The Ogre's Pact

by Troy Denning

The farms slowly gave way to long, rounded bluffs of brown granite and tangled heaths of low-growing spruce. Presently, they reached the base of Coggin’s Rise, where the road entered a stand of aspen trees. Blizzard stopped and stared into the white forest with pricked ears and flaring nostrils.

  Tavis heard nothing except a bevy of pine siskins whistling to each other. Although it was a normal enough sound for this time of afternoon, he nocked an arrow and advanced cautiously down the road, Basil and Blizzard following close behind. The scout came to a toppled aspen at the road’s edge. The bole, snapped off about four feet above the ground, had been freshly broken, for the wood still smelled of sap and showed no signs of weathering. Next to the jagged trunk lay an area of compressed ground where a very large person, probably Morten, had fallen to the ground and rolled.

  Tavis pointed the tip of his arrow at the fallen aspen. “Something dropped out of that tree and attacked Morten.”

  Basil cast a nervous glance at the other aspens still overhanging the trail. “What was it?”

  Tavis studied the surrounding area for a moment, then followed four of Morten’s boot prints across the road. There, he found a mass of flies swarming over a large area of dark ground and several strange tracks that he had not seen since his days scouting for Runolf’s patrol. The prints were deepest on the ball of the foot, with talon marks in front of the five toes. The heel depression was hardly visible, while the arch had left no mark on the ground at all.

  “It was an ogre,” Tavis said.

  The scout put his arrow back in its quiver, then brushed the flies away and picked up a handful of darkened ground. He sniffed the sticky clump and smelled a rancid odor.

  “This is ogre blood,” Tavis said. “And from the amount spilled, I’d say the brute died quickly.”

  The verbeeg looked up, eyeing the quivering boughs overhead. “If he’s dead, where’s the body?”

  “Ogres don’t leave their dead behind.” Tavis pointed to a single set of deep ogre tracks leading away from the road into the heart of the woods. “One of his friends took the body. When he reaches someplace safe, he’ll burn the corpse so our priests can’t eat it and enslave the fallen warrior’s spirit.”

  Basil frowned. “That’s ridiculous,” he said. “Human priests aren’t cannibals.”

  “No, but ogre shamans are,” Tavis replied. “And they’re too stupid to understand the difference.”

  With Basil and Blizzard still close behind, the scout rose and followed the ogre’s trail away from the road. As he walked beneath the aspens where the siskins were perched, the tone of their call changed from a gentle sweet sweet to an anxious bzzrreeee until he and his companions had passed. A few steps later, he came across several of Morten’s heavy boot prints heading in the same direction. He followed the two sets of tracks to the base of a stony bluff. He began to climb, then stopped halfway up the hill when Blizzard snorted softly and abruptly stopped.

  Tavis pulled an arrow and crouched down. “Be ready,” he said, turning to face Basil. “Blizzard seems—”

  The scout stopped in midsentence, for the verbeeg had pulled a sheaf of fresh straw from his satchel and was dropping it on the ground. In the distance, Tavis could see two similar bundles marking the route they had taken since leaving the trail.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded.

  The runecaster’s face went pale. “I was just m-marking our p-path,” he stammered. “So we don’t get lost.”

  Tavis nocked his arrow and, without saying anything, swung it toward the verbeeg’s heart.

  “Avner put me up to it!” Basil blurted.

  “In the name of Stronmaus!” Tavis swore, lowering his bow. “Will I ever be able to trust that boy?”

  Basil sighed in relief. “His behavior is perfectly understandable,” the verbeeg said. “Avner’s terrified of being left alone. Now that you’re abandoning him—”

  “I’m not abandoning him!”

  “Aren’t you? As valid as your reasons are, you can’t expect the boy to accept them.” Basil reached down to pick up the straw he had dropped on the ground.

  “Leave it,” Tavis ordered. “If he’s following us, I don’t want him getting lost with ogres about.”

  The scout climbed the rest of the way up the bluff. Basil came a few steps behind, but Blizzard would advance no farther. Upon cresting the hill, Tavis found a wide band of black arrows leading across the hillside to another toppled aspen tree. Like the one back at the road, it had been freshly snapped off about four feet above ground. Next to the broken stump lay Morten’s body, resting facedown in a pool of his own blood.

