shawls, our shirts, our dress shifts, and our blankets. Sheep are also our food. To part with fifty sheep is a considerable strain on our livelihood. Two hundred?!
“We’re trading them because Middle Plains has a grown man of no relation,” Sorgenfreiya says. “This is Hallar, the Middle speaker’s brother.”
“But two hundred sheep?” I cry. “What if what’s left of our flock can’t support us—what will we eat?”
“Grain,” Fenna, another of my tribesisters, replies.
“See how long you last on that without running anemic,” I scoff. I stare around at my tribeswomen. “And say this Hallar they’re offering us can get us pregnant. That’s great—but we’ll only starve with his baby in our bellies. Plus…” I narrow my eyes. “Is he proven?”
The Middle speaker’s mouth firms.
I suck in an indignant breath and look back to Sorgenfreiya, furiously whispering, “He’s a virgin? You know we should wait for a proven man! What if he only produces girls?”
Loudly, Sorgenfreiya responds, “Middle’s speaker says this man’s father produced almost nothing but sons.”
“Says a daughter born of him,” I say dryly. Then I shake my head wildly. “You can’t agree to this! There needs to be a vote!”
“We have voted, Nalle,” Sorgenfreiya explains, and gestures to our tribe. She gets closer, whispering, “Now that your brother has been stolen, we’ve lost our chance for a solid trade opportunity. We have to make a barter, and we may not get a better chance than this.”
Suddenly, a scout screams, “WE’RE UNDER ATTACK!”
Every woman’s hand reaches for her weapon.
I reach for my hip, but I have nothing. I don’t even know at what point I dropped my knife. Is it halfway up the mountain? Is it lost on the floor of the dragon’s cave, along with my good sense?
“Who’s raiding us this time?” someone shouts.
“The Tribe of Giants!” comes the scout’s reply. “They’re at the boys’ lodgehouse!”
My heart falls straight to my feet.
The boys are literally that—boys. These aren’t youths turning into young adults. These are children who, yes, happen to be male—but they still need their mothers, their family. They aren’t ready to be traded for siring duties, let alone stolen.
And the Tribe of Giants can best us. The women proudly reside in the Steppes, and as their name implies, they are indeed massive in stature. Their men were once said to be thirteen feet tall—and I believe it. The women of their tribe nearly are.
“I need a weapon!” I call to my tribeswomen.
A bladed cudgel sails to the spot between my feet, slicing into the sod.
My eyes shoot up to see that the Middle Plains women have raced to circle their man, their weapons raised. One of the women jerks her chin at me, her eyes dropping to what she’s gifted me with.
I crouch, heft up the cudgel hilt, and rise, tossing her a harried, “Thanks! I owe you a favor if we survive this!” as I sprint to protect the boys’ lodge.
I leap on the first giant of a woman that I come up behind, catching her tightly under the throat with my forearm, cutting off her air and clinging to her back like a demented monkey. I hold the cudgel tightly in my other fist, prepared to blast it into her head if she tries to bite me.
Anger burns behind my breastbone. The ladies of the Tribe of Giants were once friendly acquaintances if not allies. I know some of them. Every summer, tribe children of similar age groups played together when the North Plains and the Giants Steppes tribes met to trade goods.
With my face squished to the braids of the Giant’s blue-dyed hair, I notice a scar on her temple.
I’ve seen this scar before.
I’m choking Glaive[1]. When we were children, she took a boar’s tusk to her face. She was lucky; she lived and the tusk glanced her and missed her eye. While she was recovering, we used to sit, sharpening our spears side-by-side. Heck, we sat beside each other and exchanged blanket weaving patterns too. I once traded her a set of timbrels for a sring flute. She was an honest person then, and fair. “What are you doing?” I shout at the side of her skull, ignoring the melee around us. “This isn’t right! You’re stealing children.”
Her hands succeed in ripping me down from where I’m clutching her with everything I’ve got. I land hard on my rear, the grass cushion not enough to keep the breath from getting knocked out of me.
“We need a man, Nalle!” she pants, looking down