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  Shim’s mind whirled, trying to make sense of her message. Always remember that he’s a giant? How could he possibly not remember that?

  Lunahlia sighed, then turned to face the assembled giants. Her gaze, so often turned inward to see places and times far distant, clearly took in the scene here and now. Slowly, she scanned every expectant, worried face that surrounded her. At last, she spoke—and her words fell like a towering tree that slams down on the forest floor.

  “We are doomed,” she declared.

  Murmurs of disbelief and moans of dismay rolled through the crowd. Vonya, for her part, strode over to join Shim. Placing her hefty hand on his shoulder, she whispered, “We’re going to be all right, you and I.”

  As if in answer, Lunahlia declared, “Every last one of us is doomed, I tell you. Great evil and terrible troubles are upon us!”

  She drew a long breath. “Some of those troubles have happened only recently, so recently that almost nobody knows about them. Others haven’t happened yet, but will strike soon—very soon. All of these terrible tidings have come to me, just now, in visions that burned my mind like a fiery blaze.”

  Shaking, she leaned on her staff. “The first of our troubles—but not the last—is this: Tuatha, our great wizardking, is dead.”

  As one, the assembled giants gasped. Several of them cried out in pain, as if they had suddenly lost an eye or a limb.

  “He died,” she explained, “fighting to save us from yet another attack by the wicked warlord Gawr. And while Tuatha succeeded in banishing Gawr to the spirit realm, he himself perished, killed by one of the warlord’s servants.”

  “Gone,” wailed a young father holding a golden-haired infant in his arms. “Tuatha is gone!”

  “Yes,” said the seer grimly. “And worse, Tuatha’s son Stangmar, born without any magic of his own and envious of anyone who possesses it, has now taken the throne.”

  Above the swelling protests, she declared, “Everything I have said is true, coming from visions as clear as the breaking day. What I will say now, though, is less certain. For these visions are shrouded in mist.”

  Shim recalled the dreadful sight he’d seen earlier that day in the Living Mist. His body felt cold, making him shiver.

  “Stangmar’s remaining family has left him,” continued Lunahlia. “Fearing for their lives, his wife, Elen, ran away with their son, a young boy with unusually promising magic. Where they have gone, I don’t know . . . but I fear they may have left Fincayra forever.”

  “But no one can leave the island,” protested a giant wearing a floppy hat made from woven cedar boughs. “They can’t possibly pass through the Living Mist.”

  Gravely, she replied, “Probably true. Their only hope is that the young lad’s magic is strong enough to guide and protect them. Yet he is awfully young and untested. He isn’t at all aware of his powers, let alone his destiny.”

  She glanced over at Shim. Speaking slowly and quietly, she added, “All we can do is hope that he will somehow survive the many ordeals to come.”

  On his shoulder, Shim felt Vonya’s grip tighten.

  Lunahlia shook her head morosely. “Even Stangmar’s mother, Olwen, has fled. And Fincayra is much less without dear Olwen! I have known her for many years, starting way back when she was the beautiful merwoman courted by Tuatha. So great was her love for him that she left her people as well as her ancestral home in the sea just to be with him, trading her fish tail for human legs. And now . . . I have no idea where she could go, or how she could ever find a home.”

  “Ohhh,” moaned Shim. “That’s so verily sad.” All around him, giants nodded in agreement.

  “There is more, I fear.” Keeping one hand on her staff, Lunahlia twisted a strand of her hair with the other. “Even though he was banished to the realm of the spirits, Gawr still has ways to reach Stangmar—and to bend the new king to his will. Stangmar’s anger runs deep, and his resentment of magic runs even deeper, making him easily corrupted.”

  She paused, grimacing. “I have learned that Gawr has convinced Stangmar to assemble an army of undead warriors—the ghoulliants. Together with their allies the gobsken, they have started work on the ancient temple of Lorilanda, built long ago over the sacred spring of Eagles Canyon. Their goal is to transform it into a fortress. Yes—a dreadful castle that will turn constantly on its foundation, shrouded by dark fumes. Soon the Shrouded Castle will be feared by all Fincayrans.”