  Tavis bit his lip, but allowed himself no other reaction to the gruesome sight. During his time with the border guard, he had grown accustomed to the sight of good men lying motionless in lonely wilderness places. Though such deaths always saddened him, he had learned to control his emotions, for outbursts of grief and anger could only get a man killed when there was danger about. Nevertheless, the scout did feel a cold knot of dread forming in his stomach, and a panicked voice in the back of his head was screaming the alarm. If Morten had fallen, Brianna could not be safe.

  “Diancastra save us!” Basil gasped, stepping to Tavis’s side. “They killed him!”

  “So it appears,” Tavis replied. After studying the area to make certain no ogres were lurking in ambush, he led the way across the hilltop. “I’ll have a look around. You see to Morten.”

  “As you wish,” Basil said. “But I don’t know what I can do for him. I’m a runecaster, not a necromancer.”

  As Basil examined the bodyguard, Tavis made a thorough inspection of the area, retracing the course of the afternoon’s events. He found seven dark, rancid-smelling stains on the mossy ground, suggesting that someone—presumably Morten—had spilled a lot of ogre blood. Near several trees, he also discovered sets of deep ogre tracks. The scout realized instantly what these prints signified, for the brutes loved to attack by ambush, and dropping out of high trees was one of their favorite tricks.

  To Tavis’s dismay, he also found the place where Brianna had dismounted to examine Morten, another bloodstain, and the footprints of at least three ogres—one of them especially large—crossing her trail. On the bole of the toppled aspen, he noticed two gashes where Blizzard’s hooves had scraped as she leaped across, and he noted the churned ground on the other side where horse and rider had fallen. Then, most disheartening of all, he discovered a gleaming white pebble that turned out to be a fractured human tooth.

  Tavis was still searching for clues when Basil called out, “Morten’s alive! Help me roll him over!”

  The scout leaped over the toppled aspen and helped Basil roll Morten’s huge body onto its back. The bodyguard’s head and chest were covered with blood, the beard thickly matted with the sticky stuff. His flesh was as pale as aspen bark, and a terrific hunk of flesh had been bitten from his throat. Still, there could be little doubt that he was alive. A cold sweat covered his face, and his breath came in shallow gasps so faint his ribs barely moved. Someone had even cut an arrow from his thigh and dressed the wound with shredded bark.

  Tavis pulled a corner of the bandage away and saw that the wound had been scorched by the fire of Hiatea’s magic. There could be no doubt that Brianna had cast the spell that nullified the ogres’ poison. He put the bandage back in place and cursed.

  Basil raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “It’s no difference to me, but I thought you’d want Morten alive.”

  “I do,” Tavis replied. “But this was no chance meeting. The ogres were after Brianna all along.”

  “How can you know that?” asked Basil.

  “The poison on ogre arrows is fast,” Tavis explained. “Once it’s in your blood, you collapse in about three seconds. It won’t kill you, but you’ll be too weak to defend yourself.”

  “So?”

  “Morten killed at least seven ogres, but they didn’t kill him, even after he was wounded and helpless.” Tavis ri
pped a long strip of cloth from Morten’s undertunic and used it to bandage the wound on the bodyguard’s throat. “They let him live so Brianna would come to his aid. Then, while she was occupied with his wounds, they captured her.”

  “You can read all that from his wounds?” Basil asked.

  The scout could not tell whether the verbeeg’s tone was one of disbelief or awe. “Yes, and from other signs.”

  Tavis gestured at the hilltop, which was not so thickly wooded that visibility was a problem. “If there had been any ogres in the open when Brianna arrived, she would have seen them. But she didn’t. She came directly to Morten’s aid and bandaged his arrow wound.” The scout pointed at two sets of nearby ogre tracks. “Nevertheless, two ogres surprised her here, which means they were well hidden when she arrived.”

  “And hiding well takes time, even for ogres,” Basil said, nodding. “So they couldn’t have done it on the spur of the moment. They were hoping Brianna would come to help Morten.”

  “Right, but I’d go even further,” Tavis replied. “I’d say their shaman used his magic to lure her into the trap.”

