The Ogre Apprentice

by Trevor H. Cooley

  With a primal roar, he sent the vibrating and crackling threads of magic away from his body in a violent burst. The cloud he had created filled with light, electricity passing through every droplet of water vapor.

  Fist grit his teeth, waiting for the energy to slice through the barrier he had put up. But the energy was gone. The mist faded. The hillside was covered with the bodies of the unmoving dead.

  Fist leaned back against the boulder and laughed. “It worked!

  Maryanne and Rufus climbed down and stood by the ogre, looking out over the black lake. The spell hadn’t touched everything. The dead at the edge of its range started to stand. The surface of the black lake rippled, misshapen forms rising from the depths and making their way towards the shore.

  “Well, Fist?” Maryanne said. “You ready to go now?”

  “We’d better,” Fist said. “Locksher will want to know what we found. They should be in the Thunder People territory by now.” He looked up past the hilltop at the familiar mountainside in the distance and sighed. “It’s going to be a long walk.”

  “Ride?” Rufus asked hopefully.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Justan paused outside the palace infirmary, Peace clutched in his hand. It was strange. His emotions were being taken away by the sword, but the thought that his friend and mentor was in there, dying, paralyzed him. Justan had thought about what to say to Hilt the whole ride there. Nothing seemed quite right.

  “Just go in,” Deathclaw complained.

  Jhonate placed her hand on Justan’s shoulder. “Tell him that Vahn is dead. Yntri is avenged. That is all he’ll want to know.”

  Justan nodded. He sheathed his sword, accepting all the pain that rushed over him. He couldn’t let the sword help him hide from this. He reached out and grasped the door handle, then pushed. The doorway opened and Justan saw Hilt.

  The named warrior was sitting on the edge of one of the grass mat beds, holding his daughter Sherl-Ann in one arm. She was grabbing his ear, tugging on it, and he was smiling. He looked fine. He wasn’t even bandaged! Beth was sitting next to her husband, her arm around his waist.

  “Hilt!” Justan exclaimed, forgetting about the pain in his body as he pushed his way through the door.

  “Edge, you’re back,” the named warrior said, looking at him with concern. “What happened to you?”

  “I thought you were dying,” Justan said, limping in further. “Deathclaw said your wound was mortal.”

  Jhonate pushed in past him, a smile on her face. “You survived!”

  “It ends up there was a mage in Xedrion’s prison,” Beth said, nodding her head towards the right side of the room. “I had to convince your father to release her.”

  Justan turned to see who Beth was referring to. His mouth dropped open in shock. “Vannya!”

  “Sir Edge,” said the beautiful mage. Her long blond hair was disheveled and her normally pristine robes were bunched and wrinkled. She looked quite put out. “You were supposed to set this up before I got here. I was grabbed off of the road by soldiers. Manhandled-!”

  Justan rushed forward and wrapped her in a tight embrace. “Thank you! Thank you for being here. I’m so sorry. So much was going on, I forgot that Fist had mentioned you might come.”

  “I . . . I’m glad I was able to do something in time.” Her hands hesitantly rose and she embraced him back. Justan was so happy that she was there that he didn’t mind the way his ribs cried out. Despite her ragged appearance, the mage still had that pleasant smell.

  Jhonate cleared her throat. “You deserve all of our thanks, Mage Vannya.”

  Justan let go of her and stepped back, his face coloring. “It’s really a miracle.”

  “I just wish I had been able to do more with his hand,” she said.

  Justan looked over at the named warrior. Hilt raised his left arm and gave him a wan smile. The flesh around his wrist was puffy and red and covered with scar tissue. His fingers were curled inwards. Hilt strained and was able to get them to straighten slightly. “It least she was able to put it back on.”

  “It had been too many hours since he lost it,” Vannya said apologetically. “I used every flesh restoration technique I knew, but there was extensive nerve damage. If he works hard enough at it, he should be able to get most of his movement back, but it may never be completely the same.”

  Deathclaw approached the named warrior and clutched his maimed hand. “Do not fear. You will kill many with this hand yet.”

