The Ogre Apprentice

by Trevor H. Cooley

  Deathclaw nodded, attempting unsuccessfully to hide his own surprise. This was my plan.

  Me too, Gwyrtha agreed.

  Jhonate watched them with searching eyes, unable to completely follow the conversation through the ring’s connection. “The Scralag is with us?”

  “For now,” Justan replied. “Though let’s hope he’s not needed.”

  Justan’s hope was that his initial assessment of the nightbeast was correct and that Vahn’s pride wouldn’t allow him to strike early. Surely the fact that so many precautions had been made during the funeral would make it a challenge he could not resist.

  This nightbeast is a prideful creature, is it? said Artemus thoughtfully.

  Yes, Justan said. I don’t know a lot else about him other than that he is over 1500 years old.

  Pride is a common weakness, but one a creature as old as this should have learned to overcome by now. I wonder why it still lives?

  The further they made it through the city, the more confident Justan got that he had been right about Vahn’s intentions. They made it through the marketplace without incident and soon arrived at the blood testing stations set at all the routes into the grove.

  These tests were designed by Xedrion years ago specifically to weed out basilisks. Nightbeasts, like basilisks, did not have blood in the same way as the other species. Their entire body composition was made up of a changeable plasma. Basilisks would not be able to duplicate the consistency of blood. If a nightbeast was able to manage to change some of their plasma to the consistency of blood in order to fool the test, that blood would turn to stone a few seconds after being separated from the rest of its body.

  Each station consisted of two Roo-Tan guards and one elf. The elf carried a small Jharro wood knife and a jar of Jharro tree sap. As each person came to the station the elf would pinch the skin of their forearm and make a tiny cut with his knife. A sample of blood would be tested and the elf would smear a dab of sap over the wound. The powerful magic in the sap would stop the bleeding immediately and heal it within minutes.

  The procession was slowed down considerably at this point as everyone had to wait for their turn to be tested. Several high ranking members questioned this at first, not being privy to the nightbeast’s threats, until Xedrion stepped up and did it himself. Things went faster after that and soon it was Justan’s turn.

  The elf was a young looking female with smooth dark skin. Like the rest of the elves that worked with the Jharro trees every day, her head was hairless. She pinched Justan’s arm and cut him quickly. The Jharro sap tingled as she put it on and the scent of it wafted up, filling Justan’s nose with the heady scent of the grove. He immediately felt a stirring within the frost rune and held his arm out away from his nose.

  Be careful, whispered Artemus, his voice strained as he worked to control the Scralag. That scent . . .

  Hold on, Justan replied. There is still a short trip ahead before we get to the grove.

  Deathclaw was next in line. The elf had some difficulty cutting through his scaled skin, slicing twice to no effect. Deathclaw rolled his eyes. The raptoid lashed out with one sharp claw, cutting a deep gash in his own arm. Blood dribbled onto the ground. “Is that enough, elf?”

  The two human guards winced, but the elf’s reaction was unexpected. She laughed and clicked, “You are a funny lizard!” Deathclaw didn’t understand her words, but let out a hissing laugh of his own, pleased that someone understood his humor. It took more than a small dab for the elf to cover his wound, though the raptoid’s body had already stopped the bleeding on its own.

  The journey through the forest to get to the grove was a relatively quiet one. Even though it had been a month since Yntri’s death, the mood was solemn. Only a few of the Roo-Tan held conversations above a murmur and those were soon quelled by the shushings of their neighbors. The silence increased and by the time they had arrived at the grove, the intoxicatingly sacred nature of the place combined with it to form an almost tangible weight over them.

  Justan reached out to say goodbye to his grandfather then and found that Artemus had already been forced to retreat back into the rune.

  The procession moved to the center of the trees and stood among the wide interlocking roots where the funeral would take place. The elves soon appeared, most of them watching from the tree limbs high above or stepping right out of the tree trunks to perch on suddenly formed ledges. The humans milled quietly about for a bit while they waited for direction to come.

