Unfortunately, Fist had no fire with him. He had always hated the slimy things. They were mean and nasty and had no respect for an ogre’s territory. One of the biggest problems his tribe had to deal with was destroying the trolls that constantly invaded their territory. He picked up a medium sized boulder.
These trolls were so preoccupied with their meal, they didn’t notice Fist’s presence until the boulder struck one of them in the leg, breaking it and pinning the beast to the ground. The other one immediately turned and attacked.
Fist met the thing head on with a mighty swing of his rock mace. The weapon smashed into the troll’s face, sending teeth and slime flying. Even with its broken jaw and face, the troll continued its attack. It slashed out with its wicked claws and sliced at Fist’s arm. The claws made long deep furrows in his skin. Fist howled. He kicked the beast away and followed through with another devastating blow of his weapon that crushed the troll’s skull and snapped its neck. The beast fell to the ground and flailed about.
Fist readied himself to strike again, but the other troll tore its crushed leg free from the boulder. It scampered along the ground and leapt onto the ogre’s back. The troll bit deep into Fist’s shoulder and began clawing at his chest from behind. Fist roared and dropped his weapon.
He reached back and grabbed the thing’s head with both of his hands and squeezed with all of the strength he could muster. The troll’s head was so slippery that it was hard for Fist to grasp. It howled and continued to bite down on his shoulder and rake his skin with its slimy claws. He grunted with the pain of the beast’s attacks and pushed his thumbs into its eyes until they popped with a rush of fluid. Still it continued thrashing at him. The troll’s hunger was so absolute that the pain didn’t even register. What was important was the food. It would heal later.
Fist was beginning to panic, his wounds were deep and trolls were so filthy that the wounds they left would become infected. He pushed his thumbs in deeper and deeper and squeezed with his powerful fingers until with a crack, the troll’s head came open. Now its thrashing was uncontrolled. Fist pulled the beast off of his back and threw it to the ground. The other troll was starting to move again and he stomped on its head until it stopped.
Fist dragged the trolls a short ways away from the remains of the spider and pulled them into a pile with the small tree he had uprooted. He knew that he needed to work quickly before they recovered enough to strike back at him. Ignoring the pain from his injuries, he pulled two small black stones from within his waist wrappings. Fist furiously struck them together until sparks started to fall into the pile of wood and trolls. Finally, a spark hit one of the slimy creatures and its skin was rapidly engulfed with flame.
Soon both trolls were ablaze and their bodies thrashed about again. The weight of the tree held the bodies down and Fist had to stand back because of the heat of the fire. He groaned. Blood was dripping from his many cuts and abrasions and he was covered in troll slime.
Fist walked over to his hard won kill and examined what was left. Luckily the trolls, who were no connoisseurs, had only eaten the bulbous abdomen of the spider, which was the only part Fist had not intended to eat. He pulled out his goblin dagger and began to skin the remains of the spider.
Giant spiders had a thick furry skin over their chitinous skeleton and this was what Fist intended to make his winter wrap out of. The trolls had damaged some of it, but since the spider was so much bigger than he had expected, Fist had plenty to work with. As he peeled the skin from his prize, he felt a flush of heat come over him and knew that his wounds were going bad quick.
Normally an ogre his size could take a hit from a troll and not even be fazed. But the sheer amount of cuts and the fact that Fist had not eaten in two days led to a fierce fever. Squirrel appeared again and sat next to him as he worked, chattering in a concerned manner.
Fist laughed. He had a new tribe now, composed of an ogre and a squirrel. He would call it “The Big and Little People”.
Fist chuckled as he completed the skinning of the animal and pulled the spider’s legs over to the fire to toss them into the coals. The chitinous shell would protect the meat from burning while in the coals. The flesh of a spider was slimy in consistency and was nasty to eat raw. While cooking, the meat firmed up. The end result was quite tasty.
While the spider legs were cooking, Fist scraped the inside of the skins clean and laid them out to dry. His fever was getting stronger and he was weakening. Fist instinctively knew that to fight off the infection, he needed to eat and give his body some energy.
He pulled the legs out of the coals to let them cool for a moment. His shoulder ached, and his other scrapes and cuts burned like fire. He didn’t know anything about healing herbs or how to best cleanse his wounds. These were things that an ogre warrior never learned about. The women did that.
Normally after battle, a wounded ogre would go to the women to be massaged and tended and have their wounds treated. He had no experience with anything but the most rudimentary of healing techniques. He pulled a couple of troll teeth out of his shoulder and threw them into the fire. The skin was swollen and red around the punctures, but the bleeding had stopped.
“Do you know how to fix me Squirrel?” he asked. His little friend cocked its head and pulled a seed out of its cheek to eat. Fist would have to depend on the strength of his body to pull him through.
