Protector Of The Grove (Book 2)

by Trevor H. Cooley

  She gave him a slight glower. She knew he was manipulating her, but his request made sense. Using one of Ewzad’s spells, she touched the top of Shade’s head and the grime and gore fell right off of him, leaving his clothes and appearance as if he had been freshly bathed and dressed. The steward gave Aloysius a short bow, then gave Mellinda a nervous, though interested look, then trotted off towards the oncoming imp scouts.

  “That was the last spell I’ll do for free,” Mellinda said to the scholar. “Do I now have your full attention?”

  “Undivided,” he said.

  She gave him her most alluring smile, the one that had melted men back in her youth. “It became evident to me as Arcon tried to recreate the process of making a rogue horse that it was a difficult endeavor that would take years of practice and failure before we had any chance of success. Now that I am in control I see no reason to continue.”

  He frowned, unimpressed by her smile or her dour prediction. “And your proposal?”

  “I have been giving some thought to the army that you are raising in Malaroo,” she said, doing her best to puff out her chest. That had usually worked well on males in the past. “Before my imprisonment I was working on a project of my own in Malaroo.”

  “I have heard of your ‘project’, Troll Queen.” Aloysius said.

  He wasn’t even looking at her chest. Was she doing something wrong or was he really just that focused of a gnome?

  “You know what your problem is?” Arcon asked suddenly. His voice sounded like it was coming from inside her mind and yet she could hear it in her ears at the same time. “You don’t really remember what it is to be human. If only you could watch yourself from the outside right now you’d see that, while you’re trying to be alluring, you’re just coming off as unsettling.”

  She frowned. What are you doing, listening in? I thought I put you away.

  “I got out,” Arcon replied angrily. “Get used to my voice. I don’t think you have the ability to completely lock me away.”

  We shall see about that. She shoved him back down again.

  The gnome scholar cleared his throat. “Would you come to your point? I do have other business to attend to.”

  “You have no business more important than what I am about to offer you,” she promised. “That little project of mine was incomplete. What I am offering you is the Jharro Grove.”

  * * *

  An ogre should not leave his tribe, Burl thought as he climbed the steep, cliff-like slope. The hand-holds were shallow for his large fingers and he often had to scrape ice from the rocks with his fingernails in order to gain secure purchase. The wind was stiff and cold. The snow blasting against the exposed skin on his face and arms felt like daggers.

  Burl believed that nature itself was trying to tear him free from the rock. He hadn’t grown up believing in any gods, but he was no longer the ogre that had descended from the mountains with the Barldag’s army. After everything he had seen and heard, Burl found himself believing in many things. He was sure that the wind itself could taste these changes within him and the spirit of the wind was angry.

  He pressed his thick forehead against the cold mountainside and closed his eyes, feeling the wind pulling at him, attempting to send him tumbling to his death. His prizes from the war were no help. The chainmail shirt he wore under his skins weighed him down, and the long sword sheathed at his waist was nearly as heavy and burdensome. A lesser being would have fallen already, but instead of feeling fear, the ogre smiled.

  Burl knew he deserved the wind’s fury, but the wind would lose this battle. The rock under his fingers was strong. This was firm rock, unlike the crumbly rock of the land of the small peoples. He had grown up on this mountain and despite the anger of the wind, the spirit of the rock had not rejected him. This cliff felt like home. In fact, the pattern of the handholds seemed oddly familiar.

  Was it possible? Had he been in this area before? Burl breathed in deeply. The way the cold stabbed at his lungs felt right. The splotches of dead lichen on the face of the rock looked like the lichen he had grown up with. He ground his fingertips into the rock, feeling the grain. A laugh escaped his lips. He was close. After so long away, he was close.

  He continued upwards slowly but steadily, his heartbeat quickening as he went. When he crested the ridge, Burl saw that he was right. A familiar landscape opened up before him.

  Stubby pines and junipers dotted the mountainside, scattered among tufts of stubborn grass and boulders. Wearing a wide grin, the ogre climbed up to the edge of a winding mountain path and placed his hands on top of a large boulder parked next to the trail. Carved into the rock was a jagged lightning bolt, the mark of the Thunder People tribe.

