The enormous ogre rushed forward and swung his club in a lethal, horizontal arc. Bron ducked and rolled away, but despite his opinion that Bojan was unlikely to win any sort spelling contest, the ogre was a skilled warrior and prepared for the move. He kicked out just as Bron tried to roll away and caught him square in the ribs with a foot nearly the size of a dwarf and just as solid. Bron felt himself lifted into the air and felt the sensation of weightlessness for a full two seconds before crashing back to the ground and completing his tumble.
The crowd roared its approval as Bojan stomped forward, pressing his attack without needless showmanship. Bron rolled onto his hands and knees, the throbbing pain in his ribs eliciting a grunt of pain. The ogre swung his massive foot at his head like an enormous pendulum. Bron blocked the kick with his staff braced against his left forearm and slung a fistful of dirt and gravel into the champion’s face.
Bojan dropped his club and his hands flew to his face, wiping frantically to clear his eyes. Bron stabbed out with his staff from a kneeling position and jabbed the end just below the ogre’s sternum. Foul breath hit the druid in the face as the air was violently expelled from Bojan’s lungs.
Bron quickly raised himself to his feet and launched a flurry of strikes against the stunned ogre. The sound of wood and bronze striking thick, leathery flesh echoed over the crowd, competing to be heard over the roars of the spectators. Bojan staggered back under the furious onslaught, trying to ward off the pummeling strikes with his hands and arms. Bron switched the target of his attacks from the head and body to the ogre’s tree trunk-like legs, punishing the thighs and shins with strikes that would have cracked and shattered small timbers.
Bojan wavered and fell to a knee, his body quivering as he tried to hold his body up with his fists pressed against the ground. Bron held his attack for just a moment, unsure if this signaled defeat. Not hearing any sort of command from the stands and not wanting to give Bojan a chance to recover and resume the battle, Bron swung the end of his heavy staff at the back of the ogre’s oversized head.
A loud, meaty slap echoed across the pit then all was silent. Both the crowd and Bron looked in stunned amazement at the staff gripped tightly in Bojan’s huge fist.
“No,” the ogre champion rumbled. “NO!” he shouted, drawing out the word until it became a roar of defiance.
Bron watched the jaundiced whites of the ogre’s eyes turn red as his already bestial face twisted into rage-fueled hate. He stood, ripped the staff from Bron’s hands, and flung it high into the air. It sailed behind him, creating a whumping sound as it twirled out of the pit and into the crowd of spectators, striking one unfortunate viewer between the eyes with enough force to stagger him.
The druid struck out with his fist, catching Bojan square in the jaw as he charged forward. The champion did not register the blow in the slightest. He grabbed Bron near the elbow with one hand and gripped him at his crotch with the other. Bojan lifted the half-ogre’s stout body as easily as that of a child and ran across the arena with him held near head height before slamming him bodily against the unyielding stone cliff.
Stars and supernovas erupted behind Bron’s eyes at the stunning impact. He once again felt the peculiar sense of weightlessness until his body struck the ground with a dull thud and cloud of dust. His senses so dazed, he barely registered the bone-crushing impact. Then Bojan was on him, pummeling him with fists like anvils until he sensed nothing but darkness until even that faded to oblivion.
Reality returned to Bron with the sound of rushing water. A mixture of odd scents filled the air, and he found himself staring at the grey stone of a cavern ceiling when he finally managed to open his eyes. He turned his head left and recognized the crude paintings on the wall as the ones belonging to Kramloc. Turning his head to the right, he saw the shaman bustling about near his table of herbalist equipment.
“Do you know why you lost?” Kramloc asked without turning.
Bron worked his tongue around in his mouth and managed to answer. “He was bigger, stronger, and a better fighter than me.”
The shaman turned toward him holding a hollowed and dried gourd. “No, you lost because you have yet to acknowledge your other half. You still cling to your goddess and humanity, and it weakens you. If you do not understand what it means to be ogre, you will always be weak.”
