: Large Living
©2011 by Sylvan Scott
Macaferty Jahn didn’t understand newcomers and hated their slang. He knew it probably wasn’t universal but they all seemed so … insulting. They were as bad as the terrmorah and trolls even if the newcomer in question had been transformed into a member of a much smaller race such as his own. He’d met tahvic newcomers and they all possessed perplexing ways of speaking and thinking. Most of them didn’t even put their family name before their given name. It was insulting to one’s lineage and disrespectful to the adopted tahvic race. While charging into battle, following the ill-conceived tactics of a newcomer wizard, he resented them even more. Accidentally, his feet crushed a wooden wagon as he launched himself at the enemy line.
Like all tahvic, Jahn understood the role of relative size. Only three feet high—under normal circumstances—he constantly had to deal with creatures larger than himself. Of all the Twenty Peoples, only the thaylene were smaller than a tahvic. But despite the elemental arcana that could warp and twist the status quo into virtually any configuration, no tahvic worth the name would ever resort to growth incantations. Regardless of size a true tahvic would eagerly confront any of the bull-like terrmorah in a fair fight. More times than not, the tahvic would win. Trolls, if not so damnably proud—a trait that the tahvic shared—were also no better off for their hulking height. To one of Jahn’s ferret-like people, size was merely an indicator of challenge, not something to be overcome with spell craft.
With one spell, the wizard newcomer, Aaron, had sucked all the honor out of the fight.
Snarling, Jahn kicked at a calf-high terrmorah and sent him sailing a dozen feet into a tree. It was completely unsatisfying.
What kind of name was “Aaron” anyway? It sounded like one of those effete names that the serpentine jessai’id took. It didn’t have enough vowels or consonants to be a faerie name but sounded just as pretentious. Almost all newcomers to the floating islands and continents of Talvali had stupid names.
He’d met a few with a sensible tahvic name like his own -Jahn- but they were rare. A name didn’t make up for their overall senselessness and disrespect.
A flight of arrows struck him in the chest but bounced off the heavy, leather shirt that had been enlarged along with the rest of him. He looked towards the archers about seven strides away and kicked at the ground, raising a hurricane of dust, dirt, and rocks. He let out a roar as he charged but his heart wasn’t in it. Soon that tiny collection of humans, dwarves, orthoc, and goblins would be ground underfoot and he wouldn’t have even raised a sweat in the process. He hadn’t even had to use his club, yet. If metal objects could have been enlarged by the wizard’s spell, the fight would have been over even more quickly.
Aaron probably loved this.
The sky was dark with layers upon layers of clouds as well as the overhead passing of Tomin Kel. The floating island would eclipse Arvarren for the next month. But even when one of the higher islands of the Daylands, Cloudlands, or Lightlands hadn’t interposed itself between the sun and a Duskland like Arvarren, the miles and miles of atmosphere and clouds still kept the land in a soft, late-afternoon twilight. Tomin Kel was big enough that, while directly overhead, cast the land below in deeper shadow. Normally it would have been the perfect environment for a tahvic. Dim light and warm air made for an advantageous battleground in small versus large people.
Thanks to Aaron’s damnable spell, though, he was a blunt object. He was a giant that loomed over the landscape with as much grace and subtlety as a troll.
Aaron had arrived in Talvali during one of the sky storms that brought all newcomers. His world had lost a ten-mile wide chunk that now floated high and far away in the Lightlands. Like many, much of the air that came through with the chunk of earth had been condensed and consolidated air crystals that moored the alien land to the sky. Everything else on that new island had also been transformed. This made it typical for Lightlands. Aaron, the blunt fool, hadn’t even believed that magic existed before a chunk of his vast city had gotten pulled into the skies of Talvali. He had claimed that not only did his parent world not possess the mystic force but neither had it possessed gods, dragons, or tahvic.
The last bit was the most insulting.
A steady creaking came from the castle walls. Glancing in that direction, he saw something that finally gave him pause. Near the middle of the battlefield he saw something new being wheeled into position. Tiny warriors from both sides battled each other in its wake.
