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

by Cooley, Trevor H.

  “Yes-yes, that’s right. Listen to me.”

  He opened the drawer and pulled out a soft leather pouch. Inside was a petrified moonrat eye. It was a hard, spherical object about the size of an apple that looked like it was once perfectly round but had pruned a bit. It glowed faintly at his touch.

  “Are you there?” Ewzad crooned.

  “Yes, Master,” the voice breathed. It was a female voice but low and terrible. It spoke in a sensuous whisper. “You seem tired, Master. You should keep this treasure with you at all times. I cannot contact you if it isn’t in your presence.”

  “Oh, should I? Don’t be ridiculous. Your little bauble is a constant drain on my powers. Besides, I don’t need you listening in on all my doings, do I?”

  “Bauble? I sacrificed a child to give you that treasure. I-”

  “And how are those lovely little children of yours?” Ewzad interrupted.

  The voice seemed to forget her displeasure. “We grow. We multiply. The elves are quiet. We hide our strength until you are ready, Master.”

  “What of our armies in the mountains?”

  “It begins, Master. I send the sensitive ones dreams. I tell them the Barldag is coming. They gather the tribes as we speak. Giants, ogres, orcs, gorcs, and goblins, they all begin to gather. Trolls will come too. They will be harder to control, but they will come.”

  “Good, good, good. Will they know me when I arrive? That is imperative you know.”

  “Yes, they will know you. As more of my treasures find their way among them, my ability to communicate grows. They will dream of you every night until you come.”

  “Fine-fine! Yes, I cannot wait,” Ewzad laughed.

  “We must not be hasty, Master. There are threats that must be dealt with.”

  “Of course there are, my dear. Of course! I will deal with Dremald’s army myself. The only other obstacles are the Battle Academy and the Mage School. They too will fall.”

  “They are formidable. We must proceed with caution,” the voice warned.

  “Yes, well I have no desire to attack them head on. No I don’t. What we need is information. With more knowledge of their weaknesses, we will know how to strike. You have planted some seeds in the Mage School, yes?”

  “Yes, but they are not ready to be pushed.”

  “Soon then. I have another beautiful idea, my friend. Yes, yes it will work nicely. The Training School tests have just been completed. A caravan will be journeying to the Mage School. They will be passing right by you in fact. Isn’t that nice? All the information we need will be right there. There will be mages and Academy soldiers for the taking.”

  “Yes, one of the seeds you spoke of is with that caravan.”

  “Good-good. And there is something else they carry with them that I desire. There is an . . . artifact that would make my travel much easier.”

  “Of course, so that is why you are so tired. I will send my children to arrange an attack. There are many goblins in the hills near the road. If we send enough of them, capture is possible.”

  “Goblins? Yuck, that’s all? Oh well, it will have to do. If they fail, there are other methods.” Ewzad smacked his forehead. “Oh! I have another wonderful idea. Send Marckus to help. He is most useful at gathering information. He’s not that far from the Mage School is he?”

  “The orc, Master?”

  “Yes, yes. He has been loyal to me for years. He is an excellent choice.”

  “I do not like that one. He is too strong willed,” she hissed.

  “My dear, am I not your master? Hmmm?”

  “As long as the Dark Voice wills it, I obey.”

  “Very well. Do as I say then.”

  Ewzad dropped the moonrat eye back into the pouch and tucked it away in the drawer. She was a useful tool, but dangerous. She might turn on him if her power grew enough. He was glad she was trapped in those woods of hers.

  Ewzad stood and stretched. He barely wobbled on his feet. Some of his strength had returned.

  “Ah yes, that is better. A few short hours and I will be able to visit my new pet.” Ewzad’s mind clicked away feverishly. “Oh, what plans I have for her!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Fist stood in the tribal battle circle and stared down at his hands. His huge hands. These hands had squeezed the life out of so many enemies. Now he would have to use them on his father.

  Honor fights were common among ogres in order to settle about any issue. Common struggles were over the rights to a particular female, territory disputes, food disputes, and disputes over whose muscles were larger. In fact, any disagreement between two ogres was usually settled by a brawl. It was the main source of entertainment for the tribe. Sometimes when there was nothing else to do, they would start fights for the fun of it. These minor clashes were usually over when one ogre either gave in or was knocked unconscious.

  There were not many reasons for members of the same tribe to fight to the death. Tonight’s battle between Fist and Crag was different.

  Fist looked up at Crag, who stood across the circle from him. Never had he seen such pure fury in Crag’s eyes. He had never been a kind or loving father by any means. Ogre fathers rarely were. As a child, Fist had taken many a beating from his father for his willful behavior. But Crag was also the ogre that taught Fist how to survive in the mountains, trained him how to fight, and had saved his life countless times in battle. Fist still felt that he was right in trying to keep the Thunder People from joining Tralg’s army, but now he wished that he hadn’t made a stand.