  “Terrible,” muttered Blaster, so crestfallen that his voice was barely audible. “Truly terrible.”

  “There is still more,” said Lunahlia ominously. “Stangmar has ordered his agents to search for the famous Treasures of Fincayra, our island’s most powerful magical objects. This very day, I believe, his loyalists stole several of them from people who have guarded them devotedly for centuries—including the Flowering Harp, whose music can bring springtime to devastated places; the sword Deepercut, which can slice into anyone’s soul; and the Wise Plow, which can till its own field forever. What he plans to do with these great Treasures and any others he can find . . . I have no idea.”

  The midwife Gargolyn shook her head, shaking her ropes of gray hair. “Whatever he’s planning, it can’t be good.”

  Shim glanced over at the bonfire, now burning much lower than before, its flames darkening as its coals grew steadily dimmer. Drawing a deep breath, he told himself, We giants will be fine. Nobody, even undead warriors, can harm us.

  Lunahlia’s head snapped around instantly, and she gave him a sharp look—as if she knew exactly what he had thought. After a moment, she continued.

  “On top of all this . . . my visions included a prophecy. It reveals the one and only weakness of the Shrouded Castle—and what could be its demise.”

  Her voice dropped lower and she chanted:

  Where in darkness a castle doth spin,

  Small will be large, ends will begin.

  Only when giants make dance in the hall

  Shall every barrier crumble and fall.

  “What does it mean?” asked Vonya, her hand still clasping Shim’s shoulder. “What does it mean for us, for our people?”

  Lunahlia gazed at her soulfully. Finally, she said, “I believe that others, too, have heard this prophecy—the great bard Cairpré, the sorceress Elusa in her Crystal Cave . . . and also, unfortunately, Stangmar. They are calling it the Dance of the Giants, for it says that only giants can destroy the evil castle. Only when we dance within its walls—”

  “Shall every barrier,” completed Vonya, “crumble and fall.”

  “That’s great,” yelled Lumpster, pumping his fists in the air. “Let’s go trash that castle!”

  The seer glared at him. “Not so fast! If you tried, just once, to think with your brains instead of your biceps, you’d see that we have a much bigger problem.”

  Shim stiffened as he realized the truth. “Stangmar! Would he try to attack us?”

  “Maybe he’ll imprison us,” called someone in the crowd.

  “Let him try!” answered another giant. “We’re bigger and stronger than any of his warriors.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” shouted a different giant. “Stangmar’s warriors are deadly, even to us! That’s how they killed—”

  “My husband,” finished Vonya. Her hand on Shim’s shoulder trembled with emotion. “Jonkl was one of our biggest and bravest.” She swallowed. “And we still lost him.”

  Reaching up, Shim placed his own hand over hers. Gently, he squeezed, trying to say without any words what she most needed to hear. In response, she gave him a look of gratitude.

  “What will Stangmar do?” several giants asked at once. “What are his plans?”

  Lunahlia’s bright eyes surveyed the crowd. “I have just seen his plans in my visions. They spring from his fear of our strength—and also his fear that we alone, as this island’s first p
eople, could rally other Fincayran races to rebel against him.”

  She raised her staff and angrily slammed it against the stone at her feet, so hard that sparks flew into the air. “The sparks of his fears have been fanned into flames by the wicked Gawr. And now the prophecy has thrown fuel on those flames. So Stangmar’s plans are . . .”

  She drew a slow, halting breath before continuing. “To kill us. To kill us all!”

  Over the giants’ cries of outrage and disbelief, she raised her voice to shout, “My people, hear me! We must all leave Varigal at once. Flee into the hills—find somewhere, anywhere, to hide.”

  “No!” objected several giants, Blaster among them. “We must fight!” he bellowed. “Giants don’t run and hide. Stand and defend our great city!”

  “If you do, you will perish,” declared Lunahlia with finality. “In the terrible times we are soon to enter . . . anyone who looks like a giant will surely die.”