  Surrounded by the ancient trees, Justan was overwhelmingly aware of just how great a loss Yntri Yni’s death had been. He could feel Jhonate’s sorrow. She had been one of the elf’s pupils. The wise old elf had been the caretaker and defender of this place for two thousand years. He had also been the one to shepherd the Roo-Tan, teaching them the ways of the trees and training hundreds of their young warriors.

  “Good afternoon,” Beth said loudly, walking up to them. She was wearing a green lace bodice and a long flowing pair of white baggy trousers with multiple pleats. To Justan it looked like she had taken a fine dress and had split it down the middle, then sewn it back up to make trouser legs. “My, but you all look glum.”

  “Listener,” Jhonate replied in a hushed voice, giving her a meaningful look.

  “What? Do you think if Yntri was here, he’d be moping around all quiet?” Beth snorted. “No. He’d be walking around clicking at everybody, maybe even clamping his head down on some woman’s chest.”

  Jhonate’s face reddened and she looked as if she were about to give the witch an angry retort, but Tolynn arrived. The elf’s body was covered chin-to ankles in seamless Jharro wood that flowed and moved with her

  Yntri’s widow placed a hand on Jhonate’s shoulder and smiled as she clicked, “Beth is probably right. Yntri was always loyal to me, but he did prefer to ‘listen’ to the voluptuous ones.”

  The elf woman then gestured and one of the great tree roots beneath her feet rose past the others, lifting her high enough that all could see her. Once she was sure that she had everyone’s attention, she announced in a heavily accented version of the common tongue, “My dear husband never chose to speak in the language of men. He always said that this was because our mouths were not made to speak it. I told him he was just lazy. Then I decided to learn to speak it myself just to prove it to him.”

  There was a smattering of laughs among the crowd, most of them coming from the elves, who better understood the joke. She continued, “In honor of my husband, we have decided to change venue. We will continue in the garden, one of Yntri’s favorite places in the grove. Please, follow me.”

  The root lowered back into its usual place and Tolynn led them towards the eastern side of the grove. There was a bit of mumbling at the highly unordinary change, but everyone followed.

  While the commotion was going on, Hilt walked up to Justan, a grin on his face. “So that’s Xedrion’s little surprise. Move the funeral at the last minute.”

  Justan nodded. “I like it. Any plans Vahn had to attack from this place have just been ruined. I hope he’s pulling out the parts of him pretending to be hair right now.”

  Deathclaw cocked his head and looked around. “Where is Sherl-Ann?”

  “We left her with friends,” Hilt replied.

  Beth gave Deathclaw a wry smile. “Why? Did you want to hold her?”

  “No!” Deathclaw scoffed. “I was merely concerned in case the nightbeast attacked at the funeral today.”

  “How sweet,” Beth said, patting the raptoid’s cheek. “When I see her tonight, I’ll make sure and tell her how much her Uncle Deathclaw missed her.”

  Deathclaw turned away, grumbling, “As if I would miss a human whelp.”

  They followed the rest of the crowd towards the gardens. It was a fascinating area of the grove, one that Justan had only visited once so far. In this place, rich black soil covered the surface of the Jharro roots and fruits and vegetables of multiple exotic and colorful varieties were grown.<
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  As the people arrived, the ground began to move. Somehow without unearthing the delicate plants, the roots of the Jharro trees lifted and moved, carrying wide sections of soil away to make room for the funeral party. The roots then shifted and morphed, forming a terraced half-circle amphitheater. The elves then directed the humans where to stand.

  Justan watched the whole scene with amazement. He had no idea how the nightbeast was going to stage an attack in this place. There was nowhere for his basilisks to hide. The elves were stationed all over the place and they knew how to sniff a basilisk out from far away. Even if Vahn was somehow able to sneak in alone and find a way to attack Justan, how would he escape? Every surface in this place was part of a Jharro tree controlled by the mind of an elf.

  Justan began to worry that they had perhaps taken too many precautions. If the security was too tight, Vahn might take the wise course and bide his time. Their best chance to trap him might be lost.

  What do you think, Gwyrtha? he sent. The rogue horse had been completely silent ever since they entered the grove. She was deep in concentration, her senses extended to their limits. Have you smelled anything?

