The Ogre's Pact

by Troy Denning

  When they finally caught up, Tavis did not give them a chance to rest. “Stay together,” the scout said. “We’re almost there, and I don’t know how the sentries will react if they see a verbeeg coming down the road by himself.”

  Basil’s bushy eyebrows came together. “Perhaps I should return to Stagwick and collect my books—”

  “Those are Earl Dobbin’s books, not yours,” Tavis reminded him. “And you won’t be safe alone. There are a lot of patrols this close to the castle, and it could prove fatal if they came across you.”

  Without awaiting Basil’s response, Tavis turned away. The road ahead ran down a narrow ledge cut into the cliffside. It passed before a small watchhouse chiseled from the living stone, then curved sharply onto a long bridge that spanned the Clearwhirl’s wide chasm.

  As Tavis’s small company walked down the road, three sentries stepped from the watchhouse door. In honor of the princess’s birthday, they had polished their armor and weapons to gleaming silver, and over their breastplates hung ceremonial tabards of red linen embossed with the king’s white stag. The two youngest men carried long halberds. The oldest, a veteran with gray hair, bore a silver-sheened battle-axe identifying him as Sergeant of the Earls Bridge.

  The two youngest guards came a few paces up the road, then stopped and crossed their weapons to bar the way to the bridge. The sergeant stayed behind, standing at the watchhouse door.

  “Halt and explain yourself, Tavis!” the sergeant called, casting a suspicious eye at Basil. He made no mention of the strung bow in the scout’s hand, for the loyalty of firbolgs—and that of Tavis in particular—was well known. “Where is Lady Brianna? Why do you have her horse and bodyguard?”

  “The lady has been taken by marauders.” Tavis peered over the crossed polearms, looking down the road at the sergeant. “That’s all you need know to let us pass.”

  The sergeant shook his head and pointed at Morten’s body, still floating in the air. “I can’t let you cross,” he said. “Not with a verbeeg runecaster in your company.”

  Tavis did not try to argue. The only thing that made humans more nervous than giants was giant magic. “Then send word to the king of our arrival,” Tavis said. He would have suggested that Basil wait here, but feared the verbeeg might do something foolish—such as try to return to Stagwick for his books. “Rune magic or not, he’ll want to hear about Brianna.”

  The sergeant came up the road and took the halberd from one of his sentries. “You heard what Tavis said—and ask High Priest Simon to come,” he said. “Maybe His Eminence can help Morten.”

  “As you order, Hauk.”

  The sentry turned and sprinted down onto the Earls Bridge, a magnificent structure resting on two flying buttresses mounted into opposite sides of the canyon wall. When the guard reached the other side, he slipped between the half-open gates and disappeared inside. Within moments, curious citizens had gathered atop the castle walls, thrusting their heads between the merlons to peer at Morten’s floating body and Blizzard’s empty saddle.

  The castle gates swung open, and Hauk’s sentry came scurrying out. Behind him, two members of the Giant Guard, the stone giant Gavorial and the frost giant Hrodmar, peered out of the gateway. Though the archway was fifteen feet tall, the pair had to stoop to look through the opening, filling it completely with their torsos and faces. Gavorial’s gray hide and bald head seemed a strange contrast to Hrodmar’s milky skin and unruly yellow beard, but Tavis knew they had more in common than appearances suggested. Like all members of the Giant Guard, they had been sent by their chieftains to protect Camden. In return, the king allowed traders from the giant tribes to use Hartsvale as a peaceful gathering place.

  Once Hauk’s sentry had crossed the bridge and reclaimed his halberd from the sergeant, Gavorial’s sonorous voice echoed across the chasm. “Keep an arrow ready for that verbeeg, Tavis Burdun!” he called. “The king’s safety rests in your hands!”

  After Tavis pulled an arrow from his quiver, the two giants withdrew inside the castle. Gavorial and Hrodmar would not be coming across the Clearwhirl, for even the Earls Bridge could not support such a tremendous weight. To enter Castle Hartwick, true giants forded the Clearwhirl on the opposite side of the island, then climbed a long and wearing path to the Giants Gate.

