turned toward the advancing line of giants. With a sharp squeal, he fainted away, sliding limply back into the sling.
I scanned the giants’ craggy faces, looming larger by the second. Their ancient race, Fincayra’s first people, possessed deep understanding of the land and its mysteries. Immense as they were, I knew that their keen eyes often noticed details that many smaller creatures ignored. Sometimes their great height above the ground allowed them to sense patterns that others couldn’t perceive. Perhaps, just perhaps, they could explain the sudden growth of the swamp—and all the trouble it had caused.
To be sure, something strange was happening in the Haunted Marsh. And though I didn’t yet understand it, I felt a growing fear that it threatened more than the swamp’s immediate neighbors. Pondering the dark, shifting vapors at the edge of the bog, I touched the chafed skin of my neck. Something down in that morass, I suspected, could choke off part of Fincayra’s future, much as that snake had nearly choked me. And a wizard—at least a great wizard like Tuatha—would do everything in his power to prevent it.
Whether or not the giants would tell me anything was another question. They were shy and generally unwilling to share their secrets. Even though, thanks to Shim, I had spent some time among them, I was still an outsider. And a man. And, worse yet, the son of the wicked king who had hunted them down mercilessly.
As the ground rocked beneath me, and my heart galloped inside my chest, I fought to stay calm. Would any of them stop to hear me? Or would they crush me before I could even ask my questions? Then, borne by some faraway wind of memory, I heard again the words of a friend, whispered to me on my first visit to Varigal, the giants’ ancient city of stone: One day, Merlin, you may find that the merest trembling of a butterfly’s wings can be just as powerful as a quake that moves mountains. But whether this was the day, I had no idea.
Their gargantuan shadows fell over me. Anxiously, I reminded myself that giants were fundamentally peaceful. Most of the time, at least. One Fincayran giant could flatten a tree with a single blow, drink a lake dry within minutes, or crush a boulder with ease. Once I had seen a brawny female lifting a chunk of rock that would have required at least fifty people my size to move; she had tossed it about like a bale of summer hay. Still, thankfully, they rarely used their strength to harm others. Or so I hoped.
There were six of them, each taller than the tallest trees in the forest. And Shim, I could see, was not among them. Worse, their faces looked positively grim and wrathful. As they came closer, rocking the ground with every step, I realized that they were dragging something behind them: a huge bundle, caked in mud, peat, and brambles.
“You are either very brave, or very foolish,” declared a familiar voice.
Hallia! She was just emerging from the trees, her form metamorphosing back into a woman. Briskly, she stepped to my side on the open grass, her doe eyes darting from me to the immense forms striding up the slope.
I waved her back. “Stay in the trees—where it’s safer.”
“Not if you are here.”
My jaw clenched. “You were right to run away in the first place.”
“Until I realized you weren’t coming. And that the swamplands had grown so much, more than I would have ever dreamed.” Defiantly, she thrust out her chin. “I’m staying with you, young hawk.”
“But I don’t—”
A booming voice, from high above our heads, cut me off. “Behold! A manling and a womanling.” It was one of the lead giants, a female whose serpentine hair, the color of rust, reached down to her knees. “They bring trouble.”
“Naw,” countered another gruffly. He licked his wide lips. “ Mmmmm, they bring food! Not nunmuch, but mmmore than that mmmeager taste o’ swamp berries.”
He reached toward us, his great hand grasping the air. Even as we
I scanned the giants’ craggy faces, looming larger by the second. Their ancient race, Fincayra’s first people, possessed deep understanding of the land and its mysteries. Immense as they were, I knew that their keen eyes often noticed details that many smaller creatures ignored. Sometimes their great height above the ground allowed them to sense patterns that others couldn’t perceive. Perhaps, just perhaps, they could explain the sudden growth of the swamp—and all the trouble it had caused.
To be sure, something strange was happening in the Haunted Marsh. And though I didn’t yet understand it, I felt a growing fear that it threatened more than the swamp’s immediate neighbors. Pondering the dark, shifting vapors at the edge of the bog, I touched the chafed skin of my neck. Something down in that morass, I suspected, could choke off part of Fincayra’s future, much as that snake had nearly choked me. And a wizard—at least a great wizard like Tuatha—would do everything in his power to prevent it.
Whether or not the giants would tell me anything was another question. They were shy and generally unwilling to share their secrets. Even though, thanks to Shim, I had spent some time among them, I was still an outsider. And a man. And, worse yet, the son of the wicked king who had hunted them down mercilessly.
As the ground rocked beneath me, and my heart galloped inside my chest, I fought to stay calm. Would any of them stop to hear me? Or would they crush me before I could even ask my questions? Then, borne by some faraway wind of memory, I heard again the words of a friend, whispered to me on my first visit to Varigal, the giants’ ancient city of stone: One day, Merlin, you may find that the merest trembling of a butterfly’s wings can be just as powerful as a quake that moves mountains. But whether this was the day, I had no idea.
Their gargantuan shadows fell over me. Anxiously, I reminded myself that giants were fundamentally peaceful. Most of the time, at least. One Fincayran giant could flatten a tree with a single blow, drink a lake dry within minutes, or crush a boulder with ease. Once I had seen a brawny female lifting a chunk of rock that would have required at least fifty people my size to move; she had tossed it about like a bale of summer hay. Still, thankfully, they rarely used their strength to harm others. Or so I hoped.
There were six of them, each taller than the tallest trees in the forest. And Shim, I could see, was not among them. Worse, their faces looked positively grim and wrathful. As they came closer, rocking the ground with every step, I realized that they were dragging something behind them: a huge bundle, caked in mud, peat, and brambles.
“You are either very brave, or very foolish,” declared a familiar voice.
Hallia! She was just emerging from the trees, her form metamorphosing back into a woman. Briskly, she stepped to my side on the open grass, her doe eyes darting from me to the immense forms striding up the slope.
I waved her back. “Stay in the trees—where it’s safer.”
“Not if you are here.”
My jaw clenched. “You were right to run away in the first place.”
“Until I realized you weren’t coming. And that the swamplands had grown so much, more than I would have ever dreamed.” Defiantly, she thrust out her chin. “I’m staying with you, young hawk.”
“But I don’t—”
A booming voice, from high above our heads, cut me off. “Behold! A manling and a womanling.” It was one of the lead giants, a female whose serpentine hair, the color of rust, reached down to her knees. “They bring trouble.”
“Naw,” countered another gruffly. He licked his wide lips. “ Mmmmm, they bring food! Not nunmuch, but mmmore than that mmmeager taste o’ swamp berries.”
He reached toward us, his great hand grasping the air. Even as we
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