Mlasha-Mlarda dropped the massive granite bear carcass onto the ground next to the other kills, both heads smiling broadly. The gasps and grunts of her fellow ettin provoked even wider smiles, to the point both sisters felt the little muscles around their eyes stretch almost painfully. Their granite bear dwarfed the large black bears and bull elks present; it was even much larger than the timber moose their husbands had killed.

  Borth-Boriz stared vacantly at the carcasses on the ground. Until this moment his timber moose had been the largest not only of those kills gathered here, but of all the kills seen in the past month. The Duarok had stood at the precipice of claiming Olph Ten’rat, or First Hunter of the clan.

  To lose this honor suddenly was enraging. To be bested by their wives in front of all the other hunters proved more than the brothers could handle.

  The fourteen-foot ugly monstrosity roared and flailed without warning, then charged Mlasha-Mlarda. Scarcely did the female ettin have time to raise her hands in protest before the husband grabbed the hair of Mlarda’s head with the left hand and cut the same head cleanly from the shoulder with a bone knife in the right hand.

  A mixture of shouts, gasps, woots, and cheers erupted from the dozen or so hunters witnessing the savage attack. The cacophony of varied reactions only grew louder and more mixed when the female ettin, now only Mlasha, put both arms around the male’s waist and combined his momentum with her strength to heave him into the air and back over her shoulders.

  Borth-Boriz snarled and clutched at Mlasha’s face. Boriz screamed as the female bit deeply into his hand and continued her throw; she dropped onto her back to finish the move, slamming both heads of her husband Duarok hard onto the rocky ground.

  Bleeding profusely from what remained of her right neck and weeping in despair and rage the giantess got to her feet and unhooked the mace hanging from her belt. Her husbands lay unmoving, knocked out or worse from the throw. With a savage roar Mlasha brought the weapon down hard to crush the skull of Borth, then did the same to break the head of Boriz.

  “Eikk Boar.” whispered the heads of one ettin.

  “Eikk Boar!” shouted another Duarok.

  Mlasha looked through tears at the accusers. What choice had she been given?

  The fourteen-foot ugly monstrosity roared and flailed without warning, then charged Mlasha-Mlarda. Borth reached for Mlarda’s hair but the female ettin stepped back out of reach. Boriz lunged with a bone knife towards the chest of the wives but they again evaded.

  Quick as a mountain cat Mlasha-Mlarda seized their husbands by the waist and swept their feet from under them with a low kick. Without thinking the female ettin hoisted the much larger male over her heads and pitched him in the direction his momentum carried the briefly entangled Duarok.

  To her horror Borth-Boriz cleared the nearby ledge and fell screaming down the tall cliff face beyond. The female ettin rushed over to the edge and looked down the cliff. Her husband was still falling, and fell for another count of three before smashing onto the grassy plateau far below.

  “Eikk Boar.” whispered the heads of one ettin.

  “Eikk Boar!” shouted another Duarok.

  Guysal handed the bow to the giantess. His eyes looked far away behind the thick, dark bangs, and a shaggy mustache somehow gave the impression he was smirking even when he wasn’t.

  “The druseed oil has only now dried.” the bowyer informed his customer. “It may feel a bit sticky to the touch.”

  Mlasha-Mlarda, kneeling so her heads wouldn’t breach the roof of the tent, held the bow horizontally in front of her with both hands. The aforementioned coating of druseed oil cast an even shine across the surface of the staff and the newly added string held perfectly straight between the two knocks, pulling the bow’s limbs into a beautiful, natural curve.

  Mlarda tested the string with her right forefinger and thumb. Even with a firm grip and a hard tug the draw of the bow remained unphased; the giantess knew she would have to raise the bow and actually use some of her strength to draw it properly.

  “Stout.” She nodded at Guysal.

  “It’s a good brace.” The bowyer agreed. “Near to five hundred pound pull I’d reckon.”

  “It’s great work Guysal.” said Mlasha.

  The bowyer nodded. “Three silver.”

  The giantess rolled all four eyes. “You think because the frog isn’t with me you can get over on me like that?” asked Mlasha.

  The bowyer said nothing.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “Your work is excellent, and this is no standard task. Few men in the kingdom could properly string a… Turzin Ya?” Mlarda went on.

  “Triz Enya.” Guysal corrected.

  “There.” Mlasha said. “You even say the name right.”

  She dropped a steel coin onto the counter with a hefty thud. The steel shield, rarely seen on this side of the mountain in the first place, held a value of ten silver pieces.

  So befuddled was the bowyer by this generous payment his words of protest failed to form. He stammered for a second before abruptly taking charge of his response.