  Hilt chuckled in surprise. “Why, thank you, Deathclaw.”

  Sherl-Ann noticed the raptoid and cried out, reaching for him. Sighing, the raptoid took her from her father, his expression stoic as the baby giggled and smacked his face repeatedly.

  “Where is father?” Jhonate asked. “I had assumed he would be here.”

  “He went back to the prison,” Beth said. “Evidently Mage Vannya wasn’t our only recent visitor.”

  “Um, Sir Edge? May I heal that wound on your face?” Vannya said, giving Jhonate a hesitant look. “It’s driving me crazy that you haven’t asked yet.”

  “Please. Would you?” Justan replied with a sigh. This was going to be so much better than long days of soreness. “And take a look at my neck and ankle too.”

  Vannya waited for Jhonate to give her a nod of acquiescence. Then the mage reached up and grasped Justan’s head, sending her magical energies into his body. The mage’s eyes widened. “It looks like you took a serious fall! How are you still moving?”

  “My s-sword,” Justan explained, gasping as Vannya used a complex mix of water, earth, and air to repair the damage all over his body. “H-how long were you in the prison?”

  “Hours!” she complained. “They threw me in a cell and gave me nothing to eat but bananas! One guard kept a bow trained on me the whole time like, just because I can use magic, I was going to go around throwing fireballs at people or something.”

  “I apologize for their behavior,” Jhonate said. “The distrust for wizards runs deep among my people.”

  “So what happened to the three of you?” Beth blurted. “We keep chatting, but you’ve been gone for a long time! Did you track the nightbeast down?”

  “He’s dead,” Justan confirmed through gritted teeth. Vannya was finished with the main injuries and was now working on the more minor bruising, something that tickled terribly.

  “I dealt the death blow,” Deathclaw added.

  “Fantastic! I hope you made it hurt,” Beth said, gripping the raptoid’s arm proudly.

  Justan grunted. “I f-found out who sent Vahn after me.”

  “Who?” Hilt asked.

  “The Dark Prophet,” Justan replied, trying not to react to what Vannya was doing. “Vahn had a rune from the Dark Bowl.”

  “Done,” Vannya announced, releasing her magical energies and letting go of him.

  “Thank you,” Justan sighed. He felt immensely better, though now he was so tired he was ready to collapse. “Vahn said that he’s scared of the Scralag inside me.”

  “That means he knows about Artemus and the prophecy he was given,” Beth mused.

  “I’m wondering how close he is to coming back,” Hilt said, rubbing his damaged hand and trying to stretch the fingers out. “John seemed to think we had years.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Justan replied. “And right now I’m wondering if this is over. Will he just keep sending more assassins?”

  The door to the infirmary swung in again and Xedrion strode in. He grasped Jhonate’s arm, his expression worried. “I heard you had returned.” He looked to Justan. “Is it done?”

  “Yes,” Justan said. “The nightbeast is dead.”

  Some of the tension left the protector’s shoulders. “That is good. Come, there are some people waiting outside that I think you know.”

  Xedrion went back outside and Justan followed. Standing outside and surrounded by Roo-Tan guards were two familiar figures. Justan smiled in surprise.

  “Willum? What are you d
oing here?” Justan asked, reaching out to clasp his friend’s hand.

  “We brought a message,” Willum replied. “We-uh, actually didn’t know you were here until the Protector of the Grove mentioned it.”

  Justan looked over at the second visitor. “And Jerry the Looker, what are you doing wearing Lenny’s armor?”

  The well-groomed dwarf was dressed in his uncle’s famous platemail, the helmet clasped under one arm. “He loaned it to me when he heard about our mission.”

  Justan folded his arms. “And what mission is that? Did the academy send you?”

  “Not exactly,” Djeri said.

  “They inform me that an army of demons is coming our way,” Xedrion said.

  “Right,” Justan said. “The Prophet said that something was coming. I didn’t get the chance to mention it to you yet. I don’t have any other details, though.”