Fist cracked open the charred shell of the spider legs segment by segment and pulled the sweet steaming meat out. He devoured it hungrily. The legs were so large that after eating half of them, he was completely stuffed. Fist popped the remaining segments apart and placed them on top of one of the dried sections of spider skin to save for a later meal.
By this time, it was nearly dark and the wind was picking up. The cold felt good on his hot forehead, but his body was chilled and he knew that he had to shelter himself soon. The squirrel chattered at him from the entrance to the small spider cave. Fist picked up the spider pelts and stumbled over to the cave. He crept inside, pushing away the piles of bones that littered the place. His fever had grown so hot that he knew that he wouldn’t be able to tend the fire. Even though they had not completely dried, he pulled the spider furs over him and shivered.
The contamination from the troll scratches moved through his system and as his body fought against the intruders, Fist became delirious. As the night wore on, he began shouting out to his father and vowing to kill Tralg. He tossed and turned and moaned. Through it all, the rock squirrel stayed by his side.
When the fever reached its peak, the contaminations in his body were winning the fight. Fist grew very still and dreamed. The squirrel curled up on his chest and watched over him.
Ever since fleeing from his tribe, Fist had been battling an inner war about his future. Part of him did not want to continue on. Now at the height of his fever, he had to make a choice. It would be so easy to give up. Then he wouldn’t have to face the great world alone. Another part of him was hungry for change. It was a part that had long been pushed down by the traditions and lifestyle of his people. This part wanted to leap into his new existence and make a life for himself where he wouldn’t be held back by others, but grow and become something . . . new.
The comforting feeling of his new friend lying on his chest was the final piece that made him decide. He had already started on the path to a new existence. Though unconscious, he pushed his body to fight back and win.
Fist lived.
* * *
“Where is the artifact, my dear? Where is the mirror I wanted?” Ewzad Vriil asked, communicating with her for the first time in over a week.
“I could have told you long ago, if you had just kept my treasure with you, as I have requested!”
“Enough, enough. Where is it, dear?” Ewzad was not in the mood for insolence. She would have to disappoint him.
“Well . . . The goblins failed us, Master,” the female voice said. Oh how she had hoped he would forget about the caravan.
&nb
sp; “Blast! Those goblins are worthless little beasts, aren’t they?” Ewzad fumed “Yes, yes they are.”
“The academy guards were well trained and they had some help, Master. The goblin tribe had but few survivors.”
“Hmph! Of course they couldn’t succeed. Why, oh why did I let you take control of the mission? It is a good thing we sent Marckus. He has never failed me, no-no.”
Ewzad was testing her. While he held the eye of her child, she had partial access to his mind and could tell that he didn’t think she had followed his instructions. Of course she hadn’t. Why send an orc that so willfully resisted her commands?
“Unfortunately we suffered a much worse setback than the loss of a goblin tribe,” she said.
“Oh, is that so? And what was it, my dear?” The wizard’s anger was stirring.
“While the caravan was passing through the protected road, my sweet children were attacked by an unknown force.” In truth, she had recognized the man and the dwarf from the caravan immediately. They were now on her revenge list. The rogue horse and the elves had been an annoyance for years. “We were caught by surprise and half of my poor babies were murdered!”
“Half? Half of your moonrats destroyed? Oh my! How could you be so careless? Make more! Make more then! I need them ready when my army marches. I-,” Ewzad stopped as he made a realization. “Wait, are you telling me that Marckus did not attack the caravan?”
“They came so close to me, right at my doorstep. If only they had been a bit closer and my babies hadn’t all been chasing them, I could have reached out and crushed them myself . . .”
“Answer me! Where is Marckus, dear thing?” Ewzad’s rage was barely restrained. She sensed the arrival of the painful headache that accompanied his tantrums and took pleasure from it.
“He is in the area, but even if I tell him that they are coming now, he won’t have time to set up a proper ambush.”
“Why, why . . . How dare you not send the orc as I commanded?” His head was pounding now. “The Dark Voice promised your fealty and he has given me ways, oh yes, ways to ensure it. Send Marckus now! It is time you stopped acting like a foolish woman, don’t you think?” Ewzad paused a moment, before adding something he knew would anger her. “Ah, well that is if you really are female. Hmm, sometimes I wonder if you are not simply a twisted thing that pretends to be a woman. Oh yes-yes, quite an interesting theory, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps one day you will get to meet me and see just how much of a woman I am, oh Master,” she crooned, sending as much allure and sensuality as she could through their limited connection. It was enough to give him the image she wanted him to see. She sensed Ewzad’s irritation at his body’s response and her mood lightened a bit.
“Just send Marckus!” Ewzad shouted as their connection ended.
She knew that he had thrown her precious gift across the room of his foul little study. She could feel it impact against the wall. The fool! A snarl ripped through her mind. He was lucky the treasure was undamaged. If he had broken it, she would have found a way to make him pay, perhaps rip out his mind and make him dance like a puppet. She considered doing so anyway, but she knew the Dark Voice wouldn’t allow it.
