Eye of the Moonrat (The Bowl of Souls: Book One)

by Cooley, Trevor H.

  The beast swung its head around, trying to spear them. When it couldn’t reach them with its tusks, it tried to grab the ogres with its long trunk. The young ogres dodged out of the way. One of them jumped and clung to the beast’s hair, trying to climb up onto its back. The mammoth snared the ogre’s ankle with its trunk and hurled him into the trees.

  The beast began turning and stomping. Soon the two remaining hunters were in trouble. Those huge feet could crush a full-grown ogre. Fortunately for them, their leader saw the beast’s weakness.

  Fist waited until the creature was turned away from him before he rushed it. Large, even by ogre standards, Fists’s chest and arms bulged with muscles. With a mighty swing, he bashed the side of the mammoth’s knee with his club. The beast roared.

  “Bash the knees!” he shouted at the others and pounded the knee again. The joint gave with a crunch.

  Now the mammoth was the one in trouble. It was unbalanced, swinging about frantically trying to protect its injured leg. The other ogres were still too busy avoiding the creature’s flailing attacks, so Fist was forced to attack the front leg by himself. He waited until the beast was again occupied by the other ogres, then bashed away at the leg. The mammoth swung at him. Fist dove out of the way and the tusk missed his face by inches.

  He continued, darting in when his companions distracted his prey, then retreating when its heavy head turned to him. Soon, with one last bash, this leg gave in as well and the creature toppled over. Finally, with the mammoth unable to defend itself, the ogres were able to leap upon it and bash at its thick skull until it gave way.

  While the other three ogres howled and shouted praises to their own prowess, Fist looked down on the beast with respect. If he hadn’t been there, the other ogres wouldn’t have been able to take it down; in fact, some of them would have died. He quietly gave thanks to the spirit of the beast. Its meat would feed his tribe well, and its fur would keep them warm.

  When the ogres finished celebrating, Fist pointed out a new problem. The Mammoth was much too heavy for them to carry. The others wanted to drag their kill along the ground for the many miles back to their tribe, but Fist disagreed. This would destroy much of the furry pelt and possibly a lot of good meat. Instead, he instructed the ogres to knock a couple of trees over. Then they rolled the creature on top of the trunks and lashed it down with strips of leather. This way they could pick up the front end of the impromptu litter and drag it along the ground without damaging the carcass.

  As they pulled their kill along the long miles of mountain terrain to their territory, the three younger hunters boasted that the women would not dare refuse them that night. Fist’s thoughts ran in different directions. A kill of this magnitude would bring him much prestige in the tribe. They would be given a heroes’ welcome and the feast would be great. With a few more hunts as successful as this, Fist's ranking might surpass even Old Falog.

  Fist’s tribe was the Thunder People. It was fairly large with over a hundred warriors, and twice that number in women and children. Fist’s status had grown over the years so that he was basically third in command in his tribe. The only ogres higher in prestige were Old Falog and Fist’s father, Crag.

  Crag was the chieftain of Fist's tribe. His skills in battle were legendary among his people. With Crag in command, the tribe had grown in strength until The Thunder People had become one of the most feared Ogre tribes in the Trafalgan Mountains.

  Old Falog’s high status, on the other hand, came from the fact that he was the oldest ogre in the tribe. He boasted constantly and told tales of his prowess to the young ones, but in Fist’s opinion, it was selfishness in battle more than his fighting prowess or his wisdom that had kept Falog alive for so long.

  Fist wanted to surpass Falog so he could become chieftain when his father died. It wasn't because he wanted his father to die, or that he even wanted to be chieftain, but he did not trust Old Falog. If Falog ever became the chieftain, he felt the tribe would suffer. The old ogre would put his own needs before those of his people.

  The hunters expected fanfare upon their arrival but were disappointed when there wasn’t anyone to greet them at the territory border. To Fist’s surprise, there wasn’t even a guard posted. Grumbling, they continued to drag their prize along the trail towards the main tribal camp.

  Finally, a voice called out to them, telling them to stop. When they saw who it was, the hunters grimaced. It was a rather unattractive ogre female that every one called Marg the Gutter. She was the woman in the tribe who cleaned and divided the kills brought in by the hunters. This wasn’t a prestigious job like cooking, or tanning the hides to clothe the tribe, but it was necessary. The males didn't like her because she always stank from her job. Marg was constantly harassed by the other ogres and Fist tried to say a kind word to her whenever possible regardless of her stench.

  “Big one.” Marg looked up in awe at the huge carcass. The hunters waited as she stood there staring at it with her mouth open. Finally Fist nudged her and she showed them where she wanted the mammoth placed. She didn’t look happy about the task of cleaning this one out.

  “Get a little one next,” she remarked, frowning at the hunters.

  They rolled the beast on to a clean slab of rock. Marg used her teeth to cut the leather straps that tied the creature to the litter. The three other hunters wandered off to find company, but Fist stayed behind.

  “Where is everyone?”

  “They all in big cave.” She shrugged. “They say Tralg is here.”

