The Ogre's Pact Page 29

  The bodyguard dropped to his knees behind Basil. In words so garbled Tavis could barely understand them, he gurgled, “Throw me over!”

  Goboka’s arm stretched forward and ripped Basil away from his work.

  “Do it!” Morten urged.

  The scout glanced down the road and saw that the ogres were still twenty paces away. “No.”

  Tavis reached down and jerked the hand axe from Morten’s makeshift belt, then brought the blade down on the ichor-covered appendage protruding from the bodyguard’s throat. The blow severed the arm with a sort of wet crackle. The stump of the limb receded into the festering sore from which it had come, and a pained wail rang out from the ridge.

  Tavis glanced toward the sound and saw Goboka clutching his shoulder. Even from so far away, the scout could see that nothing hung below the elbow.

  “Give me that!” Morten growled.

  Tavis felt the axe being ripped from his hand, then saw Morten charge down the road to meet the ogres.

  “Come back, Morten!” Tavis yelled.

  “I can’t finish the rune with you down there!” Basil added. “You’ll be killed.”

  “That what he wants, verbeeg,” Ooo said. “Finish rune.”

  “No,” Tavis replied. “We can cure—”

  Ooo shoved her way past the scout, nearly knocking him from the platform. “No time for stupid feelings.”

  The fomorian snatched Basil’s dagger and, as Morten crashed into the ogre pack, carved the rune’s last line.

  A coating of bright green moss instantly spread down the path. The timbers began to rot, dropping away in a steady stream of decomposing matter. A deep groan sounded from the wooden buttresses, then the hanging road tilted steeply, spilling Morten and the ravaged ogre pack toward the valley floor.

  Ooo dropped the dagger at Basil’s side. “Escape complete. Now bargain done.” The fomorian stepped into the fault cave. Without looking back, she called, “Good-bye, Tavis Burdun.”

  17

  Goboka Returnes

  From deep in the forest echoed a loud, sharp thump, then something began to crash through the underbrush toward them. Too exhausted to leap up, Tavis and his three companions slowly gathered their weapons and dragged themselves to their feet.

  “Do we run or fight?” asked Avner.

  “I can’t do either—at least not well,” Basil complained. “I’m too tired.”

  The company had been on the move for two solid days and had glimpsed the distant figure of a lone, one-armed ogre often enough to know Goboka was dogging their trail. Apparently, the rest of the ogres—if any had survived the battle at Noote’s lodge—remained trapped in the hill giant valley, for the shaman had no warriors with him. To make certain, Tavis had even circled back twice and found signs of only their single pursuer.

  “Maybe we should hide,” Brianna said. “If we’re too tired to run or fight, that’s our only option.”

  Tavis shook his head. “The cover’s not good enough.”

  They were standing beside a cold bog, surrounded by swamp spruce, white birch, and tamarack. The terrain was flat and level in all directions, with nothing to offer protection except fallen tree trunks and a single boulder.

  “Besides, Goboka wouldn’t make so much noise unless he’s already seen us,” the scout added.

  “Maybe it’s not Goboka,” suggested Brianna, staring into the forest. “If he can see us, we should see him too.”

  “What are you implying?” asked Basil.

  Brianna licked her finger and held it in the air. “That noise is coming from downwind,” she said. “Whatever’s coming, I’d say it smelled us.”

  “A bear?” Avner asked.

  Two more thumps echoed through the woods. The unseen beast snorted in alarm, then seemed to regain its footing and continue crashing through the undergrowth. Tavis could now hear its footfalls well enough to realize the creature was galloping.

  “It’s a horse,” the scout said.

  “Blizzard?” Brianna gasped.

  A loud whinny rang off the trees, then the horse’s white-flecked head and chest came flying into view, her hooves barely clearing the jumble of logs over which she had leaped. She caught sight of Brianna and whinnied again, galloping toward the princess as fast as she could. The mare looked as haggard and tired as the four companions. Her coat was dull and rough, so smeared with dirt and mud that it was more brown than black. Her mane and tail were tangled with burrs, and she had lost so much weight that her ribs stuck out like sticks.

