ll get away,” Stormy squeezed into the ditch next to Grayson.

“Why aren’t you running?”

“I’m a soldier” he answered. “Got a brother in the King’s Army. How would it look for me to high tail across the river when Rory’s servin’ his Majesty? He faces these monsters regular. It’s the least I can do.”

Grayson had no time to respond. The earth rumbled as legs like pillars of stone kicked up dust. Giants were on them, mist rolled in torrents at their feet. The giants who had killed skura had already manifested, and others floated over the earth as misty fingers. Within minutes, the giants spotted the army. Those men who could ran. Others fired their weapons, but arrows and axes did nothing to stop the foggy fingers from filling the ditches where the soldiers hid. The mist divided into sections, each fragment becoming a giant hungering to manifest. They grabbed soldiers, yanked them out in the open and spread them onto the ground. The fog hovered over them and pushed them flat with vaporous knees squeezing the life out of their bodies, A black-robed figure mingled in and out of the fog, leaning over the perishing men, sucking their souls as they died.

Grayson watched all this in horror when suddenly something grabbed his legs out from under him. Foggy fingers twisted around his ankles, and then his calves. He dropped his bow as his torso scraped against rocks. Pulled out of the ditch, he saw the wide eyes of the young man Stormy witnessing his ensnarement. As the giant’s hands wrapped around Grayson’s torso, Stormy’s axe head went right through the fog, doing nothing.

Grayson moaned as the giant flipped him face down onto the ground, dirt mashed into his mouth. He gasped for air. A heavy weight pushed his body flat against the earth. He screamed until he heard bones snap and blood gush from his mouth. Darkness enveloped his face and with a whooshing sound something sucked the air out of him. Grayson’s lungs caved as the apparition inhaled. The weight on his back pressed harder and his spine shattered. His life disintegrated with one final agonizing cry.

#

A sucking sound reverberated in Stormy’s ears and then with a deafening scream, Grayson’s body fell limp. Horrified, Stormy stared, his mouth wide, feeling the heavy beating of his own heart. The giant reached for him with granite hands. Stormy had no voice—numbed from fright—neither could he move. The ogre scooped him up into his fist. Its fingers closed around his body and entombed him. The giant moved. Stormy flew against one side of the ogre’s fist and then banged against the other side. His head crashed against the rock again and all went black.