One of the ogres saw Fist approaching and shouted, “Crag!” The ogre who yelled wore a chainmail shirt and carried a massive sword. There was something vaguely familiar about this one. With that gear, he was likely a leftover from the war. Fist wondered how many good people he had killed.
The armored ogre pointed. “Fist is here!”
The rest of the ogres turned to look at Fist. The ogress tried to apply more chewed leaves to Crag’s face, but he pushed her aside and shoved through the others. A broad smile split his grizzled face. “Fist! You come!”
“Crag,” Fist said slowly. “Gerstag told me you were dead.”
“Gerstag lied,” Crag said. “His Rock People comed and taked the stupid ones that wanted to join the Barldag’s war, but I stayed,” he said, smacking his fist on his chest. “I listened to my son, Fist.”
“You listened to me?” Fist frowned, hesitant to believe that what Crag said was true.
“I am chief, but you is the smartest,” Crag said and by the expressions on the other ogre’s faces, they were as surprised to hear this admission as Fist was. Ogres as a rule disliked admitting their faults and Crag was more stubborn than most.
Still grinning, Crag walked forward and grabbed Fist’s arms. Fist fought off the urge to back away. It was the closest Crag had ever come to giving him an embrace. The ogre sized him up with his good eye. “You is bigger now?”
“No,” Fist said, somewhat shaken by his father’s affection. “I stand straighter now.”
Crag cocked his head. “There is a food on your shoulder.”
Squirrel’s eyes widened in surprise and he looked around for the food he had missed.
“That is not a food,” Fist explained. “That is Squirrel.”
“Oh . . ,” Crag said, though it was obvious he didn’t understand. He gave Fist’s arms a squeeze. “You feel strong,” he said, approval in his voice. He glanced at Kathy and Darlan and Charz, who were standing slightly behind Fist, watching the ogres’ interaction warily. He dismissed the human women offhand. “You have a giant?”
Charz snorted and Fist ignored the question. “You are bleeding, Crag.”
A large chunk of the impromptu poultice that the female had applied to the ogre’s wound had slid off of Crag’s face, allowing blood to flow freely down his cheek. Fist had learned a lot about the way injuries should be treated during his time at the Mage School and the wound looked even more horrible up close. The thought of the ogress’ saliva being packed into the wound with all those rotted leaves was enough to make him cringe.
Crag grinned away the pain. “It will be good. Puj put leaves on it.”
“Yes!” said the ogress, her smile showing bits of brown leaves wedged in her teeth. “It will heal.”
“Let me see,” Fist said. He planted the spikes of his mace in the ground and raised his hands towards his father’s face. He sent out strands of earth magic, probing the injury.
He could see that the arrow had entered just below the eye, severing muscle and connective tissue. Crag had done even more damage tearing the arrow out. He was fortunate that the arrow had not pierced his brain and that a major artery had not been struck. As it was, the ogress had forced a lot of debris into the wound. The tissue was already swelling with infection.
Crag jerked back, feeling the intrusion of Fist’s magic. “What is that?”
“It was magic, Crag. I was looking at your eye,” Fist said. “It must be causing you a lot of pain.”
“It will hurt until it doesn’t,” said the ogre, no stranger to injury. His grin widened. “Then you do has magic, Fist? Burl said you is a great ogre mage now.”
Fist looked back at the ogre wearing the chainmail shirt. Now he recognized his half-brother Burl. Fist narrowed his eyes. If Burl knew about his magic, he must have seen him in that last battle of the war. The anger in his gaze caused Burl to take a step back in fear. Fist filed that information away and returned his attention back on Crag.
“I can fix your eye.” If the arrow had pierced the eye, there would have been nothing Fist could do, but Crag had gotten lucky.
“The womens are the fixers,” Crag said.
Fist felt Darlan touch his back and he knew that she was offering to heal Crag, but Fist wanted to show his father what he could do. “My magic can heal you.”
Crag took an uneasy step back. “You talk funny, Fist. You do not sound like a ogre.”
“Please let me try,” Fist said.