“Then why am I still alive? Why did Bojan not kill me, or are you going to execute me in some horrible public spectacle?”
Kramloc shook his head. “That is what you expect of us. Nothing but cruel monsters who revel in causing pain and death, and you are partially correct. When in the blood lust, we can be quite savage, but we revere death even more than life. I allowed you to live because I believe your words are worthy and wish to offer you another chance.”
“If you think my words important, why do you not just hear them?” Bron asked in frustration.
“Because it is not our way. Your words may be worthy, but you are not. You must understand what it means to be Kin.”
“How do I learn that?”
“You cannot. To understand what we are, what you are, is a matter of heart and blood, not one of mind. It is not logic to be studied, it is raw and elemental. It is passion, anger, and courage. No creature can learn those things.”
“If I cannot learn it, how am I supposed to understand it? How can I prove myself worthy?”
“You simply must be. Accept your other half and be ogre.”
“You still answer me with riddles.”
“Your confusion and ignorance does not make my words a riddle.”
“What happens now?”
“I will share with you some of our history, and then perhaps you will begin to understand and even accept your heritage. Then you will fight Bojan once more on the morrow.”
Bron winced in pain. “I do not think I can get out of this bed much less fight.”
The shaman smiled. “You will be able to fight, and you will win, or you will die. Drink this.”
Bron took the gourd and brought it to his mouth. The smell made his eyes burn and he balked. Looking at the shaman, he held his breath and poured the concoction down his throat. It felt like Bojan had just hit him again. His stomach twisted into a knot and his blood burned as if on fire. His vision wavered and the room began to spin. Bron tried to steady his sight by focusing on one of the images painted on the wall. It seemed to help for a moment until the drawing began to move.
He closed his eyes tightly, but the images still danced in his mind as drums beat a deep rhythm. His heart took up the cadence as it thrummed wildly in his chest. Bron was unsure when he had fallen asleep, if indeed he had, but when he next opened his eyes, dim sunlight was creeping through the flap covering the opening. As the light slowly began to intensify, Bron knew it was already dawn.
“Let us hope the light of a new dawn illuminates the dark corners to which you have banished your better half.”
Bron followed the voice and found Kramloc sitting in a roughly constructed chair and wondered if the shaman had slept at all. If he had not, then he obviously did not need it because he looked far more refreshed and prepared to face the day than Bron felt.
“Stand,” the shaman ordered. “You have no time to lie about.”
Bron wanted to do nothing except lay there, but he mustered his strength and forced his stiff and aching legs over the side of the bed. The dull ache from numerous abused muscles elicited a hiss of discomfort as he fought to stand. Bron paused, sitting on the edge of the bed before pushing himself to his feet.
“I cannot fight Bojan in my condition,” Bron stated.
“Your human blood declares you once again by speaking falsehoods. You can and will fight. You simply cannot win.”
“Then this will be an execution.”
“If you make it so, yes. Those who are not Kin cannot leave this valley. It is our last refuge, and it must remain secret. If you wish to live you must become Kin.”
“What now?” Bron asked, deciding
it was pointless to wage any further protests.
“You will go to the Passage of Lore. Perhaps if you see our history, you will accept and even embrace your heritage. Then you will face Bojan once again so we may see if you have learned anything.”
“Embrace a people who violated my mother and created me so that I could live as an outcast? Embrace a people who only value violence to prove their worth and who murder a messenger without hearing the words that might prevent their doom? Show me your cave and carry out your execution, but I will not accept the savagery of your kind. If I am to die, it will be with the peace and love of Ellanee in my heart.”
“Such a foolishly human conviction,” Kramloc said as he walked out of his cave.
Bron followed the shaman down the narrow cliffside path, his bones and muscles aching the entire way. They followed the face of the escarpment for more than a mile without coming across another ogre. Had he not been so focused on his discomfort, Bron might have pondered the lack of activity in the previously bustling community.
