The summoning circle burned ice blue as it seethed with exertion. The ritual had succeeded, and now standing before the crowd of pale faces was a man, far taller than any other by at least a head or two, and wielding in both hands a blade whose steel – if it was steel – was deep crimson as though forever stained with blood. In the immense swordsman’s silver eyes lurked a dark hunger that seemed to the crowd neither human, nor elven.

‘By Odain, it worked!’ cried a creaking voice. An old man in a lilac robe – soaked in mud and magic – hopped to his feet in front of the circle; a great toothless grin running from ear-to-ear. ‘Forgive me, Mister- Er- Mist- Giant. I am Sira Rolundin Nyvempez. Former court wizard under King Alfalas – king of Volaira and the Great Grey Mountain… Though, I don’t suppose that matters much to you…’ as he spoke, he scratched distractedly at the tremendous grey plume of hair that stretched from his long bony chin. ‘I have summoned you here – with the help of my stalwart apprentices – to go forth and slay that which threatens our city!’

The old wizard’s voice gave a feeble attempt at echoing through the dingy stone chamber in which they were all tightly crammed. A soft coughing broke the silence that followed.

In the circle, the swordsman’s eyes flitted from one man to the next, sizing up his summoners. He hadn’t yet given Rolundin – who was now excitedly bobbing up-and-down – any form of acknowledgement, save for a cursory glance. Though, as the smoke from the still glowing circle began to grow fainter, the swordsman spoke.

‘You’ve never summoned a giant before have you, wizard?’ His voice was hard as iron and steady as his grip. Like faraway thunder, it reached all ears, despite the swordsman not raising his voice at all.

Rolundin blinked. ‘Well- I-’ he started, but was cut off.

‘Just tell me what you want me to kill, and point the way,’ said the swordsman.

‘There is a beast that torments us. We know not what manner of creature it is… Only that it cannot be reasoned with, and that it has slaughtered a great many already. We have come to calling it Yahara. Er- In our tongue that means-’

‘Monster.’

‘Why, yes. Do you speak Volairan, giant?’

‘Call me Grimm,’ said the swordsman. ‘And no. But I’m familiar with the name.’

‘Oh… of course. Now, I want you to know that the ban on your kind was not-’

‘Where is it?’

‘Out in the courtyard. Or over the palace. Perhaps on the high wall somewhere.’

‘You don’t know what it is, or where is it? Hardly making this easy, wizard.’

‘Apologies. But we have very good reason for that. Leaving the palace is certain death, I’m afraid. The Yahara stalks the streets. The battlements. Everyone who hasn’t had the sense to board up their windows and doors is dead.’

‘It can’t get in? You’re sure?’

‘It seems to struggle. Fortunately. Otherwise we may very well have perished too by now.’

‘You’re awfully calm for someone staring death in the face.’

‘Oh, don’t be fooled by my dry face and booming voice, Grimm!’ cried the frantically perspiring Rolundin in a weak warble. ‘I am merely forced by my duty to Volaira to remain composed, regardless of whatever stresses might present.’

‘What else can you tell me about your Yahara?’

‘It is quite a curious thing. Black as death and seemingly impervious to the light, as no amount will reveal the true shape that lies beneath its shroud of shadows. It is many sizes, all at once. Growing and shrinking to fit its surroundings, I take it. Out in the open though, I’d say it was perhaps the size of a large bull. It’s guise is also that of a bull – or an ox – or was it a lion? On top of that, I’d add that it climbs and glides well but does not fly, and does not respond to any kind of plea or bargain. You’d likely guess too low if I asked you how many we lost before we worked that one out…’

‘Sounds like a kelpie… How does it kill?’ asked Grimm, his voice nearly a growl.

‘Heavy blows. Throws men around as though they were paper. Armoured men, mind. Though, in truth, I’ve yet to see a man die from such a strike. To finish its victims, it seems to… Well… I’m not entirely sure. It surrounds them – the poor souls it catches – until they are all but enclosed in dark. Then, it spits them out – Only…’

‘Yes?’

‘Only there isn’t much left. What is left could scarcely be described as a body – more a thin paste or goo.’