“Please?” That was a word ogre men rarely used. But Crag didn’t back away further.
Fist grabbed the sides of his father’s head and focused. Using strands of water, he cleaned the debris from the wound and flushed most of the infection. Then, using a mix of earth and water, he stitched the torn blood vessels and caused the muscle tissues to knit back together and pull the eye back in place. A few more strands of earth magic repaired the skin and Fist let go, feeling drained. His magic had still not recovered from his foolishness earlier that morning.
Crag, stumbled back, his body trembling at the intense magic of the healing. The other ogres surged forward, grabbing their chief. Several of them brandished weapons, one of them going so far as to rear back with a spear. Charz growled and prepared to attack. Fist heard the academy soldiers stirring in the trees.
“Stop!” shouted Crag. He shoved the ogre’s grasping hands aside and stepped away from them as he pulled the remainder of the ogress’ filthy poultice from his face. He blinked and winced a bit. Then he laughed. “I see! I can see!” He turned to the others and pointed. “Fist fixed my eye. He is a strong mage like Burl said!”
The rest of the ogres leaned forward, examining the repaired wound with distrusting eyes. This was new. Magic was for hurting, not healing. It was a known thing.
“Sloppy work,” Darlan remarked, looking at the ogre chief’s face.
Breathing heavily, Fist gave her an apologetic shrug. She was right. He still had difficulty with such detailed work. Crag’s eye would remain red and swollen for awhile. Fist had probably left his father with yet another scar. But he had saved the eye.
“It was no magic!” Protested the ogress Crag had called Puj. “I put leaves on it.”
“Yes, the leaves!” said another ogre. “Puj put leaves on it.” Several of them began nodding.
Crag blinked uncertainly. “But it hurt and then Fist made it not hurt.”
“Yes! He has magic,” Burl insisted. “I seed him make lightnings!”
Fist narrowed his eyes. So he was right. Burl had seen him fighting in the war and evidently the other ogres hadn’t believed him. Was that what this was about?
Had they come all this way to prove Burl’s story? Had Crag undertaken this journey to convince Fist to return to his old home? An ogre mage in the tribe would make the Thunder People so much more prestigious. Did they think he would just meekly come back with them? The idea made Fist furious.
He raised his voice. “You want to see lightning?”
Oh! Squirrel, sensing what was coming, darted over to Charz’s shoulder to take cover.
Fist tore his mace out of the ground and raised it into the air. Growling, Fist caused bright arcs of electric energy to flare up around the weapon. The ogres gasped in wonder. Then he pointed his mace at Burl.
Burl’s eyes went wide and he stumbled backwards in fear. In his minds eye, Fist saw his brother swinging that huge sword, ending the life of innocent villagers. One thought and Fist could send a streak of electricity straight for him. He could feel the electric energy wanting to leap for that chainmail shirt.
Darlan grabbed Fist’s arm and said softly. “Don’t do it.”
Fist gritted his teeth, but obeyed, lowering his arm. He had learned his lesson earlier that day. As tired as he was, he may not have been able to control the intensity of the strike. The arc of energy could have killed Burl. Not that he didn’t deserve it.
“There!” Fist shouted. “You saw my magic. Now go! Leave here and don’t come back!”
Fist scowled, his suspicions confirmed. “You made me leave. I am no longer part of the Thunder People.”
Crag frowned. “No! You is my son. You is Thunder People. Leave these humans and little peoples. You is a ogre. You will come back with us.”
“No!” Fist said. “I have my own tribe now. We are the Big and Little People!”
“You will come back!” Crag insisted. “The Thunder People is different now. I listened to your words and you was right. We did not join the Barldag! And while other tribes died, we growed big while you was gone. We letted many ogres back in. We even letted in the rogue ones. We is the best!”
The other ogres roared in agreement.
“Good!” said Fist. “I am glad for you. Then go back to your big tribe. You do not need me.”
“We do!” Crag insisted.
“Why?” Fist said. “Why did you come all this way for me?”
“Because . . .” Crag cocked his head at Fist. “Because you is Fist. You is the one that cares.”
