Chapter 702: A Carving Knife Through Bark

Chapter 702: A Carving Knife Through Bark

A fire roared in the river rock hearth that dominated the cottage wall.

Inviting aromas of roasting venison seasoned with herbs drifted through the room.

Birger was seated at the head of his great table, the old giant was polishing a smallby his reckoningtin cup. At his back, Bjorgrund tended the fire, the young giants head nearly scraped the gathering rooms ceiling when he stood upright.

You must forgive me, Birgers ancient voice crackled like parchment. He polished the tin cup with a delicate touch before placing it beside one hed already buffed until it shone like a mirror. Next, he reached for a pitcher, cleaning its lid with a soft cloth. We dont get many guests these days, even from among the smaller folk weve called friends for years.

He looked at Alex and Theresa, sitting on a massive wooden bench to his left, their feet dangling above thestone floor. Behind them Claygon stood as still as a statue, his war-spear leaning against a wall beside the door. The golem watched Bjorgrund in silence.

Brutus sat on his haunches beside Theresa, three sets of eyes flicking from the giants to the door. The cerberus was alert, ready for violence.

Violence, though, did not seem to be coming.

Not for the time being, at least.

Bjorgrund was throwing suspiciousglances at his fathers guests, having said little since theyd come through the cottage door, nor was he displaying any threateningbehaviour. His discomfort was plain for all to see.

He fidgeted, shifting his weight from leg to leg as he turned the venison haunch on the spit.

His eyes regularly drifted to a great, stone axe propped against a beam near him, but Alex noticed no sign of his muscles tensing, preparing to lunge for the axe.

No hint of violence...not yet.

Only suspicion.

The guests that we do have to entertain arent exactlywell behaved. Birger pointed at the ceiling.

Suspended from rough hewn beamsbetween braids of garlic and bunches of dried herbswere weapons, dozens of weapons. Some were finely crafted, engraved with detailed symbols and filigree. Others were crude, roughly made and looked like they were pounded into shape from pig iron. Some were sized for human hands. Others were too big for even Claygon to comfortably bear.

I can see that youre ready, Alex said. The wardis that to keep these guests away?

So you sensed my ward. Birger finished polishing the pitcher, tossed the rag into a nearby barrel, and pushed himself to standing, balancing on his only leg. Reaching for his crutch, he hobbled across the stone floor. Wait a moment. No sense in talking with a dry tongue.Findd new stories at novelhall.com

Bjorgrund looked at his father, watching the elderly firbolg fill the tin pitcher from a keg beside an oak counter laden with dried herbs, burlap sacks of grain, and cooking utensils.

The larger giant reached for his fathers arm as the old firbolg hobbled back to the table, but a single glare stayed his hand. The youth watched in silence as Birger poured two cups of mead, handing them to the guests.

Birger took a tall golden goblet from a nearby hook and poured himself a generous portion, raising the goblet, gazing at the shuttered window, before finally speaking: To Kelda.

Er, to Kelda, Theresa said.

To Kelda, Alex said.

Together, the two humans drank with the ancient firbolg.

The mead possessed a spicy, herbal flavour, lighting a fire on Alexs tongue. It tasted neither foul nor unpleasant, but definitely took some getting used to.

I placed that ward over this part of the forest some time ago, Birger said, wiping foam from his beard. Maybe about He looked over his shoulder. How old are you again, son?

Silence met the question.

Sixteen winters in five months, Bjorgrund finally answered, his tone tinged with defensiveness.

Alexs eyebrows rose. Fifteen? Hes even younger than I guessed.

Then its been eleven years, Birger said. Eleven years ago, I raised this ward to keep our enemies out, but Im not the best wardmaker or magister around. I had to make it targeted to be strong which means that some othertypes of guests can find their way in. Ive had to take care of them, but, on the rare occasion, theyve almost taken care of me for good.

He patted his stump, before grimacing in Claygons direction. Those golem knights are trouble. One of them took my leg and killed half a dozen of our kin before Chief Olaf sent him to his grave. Now Olaf wears whats left of that armour. Tell me, how is my miserablegreat-nephew, anyway?

Thats incredible, Alex murmured. And did you all help her?

We did, Birger said. Though not together. Not always.

And what about her sanctum? Alex asked. You said you knew where to find the path to it.

I do, Birger said. Or I should. It has been three hundred years, after all.

Ill gladly take any information I can get. Alex clasped his hands, leaning over the table. You said you wanted us to do something for you, before you agreed to tell me. What is it that you want? But, just so you know up front, Im not giving you my soul.

Alex glanced at his satchel hanging from a hook by the door. ValRoks soulblade was inside, he hadnt mustered up the courage to start using it on parts of his soul.

Yet.

Birger gave him a startled look, then burst out laughing, surprising his son.

Oh, by the gods, you have her sense of humour! the old giant laughed. Of course, I dont want your soul. Im a giant, not some devil. No, what I want are your weapons and the arms that wield them.

Alex and Theresa looked at each other.

Who do you want us to kill? the huntress asked.

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The rune-marked were here earlier, chief, a firbolg hunter said, touching impressions in the snow. Behind him waited the clan chief and his honour guard. The party was surrounded by trees etched with symbols belonging to Birgers ward. They passed this way less than an hour ago. It looks like they were trying to break through the ward.

Which way did they go after their failure? Chief Olaf asked, holding tightly to his axe handle. The honour guard eyed the trees as the hunter grunted in disgust.

Toward the village.

Another attack. Olaf blew mist from his nostrils. How many times must we endure these assaults for that old man and that beast hes raising? Come, we must return home and prepare our defences.

Yes, chief! the honour guard chanted as one.

Together, they all turned toward the village.

All except the young hunter who had found the tracks.

He hung back for a time, eyeing the tracks.

His frown deepened. His jaw clenched.

And he drew his dagger.

Drawing on the magic within him, he imparted power to the blade, looked around

then drove the knife into the symbol on the tree beside him.

He felt it shift.

The tiniest split in the ward. He twisted the blade in the tree trunk, barely widening the crackonlywide enough for a potent force to wedge its way into.

How many times must we endure these assaults for that old man and that beast hes raising?

The chiefs words echoed in his mind.

The young firbolg smiled, satisfied.

How about no more, he whispered, stepping back from the tree to follow his kin back to the village. They had to prepare for the rune-markeds attack.

An attack that would never come.