“You finish? With me?” The huff of amusement again, followed by the carrion stench. Even as the giant leaned toward him its head still loomed high above Jarnulf’s, and he was now within reach of those long, long arms as well. This monster might be old, might have to scavenge its meals from burial platforms, but it still weighed perhaps three times what he did and had him trapped in a high, small place. Jarnulf took one last step back, feeling with his heel for the edge of the platform. Beyond that was only a long drop through sharp branches to the stony ground.
Not even enough snow to break my fall, he thought. Lord, O Lord, make my arm strong and my heart steadfast in Your name and the name of Your son, Usires the Aedon. As if reminded of the cold, he adjusted his heavy cloak. The giant paid no attention to this small, insignificant movement; instead, the great, leering head bent even closer until it was level with his own. Jarnulf had nowhere to retreat and the corpse-giant knew it. It reached out a massive hand and laid it against the side of Jarnulf’s face in a grotesque parody of tenderness. The fingers curled, each as wide as the shaft of the spear that was now so far out of his reach, but Jarnulf ducked beneath its grasp before it caught at his hair and twisted his head off. Again they stood face to face, man and giant.
“White Hand, you say.” With Jarnulf’s spear pinned to the platform beneath its foot, the beast was in no hurry. “Why they call you that, little Rimmersman?”
“You will not understand—not for a little while, yet. And I was not born in Rimmersgard at all, but in Nakkiga itself.”
The cracked lips curled. “You not Higdaja, you just man. You think Bur Yok Kar stupid?”
“Your problem is not that you are stupid,” Jarnulf said. “Your problem is that you are already dead.” Jarnulf looked down. A moment later the giant looked down too.
Beyond the hilt in Jarnulf’s hand a few inches of silvery blade caught the starlight. The rest of it was already lodged deep in the monster’s stomach. “It is very long, this knife,” Jarnulf explained as the giant’s jaw sagged open. “Long enough that the blood does not stain me, which is why I carry the name White Hand. But my knife is also silent, and sharp as the wind—oh, and cold. Do you feel the cold yet?” With a movement so swift the giant had no time to do more than blink, Jarnulf grabbed the hilt with both hands and yanked upward, dragging the blade from the creature’s waist to the bottom of its ribcage, twisting it as he cut. The great beast let out a howl of astonishment and pain and clapped its huge hands over the wound even as Jarnulf threw himself past it, still holding fast to the hilt of his long knife. As he tumbled into the center of the platform the blade slid back out of the beast’s hairy stomach, freeing a slide of guts and blood. The monster howled once more, then lifted dripping hands to the distant stars as if to fault them for letting such a thing happen. By the time it came staggering toward him, innards dangling, Jarnulf had regained his spear.
He had no time to turn the long shaft around, so he grabbed it and charged. He rammed the rounded butt-end of the shaft into the bloody hole in the giant’s midsection, freeing a bellow of agony from the creature that nearly deafened him. The logs beneath them bounced and swayed, and snow pattered down from the laden branches above as the giant thrashed and howled and plucked at the spear-shaft, but Jarnulf crouched low and braced himself, then began to push forward, hunched over the spear as its butt-end dug deep into the monster’s vitals.
The corpse-giant staggered backward, arms swinging like windmill vanes, mouth a hole that seemed too big for its head, then it suddenly vanished over the side of the tree-burial platform. Jarnulf heard it crashing through the branches as it fell, then a heavy thump as it hit the ground, followed by silence.
Jarnulf leaned out, keeping a strong grasp on the edge of the platform. His head felt light and his muscles were all quivering. The giant lay sprawled at the bottom of the tree in a tangle of overlong limbs. Jarnulf could not make out all of it through the intervening branches, but saw a pool of blackness beneath it spreading into the mounded snow.
Careless, he berated himself. And it almost cost me my life. God cannot be proud of me for that. But what the thing said had startled him badly.
