AN: I want to take this moment to thank all you wonderful people who have reviewed, favorited, and/or subscribed to this story: MCH (first reviewer), Calyn (who caught a very embarassing editorial error), Laura Andrews (without whose excellent advice I hate to think of how bad this story might be), Eternal Evening, OldFashionedGirl95 (the other sage advisor who has saved this story from the depths of Badficdom), WillowDryad, Louisa4533 (probably my staunchest supporter overall on this site), LostInWonderland72, Saoirse7, the Guest who reviewed on September 22, anniecarrots1, narniagirl11, September Samstar, Qu33nL3fty (previously known as ManhattanNewsie94), xXNovenusPrimeXx, Daisybooks, and Dawgabs. Your continued support means a lot to me, and I'm sorry for never having thanked you publicly before for your feedback. Cookies for everyone! (::) (::) (::) (::) (::) (::) (::) (::) (::) (::) (::) (::) (::) (::) (::) (::) (::) (::) (::) (::) (::) (::) (::) (::) (::) (::) (::)
I apologize profusely for taking so long between updates. All I can say in my defense is a) I've had a LOT of homework to wade through this year, and b) my Narnian muse ran away from me, and only recently has Aslan answered my prayer and brought her back. I will try hard to update more frequently, although given my schedule I can make no definite promises.
The direction of this story is going to change a bit. I discovered that it was taking too long to get back to magic and action, and that people would think based on the previous chapters that it was a school story. So this chapter is quite different from the previous ones, and I apologize for mood whiplash. I'm not entirely happy with it. It's very random. All I can say in its defense is that I just read Beowulf in English class and have had mead-halls and battles on the brain for a while.
Also, in this chapter you will see why I moved the rating from K plus to T: violence, scary situations, and occasional gore.
Chapter XX. The Harflog Omen.
In those days the Giants of the North kept court at Harflog, far inland, where the northern-most reaches of the Great Western Wood tapered into the Occasional Tree on the Western Slope. There they remained until the Battle of Mount Heimr, when their stony Western cousins drove them five hundred miles east, where they eventually founded a new capital at Harfang (Har meaning "center" in their tongue, flog meaning "first", and fang meaning "second").
But that was centuries after this story takes place.
All that needs to be known right now is that millennia earlier, Aslan had blessed a circular marble patch in the hillside. Settlers of the Northern Wild could call for help from this Hearing Stone in their hour of need, and if Aslan could not come to their aid Himself, He would send an assistant.
Nothing was left of those settlers now; even help from beyond the world could not save them. After exterminating them (hundreds of years previous) the Giants had built Harflog on that location, its great mead-hall right above the marble patch. They had no idea the spot was there, let alone that it had powers.
…..
Today in Harflog there was a great feast, celebrating the birth of the royal heir. Newborn Prince Ulfo was roughly the size of a school bus and lay napping fitfully in the arms of his gargantuan nursemaid.
The din of the celebration could be heard for miles. Sober giant laughter is like foghorns; you can imagine how they sound when they're drunk. Their music is extremely simple—every song is either in 2/4 or 4/4 time (not to imply that they do this knowingly, since they can't read music), and the only instruments are drums (the size of the average automobile), tubas, and some primitive form of synthesizer. They have never heard of harmony, and the lyrics can only be described as "uninspired."
Skobba the royal bard warbled for all he was worth:
Baby! Baby! Baby! O!
Baby! Baby! Baby! O!
(That song always brought sentimental tears to King Ullard's eyes).
At the moment, King Ullard was distracted by news from the South.
"So the Little Upstart has vanished, has he?" he roared drunkenly at no one in particular. "And the whole family's gone too? Ah ha. I shall bring those four little Flies before the court, and we shall feast on their flesh come Autumn Feast!"
(By the "Four Flies" he meant the Kings and Queens of Narnia. The "Little Upstart" referred to High King Peter specifically, who had defeated Ullard and his army soundly the previous year).
"Let them cry for 'Aslan' now!" he continued. "My subjects, we shall rise again. We shall bring them war, and this time, we shall not be repelled!" The table shook when he set down his goblet.
Many of the younger male giants started beating their chests and bellowing, as they often do at such a declaration. "Aye, sire! Let's have at the little pests! We'll drive them into the desert and take their sunny farmlands."
"I wouldn't recommend that."
As stupid and drunk as they were, the giants could tell that the one who spoke now was not of their number. The voice was cool and clear, every syllable enunciated, and it seemed to come from a much smaller set of lungs.
Three figures, tiny compared to the hall's occupants, had appeared in the center of the table. Two were female and apparently sickly; one was vomiting and the other tended to her. Underweight and shabbily-dressed, they could be any humans foolish enough to wander this far north, most likely fugitives from slavery on the frontier of the Telmarine Empire. The voice evidently belonged to neither, and King Ullard paid them no heed.
The speaker must then be the strong young armor-clad male, who radiated power not unlike the Narnian monarchs. He looked like a friend of theirs—and by some of their witchcraft he had infiltrated the heart of Harflog during a party in peacetime.
Although Ullard and his cohorts were foggily aware that the man was probably hostile, they were far too drunk to do much about it. Even when giants are sober, they find it hard to take a single human (or human-sized individual) as a serious threat. Why should they, when you or I can be stomped flat like a small rodent?