  Letting his guard down for the first time in months, Burl raised his large arms into the air and let out a roar of joy. His deep voice echoed along the mountainside, causing a bevy of snowbirds to take to the harsh winds in fright. The carvings on this boulder were fresh. The Thunder People still existed.

  Rumors had spread throughout the Barldag’s army that the Thunder People had been destroyed. The Dark Mistress herself had even told him of their demise. But Burl had refused to believe it.

  When the war ended, the other ogres had told him to forget his former tribe and stay down in the vibrant green lands to the south. But Burl had refused to become weak like them. Staying off of the usual paths and roads and avoiding the other remnants of the Barldag’s army, he had finally found his way home.

  Now he just needed to convince the current chieftain to let him rejoin the tribe. He wasn’t sure who that was. When he’d left to join the Barldag’s army, the position of chief was still very much in doubt.

  “You! Stop!” shouted a gruff voice.

  Burl whirled around, drawing his sword and turning to face the threat. An ogre was standing not far away. He was wearing heavy winter furs and his posture was threatening. He had a large rock held over his head, ready to throw. He was ugly, with a balding head and a jutting brow more prominent than most.

  Burl smiled, recognizing him as Rub, one of Old Falog’s sons. “Rub! It is me! Burl!”

  Rub scowled at the mention of his name. “You not Burl! Burl is dead.” As he spoke two more ogres joined him, coming out of concealment behind large boulders at the side of the path.

  “I am Burl!” he insisted. Burl didn’t recognize these new ogres. One was tall; taller than most ogres; perhaps taller than Fist, though not as bulky. He held a wide club in his hand. The other one was more of average height, but his winter furs were made of wolf skin and he had a tall shock of black hair atop his head. He gripped a long spear with a stone tip.

  Rub made as if to throw the rock and Burl let out a roar of challenge. “If you throw that rock, I will catch it. Then I beat your face!”

  Rub’s eyes widened and a smile grew on his ugly face. “You is Burl!” He dropped the rock and walked closer. He peered at Burl’s strange clothing. “You not dead!”

  Burl rolled his eyes. Rub had never been a smart one. “Who are these?” he said, gesturing at the other ogres.

  Rub gestured and the other two came closer. He pointed to the tall one. “This is Bash.” He punched the ogre with the gray skins in the arm. “He is Drog.”

  “What is this?” the ogre named Drog said, poking Burl’s chainmail with the end of his spear.

  “It is a metal skin,” Burl said proudly. “I winned it from the Barldag army.”

  “Metal skins!” The one called Drog spat. “An evil thing.”

  Burl turned on him and his eyes narrowed as he noticed for the first time a scar on the ogre’s hand. It was thick twisted scar shaped like a flickering flame.

  “You are Fire People!” Burl declared. The Fire People tribe was a lesser one, but fierce. Their warriors were branded with their tribe’s symbol when they became old enough to fight.

  “No!” Drog shouted, giving Burl a glare. He pulled open the front of his winter furs to expose a scar in the shape of a lightning bolt in
the center of his chest. The scar was angry and red as if just a few months old. “I am Thunder People now.”

  Burl frowned. So this Drog was an exiled ogre taken in by the Thunder People? That was rarely done in the successful tribes. Crag had refused to do it as long as Burl could remember. Perhaps the new chieftain had changed things. He looked to the one called Bash. “And you?”

  “I was Rock People, but I would not leave the mountain for the Barldag.” Bash slammed his heavy fist onto his chest. “I am Thunder People now.”

  “We was small after you left,” Rub said, pointing an accusing finger at Burl. “But now we is big. The Thunder People is the best!”

  The two others nodded proudly and Burl smiled. For what they had told him to be true, the new leader was indeed taking in a lot of outcasts. This was good news for Burl. Surely he would have no problem being accepted back into the tribe. “Good! Take me to the chief so I can be Thunder People again!”