  “Whore of the Shining Father, Giantess!” The especially coarse slang both revealed the bowyer’s gritty background and appalled a pair of customers on the other side of the shop. One of the would-be patrons exaggerated a gasp as they both turned on heels and with emphasized indignance exited the tent.

  Lowering his voice as if it weren’t too late to matter, Guysal continued. “You can’t just walk into a man’s tent and overpay him eight silver birds.”

  “Why not?” asked Mlarda.

  “Because it’s just not fair.” the bowyer replied.

  “Life isn’t fair, or you’re a lucky fella, take your pick.” Mlasha smiled.

  Then she scowled and tilted her head forward so her eyes would meet Guysal’s head on.

  The bowyer started to protest but either found he was afraid to do so or saw the giantess was too beautiful to dispute; probably a little of both. He instead half-slumped forward into a healthy laugh.

  “I almost forgot.” Guysal let the last quivers of laughter pass from his body, then called over his shoulder towards the curtain that separated the sales room from the work area. “Br’jhum, fetch those missiles.”

  After several seconds of considerable clamoring and at least one dropped object that provoked a curse word or two in the old Fzaltin tongue, a teenage boy emerged from the other side of the curtain. He held a bundle of what first looked to be javelins, until the giantess noticed the heavy fletching and deep notches on one end of each projectile. The boy clumsily laid his bundle onto the counter, presenting eight massive arrows in all.

  Apparently pleased with himself the boy smiled widely. His expression gradually faded back into the clueless demeanor of youth, eyes darting aimlessly about before settling, and widening, abruptly on Mlasha-Mlarda’s breasts. The young man’s jaw fell wide open and he stood still as a standing stone, his gaze fixed.

  “Would you like to touch one?” asked Mlasha; the giantess couldn’t help herself.

  Br’jhun shook his head rapidly and shot his gaze to the floor, his face suddenly the color of a red plum. “I didn’t… I mean… They just…” The boy struggled to form a meaningful reply.

  The bowyer smacked the flabbergasted youth in the back of his head to produce a perfect clap. The casual yet refined motion suggested a great deal of practice and the youth’s lack of alarm or pain confirmed the suggestion.

  “Back to your chores.” Guysal instructed in an almost disinterested tone.

  The young man disappeared like a magician’s stage assistant. The curtain swayed gently where he had passed through.

  “Nice, aren’t they?” Guysal picked up one of the arrows

  “Very.” Mlarda concurred.

  “Oak.” Mlasha ran a hand down the smooth shaft, following the subtle curve of the grain with her fingertips.

  “Yes.” The bowyer acknowledged. “Treated with druseed of course to be re-used many times.”

  “You strung the bow and made eight arrows in the past two hours?” Mlasha sounded incredulous.

  “I’m good, but not that good.” the bowyer admitted.

  “A trader brought them in recently; they were in poor shape and had to be reconstructed. New shafts, fletching, the works. Only the steel heads were salvageable but on these two, the heads were bone and deteriorated badly. I replaced them with quartz as I had no bone to work with.”

  The silhouette of a wolf’s head adorned some of the steel arrowheads. Others were engraved with symbols the giantess recognized as Vargr runes; inscriptions of the race of beings Kovak’s tribe belonged to.

  “Did he say where he got them?” Mlarda asked.

  “He bartered for them with some Yunni on the Jagged Jaws.” Guysal explained. “The Yunni told him they found the arrows in the ruins near the Canyon of the Hiding Eyes.”

  “That is where Kovak entered these realms through some kind of portal eight years ago.” Mlasha recounted. “He will be very pleased to have these returned to him.”

  Mlarda nodded. “What’s the dette on the arrows then?”

  “No charge and I must insist you respect my wishes.” Guysal said firmly.

  “Very well.” Mlarda agreed. “Generous of you and I know the wolf will agree.”

  “Thanks Guysal.” said Mlasha.

  “Any time.” replied the bowyer. He leaned over the counter and looked each sister in the eye. “I hear the king’s men are here in the Waywards. They’ve been asking about Kovak and Pidwermin.”

  “Asking what?” Mlasha quickly assembled the arrows into a tight bundle, lining up the heads and using a small rope to secure the shafts.

  “I don’t have any details.” said Guysal. “I only know they asked several locals if they’d seen the wolf or the frog today. I thought you should know.”

  “Definitely.” said Mlasha. “Thanks.”

  “I don’t like it.” said Mlarda. “I don’t trust that king nor his minions.”

  “Nor do I.”: said Mlasha.