  Brianna stepped away from the boulder and spread her arms. Blizzard did not slow down until she was almost upon the princess, and the impact as she galloped into her mistress’s arms would have sent a smaller woman tumbling into the cold bog. As it was, Brianna stumbled and nearly fell, but the near mishap did not wipe the smile from her face.

  Tavis found the sight of Brianna’s gleaming teeth a welcome one. It was the first time he had seen her smile in longer than he cared to remember.

  The princess finally released Blizzard’s neck and began to stroke the mare’s nose. “It looks like you’ve had a rough time of it, girl,” she said. “You must be as ready to go home as I am.”

  “Home?” Avner gasped. “Back to the castle?”

  The smile vanished from Brianna’s lips. “That’s right.” She nodded. “I must face my father.”

  “Are you sure that’s prudent?” asked Basil. “In all likelihood, he’ll return you to the ogres.”

  “Not before I tell the earls the price he paid to win his kingdom,” she replied.

  “What good is that?” Avner objected. “Half of them would do the same thing! They won’t defy their king to protect you.”

  “He doesn’t deserve to be their king!” Brianna snapped. “When he made his bargain with Goboka, he didn’t betray me alone. He betrayed his kingdom!”

  “How so?” Basil asked.

  “The king has sired no other children,” Brianna explained. “If the ogres take me, there’s no legitimate heir to the throne. Hartsvale will fall into anarchy when my father dies.”

  “And that’s why we must go back,” Tavis said. The scout chose not to comment on the other, more ghastly possibility: that the Twilight Spirit would help some giant get a child on her—a half-breed who would, in time, become heir to Hartsvale’s throne. “We must make the earls understand the king’s crime.”

  “Not we.” Brianna took Tavis’s hand between hers and looked into his eyes. “You’ve already done more for me than I deserve.”

  “Brianna, that’s not possible,” the scout protested.

  “It is, especially given my poor behavior,” the princess insisted. “I should never have doubted you, but I swear in Hiatea’s name it will never happen again. Please forgive me.”

  Tavis felt the heat rising to his cheeks. “My lady, I already have,” he replied. “All I ask in return is that you allow me to stand with you during the trying days to come.”

  Brianna’s eyes grew watery, and she released Tavis’s hand. “I only wish I could,” she said. “But Avner is right about my chances with the earls. When we reach Castle Hartwick, I want you to wait in the woods. If I fail, take the boy and go find your tribe. You’re a remarkable firbolg, and I’m sure there will be a place for you.”

  Tavis shook his head. “You know I can’t do that,” he said. “Now more than ever, you need a bodyguard—and I’m the only firbolg available for the job.”

  “But what of Avner?” Brianna demanded. “If we fail, it won’t be safe for him in Hartsvale.”

  “It would be safer than sending him to live with firbolgs!” Basil protested. “The child wouldn’t last two days in such a stern society.”

  “Besides, my place is at Tavis’s side,” Avner said.

  “If Brianna and I fail, your place will be with Basil,” the scout countered. “You aren’t going into the castle.”

  Avner rolled his eyes and sighed. “If that’s what you want.”

  “This
won’t be like the time you let Morten walk into the ogre ambush,” Tavis warned. “I mean what I say.”

  “So do I,” Avner replied. He met the firbolg’s eyes squarely. “I won’t disappoint you this time.”

  “I know you won’t.” Tavis ruffled the boy’s hair, then looked back to Brianna. “See? We’re all set.”

  “Almost,” the princess said. “But there’s one thing you must promise me.”

  “As long as it’s in my power,” the scout replied.

  “It is,” Brianna said. “You mustn’t let my father return me to the ogres. Kill me first.”

  “I couldn’t raise a hand against you!” he objected.

  “What I ask is well within your power,” Brianna insisted. “To deny me this promise is to break your word.”

  Tavis looked away, but the princess stepped around and forced him to look at her.

  “I’ve told you what I want. Will you obey?”

  A knot formed in the scout’s throat, but he nodded. “My last arrow will be for you,” he said. “But, if it comes to that, the first one will be for your father.”

