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

by Cooley, Trevor H.

  Lenny solemnly tied the string around his neck. “My brother always did start the dag-blamed trends.”

  They sat there for a moment in silence. Neither one knew what to say. Then Lenny pulled his stuff together and stood to leave.

  “Now listen, son. When you get out of that durn school and yer ready to make yer own name, come see me in Dremald. I’ll make you some swords that sing!”

  “Yeah, if I ever do get out of there. I really don’t know what’s going to happen. Maybe a warrior is not what I’m meant to be,” Justan said. With Lenny’s departure it seemed like everything was crashing in.

  “What in the cowpickin’ dust are you talkin’ ‘bout? Let me tell you somethin’ and you listen good. I been watchin’ you and you got the warrior blood. I seen you fightin’ them moonrats in a situation that would have had most men crappin’ their britches, but you kept a level head. That’s the true mettle of a warrior and don’t you forget it. If you don’t come to me fer them swords in a few years, I’ll be comin’ after you with Buster! You hear me?”

  Justan smiled. “Yes sir.” He saluted.

  The dwarf nodded. “That’s right.”

  Then he left. As Justan sat alone in the dark, turning the dwarf’s gift over in his hands, his world seemed a little emptier.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Fist fled his tribe’s territory, his mind in chaos. The vision of his father’s swollen face as he lay beaten nearly to death, echoed in his thoughts. His father’s visage mouthed one word over and over again. “Toompa.”

  The events of the day had started out so well with his marvelous hunt. When he had come home to see the folly of the war his father was about to lead the tribe into, he had done what he had felt was necessary for the good of his people. His good intentions had degenerated into a huge mess.

  Now he was out in the wilderness, truly alone for the first time in his life. And he was scared. The fact that he was afraid was humiliating to the ogre who had become the strongest warrior in his tribe.

  He had been so sure that he was right. Joining the tribe with their bitterest enemies in a war against the smaller races didn’t make sense to him. But now he was an outcast. A rogue ogre. Fist had been brought up to despise ogres like that. An ogre was only cast out if he was bad for the tribe, and an ogre that was bad for his tribe was of no worth to anyone.

  Fist blindly ran along unfamiliar mountain trails. Eventually as the night deepened, Fist collapsed with exhaustion under a stunted tree and slept. This was not a smart thing for him to do in this harsh place, but he was lucky and the morning dawned without incident. When Fist awoke, his body was sore and his head ached from the beating his father had given him.

  He slowly sat up. He didn’t know what to do. Fist leaned back against the tree, put his head in his hands, and cried. This was the low point of his life. Here he was, a grown ogre crying and alone. When he was a child, his father had beaten him when he cried. His life might as well be over. He felt like dying.

  Fist’s self pity was interrupted by a mocking, chattering sound. He looked up to see a rock squirrel on the ground nearby. The creature had gray fur, large eyes, and a big bushy tail. It stood there watching him and chattering madly, almost as if laughing at him.

  Fist was outraged that any creature had seen him in such a pitiful state. He leaned forward and unleashed his rage in a mighty roar. The wind from his breath ruffled the tiny creature’s fur, but it didn’t run away. The squirrel cocked its head and chattered at him again.

  Fist snarled and rose to his full height, towering over the creature. As he stood, he cracked his head on a branch overhead and a scattering of seeds fell to the ground. Fist reached up to rub his head and watched as the little creature ran about his feet without fear, gathering up the seeds and stuffing them into its cheeks.

  Fist raised his foot and considered stomping on the creature. How dare it not be afraid of him? He was an ogre, a big one too. It just looked up at the heavy foot hovering over its head and calmly gnawed on a seed.

  Fist grunted in frustration, but instead of flattening it like it deserved, he found himself reaching into one of the seed laden branches and pilling a handful loose. He was getting hungry. Out of curiosity, he poured some of the tiny seeds into his mouth and chewed. Instantly his mouth was filled with a vile, bitter powder that seemed to suck the moisture from his mouth. He coughed and hacked and spit the nasty things out.

  Fist looked back at the squirrel again tempted to squash it, but instead he reached down and poured the rest of the seeds beside the little thing. The squirrel looked up and chattered at him questioningly. The amount of seeds left by the ogre’s huge hand made quite a large pile from a squirrel’s perspective.

  As the little creature went to stuffing its cheeks, Fist sighed and pondered his situation. He did not know where he should go. He knew the mountain land to the north because his tribe had been in so many battles up there. Fist grimaced. The north was full of other ogre tribes. His instincts told him to head that way, but Fist couldn’t make himself do it. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life going from tribe to tribe begging for acceptance.

  If a tribe ever took a rogue ogre in, that ogre had no prestige. He was even below the women. This meant that he started out as the grunt, the laborer. Even the children would make him do chores. For proud Fist, this was not an option. No, there was nothing for him to the north.

  So what was left? There were jagged cliffs to the west and troll country to the east. The southern stretch of the mountains was unknown to him. He didn’t know what to expect there, but where else would he go? Fist decided to head south. He would either find a way to make a life without his tribe, or he would die. At that moment, he really didn’t care which.