  A blast of trumpets rang out from the castle walls, then the king and his retinue appeared. A looming figure who stood more than two heads above the earls and court officials surrounding him, Camden was built as solidly as a castle tower, with thick, sturdy legs and hulking shoulders that bulged like a bear’s beneath his ermine cape. His long strides carried him across the bridge at a brisk pace, leaving his retainers to scurry along behind.

  Soon, Tavis could see that Camden had already donned his ceremonial crown in preparation for the evening’s festivities. It was a gaudy band of gold with seventeen bejeweled points, one for each of the giant tribes that had pledged friendship to Hartsvale. From beneath this circlet hung the king’s two hair braids, while he wore his heavy beard trimmed into the neat square favored by the nobility.

  Camden stepped off the bridge, brushing by Hauk and the two sentries without a word. He stopped directly in front of Tavis.

  “What’s this about my daughter?” the king demanded. He was even taller than Brianna and could look Tavis more or less directly in the eye. “Where is she?”

  Knowing of no easy way to report what had happened, Tavis said simply, “The princess has been taken by ogres.”

  Camden’s face did not darken with anger, or pale with fright, or even go blank with shock. It fell with despair, as though nothing could be done about what the scout had reported.

  “Ogres,” the king repeated softly.

  The reaction puzzled Tavis, for Camden was a bull of a man, given to epic rages and stormy rantings. To see the king take the news as he had was akin to seeing a badger lie down and whimper as the hounds came to tear it apart.

  Camden’s small entourage arrived. The retinue stopped a respectful distance away, but two men continued forward until they were within a single pace of their monarch. One was Bjordrek, whom Tavis had spoken with on two occasions, but the other the scout had never seen. The fellow was portly and bald, wearing so much gold jewelry that he sparkled like a sun dog in the afternoon light. He carried a silver staff shaped liked a fork of lightning, the symbol of the god Stronmaus.

  Camden motioned the bald man toward Morten’s floating form. “Simon, see to Morten.”

  Calling two assistants to help him, Simon slipped past Tavis and took charge of the floating bodyguard. The trio pulled Morten down the road to an area of level ground in front of the watchhouse, then pushed him to the ground.

  As the cleric rubbed the rune off Morten’s chest, Tavis turned his attention back to Camden. “Your Majesty, have you received other reports of ogres?”

  “Of course not!” the king snapped, his eyes narrowing. “Why ask such a thing?”

  “Because it didn’t surprise you to hear there were ogres in the kingdom.”

  Camden’s face reddened, and he clenched his fists. “What are you saying?” the king yelled. “That I allowed my daughter to fall into ogre hands?”

  The scout quickly shook his head. “Not at all,” he said. “But I thought that might explain why Runolf—”

  “Runolf was here?”

  “He stayed the night at my inn,” Tavis replied, frowning. Runolf was a good soldier, and it wasn’t like him to neglect reporting his arrival to the king. “Weren’t you expecting him?”

  “Not … yet.” The king’s voice was weak, his lip trembling. He seemed lost in thought for a moment, then focused his gaze on Tavis. “His report wasn’t due until summer’s end.”

  Though Tavis felt certain Camden was lying, he knew better than to say so. If the king wished to keep his business with Runolf secret, it was not a scout’s place to interfere.

  “Your Majesty, perhaps I should finish my report,” Tavis suggested. Camden nodded, and
the scout continued. “Originally, there were between eighteen and twenty-two ogres, but Morten put up a good fight and now only ten to fifteen remain. Their leader’s a shaman—probably a cunning one—and he came specifically to abduct Princess Brianna.”

  The king raised his brow. “You seem to know quite a lot about these ogres.”

  “Even ogres leave a trail,” Tavis replied. “I should also mention that it appears one of your subjects helped the ogres.”

  The king’s eyes widened. “Do you know who?”

  “Not yet,” Tavis replied. “But it won’t take long to catch them. I’ve a fair idea where to pick up the trail.”

  “You?” Camden asked. “You’re no longer one of my scouts.”

  “Under the circumstances—”

  The king shook his head. “No. Tend to your other duties,” he ordered. “I’m sure that’s what Brianna would want.”

