Mark of the Fool
Chapter 700: Firbolgs in the Forest

Within a forest clearing in Kymiland, a large elk sniffed the bark of a fir tree.

He was an old beast, with fur long greyed; by now his bodyshould have been thick and full, ready for the scarcity of winter, instead, his curving rib bones stood out, stretching against sagging fur with each breath he drew. Slower than the rest, his herd had long left him behind, moving on, leaving him to fend for himself.

His time was edging near, coming sooner rather than later; there was little chance that the old elk would survive the long winter.

But, the old beast had no way of knowing that he would never again see that harsh season, even for one day.

A stone flew from the trees—sailing between trunks—striking the elk’s skull. The rock was bigger around than a human torso, thrown with terrible force and pinpoint accuracy; the aged beast was dead before he even realised death was there to claim him.

Slumping to the ground, his form stilled, settling in the snow.

Heartbeats passed.

There came the sound of snow crunching; of a great weight being pressed into the ground.

A hulking figure emerged from the woods.

Eight or nine feet in height, powerful, with both crimson hair and beard, the firbolg scanned the forest for signs of danger—a kill could bring hungry wolves, or worse, very quickly—when none became apparent, he positioned the elk, drawing a sharp stone blade from his bag.

He prepped the stag with care, then draped its carcass over a shoulder, beginning the long journey back to his village.

For a moment, he paused, turning in place, scanning the woods.

“Thought I heard something,” he whispered beneath his breath, a voice deep and misting rose from his lips.

He waited for a time, but no threat came.

Shaking his head, the hunter turned, striding away, heavy footfalls leaving deep impressions in the snow.

“Hmph,” he whispered. “That bastard Birger was wrong. They won’t attack today. Good, be a shame to bring bad news when I finally got myself a kill.”

Quietly, he disappeared into the trees.

For a time, the woods creaked softly.

Then without warning, a quiet voice broke the stillness, coming from what seemed to be empty air.

“He’s got good instincts,” Theresa Lu said, floating just below the forest’s canopy. Invisibility magic sheathed her and her companions: Alex, Brutus and Claygon.

“Yes…I thought…he would…discover us…for a moment,” Claygon whispered.

“Yeah, me too,” Alex said. “And that would have been awkward.”

“To say the least.” Theresa descended until she was inches above the snow, and touched the bloodstain. “That was a perfect shot.”

“Yeah, the firbolgs specialise in rock-throwing. It’s a tradition they carried with them when they migrated from ancient Thameland millennia ago,” Alex searched his memory, reciting the information from a passage in a reference book he’d borrowed from the university library: Lore of Giants, Volume 13. “They throw hard, fast and with precision.”

“I could see that,” she whispered. “No wonder they gave the Irtyshenans as much trouble as they did. So, did you learn what you needed to know?”

“Yeah,” Alex said. “I was debating whether or not we should just try and sneak into their village…but I think we’d learn more if we actually made proper contact with them.”

Brutus growled, sniffing at the snow where the stag had been.

“I don’t know if they’ll be up for visitors,” Theresa said.

“With…all the dangers…in this forest…I don’t think they would trust outsiders…at all,” Claygon agreed.

“You’re both right,” Alex said. “Which is the reason why we’re going to use some things I learned about them from that book on giants. When approaching firbolgs, it’s customary to bring a gift. Preferably something they need.”

The young wizard looked in the direction the giant hadgone. “And judging by what that firbolg said—finally got a kill—I think they need food.”

“And maybe other kinds of help,” Alex said. “The firbolg said something about an attack. Maybe they’ve had trouble with the Irtyshenans. Either way, I think I know how to get on their good side. To start, we’re going to need your bow, Theresa.”

“Then you have it,” the huntress said. “What do you need it for? Are we hunting those golem knights?”

“Or…maybe…the rune-marked?” Claygon asked.

“No, no, just deer, for now.” Alex looked at the elk’s blood staining the snow, remembering how thin the stag was. “A lot of deer.”

###

“Hello, there!” Alex called out in Neimheadhish, the tongue of the firbolgs. He pronounced the words with the exactness of a native speaker, while making sure to introduce a heavy Thameish accent to his speech.

He was now visible, Theresa and Brutus walked beside him, flanking him, all three were surrounded by a swarm of reinforced forcedisks, each disk bore the dressed and prepped body of a fat elk.

They carried a total of twenty animals, harvested from throughout the woods.

It was an impressive sight, one that immediately drew the attention of a pair of firbolg sentries.

Ahead of Alex and his two companions—Claygon was waiting in an abandoned bear’s den about a mile back—was the firbolg settlement.

The firbolg’s home was on a hill—cleared with stone axes—looming from the forest. Upon that hill stretched an enormous long house, sized for those of giant stature.

Several outbuildings—‘small’ huts, sheds, a stable and a granary—were built on the sides of the snowy slope. Around the hill’s base was a wall of thick logs bound tightly together and carved with magical glyphs.

The only entrance through the rampart was by way of a thick gate, guarded by four firbolg sentries.

Four firbolg sentries who were now gaping at Alex, Therea, Brutus…and their floating disks laden with elk.

The giants’ eyes looked ready to roll from their skulls.

“I come bearing gifts!” Alex called. “I hope to speak with one of your elders!”

“Stay back!” a giant guard shouted, lifting an immense boulder with one equally immense hand. His bulging eyes had hardened with suspicion.

Another sentry drew a horn from her belt, blowing three short notes, then levelling her spear at the intruders. The others repeated the same actions, lifting their spears and axes in warning.

Alex held up a hand, signalling Theresa, Brutus and the disks to stop.

With a sharp thrust, he planted the aeld staff in the snow and stepped back, raising both hands to shoulder height, relaxing his demeanour, slowing all movement. “We mean you no harm, we only wish to talk!”

