The Ogre's Pact

by Troy Denning

  As the firbolg broke free of the thicket of giant legs, he was surprised to see Tavis no longer hung over the fire. Ig had already taken the scout’s spit down and was using a bone butcher knife to cut the cocoon apart. Long strings of drool were dripping from the fomorian’s mouth, and he was licking his twisted lips with a long gray tongue.

  “Leave him alone!” Morten bellowed.

  The bodyguard started to charge the cook, hoping that the fomorian was typical for his race and coward enough to bluff away easily. Otherwise, Morten would have to abandon the scout. He could not afford the time it would take to kill the fomorian.

  The firbolg suddenly found his way blocked by the fomorian dancing slave. Although hardly as big as a hill giant, she was still much larger than Morten, and he could not easily dodge around her.

  “Go!” She thrust his battle-axe into his hand. “We take care of Tavis Burdun.”

  Morten stared at the weapon in confusion, so stunned by the unexpected help that it took him a moment to realize the fomorian slaves had become his allies. The firbolg accepted his axe and started to step past the fomorian, intending to rush into the crowd on the other side of the lodge. Before he made it all the way around her enormous hip, the hides on the wall ahead were ripped away with a tremendous whoosh. The firbolg caught a glimpse of towering fir trees silhouetted against a blue sky, then hill giants began to spin around, shouting and screaming in astonishment. The tumult lasted only a matter of seconds before giants began to collapse, the black fletching of ogre arrows protruding from wounds that, on their huge bodies, seemed mere pinpricks.

  Deciding it wiser to risk hill giant feet than ogre arrows, Morten spun around. The conditions on that side of the lodge were no better. Goboka had planned his attack well, catching his enemies in a deadly cross fire.

  Noote’s angry voice came bellowing from the other end of the lodge. “Forget game! Fight ogres!”

  Hoping the giants ahead could hear their chief, Morten turned and ran for Brianna’s end of the lodge. At first, Noote’s followers seemed confused about what was happening. While their fellows dropped all around them, many continued to stomp and kick at Morten, angrily bellowing about the game being unfair when he used his axe to fend off their attacks. Then, as their unconscious fellows piled on top of each other, the giants seemed to realize the firbolg was not their greatest problem. They began to work feverishly to unbind each other’s hands. Morten even began to help, cutting their hands free as he ran past.

  To the bodyguard’s relief, Goboka’s attack was concentrated near the center of the lodge. Fifty paces down from the cooking fire, the walls remained intact, and the giants were moving toward the battle with their clubs and wooden shields. Occasionally, one of these warriors took a swipe at Morten, but the firbolg had little trouble dodging these halfhearted attacks—especially when the aggressor was invariably chastised for wasting time. They had ogres to kill!

  By the time Morten reached the far end of the lodge, it was more or less empty. All the giant warriors were back near the cooking fire, bellowing insults at their attackers and trying to work up the courage to raise their shields and charge into the onslaught of ogre arrows. All that remained here, in the relatively untouched corners of the lodge, were a handful of wrinkled giants too old to do much of anything except watch the clan’s whimpering children. None of them made any move to stop Morten as he approached Brianna.

  “Are you all right up there?” the bodyguard called.

  “Better than you,” Brianna warned. “Look behind you.”

  The floor began to tremble as someone broke into a charge. Morten spun around to see Noote and his queen rushing toward him. The bodyguard could not imagine how they had pushed their way through the swarm of giants in the center of the lodge, but there could be no denying they had.

  Cursing under his breath, Morten braced himself to meet the charge. One giant he could handle, but two—his silent complaint was interrupted by the muffled strum of a bowstring. The queen cried out in shock and began to stumble. She managed to take one more step before collapsing on her face, the black fletching of an ogre arrow protruding from one enormous buttock.

  The bodyguard felt the cold fingers of panic slipping around his heart, at least until he realized that it wasn’t an ogre that had fired the shaft. Tavis’s crimson-skinned figure stood a short distance beyond the queen, with a scrap of filthy hide tied loosely about his waist and the fomorians standing to either side of him. The scout was trying to nock another arrow, though he was so weak that he could not stand without leaning against the leg of the female dancing slave.