Might the giant have lied? But why? The monster would have no reason to do so. The Silver Queen was awake, it had said, and so the North was coming awake as well. That certainly explained the giants now pushing down into Rimmersgard, as well as rumors Jarnulf had heard of Hikeda’ya warriors being spotted in places where they had not been seen for years. Certainly the border was as active as he had ever known it, with Nakkiga troops and their scouts everywhere. But if the giant had actually spoken the truth, it meant that Jarnulf had been wrong about many important things. He had stepped onto a bridge he thought safe only to find it cracking beneath him when it was far too late to turn back.
So Father’s murderer is not gone—not lost in the dream lands and as good as dead, but alive and planning for war again. That means everything I have done, the lives I have taken, the terror I have tried to spread among the Hikeda’ya . . . has all been pointless. The monster is awake.
Until this moment Jarnulf had believed he was God’s avenger—not just God’s, but Father’s as well. Now he had been proved a fool.
He watched from the platform until he was quite sure the giant was dead and his own limbs had stopped trembling, then he tossed his spear over the side and began to climb down. The wind was strengthening, bringing snow out of the north; by the time he reached the ground Jarnulf was dusted in white. He cleaned the blood and offal from his spear, then used his long, achingly sharp knife to cut off the giant’s head. He set the monster’s head in the crotch of a wide branch near the base of the burial tree, the eyes lifelessly black and stretched wide in their last surprise, the fanged mouth gaping foolishly. He hoped it would serve as a warning to others of its kind to stay away from human settlements, to find some easier forage than the corpses of Rimmersfolk, but just now defending the bodies of dead men and women was not what dominated his thoughts.
“We men beat back the witch-queen and defeated her.” He spoke only to himself, and so quietly that no other creature heard him, not a bird, not a squirrel. “If she has truly returned, this time men like me will destroy her.” But Jarnulf had made promises to himself and God before, and those pledges had now been proved nothing but air.
No, save your words for fitter things, he told himself. Like prayer.
Jarnulf the White Hand tipped the long spear across his shoulder and began walking back to the part of the snowy woods where he had left his horse.
4
Brother Monarchs
As if to crown the entrance of the High King and High Queen, the sun had emerged from behind the morning clouds and was spreading its light generously across the hills of Hernysadharc. Even the disc of gold atop the Taig’s distant roof glittered like a coin spun into the air, as though the great hall celebrated their arrival as well.
Simon was fidgeting with a golden coin of his own—a medallion of unusually large size and uncomfortable edges that held his cloak and was currently rubbing against his neck. His friend the Lord Chamberlain had insisted that he wear it.
“Remember, you are the High King and High Queen,” said Jeremias, pushing the pin through the heavy cloak with enough force to make the high king wince. “I didn’t come all this way to see you two looking like beggars.”
“Then you should have stayed at home,” Simon growled. Waiting had put him out of temper. The hurt on Jeremias’ round face was so profound that Simon almost apologized, but the edge of the medallion was still digging painfully into his jowls and he resisted the impulse.
“I am the Royal Chamberlain, in charge of the king’s and queen’s household,” Jeremias said stiffly.
“That household is in Erkynland,” Simon pointed out. “We are in Hernystir.”
“The household is wherever you and the queen are . . . Majesties.” Jeremias put a little twist on the last word to make Simon feel it. The king knew it was difficult sometimes for his childhood friend to live happily with the distance that now yawned between them, even when Jeremias was close enough to breathe on his cheek, as he was doing now. “In the old days, they say old King John would travel from castle to castle for a year before coming back to the Hayholt, so you have little to complain about. There. Now please don’t fiddle with it. It looks splendid.”
Simon stared into the hand mirror one of Jeremias’ servitors held before him. “It looks like I am ready to be buried. The Heavens know I couldn’t do much else wrapped up like this.”
“Some might think that was not a very nice joke,” his wife told him, frowning. “In fact, some might think the king is taking his own bad temper out on everyone except the one who caused it.”