  “Tralg?” Fist scowled. Tralg was an ogre mage. Ogre mages were rare; most ogres born with magical talent eventually blew themselves up. The mages didn’t belong to one particular tribe and usually kept to themselves. That one was here in their territory was not good to Fist’s thinking.

  The problem was Tralg had such high status that everyone deferred to him. He could be there for any reason. He might want to take some of their females for his harem, or perhaps it could mean a war was being started. Either way, Fist knew that Tralg did not have the Thunder People’s interests in mind.

  Fist hurried to the tribal cave. As he approached, he could hear ogre voices cheering.

  The entire tribe was in the cave that night. The light from their torches set the whole place glittering from the crystalline specks in the rock. The place was sacred to his people. To take this cave for their own, the Thunder People had rooted out a tribe of over two hundred goblins. It was one of their proudest moments.

  Fist pushed his way through the other ogres to the front of the hall. There stood Tralg, the ogre mage. He was addressing Crag and Old Falog, but it was clear that he was talking to the entire tribe.

  “There will be much honor!” Tralg roared. “Much battles and much killings! The puny folks will run from the tribes and the Thunder People will be in front, chasing them. Then we will have all the treasures and all the foods!” The crowd roared and Fist’s father was nodding his head. Old Falog was the only one not excited and he was probably just wondering how he could stay out of the fight.

  “What is this?” Fist shouted.

  Crag responded with enthusiasm. “Fist is back!” The tribe roared. “There is big honor to have! Tralg the mage has gathered together many tribes to kill the little peoples out of the mountains!” Tralg nodded and the people howled.

  To the ogres, all of the little peoples (elves, dwarves, gnomes, and humans) were enemies. Fist had never seen the other races as a problem. Their lands were far from the Thunder People’s territory. In Fist’s mind, the only reasons that the tribe should go to battle were for women or food.

  “Why do we care?” Fist asked. “They don’t taste good to us!”

  Tralg stepped forward. “We will kill them and take their foods! This is our mountains. They can not stay here!”

  Fist did not understand. “We do not need little people’s food! I killed big meat today! We have food for us, and furs. Who cares about little peoples?” The tribe looked happy at the mention of b
ig meat, but Crag was frowning and Tralg was definitely not amused. “There are too many humans and short ones over there. How do we kill them all?”

  Tralg smiled. “All the tribes will kill them and the Barldag will help!” There was a hush among the tribe. Despite being superstitious, the Thunder People did not worship a god. But if there was a godlike being acknowledged, it was the Barldag, the being known by the civilized world as the Dark Prophet. “The Barldag stirs and he sent a messenger! A magic one! He came to me in dreams. He brings big armies to join us!”

  “Yes!” Crag threw his arms and head back and roared with glee, the battle lust already filling his veins. There were legends of the Barldag bringing ogres to great power in the past, but they were driven back by the little peoples of the land. At that time, the ogres had fought along with the rest of the Dark Prophet’s army of monsters.

  Fist didn’t believe in the Barldag, but he remembered the tales. While most of his people gloried in the killing and destruction of war, the stories had never excited him. He enjoyed a good battle, but not without a purpose. Where was the glory in killing the little peoples unless they attacked the tribe? There was something else that bothered him. The tales of the Barldag spoke of more than just killing the little ones.

  “Will we fight with goblins and Slimy ones too?” Fist yelled.

  Tralg looked like he didn’t want to talk about that point. Goblins were lower than dirt to the ogres. To the Thunder People, they were like rats, a nuisance. They were not even good eating. Trolls were even worse. They were dangerous and they stank. “We will kill little peoples like in the stories. We will make the goblins kill them too!”

  Fist snarled at the thought of allying with goblins and was about to speak again, when Crag jumped in. “Hear me, Fist! There is great glory to have in the little one’s blood. The Barldag will lead us, and the Thunder People will own the mountains like we did back then.”

  “What of the Stone People?” Fist shouted. “Do we ally with ogres who stole our women? And the goblins that took our food? We should kill them first! There is no glory in fighting with them! We built our honor killing them!

  “The little peoples don’t chase us! The other tribes and the Slimy ones do!” The downsides of this war were building in Fist’s mind.

  “Stop, Fist!” Crag shouted. Crag’s face had turned red. Fist was stepping over a line. Not only was he arguing with the Tribal Chief and an ogre mage, but he was also talking back to his father.

  “If the warriors leave to kill the little peoples, what will happen to our land?” Fist was beginning to win over some members of the tribe.

  “Stop now!

  “What of our women?”

  “Sit down, little one!” The sharp reprimand and insult was meant to remind Fist of his status in the tribe and to force him to back down. The crowd went silent. This was growing too heated. In an ogre meeting, that was never a good thing.

  “No!” Fist knew he should back down, but this was too important. “The Thunder People don’t give up their land! We don’t play with goblins and leave our women for the Stone People to take!”

  Now he just made the ogre equivalent of a line in the sand. His arguments were getting through to more of the ogres in the cave. Many of them were nodding now, including Old Falog.