  “Agreed,” Brianna replied. “It will be better to end the Hartwick dynasty quickly, so that a powerful earl can seize the throne before the others start plotting and scheming.”

  “I’m glad you’ve developed a plan for what you’re going to do inside the castle, but what about getting us there?” asked Basil. “As exhausted as we are, we can’t outrun Goboka.”

  Tavis nodded. “You’re right about that,” he said. “Sooner or later, we’ll have to rest—or pass out from fatigue. Either way, the shaman will catch us long before we reach Hartsvale.”

  “Then let’s meet him here.” Brianna studied the bog for a moment, then said, “Here’s what we’ll do.”

  When the princess finished explaining her plan, Tavis shook his head. “It puts you in too much risk,” he said. “You’ll suffocate if something goes wrong.”

  “We all share in the risk,” Brianna countered. “And if something goes wrong, I want to suffocate. I’d rather die than fall into Goboka’s hands again.”

  Basil passed his hand axe to the princess. “In that case, the hunted shall become the hunter.”

  * * * * *

  From his hiding place in a log tangle, Tavis watched Goboka’s bulky figure approach. The shaman could not have had much rest in past two days, but he showed little sign of fatigue. His strides were long and steady, his eyes alert, and his jaw set with determination. Even his wound seemed to be healing. From the stump of his severed arm dangled the beginnings of a new limb, complete with a tiny elbow, wrist, and hand.

  Goboka stopped twenty paces from the bog. His purple eyes narrowed and glared over the gray mud at the weary Brianna, who sat in the center of the quagmire on a hastily constructed raft of three logs. The ogre’s gaze flickered to the opposite bank, where Blizzard stood nickering and scraping at the shore with her hooves, then his nostrils flared. He scowled and dropped to his knees, sniffing at the ground as a wolf might.

  Cursing under his breath, Tavis nocked an arrow. Goboka had stopped a good dozen steps short of the cross fire he and Basil had set up, but the scout knew their target would come no closer. Ogres normally did not have an acute sense of smell, so it seemed apparent the shaman had used magic to enhance his—and if his spell was half as powerful as a wolf’s nose, it would not take him long to find his ambushers.

  Tavis rose and fired. At the sound of Bear Driller’s bowstring, the shaman sprang to his feet. As fast as he moved, his reflexes were not quick enough to spare him entirely. The shaft took him in the shoulder above the severed arm. Tavis was still using ogre arrows, so the impact did not even knock Goboka down, but when the ogre saw the arrow’s black fletching, his eyes widened in alarm. Cursing in the guttural language of his people, he ripped the shaft from his wound and flung it away.

  “Now, Basil!” Tavis yelled. The scout was already nocking another arrow.

  Goboka’s eyelids began to droop and he sank to his haunches, but he managed to pull a clay vial from his satchel. Without even opening it, he stuck the small bottle into his mouth and bit down. Runnels of bright blue fluid spilled from the corners of his mouth and dribbled down his chin, bubbling and hissing, sending wisps of blood-colored vapor up past his nose.

  The scout released his bowstring, aiming for one of the shaman’s sleepy eyes. The ogre’s lethargic gaze was fixed on his attacker, seemingly oblivious to the streaking shaft. Tavis’s hand dropped reflexively toward his quiver, but he found himself thinking he might not need another arrow—until, almost casually, Goboka tipped his head aside and allowed the shaft to hiss past.

  Basil rose from his hiding place, also in a log tangle, and flung a flat runestone toward the ogre. With smoke and flame spewing from its edges, the rock sailed straight for Goboka. The shaman looked toward the sizzling rock, then raised the stump of his arm into the air and, with the tiny hand growing at its end, tapped the disc ever so slightly. The missile changed directions and came shooting straight for Tavis.

  The scout hurled himself from the log tangle and rolled, trying to put as much distance between himself and the runestone as possible. A loud thump echoed through the forest as the disc buried itself in a log. The sizzle deepened to a rumble, became a roaring crescendo, and finally exploded with a deafening clap.

