by Bill Ricardi
Pudgy just sighed. He turned to look down at where I was crouching, “If you’re hunting the wilds around here, you’re probably in for a bad time.”
I shook my cloaked head. As I tied the waterskins to my belt and rose to my feet, I replied to the farmer using a soft voice. “No, I’m here to maybe fix at least one of these hardships. I’m hunting a poacher, said to be taking sheep from around these parts.”
Pudgy’s eyes widened. “Well good on you. I heard about all that.”
Overalls piped in, “Godspeed ta ya, young man. Last places hit were jus’ northeast o’ here. Keep the river on yer left, ‘til ya see pinewood fences. Find th’ bastard an’ break him in two.”
I nodded. “Thanks. Fair travels.” was my reply. It was a useful bit of intel, and a decent place to start.
The farms in this area were nearly identical. They grew simple things such as potatoes and carrots, and nearly all of them kept large flocks of sheep. Sheep could be sheared for the wool, and eventually turned into mutton in their older years.
After speaking to a couple of locals, I knew I was in the right place. They were angry, and more than happy to share what information they had to help catch the sheep rustler. Within an hour, I knew every farm that had been hit during the last full moon. The poacher had been targeting younger adult sheep, likely because they were lighter weight and less experienced in evasion than their older kin.
While there was still light, I scoured the low foothills nearby the last couple of thefts. There was no physical sign of disturbance. I went to two of the more easily traveled routes through the foothills and tried to detect any magic in the area… nothing. As the sun died, I mounted the tallest of the foothills in the area, and dug in for the night.
There would be no fire tonight to keep me warm. Fire would give away my location and either scare off the poacher, or worse, make me a target. My cloak would be my mattress, and my new travelling blanket the cocoon that kept the night air at bay. I primarily watched a particular farm. This farm hadn’t been hit yet, if the locals were to be believed. A section of fence on the farm’s back acre was in disrepair. There seemed to be little or no sign of guard or herding dogs on the property. In short, it was a tasty target.
The bulk of the night passed without incident. I was able to make note of grazing patterns, herd behaviour, and the like. In the final hour of moonlight, just as I was about to take out my rations for a cold dinner of dry fruit, something moved in the hills below me. I schooled my breathing and held perfectly still.
The figure was distant. I could see that it was watching the same farm that I was. It stalked with an eerie precision that denoted at least some intelligence above that of an animal. It acted like something at the top of the food chain, indicated by the fact that it was far more focused on its prey than on looking for tricks or ambushes. This was a hunter, not the hunted.
Nothing happened that night. It watched, I watched it watch. When eventually the creature loped off, dawn was just around the corner.
I headed down to the area where the figure had been. Though I wasn’t an expert ranger by any means, certain things were clear. The creature walked upright, at least some of the time. The footprints were heavy in the damp sod. It didn’t leave any lasting magical sign in the area. And it had some measure of patience, or at least a ritual or routine that it stuck to.
I followed the tracks back into the foothills, but eventually the trail went cold. At least I had an idea of where it might be coming from. I covered my own trail as best I could, and headed back up to camp. After casting my Augmentation, I laid down to sleep away the morning and early afternoon, wrapped in a dew-covered blanket from head to toe. I would need a long rest in order to memorize my magical arsenal for the next night. I was well prepared for this, pushing the reservoir of my intellect right to the limit of my current power level. This would allow me to prepare and cast a few cantrips, three basic spells, and three more advanced spells without risking permanent damage to my mind. I decided on a purely offensive routine. Once our paths crossed, I had no plans to be subtle.
As the afternoon gave way to night, dark clouds gathered. I was worried… if the night was going to be overcast, perhaps the thief would wait for a more clear and well lit night. I needn’t have worried. As with most rain storms these days, it didn’t last long. Enough water fell from the sky to tease thirsty plants and hopeful farmers, but not much more. Within an hour the clouds had retreated.