  Basil raised his brow. “And how do you know they had a shaman?” This time, his voice was not doubtful, only curious.

  Tavis pointed at the bandage he had placed on the fallen bodyguard’s neck. “The bite,” he said. “It’s a serious one. If it had been there when Brianna healed the wound in Morten’s thigh, she would have dressed it as well. Since she didn’t, we can only assume it was made later.”

  “I see that,” Basil allowed. “But I still don’t know why you think it was a shaman.”

  “If an enemy has proven himself strong or cunning, an ogre shaman eats the corpse to enslave the enemy’s spirit,” Tavis explained. “Morten was too big to take with them, so the shaman started to eat him here.”

  “Then why didn’t he finish?” Basil asked. “I’ve never met an ogre shaman, but I know enough about magic to tell you it doesn’t work unless you perform the ritual completely and correctly.”

  “My guess is he didn’t have time,” Tavis explained. “Someone’s working with them, and that person wouldn’t have wanted to wait around for the shaman to eat an entire firbolg. So they left Morten for dead and went on their way.”

  Basil considered this for a time, then nodded. “Of course, they must have a spy,” the verbeeg said. “If the ogres came after Brianna specifically, then someone told them she’d be riding back from your inn today.”

  “And that person also warned them about Morten.”

  “It sounds to me as though we’re talking about anyone who lives between Stagwick and Castle Hartwick,” Basil said. “Let’s concentrate on motives. Why do the ogres want Brianna? Ransom?”

  Tavis shook his head. “They’re more direct. If they wanted treasure, they’d just steal it,” he said. “And the only use they have for humans is as meals or slaves—but I can’t imagine why they’d single out Brianna for that. There are plenty of easier targets near the border lands.”

  “Then perhaps it’s the spy who wants her,” Basil replied. “Is there anyone who’d profit if she disappeared, or who could use her as hostage?”

  “Any number of earls, I suppose,” Tavis replied. “They’re always trying to grab more power, but it’s a rare earl who knows the mountains well enough to find an ogre camp—much less keep himself from being eaten and strike a bargain with the shaman.”

  “Then I fear we won’t know why Brianna was taken until we learn who’s behind it,” the verbeeg said. He fell into a thoughtful silence, then let out a heavy sigh. “That leaves you with only one unpleasant option: Chase the ogres down yourself.”

  “There’s nothing I’d like more,” Tavis replied. Though he realized Basil was trying to exclude himself from such a dangerous prospect, at the moment the scout saw no purpose in commenting on the verbeeg’s cowardice. “But we won’t save Brianna by getting ourselves killed. The ogres outnumber us by five to one, and even I’m not that good.”

  Basil raised an eyebrow. “I take it you counted tracks?”

  Tavis shook his head. “No, the battlefield’s too trampled for that,” he said. “But our foes are at least ten: one to bear each of their dead or wounded fellows, one to carry Brianna, and the shaman—who would consider himself above carrying anything. On the other hand, we can assume there are no more than fourteen in the party, or they would have taken Morten to eat later.”

  “A pleasant thought, that,” Basil said. “So what do we do?”

  “Go to the castle and report what we’ve learned,” Tavis replied. He stepped over to a sapling. “But first, we’ll have to prepare a litter for Morten.”

  “Don’t bother,” said Basil. “We’ve no need of a litter.”

  The runecaster removed Morten’s leather breastplate and tore open the sweat-stained tunic beneath. After pulling Morten’s dagger from its sheath, he shaved the hair off the bodyguard’s furry chest, then he dipped his finger in the fresh blood oozing from beneath the bodyguard’s neck bandage and touched the red-stained digit to the firbolg’s chest.

  “What will your magic do?” Tavis asked.

  If Basil heard the question, he showed no sign. He lowered his bulging eyes to Morten’s chest and began to draw. The process took longer than Tavis had imagined it would. The verbeeg traced his rune slowly and deliberately, taking great care to make certain each line ran absolutely true, with clean, straight edges. Whenever his gruesome ink began to run dry, he dipped his finger in Morten’s blood again, and if any part of the stroke looked thinner or lighter than the rest, applied it again.