The wizard stared at the glowing ring with an expression of deep disgust. Grimm took a breath, and stepped out of it. With a sharp snap, the light was snuffed, and the mist dispersed.

Grimm walked the breadth of the room, his heavy mail jangling softly with every step, then sniffed. His eyes narrowed, though he did not speak. The shivering mass of shorter folk watched in silence, eyes filled with fear, and shifting about the room as he walked, like a school of fish avoiding a predator. Satisfied that whatever beast lurked beyond the chamber was not nearby, Grimm slid the longsword back into its sheath and turned back to Rolundin.

‘I’ll kill your Yahara, but I don’t do repairs. If this thing knocks a couple towers down, don’t expect me to pay.’

‘Deal!’ cried the wizard, bounding toward the giant with a grin. ‘Come with me, I’ll show you the way out!’

The old man took the swordsman through a series of gloomy passages. Each one greyer and more lifeless than the last. The royal palace, as he described it, was a towering spectacle – white walls and wide, inviting corridors leading to gleaming halls of silver and gold. But Grimm saw nothing close to his description. The walls were close and dull, with not a single portrait, trophy, or ornament – or even oddity; the type one finds in the castles of rich, lonely men with little sense for decor.

As they reached the top of a long and narrow flight of stone stairs, they came upon a door unlike the rest. It was black iron and dimpled, and below it a fine sliver of gold bled through the crack.

‘Through here. You’ll have to make your own way from now if you wish to hunt the thing. I won’t go with you… Though, if I were you, I’d simply stay put. It’ll find you soon enough!’ said Rolundin with a croak of excitement.

‘Never met a wizard who didn’t demand to be in the firing line. You’re a very odd one, Rolundin,’ said Grimm, plainly.

‘I- Er… will take that as a compliment.’ Rolundin stroked his beard and smiled.

Grimm eyed him. ‘Earlier you said former court wizard. What did you mean? Were you fired?’

‘Oh, heavens no! I am afraid my position has been temporarily liquidated on account of the King’s demise. I suppose you could say it was liquidated at the exact moment my employer was liquidated.’

Grimm gave a dark smile. ‘Funny,’ he said. ‘So your Yahara caught you King?’

‘Apparently so.’

‘You don’t know?’

‘I know. Died a few hours ago in his chamber. It was what caused me to seek out a giant in the first place. If even our King can fall to it, then we are certainly lost without you.’

‘But if you didn’t see it, perhaps you’re wrong. Rumours spread faster than truth in times of crisis.’

‘I know he is dead, because it was his own son that told me! Saw the whole thing. Awful business. Grisly,’ muttered Rolundin as he took hold of the handle.

The door shuddered violently as it was unlatched, and swung open. Gazing into the sudden light, Grimm’s silver eyes adjusted, and found the way did not lead to another dank grey passage.

‘I have to lock it after you, but I’ll be waiting here. Give a knock like this if the Yahara is dead.’ Rolundin demonstrated on the door. ‘If it isn’t dead… Well, I guess you won’t need a different knock…’ he said. Grimm smirked, coolly.

The heavy door snapped shut behind the swordsman as he stooped and then strode through the arch. He had come to a sparse courtyard of chalky white stone, bathed from end to end in blinding golden light. There were a number of other doors along the walled perimeter, but none seemed open – not that he bothered trying.

At its centre of the courtyard there was a grand fountain pool. Stood upon the fountain’s inner plinth were a group of three stone figures. Giants which were shaped like men but with hollow eyes, reached upward toward the open sky, and from their cavernous mouths fell glittering streams water. The sound was calm and soft, though it was not the only one that reached Grimm’s ear.

Wind howled overhead – though perhaps it was not mere wind at all. Far away the piercing shrieks of what could have been crows rang through the courtyard. And yet further afield, Grimm could hear a singular sound which lay beneath the others – a sound eroded by its echo – eroded, but still recognisably the bone-chilling wail of a grieving maid.

Somewhere, behind tall white walls, the Yahara was hunting. Hunting for anything – anyone – helplessly caught in the open. So that was what he would be. Grimm took his post by the fountain and waited.