  “Anyone who looks like a giant?” asked Vonya desperately. “Then we have no chance!”

  “Unless,” the elder replied, “you can find some way to hide. Either that, or transform into something else—which is impossible.”

  Vonya caught her breath. Suddenly possessed by a wild idea, she squeezed Shim’s shoulder all the harder.

  “Go now, I say!” cried Lunahlia. “Save yourselves so that someday, Fincayra’s most ancient and honorable people will rise again!”

  The gathering in the market square dissolved into a frenzied panic. Some giants ran to their homes to collect their children or their most precious belongings. Others surrounded Blaster, vowing to fight whatever foes dared to attack. Still others chose to flee immediately, grabbing hold of their loved ones and hurtling toward one of the city’s exits. Vonya, in the latter group, took Shim’s hand and pulled him toward the main gates.

  Too late!

  With ear-piercing shrieks and howls, the attack on Varigal began.

  8.

  THE RIVER UNCEASING

  Like a fatal flood, the army of Stangmar poured through the main gates of Varigal. Hollow-eyed ghoulliants, whose decomposing flesh still clung to their faces and hands, shrieked angrily as they threw themselves headlong at the giants, piercing their prey with poisoned spears. Gobsken warriors charged right behind, their green arms bulging with muscles as they brandished their heavy broadswords. Wearing iron breastplates and pointed helmets, they formed groups of six or more and methodically used their swords to wound and kill any giants they met.

  Howls of terror and shrieks of rage echoed in the market square and the surrounding streets. Where jovial merriment had filled the air moments before, only the clamor of battle could now be heard. As the giants fought for their lives, food tables collapsed and broke apart. Statues of generations of ancestors toppled, splintering into thousands of shards. Hats, ribbons, and colorful vests lay strewn across the square, trampled by careless boots. The city’s streets, once sparkling white giantstone, turned the color of blood.

  Before long, Stangmar’s forces overwhelmed the last of their foes. Giants old and young lay lifeless, their once-powerful bodies brutally beaten or dismembered. While some of them had fought supremely well, taking many gobsken lives, they had ultimately succumbed. The giants’ capital city was now a graveyard.

  Among the dead lay the seer Lunahlia. Her once-bright eyes gazed lifelessly at the night sky, no longer viewing this time and place . . . or any other.

  After a last murderous search for any more giants, the ghoulliants and gobsken marched out of the city’s gates. They carried tokens of their great victory—a giant’s severed hand, a glittering jewel that had been someone’s amulet, a scrap of silk from a scarf that had been a treasured family heirloom.

  Most satisfying of all, the warriors knew beyond any doubt that no giants had survived. Their master—and the spirit warlord who guided him—would be greatly pleased to hear that the giants’ threat to their plans had been completely eliminated.

  But they were wrong.

  As the first rays of sunrise touched Fincayra, dark red hues seeped into the lands surrounding the ruins of Varigal. Only an eagle soaring high overhead could have spied the two hulking forms who now clambered across a boulder field at the northernmost edge of the Misted Hills.

  Vonya and Shim moved swiftly, just as they’d done since barely escaping through a hidden gate that Vonya had remembered. Sometimes they leaped across crevasses, other times they stepped over boulders big enough to crush a whole family of humans. Whatever the obstacles, they never paused—not even for a drink of water from a surging stream.

  “When can we stop?” asked Shim, his face red in the dawn light. “I’m as thirstily as a thousand fishes.”

  Vonya glanced over her shoulder at him and frowned. “Not yet, Big F—I mean Shim. We must keep going east until we’re far, far away from these hills.”

  Catching one of his hairy toes on a fallen tree, Shim stumbled. “But . . .”

  “Later, my jelly roll.”

  “Where are we going, anyway?”

  “Later.”

  She sped up the pace—not so fast they couldn’t stay together, but fast enough to make talking difficult. And to bring them nearer to their destination. In this dire moment, every instant counted.

