“Mebbe,” she admitted after some consideration. “But Ah’m still angry at ye fer cuttin’ ’at elf free.”
“I had to. You would have killed him if I didn’t.”
“Sae ye are oan their side.”
“I’m not on their side,” he said but quickly added, “or on your side. I’m on everyone’s side, remember?”
“Fine,” she conceded. “But yoo’ll hae a hard time convincin’ Bat’laxe.”
“Not if you help me.”
“Wa shood Ah?”
“Come on, Littlehammer.”
“Aw reit, Ah’ll tak’ ye tae heem. If yoo’re sure ’at’s whit ye want.”
“Thank you.” Mongrel gave her shoulder a squeeze. “I knew I could count on you.”
The sharp voice of a child broke in. “If you two are done, I’d like to get off this mountain.”
“Ah’m nae bringin’ th’ wee lassie.” Littlehammer shook her head, sending her braids into full swing. It took everything out of her not to throw the girl over now, only it seemed Mongrel was attached.
“She comes with us or I don’t,” he said, stubborn as ever. It was moments like these that made her question if he really wasn’t part dwarf.
“Fine,” she said and pointed her hammer at Tikaani. “Ye be guid, ur Ah’ll smash yer heed in, ye got it?”
Tikaani’s hands balled into fists. “Why, you little—”
“Behave, both of you,” Mongrel cut in. “Now, come on.” He took Tikaani by the hand and pulled her along after him. Littlehammer led the way.
“Whit’s th’ story wi’ thes one, eh?” she asked, not really caring to know the answer but curious as to why her dear, sweet Mongrel would associate himself with the enemies of his dwarven kin.
“It’s a long story.”
“Daen’t hae time fer a lengthy story,” she said, coming to the end of the path. A landslide had closed off the way she’d come. It seemed her brother had encountered the enemy without her and had done a bang up job. “Oan second thought,” she said, “Ah’ve got a wee bit ay time.”
Fifty feet below, Laerilas fought against the rapids. It was safe to say, by his current progress, the water was winning. Luck alone saw him to the riverbed, where he caught a low-hanging branch and pulled himself up. All along the riverbed, other members of the king’s guard were dragging themselves out of the water like half-drowned cats.
One would think for all the wailing that they’d suffered serious injuries in the fall, but only their clothing and hair had been damaged. Cries of “My hair!” and “My shirt is ruined!” carried up river to where Laerilas squeezed out his cloak. Aerin, above all, could be heard bemoaning her ruined hairstyle, which according to her, would take hours to replicate if even possible with wet hair.
Laerilas rolled his eyes. He didn’t want to hear about her ruined curls. At least she had hair to ruin. He hesitated before running his fingers through what was left of his. He might as well have a look at it, he thought, leaning slowly over the water to peer at his reflection. He gasped. It was worse than he’d imagined. Wet hair stuck up in uneven layers or was otherwise plastered to his scalp. There was no fixing it.
“Mongrel, you idiot,” he spat into his hideous reflection. “Why would you do such a thing? Don’t you know better than to cut an elf’s hair? What could have possibly compelled you to—oh.” Realization finally set in. It was so painfully obvious now that he had time to reflect. Mongrel hadn’t meant to harm him or his appearance; he’d only meant to save him from that wretched dwarf. He almost felt ashamed, but another look into the water reignited his fury. “Why couldn’t you have cut off the dwarf’s arm instead?” he said. “Or at least cut a few inches higher?”
Perhaps he should just be grateful Mongrel hadn’t chopped off his head, he reminded himself as he fiddled with the hacked remnants of his hair. It was darker than he remembered. It seemed the dye had washed out.
“Curse you, Mongrel.” He splashed the water. “Next time we meet . . .”
There was no point in finishing the sentence. When next they met, Gwyn would have him, not Laerilas. An arm, after all, was worth far more than a few feet of hair, and even if he did get a go at Mongrel, would he really kill him over a lousy hair cut?”
The longer he stared into the water, the more he considered it.
“You poor thing.” Gwyn’s voice pulled him from his morose stupor. “To have lost your hair. At least it grows back . . . unlike an arm.”