“Cares about what?” Fist said, flabbergasted.
“The Thunder People,” Crag said. He stepped forward. “There is a great evil in the mountains. It is big and it is black and it eats the tribes.”
Fist blinked. “An evil?”
“It covers the ground,” said another ogre. He was tall, a few inches taller than Fist, though his body was not as broad. “It grows and grows and if it touches you . . .” His voice quavered. “You get evil too.”
“And this evil attacks ogre tribes?” Charz asked.
Crag looked dubious about speaking to Charz, but replied, “Yes, giant. But not just ogre tribes. It touches goblins and orcs and humans and the little peoples in the mountains too. Then the evil sends them after us.”
“The evil is still far from the Thunder People territory, but they come anyway,” the tall ogre said. “All of them. They come and fight us.”
“Ogres and goblins and humans?” Fist asked, a shiver coming over him.
“All of them,” Crag said. “They try to stab us. They try to bite us, but we are strong. Our tribe is big. Our tribe is many. They do not die easy, but we smash them. We crush them. But more come.”
Charz looked at Darlan. “Does this sound familiar to you?”
“In a way,” she said, trepidation in her voice.
Fist swallowed. This sounded eerily like his dream the night before. He addressed Crag. “If this evil is so bad, why are you here? It must have taken a long time for you to reach me.”
“Many days,” Puj agreed, nodding her head.
“It was a long walk,” Crag admitted.
“Why did you leave the tribe to fight without you?” Fist asked. Many days was an understatement. The journey from the Thunder People territory would have taken over a month, especially if they had taken pains to avoid settlements.
Crag scratched his head. “We is big. We is many. Old Falog is smart. He is in charge until we bring you back.”
“Why me?” asked Fist. “What can I do?”
“You is Fist,” said Crag, frowning as if that answered the question. “You is smart. You is strong. You is a ogre mage.”
“You has lightnings,” added Burl.
“Yes!” said the tall one. “Lightnings kills the evil! I seed it!”
“Yes, Fist,” said Crag. “You will come. You will kill the evil with your lightnings. The Thunder People will be safe.” He grimaced and reluctantly added. “You can bring your giant, too.”
Darlan whispered something to Charz and the giant nodded. “Do you have any proof of this evil?” he asked.
The ogres looked at each other uneasily and Crag pointed at one of them. “Rub, bring the evil thing.”
Rub, an ugly balding ogre with a jutting forehead, lifted something large wrapped in furs and carried it to Fist. As he came closer, Fist remembered him. Rub was one of sly Old Falog’s sons and he was every bit as stupid as his father was clever.
Rub set down the fur bundle in front of Fist and unwrapped it. Inside was a wooden chest. It was made of fine polished oak and was reinforced with bands of copper. The chest definitely wasn’t of ogre make. It was likely more spoils from the war. Rub eyed the chest with distaste and took several steps back.
Fist bent over and examined the chest. A foul odor wafted up from the wood, causing his nose to wrinkle. The chest was held shut by a copper latch with a wooden peg shoved through the loop. The ogres grabbed their noses as he pulled out the peg and pried up the latch.
The chest opened with a creak and dozens of flies burst out. Fist winced, turning his head as they flew away in random directions. The odor that he had smelled earlier increased a hundred fold. It was the intense smell of organic rot. He forced himself not to retch as he peered inside, Darlan and Charz looking over his shoulders.
The chest was filled half way with a black sludge. Floating in it was the head of a dwarf. It was in such an advanced state of decay that it was barely recognizable, with large parts of it rotted to the bone. Covering most of the exposed surface of the head, and squirming in and out of the black sludge, were hundreds of tiny white worms with green heads.
While Fist peered at the worms, all of their movement stopped. Then their tiny forms turned and their little green heads pointed at him in unison. He got the overwhelming sense that they were grasping at him. He shifted to spirit sight and saw a multitude of tiny black beams shooting up at him. He slammed the top of the chest shut and latched it quickly, feeling shaken.