Kramloc stopped before a narrow fissure in the mountainside. It looked as though a giant axe had split the cliff face in twain. The sky was a narrow strip of blue several hundred feet above the passage. Bron could not see the end, but he had the feeling it opened to another region of the valley.
Kramloc handed the gourd to Bron. “Drink this. It will help prepare you for what you face.”
Bron looked at the vessel with its noxious contents, and his stomach twisted in anticipation of its vileness. “I would rather not die with that foulness in my body.”
“It is not a request. If you hope to have the slightest chance of victory, you will drink it.”
The druid took the flask and stared hesitantly at it for a moment before he pulled the stopper, steeled himself against the awful taste and unpleasant effects, and downed it in a single gulp. Despite holding his breath in an effort to keep from tasting it, the vile liquid still traced a bitter, revolting path down his gullet and into his stomach. He shuddered as he fought back the cramping nausea the concoction induced and steadied himself against the vertigo washing over his mind.
“Follow the path through the Passage of Lore. Pay special mind to images painted upon the walls, and perhaps you will finally understand your heritage. At the end, you will find Bojan. If you have learned what the passage shows you and accepted your other half, you may have a chance of victory. If you do not, then your journey through this life is over, and I hope you find a greater path to follow in the next one. You will fight as an ogre, without magic, or you will forfeit your life with dishonor.”
The shaman’s words came to him as if from the bottom of a well, but he understood them and took several wavering steps into the fissure. Only a few yards in, Bron saw innumerable images painted upon the walls, covering the rocky surface for as far as he could see. He braced himself against the wall with an outstretched hand to catch his balance. The painted image of an ogre writhed beneath his palm. Bron snatched back his hand and saw that all the pictures were moving, dancing around like marionettes on strings. The druid shook his head in an attempt to break the hallucinations created by Kramloc’s foul brew, but still the paintings moved. Deciding there was little else he could do, Bron took several cautious steps down the path. The animated pictures continued to draw his eyes, and he began to study them in more detail.
Starting at the images nearest the entrance, Bron began to piece together their meaning. They were not random drawings, but a history in art form. A dragon watched over a cluster of humans, dwarves, elves, ogres, goblins, and orcs as well other races. High above the dragon, faceless heads towered over them all. He could see and feel their disdain despite their lack of features.
One of the ogres stood up from his labors and hurled a stone at the dragon. Other ogres, followed by the rest of the figures, took up stones and cast them at their overlord. The dragon fought furiously, and many of the figures perished, but they succeeded in bringing the dragon down. Man, elf, dwarf, and brutes danced and reveled in their victory until the faceless ones descended and hurled flaming mountains against them, extinguishing their lives in the blink of an eye.
In another painted montage, dwarves beat upon metal blacker than the heart of the abyss. Elves stole the secret of the faceless ones’ power and shared it with the humans. The human wizards and dwarves used this power to imbue six magnificent sets of armor, one for each champion of the major races. The elves created creatures born of elf and dragon, and together the mortal races battled for their freedom and lives.
The world trembled beneath the terrible power of the faceless ones. The Scions shattered entire mountains and raised greater ones in their place. Dragons and gods struck furiously at their revolting slaves, blood flowed like rivers, and death raged across the world like a fierce wind. Still the mortals fought and died, but none so greatly as the brute races. The powerful ogres often led the vanguard of the attacks, fearlessly throwing themselves into the maws of the dragons and against the blades and claws of the monsters summoned by the faceless gods. Even the goblins, thought weak and cowardly by most, swarmed their enemies with their vast numbers. Leading every battle, were the six heroes of the races, their black armor shedding the blows of their enemies as surely as the blood that refused to mar its gleaming surface.
Still the people died and their cause seemed bleak, so they prayed for help, sending their pleas out into the cosmos for anyone who would listen. When all seemed lost, their prayers were answered. Four beings proclaiming to be gods gathered the elves, their champion, and their strange Guardians and took the fight to faceless ones’ celestial home. Without the faceless ones’ divine power, the dragons and their minions began to fall and the war turned in favor of the mortal races. The elves lost their hero and many of their Guardians, but they managed to banish the faceless ones with the aid of the new gods.