  Rub hesitated. “But we is hunting and . . . Crag will not want you. He curses you. He curses all his sons.”

  “But . . . Crag is dead,” said Burl in surprise.

  “He is not!” said Drog.

  Bash laughed. “Crag can not be killed. He is like rock!”

  “You know this,” Rub said, gaving Burl a confused look. “Even big Fist could not kill him.”

  “Fist almost did,” Burl said.

  “Bah!” said Rub dismissively. “Fist hit Crag until his own hands broke and still Crag lived. Then Fist gived up and runned away.”

  “That is not what happened,” Burl said, his brow furrowed. He had been there that night. He had seen Fist’s brutality as he had sat atop Crag, bashing the chieftain’s face until his fists were red with blood. He had seen the horror in Fist’s eyes as he had realized he had almost killed his father. Fist had run away out of shame.

  “It is too!” Rub insisted. “I saw it like you. Fist runned scared when Crag would not die.”

  “The story is known,” Drog agreed.

  “But . . .” Burl stopped as he understood that the Thunder People had changed the story. Ogres did that sometimes, willfully choosing to believe a falsehood so that their lives made sense. It was a necessity for a culture as base as theirs. The truth made Crag weak. If it was remembered how soundly he had been beaten, Crag could not have stayed chief. Burl knew how close he had come to losing the position in the days after Fist left.

  It had taken Crag many days to recover from the battle enough to speak. Once he had, everyone had been surprised when he declared a change of mind. Fist had convinced him. The Thunder People would not join the Barldag’s army.

  There had been an uproar. Both Old Falog and the ogre mage Tralg had tried to take control of the tribe. Old Falog had finally backed down, but most of the warriors had left with Tralg. Burl had left with them, as had most of Crag’s other sons. They had left sure that Crag would not survive long in his weakened state.

  “Gerstag said he killed Crag with his own hands,” Burl mumbled, still in shock at the development. This was not good. Crag had been very angry with him when he left.

  “Who is this Gerstag?” asked Rub, his ugly face twisted with suspicion.

  “He is no one,” Burl said quickly. He should not have spoken his thoughts aloud.

  “He is Rock People,” said the one called Bash. The tall ogre’s features mirrored the suspicion of the other two. He spat. “He is leader in the Barldag’s army.”

  “Not now. He is dead,” Burl said.

  “You know this?” Bash said, skeptically.

  “It is a known thing. Fist killed him.” Burl hadn’t been there when it happened, but the rumors had spread through the army about the large ogre that had come to the humans’ rescue and killed the leader. That had happened early on in the war though. This Bash must have left the Barldag’s army a long time ago.

  This news excited Rub. The ugly ogre’s eyes widened and he grabbed the front of Burl’s mail shirt. “You seed Fist?”

  Burl smacked Rub’s fingers away. “I did.”

  “Crag will want you then,” Rub said, his eyes eager.

  This was what Burl wanted to hear and yet his smile faltered before it reached his lips. “Crag wants to hear of Fist?”

  “Yes! He tells us to look for Fist,” Rub said. The other two ogres nodded.

  Burl swallowed. His news of Fist was not pleasant. How would the chief react? “Take me to him.”

  The ogres nodded and Rub started along the worn path. Burl was nervous as he followed him. Even though their meeting had not come to blows, they led him towards the tribal camp as they would a prisoner. Rub looked back over his shoulder repeatedly, keeping an eye on him, while Bash and Drog walked behind Burl with their weapons drawn and ready.

  Burl snorted. He walked with his back straight and his chin jutted out proudly. He was no prisoner. He was returning home to his people in triumph after having crushed many enemies in the war. Surely his father, Crag, would hear his tale and welcome him back.

  Nevertheless, as the ogres marched him across the ice-crusted and rocky landscape, Burl found himself asking, “Crag curses me still?”

  “Yes,” said Rub with a smile. “He curses all the sons that leaved. But not as much as before. Only on morning times and night times.”

  “Every day?” Burl asked, surprised. This was worse than he had thought.

