The Table of Gigas An oak table, long and unvarnished, with cracks in the wood and dust in the cracks. No one had eaten there for as long as anyone could remember. The utensils were rusted, the plates cobwebbed, the goblets on their sides. And at the far edge something tiny, almost invisible, twitched. "Geeearrrgh!" Torrim Harmalk hauled himself up over his grappling hook. The dwarf planted face-first on the wood grain, then rolled over and inhaled. Each breath made music: his platemail rustling, his leather backpack squeaking, his weapons and cooking pots clanging together. The ceiling was lost in darkness. He squinted at it, but saw nothing. "S'all clear, laddies!" he yelled. And if his voice wasn't obstructed by a grey-brown beard, his companions might have had a one-in-twenty chance of understanding what he said. The dwarf picked himself up, straightened his helmet, and lit his oil lamp. The fire caught on the burnished edge of a wine jug. It towered ten feet above him. The Table of Gigas - it had been sixteen years since he and Lorn stood here. Well, mayhaps stood was not the correct word. Ran? Fought? Screamed while being mauled by giant insects? He grunted at the memory, and turned his attention to the table itself. His darkvision perceived only sixty of its three-hundred foot length. And every footstep echoed in the dining hall, which was itself four times the size of the table. The party had had to tie all their rope bundles together to scale the table leg. At least those who used ropes. "Dinnae worreh, lads. There be neh giants in these parts save the wee bairn's appetite. Up with ye, now." The rope twitched behind him, and cursing was heard below. After a month in each others company, the Flint and Steel Party could be forgiven for thinking the dwarf was leading them on a wild ooze chase. But their questions would soon be answered. Their destination was close. Torrim could feel the sweet breeze of home.