  Hauk stepped to the king’s side. “Your Majesty, my duties keep me well informed of people’s comings and goings,” the sergeant said. “There aren’t any other scouts here, at least none of Tavis’s experience. He’s your best hope.”

  Camden replied without looking at the sergeant. “It won’t delay us to summon another scout,” he said. “I’m afraid it will take a few days to organize our pursuit.”

  “A few days!” Tavis burst out. “By then, the ogres will be deep in the Ice Spires! Give me a company of your guard, and I’ll have the princess home by dawn!”

  Camden’s eyes narrowed. “You forget yourself, innkeeper,” he warned. “I am the king, and you have heard my command.”

  Behind the king, a distressed murmur rustled through the entourage. One of the earls, a rough-featured man named Wendel, even dared to step forward.

  “Forgive me for interrupting, Your Majesty,” Wendel said. “But most of us up north are old enough to remember fighting ogre raiders, back before you bought them off.” He ran a nervous hand over his gray-streaked beard, then continued, “Tavis is right. If we don’t go after the ogres now, they’ll disappear into the mountains. We’ll never see Brianna again.”

  Wendel’s concern sprang from more than fondness for the princess, Tavis knew. Brianna was an only child, and so far Camden had failed to produce an alternate heir to the throne—this despite a series of ever younger and more beautiful queens. Romantically inclined courtiers whispered that the king’s failure was caused by grief over his first queen’s death. Whether or not that was true, Brianna’s disappearance would have grave results for Hartsvale. It seemed every power-hungry earl could boast some tenuous claim to the throne, so the princess’s well-being was all that stood between the kingdom and a struggle for succession that would make the War of Harts seem a skirmish.

  It was several moments before the king faced the earl. “I appreciate your concern, Earl Wendel, but we have little choice.” The gentle words were a surprising contrast to the anger in Camden’s eyes. He ran his gaze over the entire group of earls, then continued, “Before anyone goes after these ogres, I’d like to know why they took my daughter. If any of you can answer that question, then we can send our armies after her.”

  The sour tone in the king’s voice made it clear that he had no true wish to hear suggestions, so the earls offered none.

  Camden gave them a patronizing smile. “This is the answer that comes to my mind: The ogres want us to give chase, perhaps so a larger group can catch our armies in the open, thus weakening the defenses of Castle Hartwick.”

  Earl Wendel’s cheeks reddened, as did those of several other men old enough to have fought beside the king during the War of Harts. Camden had used his ogre allies to execute a similar ruse against his brother, with the result that Dunstan’s castle had been captured and his forces driven from the land.

  “But we must do something!” Wendel said. “We can’t let them take the princess!”

  “Perhaps Morten will know something useful,” called Simon.

  The priest was kneeling at Morten’s side, ready to cast his spells. His assistants had shaved the bodyguard’s heavy beard away from the horrible gash on his neck. They had also peeled Brianna’s shredded-bark dressing off the firbolg’s thigh, revealing the jagged lips of an arrow puncture. The skin surrounding the hole was red and disfigured from the fiery healing magic of the princess’s goddess, but the injury looked as though it would trouble Morten for some time to come. Both wounds were surrounded by white foam left over from the cleric’s purifying ritual.

  Simon laid his silver staff over the hole on Morten’s leg, announcing, “He’ll be ready to answer questions in a moment.”

  Tavis received the news with mixed feelings. Certainly, he wanted to hear what Morten could tell them about the ogres—but he was not looking forward to the bodyguard’s report about what had happened earlier in the Weary Giant’s barn.

  Simon uttered a string of mystic syllables, and a blue flash hissed down the length of his forked staff, filling the air with the smell of fresh rain. Crackling bolts of sapphire light danced over Morten’s arrow wound. The hole’s jagged lips joined together seamlessly, and even the burn caused by Brianna’s healing spell vanished. The spell faded, leaving only a faint blue scar in the shape of a lightning bolt to mark the injury.

  Several earls voiced their high esteem for Simon’s magic, but the high priest paid them no attention. Laying the forked end of his staff over the gash on Morten’s neck, he raised a wineskin and began to pour. As the red fluid spilled over the firbolg’s throat, he called upon Stronmaus to change the wine to blood so the veins of a brave warrior might run full once more. A dazzling bolt crackled down from the sky and struck the rod. The pommel flared blue for a moment, then the red nectar grew dark and thick as it spilled into the wound.