  “Save your strength!” Morten yelled.

  The bodyguard allowed Noote to continue his charge. Then, when the hill giant stooped over to reach for him, the firbolg hurled his axe. The weapon tumbled through the air once, then lodged its blade deep in the chieftain’s forehead.

  Morten dove away, catching a glimpse of Noote’s eyes growing blank as he pitched forward. The hill giant’s body did not fall clear to the ground, instead lodging against the wall below Brianna’s feet.

  The firbolg picked himself up, then climbed Noote’s back and stood on the hill giant’s shoulders as he plucked Brianna off the wall.

  “Nice axe work,” the princess commented. “Now let’s get out of here—and fast!”

  Morten glanced over his shoulder and saw that some of the hill giants had decided it would be easier to go out the entrance than to try squeezing out the holes the ogres had opened in the center of their palace. About two dozen of the huge warriors were rushing toward the exit, bellowing war cries and whirling clubs over their heads.

  “Fools,” Morten commented. He began to unwrap Brianna. “Goboka will expect that.”

  “But I bet he won’t be expecting that, will he?”

  The princess pulled her arm free of her loosened bindings and pointed to Tavis. The scout and his fomorian rescuers were rushing straight toward the side of the room, desperately attempting to avoid the giants charging down the center of the lodge. As Morten and Brianna watched, the fomorians linked arms and lowered their shoulders, then hurled themselves through the wall with a tremendous crash.

  “Let’s go,” Brianna ordered. She pulled the rope off her legs and tossed it aside, then started to run. “We don’t want to get left behind.”

  16

  Unexpected Help

  A few moments after the fomorians opened the gaping hole in the side of the Fir Palace, Tavis and his companions rushed through it. The scout ran between Morten and Brianna, who had snatched up two battered hill giant bucklers to screen the trio’s flanks. Although the shields were as large and heavy as tower doors, the princess’s ancestral strength allowed her to carry hers as easily the bodyguard did his. The small company did not bother to guard against frontal assaults, for their fomorian allies had ripped a huge section of hides from the lodge wall as they exited, then cut a broad swath through the ogre lines by hurling this tattered canopy over the heads of their would-be attackers.

  Tavis and his companions made it only three steps out of the lodge before ogre arrows began to pound the shields on both flanks. The assault sounded like some sort of crazy drumbeat, reverberating through the wood with an erratic cadence of thumps and thuds. Tiny splits appeared in the thick planks, each sprouting the dark tip of an iron arrowhead. The venomous points were not yet penetrating far enough to be dangerous, but the scout knew that soon a shaft would split one of the gray slats and pierce the flesh of a shield-bearer.

  Though Tavis was not carrying either of the heavy shields, he found it difficult to keep pace with his companions. Both his mangled arm and the gash in his side throbbed with a deep, boiling pain, while Noote’s torture had scalded his skin to such a degree that he felt as though wasps were stinging every inch of his body. But his thirst caused the worst suffering. The scout had lost so much sweat during the steaming that he felt like he had not drunk water in a tenday. He could hardly draw breath past his swollen tongue, an
d his joints burned with the fiery ache of fever. Even the spots swimming before his eyes seemed ready to sink into darkness.

  Despite his weariness, the scout nocked an arrow as they stepped onto the canopy the fomorians had laid over the ogre lines. Soon, the warriors flanking them would be in position to try for rear shots. He had to be ready to answer. Trying to summon the strength to draw Bear Driller’s bowstring, Tavis glanced over his shoulder—then a tremendous echoing crash rolled over him as the Fir Palace came apart, untanned hides and fir trunks flying in every direction.

  At first, Tavis thought Goboka had blasted the lodge with a spell—until he saw the hill giants, following the example of their fomorian slaves, come crashing through the walls. The whole lodge seemed to be exploding, like a hive no longer able to contain its angry bees, and suddenly there were giants everywhere.

