Dahrima’s fingers closed about the scrambling creature’s neck. It squealed and tore at her wrist with dirty fingernails as she raised the knife. This was no creature of the shadow world who stalked her, but only a hairy, disheveled wretch. She hesitated to call it a Man; it gagged and screeched like a dying pig as she dragged it into the moonlight to get a better look.
“Please,” gasped the creature. “Don’t hurt me! Don’t hurt me!”
The moon on its face showed her a round head, bald on the pate but sprouting a dirty brown beard about the mouth, jaw, and chin. Its sunken chest and limbs were hairy as well, but no more than some northerners she had seen shirtless. A loincloth of dirty rags was its only garment. The beard was matted with mud, dried insect husks, and possibly blood. It was the tiny, desperate eyes that assured her it was a human after all. They were tarnished green, almost olive, bloodshot, and full of darting madness.
She held the blade of her long knife before one of those eyes.
“Name yourself,” she said in the language common to Men.
“I have no name,” blurted the wretch. “I lost it. I lost it among the shattered stones.” Foam dripped from his swollen lips. “I lost everything. I am nothing! Please don’t hurt me.”
Dahrima sheathed the knife but kept hold of the scrawny neck.
“All right, Sir Nothing,” she said. “Are there any more of your kind living among these ruins? Speak the truth and I’ll not harm you. Lie to me and I will roast your flesh and crunch your bones between my teeth.” She smiled to show him her teeth. Most humans south of the Grim were ignorant of Giant culture; this one might actually believe the old tales about Giants eating manflesh.
“Nobody!” said Sir Nothing. “They are all dead here. All dead…”
“Promise you’ll not run away and I will release you,” said Dahrima.
“I’ll not run!” wheezed Sir Nothing. The olive eyes watered and pleaded. “I’ll not run…”
She turned him loose and he fell back against the big stone, grasping his neck and drawing in ragged breaths. Below the tangled beard hung the gleaming stone she had noticed earlier. On a narrow strip of worn leather dangled a sapphire large as a robin’s egg. Some sigil or rune was etched into its surface, but she couldn’t make it out in the gloom.
Sir Nothing kept his ratlike eyes on her face. She loomed over him, and he smiled at her the way a child smiles at his doting mother.
“Such beauty…” he muttered. “Tall as the sun, bright as the sea. You must be the Queen of Giants.”
Dahrima laughed. “Flattery will not work on me, Sir Nothing. Are you Sharrian?” She recognized the brown skin, the dark hair, the green eyes. She already knew the answer.
Nothing’s eyes scanned the dark stones lying about them in jagged confusion. “I am of this place,” he said. His voice was faraway now, the voice of an old sage. Or a madman.
“How long have you been here?” she asked.
“All my life, Lady,” he replied. “I was born in the great palace that used to stand there.” He pointed a bony finger toward the center of the ruins. A cold breeze blew off the sea and he shrank toward the earth with sudden alarm. “You cannot stay here! Oh, no… nobody stays here. They linger beneath the stones, you see.” His voice fell to a guarded whisper. “They still hunger.”
Dahrima looked about the ruined landscape and saw nothing but the rising moon, the glimmering sea, and the hills of the valley being swallowed by darkness. If there were bloodshadows lurking in this place, they showed no sign of themselves. Perhaps they awaited the passing of the last rays of sun. The river glided through the gloom, a silent silver mystery.
“Come,” said Nothing. “I will show you out of the valley. You cannot stay here. They will come for you. The night draws them out like crabs from the sea. Delicious crabs, crawling and feasting…”
“If spirits haunt this valley,” Dahrima said, refusing to move, “then why have they not devoured you long before now?”
Sir Nothing grabbed the stone hanging from his neck. “This!” He whispered. “My savior, my protector. I found it in the basement of a ruined temple. Oh, the temples were so grand here once. Sky-blue pyramids topped with pearly clouds… Oh, the holy smokes that rose to honor the Gods!” He inhaled the night air, smelling memories. “They reeked of holiness and meadowflower, the sweet smokes. How I miss them, Lady.” His voice had risen to a poetic timbre, but now it dropped again to a whisper. “This amulet belonged to a priest of the Sky God. I plucked it from his bones when the black slayers departed. I’ve worn it ever since. It keeps the hungry shadows from me, you see. Only me!” He drew away from her, suddenly afraid she would steal his magic stone. She understood then that it was a talisman, protection from evil spirits. At least to this deranged hermit. The sigil on its surface resembled a cloud.