“Stay there, human!” the first sentry shouted, lifting the stone higher. “Don’t move!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it” Alex called back, glancing at Theresa.

The huntress looked at him sidelong. “This is going well so far,” she said sourly.

“Give it a bit,” he said, watching the giants’ settlement.

The longhouse doors were suddenly thrown wide, and a dozen giants boiled from the entrance, strapping on hide and steel armour as they rushed down the slope toward the front gate.

From nearly every outbuilding more giants came, grasping massive axes and clubs. Children—well, giant-sized children—poked their heads from stables and sheds, looking for the source of the commotion.

There was not a friendly faceto be seen as the giants opened their gates.

Those who’d rushed from the longhouse—including the young firbolg hunter who’d harvested the starving—emerged through the gates, shutting them behind them.

A giant among giants—a firbolg a full head taller than the rest—stepped to the front of the group. Old scars were etched into his lined face like the weathering of an old carving, and straight-edged Irtyshenan daggerswere braided into a thick, long beard.

He clutched a steel warhammer in one hand, his armour was reinforced by what looked to be the remains of a golem knight’s magical armour.

His clan folk looked on him with expressions of respect and deference as he moved to speak with the outsiders, his chest swelling.

“Who are you, humans?” he called to Alex’s party, his teeth pulling back in a snarl. “Why have you come here?”

Alex’s eyes scanned the settlement’s outer wall; parts of the rampart had been damaged, other parts newly repaired.

“Not to attack you,” Alex said calmly. “If that is what you ask. My name is Alex Roth, and these are my companions, Theresa Lu and Brutus. We’re here to bargain and seek knowledge. We are not rune-marked and we’re not from the Empire! We wish no quarrel with you.”

The giant’s frown deepened as he watched Alex, Theresa, and Brutus until his eyes fell on the deer, all trussed and resting on forcedisks, like platters for a feast.

A guard whispered in the leader’s ear.

And the towering firbolg nodded at Alex. “You said you came here looking to speak to an elder, and that you bear gifts. And while it’s clear you do bear many gifts, the question is why? We have human friends in the forest, but we do not know you. You are strangers to us.”

“We hail from Thameland,” Alex said. “Your ancestral home from across land and sea, and I must speak to an elder of your people about a matter of incredible importance. I bring these gifts so that we may start our parley with the right stone thrown,” Alex said, quoting an old firbolg expression. “I seek nothing other than the knowledge of an elder. Might I have your name?”

The firbolgs’ expression had begun to soften a bit as Alex continued talking, the wizard’s calming tone and familiar words easing their suspicion.

The leader appeared more relaxed, his shoulders slumping and the grip on his weapon loosening. “I am Chief Olaf of Clan Fir Ó hAllaráen, the protector of my clan. What knowledge do you seek, stranger? And what price do you wish for those trays of elk meat?”

Caution still lay in his voice, but his tone had softened, somewhat.

But, only somewhat.

“I wish to make inquiries of your clan’s oldest members,” Alex said. “There was an event that happened in Kymiland about three hundred years ago. And I would like to speak to someone who might remember it.”

Whispers passed among the firbolgs.

“And that’s all you want in return for so many harvested elk?” the chief asked, hard suspicion entering his voice.

“Yes, that's all I want,” Alex said. “I will gift the meat to you now, but then you must tell me who among you has lived for over three centuries.”

“Send him to Birger and his boy, chief,” one of the firbolgs said. “He’s the only one who’s been alive for that long.”

“I’m hungry, mother,” a firbolg child said, his voice loud enough to carry over the rampart. He stood in the snow, holding his mother’s hand, standing midway up the slope of the hill.

The chief frowned. “I hear your words saying that all youwantis to talk, but how do I know it is as you say and you’re not a spy from the Empire?”

“You don’t,” Alex admitted. “But all I can do is give you my word that I’m not. If you just let me speak to Birger, then I’ll be gone before you know it.”

“Hrm, as I don’t know you, that gives me little comfort. And when you’re gone and have left us with poisoned meat, how will that help us? We will check to see if these carcasses are poisoned by having you taste the meat,” the chief insisted. “And if they are, then know that we’ll smash the three of you until you’re thinner than running tree sap.”

Brutus growled, but Theresa put a hand on his shoulder.

“That won’t be necessary; I’ll hand over the meat now, we can eat some to show you that it’s not poisoned, which means you’ll also have us under your control and can make sure we weren’t trying to harm you and your kin. Is Birger in the longhouse on the hill?” Alex asked.

Olaf snorted. “No. He does not live among us. Neither him nor that boy of his.” He spit in the snow. “You’ll find them in the nearby woods, and we will tell you where to go once you’re finished here. Tell him ‘Chief Olaf will send food the day after tomorrow. And that the ward should stand strong’.”

Alex frowned. “I will,” he said.

“Then we have a pact, stranger,” Chief Olaf said, striding toward him. “Now, do you know these woods well?”

“Not so much,” Alex said.

“That’s alright,” Olaf said. “If you’re lucky, Birger will be singing. He’s always singing; that will lead you to him.”

The young wizard’s breath caught.

Veer north again, not south. That’s where the firbolgs tend to be. Oh, and when you get there, if you hear singing, don’t trust it. Those wily old giants have certain illusions that trick travellers into their cauldrons! Beware!

Those were the words of Old Iliana.

‘Well, I guess we’ll see if this Birger will have his cauldron ready for us.’ Alex thought, looking at the gathered firbolgs. ‘They didn’t exactly sound friendly when they mentioned their two kinfolk…there’s probably an interesting reason why he and his son live apart from the others. A reason we’ll learn soon enough, no doubt.’