  The other tribal members had gathered in excitement to watch the battle and Fist could hear them debating the outcome of the fight. While Crag was one of the best warriors in all the tribes, Fist was younger and stronger. Most believed that Crag’s battle experience more than made up for the difference in strength, but Fist had his supporters as well. Even though they were father and son, it didn’t occur to anyone that either ogre would back down. That was the Thunder People way.

  Adding to the tribe’s excitement was the fact that this conflict would determine whether they had a new leader. Fist had enough status in the tribe that if he won, Old Falog wouldn’t be able to dispute the outcome. Fist would become the new Tribal chief.

  Fist looked to the side of the circle to where a smug Tralg stood with a wicked grin. Fist growled. The appearance of the ogre mage had started the whole thing. He would have liked to choke the life out of Tralg then and there, but more urgent matters pressed. The tribe began the battle chant.

  Being the ogre present with the most stature, Tralg was the one with the right to start the battle. While the combatants faced each other with conflicting emotions, Tralg had been trying to grasp hold of a spell to start the battle off. He was finally able to pull the power together and a gout of flame leapt from his hands to begin the match. Unfortunately, it also set his arm hair on fire and he missed the first blow of the fight trying to pat the flames out.

  The flash blocked Fist’s vision. He didn’t see his father coming. Before he could set up a defensive stance, he felt a large foot crash into his gut. He was nearly doubled over by the force of the kick, but he responded quickly with an uppercut that caught his father underneath the chin and sent him several feet into the air. This blow would have killed a human, but Crag was made of tough material and wasn't fazed.

  Crag landed squarely on his feet, and shouted. “Toompa! You strike like an orc!”

  The insult hit Fist harder than his father’s kick. Toompa was worse than being called a child. It was an insult given to a child. It was the ogre word for infant.

  Fist snarled, put his shoulder down, and barreled into his father, knocking him to the ground. Fist leapt on top of him and threw a wicked punch that caught the side of Crag’s face, slamming his head into the ground. Crag responded by bringing his legs up and kicking Fist off of him. Crag leapt to his feet.

  “Toompa!” he screamed and threw a stunning right hook into Fist’s jaw. The battle went back and forth.
The tribe jeered them on.

  For most ogre fights, there was not much defense involved. Combatants would usually just take blow after blow until one went down. This battle was different. Fist was brighter than other ogres and his father was more experienced. So while Fist tried to block an attack whenever possible, his father knew how to take a hit in such a way as to minimize the damage.

  They beat each other all across the circle. Eventually, the balance of power began to shift. Fist’s strength and energy gave him the advantage as his father began to tire.

  Crag realized what was happening and changed tactics. He placed a powerful kick into Fist’s groin. When his son began to double over, Crag landed an uppercut into his face that set him up on his toes. Then he wrapped both arms around Fist’s torso and lifted him off of the ground in a bear hug. The tribe roared. Surely it was over. No one got out of one of Crag’s bear hugs alive.

  Fist was so stunned by the vicious uppercut that when his father wrapped him up in the bear hug, he wasn’t prepared. The power of the squeeze forced the air out of his lungs. Try as he might, he could not push out of Crag’s grip. His father was too strong. Fist's muscles began to weaken. Blood pounded in his ears. He felt like giving up. He didn't want this fight anyway.

  One thing broke through his haze. His father was shouting one word over and over again. “Toompa! Toompa! Toompa!”

  Something inside of Fist snapped. The part of him that had been holding back during the fight was burned away in the sudden fury that overtook him.

  With all the force he could muster, he buried his forehead into Crag’s face, splattering his father’s nose and loosening his teeth. Still, the grip did not lessen. Fist slammed his forehead down again. His vision was filling with pinpricks of light, and though his strength was failing him, he slammed his huge fists with extreme force on either side of his father’s head. Finally, the grip lessened and he pushed Crag away, taking deep gasping breaths.

  The Tribal Chief fell to his knees disoriented. Fist recovered quickly and leapt upon him flailing away with his fists. His mind was in a red haze. Fist had no idea his anger was so deep. All of it was coming out. His bitterness toward stupid ogre customs, the fact that he did not feel a part of his people even with his high status, everything, every unfair situation in his life struck him at once.

  Then he stopped. Something caught the corner of his eye. It was his fist. It was covered in blood. His father’s blood. The world crashed back in on him with resounding force. The tribe was roaring, chanting for his father’s death. Fist looked down at Crag. The tribal chief's face was swollen and bloody, but his eyes stared right at him. He mouthed something and Fist staggered to his feet.

  “No!” he shouted. “It is over! I yield!” His shout was interrupted by the angry bellow of the tribe. They would not let it end. Their blood lust was raised. This was supposed to be a fight to the death and Crag was still breathing.

  Fist shook his head and backed away. He didn’t want to be the death of his father. He didn’t want to lead the tribe.