  An eerie tranquility settled over the wood. The silence lasted only an instant before it was shattered by the sputter of a hundred flaming wood shards returning to earth. Tavis curled into a tight ball, listening to the lumber crashing through the tree limbs. The acrid smell of smoke filled the air as huge staves thudded into the ground all around, then he heard a branch snap above his head. The scout looked up to see the sharp end of a flaming stick dropping toward his face. He twisted away, barely keeping the fiery stake from piercing his skull.

  Tavis jumped up, nocking another arrow. When he turned to aim, Goboka had vanished.

  “Where is he?”

  Basil slowly spun around, craning his neck in all directions. “He’s disappeared, Tavis.” The verbeeg’s voice cracked as he registered the complaint. “I can’t see him!”

  “It’s all right. Don’t panic,” the scout said.

  Tavis moved cautiously forward, his eyes searching for fluttering branches or some other sign that might betray an invisible foe. Goboka’s voice echoed through the trees behind Basil, chanting the mystic syllables of an incantation. Tavis turned toward the sound and found his arrow pointing at the verbeeg’s chest.

  “Duck!” the scout yelled.

  By the time Basil could obey, Goboka had ended his incantation. The scout released his arrow and heard the shaman leaping for cover. The shaft hissed into the forest without hitting anything, but at least it would make their invisible foe think twice before he uttered another spell.

  Basil’s log pile shifted. The runecaster cried out in alarm and tried to scramble away, but something caught his feet and pulled him back. One of the logs began to writhe, its gray bark changing to scales before Tavis’s eyes. The bole slithered around the verbeeg’s waist and began twining him in its mighty coils.

  The scout resisted the urge to sprint to Basil’s aid, realizing Goboka was probably using the runecaster as bait. Instead, Tavis stopped well out of the snake’s reach and fired his arrow. The shaft bounced harmlessly off the beast’s thick scales. He tried again, this time drawing his string back until the tip barely touched the bow. Again, the shot did not penetrate.

  “Where boy?” demanded Goboka’s voice.

  Tavis nocked an arrow and turned toward the sound, but remembered how the shaman had thrown his voice in the fault cave and did not fire. Taking care to conceal the maneuver with his fingers, the firbolg slipped the notch of the ogre shaft off Bear Killer’s string, but drew the bow as if he were going to fire.

  “Leave Avner out of this,” Tavis said, relieved to hear the shaman trying such a trick. If it had been possible for the ogre to throw his voice wh
ile uttering a spell incantation, Goboka would not have bothered trying to make conversation.

  “Let all you go,” Goboka said. To give the impression that he was moving about, he had shifted the location of his words. “Give me princess.”

  Tavis turned his bow toward the voice and released the cord beneath his fingers. The sonorous strum of Bear Killer’s snapping bowstring echoed off the trees, but the firbolg’s arrow remained between his fingers.

  As the scout expected, Goboka’s heavy footsteps came rushing at him from behind. Tavis tightened his grip on the arrow and spun, thrusting the shaft out in front of him. He heard an astonished groan and felt the iron tip sink into something pulpy, then the shaman’s huge bulk smashed into him, breaking the arrow and knocking the firbolg off his feet.

  Tavis crashed to the ground beneath his attacker. The air rushed from his lungs in a single excruciating gasp, then a pair of huge hands closed around his throat. He felt hot ogre blood spilling onto his skin, then Goboka’s loathsome face appeared before his eyes, the illusion of invisibility shattered once the shaman revealed his location by attacking. The brute’s yellow tusks were gnashing in fury, with blue poison antidote still frothing at the corners of his mouth.

  Tavis slammed his palms into the ogre’s elbows, trying to break his attacker’s arms and free himself of the hands that had squeezed shut the veins in his neck. The shaman roared in anger, but his sturdy limbs did not budge, and he brought his heavy brow down to smash his captive’s face. The scout turned his head, keeping his nose from being shattered, but Goboka’s forehead still caught him in the cheek. An agonizing crackle resonated through the firbolg’s head, and his entire face erupted in pain.