  Crag was forced into a hard place. Fist had just rebelled against his authority as tribal chief. If he backed down, the Thunder People would not go to war with the other tribes. They would miss out on all the glory. To get what he wanted Crag had no choice, but in his rage he went too far.

  “Go to bed, child!” he roared, his face purple with anger. “You do not speak for Thunder People! I do! We go to glory with Tralg and the Barldag!”

  The tribe howled. Crag had just given Fist one of the worst insults one ogre could make to another. Ogre children were not given names. They were just called ‘child’. An ogre boy had to earn his name with deeds. Once his name was given, he was never to be called child again. If he was, he either had to take that ‘child’ status upon himself again, or fight for the honor of his name.

  Fist didn’t know what to do. His manhood had just been insulted in front of the entire tribe. If he backed down now his high status would be gone and in the eyes of many he would be seen as half a man. Crag instantly recognized what he had done. He would have taken back his words if he could, but it was too late.

  Fist rose up to his full height, taller than any other ogre in the tribe and raised one giant arm into the air. “I am Fist! I am no child! I say we stay!”

  Events were out of control. By rejecting his father’s insult, Fist was a hair’s breadth away from challenging his status as chief. Once an ogre chieftain was challenged, he had to fight to the death to keep his position as leader. Most likely that battle would have been avoided, but Tralg saw his chance.

  “He challenges you, Crag! Do you fight for glory with the Barldag, or does Fist rule the Thunder People now?”

  “I am chief,” Crag said. There was no shouting this time. He knew what this meant. A large wicked grin split Tralg's face.

  “They fight to the death!” He proclaimed. Tralg knew of Crag’s prowess in battle and figured this to be an easy win for his side of the argument. Crag would kill Fist and the ogre would hinder his plans no more.

  The Thunder People roared and left the cave to prepare the place of combat. Tralg beamed in anticipation, while Old Falog just shook his head. Crag stood with his head down in sorrow. Fist had brought so many honors to their blood with his prowess. Now Crag would have to kill him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Far to the east of the ogre territories, among towering dunes, Deathclaw was in his element. This was a hotter day than usual in the desert. Deathclaw took point as the pack hunted along the cracked earth that appeared here and there between the dunes.

  He was a raptoid. About the height and weight of a large human, a raptoid’s head was like that of a reptile, with two hawk-like eyes on either side, and a large mouth filled with razor sharp teeth. Their skin was a patchwork of small, hard scales. Their legs were longer and much more muscular than their arms and each limb ended in a set of nasty claws. They had a long thick tail that ended in a cruel barb and walked hunched forward with the tail reaching straight behind them for balance.

  Deathclaw hissed in irritation. He sensed nothing. No prey to be found. This stretch of their territory was one of the most choice in this part of the desert. There was moisture not too far down into the earth and it was the best place to find burrowing prey, but they had been unsuccessful all morning. He considered the prospect of leaving their territory to hunt in the canyon to the south. The stench of the enormous red dragon that lived there gave him pause though.

  Deathclaw was more of a title than a real name. It referred to a leader’s position in the hunting pack. He directed the movements of the other raptoids during the hunt and when the prey was surrounded, he was usually the one to strike the deathblow.

  Deathclaw’s pack was a close-knit group consisting of three males and two females. The pack used to be much larger, but not long ago, his pack had been decimated by two fire breathing red dragons much like the one to the south, a hunting pair. One day, they would rebuild by taking in stragglers from other packs, but for now they just struggled to survive.

  It looked as though the pack would go hungry. Then the wind changed.

  Deathclaw stopped abruptly, his tongue tasting the air. He chirped a quick command and the pack spread out in formation before darting over a large dune to the east. A large flat rock jutted out from the ground on the other side. The group of dragon spawn Deathclaw had sensed were hiding in the shade underneath.

  Dragon spawn were three-foot-tall lizards that basically looked like smaller versions of the raptoids, except for the curved horns that protruded from their foreheads. Spawn were adept at catching insects and other smaller denizens of the desert and bred like rabbits in the sands.

  Quickly, the pack had the rock sur
rounded. The raptoids hissed, and poked and prodded, but once under such a tight space, the spawn were difficult to root out. Deathclaw leaped onto the rock and started tilting it back and forth with his weight until one of the spawn was crushed. The rest of the spawn darted out from under their shelter. As soon as the creatures left their hiding place, the other raptoids attacked.

  Like everything else in the desert, dragon spawn could fight back. There were ten of the creatures compared to the five members of Deathclaw’s pack, and though they were half the size, they grouped together in bunches, hissing and spitting at the larger predators.

  Three of the spawn leaped onto one of the male raptors, biting and clawing. Deathclaw darted into another group of three. As his tail spike skewered one through the heart, he caught another spawn’s head in his mouth and jerked it so quickly that its little neck snapped. Deathclaw dropped the lifeless lizard from his mouth and kicked out with his left hind leg, his claws ripping open the side of another one that was speeding away.