This time, I didn’t have to wait long. The creature was brazen. It approached from exactly the same hill that it had used to scout its prey the night before. The full moon had just crested over the horizon, and it was very likely that some humans were still awake in the farmhouse. Pursuit from the locals could be started in less than ten minutes if this creature was detected.
I waited until the wind shifted, blowing from the slightly pungent fields onto the damp hillsides. Knowing that my own scent couldn’t carry to the creature, I quietly made my way closer. It meant losing sight of the thief as I descended from my larger hill and mounted the smaller one that was close to where the creature entered the valley.
A few minutes later, I struggled to spot the interloper. In fact I was struggling to keep myself oriented. A light fog had rolled in due to the cool night air being unable to hold all of the recent moisture. I had this sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach. Low visibility, unfamiliar ground, only the scent of cattle in the air… it felt like I had possibly trapped myself. In just a few minutes, nature had turned me from the hunter into the prey.
It had never occurred to me that a sheep might someday save my life. But when the panicked bleating reached my ears, I knew exactly where the danger was. I turned quickly and got my footing on the hillside. At least I would have a fighting chance.
Then again, it had never occurred to me that a sheep might someday try to kill me.
The memory is etched in my mind forever. Out of the mist, it got larger, far too quickly. The fluffy white quadruped, mouth hanging open in a protracted scream. Those four fuzzy limbs flailing for purchase but finding nothing but air. This sheep wasn’t charging, it was flying. A fluffy, living boulder. A ruminant missile.
The grazing impact of the sheep’s sturdy chest upon my shoulder probably saved it from multiple broken legs, as knocking me down stole much of the fuzzy beast’s momentum. Sadly, the impact sent me tumbling down the hillside. I tried to get my bearings: I was near the bottom of the grassy hill, somewhat close to its more rocky neighbor. The conjoining of the two hills formed a natural footpath. I had emerged with just scrapes and bruises, but disoriented as the real threat arrived.
The first tomahawk came in low and flew between my legs even as I stood up. I quickly held up my hand in front of my chest, fingers curled inwards as in if holding something. My incantation finished just in time, as the second and third tomahawks bounced off my Invisible Shield. The creature stalked out of the fog, giving me my first good look at the infamous sheep rustler.
Half-ogres. The offspring of a human male and an ogre female, never the other way around since the size of the child would surely kill a human mother. It is said that this sort of breeding happens during the unholy rituals of some of the old gods. Less frequently, it might be the result of an ogre female capturing a human male and having a bit of fun before dispatching him.
Whatever the circumstances of his birth, this particular half-ogre was holding a massive club in one hand. He was wearing a sheepskin loincloth and not much else. The creature had rage in his hazy yellow eyes.
I quickly backpedaled until I was on the path between the two hills, keeping my Shield up just in case the creature was dumb enough to throw that club. Sadly, he did not. Instead the eight foot tall beast started to circle. He slowly tightened his spiral until he was well within range for a melee assault.
I dodged the first swing, though it was probably a fraction too high to hit my head either way. Using the half-ogre’s recovery time from that off-balanced a
ttack, I reached into my pouch with a free hand. Grabbing a component from one of the little slots inside made me feel a bit more prepared. I just needed him to circle a little bit more.
Sadly, as the half-ogre circled, he also swung. From my right side, the club whistled in at the perfect height, with all of the rage and power that the wielder’s species was known for. My Invisible Shield shattered under the impact, and some of the momentum carried the swing through until weathered wood met fragile ribs. My vision flashed white as an unbidden scream was torn from my throat. The pain as well as the energy from the clubbing caused me to stagger a few feet to the left.
Which is exactly where I needed to be.
Now it was my turn to break some ribs. The material that I had palmed remained, as it wasn’t for this particular spell. I unleashed my Force Bolt and it struck the half-ogre on the left side. He staggered back, finding himself against the steep, rocky incline of the neighboring hill. Disturbingly, he didn’t make a single sound of pain. His counterattack was immediate and vicious, drawing and throwing his final tomahawk in a single underhanded motion. The spinning blade struck my left shoulder a glancing blow. It was mostly a flesh wound, but it started to bleed heavily given how quickly my heart was racing.