He stood and swallowed. Something had tried to attack him. He had felt it. Something vast and full of hatred. Just what was this evil?
Darlan gave Fist’s backside a fierce nudge. He turned to look at her and she jerked her head in the direction of the gate. Fist turned back to face his father.
“Stay here. I will go and think about it,” he said.
“Yes. Fist is a thinker,” Crag agreed, his voice eager. “Think how to destroy the evil and come back. We will wait.”
Darlan said something to Kathy the Plate. The guard nodded and trotted towards the treeline to join her men. Then Darlan gave Charz a nudge. The giant sighed and bent over the chest. He wrapped it back up in the furs and picked it up.
“Wait,” said Crag. “You are taking the evil thing with you?”
“Yes,” said Fist. It was the last thing he wanted to do, but evidently Darlan had her reasons. “I want to look at it some more . . . over there.”
“Oh,” said the ogre chieftain.
Darlan and Charz started back along the base of the wall towards the gate and Fist followed behind them. He felt more uneasy now than he had on the way to meet his former tribe. What should he do?
Riveren and Professor Beehn met them back at the main gate. Riveren looked concerned, but the wizard looked excited.
“I used an air spell from up on the wall,” Beehn said, eying the chest. “I heard everything.”
“That seemed like an interesting meeting,” Riveren said. “I half thought Fist was going to strike all of them down. So what do we do with our ogre friends?”
“I don’t know,” Fist said.
“You don’t?” said Darlan, sounding surprised. “I got you away from there so you didn’t commit to anything before I could stop you.”
“I was impressed with the way you held back, Sherl,” Charz said with amusement. “I was waiting for you to barrel in and take over the conversation.”
She glared at him. “I know when it is and isn’t a good time to ‘barrel in’, thank you. Those ogres wouldn’t have listened to me anyway.”
“You two thought I was about to promise to go with them?” Fist said incredulously. “Why would I do that?”
“Isn’t that what you want to do?” Darlan asked.
“No!” Fist said though, as the word came out of his mouth, he realized that it felt untrue.
“Then maybe I was wrong,” Darlan s
aid with a shrug. Fist’s jaw dropped in disbelief. Darlan saying she was wrong?
Riveren scratched his head. “I don’t know, Fist. If it were me, I would feel like I had to help my relatives, no matter how much I resented them.”
“But they’re not really my . . . I mean, I don’t owe them anything,” Fist said.
Nope! sent Squirrel from his perch on Charz shoulder.
“You certainly don’t,” Beehn agreed.
“And I have my new tribe to think about now,” Fist pointed out. “Justan needs me.”
Yep, said Squirrel, leaping from the giant’s shoulder to Fist’s in a show of solidarity.
Charz nodded in agreement. “Let ‘em rot.”
“And . . . I have my lessons here at the school. I still don’t know those spells right,” Fist said, watching Darlan’s face for a response. “As I learned this morning.”
She continued to watch him patiently.
“And there’s the rules,” he said. “I’m still an apprentice. I couldn’t leave the school unless you came with me . . .” He looked at her hopefully, but she still said nothing. “And you couldn’t come with me because you’re busy with the council and things. It’s all the same reasons I couldn’t go to Malaroo . . . Isn’t it?”
Darlan inclined her head and finally said, “That is all most likely true.” She stared ahead for a moment, then cleared her throat. “And then again, he is your father.”
Fist sputtered. “What are you saying? Do you actually want me to go with them?”
“What happened to you back there?” Darlan asked, changing the subject. “When you looked into the box something frightened you.”
Fist reached up and ran a hand through his scruffy brown hair. “I was attacked. The worms looked at me and . . . I think something tried to grab my soul, but it couldn’t. I don’t know why, but I think I was protected by the bond.”
“I had a feeling it was something like that,” Darlan said, chewing her lip. “What do you think of this evil in the mountains, Beehn?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Put it all together,” she prodded. “Rotting black sludge? Mental attacks?”
Beehn swallowed, looking suddenly troubled. “It couldn’t be. She’s dead.”
The Ogre Apprentice Page 8