The Ogre's Pact

by Troy Denning

With that, the princess touched Hiatea’s talisman and cast her last healing spell. The spear’s silver flames flickered to life, sending a wave of searing heat deep into the scout’s abdomen. He gasped in pain, his eyes rolling back in their sockets as a thin line of yellow fire shot from the slash. The flames continued to burn for a moment, then, beginning at one end of the gash, slowly died away, leaving the lips of the wound melted together. The black thread remained untouched by the magical blaze, for it would be some time before the skin alone was strong enough to keep the cut from ripping open.

  Once the spell was finished, Tavis’s eyes rolled back into their normal positions. He was even more pale than before Brianna had healed him, with a cold sweat running down his brow.

  “Now will you listen to me?” he asked.

  “If that will make you feel better,” Brianna said, giving him an overly sweet smile. She laid her talisman upon the scout’s bruised chest, taking care to position it directly over the scout’s heart “Just let me do one more thing.”

  Brianna closed her eyes, preparing to cast a spell that would prevent any lies from slipping his from lips.

  “No!” Rog’s voice shook the entire platform. “Wait!”

  Brianna opened her eyes to see the hill giant laying Greta at her side. The ogre’s arrow still protruded from the beast’s flank, while his fur was matted and dark with drying blood.

  “First fix Greta.” The hill giant locked a threatening glare on the princess.

  Brianna’s stomach knotted in panic. She could cast no more healing spells today. But if she explained that to the hill giant, Tavis would wonder what spell she intended to cast on him. The princess took a deep breath, then said, “I’m sorry, Rog. It’s more important that I use this spell on Tavis than on Greta.”

  “Liar!” Rog stooped over and pressed a huge finger to Tavis’s bruised chest, drawing a groan of pain from the scout. “Him not die from little bruise. You say that.”

  “Still, this spell is for him,” Brianna said.

  “No, use it on Rog’s wolf,” Tavis insisted. He took her amulet off his chest and returned it to her, at the same time pulling his lips to Brianna’s ear. “We want him on our side.”

  “I doubt Hiatea will grant her magic on behalf of a dire wolf,” Brianna countered.

  “Why not? She’s the goddess of the hunt as well as the family,” he pointed out. “And dire wolves are nothing, if not hunters.”

  “But—”

  “Save Greta!” Rog insisted. “Rog’s other wolves all dead. You not tell him about ogres!”

  “There wasn’t time,” Brianna objected.

  As the princess spoke, Morten stepped to her side, axe in hand. Brianna knew he would be hard pressed to defend her against a single giant, let alone three.

  Rog seemed to know this better than the princess. He dropped to his hands and knees, in the process brushing Morten aside and nearly knocking him from the platform.

  “Not matter,” Rog growled. The hill giant, eyes narrowed, hovered over Brianna. “How you feel if Rog not watch where he step and squish horse? Same thing, huh?”

  “There’s nothing I can do for Greta,” Brianna said. Her jaws ached with nausea, for her lungs were filled with the giant’s breath, a foul odor that smelled like rotting swamp grass and rancid meat. “Maybe tomorrow—”

  “Cast the spell on the wolf!” Tavis urged. “Or do you want to get everyone else killed along with yourself?”

  “Tavis not worry,” Rog said. “Tavis friend—save Greta.”

  It did not escape the notice of either Brianna or her bodyguard that the hill giant had limited his reassurances strictly to the scout. Morten stood and carefully moved forward to place himself near the princess.

  At the same time, Brianna lowered her head until her lips were next to the scout’s ear. “I need you on my side,” she whispered. “If I cast my spell on the wolf, all it’ll do is howl in its sleep—if it does that much.”

  “What do you mean?” Tavis demanded.

  “I’ve run out of healing spells for today,” Brianna replied. She spoke loudly enough so the hill giant could hear also. “The spell I was going to use on you was true speaking—so I’d know you were telling the truth.”

  Tavis’s jaw dropped. “You can do that?”

  Brianna nodded. “As long as you don’t resist—which is why I haven’t tried it before now,” she explained. “I was trying to take you unaware.”

  The scout shook his head in astonishment. “Women!” he hissed. “I’ll never understand you. Why didn’t you just ask?”