  The chatter of the little gray rock squirrel accompanied Fist as he began his journey south. It followed him, scampering around the rocks. Every once in a while Fist would turn to it and growl, but the thing would just cock its head at him with its cheeks stuffed with seeds and chatter at him questioningly.

  Fist finally just ignored the little creature and continued his journey. He knew which direction he was headed, but didn’t know what he was looking for. As he hiked along the rugged trail, a swift wind chilled his skin. He had fled from his tribe so quickly, that he had left his prized skins behind. The only clothing he wore was his fur boots and waist wraps. The higher in the mountains he went, the colder it became.

  When night fell, Fist knew that he would have to find a good kill soon, but he was exhausted and decided it would have to wait until morning. He found a crevice where he was shielded from the wind, curled into a tight ball, and fell asleep.

  Fist awoke the next morning cold everywhere but a small spot on his chest where there was a pocket of warmth. The warmth came from a bundle of fur that was snuggled up against him. He looked at the sleeping squirrel with irritation. Why wouldn’t it leave him alone? He picked it up by its tail, startling it awake, and tossed it to the side. It landed on all fours a few feet away and scolded him for waking it up.

  “Go away!” Fist growled at it.

  When Fist sat up, a small pile of seeds fell out of his armpit. The ogre snarled at the squirrel in aggravation as he brushed any remaining seeds out of his hair. He stood up and stretched. The morning air was cold and dry. It chilled him to the bone and he was reminded that he needed to find some good fur right away. As he started walking he kept an eye out for game, but mostly he was looking for something he could use as a weapon.

  The thunder people had fought goblins on many occasions and though the creatures were weak and small, they used much more sophisticated weapons. Fist had kept a few of those weapons and examined them, trying to figure out how to make them for an ogre. However, in his tribe, Fist’s ideas had always been stifled. The others had thought his innovations untraditional. An ogre did not carry any weapon but a club or rock.

  Now he was free to pursue his ideas. Fist found a tree with a promising branch that he broke off
to use as a handle. Then he reached behind his waist to pull something from his waist wraps. It was his secret treasure. He infolded the leather bundle to reveal a goblin dagger.

  A year before his tribe had attacked a nearby goblin clan in order to expand their territory borders. Fist had killed ten of the little things himself and after the fight, he had pulled this dagger out of his thigh and decided to keep it. Over that year, he experimented with it when he was able to find a place alone and found its sharpness and durability useful.

  Fist used the dagger to shave the bark off of the branch and shape it into something easy to grasp. Then he found a suitable shaped rock and threw it on the ground, breaking it in two. He cut some leather strips off of his waist furs and used them to strap the rock halves to the end of his branch. It took several tries for him to figure out how to tie it right so that the rock wouldn’t fall off of the end.

  He hefted the weapon. The weight felt good in his hands. He was proud of himself. In just two days away from his tribe he had already began his new life by creating something new. Now it was time to hunt.

  He walked for a few miles and found a little stream of water. Fist bent to drink and his reflection caught his eye. For a brief moment, he was disgusted and horrified by his appearance. His hairy face, wide mouth, and big nose looked alien to him. It was like that face didn’t belong.

  Fist slammed one hand into the water, destroying the reflection. He leaned back, his heart beating madly. Slowly, the feeling passed. He leaned forward again. His reflection hadn't changed, but it looked familiar again. Fist shrugged off his unease and drank thirstily, feeling very unogrelike.

  The squirrel came to the stream beside him and drank. Out of irritation, Fist reached out one finger and pushed it in. The creature swam out on the other side of the stream, shook itself dry, and scolded him mercilessly with its chatter, pointing one tiny accusing paw.

  Fist continued on his way. Around the bend, he came upon a small cave. He ducked behind an outcropping of rock and peered around the edge. By the scattered bones and the wisp of webbing around the cave, he knew that it was the lair of a giant spider. Fist examined the area to make sure that there were no other dangers and considered attacking the arachnid.

  Giant spiders were very hairy and if they were properly skinned, an ogre could make a good wrap to protect himself from the cold. The skin on its legs also made great leather straps. Fist licked his lips. He hadn’t eaten in over two days and was quite hungry. He remembered with fondness, the last time he had eaten giant spider.

  Such a spider had killed one of the women in his tribe when it had come out of its hiding place in the Thunder People’s great tribal hall. The goblins that lived there before the ogres drove them out had worshipped the thing as a god and made sacrifices to it. When the Thunder People had been there for a month, the spider struck out in anger because it had not been fed. Fist had enjoyed the sweet meat that came from its legs.

  This made his mind up for him; he needed this kill. Fist thought for a moment. The first thing he needed to do was lure the thing out of its cave. He looked around for the squirrel, but it was nowhere in sight. Perhaps it had finally decided to leave him alone. He would have to be the bait.

  Fist lifted a small boulder from the rocky ground and kept it in the crook of his left arm. Then he hefted his new weapon in his right. He walked down and stood at the entrance of the cave, steeling himself for the strike, but nothing happened. He waited a few moments. Just as he was thinking about going into the cave after it, the spider attacked.

