Blood of the King - Khirro's Journey Book 1 Page 0,87

quietly. Somewhere above the trees, Shyn’s wings caught air as he scouted a path past the giant. Disagreeing with Shyn as always, Ghaul took Elyea to find a way around the encampment from ground level. Khirro didn’t like the idea but, in their effort to stay quiet, he had no chance to voice his opinion.

They watched the giant making ready for the night. The huge man stood at least the height of three tall men, his head dominated by a sloping forehead flowing straight into his twisted nose. Cracked, puffy lips parted on gapped teeth as it pulled small trees out of the ground by their roots like a child might pluck dandelions for amusement. These logs—branches in the giant’s hands—it snapped in two over its knee and piled beside a well-used fire pit.

Khirro looked on, fascinated and horrified, at this creature from his bedtime stories. He’d never believed in them—or so he told himself—but they’d kept him from wandering into the forest alone, made him go to bed when told. When he grew older, he saw the stories for what they were: untrue lessons meant to frighten, to teach, to warn. Or so he believed until an undead soldier pulled helmet from head, ready to strike him dead. Dead men walking, magic, a man who became a bird, malevolent grass, a giant: if all these things existed, did it make dragons, ghosts, demons and Gods real, too?

A rustle of leaves pulled Khirro from his musings. He rolled to his back, brandishing his dagger, and saw Shyn standing on the hill, naked and haggard like a man who’d worked for days without sleep. Athryn gathered the border guard’s clothes he’d kept with him and crept down to meet him, Khirro close behind.

“Anything?” Khirro whispered as Shyn pulled his breeches on.

The bird man shot him a glance telling him not to speak, then shook his head. The forest was thicker than any he’d seen, Shyn had told them before, its canopy so dense he couldn’t fly through it. They waited while he donned his clothes, then crept to the crest of the hill again, bellies to the ground. When they reached the top of the rise, Khirro’s blood chilled in his veins.

The giant was gone.

Khirro’s eyes darted across the clearing. No sign of the creature. Shyn looked behind them and Khirro’s throat clogged with fear. Had the giant seen them? Scented them? Surely something that size couldn’t sneak up on them.

“Where is it?” Khirro’s whisper was barely more than a breath.

Neither man responded. Minutes passed as they scanned the forest. Somewhere amongst the trees lurked a creature who could crush them in its hand, split their bones for the marrow like a normal man snapping a twig. A shudder shook Khirro’s body and Athryn gestured for him to remain still.

It felt to Khirro like they lay there a very long time before they heard Elyea cry out. Instinctively, Khirro moved to get to his feet, hand reaching for his sword, but Shyn’s hand on his shoulder stopped him. He settled back, body tense.

Another shout sounded through the trees, this time Ghaul’s voice, followed closely by a deep throated roar sounding more beast than man. Trees groaned and brush shook, then all noise ceased. A minute passed, two. Khirro’s muscles tensed, nearly tying themselves in knots as he readied to rush to his friends’ aid though; with time to think about it, the thought of such action became more difficult, foolhardy. He looked at Shyn; the border guard thankfully gestured for him to wait.

The ground shook with the giant’s footsteps. Khirro wondered how this creature could possibly have been quiet enough to sneak away without their knowledge.

Elyea called out again, closer this time. The trees beside the dugout-cave shook, then parted, and the giant emerged, a crooked grin marring its flat face. It carried Elyea under one arm, her arms pinned at her sides, legs flailing uselessly. The giant’s other arm hung at its side. Fingers the thickness of tree branches gripped the back of Ghaul’s tunic as it dragged the warrior through the brush.

Ghaul’s arms and legs hung limp.

Chapter Thirty-One

Therrador shifted, seeking comfort on the uncomfortable seat. The throne wasn’t designed for relaxation, but he was confident he’d get used to it. He glanced around the throne room, unconsciously noting where he’d make changes: Braymon’s coat-of-arms would have to go, of course, replaced by his own—a crossed sword and staff. And the tapestries would be supplanted. He and Braymon always had