  Just the trees, she replied, her thoughts feeling a bit intoxicated by the power of the grove’s magic. They smell good.

  Tolynn moved to the base of the tree facing the amphitheater and Justan realized that this was his tree. He hadn’t been aware that the back side of it faced the garden.

  A platform appeared in the side of the tree and the ancient elf woman stepped onto it. Another elf walked up to stand beside her. He was Yntri Yni’s grandson, Kyrn, descended from Yntri’s first wife. Kyrn looked much like his grandfather. He had the same wiry build and the same dark shade of skin, though his skin didn’t hang quite as loose on his frame.

  Tolynn gestured and a low mumble came from the crowd on the far side of the amphitheater. Justan had to crane his neck to see what the fuss was about. Walking around the edge of the assembled people, carrying the body of Yntri Yni wrapped in Jharro leaves, was the prophet himself.

  Chapter Twenty One

  Justan looked at Jhonate. “Did you know the Prophet was coming?”

  She shook her head. “Father didn’t even know. It wasn’t part of the plans.”

  Justan chewed his lip. Any unexpected visitors were suspicious today. Gwyrtha?

  That is John, she confirmed happily and Justan’s shoulders slumped with relief. It was comforting to know that the Prophet was here,

  John joined Tolynn and Kyrn on the platform and gently lowered Yntri’s body at his wife’s feet.

  Tolynn then spoke, “The Prophet has a few things he would like to tell us.”

  John then stepped forward and addressed the assembled crowd of humans and ancient elves. When he spoke, his voice was heard equally by all.

  “Yntri Yni is one of my oldest and dearest friends. I met him the week after he was born and I gave him to the very tree we stand before today. Yntri grew strong and wise and fierce. He was a father, a teacher, and a warrior. Without his dedication and constant sacrifice, this sacred place would have been destroyed long ago. Likely that would have meant the darkness and decline of this entire world.”

  He gave them all a sad smile. “Yntri’s knowledge and wisdom is imbued in this place and in the spirit of the Roo-Tan nation. Today, his soul will pass on to the next world, but his thoughts and teachings will live on in the hearts and minds of the people he taught and more personally, in the mind of his grandson, Kyrn, who is today, the new treemaster of this tree.”

  The Prophet stepped back and Tolyn raised her hands. Softly, she began a murmuring chant in the language of her people. The chant had a rhythmic melody to it that was at the same time mournful and full of joy. The song was gradually taken up by all of the assembled elves, their voices melding together in a blend of harmonies, their accented clicks and whistles providing the accompaniment and percussion.

  Justan recognized many elements of the music as being similar to the song Antyni had sung at Qyxal’s funeral. While the song rolled on, Kyrn knelt by the wrapped form of his grandfather and peeled back the leaves that covered Yntri’s wizened face. Kyrn opened a small jar of oil and began to trace a pattern on Yntri’s skin.

  The song grew in volume and tempo and with his spirit sight, Justan saw the white form of Yntri’s soul rise from the old elf’s forehead. Kyrn closed his eyes and a wisp of whiteness reached out from his head to intertwine with Yntri’s. The song increased to a triumphant climax and Yntri’s spirit left his body to join with Kyrn’s.

  The air grew completely silent and Kyrn stood from his grandfather’s body. He turned to face Tolynn and touched his forehead to hers. Tears streamed down her face and he kissed her gently on each cheek before turning to face the crowd.

  Kyrn clicked to them in the ancient elf language, “My grandfather has joined with me now. He has only a short time with us, but would like to speak with many of you.”

  Justan expected him then to walk into the crowd and speak to people individually as Antyni had done, but instead, the elf simply reached out one arm. A hundred white strings of spirit magic sprung from his hand and connected to the minds of those he wished to speak to. Justan felt a slight shock as the bond was penetrated just enough for Kyrn’s spirit, boosted by the power of his grandfathers, to touch his mind.

  Sir Edge, my grandfather wishes you to know that you are not to blame for his death. He was overconfident and let down his guard. This is one of the problems with being so old, he says.