  The small size of the cave was deceptive, for when the spider squeezed out its hairy bulk, it was three times the size that Fist had expected. It leapt at him so fast that Fist barely had time to bring the boulder up before its poisonous fangs were upon him.

  He shoved the boulder into its maw so that the fang-tipped front jaws couldn’t reach him. This must have been a female giant spider because it was much larger than the one his tribe had killed. Fist was having second thoughts about this course of action, but it was too late to change his mind now.

  The spider grabbed at him with its front legs. Fist swung his new stone mace at its head. The weapon struck one of its many eyes, bursting it. The spider jerked back and released the boulder from its mouth. Now Fist was really in trouble.

  The spider leapt forward and clutched him with its front legs, pulling him in so that its fangs could reach him. In desperation, Fist dropped his weapon and grabbed the spider’s jaws just above the fangs. It took nearly all of his considerable strength to keep them from piercing his skin.

  The spider drove him to the ground, trying to sink its fangs in. Fist squeezed with his mighty hands until venom squirted from the fangs. He felt it spatter on his legs.

  Though he hadn’t been concerned about living earlier in the day, he had no desire to be eaten by a spider now. He pulled the jaws apart with all his might. The ogre strained until his face turned red and his muscles bulged to the breaking point.

  With a pop, one of the fang tipped appendages ripped free of the spider’s jaws. Venom and fluids poured out of the hole where it had been. The spider hissed in pain and pulled away from him, but Fist held on to the remaining fang and refused to let go. He punched the joining point of the fang and jaw over and over again.

  The spider reared back, lifting Fist off of the ground and slammed him down onto his back again. It pushed forward with all its weight, trying to pierce his skin with the remaining fang. Fist now grasped the fang with both hands. He held the spider back far enough that he could get one leg up. He pressed his foot against the spider's jaw and pulled until the second fang ripped free.

  The spider was now without a form of attack. It pulled back and turned around, trying to escape to its cave. Fist leapt forward and grabbed it by the back legs. He wasn’t going to let the creature get away now. The spider hissed madly.

  With one spider leg in each hand, Fist put a foot up on its abdomen. He pulled and pulled until with another popping sound the legs came off. It tried to drag itself away, but Fist grabbed his stone mace from the ground and tackled the thing. He bashed its head repeatedly, bursting eyes and cracking chitin. The spider thrashed around until its head was nothing but a slimy ruin.

  Fist stood above his kill breathing heavily and gave a prayer to the spirit of the spider in thanks for this source of food. He heard a familiar chattering sound and turned to see the rock squirrel sitting nearby calmly chewing on a seed. Fist sighed. If the thing wasn’t going to leave now with the body of a giant spider nearby, he supposed that it was going to stick with him for good. To his surprise, the idea didn’t bother him as much as it had the day before.

  Now he had to find some wood so that he could start a fire to cook his meal. The rock squirrel followed him and chattered, and Fist found himself talking back. He told it about how to make a fire and which wood was the best to use. It felt good to talk to something. Ogres weren’t the most vocal race, but it made him feel like he wasn’t so alone.

  He told the little creature all of the things about his tribe that had so frustrated him. Fist couldn’t think of an appropriate name to call the creature so he just called it “Squirrel”. He found a small dead tree a short distance away. With a bit of twisting and pulling, he was able to pull it free of the rocky ground.

  As he headed back to the spider’s cave, he told the squirrel what had happened to drive him out away from his people. Squirrel scampered along beside him, pausing every so often in the way that squirrels do. There was no way that the creature could have understood, but that wasn’t important. It was a relief to share that burden, but it was also a depressing reminder of his current state.

  When he neared the cave, Fist saw a trail of slime leading toward the place where he had left the spider’s carcass.

  “Trolls!” he growled.

  Fist rushed up the trail to find two of the foul beasts tearing into the abdomen of the spider he had killed. He eyed the two trolls with open hatred. After all
of his hard work, he was not about to let these things take his food away.

  Trolls were a bastard race. Among the scholars their origins were constantly debated. Some said that they were one of the giant races, as evidenced by their height and strength. Others said that they were a goblin hybrid with their sharp, nasty teeth and long dirty claws. Not much was really known about their origins for no one had ever actually seen a troll child. The only thing agreed upon was that they are unpleasant.

  The average troll was between seven to ten feet tall and covered in a grey skin that excreted a foul slimy substance that dripped behind them wherever they went. Their arms were long and lanky and ended in hands tipped with sharp claws. Their heads were hideous with beady red eyes, a mop of dirty hair and a mouth full of rows of jagged teeth.

  Trolls were scavengers more than hunters. A troll’s intelligence was so low that they weren’t motivated by thoughts or even instincts, just urges, mostly hunger. They would eat almost anything.

  For centuries the humans called them ghouls for the way that they sometimes robbed graves for a meal. But the thing that made them most feared and despised was the fact that they were so hard to kill. Trolls regenerated, and they did it with alarming speed. Many a landowner had thought he had killed a troll just to have it come back again. The only way to completely make sure that a troll was dead was to burn it. The slimy substance that their skin excreted was flammable and they went up like torches.