Atyla and the Children of Giants

Chapter Seven

A week dragged by. Atyla had made herself busy creating a rather reckless reputation, inciting rebellions and encouraging citizens to aid and abet human slaves who managed to escape their masters. The youngest Stormchild princess was beginning to be referred to as Mältyasavik, which was Valtarian for Mother Salvation. Atyla, however, was far too preoccupied with the preparations of her wedding to care for what was being said about her among the wealthy and influential.

Although she carried no love for Tyrus in her heart, the princess had no choice but to obey tradition and marry him. The bride price had been paid, and it was paid in blood. Far too many lives were lost for Atyla to even consider herself worthy of abandoning the union.

To her happy surprise, Bjol's recovery was swift, and after a week, he grew almost as large as Atyla. Nearly as strong, too, at least by Faron's judgment. In his strengthening, he was able to recall spells at random, and by the end of the week, Bjol swore he'd lived in a place that was guarded by a battalion of winged soldiers like the King of Resnim Atyla had told him about.

A working theory as to his size and ability suggested his parentage was not solely human. Without much insight as to where his father was from, Atyla and Faron could only gather from Bjol that, before his capture and enslavement, he and his mother lived on an island just southwest of a distant kingdom, whose fortress towered high enough to see from far off. Between teaching him to read and write, Atyla asked Bjol to teach her to defend herself with magic after he'd gotten strong enough to barely take on Faron in a sparring match. Sera, who they also saved from the pits, watched on the side, having suffered harsher injuries.

Atyla had been hoping her father would arrive for the wedding with joyous news of victory, and the High Hills would finally be free of the carnage of war. At some points, she'd even hoped the humans who guarded the Hills would suffer greatly, since she was made to suffer a marriage, she did not desire, so her father might gain military conquest.

Only then, she could envision the horrible ends the humans of the High Hills might have faced. Those ballistas on Tyrus's ships could fire javelin-like bolts from almost a mile out at sea, and still manage to impale stone buildings several hundred yards from the shore. The deadly machines were more than simple ballistas. Yeluacam used a similar weapon, but it was manually operated and took several seconds to reload after firing a single shot. They fired at vast distances, but not compared to the Thaesian ballistas, which were fed from below, powered by what seemed to be black crystals and Eldersword, two elements which never lost power. What Thaesos had managed to create with two of the three most powerful elements in creation seemed too advanced for its time, but all the builders and weapons forgers claimed their designs were primitive in some areas of the cosmos, and that Esyrimia was far behind in the way of technology. An attack might see the ships, and their weapons, closer to land.

At least on the northern slopes of the High Hills, the humans might have stood a chance. But the princess could only imagine the sand and tides of the south awash in a tide of crimson and bones. Her father's victory... at the cost of mothers, fathers, and children. It was ironic to her, sometimes comical, that Atalus would wage war against the humans on the very same grounds they waged war on the Giant ancestors of the Ramien race. Fear and supremacy.

"Your Highness?" Bjol's voice called her out of her deep thought. "Are you not hungry?"

In a sharp exhale, Atyla lifted her face from her plate, where she noticed she'd not touched anything on it. "I believe I just need some air. To prepare for the guests' arrival," she said. The princess gently stood up from the table and started for the door. "How many times must I ask you to call me Atyla?" she turned her head to find Bjol's eyes.