  Please tell him that I am grateful for his teachings and I want him to know that I will do everything in my power to help protect the grove, Justan replied.

  There is one more thing, Kyrn said. Yntri has felt the presence of flesh changers nearby. He says the nightbeast is waiting. He asks you to survive this. He needs you to help temper his muskrat.

  Then Kyrn’s communication was gone. Justan swallowed. That confirmed it. Today really would be the day Vahn came for him. He looked at Jhonate to find that she was looking back at him. Her eyes were red-rimmed.

  He told me to watch over you, she sent, squeezing his hand. He said that you were my bowman.

  Justan smiled back at her. He said that he needed me to temper his muskrat.

  A laugh came unbidden to her lips. He told me that he gave me that nickname to humble me.

  Yntri’s moment of communication ended. Kyrn slumped to the platform, his burst of magic spent. As if in anticipation, the wood beneath him rose to catch the elf gently and carry him to the side.

  The Prophet stepped forward and picked up Yntri’s body. An opening appeared in the trunk of the tree and once again, as he had done when Yntri was a baby, John placed the elf inside the tree. The trunk closed around him and Yntri was gone. The elven portion of the funeral was done.

  The roots beneath the feet of the crowd shifted. The ground leveled out beneath their feet and the roots formed a flat surface with raised root benches all along the sides. Xedrion sent orders out through the rings and crates of food were brought in along with a wagon loaded down with wine jars.

  Justan’s eyes widened. When Xedrion had instructed his servant to have twelve jars sent, Justan had assumed that the protector had meant regular sized jars. The ceramic jars on the wagon were as tall as a man and just as wide, with huge lids. The jars had been numbered in order and the first one was unloaded from the wagon and the seal was broken. Earthen mugs were passed out and filled with a large ladle lowered into the jar.

  “They really expect us all to get drunk,” Justan observed.

  Deathclaw hissed in derision. Humans.

  “This is . . . father’s way,” Jhonate said, mirroring the same derision in her voice. “It is Roo tradition. He says that the only good time for drinking is after a battle or during a funeral.”

  Thus the human portion of the funeral began. Everyone received one mug of wine. In order to receive a refill to their mug, each guest had to give a short speech about the deceased.
Xedrion started it off, dedicating the seventy-year-old wine to celebrate the seventy years he had known the elf and telling several tales of Yntri’s bravery.

  In the meantime, a second jar was unloaded and carted to the side where the elves could come down from their perches in the trees to partake of it freely, no speeches required.

  The speeches started off a bit slow, some of them long and drawn out, but they got faster as time went on and people grew impatient for a refill. After the last of Yntri’s close pupils had spoken, Xedrion lifted the restriction and the real drinking began. Two more barrels had already been unloaded and elves and humans alike were just staring to get tipsy. Justan started to think that maybe all twelve jars were going to be needed after all.

  Justan took a mug, but abstained from drinking. Justan’s only experience with alcohol had been horrible and he couldn’t allow his reflexes to be slowed one bit. Besides, the stuff smelled strongly of rotten bananas. Hilt assured him that bananas were only one of the many fruits used in this type of wine, but Justan didn’t care at that point.

  Jhonate didn’t drink either and Justan was well aware of a core group that were, like him, just carrying their mugs and keeping alert. These were the people that were part of the group watching for the nightbeast. Xedrion, who had made a show of downing his first mug, now just lightly sipped his second, his mind bent on the information coming in from the five rings he wore.

  Justan had to give Xedrion credit for his tactical planning. He had made attacking during the elven ceremony insanely difficult, allowing Yntri to be given back to his tree in peace. Now he was letting it seem as if security had slipped. People were getting louder and more inebriated by the minute. If the nightbeast was still going to strike, this was the ideal time to do it.

  There was a distinct pattern to the security. Dispersed amongst the crowd were a ring of sober men looking into the grove beyond them. There were also a large number of elves sitting silently in the trees watching, some of them embedded into the wood until only their face emerged. Hilt, Beth and Jhonate stuck closest to him, while Deathclaw and Gwyrtha generally prowled about, the raptoid in the trees above and the rogue horse on the ground below.