  For several more hours they pushed on. Shim’s legs ached from walking, his throat screamed for water, and he felt sleepier than ever before in his life. But he bravely kept marching. What he’d seen of last night’s terrible attack was more than enough motivation. That—and his bottomless well of trust in his mother. If she could summon the strength to keep going . . . well, then so could he.

  Despite his good intentions, though, he started to falter. More and more often, he tripped on logs or stones, even on small branches. Once he accidentally stepped into a pit of sleeping vipers, waking them in a fit of angry hisses and coiled bodies. He jumped away just in time, tearing his leggings in the process.

  Finally, when his legs were just about to collapse under him, they reached a mighty river. Sheltered by a steep-walled canyon that rose up twice his height, and bordered by a thick tangle of willows and cottonwoods, this river was a safe place to rest and recover. And to drink!

  Shim sat on the bank and plunged his whole head into the tumbling current, gulping down as much water as he could hold. Vonya, meanwhile, sat down beside him. For several heartbeats, she simply watched him, grateful that they had survived the most horrible night of their lives—and of their people’s entire history. Since the day long ago when the great spirit Dagda had carved the first giants from a mountainside, nothing as calamitous as this had ever befallen them.

  Where, she wondered, was Dagda now, when they needed him most? Was he battling against that wicked warlord Gawr, now banished to the spirit realm? If so . . . was Dagda joined by the spirit of her beloved Jonkl in that battle?

  Taking a deep drink from the river, she felt sure of the answer. Jonkl is fighting for what’s right and good, that much I know. She raised her face, now wet from river water as well as her own tears. And I promise you, my dear heart . . . I will never stop doing the same.

  “Ahhh,” sighed Shim as he lifted his head from the flowing water. “Now that’s a real drink! Certainly and waterly.”

  Looking down the river, he noticed some oval-shaped boulders that seemed perfectly rounded. Too perfectly, in fact. Almost as if they were actually something else.

  “Tell me,” he said, pointing at the boulders. “Are those big smoothish stones over there really . . . eggs?”

  Slowly, she nodded. “Yes. Very observant of you.” Reaching over, she took his hand. “But that’s a story that must wait for another time.”

  “All rightly.” He shook his head, spraying her with water. “At least, though, tell me where we are now.”

  “I will. But not until I tell you how proud I am of my son. That was a very rough n
ight, but you kept going.”

  “Of coursely!” He gave her a nudge. “Isn’t that what a grownupish person would do?”

  She nodded sadly. “Yes, it is. But nobody, child or grown-up, should have to experience what we did last night.”

  A wave of grief washed over both of them. Colder and more penetrating than river water, it soaked them to the marrow of their bones.

  Shim grimaced. Where were all their friends, their neighbors, their elders, like Lunahlia? Gone—all gone. And where were the statue-lined streets of Varigal, so rich with history and tradition? Gone. And all those simple things he’d known his entire life—the sound of laughter in the market square, the smell of roasting ubermushrooms, the warmth of a crackling hearth fire in their cottage? Gone.

  “Do you think,” he asked hoarsely, “anyone else survived the attack?”

  “I don’t know. I pray to Dagda and Lorilanda that some people did . . . but I don’t know.”

  For a long moment, they didn’t speak. They just sat there together on the bank, listening to the rushing river. At last, Vonya said, “At least we made it here, you and I.”

  “And where is here?”

  “Not far from the headwaters of the River Unceasing, the big river that runs right down the middle of this island. To the west, where we came from, is our . . .” She paused to swallow before saying the word. “Home. And many special places, like the Druma Wood, so rich with natural magic that its trees can actually talk.”

  Shim’s eyes widened. “Really? Talking trees?”

  “Yes. And over there,” she said with a wave to the east, “lie the plains, Eagles Canyon, and soon . . . that dreadful castle you heard about last night.”

  Gravely, he nodded. “The one that will smoke and spin and hold the new king.”

  “Stangmar. And his murderous warriors.”

  Shim furrowed his brow, trying to understand. “So why would we ever want to go there, to such a horribobilous place?”