A Meddle of Wizards. Alexandra Rushe
mind where I got him. Tiny’s going to take you and the girl across the mountains into Tannenbol. That’s all you need to know.”
“Raine, maybe,” Mauric said, “but I’ve got a horse.”
“No horses,” Gertie said. “The mountain passes are too treacherous and narrow.”
“Then Goblin and I will go around and meet you on the other side.”
“Out of the question,” Gertie said. “We may have need of your sword arm—we’re certain to be pursued by Glonoff and his soldiers. And the mountains hold other perils.”
“But, mor—”
“Mauric, you insisted on coming with me and I reluctantly agreed—on one condition. You gave me your word to heed what I say.”
Mauric digested this with a scowl. “As you say, mor,” he said at last through his teeth.
He unsaddled the horse and stripped the saddlebags off the big animal. The horse pranced and shivered in delight, frolicking about the glade until the warrior called him. Placing his hands on the stallion’s neck, Mauric spoke to the animal at length. Goblin pricked his ears, listening.
At last, Mauric gave the horse a swat. “Away with you then, and a safe journey home.”
The stallion whinnied and galloped away, disappearing into the trees. Mauric stood with his back to them, unmoving, until the sound of the horse’s hooves had faded.
“Thank you, Mauric.” Gertie laid a gentle paw on his shoulder. “I know that was hard for you. Don’t fret. Goblin will make it home.”
“Of course he will. He’s a canny beast, and I told him what to do.” Mauric straightened. “Let’s get out of here.”
With a creaking of joints, the giant squatted and lowered his hand to the ground. “That’s the ticket, Finlar. Climb up.”
“No, thanks. I’ll walk.”
The giant glanced uncertainly at the troll. “But, Gertie said—”
“I know the air’s thin up there, so listen and listen carefully,” Mauric said. “I. Don’t. Do. Giants.”
“Why?” Tiny’s eyes widened. “Be you afraid?”
Mauric’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not a question you ask a Finlaran warrior if you wish to live.”
“Well, then, what do it be?”
Mauric’s jaw clenched. “I don’t fancy riding a moving mountain, that’s all.”
Gertie growled. “If this is about your precious warrior dignity, Mauric Lindar, forget it.”
“This has nothing to do with my dignity and everything to do with my stomach.”
“Huh?” said Tiny.
Mauric turned red. “I get queasy, all right? I cack. I chunder. I retch. Rode a giant on a bet once, and hawked up my toenails. Suffered no end of teasing for it, too. Not my proudest moment, nor one I wish to repeat.”
“You get motion sick?” Brefreton threw back his head and laughed. “Hoo, that’s rich.”
Mauric’s flush deepened. “I’m not proud of it, but there you go.” He bowed to the giant. “For that reason, I must decline the offer of transport.”
“You’ll ride,” Gertie said. “With Tiny’s help, we can make the journey in days, not weeks.” She leaned closer. “Besides, I need you to set a good example for the girl. She seems a trifle skittish.”
“I am not skittish,” Raine protested. “And stop calling me ‘the girl,’ like I don’t have a name.”
Tiny bent at the waist, engulfing Raine in shadow. “What do it be then?”
“Huh?” said Raine. The giant’s eyes were enormous chocolate pools framed by long, curly lashes.
“Your name. What do it be?”
“Um . . . Raine.”
“Well, Umraine, what say we show the warrior how it be done?”
“Not Umraine. Raine, and what do you mean? How what’s—Yikes.”
Raine’s stomach did a whoopsy as the giant scooped her up and tossed her onto his shoulder. Scrambling for purchase, she grabbed a handful of the giant’s hair and held on with all her might. Regaining her balance, she risked a peek at the ground and gasped. It was a long way down.
“You might not think it from the size o’ me, but I be a mite tender headed,” Tiny said in a plaintive voice. “I’d be ever so grateful if you’d loosen yer grip a wee bit, lass.”
“Sorry.” Raine forced her fingers to loosen their hold on the giant’s locks.
“Thankee. That be more like it.”
Turning, Tiny took a slow walk around the glade. His vest was slick as a horsehair sofa, and Raine started to slide. She grabbed a rawhide cord that dangled from the giant’s vest and held on for dear life.
“How that be?”
“N-not bad,” she fibbed.
In truth, her head pounded and she wanted to throw up, but she was too proud to admit it.
“You should try it.” She grimaced down at Mauric. “Really. Loads of fun.”
The giant grinned at the warrior. “You heard ’er, Finlar. It be fun.”
“Poke me in the eye with a sharp stick,” Mauric muttered. “I didn’t sign on for this.” He glared at Brefreton and the troll. “What about you? Does he plan on putting you in his pocket?”
“Don’t has a pocket.” Tiny thumped a gunny sack hanging from his belt. “I gots a sack, though.” He peered at Brefreton, looking anxious. “You wanna ride in m’ sack?”
“I thank you,” Brefreton said, “but Gertie and I have other options.”
“Of course you do.” Mauric smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand. “How could I forget?”
Grumbling about the mendacity of wizards, the warrior strode up to Tiny Bart and tossed him the saddlebags from the horse. The giant attached them to the belt around his waist, where they dangled like tiny coin purses.
“All right, let’s do it.” Mauric glowered at the giant. “But mind, there’ll be no tossing me about like a sack of flour.”
Tiny raised his brows. “Wouldn’t dream o’ it.”
He knelt and Mauric scaled his enormous knee and climbed onto his other shoulder.
Tiny groaned to his feet. “You be no featherweight, warrior. You must weigh fifteen stone.”
“Twenty and the name’s Mauric.”
“Mauric.” Tiny rolled the name around on his tongue. “I likes the sound o’ that. Don’t care much for the name Bart, though me mam give it to me, bless her bones. Bart be short for Bartog, don’t you know.” He took a deep breath and blew it out. “Mauric the Giant has a dignified ring, don’t you think?”
“I think you’ll have to find yourself another name.”
“I suppose you be right. Folks might get us confused. Still, it be a fine name and all.”
“I’ve always thought so,” Mauric said.
“Catch.” Gertie tossed the warrior a white stone.
He fished the flat, circular rock out of the air and held it at arm’s length.
“It’s not a snake, Mauric,” said Gertie.
“I know what it is, mor.” The warrior’s