Nothing stirred for a good while. Grimm watched through shielded eyes as the high above, the sun fell behind a thin sliver of cloud and was momentarily weakened. He listened in the screams and shrieks from far below gradually subsided, until there was near silence in the courtyard. As the sun’s glare returned to full strength however, a strange clattering, like steel on slate, began to sound from nearby.

It was with the rushing of a sudden gale that the thing appeared. With a thunderous crash, and a quake that shook the very earth, the thing struck the ground in front of Grimm.

The Yahara was not at all as Rolundin had described. First, the thing was easily twice the size that Grimm had expected – and as for its shape: it was very clearly more bird than bull – or ox, or lion. A viscous maw not unlike a beak snapped and squawked; razor sharp claws scratched the stone from four long legs; and arched above, two enormous wings wreathed in shadow beat the air. The entire thing was aflame – though it was a dark fire, black as death, and burned in a manner which did not produce light, but rather, swallowed it and crushed it. Darkness rained from the beast as a smog, pooling at its feet and catching on the wind – poisoning the very air.

It leered and spat from within its newly shattered crater mere feet from the unfazed swordsman. Scrambling and clawing at white stone – tearing rending, smashing the ground with enraged fists – the Yahara neared, each step leaving its scar.

Rooted in place, the swordsman made no attempt to draw his sword or flee. The Yahara smacked a heavy foot against the fountain as it advanced. A large stone head, hollow-eyed and heavy, hit the water with a sudden splash, though Grimm did not flinch. Stamping nearer, the beast let out a terrifying roar. Spit burst from its black jaws and showered the courtyard, and yet Grimm was still.

Infuriated by the man’s lack of fright, the beast roared again – and charged.

In a flash of blinding light, the thing was sent careening into the rear wall. A resounding thud, clung on the settling air.

Imperceptibly, and with inhuman speed, Grimm had drawn. The sword in hands a beam of pure sunlight – it had blinded the beast before it could react. Carrying the blade aloft, he now stood at the fountain’s edge, poised like a wildcat.

The Yahara was not done, however. With a shudder that beat the air, it straightened up, and charged again.

As though in a dance, Grimm moved with effortless grace as it dove and missed him. Though, as the thing dug in and spun unexpectedly, luck was all that saved him from a direct blow.

Grimm leapt over a third attack, and seizing his moment, struck the beast’s side with a fierce swing.

The Yahara recoiled in pain – a jet of blackened blood shot from the wound. Though, it did not slow. Surging forward again, the beast swept wildly with both greedy paws. This time Grimm was not so lucky. With a crunch, he was flung backward as a mighty black claw collided with his chest. Sailing through the air, he felt the blade slip from his grasp, before he skidded to a halt on the other side of the courtyard.

Newly splattered with blood, he coughed and gasped for air – though little came.

‘Fucking chicken,’ he spat through gritted teeth. He glowered at the thing as he rose, clutching his chest with one arm; his breathing shallow and sharp.

The Yahara opened its maw and roared again. As it did, Grimm sprang forward. Hurtling toward the beast, he swept up his sword with a swift kick, and catching it, leapt for the wide open mouth…

A plume of dark scarlet exploded into the air as the blade plunged deep into the throat of the Yahara. With a pitiful gurgle, the thing slumped and became still.

Grimm stared down into jet black eyes – eyes that now knew him – and waited. He watched for the moment he craved – the moment when life was snuffed out, and magic was let free. It was this, the essence of souls wreathed in magic, which drove all giants. Drove them to help. Drove them to kill.

He watched and waited… and waited. But the creature did not die. His frown grew deeper as he took hold of the hilt of the still-embedded blade, and drove it deeper – until it cracked bone. Still it withered on. Still nothing came.

Then, as if from the very earth, a great thundering wind erupted in the courtyard. It tore at Grimm until he was cast aside by it. A moment later, his sword was ejected from the beast’s jaws, as if spat out. Grimm was forced to roll to avoid being impaled as it sunk into the stone on landing.

The body of the beast was lifted too – though not discarded as he had been. Instead, as though picked from its resting place by a gigantic ghostly hand, it was lifted – up and up it soared, until in mere moments, it had vanished beyond the white walls.

Grimm stared after it from the ground, and gave a single, furious grunt.