  “Well, we can tell you all about it,” Willum said.

  “We can,” said Djeri, raising a qualifying finger. “But first, we need to take you to see Tarah Woodblade.”

  * * *

  The Troll King sat on his throne and waited anxiously, the claws of his trollish left hand tapped against the crumbling stone. The throne was a thousand-years-old and had once been lavish and beautiful, covered in precious stones imbued with spirit magic. The cushions had rotted away centuries ago and the stones were long gone, taken by the Roo people when they abandoned their great city.

  His throne room was in the Axis Palace, once the seat of power among all the Roo. The palace had housed thirty high priestesses over the years, but up until a month ago, it had been infested by muskrats. Vines still stretched in through the gaping hole where the palace doors had been.

  The once great city of KhanzaRoo had been reclaimed by the swamps. All the wooden buildings had rotted. All the bridges were gone. The only structures remaining were the stone buildings. The great palaces and libraries. But these were covered in vines and overgrowth. Trees had carved roots into their very foundations.

  The Trollkin were still hard at work clearing the buildings so that they could be used again. Some of them were even building new structures from the wood of the trees that were removed. The Troll King’s people had been born with so many great talents and they were still being discovered.

  The king sat up in his throne as he heard the approach of heavy feet coming up the outer steps. He knew it was Murtha before her squat form appeared. The part-dwarf had been monitoring the situation for him.

  “She is here!” said Murtha, her snarl showing her multiple rows of needle-like teeth. She was short for a trollkin at just under six feet, but was intelligent and observant. She was his most trusted servant and had become his right hand. “The invader c-comes!”

  “Come,” said the Troll King, beckoning his part-dwarf subject forward. “Attend me.”

  She hurried to stand at his side and he leaned back, steepling the fingers of his two very different hands together. This was a crucial moment. The future of his people could be decided right here.

  Two large trollkin, his palace guards rushed in and stood at attention at the open doorway. One of them was Khurley, a hulking part-man with a small misshapen head. The other was Recks, a part-elf with nearly handsome features, razor-like claws on his hands, and skin that produced an overabundance of non-flammmable slime that practically poured from his body.

  The invader appeared in the doorway. She was a human woman, voluptuous, with brown skin and striking green eyes. Curly black hair cascaded from her head with a single blond lock dangling at her forehead. Her movements were sensuous, almost snakelike as if the bones in her legs were an afterthought.

  The woman smiled as she entered, her full lips parting to show even white teeth. “Look at this place! It’s falling apart, but oh how I’ve missed it!

  “Announce yourself!” Murtha demanded. “You stand before the Troll K-king!”

  “Pardon me, oh great king,” she said, giving the king a flowing curtsey. “My name is Mellinda. I am here at this time of your people’s infancy to offer you my services.”

  The king lifted his left hand and pointed one taloned finger at her. “Mellinda, you say? My people claim that you were using a different name when you first showed up in our swamps. You called yourself the Troll Queen.”

  Her smile froze for a fraction of a second and then she let out a low throaty laugh. “I must apologize for that. I have been gone for such a very long time that I forgot my place.”

  The woman had been in the swamps for a week now, roaming around. She had first gone to the original location of the Mother’s womb. She had used some sort of magic to force one of the trollkin there to answer questions. Since then, she had been wandering around and accosting his people, alternating from making demands to making promises. A few of them had tried to kill her, but she had simply paralyzed them with spells and moved on.

  “My people have no queen,” the Troll King said. “There is only me, their king, and the Mother.”

  The woman gave him a contrite look. It looked unnatural on her face. “Once again, I am sorry. I am here on behalf of the Troll Mother herself, of course. I have known her for a long time. In fact, I was there centuries ago when she made her first children. I was there to serve her then, to help her bring them into the world. Now I return to help her new children at your side, oh great king. I would be an advisor to you. If you’ll let me.”

  The king nodded slowly. This was as he had expected so far. “I spoke to the Mother this morning. She warned me that you were coming.”