"O ho, little human prince!" the king boomed. "How did you escape the confines of our pantries?" (He said the last part to save face before the court; he knew full well that the man could not have come from the pantries where human captives awaited slaughter; such a noble prisoner had not passed those confines in a hundred years).
"You know as well as I that I never passed through your heinous pantry," the warrior returned. "I was brought to this spot by the Hearing Stone. You called me."
As previously stated, the Giants knew nothing of the Hearing Stone, let alone that they had built their castle on it. King Ullard, therefore, had no idea what the young man was talking about.
"I never called you, little fool," growled the king. "Only in the sacred days of autumn do we eat the flesh of men. Why would I summon a man when spring is not yet over?"
All the courtiers laughed.
The youth, apparently unfazed, looked up at the craggy face so many times larger than his own. "My father tells me to warn you, son of Ymir, that if you attack Narnia, the Lion's vengeance will crush you as you crush men underfoot. Their doom already approaches. Interfere, and you too will face extermination."
"You threaten me in my own hall, do you?" the king guffawed, and gulped down another six-foot-high pint of mead. "You're a brave little chap, granted."
Queen Mordo, exhausted from the ordeal of childbirth, had been watching all this hazily, but she noticed now that the warrior was getting angrier—he seemed almost to glow. Despite his small size, he gave off the energy of a formidable foe, the same sort of energy as High King Peter of Narnia. She became afraid for herself, her husband, her court, and most of all her baby.
"Guards!" she shouted. "Remove these humans at once!"
Two armored giants lurched forward (stupidly, they had drunk as much as the court they were supposed to protect). One grabbed the two sickly girls. The other reached for the youth—but he seemed to have vanished—
—and then they saw him, perched on the nursemaid's shoulder, his hand resting on the huge forehead of the royal infant.
Baby Ulfo's eyes opened, eerily alert and understanding, and instead of crying, he spoke in the voice of an adult:
"For all the years of your life, O King, step not over the Shribble." The whole hall fell silent and gaped in horror. "For shadow has settled on Narnia, and only by avoiding that land can the race of Ymir survive."
The youth withdrew his hand.
"How dare you use your Southern witchcraft here," the nursemaid hissed. "And on a newborn babe, no less."
The horrible clarity faded from Ulfo's eyes, and he screeched like the infant he was.
His parents and all their subjects joined him in his frightened rage.
"Seize the human!" bellowed the king. "We shall feast on the flesh of this wizard and his companions tonight."
….
Gerdu the cook, keeping the extra food warm, had missed the awful scene in the mead-hall and the pandemonium that followed.
Suddenly a guard burst into the kitchen. "Their Majesties want you to cook these," he rumbled, and dropped the two humans he'd been carrying on the counter near the chopping knives with twelve-foot-long blades. "We're still looking for the third. He's a Narnian wizard, I think! He made the Prince speak! It weren't natural." Having said this he ran back out into the chaos.
Gerdu inspected the humans on her counter. Both female, likely sisters, between ten and twenty years of age, both underweight, and one kept vomiting. The two of them together could barely fill a sandwich for a healthy giant child, and they probably wouldn't taste very good. But the king and queen had commanded…
"What about a cheese sauce?" she mused. "Everything tastes good with a cheese sauce. Even you might."
The elder of the girls started muttering, hands clasped and eyes on the ceiling. Gerdu wondered if maybe she was praying.
The younger sister stared distantly off. Gerdu couldn't tell what she was looking at, and neither did she care.
"Maybe a sweet sauce would be better. I could add some brown sugar, and a little of that orange marmalade from Calormen—"
Next thing the giantess knew, pain was exploding across her hand.
The younger of the girls had somehow dragged over one of the long knives and was driving it down on Gerdu's fingers.
"Hey! Up there!" she shouted. "It appears you are the cook in this establishment."
"Get off at once," the giantess spat.
The girl ignored her. "A cook needs her fingers. Let my sister and I go without any more trouble, and you can keep yours."
"Don't you threaten me. Your wonderful High King isn't coming to rescue you."
"Then you brought it on yourself," retorted the girl. Gerdu was just able to perceive the shrug of her tiny shoulders. The human pushed her meager weight against the blade, and then—great gods of rock and snow!—the fat fingers on Gerdu's left hand were chopped at the first knuckle, and the counter on which the giantess slaughtered all sorts of creatures now ran with her own blood.
How she bellowed! Her rage was blinding, and reaching with great swings of her unhurt arm for the girls, she missed them entirely.
Wait! There they were on the far end of the counter, and between them stood a well-shaped human male in armor. Gerdu guessed he must be the one who had caused the stir in the mead-hall.
"Thank your lord and lady for the most entertaining welcome, madam," said he, and mockingly bowed. "I'm afraid we must be going."
Once again Gerdu lunged for them, and once again she was far off the mark.
By the time the other giants heard her above their own din, the humans had long vanished from the grounds of Harflog, and the scouts sent to bring them back in chains were unable to find a trace.
AN: Again, apologies for the wait between chapters and Beowulf-inspired randomness! Everything will be explained in the next chapter.
Again, thank you all for your continued support! Feel free to PM me with ideas, suggestions, and improvements.
Don't forget to review! Reviews are little Christmas presents! :-)
And in case I can't update for a while again, MERRY CHRISTMAS!