Laerilas hurried to his feet. “Forgive me, my prince. I didn’t—”
“Oh, please, by all means, go on bemoaning your hair.” He made a point of cradling his stump. “It was such a tremendous loss.”
Laerilas shut his mouth.
Gwyn said, “If you’re quite done mourning, we need to be off.”
“Off where?”
Gwyn spared him the most critical of stares. “After the stray, of course, and that wretched dwarf who aided him. It seems your old friend has finally chosen a side.”
For some reason, Laerilas doubted it, but he said nothing. Instead, he bent down to retrieve his bow and quiver only to find he had no arrows. The quiver was full of water, which he dumped into the riverbed.
Gwyn reached back and removed all of the arrows from his own and stuffed them into Laerilas’. “There,” he said. “I don’t need them anymore.”
“Why not?” Laerilas asked before realizing how painfully obvious the answer was. He cringed in preparation for a scolding, but Gwyn just smirked.
“My bowstring broke,” he said momentarily. “Now, make haste, you idiot. My arm must be avenged.”
“We’re not going back up the mountain, are we?” he asked, falling in step with Gwyn as he headed up the riverbank.
“No, we’re going to cut him off when he comes down.”
Laerilas paused in his steps, suddenly full of dread. The thought of encountering Mongrel again made his stomach turn.
“Hurry,” Gwyn called over his shoulder. The others were already in formation, waiting for Gwyn and Laerilas to take the lead.
“How about we leave them up there?” Laerilas suggested. “Why wait for them to come down when we could take this time to find the hidden object?”
“Hidden object?” Gwyn spun around. He was no longer smiling or even smirking. “This competition has never been about that damn ring. It’s about winning. Now, come on.”
With a heavy sigh, Laerilas took his place behind Gwyn. But something nagged at the back of his mind. Turned out, it was just a leech. Shrieking like a child, he pulled it off and tossed it into the bushes. More than ever, he wished he’d never joined this competition.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
There was no going over the mountain, and Tikaani refused to try, so Littlehammer led them down and around the mountain until they found a way inside. They entered through a small opening and started a path into darkness. Hours passed before the group reached ground level. The exit was near. Mongrel could smell it: the fresh air, the pine trees—the scent of rotting carcasses. He paused and had a look around. Piles of animal bones littered the ground along with tufts of fur, mostly horse hair by the look of it. He cringed when his foot slid over a pool of fresh blood.
“What monster lives here?” Tikaani latched onto her amulet. It was too late to cover her eyes; she’d seen them too. Mongrel slapped her hand down before she lured the wolves inside the mountain.
“No monsters here,” he said with a nervous laugh as he spotted a skull that looked suspiciously human. “Right, Littlehammer?”
Up ahead, the dwarf plowed ahead, seemingly unfazed by their surroundings. She wouldn’t even stop so her companions could catch up.
“Reit,” she said over her shoulder. “Though Ah wooldnae pit it past an ogre.” She spat. “Nasty buggers daen’t need tae be makin’ homes in uir doorways. Wolves neither. Th’ moontain is uir haem. Others best be clearin’ it. Guid riddance Ah say.”
Mongrel ignored her and peered through the darkness. So
mething—a rock perhaps—was blocking the exit. Though he suspected it wasn’t a rock.
“Uh, Littlehammer.” He pointed to it.
She tapped it with her hammer.
Tikaani screamed as it growled and turned around. Mongrel clamped her mouth shut and offered the creature a smile.
“Hi there, Grrargh,” he said. “Long time no see.”
“You mind?” said Grrargh. “I having dinner.”
“Ah’d imagine sae,” said Littlehammer, placing one hand on her hip. The other gripped her hammer. “Whit’s on th’ menu, eh, ogre?”
“Uh.” Grrargh poked the carcass with one giant green finger. “Some kinda hornless deer.”
“Hornless deer?” Mongrel considered the carcass—the size, the shape, the hooves—and arrived at the most likely conclusion. He gulped. “Was there a rider atop that hornless deer by chance?”
“There was.”
He exchanged a knowing look with Littlehammer before daring the question. “You wouldn’t have had him for lunch perchance?”
“Maybe I did. Maybe I not,” the ogre said. “Maybe I gonna have you for dessert.”
