By this time, we had been climbing four or five days. The march was terrible. Three were already dead, the other six would die soon, and if any of us slaves fell, our interlocked chains would undoubtedly carry us all down into the black ravine below. Thankfully, it wasn’t snowing, but the ground was like ice, and the cold night was deadly, robbing bodies of their breath while they slept. Our masters fared little better. They were running scared, and hadn’t had time to prepare for the journey. I was so lucky, it seemed, we all were: out of the hundreds of slaves, us ten were chosen to follow the deposed king over the mountain. It didn’t surprise me, considering, that I was chosen. I was worth my weight in gold—more than my weight! seeing how thin this trip was making me.
They’d want me around if the king died. Who else could carry his soul?
But on the fifth day we passed through a small cave. After a short, winding crawl through the darkness, we came out the other end. There was a bridge. It was fashioned of fraying rope grown black with mold. It was lined with creaking boards of wood which held little promise of holding our weight. It led off toward the other side of the ravine: The old bridge disappeared into the mist and darkness of the other side.
And that is where the king resides, a beggar. There are giants on the other side, and we were novelties to them. They kept some of us like pets; they ate the others. The old king is still alive, in a cage. He is fed leftovers from the giants. My escape? It was no easy feat, but the giants do not know much of our magic. I sang for them a lullaby, and left my master to his fate.
Tale Told 