Fighting through the pain, casting from one knee, I sent a stream of supernaturally strong webbing flying towards my feral foe. He looked confused for a moment, until he realized that he was trapped up against the steep face of that rocky hill. He let out a frustrated scream. The sound that echoed through the valley was something between the cry of an angry child and the bellow of a wounded buffalo.
The drain on my mind was noticeable now. If I had been at my peak intelligence, I might have headed for higher ground to wage a long war of attrition. But my less intelligent, more angry persona fished out some beetle innards. As the creature tore free of the webs, a volley of green acidic bolts flew from my fingertips. They peppered that broad chest. The sizzling and smoking was horrific.
The wounded thief was quickly free of his bonds. Enraged, he charged my position with that club held aloft. Again, a smarter me would have assessed all of the options available, would have considered a downhill retreat. Bounding down these hills would be easier to navigate on my smaller legs than on my opponent’s huge tree trunks. But the less intelligent me had only one thing on his mind:
‘Let’s do that again.’
The final major spell that I had prepared was the same as the last. This time the acidic bolts sailed in on their target from five paces away. Each impact was a sickening hiss. I thought something had gone wrong for a split second. There was a black spot with a silver glow on the half-ogre’s chest that I couldn’t account for.
It was only when the creature fell to his knees a scant two paces away from me that I realized the truth. I was seeing the moonlight reflect off of the rocky hill behind my foe. The last Acid Bolt spell had hollowed out his chest, burned out his heart, and left a hole clean through the beast’s back.
Every movement brought a fresh wave of pain, but the alternative to moving was not moving and that would eventually mean death. So although everything I would do over the course of the next day would be slow and agonizing, I got on with it.
Tomahawks were gathered, and one was used to cut off the half-ogre’s ear as confirmation of the completed bounty. Next, I performed the binding of my wounds as best I could. Finally, I found the creature’s trail, and trekked back towards its lair. It was an hour into the foothills before I found what I was looking for… though it must be said that what I found was not what I expected, even in my relatively stupid state.
In a dark nook where three hills met and dropped off, a crude wooden gate and a primitive shelter had been constructed. The thief hadn’t been stealing sheep and rams for the meat, at least not directly. He had kept them alive. He was breeding them, in fact! There were pens filled with creatures, the older ones bearing the semi-permanent paint marks of various farms, while the younger ones were unbranded. Clearly the plan was to breed up a significant meat supply with his stolen livestock, sacrificing only grass and water in the process.
As the sheep were unmolested, this was probably a safe place to rest. I took the most comfortable spot within the half-ogre’s smelly little lean-to, and slept.
The morning brought with it more pain of course, but more importantly, the opportunity to transition into my intelligence-building spell set. Between enhancements and augmentations, I took inventory of my gains. There was a smattering of silver and copper coins, which would be a welcome resupply for my intelligence enhancement material components. Rations in such a bad state, only a half-ogre could stomach them. A dagger that was actually very fine in quality; something that I would have bought myself prior to this mission if I was flush with funds. And a small cast iron pot in excellent condition. All said, it wasn’t much of a haul. Perhaps the extra sheep would yield some gold from one of the ranchers. However it was clear that the main financial gain was going to be the bounty itself.
As a matter of habit, because Shaman would have done it if he were here, I cast a Detect Magic cantrip on the small loot pile.
...and something glowed other than my amulet.
I rubbed my eyes, half thinking I was imagining this. But the glow remained. And the source of the glow was none other than that small cast iron pot, of all things. I examined it for an inscription, and sure enough, something was written on the bottom in letters that shined through the pot’s revealed aura. But it was nothing that I could read at the moment.