Many races, fearful of this new freedom and desiring safety and peace above all else, hid themselves away deep beneath the earth. Those who chose the light of the sun lived in peace—for a time. Never content, the humans began expanding. The elves retreated in the face of the rapidly growing human populations. The other races tried to coexist with the humans, but their cultures and need for land to live upon collided. Humans refused to abide by borders, and clashes with the brute races ensued. The Kin tried to fight back, but their numbers suffered decimation in the Great revolution like no others. Hero battled hero and blood flowed once more until they threatened to finish the job the faceless ones left incomplete. The brute races chose to retreat farther into the mountains and valleys considered too inhospitable to be desired by the humans.
The paintings grew still once more as Bron tried to decipher their meaning. His blood still burned, but now his head swam with the images and their significance. Everything he had held true regarding the ogre and their Kin was in question. Deep in his heart, he had held hatred for what they had done to his mother and for the pain of his own existence. For the first time, he wondered which was the nobler race.
By the time Bron reached the end of the passage, his head cleared and his balance was back to normal. Most of the aches and pains had dulled to shadows of their former selves. The crevice opened into a small glade measuring a few hundred feet across and was surrounded by high walls created by the network of bare, stone ridges. Tracking his eyes along the peaks of the ridges, it appeared as though the tiny valley continued farther on. Movement ahead of him snapped his attention to the center of the small clearing. Bojan stepped out of a cluster of cottonwood trees and stood smiling at Bron, greatly anticipating their rematch.
Bron scanned the walls of the glade once more, but he and the ogre champion were alone. This was not a match to be viewed by spectators for their enjoyment. This was a fight to the death, held to defend each warrior’s ideals and sense of duty and purpose. Bron summoned his courage and faith, trusting in Ellanee to help him complete his mission.
A shrill cry brought his attention to a small c
age hanging from one of the cottonwood trees. “B.S., get me outta here!”
His heart sunk seeing Trielle in a cage, her tiny hands tugging futilely at the bars. “Let her go! This about me, not her.”
Bojan said nothing and just stood smiling. The druid hefted his staff and slowly approached Bojan as he desperately ran tactics through his mind. He could not even consider trying to break through the massive ogre’s defenses. Trading blows was out of the question. Due to his size, Bojan had a slight reach advantage as well. Bron’s only option was to strike quickly and slowly grind the ogre down, much like trying to chop down a large tree with a hatchet. Only this tree was intent on falling upon him and crushing his body to a pulp.
Bojan stood nonchalantly, confident in his strength and previous victory as Bron approached. He did not even lift the end of his club from the ground. Bron thrust at the ogre’s face with the bronze capped end of his staff, which Bojan simply batted away as if shooing a pesky fly. Bron quickly retracted his staff and leapt back. It was a needless gesture as Bojan only stopped leaning on his club and plopped it onto his shoulder. The ogre extended his hand with a smile and made a beckoning motion.
The druid was not about to let his pride and anger at Bojan’s casual dismissal of his fighting prowess goad him into acting rashly. Bron slowly circled the ogre, searching for an opening. He lunged in, starting his swing high but dropping it low in mid stroke. The crack of wood and metal striking flesh resounded across the glade. Once again, Bron leapt away instead of pressing his successful attack.
Bojan swept his club off his shoulder and flexed his offended leg without letting the grin slip from his brutish face. He did finally adopt something of a fighting stance, obviously deciding the battle had begun in earnest. Bojan made a few noncommittal swipes at his opponent, which Bron easily avoided. Bron answered the moves by thrusting and slashing at Bojan whenever the club whisked past, but Bojan was able to deflect them with his weapon or slap them away with his hand.
The Sorcerer's Destiny (The Sorcerer's Path) Page 9