  The rain of arrows pounding the trio’s shields dwindled to a trickle, then died away completely as the ogres scrambled to dodge the canopies of tattered hides and splintered tree trunks being hurled at them by the hill giants. Morten and Brianna tossed the heavy bucklers aside and, dragging Tavis between them, scrambled away from the ogre lines, following the fomorians toward the nearest stand of fir trees.

  As the trio sprinted into the copse, powerful jolts and heavy shocks began to rumble from the direction of the Fir Palace. Tavis glanced back and saw that the ogres had recovered from the initial shock of their foes’ charge and were again firing. A handful of hill giants already lay sprawled on the ground, and several others were taking their last lurching steps. But many more were still charging forward behind their huge shields, their long legs carrying them toward their enemies with incredible speed.

  A different kind of crashing began to roll across the field: the sound of massive clubs smashing anything that might conceal an ogre archer. Fir trees came tumbling down, boulders went clattering across the valley floor, hillocks of soft ground burst apart. Tavis and his companions did not tarry to watch the carnage, but continued deeper into the stand. The sudden reversal of the battle’s course made little difference to them. They had to put as much distance between themselves and the victors, whether ogres or hill giants, as possible.

  By the time they finally caught the fomorians, Tavis could hardly stand. His vision had narrowed to a long black tunnel, his shaking legs could barely support him, and his throat was so swollen he feared it would close up entirely. Fighting the urge to collapse, he staggered over to the bank of the tiny stream where their allies had stopped, then threw himself face first into the cold waters.

  When he finished drinking, the scout found Brianna and Morten standing next to him. From outside the thicket, the constant thunder of hammering clubs and falling giants suggested the combat had grown even more intense during the few moments it had taken him to quench his thirst.

  Ig and the dancing girl had crossed to sit on the opposite shore and were calmly pulling apart the rotten carcass of a deer they had apparently brought from the Fir Palace in the cook’s shoulder satchel. Although the meat was so putrid that even an ogre wouldn’t have eaten it, Tavis was not surprised to see the pair gorging themselves on it. The fomorian diet consisted of the most noxious, virulent refuse that they could find—and if something was too fresh, they would often take it home to rot for a time.

  Brianna placed her hand on Tavis’s shoulder. “If you’ve quenched your thirst, I should cast my spells.”

  The scout was disappointed to see that the princess did not meet his eyes. He started to ask if something was wrong, then thought better of it and remained silent. Of course something was wrong. Last night, Brianna had learned the truth about her father’s betrayal. Tavis could only guess how that knowledge made her feel—sad, angry, lost perhaps—but he knew for certain that those emotions would be as powerful as the terrible despair he was feeling over Avner’s loss.

  In the back of his mind, the scout kept hearing the boy’s footsteps padding through the thicket. He half expected the young thief to appear and announce that the whole thing had been an elaborate joke, but Tavis knew that would not happen. Thousand-foot falls were not jokes. Avner was gone, and all the wishful thinking in the world would not bring him back.

  When Tavis made no move to lie down, Brianna gently pushed him onto his back and purified his injuries with blessed water, then laid her amulet on his stomach wound. “I’ll start with this one.”

  “No.” Tavis moved the talisman up to his sternum. The stomach wound was by far the most dangerous and agonizing of his injuries, but he didn’t care. He had no intention of allowing Brianna to go the way of Avner, and he would be better able to defend her if his bruised chest did not interfere with drawing his bowstring. “If you only have two spells, cast them on my chest and my arm.”

  Brianna frowned. “This is only a bruise,” she said, touching his discolored sternum. “It isn’t dangerous.”

  “It hinders me when I pull my bow,” the scout replied. “And right now, that’s more dangerous than any wound I have.”

  The princess nodded, then did as he asked. Tavis could not help hissing as Hiatea’s symbol began to glow with white heat, searing his already scalded skin.

  The sound drew gap-toothed smiles from both fomorians.

  “I thought we were on the same side,” Tavis complained.

  “Pain good,” replied the female. She gave Ig a coy smile, then added, “Pain mean you alive.”