  Fist did the only thing left to him. He fled. He broke through the crowd of angry ogres and raced through the camp, chased by shouts of betrayal. But as Fist fled the territory of his people, the last word his father had mouthed to him reverberated in his mind.

  “Toompa.”

  * * *

  In the Whitebridge Desert, a strange figure tried to gain control of its new body. No longer a raptoid, but something else, Deathclaw blindly wandered through the white sands and cracked earth.

  Deathclaw’s body was healing itself. The tears in his skin were mending and the imperfections in the wizard’s work were being corrected by the regenerating abilities of his dragon heritage.

  He could not move like he had in the past. His body was too severely altered by the wizard’s twisted spells. His larger upper body and muscled legs had changed his center of gravity so much that his tail seemed to be in the way. The only thing he could do was crawl.

  Like a newborn human, he had to learn how to coordinate his eyes together. In the past, with his eyes on the sides of his head, he had a wide range of vision. Now with his eyes in the front of his head, his vision overlapped itself. This would eventually be an advantage to him as he gained depth perception, but until that day came Deathclaw cursed this new eyesight.

  His sense of smell was changed as well. The sensors in his new rounded tongue were weakened. He also found that strange sensations were coming in through the breathing holes on his shortened snout.

  As his body exerted itself trying to heal, Deathclaw began to starve. He wasn’t able to hunt. His two main tools, his sense of smell and his sight, were out of his control. If he was going to survive, he needed to learn to use this new body quickly.

  Unbeknownst to Deathclaw, the wizard had enlarged his brain radically. Without realizing it, he began to rely less on instinct and more on reason. Faced with the options of adapting or starving, he did something that was new to him. He sat still and pondered his situation.

  He was trying to learn too many things at once. All of the new sensations from the different parts of his body had overloaded his ability to sort them out. He decided to focus on one thing at a time.

  Deathclaw raised one hand in front of his new face. He saw two hands. He closed one eye. Now he saw the hand. Strange . . . he had never really thought about his hand before. This new hand was bigger and more powerful than his old one. He closed that eye and opened the other one. He still was able to see the hand, but from a slightly different angle. He opened both eyes and after several minutes of struggling, was able to focus them both on the hand.

  His mental capacity was expanding at a rapid rate. His body’s natural properties were connecting synapses within his new brain tissue. As they did so, his instinctual ability to control his new body grew.

  A new species was being born.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Mage School caravan left the city of Reneul without fanfare. The journey hadn’t been planned with any great secrecy, but Justan’s presence hadn’t been advertised either.

  The group consisted of Justan, Ambassador Valtrek, several mages who had been on loan to the Battle Academy as healers for the tests, three horse-drawn wagons filled with supplies and gifts for the Mage School, and a duo of Battle Academy graduates hired to guard them on their way. Their journey would take two weeks with few stops along the way. Fortunately, there was a well-traveled road between the Battle Academy and the Mage School.

  Justan looked back in the direction Jhonate had disappeared, not knowing how he should feel. They had become dear friends, that was for sure, and he would always see her as the best teacher that he ever had. But something new had started between them during the last two weeks. He worried that it might be lost forever. Even if they did see one another again as she had predicted, what circumstances would their lives be in then?

  Justan had left the city of Reneul only a few times in his life. When he was a child, his father had taken him out into the plains from time to time to show him how to survive in the wild. Justan had always looked forward to those trips outside of the city. But this time it was different.

  As they cleared the outer gates of the city, he felt very alone. This time he wasn't leaving the city because he wanted to. He had been ripped from his chosen path and thrust onto an uncertain road. For two years he would be put into a situation he had not prepared for. Two years was a long time for an eighteen year old who had come so close to reaching his dreams.

  Justan did not wish to sit inside the first wagon with the mages, so he sat on the top step at the rear of the wagon and dangled his feet over the side. He grew more despondent each mile the caravan traveled.

  It was a beautiful morning with clear blue skies, but the cheery rays of the sun couldn’t penetrate Justan’s gloomy thoughts. His mind was numb as he watched the familiar landscape of rolling hills flow away. In just a few short hours he was further away from his home than he had ever been before.


  As afternoon neared, the road swung out from the hills. The caravan entered a smooth grassy plain. Justan heard the cawing of crows in the distance. The waist high grass rippled in the soft cool breeze.

  Ambassador Valtrek stayed in his wagon alone and none of the mages tried to speak with him. Evidently they all had their own concerns. Eventually he tired of the scenery and Justan found himself watching the people on this trip he identified with most.

  The two warriors who traveled with the caravan as guards were, up to now, relatively untested graduates of the Academy who had yet to earn a name for themselves. They rode to either side of the three wagons on Academy warhorses. The horses were proud, alert beasts bred to be both powerful and full of stamina. Justan could only hope that he would one day have the honor of riding a horse of that caliber.