Chapter 7: Prisoners of Da

The journey had been long.

And fast.

Far faster than some of the prisoners could manage to keep up.

Some of them fell.

For a time they struggled, and as the line began to slow, the giants pulled, bellowing curses and threats of death.

The prisoners pulled on their chains harder as the giants who probably thought themselves setting a slow pace, increased their gait—but for the men, the pace was a grueling ordeal.

One of the prisoners was surely dead, his arms broken, his head lolling as his bloodied feet left marks in the dirt and the grass as he was dragged along by the line. Men cursed his weight.

Breathing heavily, Chiarro said, “I don’t… I don’t think I can keep up, Fali—Falinor.”

“You have to,” panted the swordsman.

Though the pace was difficult for him too, especially since his near death ordeal, and that he was still recovering from his wounds, he managed quite well.

“You are doing well, human,” the giantess said, her strides not slowing since beginning earlier in the day. “I am impressed with your stamina.”

Falinor breathed, his eyes focusing on the backs of the heads of the other prisoners. In the darkness, all was black, save for the yellow-orange torchlight.

The giantess swung her torch, the fire hissing and guttering as she complained about bugs. He did not expect to hear a giant complain about bugs. That she uttered the words not in her own tongue among her fellows told Falinor that she wanted him to speak. In another situation, he might have smiled, but not now.

When he said nothing, she finally asked, “What—are you too tired to sass me, human?”

Inwardly he groaned. Speaking on the march did not make things easier. “Continue—Chiarro,” he hissed quietly. “I have a feeling this jouurney’s end is not far.” Then to the giantess, who he knew would become enraged if he continued to give the sorcerer encouragement while not speaking to her, he said, “The bugs… they like… sweet meat.”

She guffawed.

He did not know if it was because of their size, but the voices of the giants tended toward a deeper thrum, and even so, the tone of this giantess was till decidedly feminine, especially her laugh.

“What is…” panted Falinor. “What is your name?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, human?” she said, her tone contemptuous, and yet playful all at once.

Why did she want him to speak and then refuse when he asked her something as simple as her own name? The women of the giant race were equally as mystifying as the women of men, it seemed. I should not be surprised.

The giant at the head of the procession who carried a torch in his hand said something, which made Falinor glance up.

One of the prisoners uttered something, and was quickly put back into line as one of the giants nearest him backhanded him with a loud impact of hand on face. “Speak when questioned, prisoner!”

It seemed the giantess who had command of the back row of prisoners, though having told Falinor he could not speak unless spoken to amidst a similar physical rebuke, was allowing him to speak now.

Perhaps she was bored.

There was light through the trees and the subtle sounds of a settlement. They had arrived, hopefully, to their final destination. If they did not stop for the night, Falinor doubted Chiarro could continue.

And he could not carry the man either.

As they left the forest and travelled over a creaking bridge, the canyon bellow hissed with the rush of water far below. Bats cried through the night as they flickered through the dark open and moonless sky.

The bridge had sentries, and before them a wall loomed, one of stone and palisades well-constructed with thick trees. The gates were open, torches lit and sentries alert.

For humans to hammer against these walls, it would have been suicide.

The beat of drums echoed from the village, and the bright lights of fires lit the streets. The structures were of hewn logs, the roofs arched and thatched. The giants within did not carry swords, and neither did they wear the raiments of battle, like that of the army they had faced.

Dozens of eyes watched them enter through the gate. They wore the typical clothes of well-dressed villagers at a celebration.

Cries of excitement went up further in.

A giantess sneered as children laughed, pelting them with vegetables and fruits and laughing, calling out, “Die!—prisoners of Da!”

One boy was yanked back by a stern faced father who looked at the boy and shook his head. Falinor tilted his chin at that. Why would a giant stop his child from pelting prisoners with vegetables?

He was distracted when the giant in the lead holding their chains was greeted by another boy, perhaps twelve years in age, though as tall as Falinor. His face was bright, and by their reactions to one another they were clearly father and son. The father reached around the boy’s head and embraced him against his body and the boy looked up at him excitedly. They exchanged words, and then the giant nudged his son along, who ran away with a happy face.

They were so…

Human.

The giants spoke among each other in their own language, sharp undulating language of words that were flung about, though some words were uttered that Falinor did understand as the giants in the village taunted and jeered at the prisoners.

There was an open square ahead and as the arched roofs of thatch fell away to reveal it, the castle came into view as well. In the middle of the square a bonfire burned as drummers pounded their instruments and flutists played lively tunes.

Somewhere a stringed instrument was plucked as the giants danced and sang. They were cheery, for a nation that had just gone to war.

But they had won.

They had much to be cheerful for.

Glancing about, Falinor saw a stumbling giant, a wooden mug in his hand that he raised to his lips. Indeed, much alcohol was passed about along with sizzling pork taken from the spit, the mere smell of which set Falinor’s stomach to writhing out of need.

The giantess behind him cried out in cheer, and her tones were taken notice of, and eyes went op, found her, and words were called back excitedly.

The warrior did not turn to look at her, for had he done so, he knew he would have been struck. Among her fellow warriors, she might have went out on a limb to let the prisoner speak, but to give her notice in front of her village would have been a mistake.

“Chiarro,” hissed Falinor. “Are you well?”

Saying nothing as he kept his head bowed, his breath coming out in wheezing gasps, he nodded.

“Not long, now,” added Falinor.

And indeed it was not long before they were allowed to rest. The line of prisoners stopped and they were able to stand or sit as the warriors who had returned melted halfway into the crowd of their fellows to speak and be spoken to. Their backs were clapped and drinks offered.

Some time passed, but it was not long before the prisoners were then led up the hill toward the castle, where they were taken to one of the wings and lead down a stone corridor with thick wooden steeples.

The chamber was no doubt designed to house prisoners.

With fresh hay to lay, Falinor was ready to sleep, and on the morrow he would begin plotting his escape.

The iron door creaked and was slammed shut. The giantess, now not wearing her helmet, Falinor noticed for the first time that she was indeed beautiful, in a sullen kind of way, with grey eyes and light honey-blonde hair.

“I will be back for you, warrior,” she said, the wry promise on her lips making Falinor take a step back in retreat.

“Well,” breathed, Chiarro. “We are here.”

“Here in this dank cell—never to return!” complained another prisoner.

“Oh hush!” said Chiaro, waving his hand. “We should… all get some rest. Then we can decide what we will do.”

They were all exhausted.

Mutters abounded, followed by no small amount of groaning and curses, but the men slept. Falinor waited for a time, his eyes open.

A giant in the corridor laughed with his comrades as they spoke among themselves. They drank and ate, and drank some more.

A good sign.

Even in his exhaustion, he did not want to sleep. And yet exhaustion took him—like the rest of the prisoners, it did.