  Deciding there was no use in standing around idly, Tavis returned to the place where Brianna had been captured. It took only a few moments to make sense of the jumble of ogre tracks and find a trail leading southeast. At first, this puzzled him, since the ogres’ home lands lay more to the northeast. Then he realized that his quarry was hoping to throw off pursuit by circling around Castle Hartwick in an unexpected direction. The scout smiled to himself, for, with a little luck, he could cut them off—with a company of the king’s men at his back.

  As Tavis formulated his plan, a curious tension seemed to fall over the forest. Blizzard wandered onto the hilltop, nickering softly. Tavis looked back toward the trail and soon realized that the distant voices of the siskins had changed to a chorus of harsh shick-shicks. Someone was passing beneath their roosts, and from the angry sound of their calls, he was trying to be sneaky about it. The scout listened for the sounds of a man’s passage. He heard nothing, not even the rustle of leaves or the snap of a breaking twig. The person stalking toward them moved with stealth enough, but he lacked any skill at keeping the forest animals from betraying his presence.

  “Avner, come here!” the scout called.

  “How do you know it’s me?” cried the astonished youth.

  “The birds complained,” Tavis answered. “Now do as you’re told. You’ve upset them enough.”

  “I’ll be right there,” Avner replied. “Just let me get something I left back at the road.”

  After a short silence, the scout heard leaves rustling and branches snapping as a horse trotted through the wood. The beast crested the hill a moment later, Avner’s proud figure seated upon its back. As the youth came nearer, Tavis saw a hawk’s-head crest embossed on the skirt of the gelding’s fine leather saddle.

  “Where’d you come by that horse?” he demanded.

  “I found it,” Avner answered.

  “In Earl Dobbin’s stable, no doubt,” chuckled Basil. “Well done, boy.”

  “Don’t encourage his dishonest ways!” Tavis turned toward Basil and saw that the runecaster had finished his symbol. The verbeeg was walking toward them, pulling Morten’s unconscious form along at his side. The bodyguard was lying flat on his back four feet off the ground, with a red, multifarious rune shimmering upon his massive chest.

  Tavis shifted his glare to Avner. “The lord mayor can have you drawn and quartered for taking one
of his horses,” he said. “And I’d be breaking the law if I tried to stop him.”

  The color drained from Avner’s face, but he met Tavis’s gaze evenly. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t expect you to break the law.” There was a bitter edge to his voice.

  “You’re being too hard on the boy,” Basil said, joining Tavis. “He was just being resourceful. How else was he supposed to catch us?”

  “He wasn’t,” Tavis snapped, still scowling at Avner. “He was supposed to stay behind and look after the children.”

  “Livia said she’d watch them,” Avner replied. “I wanted to be here in case you needed me.”

  “What do you think I could possibly need—”

  Basil’s free hand clamped down on the scout’s arm, cutting him off. “Don’t say something you’ll regret,” he warned. “Besides, shouldn’t we hurry to Castle Hartwick? When we report Brianna’s abduction, a stolen horse will seem no big thing.”

  4

  Castle Hartwick

  At last, Tavis reached the edge of the plateau and stopped to rest, legs aching and lungs burning after the long run from Coggin’s Rise. Just ahead, the road descended over the lip of an enormous cliff that dropped a vast distance into the blue waters of the Clear whirl River. From the middle of the river’s deep currents rose a sheer-sided spire of granite, hundreds of feet high. Perched upon the summit of this craggy island, like a jagged white crown atop a pillar of black stone, sat the pale ramparts of Castle Hartwick.

  To all appearances, the castle was as impregnable as it was huge. Flying turrets hung from every corner, and between each pair of jagged merlons stood a ballista manned by a guard in helm and breastplate. Even the towers, scratching at the clouds like a titan’s pearly lances, were constructed of granite blocks so huge a storm giant could not have toppled them.

  Tavis looked back across the spruce-dotted plateau. A short distance behind him, Avner was leading the horse he had stolen from Earl Dobbin. A short length of taut rope ran between the gelding’s saddle horn and Morten’s chest, pulling the firbolg along as though he were a cloud. Behind the floating bodyguard came Basil, staggering and wheezing, skipping forward every now and then as Blizzard nipped at his rump.