  “You’ll let me cast the spell on you?” Brianna did not know whether she was more astonished or confused. Even the most honest of men were reluctant to give someone complete access to their innermost thoughts. “And I can ask you anything?”

  The scout nodded. “If Rog lets you live that long,” he said, glancing above her.

  Brianna looked up and saw the hill giant’s head still poised above her. His lips were twisted into an angry snarl, and his brow was furrowed in confusion.

  “Can’t save Greta?” he demanded.

  “Then kill humans,” suggested one of his friends. “Don’t taste good anyway.”

  Rog’s second friend reached out and plucked Avner off the platform. “If stupid girl can’t save Greta, then Kol crush boy!”

  Avner’s face, all that showed above the giant’s thumb, went as pale as Tavis’s. “Maybe we can get more wolves?” he suggested.

  Rog shook his head stubbornly. “Take years to train new bully wolf. Raise from pup, teach to like Rog, to make others obey,” he complained. “Without Greta, Rog no hunter. Him just stupid guard.”

  The other giants frowned at this. “What wrong with that?” demanded Kol, the one holding Avner.

  “Yeah, Sart like being stupid guard,” the other confirmed. “Sleep on same floor every night, rut whenever Sart like.”

  Rog’s face reddened as he realized he had insulted his friends. Glancing over his shoulder, he said, “Nothing wrong with being stupid guard—for you. Rog not stupid. Him smart, have own pack.”

  This did not alleviate the tension. “Not after Greta die,” smirked Sart.

  “Yeah, then Rog stupid, too,” added Kol.

  Rog’s face went pale. He looked back to Brianna and pointed at the dire wolf. “Fix Greta!”

  “Maybe you can do something without a spell,” Tavis said. “The ogre poison only knocks its victims unconscious. It doesn’t kill them. With luck, Greta may not be injured that badly.”

  Brianna needed only a glance to know the scout’s hopes were without foundation. Though she had never tended a dire wolf before, she could see the arrow had lodged itself deep in the intestines. The ogre poison had done the beast a service by knocking it unconscious. Such wounds were terribly painful and, without a prompt healing spell, invariably fatal. The princess could do nothing. Removing the arrow would only bring death sooner, and counteracting the poison would revive the wolf only so it could suffer a horrible death.

  “Fix Greta now!” Rog insisted.

  Brianna began to prod and poke the wolf’s belly, desperately trying to buy time to think. Her stomach was churning with fear, not as much for herself as for the boy, and there was something else, too: guilt. She had been wrong to doubt the scout, and her mistake could cost Avner’s life—as well as hers and Morten’s. The princess still did not understand what had happened back in Hartwick, but she now accepted that somehow she had interpreted events incorrectly. No thief would allow a truth-speaking spell to be cast on him, yet Tavis had been more than anxious to subject himself to it and clear his name. She owed him a big apology—if she could figure out a way to keep herself and her friends alive that long.

  Their only hope was Tavis’s friendship with Rog, Brianna decided. If anyone stood a chance of reasoning with the hill giant, it would be the scout. The princess looked up and caught Tavis’s eye, then shook her head ever so slightly.

  The motion did not escape
Rog. “Do something!” he boomed.

  Tavis pushed himself to his feet, bracing himself against the cliff face to keep from reeling. “Rog, listen—”

  “No!” The hill giant pushed the scout back down, then looked over his shoulder at Kol. “Drop stupid boy over cliff!”

  Kol extended his arm over the edge of the platform. Brianna caught her bodyguard’s eye, then flicked her head toward Avner. Morten obeyed instantly, moving to intercept Kol with a raised axe. Rog lashed out and caught the burly firbolg by the ankle, then lifted him high into the air.

  “Fat firbolg next!” he declared.

  At the edge of the platform, Kol began to open his fist one finger at a time. A wicked grin creased his mouth, then he teased, “Rog gonna be stupid, too!”

  Avner’s eyes were opened wide with fear and his lips were trembling uncontrollably, but the boy seemed far from resigned to his fate. Although he could move no more than his head, the youth’s eyes were wildly searching for a means of saving himself.

  “Rog, do you think I’ll keep my promise if you let Kol kill that boy?” Brianna asked. She did not know whether the hill giant would consider ten horses worth the price of his wolf pack, but it was her last hope. “Do you think I’ll send all those horses?”