  Morten’s breath grew deeper and more steady. His eyes fluttered, then he moaned. He smacked his lips, as though the wine were entering his throat through his mouth instead of a wound. When he tasted nothing, the firbolg’s eyes popped open. He twisted his head to the side and squinted up at the high priest.

  “Simon?” he gasped. “What are you doing here? Where’s Brianna?”

  “We’re at the Earls Bridge,” the cleric explained, his voice soft and patient. Still pouring wine over his staff, he continued, “You suffered a wound—”

  “My wounds aren’t important!” Morten said. “What of the princess?”

  The bodyguard pushed himself into a sitting position, but lacked the strength to stay there and promptly crashed back to the ground. “What of Lady Brianna?” he demanded again.

  Camden stepped to the firbolg’s side. “We were hoping you could tell us,” he said. The king waved his hand at Tavis, Basil, and Avner. “These three found you on Coggin’s Rise. My daughter wasn’t there.”

  Morten turned his head to glare at Tavis. The firbolg’s eyes were ashamed and angry, as one might expect of a loyal bodyguard who had just learned of his failure, but they also seemed strangely glazed, as though the pain of his injuries had dulled his mind.

  “You!” Again Morten tried to rise. “I’ll kill you myself!”

  Camden gently pushed the firbolg back down. “Why should you want to kill Tavis?”

  Morten continued to glare at Tavis. “He betrayed Brianna,” the bodyguard declared. “The knave’s been using her to protect his den of thieves, and today she learned the truth.”

  “Tavis?” Camden asked.

  Gasps of astonishment and disbelief droned through the king’s entourage, with Earl Wendel’s voice loudest of all. “Impossible!” he declared. “I’ve known Tavis Burdun for a decade. He’d never do something like that.”

  As the earl was speaking in his defense, Tavis heard Basil and Avner whispering to each other behind him, obviously concerned by the turn the conversation had taken.

  “Stay where you are, scofflaws!” Tavis hissed, speaking over his shoulder. “Running will do no good now.”

  After allowing the drone to continue for a moment, the king raised his hands for silence
. Looking to Tavis, he demanded, “What of Morten’s charge?” Then, almost as an afterthought, he also asked, “How does it concern my daughter’s disappearance?”

  “Some books were taken from Earl Dobbin, and the thief sought refuge in my inn,” Tavis admitted. “But I knew nothing about it until afterward, and I speak honestly when I say the incident has nothing to do with Brianna’s disappearance.”

  “You can’t believe him,” Morten scoffed.

  “Why not?” demanded Wendel. “Firbolgs can’t lie.”

  “That runt’s no firbolg!” Morten bellowed. He managed to push himself into a seated position and stay there. “Just look at how small and skinny he is. You can tell he was raised on human food, and on human lies!”

  Camden frowned thoughtfully. “Morten might have a point there,” he allowed. “But I don’t see how it concerns Brianna. Even if he wanted to silence her, he hardly had the time to call a pack of ogres.”

  Bjordrek stepped to the king’s side. “True, sire. But who else could treat with ogres?” He spoke quietly, his gray eyes fixed on the scout. “Only Tavis has the skill to find their home and survive long enough to strike an agreement.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” objected Wendel. “Tavis is no thief, or he wouldn’t have brought Morten here. It would’ve been simpler to leave the oaf for dead.”

  Morten scowled at this. “Tavis Burdun was hiding Earl Dobbin’s stolen books. If that doesn’t make him a thief, nothing does,” the bodyguard declared. “Why he saved me, I don’t know.”

  “It appears there are a great many things we don’t know, and it may take some time to sort them out,” the king said. “Until we do, Tavis and his friends shall remain at Castle Hartwick.”

  A knot formed in Tavis’s stomach. “What of Princess Brianna?” he demanded.

  “She is not your concern. Now do as I command.” Camden’s eyes grew hard, and for the first time he glanced at the scout’s famous bow. “Or will you take arms against your lawful liege?”