Thorn
The Shepherd, Book III
A Novel by Jeffrey B. Linn
All Rights Reserved

Chapter XII

The gatekeeper shot a look of surprise at Bebaios. "Royal?" he breathed.

"Must've kept it from the eparchs," whispered the archon.

The Shepherd's words sent the giant scurrying like some monstrous cottontail searching for its hole. Several of us were forced to jump out of the way. He should of known that the whole plain was his, but he would not flee. He kept up this mad orbit for some time, growing steadily more distressed. Finally he threw himself down on the grass and shoved his face into a furrow as if he would tunnel into the earth, and madly grabbed at his matted tresses.

The Shepherd approached and stood above him.

"Will you fall in with me?" he asked. Again Thorn froze. His fingers had worked into his hair like the rods on a loom. Slowly they loosed themselves. A hand as large as a trough slid tentatively toward the Shepherd's foot as if he were testing the heat of a kettle. When the Shepherd did not recoil, Thorn laid horn of the foot and grasped it.

Almost as softly as the breeze in the thistles, with a tone like the last bell of night, the giant said, "I am . . . nothing."

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