Free The Giant-Slayer by Iain Lawrence Page A

eyes of the embers in his fireplace while the Wishman took his pouch to a chair beside the hearth. Fingal served him the brandy, then fetched an armload of wood and lit the biggest fire that he’d ever lit. The flames reached up and stroked the wood, then stretched again high into the chimney. Air roared through the fireplace. On the bar, Jimmy’s little cradle began to rock in the draft. The boy giggled and laughed.
    Fingal brought soup from the kitchen. He brought a spoon, but the Wishman didn’t use it, choosing instead to drink right from the bowl, lapping it out like a dog.
    When he was fed and warm, the Wishman at last pulled back his hood. Fingal watched with interest, then turned away, disgusted. The old man’s face was as ugly as a troll’s, the skin all pitted and scarred.
    The traveler drank his brandy and sat for a moment staringinto the fire. Then a smile came to that terrible face. “I’ll make my payment now,” he said. “What is it you wish for?”
    The question made Fingal’s heart beat faster. He could imagine a thousand wishes, but not how to choose between them. Should he ask for riches? For happiness? Should he ask for the Woman to be young and lovely? Should he ask for youth for himself?
    If you ask too much, you get nothing
. But how much was too much? Was he meant to ask only for fair value, for nothing worth more than a splash of soup and watery brandy?
    “Please,” said the traveler. He held up his pouch. “I would like to settle my account.”
    In the fireplace, the flames shifted. On the bar, the cradle rocked. Jimmy laughed, delighted.
    “Ah, the babby!” cried Fingal. He looked into the eyes of the old Wishman. “Would it be too much if I asked for the babby to stay the size that he is?”
    “To grow no bigger?”
    “Not an inch.”
    “That is fair,” said the Wishman.
    “Then do it.” Fingal looked up at the ceiling, trying to tell where the Woman was working. “Do it now.”
    “I should warn you first,” said the Wishman. “It’s been my experience in this business that a wish may not always manifest itself in the manner the wisher intended.”
    “What the devil do you mean?” asked Fingal.
    “If you wish the boy not to grow another inch, he may not live another day. You could bring about his death.”
    “Ah.” Fingal nodded.
    The Wishman studied him closely.
    “Well, everybody dies,” said Fingal. “Not that that’s what I’m after, mind you. If he grows up, that’s fine; that’s well and dandy, as long as he doesn’t grow big. I want him to be the size of an infant forever.”
    The Wishman fiddled with his pouch. “Once done, this cannot be
un
done,” he said. “Not without a terrible price.”
    “Fine. That’s fine,” said Fingal. “If you can do it, do it now.”
    The Wishman opened his purse. A draft of frigid air came out, so cold that it rimmed the leather with frost. Crystals of ice formed on the Wishman’s fingers, on the tip of his nose, on his eyebrows and lashes. His breath came out in a steamy cloud that rose, swirling, to the ceiling. Then the Wishman closed his purse again and tucked it up his sleeve.
    “That’s all?” said Fingal.
    “It is done.” The Wishman stood up and lifted his hood. Then out he went, under the dragon’s tooth and through the door, into the cold and the snow. He turned to the north and, head down, trudged along his way.
    Fingal watched the tooth swinging in its chains. Then he looked at the empty brandy glass, at the soup bowl beside it, and wondered who had cheated whom. Anyone could open an empty bag and claim it was full of wishes. Even a fool could move his hand about mysteriously, then say, “There, it’s done.” Perhaps Fingal’s mother was right.
There’s nothing flatter than a Wishman’s pouch
.

    “You mean the Wishman was a cheat?” asked Chip. “He did a dine and dash?”
    “No. I think he was real,” said Dickie. “He got frost on his fingers. ’Cause wishes are cold.”
    “I