A little giant and a big dwarf

The giants were like this: they were a wild and dangerous bunch, and it was best to avoid them. On the other hand, having a giant also had its advantages. You could hire him for construction work, saving yourself the cost of a crane. Or you could enlist him for military service; his mere presence on the battlefield was enough to send entire regiments routing.

This didn't happen often, however. Unfortunately, giants weren't very approachable or cooperative, and money and gold meant little to them. They preferred to keep to themselves, high up in the far north, where they lived in the mountains—high mountains, of course, as befits giants. They rarely descended into the valleys, for which the local population was grateful.

There weren't all that many giants. No one had ever counted them, least of all themselves, for they could no more count than they could read. There were probably never more than a few hundred of them. Reproduction wasn't their forte. When it did occasionally occur, landslides and avalanches of debris in the valleys signaled their clumsy mating rituals.

So, not only were there few giants, but especially very few giant children. One of them was Trako, who was called "the Shortcut." He caused his parents a lot of grief because he simply wouldn't grow properly. This was particularly embarrassing for his father, who was the head of the largest giant clan. Although his son was already 14 years old, he had only reached the pitiful height of four meters. That was nothing for a young giant, which is why Trako was a very lonely child with almost no playmates.

His only friend was Mitschin, the dwarf. Where there are giants, there are naturally also dwarfs. Mitschin was a rather tall dwarf, which made him a similarly special case among his own kind as Trako was among giants, only in reverse. At 1.20 meters tall, the adolescent Mitschin already towered a head above adult dwarfs, and unlike the Trakos, his parents struggled with the problem that their son simply wouldn't stop growing.

Trako and Mitschin were the same age, but their shared growth problem and the resulting outsider status forged them into a team. This, too, was unusual, as giants and dwarves typically had little to do with each other. The dwarves, in particular, avoided the giants, whose eyesight was very poor. The giants barely perceived what was happening at their feet and had therefore trampled many a poor dwarf. The dwarves didn't live in the high mountains, but rather in the dense forests of the north. However, they often ventured into the mountains to pursue their dangerous livelihood—mining ores and precious metals—in caves and rock crevices, a profession made all the more perilous by the giants.

Trako and Mitschin sat on their favorite spot that beautiful summer day, a plateau halfway down into the valley, just above the tree line. There was shade and a good view of various mountain slopes. Mitschin lounged against Trako's thigh, stretched out his legs, and examined his bare toes. "I think I've grown again," he remarked. "Really?" replied Trako. "I'm just happy if I don't shrink."

“Oh, big guy,” said Mitschin, and wanted to add something, but he didn’t get the chance. Suddenly, a whirring sound filled the air, followed by shouts and curses coming from the bushes behind them. Mitschin rolled over in a panic as he heard his friend gasping for air far above him. Ropes thrown from ambush had wrapped around Trako’s neck and torso; already armed men emerged from the undergrowth and pulled hard on their lassos, dragging the wheezing giant toward them.

Mitschin realized he had no chance of helping his friend, who was being kidnapped right before his eyes. The dwarf ducked into the tall grass, hoping that despite his considerable dwarfish stature, he wouldn't be spotted. But the ruffians, who had now dragged his companion to them and expertly tied him up, paid the dwarf no attention whatsoever, something dwarves are quite used to. With their combined strength, the villains loaded the struggling Trako onto an extra-long cart meant for transporting logs, which they then pushed away.

Mitschin was now alone, more alone than he had ever been in his life.

Sister Ignatia

Abbess Canard Latroisse wasn't particularly thrilled about the latest arrival at her convent. Certainly, the Duc de Laballe had made a substantial donation to admit his daughter Claudine as a novice. It would be enough to put the large bell back into service, the mounting of which in the tower had been in need of repair for years.

The fresco in the refectory, where the nuns ate their meals, created by the Royal Alchemist, War Engineer, Sculptor, and Painter Manacardi, could also be completely restored. As always, Manacardi had begun the project with great pomp and promises, but then fell behind schedule, failed to properly prepare the surface, and left behind a beautiful but constantly peeling, pasty work that required constant repairs.