  Kol’s fist closed instantly, once again holding Avner secure. “Horses?”

  Sart scowled in Rog’s direction. “You didn’t tell us nothing about horses!”

  Brianna stood, breathing a silent sigh of relief. “I promised to give Rog ten horses if he’d help me.”

  “With what?” demanded Kol, eyeing Rog suspiciously.

  “To go see Noote,” Rog growled. He scowled down at Brianna. “And Rog say a hundred horses!”

  Kol pulled Avner back from the edge of the platform. “A hundred horses?”

  “That’s right,” Brianna replied. “But there won’t be any if we’re hurt.”

  Sart and Kol nodded to Brianna. “We not let Rog hurt you.”

  “Them’s Rog’s horses!” The hill giant tossed Morten toward the wall.

  The bodyguard hit with a loud thump, then dropped to the timber road at Tavis’s side, gasping for air as he tried to recover his breath.

  Rog stepped toward Kol. “Give boy!”

  Kol backed away, placing Sart in front of himself and holding Avner out of reach. “Share!” he yelled.

  “Rog lose wolves!” Rog thundered back, stopping in front of Sart. “Not Kol! Not Sart!”

  With that, the hill giant loosed a vicious right hook that landed with a deafening boom. Sart slammed into the cliff, dropping with such force that the sound of splintering timbers echoed off the granite wall. Fearing the platform would collapse, Brianna, in a futile search for handholds, turned to clutch at the smooth cliff.

  “Rog, I’ll bring horses for everyone!” Brianna yelled.

  Rog was too angry to pay her offer any more heed than he did the shaking platform. He stepped past Sart and tried to snatch Avner. Kol shoved him away, then stepped back. He was now standing directly in front of the fault cave gate, with less than a pace of platform left behind him.

  “Leave Kol alone!”

  “Give boy here!”

  Rog lunged for the hand holding the boy, and Kol twisted away. For an instant it looked like Avner’s captor would dodge aside and send his attacker plunging over the edge, then Rog caught himself by smashing an elbow into his foe’s temple. Kol’s eyes rolled back in his head, and his knees buckled. He collapsed backward, the hand clutching his prize still extended, and tumbled headfirst over the edge of the platform. Avner’s muffled voice cried out in alarm, the hoisting chains rattled briefly, then Kol’s echoing death scream drowned out both sounds.

  “Avner!”

  Brianna leaped to her feet and charged toward the end of the platform, but quickly found her way blocked by Sart’s enormous form.

  “Kol killer!” Sart threw himself forward, driving his shoulder squarely into the other giant’s back.

  Rog roared and stumbled forward, one enormous hand scraping at the sheer wall of the cliff as he tried to brace himself. “Stop! Stop!”

  Sart’s feet continued to pound the floor of the platform, driving Rog back, closer to the edge. Brianna was too horror-stricken to think. She didn’t know what to do—didn’t know what she could do—to stop the titanic struggle before her, or even whether she should after Avner’s loss. Her companions seemed as horrified and dumbfounded as she. They were staring at the battle with gaping mouths and making no move to rise.

  “Rog sorry!” Rog yelled. “Rog share!”

  With a final, thunderous grunt, Sart shoved the other giant toward the edge. Rog’s terrified voice rumbled through the entire platform, then, arms flailing wildly, he followed Kol into the valley below.

  Sart stared after Rog only until a distant crash echoed up from the bottom of the cliff. Then, his breath coming in great gusts of foul-smelling wind, he turned back to Brianna and her companions.

  “Now Sart take you to Noote,” he said, a rapacious grin on his lips. “Get horses for himself.”

  * * * * *

  As the peasant’s wagon trundled across Earls Bridge, a chorus of trumpets echoed from the summit of Castle Hartwick’s lofty ramparts. A sonorous thud sounded from inside the walls, then the gates began to creak open.

  “Stop here and let me out,” ordered Earl Wendel. The earl issued the command from the bed of the peasant’s wagon, where he lay with two of his unconscious fellows. The other seven survivors of the ogre ambush waited in more carts back at the guardhouse, where the sentries had halted them for fear of overloading the bridge. “I won’t meet my king in an oxcart.”

  The peasant halted the wagon as ordered. “You shouldn’t be walking, milord,” he protested. “Your wounds are too serious.”