  “Then maybe you’d like some of your own,” growled Morten.

  “Don’t mind them,” Tavis said. As he spoke, the color of his bruised chest was lightening from blackish-purple to pale crimson, and he could feel the goddess’s strength coursing through his bones. “That’s just their nature.”

  “If you say so.” The bodyguard stood and started back toward the battle. “I’ll go see what’s happening at the Fir Palace.”

  As Morten left, Brianna moved her talisman to the scout’s arm and cast her second healing spell. To the fomorians’ obvious disappointment, Tavis remained quiet as the scarred flesh on his forearm slowly smoothed itself back to normal. He felt more of Hiatea’s magic flowing up through his shoulder, and even the weakness caused by his dehydration seemed to fade.

  Brianna left her talisman in place for several minutes. Only after the magical glow had faded and the silver had turned cold did she take it from Tavis’s arm.

  “I hope that’s better.” She still did not meet his eyes.

  The scout stood, then grabbed Bear Driller and drew the bowstring back. The effort caused a little pain in all his wounds, but he now felt more than strong enough to nock a few ogre arrows on its string.

  “I should be able to kill a few ogres now,” he said.

  “Then you’ll need some arrows,” Morten said, returning from his observation post. He was carrying a full quiver of ogre arrows in one hand and stone hand axe in the other. “I took these from a dead ogre at the edge of the stand.”

  “The battle’s still going strong?” Tavis asked. The scout noticed that Morten’s throat wound was about to fester again, for it had grown red and swollen. “There’s no sign that the ogres are coming after us?”

  “They couldn’t if they wanted to.” The bodyguard handed the quiver to Tavis. “The giants are going after them like bears after dogs.”

  The report alarmed the scout. “What about the shaman?” he asked. “Isn’t he doing anything to help his warriors?”

  Morten shook his head. “Not that I can see.”

  “We’d better get out of here, fast,” Tavis said. “If Goboka’s not helping his warriors, he’s looking for us.”

  Tavis turned to leave, but when the fomorians stood up to follow, Morten grabbed the scout by the shoulder. “Are we going to let them come with us?”

  “Ooo help you,” the female reminded Morten. “You help Ooo and Ig.”

  “Smashing palace wall easy,” said Ig, stepping to Ooo’s side. “But need Tavis Burdun to leave valley.”

  Tavis nodded. “It’s
a fair bargain.”

  “I suppose so.” The bodyguard stepped close to Tavis, then spoke more quietly. “But be careful. You can’t trust fomorians.”

  “They deserve a chance,” Brianna said. She glanced at Tavis, then looked away. “I recall both of us saying the same thing about a certain firbolg—and look how wrong we were.”

  “This is different,” Morten grumbled.

  Tavis smiled to himself, then led the way through the thicket. With Ig half staggering and half hopping along behind them, there was no possibility of moving with any kind of stealth. The scout tried to reduce the likelihood of ambush by traveling as far ahead of his companions as practical, but he did not think his efforts would do much good. The fomorian’s gait was so clumsy that, even with the din of battle still raging around the Fir Palace, a careful listener almost anywhere in the valley would hear him crashing through the thicket. Tavis tried not to worry about the noise, since there was little he or anyone else could do about it.

  In contrast to Ig, Ooo moved with the uncanny silence typical to most fomorians. Her immense figure seemed to glide through the thicket in slow motion. She made no wasted gestures, placed each foot with precision and care. She was so graceful that the scout even began to think of her as beautiful—though in a dangerous sort of way. Tavis had seen enough carnage wrought by her race to know fomorians used their remarkable stealth for purposes as twisted as their forms.

  They reached the edge of the stand. The scout motioned for the others to wait, then stood behind a fir bole and studied the ground ahead. The small field was dotted with boulders, tufts of long yellow-green grass, and bright clumps of dainty alpine flowers. There was no sign of the battle between Goboka’s horde and the hill giants, but Tavis knew better than to assume there were no ogres nearby just because he did not see them.