  “Warned?” said Mellinda, placing a sinuous hand against her chest. Gemstones sparkled on the back of each finger. She cocked her head. “Whatever did she say?”

  “She said that she knew you well,” the king replied, his eyes intense. “The Mother said that you were once very nearly a goddess yourself.”

  “How flattering,” Mellinda said. “She remembers me.”

  The human side of the king’s mouth smiled. “But she has been watching you since you entered her swamp. Now she says that you are just a snake.”

  The woman’s smile slipped. “My feelings are hurt, oh king.”

  “Why should you be hurt?” he asked. “Some snakes have their use. The Mother told me so. The question I have is, what kind of snake are you?”

  “I don’t like being compared to a snake,” Mellinda muttered, irritation flashing in her eyes. She turned her voice sultry. “As for my uses, I have many.”

  The king watched this alluring creature and knew that she was dangerous. The Mother told him not to trust her. However . . . “Show me one of your uses, snake woman. How can you help the Troll Mother? Why should I let you serve me?”

  She swayed over to the doorway and reached out to Khurley, beckoning him with a writhing finger. The guard looked at the king questioningly and the king gave him a nod. He stepped forward and she placed a hand on the thick muscles of his chest.

  “The ‘Mother’, praise her name, has done an admirable job in creating her children. Strong. Fierce. Hardy.” She reached up and the guard bent so that she could easily reach his misshapen face. She caressed the lumpy side of his head. “There are, nonetheless, some deficiencies. Through no fault of her own, of course. That is where I can help.”

  She took a step back from the guard and reached out her hands. Her fingers writhed bonelessly and Khurley cried out. His skull swelled and shifted, his features smoothing out. The process took several seconds and when she dropped her hands, the guard gripped his head with unbelieving fingers.

  His head was now proportionate with his body. His face was still a mix of troll and man, but it was a good mix, his beady eyes were spaced evenly. His human mouth was no longer crooked.

  “Look at me!” Khurley exclaimed, tears in his eyes. “What do I look like?”

  “You are beautiful!” Mellinda exclaimed.

  The Troll King watched with grim fascination, finding her process both disturbing and fascinating. Could this be
the answer to his problems? “Can you do it again?”

  “Of course, my king,” Mellinda purred.

  She beckoned the other guard. Moments later, the part-elf ran his hands down a body that now only shimmered with a slight sheen of slime.

  The king smiled. It was as he had hoped. In the vision his goddess had given him, this woman had used similar power. He grew eager to see just how much she could accomplish. How many of the Mother’s children could be saved?

  The woman looked back at the king and approached him with that same swaying step. She placed a foot on the first stair of the throne and Murtha growled. “Get back-k from the k-king!”

  The woman paused and gave her a pitying look. “Poor thing. May I fix that mouth of yours?”

  “No!” the part-dwarf snarled.

  “It is alright, Murtha,” said the king. “She may approach me.”

  Mellinda stepped right up the stairs of the throne and leaned in, looking him in both eyes. There was no trepidation in them. No disgust at his appearance. “And how might I serve you?”

  The Troll King felt an unexpected stirring within his chest, but he pushed it away. “Perhaps I do have need of someone like you.” He stood. “Come with me, snake woman. I would take you to the Mother’s womb.”

  * * *

  Matthew was so focused on his mental calculations that he was startled by the expected knock at his door. He took a slow breath to compose himself and leaned back in his chair as he shouted, “Come in! Just leave your boots inside the door!”

  The door swung open and a tall gnome stepped inside. “Greetings. Do I have the pleasure of speaking with the Stranger?”

  “Do I look strange to you?” Matthew asked. Usually, he would have identified the gnome by now. His master would have filled his mind with the things he needed to know about his visitor. This time, he heard nothing. Matthew was forced to use experience to size him up.

  The gnome had a youthful look about him. He had a full head of black hair that he wore slicked back and his large ears only drooped slightly. He wore fine scholar’s robes, but he didn’t stand with the usual hunch of the scholar. This gnome stood with the straight backed posture and easy grace of a warrior. This was the warlord that John had warned him about.