Tikaani squeaked into Mongrel’s palm.
Littlehammer scoffed. “Ah’m nae afraid ay ye, ogre. Ye hink coz yoo’re taller than me an’ bigger than me an’ meaner than me ’at Ah shood be afraid ay ye?”
“Those are all good reasons,” Mongrel suggested, reaching out with his free hand to pull her back.
“Weel Ah’m nae,” she said, stubborn as ever. “An’ Ah’m tired ay yoo’re kin’ movin’ in oan uir lands, eatin’ uir goats, an’ stinkin’ up th’ place. Ye hear me? I won’t hae it nae longer!”
“Oh, yeah?” Grarrrgh rose to his full height—well, as tall as he could get before his head scraped the ceiling. “Then do something about it, little bug.”
“’At’s Lil'ammer!” she shouted, bringing her hammer down on his foot. The ogre howled in pain and fell back. The entire cave shook.
“Littlehammer, stop it,” Mongrel pleaded. “Let’s not start a fight.”
“Too late fer ’at,” she said, raising her hammer for the next strike when Mongrel placed himself between her and the ogre. “Get ay mah way!”
“Not a chance,” he said and turned to Grrargh. “You’ll have to forgive my friend. She can be a bit . . . hardheaded.”
“My head much harder,” Grrargh replied.
“Right.” Mongrel nodded slowly. “Anyway, I think we got off on the wrong foot. I’m Mongrel. Nice to meet you.” He offered his hand, but Grrargh was too busy checking the damage to his foot. Mongrel cleared his throat. “So tell me, Grrargh, what brings you to the competition, anyway? What are you hoping to accomplish?”
“You wanna know ’bout Grrargh?”
Mongrel nodded, and after some thoughtful consideration and a lot of grunts and words that Mongrel couldn’t quite make out, Grrargh began his story. Littlehammer walked off, sighing and muttering to herself while Tikaani gnawed on her nails from a safe distance. Mongrel, meanwhile, listened and learned how an ogre from the northern mountains found himself engaged in a competition for global domination.
It turned out Grrargh wasn’t in it for the power; he was in it for the real estate. Having recently been run off of every farmland from here to the southernmost border of Kingsbury for eating crops and livestock, the ogre had come to the mountains where goats were aplenty and pitchforks were practically nonexistent. He’d sought shelter in the mountains, only to encounter the dwarves, who treated his kind to worse things than pitch forks and shovels.
Mongrel nodded along as Grrargh labored in detail over his grievances against the dwarves and how they denied his kind all the bounties the mountain had to offer.
“Stupid dwarves,” Grrargh muttered, coming to the end of his tale. “They think mountain just for them. They wrong. Dwarves should stay out of ogres’ way.”
“Hmph.” Littlehammer crossed her arms and turned her back to them.
Mongrel ignored her to ponder Grrargh’s situation. “So if you win the competition you’re going to take the mountain for the ogres, is that right?”
Grrargh nodded. “Ogres have no home, no kingdom. Time we take mountain for selves.”
“I see where you’re coming from, but what if I told you there was a better way to get what you want? A way in which everyone wins?”
“I say you a liar.”
“Just hear me out,” Mongrel said and explained his reasons for joining the competition. When Grrargh didn’t understand, he started again, this time using smaller words, and then smaller words until Grrargh understood. When he finished, Grrargh scratched the top of his head and hummed thoughtfully. The act of thinking was not something for which the ogre was well-practiced.
“So if you win, ogres win too. Right?”
“Right.”
“And we live in the mountain?”
“Well . . .”
“Noo wait jist a darn minute!” Littlehammer stormed over, suddenly wanting to be a part of the conversation. “Th’ moontain belangs tae th’ dwarves. It’s nae yoors tae gie awa’. If I’d knoon ye waur gonnae piecemeal mah homelands, Ah woold’ve lit ye fall aff th’ moontainside.”
“Calm down, Littlehammer.” Mongrel held her back. “It’s obvious both sides need to talk this out.”
“They’ll be nae talkin’—Ah’m killin’ heem!”