A catapult. These backwater, in-bred brigands actually had a catapult. His scowl lessened. Maybe the battle would prove to be a challenge after all. It would have better if the enemy had actually possessed a black powder cannon but he couldn’t choose his enemies any more than he could hammer respect into the thick skull of a newcomer. Once the spell wore off and he was back to a respectable size, he’d have words with Aaron.
He ground his foot back and forth over two smashed bodies—probably a human and an orthoc; he couldn’t tell any more—and turned towards the group with the catapult. He started to run.
The ground quaked beneath his paws. Trees that surrounded the old, dilapidated castle shook and lost leaves. His eyes narrowed as he charged on the siege weapon.
An explosion of pain cracked into his chin like an upper-cut.
Jahn stumbled back and tried to clear the stars from his vision. They hadn’t had time to fire the catapult and he’d not seen another on the field. Confused, he stumbled back, losing all forward momentum. A shadow rose with a low groan that sounded like creaking leather. Despite the imbalance of his sizable mass, Jahn kept his feet. He scowled. Before him stood trouble.
The brigands had no wizard —of that, he and Aaron had been sure—but that didn’t mean they didn’t have access to magic. Looming before him stood a terrmorah. Still growing from whatever dust, ungent, oil, powder, or potion had been used on him, the black-horned enemy wore thick, leather armor; had deep brown, shaggy fur; weilded a wooden club; and glared at Jahn from black, rage-filled eyes. He was already taller than the enlarged tahvic and continued to expand. His muscles, like most of his kind, were excessively large. His tufted tail swished behind him as he cracked his knuckles. He hefted his club menacingly.
Jahn grinned. He finally had his fight.
Tactically, he should have charged before his adversary’s growth could reach its peak. But the humanoid bull presented a challenge. He didn’t want to waste it.
The bandits engaged in battle with the king’s legion represented a large band that had been ravaging the countryside on horseback for the better part of three years. With all the old ruins across Arvarren the king’s troops had been searching high and low. As explained to him, it had been like finding a needle in a haystack (another nonsensical, newcomer adage). The Seventh Royal Legion, however, had managed it. They’d surrounded the ruin the brigands had co-opted and settled in to starve them out. That had been two weeks ago before Jahn and Aaron had become involved.
A wide-ranging bandit troop on its way back to their lair had encountered and sacked Jahn and Aaron’s small camp three days before, forcing them to pursue.
They had to get involved.
The brigands had taken Sara.
Jahn felt the same about newcomers as most natives did. His experiences with them had only reinforced his preconceived notions. Amongst the newcomers there was not a single, self-reliant, capable individual. They whined, shivered, ran, and displayed a shocking ignorance of both honor and combat. Sara had been the first he’d met to challenge those generalities.
She had come from the same world as Aaron. Unlike the bookish man, though, she understood the arts of fighting and showed respect to fellow warriors. While the arcane storm that brou
ght them here had transformed Aaron into one of the leonine auranathi she’d remained what she said she’d always been: a human.
Her eyes were had a faint, slanted look to them and her skin color was faintly tanned. This was unusual for most humans he’d met. But despite this her short hair was an auspicious color: jet black. She was also short for a human. Most surprising to Jahn was that she had never shown weakness nor disrespect. She understood the warrior’s way.
She called her combat style by an alien, newcomer word: “Bushido”. While apparently an archaic art where she was from, and was mostly taught as recreation or for competition, she had taken it seriously. She had even taught others. With just a few strokes of a sword she’d demonstrated her skill to him. While sparring with Jahn her blade had disarmed him so smoothly he almost hadn’t felt it. Her newcomer sword hadn’t even broken his skin.
He’d fallen in love with her that very minute.
Had the brigands not attacked in the night like the cowardly mongrels they were, she never would have been taken. And had they not cruelly deprived her of her weapons he knew she would not need his help. Sara could handle herself just fine.
They brigands, with Sara and half their belongings in tow, had broken through the