  “I think I can make fifty paces.” Wendel could not quite keep the sarcasm out of his voice, for his two arrow wounds, one in the shoulder and the other in the thigh, had not stopped him from dragging one of his fellows out of the mountains on a sledge of pine branches.

  The earl climbed down from the wagon and limped toward the gate, where he saw Gavorial’s enormous face glaring out at him.

  “Where’s Tavis?” demanded the stone giant.

  “We don’t have him,” Wendel replied.

  “Why not?” The muffled question came from behind Gavorial, but that did not stop Wendel from recognizing the voice as Camden’s. “Did you kill him?”

  “No, Your Highness.”

  Gavorial abruptly retreated from the gateway, then the king himself came storming onto the bridge, his chamberlain and young queen, Celia of Dunsany, trailing close behind. Wendel stopped a few paces in front of the oxcart to wait for his liege.

  Upon reaching the earl, Camden demanded, “If you didn’t kill Tavis Burdun, what are you doing here?” The circles beneath the king’s eyes were as dark as charcoal, and his lower lip was bloody and chapped from constant biting. “Where is he?”

  “Somewhere beyond the Needle Peak glacier by now,” Wendel replied, alarmed by Camden’s demeanor. Only a madman would be more worried about avenging his wounded pride than his kidnapped daughter. “He saved us from an ogre ambush, then promised to surrender on his own—after Morten helped him rescue Brianna.”

  An angry light flashed in the king’s eyes. “You allowed that?”

  “We had no choice.” Wendel motioned to his wounded fellows in the oxcart “None of us could stand at the time.”

  Camden glared at the wagon for several moments, his expression growing as dark as a mountain storm. Suddenly, he looked back to Wendel.

  “You can stand now!” he yelled.

  The king shoved Wendel hard, sending him crashing to the ground at the feet of the peasant’s ox.

  “Go back and do as I commanded!”

  The queen, a golden-haired girl standing barely up to Camden’s elbow, placed herself between Wendel and the king.

  “Please, milord. Earl Wendel and these ot
her men have already suffered much on your behalf.” As Celia spoke, she kept her eyes fixed on Camden’s feet, clearly frightened to look her own husband in the eye. “You’re being unreasonable.”

  “Unreasonable!” Camden roared.

  Celia grimaced, but nodded. “Aye,” she said. “These men need to rest—and to see Simon.”

  The king scowled at her, then stepped past the quivering peasant to peer at the unconscious figures in the back of the wagon. “So they do.”

  Suddenly, Camden’s voice seemed as gentle as a meadow breeze. Wendel found the abrupt mood change more frightening than he had the king’s anger.

  “They’ll stay at Castle Hartwick until they recover,” the king declared. He seemed to grow thoughtful, then added, “And I’ll have to do something else about Tavis Burdun, won’t I?”

  Celia breathed a sigh of relief. She reached down and took Wendel’s arm, helping him to his feet. “Please forgive him,” she whispered. “The strain has affected his temper.”

  “It’s affected more than his temper,” Wendel replied, eyeing the king nervously.

  “Ssshhh!” Celia hissed. “There’s no telling what he’ll do if he hears you.”

  But there was no danger of that, Wendel saw.

  Camden had already turned to face his nervous chamberlain. “Bjordrek, do you think Noote is home by now?”

  The chamberlain nodded. “M-most certainly,” he said. “He left the day after Brianna’s disappearance.”

  “Good. Needle Peak isn’t far from Gray Wolf lands.” Camden grabbed his chamberlain by the shoulders and shoved him toward the gate. “Go and tell Simon to prepare one of his message birds. I must ask Noote to do something for me.”

  14

  The Fir Palace

  When Sart herded Brianna and her companions into the Fir Palace, as he insisted upon calling Noote’s oversized lean-to, the princess felt like she had stepped into some vast, sour-smelling vault where the gods held wicked spirits in purgatory. The air was hazy and damp, filled with the stench of unwashed bodies and the acrid smoke of the distant cooking fire. A roaring din of brutal laughter, bellowing voices, and lewd, bestial groans reverberated through the entire place. Around the perimeter of the room lounged great mounds of flesh that could only be hill giants, their faces and features lost in the flickering shadows draped along the walls.