I strapped my new dagger to my belt, and put everything of value into my new pot. Spirits lifted, I heaped some grass into the pens from a supply that the former resident had collected. They seemed to get the picture, and started to munch away. I left my new charges to their rather bland breakfast. Fighting through the ache in my ribcage, I made my way back to the original camp.
Though it took a few hours longer than a healthy orc would have managed, I packed up my things and then headed down to one of the farms that was named on the bounty. The landowner was suspicious to receive a bulky, hobbling visitor with his face buried in the hood of a cloak. But that suspicion rapidly turned to joy when I told him the good news. He took the ear as proof, and sent one of his daughters on horseback to check on the location of the stolen sheep.
While waiting for confirmation, other local farmers were gathered and they were told that most of their missing livestock were fine. There was both hooting and hollering. Eventually one of the farmers agreed to buy the offspring, which was technically my property as it wasn’t covered by the bounty. We settled on a price of five gold and a wagon ride back into town. It was a good price for him, and a welcome mode of transport for this wounded orc.
Eventually the daughter came back, looking quite pale. She dismounted without a word and stared at the gathered men.
After an awkward moment, her father asked, “Well, is it true, they’re all up there?”
She nodded, mutely. Then turned her wide eyed gaze on me for some reason.
The farmer’s celebrated… more hooting, more hollering. But the father peered curiously at his daughter once again. “What’s wrong?”
She cleared her throat and then got up the courage to murmur, “Yonder sir seems to have burned a hole clean through the thief’s chest, pa.”
There was a moment of silence from the farmers, as all eyes turned on me. I felt suddenly unsafe, and looked up at the nearby horse as a possible escape route.
Then an anonymous voice near the back of the pack of humans said, “Way-hey!”
And the rest of them started cheering once again. Except for the daughter, who wandered inside to find something alcoholic to imbibe.
The farmers happily signed confirmation that the contract was complete, and wished me luck on my journeys. The extra five gold pieces arrived when my ride back into Limt did, and I thanked the young man that handed it to me almost as heartily as the farmers had thanked me. He gave me a shy smile, then
said, “Hop in th’ back mister, should be nice ‘n soft with all th’ wool piled up.”
With a fully rested team of horses, and no need to stop for investigation, stealth, or resupply, the trip back into town was rapid. We arrived a couple hours after nightfall, and I was dropped off just a single block from The Magic Shop. I bid the lad a good time at market tomorrow and a safe trip back, then I walked the final leg of my round-trip journey.
I threw half a dozen pebbles at the upstairs window before I saw a friendly face peer down at me. In no time at all, my friends were ushering me inside. Rick went to make some tea, while Will admonished me over the state of my body. Begrudgingly, the smaller human admitted that the bandaging job was pretty good, but suggested we see a cleric in the morning.
Rick was returning with a steaming mug when the topic of a cleric came up. “A very good idea Sorch, as you don’t want your wounds to fester or heal badly.” He handed the drink over. “They’ll expect a donation of a few gold for the service however. Which should be alright if your trip was a success?”
I filled them in on all of the details. Of course, they were most excited about the pot.
Will took the cast iron pot over to the front counter as he said, “We really have to teach you the cantrip to read magic inscriptions. Cleverly called: Read Magic. We can have a go in the morning. I have a spare jeweler’s loop I can give you. It doesn’t get consumed by the spell, so you can use it over and over.”
I nodded, then glanced at Rick. He looked like he might be thinking the same thing… Will had far too much energy and enthusiasm for this time of night.
The smaller human cast his spell, then peered at the bottom of the pot through the loop. “Aha! Minotaur scribing. Mmm hmmm. Okay. Sorch, this is a self heating pot. Three times in a day you can touch the handle or the side and say the word ‘Blaze’. The pot will heat up as in if over a hot campfire for up to one hour, and then instantly turn itself off. Or you can force it to cool back down by touching the handle and saying the key word again before the time expires. Cute!”