“Calm yourself, Littlehammer,” Mongrel said and looked to the walls. Not a speck of gold in sight. Darn it, he could have afforded a distraction.1 He turned back to Grrargh. “Look, I can’t promise you a home in the North Mountain, but if I win the competition, I will see to it personally that the ogres have a place to stay. But first I have to win the competition. If I win, we all win. So are you with me?”
Grrargh scratched his chin and thought some more. Then he got distracted for a little while before returning to his thought. Finally, he nodded.
“Great! Welcome aboard.” Mongrel clapped him on the back. “But before we get going, I have one question. What happened to the rider?”
Walder remained seated on the stump near the riverbed, waiting for the arrival of his replacement horse. Several hours later, it arrived, being led by an oily-faced youth.
The boy checked his notes. “Are you Walder? Steward of Kingsbury, brother to the late King Donald of Kingsbury? Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.”
“I am.” He nodded. “Is this my replacement horse?”
“Sure is.” The boy patted the horse. “I’m here on behalf of First Knight Insurance2 to assist you. We got your messenger bird. I see that you’ve opened a claim with us. Says your horse was eaten by an ogre?”
“That’s right.”
“I take it the horse was totaled.”
Walder nodded solemnly.
“Have you the body for inspection?”
“No. The ogre does.”
“Er, right. That’ll be all then,” the boy said, making a note. “The rental is yours for up to two weeks. Claims will see to it that you get the worth of the last horse. I imagine he was worth a pretty penny.”
“He cost a pretty penny. Just put new shoes on him. I want that factored in.”
“Uh huh.” The boy nodded. “Anyway, just sign here, and I’ll be on my way.”
Walder accepted the clipboard and read over it thoroughly before signing and handing it back.
“Well, good luck on your, uh . . .”
“Competition.”
“Right.” The boy turned to go and then spun back around. “If you don’t mind my asking, how’d your horse end up as ogre chow?”
Walder shook his head. “It’s a long story.”
It was a long walk out of the mountain, at least for Littlehammer, who detested her new travel companions. She tried to rank them in order of whom she hated most to least. At the moment, she couldn’t decide who she detested most: the northern runt, the idiot ogre, or Mongrel, who’d invited them both to tag along.
What next, an elf? She
hoped not, but hope alone wouldn’t hold up against Mongrel’s incurable naivety. Foolish lad. At this rate, he’d end up dead for sure, stabbed in the back by one of his new “friends.” She couldn’t—no, wouldn’t let that happen, even if he was an idiot. She vowed the next time they ran into someone, she would make fast work of it. Not even Mongrel would be able to stop her.
So later that evening when they encountered Akono in the forest, Littlehammer didn’t hesitate to attack.
Akono was fast, but not fast enough. Littlehammer struck the mask, smashing it into little pieces. Shards flew everywhere and littered the ground. Akono fell back and lay still as a corpse.
“You killed him!” Tikaani gasped, standing behind Mongrel, where she’d been since the battle started.
“Can I eat him?” Grrargh reached down and poked the body with his finger.
“No, you can’t eat him.” Mongrel knelt down beside Akono and touched his neck. “He’s not dead,” he said after a few seconds. Then he bent down and placed his ear to Akono’s chest. That’s when his cheeks turned bright red. He promptly removed his head and rubbed the back of his neck. “Turns out he’s not a he after all.”
“What do you mean?” Tikaani asked. Grrargh was just as naïve as Tikaani. Littlehammer rolled her eyes.
“Akono is a woman,” Mongrel said, and everyone’s gaze fell to the obvious indicator. Sure enough, beneath the thin garment was proof of Mongrel’s theory.
“Why would she disguise herself as a man?” Tikaani asked, studying her from a safe distance.
Littlehammer snorted. “Some cultures ur jist ignorant.”
“Don’t judge, Littlehammer,” Mongrel scolded her. “I’m sure Akono can explain himself—er—herself when she wakes up.”
“If she wakes up.” Littlehammer chuckled.
“She’ll be fine,” Mongrel said and turned to his companions for help. “Grrargh, go gather sticks for a fire. Littlehammer, give me your flask. Tikaani . . . just stay right where you are.”
Littlehammer narrowed her eyes. “Whit dae ye need mah flask fer?”
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