“And four times as much, when you have hundreds of people…” Alea shook her head in wonder, staring at the massive wall before her. “To us, that would be a town, and a big one!”
It seemed even bigger as they went through the gates, the hunters waving and joking with the sentries who leaned over the top of the wall, and the gate-guards who stood at its foot. They walked, and walked, and walked—the wall was twelve feet thick, or more!
“Is it solid all the way through?” Alea asked, wide-eyed.
“Of course!” Orla answered. “How else could it hold the weight of an army of giants?”
“An army? Where?” Alea darted fearful glances all about as they came past the wall and into the town.
“Here.” Orla tapped her chest, grinning. “And, there, and there.” She pointed at the other hunters, then at the houses, then swept her arm to include the whole village. “All about you! We’re all the army, everyone sixteen years and older—if we have to be. We can’t understand how you … how those Midgarders can afford to waste people who could be soldiers by making them slaves!”
“Looking at you, I can’t understand it either,” Alea agreed. But she wasn’t looking at Orla, she was looking all about her at the giants’ village.
All their buildings were of stone, real stone, though the older ones were built of irregular field stones set cleverly together. The newer ones were of quarried stone, so closely fitted that she didn’t even see room for mortar. They were each of only one story, though—she was amazed all over again at the thought that fifteen feet from ground to rafters was only one story! But there was only one course of windows, their tops on a level with the door’s, so it had to be only one—and for a ten-foot giant, surely that wasn’t too much room. The roofs were thatched, and she suspected there was timber beneath the straw—but there were no second floors. She wasn’t surprised—she wouldn’t have wanted to try to build a floor that would have held the weight of half a dozen of these people, and would have wanted even less to be in the room below them. Why, such a chamber would have needed so many pillars that it would have seemed a granite forest!
The houses were set wide apart, with sheep cropping grass around fruit trees. For a village, it was open and roomy—but it must have seemed almost crowded, to the giants. Alea was amazed by the room, and the richness of so much rock—she had seen very few stone buildings in her life, only the temple, the village hall, and the earl’s castle. All the others had been of wattle and daub—but here, even the poorest giant had a stone dwelling!
If there was a poorest giant. All the houses looked to be pretty much of a size, with one great building looming over the rest-the village hall, no doubt—and the people all wore very similar clothing, tunics with cross-gartered bias-hosen, all dyed in bright colors. What a contrast to her own dun-and-gray hamlet! But looking at the women, she realized she need not have worried about lustful young giants—all of them were like Riara, Orla, and the other female hunters. She had assumed that any who went hunting would be rougher than most, more sturdily built—but she saw that all the giant women were as thick in limb and body as Riara and the women of her band. If there was any difference between men and women, it was that the men had heavier faces, as though they’d been hewn from blocks of granite by a mason with a dull adze, while the women’s faces seemed dainty by comparison. On the road, Alea had thought Riara looked like a section of tree trunk with the bark left on—but next to the men of her age, she seemed almost delicate. The women had breasts and broader hips, of course, though the difference seemed slight when all had such mighty limbs and the men’s chests were so heavily, muscled. Alea was certainly far too frail for their notion of beauty. The giant women made her feel petite and dainty for the first time in her life, and she very much appreciated it.
She realized that the only reason Rokir and Jorak, the two pubescent outcasts, had desired her was because they’d been raised as Midgarders, with the shorter people’s ideal of prettiness. Of course, they’d also wanted to use her as a target for revenge on the people who had cast them out, perhaps even their own mothers.
The thought gave her a chill, and she forced it aside, made the effort to turn her attention to the amazing sights about her again. She was fascinated to see that the women were no shorter than the men—but the giants varied so much in size that it didn’t seem to matter. Most were ten feet tall, or thereabouts, but some were only nine feet, some eleven, and a few twelve feet tall, or nearly. Some of the women were shorter than some of the men, some were taller, and nobody cared.
They were all massive, though, very massive, and Alea wasn’t surprised to see that the pathways were only earth, but packed so hard she doubted even a flood could turn them to mud. When the clay bore the tread of so many feet with so much weight upon them, it probably packed as hard as brick.
Then she saw a Midgarder and cried out in surprise and fear, ducking behind Orla.
“What? Is someone trying to hurt you?”
Alea looked up and was amazed to see Gar standing there, arm out to support, hand out to comfort, though he didn’t touch her. Only a moment ago, he’d been talking to a man half his size!
“No one’s trying to hurt her,” Orla assured him, and reached down to touch Alea’s shoulder, ever so lightly. “No one will. What frightened you, friend Alea?”
Friend! Alea stared up at her wide-eyed, caught between delight and fear. “The Midgarder—he mustn’t see me!”
“Midgarder?” Orla frowned. “There are no…”
“There.” Gar jerked his head toward the middle-aged man who was approaching, face all concern.
Orla looked up. “Oh, you mean Garlon? He’s no Midgarder, he’s my father.”
Gar and Alea both stared.
Garlon slowed, nearing them, and smiled. “It’s true enough, young folk. I’m a giant, despite my inches—or lack of them—because, you see, I’m the son of two giants!”
“It’s quite possible,” Gar said, wide-eyed. “Recessive genes don’t always link up.”
Alea turned to him in irritation. “What nonsense are you talking?”
“Rude nonsense,” Gar told her, then to Garlon, “My apologies, goodman. I shouldn’t have stared, but you took me quite by surprise.” After all, he reflected, it’s one thing to see them in orbital photographs, but quite another to meet them and find they have names.
“I don’t mind at all,” Garlon said, holding out a hand. “We’re not used to visitors, you see, and especially not ones from Midgard, so we don’t think to explain in advance.”
Gar shook his hand. “So giants sometimes have Midgard-sized children or grandchildren?”
“Yes, and sometimes smaller—I’ve four of my own children, and Orla is the only one who’s a giant.”
Orla nodded. “My sister and my younger brother are a little shorter than you, and my older brother is almost short enough to be a dwarf.”
“There are even a fair number of dwarf children born to each generation,” Garlon explained, “but when they’re grown, they generally band together and travel to Nibelheim, looking for mates.”
“Isn’t the North Country dangerous, though?” Gar asked, frowning.
Garlon grinned. “Our children are a match for any dogs or pigs, stranger, I assure you of that—if there are enough of them.”
“Fascinating,” Gar said. “But the most vicious predators walk on two legs, not four.”
“You mean the bandits cast out of Midgard, and the hunters who track them?” Orla grinned. “Giant brothers and sisters escort the dwarves, so they always survive the trip. Then the giants born of Nibels come back with them, to seek mates here—though truth to tell, they often find them on the trip, among one another.”