Instead, she sighed and contacted the orc as she had been commanded.
Chapter Twenty Seven
Justan dreamt that he was alone in the lightless bowels of the Dark Forest. It was the foulest part, where the ground was covered in a sticky substance and the air was so fetid that it was hard to breathe. He trudged slowly through the dead leaves and noxious slime until his feet were stuck. Justan tugged and tugged, but they would not come free. He sensed something approaching behind him. Panic rose in his throat. The world slowed down. Then he heard the chittering moan of a moonrat.
Justan leapt out of bed and swung his fist around, clipping a surprised Pympol on the head. The bony man was knocked to the ground
“Oww!” the mage complained. He glared up at Justan from the floor, holding the side of his head.
Arcon, who had been standing in the doorway, laughed. “I told you not to wake him up with your moonrat impersonation.”
“Shut up! It’s not funny,” Pympol snarled. He turned over and rose shakily to his feet. Justan had hit him right beside the eye. It was already red and starting to swell.
Justan yawned and sat back down on the bed. He wasn’t amused. He didn’t get much sleep after Lenny left and was still very tired. The mage had deserved what he’d got.
“He’s right, Pympol. You’re lucky I didn’t have a sword or knife with me.” Pympol frowned and shot him a glare, still massaging his sore head. Justan didn’t feel like looking at the man any longer. He turned to Arcon. “What’s going on?”
“We’re getting ready to leave. The caravan is waiting outside and Vannya asked me to come up and get you,” Arcon explained. “Also, Pympol and I heard that you were wounded by moonrats and those types of wounds can get infected. We were wondering if you would let us check your bandages.”
Justan looked at him curiously. Arcon was quick to add, “The elves use different healing techniques than we do and it would be an interesting exercise to see how they tended the wounds.”
Justan shrugged. He was pretty sure that all of his minor wounds had been healed by the time he got to the city. The Elven food and salves seemed to have worked wonders. He sat patiently while the two wizards unwrapped the bandages on his arms and back, all of his scratches and bruises were completely healed and it didn’t give them anything to study. Justan put his hand up to his ear to find that it was completely healed as well.
The mages muttered as they realized that there wasn’t going to be much to learn from. The only truly serious wound had been the one in his calf, but he had been walking on it with only a little stiffness. When Arcon unwrapped the bandage on that leg, they began whispering excitedly. There were some healing herbs still tucked into the wrappings.
Justan flexed the leg. There was a pink scar where he had been bitten, but there wasn’t any soreness left in it. Even though the mages could have healed him faster, the fact that he was as good as new in three days was amazing. He let the mages keep the herbs and bandages and asked them to leave so that he could get ready.
It didn't take Justan very long to put his things together. He never had the chance to unpack in the first place. He was a little frustrated that he didn’t have the time to take a bath, though. The elves had somehow cleaned his wounds when he first arrived with them, but it had been two weeks since he had been able to sit and soak in a hot tub of water. Hopefully there would be ample opportunity for such things at the Mage School. He quickly washed as best as he could in the washbasin and changed into his cleanest set of clothes.
As he began to strap his pouches on, he debated whether or not to wear his swords into the school. He was entering a new chapter in his life, and he had a feeling that such weapons would not be looked upon with approval there. It didn’t matter. He wanted to enter that school as the warrior he was. He wasn't going to change that just for them.
After belting his swords on, he turned the silver inlaid dagger that Lenny had given him over in his hands. He really didn’t know what to do with it. It was an obviously expensive item that would get people wondering about him if they saw it. Justan considered strapping it on under his jacket, but changed his mind. He would wear the dagger proudly. It was a gift from his friend. It didn’t feel right to hide such a thing. Besides, an extra weapon would just make people think all the more.
He strapped on the dagger and restrung his bow with a regular string instead of the golden one. That string was a little too dangerous to wear just for looks. He tucked the golden string into one of his belt pouches.
Justan examined himself in the room’s only mirror and decided he liked the look. Armed to the teeth. It would be a reminder to the wizards and the rest of the students that he was the one in control of his life.
He hurried down the stairs and joined the rest of the caravan ju
st as they were about to leave. The caravan would reach the school by late afternoon and the students were a little surprised to see Justan come out of the inn wearing full warrior regalia. Riveren just smiled.
The caravan traveled out of the main gate. From his perch on the back of the last wagon Justan watched the magnificent city of Sampo fade over the horizon. It reminded him of when he had sat in this same spot and watched Reneul fade away. He wondered what Jhonate was doing. Did she miss him?
After a little while Vannya came out of the wagon and sat beside him.
Eye of the Moonrat (The Bowl of Souls: Book One) Page 29