  “When he is counting the womens!” Drog said with a laugh. “Crag needs many more sons now to grow the tribe.”

  Bash laughed with him, jabbing Burl with his club. Though Burl was relieved that Crags curses were a joke, he did not join in their laughter. They had boasted of the strength of the tribe earlier but if Crag was still cursing those that left, the Thunder People must still be struggling to regain their former glory.

  Burl felt the dread that had plagued him throughout his journey returning. What would he find once they reached the main tribal camp? What had his people become, a band of cast-offs and exiles? Were they still anything like the Thunder People he had remembered?

  The Thunder People’s tribal camp was set in a small valley between two peaks, cutting it off from the harshest of the winds. It also had a large central cave, which made it a prime location for ogres. This fact had been the cause of many attacks from other tribes who wanted it for themselves. Much of Burl’s youth had been spent defending this piece of land.

  They neared the camp, passing two outbound hunting groups and one huge ogre standing guard. Burl had never seen this one before. He was much bigger than Fist and carried a club almost as tall as Burl was. What was he? Part giant? He meant to ask the others, but as they came around the last bend in the trail the camp came into view.

  Burl had never seen his tribe so large. Ogres ran everywhere, back and forth, carrying hides and carcasses. There were several tents like the Rock People used and even new caves chiseled into the rock. “Why so many?”

  “I telled you we is the best!” Rub said proudly.

  “Many come from the war, but many more run from the evil,” Bash added.

  Burl frowned. “What evil?”

  “What is this?” shouted a large, gruff voice.

  Burl turned, smiling. “It is your son, Burl! I am returned!”

  Crag stomped over to him, a crowd of other ogre’s in tow. The grizzled ogre warrior looked much like Burl remembered. His nose was maybe squished a bit flatter. He may have had a few more scars. But that is what made Crag a strong chief. Every fight he survived made him look more intimidating.

  “You is not my son. You is a runner!” Crag growled.

  “I am a returner,” Burl argued. There was a firm difference between the cowardly act of running and what he had done by going to war. “I am Thunder People.”

  Crag’s eyes narrowed. “You are Tralg’s.”

  “No!” Burl spat. “I followed the Barldag. Not Tralg.” The stupid ogre mage had died during the first real battle Burl had seen.

  “Then why do you come back?” C
rag asked.

  “I was wrong,” Burl explained. “The Barldag lost.”

  Crag smiled. “You losed!” The chieftain turned to the other ogres assembled and raised his hands. “Burl losed to the little peoples and now Burl returns to beg me!” There was a scattering of laughter. Crag folded his arms. “The Thunder Peoples is big now. Why should I take you?”

  It was time to use his guaranteed way in. “I bringed this gift for you.” Burl pulled the sheathed sword from his waist and held it out to Crag handle first in the way he had seem the orc soldiers do. The heavy steel had not been polished or well-maintained in any way and bits of rust stained the edges of the blade, yet it still gleamed satisfyingly in the sun. “A great sword that can kill many.”

  Crag’s fist struck Burl’s face with a meaty thump. Burl stumbled backwards and fell over a rock, landing on his rump. The chief sneered at his confused expression. “I am a ogre!” shouted Crag, enraged. “I have my club. It is enough.”

  Burl blinked in surprise. “But you will need it. When Fist returns.”

  Crag shook his head. “He is dead. The Barldag’s wizard took him.”

  Burl suppressed a smile. So they didn’t know. He stood and raised his voice. “He is not. I seed him!” Burl turned so that all the assembled ogres would hear. “I seed Fist fighting with the small peoples against the Barldag!”

  Crag’s eyes went wide. “You seed this?”

  “He had a big armor and shield!” Burl proclaimed. “He bashed with a club of steel and he made lightnings with it!” He turned back to Crag. “Fist is a ogre mage much much stronger than Tralg was. If he comes back, you will need this sword.”

  “Do you lie, Burl the runner?” the chief warned.

  “No!” Burl said. “I seed it!

  “Fist is alive,” Crag said with wonder.