In the lower right corner of the four-by-nine-meter depiction of the Last Judgment, he had immortalized himself with a large and sweeping signature (which, incidentally, was the first to fade). Above it yawned a completely white rectangle, where the menu was usually displayed. Many a novice lost her appetite when she looked up from her plate at the pandemonium of dragons, demons, and hellspawn that Manacardi had projected onto the wall.

The youngest novice, Claudine de Laballe, had become a chaste bride of Jesus Christ against her will, the abbess was well aware of this. Such things happened and were not isolated incidents. Every new servant of the Lord, even those from the highest circles of nobility, had thus far been assigned her place in the divine order through kitchen duties, floor scrubbing, and gardening.

Claudine, however, was a special case. Upon her arrival at the convent, she had arrived in a carriage followed by two other horse-drawn wagons. One of the wagons contained only her hatboxes, the other her wardrobe.

After the aspirant had been informed that, apart from a religious habit and the occasional hair robe, she could expect no haute couture in the convent, all her belongings were sacrificed to an auto-da-fé, a purifying fire, which Claudine watched wailing and weeping – after having to tie her to a tree. She cried out: “Soon you will all burn, spawn of hell!”

Things hadn't improved much for the abbess's newest protégé since then. The abbess sadly unfolded the note that the novice, now kept in strict solitary confinement on bread and water in her meager cell, had slipped under the door:

"I'll get you all. All of you. You're rat food. My revenge will be terrible." A real rant. The abbess sighed. What had she gotten herself into?

Meanwhile, Claudine lay on her hard cot, dreaming of the soft pillows of her bedchamber in her father's palace. There, the comfort of the mattress had to be checked every evening by placing a pea under it. A maidservant was solely responsible for this task. As bedtime approached, she would fluff the sheets and blankets, hiding the pea in a different spot each time, and wait for the countess to retire and give her approval of the impeccable condition of her bed.

Claudine stroked the golden apple from the bridal search in the royal palace, which she still thought she would never relinquish. She had saved it, at least. She would also ensure her own safety, that much was certain. And as I said: her revenge would be terrible. On the abbess. On her father. On her brother. On everyone. And soon.

Claudine was arrogant, vindictive, and unscrupulous. What she lacked was a plan. In her hermitage, she leafed through the Bible. "Vengeance is mine; I will repay, says the Lord," she read. She liked that. She also read: "His anger burns like fire, and the rocks shatter before him." She liked that even more.

Claudine de Laballe had already had to scrub far too many floors in that damned convent, far beneath her station, and sweep them as well. She knew where the twig brooms were kept near the barn. It was time for purgatory.

Not a single nun survived the great fire at the convent of the Sisters of the Immaculate Conception. One was reported permanently missing: Sister Claudine. Her adopted religious name was Ignatia.

The giant staff fails

Following Trako's abduction, the Giant Staff was immediately summoned. Mitschin, the sole eyewitness and one not well-regarded within this circle, found himself surrounded in the assembly place by the village elder and his companions (in the giant communities there were no village elders, as social standing was measured by height, not age) and was expected to give his report. He felt rather—well, you know—like a Mitschin.

With his neck stiff, Mitschin could barely see the disdainful looks on people's faces, but he could imagine it. Among the dwarf folk, it had been said since the beginning of their existence: If you fall among giants, watch your feet, not your face.

Trako's father, Turmo the Trampler, had had great difficulty even getting the dwarf to speak in the circle of giants. The reservations about dwarfs among the giants, one must understand, were as great as the giants themselves.

Giants and dwarfs were more closely related than either race was willing to admit. In the mists of time, they had both descended from common ancestors: the diminutive, boastful types and the loudmouthed simpletons, who at that time belonged to a single, then quickly fractured, clan. But that's another story.

Mitschin said: "Trako has been kidnapped, quickly and in a planned manner."

Schmacko the Smasher said, "What does he say?" and bent down towards the dwarf.

