Father pulled the cart to the side of the path and dropped the reigns. We had traveled for just over an hour and were at the edge of the wood. Karl, our horse, nickered his bridle and Father shushed him softly.

 

Above us loomed an old, ancient tower, its crumbling point stabbing at the morning sky.

 

I climbed down from the back end of the cart and dragged a sack of tools behind me. It made a heavy clang as it hit the ground, and Father’s reproachful look at the sound made me embarrassed.

 

“Sorry, Father,” I whispered.

 

He didn’t say anything, but his expression softened and he too, climbed down.

 

We moved along the muddy trail for a while, and then pushed through the trees to get closer to the spire.

 

Exiting the last section of wood, we found ourselves in a large, open expanse of grassland and rolling hills. It stretched for miles and ended where the mountains began. They stood cold and blue in a misty haze, and I knew that somewhere on the other side of them was Ingvald, the capital. It was a beautiful scene that belied my aching heart and my fear, and as we walked I began to grow nervous.

 

The tower was a decrepit stone monstrosity, two hundred feet tall, and looked as though it might collapse at any moment. How many centuries had this existed, and how many would it remain?

 

“The Dwarvenkind built this, before the Confrontation,” Father explained in his quiet bass, “it was a watch tower.”

 

At his words, I was sure I could see a spot near the top where a platform had rotted away. I imagined the ancient Dwarvenkind warriors, arrayed like fence posts, standing guard against their enemies.

 

“How long has it been empty?” I asked.

 

“Maybe a thousand years,” was Father’s response. He bit his lip and I could see his fingers trembling. He hadn’t smoked from his pipe yet today and I could tell he was wishing after it. But he couldn’t take the risk of lighting the tobacco. The smell would make us obvious.

 

So we walked, and when we reached the tower, Father slid his satchel off of his shoulder and removed a torch. Then he pulled a gourd filled with sloshing liquid from his pack as well and unstoppered it with his teeth. He poured the acrid fluid over the cloth-wrapped end of the torch, and then stuck the cork back in the top and returned the gourd to its home.

 

Seeing the tool clutched in Father’s strong hands eased my tension a little. Father was the strongest man I knew, and even the other men in Vuss agreed. They may not have respected his attitude or his choices, but the people in the village often spoke in awe of my father’s might. And there wasn’t a folk within a ten leagues who hadn’t had something built, fixed, or reinforced by Alder of the Berrywood.

 

We began to climb the ancient stone staircase that led to the entrance of the tower. At one time, it appeared that there had been chains affixed to the archway, likely to lower the door, but only one, rusty link dangled from a windlass, the door broken and scattered long ago, with only a few pieces remaining. On either side of the arch were depictions of boars, carved into the stone exterior.

 

We entered.

 

Father scraped his flint and the sparks danced down to the edge of the torch, the fire roaring from the paraffin. The light cast shadows in the hall, and I was reminded of a crypt as we moved, a lingering cold reaching down to my bones. Cobwebs and dust clung to every surface, and I lifted the collar of my shirt to avoid breathing anything in.

 

We walked along in silence, the only sound was the sputtering of the torch’s flame.

 

The hall began to slope, and though there were two doorways leading to staircases, we did not go up, we chose one that went down, Father leading the way. The steps were crooked, and we descended carefully.

 

After a while, we reached a lower level. Here, the floor was mostly dirt, but I could see the occasional flagstone, long forgotten among the ruin. It was another hallway here, roughly hewn out of rock and was featureless.

 

Beyond that was a room filled with smashed crates and clay pots that smelled of animal leavings. I kept my face shielded and followed Father. He seemed to know exactly where he was going, and I was amazed that he didn’t pause once to consider his route. We passed this room and entered another long hallway.

 

After a while, we found another staircase partially hidden behind a pile of rocky debris, but Father slipped past. I was smaller and didn’t need to make much effort to get around the blockade, and followed into the darkness.

 

We descended for a long time. Several minutes of twisting, never ending stairs that made me feel claustrophobic. But eventually, we hit the level below.

 

I was shocked.

 

We had exited from the dark stairway and come out into an area I did not expect. A massive cavern stretched out before us, jagged stalactites and stalagmites covering most surfaces. Above us was a thin crook of light filtering in through the outside, bright enough that Father extinguished the torch. Somewhere in the cavern, thunder echoed, deep and snarling.

 

I was too afraid to speak, but Father seemed to understand and waved me to follow him, his steps intentional and muffled as he chose a specific pathway through the daggers of stone.

 

After a moment, we reached the edge of the rock face, and Father held up his hand to stop me. I was anxious. I could hear the thunderous grinding now, painfully close and as I cautiously stepped to the edge of the cliff, I looked down and saw it’s source.

 

Fifty feet below, nestled against a boulder, was a massive, sleeping creature. Twenty feet long, its green skin covered with horns and scars. A stout, ugly face drew in lungfuls of air through two scabbed lips, broken fangs only just visible.

 

My fear was suddenly replaced with anger. This was the beast that had taken everything from us. I looked over at Father, and he was shaking. His jaw was clenched and his hand found the carpenters mallet hanging from his waist.

 

“That’s him,” he said, more a hiss than a whisper, “that’s the beast that took them, Hutch. Your mother, your sister, your baby brother. The beast that ate them happily is snoring peacefully in a ditch.”

 

I turned back to the creature, hot tears of hatred welling up again as I remembered my family. Mother’s sweetness. Petra’s seriousness and intellect. Grenn’s sleepy laziness as the youngest. I hated that beast with everything in my body.

 

“Now, I’ll understand if you’re frightened. It’s only natural,” Father said, “but you can’t be a boy. Not right now. No, right now I need a partner to help me. Do you remember what we need to do?”

 

I nodded stiffly.

 

“Yes,” I said, my eyes never leaving the Giant.

 

“Good,” Father said, and uncoiled the rope from his pack, “then let’s go get our revenge.”