Mitschin yelled: "I say this is probably a hostage situation. A huge mess."

"Does the little one even have anything to say?" asked Bertram the Breaker, remaining seated with exaggerated upright posture.

Mitschin sighed. He had always known it would take many more generations before politically correct, consistently size-neutral communication between dwarves and giants would be possible.

But Mitschin was a great dwarf, however meek he might have seemed to the giants. His greatest asset was his sharp tongue.

“HELLO! WAKE UP! LISTEN!” he shouted.

Krach the Cracker turned in surprise to his neighbor, Umo the Knacker. "I think the little one said something."

This went on for an hour. Turmo the Trampler looked concerned, but no one in the giant staff actually deigned to discuss the situation with the rather tall dwarf. It was clear anyway: Trako was gone, and someone had to be to blame.

The obvious answer for the giants, as always, was: the dwarves were behind it. As it happened, one of them was present.

The situation became threatening for Mitschin. Then the search party sent out to find Trako returned. They hadn't located the missing man, but they did bring back a discovery.

Stelzer the Strong presented Turmo the Trampler with a document. Well, a piece of paper. The term "document" wasn't part of their vocabulary, since they could neither read nor write.

Turmo turned the paper over in his hands, uncertain. Mitschin demanded it.

"May I?"

What was just a piece of paper to Turmo fell upon the dwarf and almost covered him. The kidnappers had thought to write their ransom note in giant format – DIN A4-Giga. Apparently, they hadn't known that giants only used paper to wipe their bottoms.

Mitschin spread out the embassy, which was accessible to him, and read aloud:

"Giants! Greetings from the halls of the mighty Duc de Laballe!"

Take note: There is a war on. Total war requires certain measures. This includes your participation in a special military operation. To ensure your patriotic cooperation, we have taken your heir to the throne into custody. He will not be harmed as long as you fulfill your patriotic duty.

"Heir to the throne? Pah! Since when has there been an heir to the throne here?" Bertram the Breaker moved closer to Turmo the Trampler and fixed his gaze on him. "Not your Broken One, the Half-Dwarf, surely? As far as I know, we still elect our village leader ourselves."

Bertram had long fancied his chances of replacing Turmo. Some of his followers rallied around him, expressing their democratic sentiments by brandishing their clubs.

Mitschin tried to make himself heard. "Could we postpone the constitutional discussions to a later date?" he demanded.

"Did he say something?" asked Schmacko the Smasher.

“Listen,” Mitschin called out and continued reading:

"We demand a giant company of 50 combatants to overcome the enemy Manacardi line. After the final victory, we will release Trako unharmed. The giant people will achieve gigantic hero status in the new Laballe empire and will be able to benefit from many privileges."

Mitschin swallowed and omitted the last sentence:

"We will, of course, also guarantee the extermination of all dwarves."

In the Laballes' dungeon

A four-meter-long prisoner, however securely chained, commanded respect from the Laballes' jailers. They always entered Trako's dungeon in groups of three, swords drawn.

The giant, however, was in no mood for resistance at the moment; he was in a pitiful state. His skin was covered in abrasions and small wounds that were beginning to fester. Since he was exceptionally intelligent for a giant, he was also suffering from an ailment that never afflicted his relatives: a concussion. Laballe's henchmen had given him a good beating on the head with clubs when they kidnapped him.

Trako was dazed, his head hanging low. His first somewhat coherent thought was of his friend Mitschin. Had they caught him too? Was he languishing in a dungeon next door? Or was he even dead?

Tears streamed down Trako's cheeks, for he was a sensitive giant. Very sensitive indeed, which is why a puddle quickly formed at his chained feet. Normally, one would have described the prisoner as a pitiful sight. However, given his size, he was more like a considerable heap of misery.

Henri de Laballe sat at a safe distance from the giant on a wooden folding chair, waiting with a smile that was both smug and contemptuous, for Trako to become fit for questioning. Normally, Henri would have used his own, very particular methods to help him along, but his father had instructed him to treat the prisoner with as much care as possible. After all, Trako represented valuable plunder with a high market value.

Trako raised his head. Laballe, in turn, raised his hand and signaled to his bodyguards to point their drawn swords at the giant's throat. "Welcome to the guest wing of our castle. I hope the accommodations are to your liking. Can you hear me, little giant?"

The prisoner looked at his captor. He didn't like what he saw. Trako might be sensitive, but he wasn't cowardly. "Where's Mitschin?" he growled.

"Mitschin?" Henri de Laballe gazed thoughtfully at the dungeon ceiling. "Ah, that's the little rat that was with you, I assume? It's being kept—let's say—in a cage, in a manner befitting its species. A cage that hangs above our cesspool. How would you like it if we lowered it?"

It never hurt to bluff a little. Besides, it was fun to see the terror flicker in the giant's eyes.

Trako tugged at his chains. He was chained to the dungeon wall by his wrists and ankles, but the anchors for the shackles were designed for prisoners of average strength. Around them, the masonry began to crumble.

Laballe jumped up and, just to be safe, retreated to the open dungeon door. In doing so, he stepped on the feet of his brave bodyguard, who was trying to escape.

"Idiots!" he yelled at them. "Does that crybaby scare you? You should fear me! Quick, bring the jailer with more chains! And bring some cement! And my bullwhip too!" Screw his old master, the weakling—now Henri would use his own methods.

In the forest – with an old enemy

The giant staff had ended in the inevitable tumult that always concluded giant gatherings. Trako's father, Turmo, along with Krach the Cracker, Umo the Smasher, and several other loyal followers, had immediately set off for the Laballes' castle to inquire about his son's fate. Bertram the Breaker, Schmacko the Smasher, and their men first trampled a nearby birch grove to vent their frustration, and then remembered Mitschin, who, like all dwarves, was probably to blame for everything.

That was the moment the dwarf made his escape. He disappeared into the undergrowth surrounding the giants' settlement and made his way down the oak forest, unsure of which way to go. He couldn't expect any help from his own people. A giant had vanished? Great! May the same fate befall them all!

Mitschin caught his breath on a slope and looked down into the valley. There, something stood in the sky, just behind the fortifications: a column of smoke. Apparently, the convent of the Sisters of the Immaculate Conception was on fire. Mitschin didn't believe in coincidences. Could this, too, be the work of the Laballes?

There was a rustling in the bushes behind him. Mitschin grabbed a fallen branch and prepared for a fight, for he was a formidable dwarf. A golden ball rolled from the undergrowth to his feet. It was followed by a curse, a warning cry: "That's mine, keep your hands off!" – and then Claudine de Laballe, in a most unpolite state, with her hairy robe torn and burrs in her disheveled hair.

Mitschin knew Claudine. Not personally, only as a warning. But that was enough. When dwarf mothers reprimanded naughty children, they said, "Be obedient, or Laballe will get you!" He knew what "Laballe" looked like, because a picture of her hung in the pillory in the dwarf village, standing in for her. The dwarves would have loved to get their hands on the real thing. Claudine's former, completely idle existence at the Laballe court had demanded some diversion. Besides mechanical nightingales and castrated Moors as personal servants, she had collected court dwarves. Her rustic treatment of them required a constant supply.

On the one hand, Claudine liked to display the gnomes as living decorations in the castle garden, where they had to stand motionless for hours in the scorching sun. On the other hand, she delighted in dwarf parades. The little fellows then had to march before her in custom-made fantasy uniforms until they were exhausted.

The Laballes' dwarf henchmen were hated and feared by Mitschin's people. Now, their employer had appeared out of nowhere right in front of him. And he was holding a formidable club, half his own length – high-quality, sturdy, skull-crushing oak, not a trace of rot. The opportunity was ripe, for Claudine, thinking only of her gold, had practically thrown herself at the dwarf's feet to secure the bullet that had slipped from her grasp. Mitschin, filled with resentment, thought of his many lost family members and swung the branch at him.