The Ogre's Pact Page 8

  Suddenly, Bear Driller felt heavier than anything Tavis had ever held in his hands. The scout had no idea whether he could loose an arrow at his own king, but he knew that obeying Camden’s order would mean Brianna’s loss—and he could not allow that, any more than he could lie. “I won’t abandon Brianna,” he said.

  “Then you are an outlaw.” Camden stepped back behind Hauk’s sentries, pointing a finger at the scout. “Seize him.”

  Bjordrek’s eyes grew round. “But Your Majesty, if he—”

  “No firbolg would fire on his liege.” The king motioned Hauk forward. “Even a firbolg thief.”

  As the sergeant and his men moved to obey, Tavis nocked his arrow and in one swift motion raised Bear Driller into firing position. Basil gasped, Avner cheered, and Hauk’s sentries stopped in their tracks. Several earls pulled small dress swords from their belts, and Morten managed to drag himself to his feet.

  “Go on,” the bodyguard said. “He can only kill one of you.”

  Tavis loosed Bear Driller’s bowstring. The arrow hissed past Camden’s head, passing so close the fletching brushed the royal ear, then shot out over the Clearwhirl’s chasm. Before the color could drain from the cheeks of the astonished king, the scout was pulling another shaft from his quiver. Behind him, he heard Basil’s flat feet running up the road. Avner seemed to be staying close at hand.

  “I’m no thief,” Tavis said, nocking his arrow. “But I’ll do what I must to save Brianna—even it means defying my king.”

  “Traitor!” Morten shouted. “This will cost you your head!”

  “Perhaps, but only after the princess is safe,” the scout replied. Then, without shifting his gaze from Camden’s disbelieving eyes, he began to back slowly up the trail. “Mount up, Avner. It’s time to go.”

  No one moved to stop them.

  * * * * *

  Save for the cold breeze pouring down its steep channel, the ravine seemed an ideal place for Brianna’s ambush. The jagged boulders along the rims would serve as excellent hiding places, and, after her allies pounced, the deep shadows of the rocky bed would make it difficult for her captors to keep track of the evasive beasts. Only the wind, blowing downhill instead of up, was wrong. If the ogres had sharp noses, they would notice the smell of mountain lion as the princess’s swift friends slipped into position. But with the way the brutes stank, how could they have a decent sense of smell?

  Brianna was at the mouth of the ravine, suspended from an ogre’s bony shoulder by the same greasy rope that bound her hands and feet. A filthy rag had been stuffed into her mouth and secured in place with a strip of equally filthy cloth, and every time she inhaled she almost retched on the rancid odor that hovered about her captors like a fly swarm. Her flesh had grown numb from the stinging mountain cold, and the princess did not know how much longer she could endure.

  There were two ogres behind the one carrying Brianna and ten ahead, many of those bearing the warriors who had died on Coggin’s Rise. Several of the corpse-bearers had already entered the ravine, and the extra weight of their burdens was causing them to slip and stumble as they climbed. Regardless of the wind’s direction, the princess did not think she would ever have a better chance to surprise her captors.

  Brianna closed her eyes and pictured Hiatea’s flaming spear in her mind. The talisman on her necklace grew warm, and she thought, Yes, my sisters and brothers, now we hunt.

  The unvoiced call of nine vicious spirits answered Brianna’s summons, pouring from the goddess’s talisman into her breast. The princess suddenly felt hungry and vexed, filled with a fiery rancor that made her ache to rake open bowels and bite necks apart. She opened her eyes and ran her gaze over the dark mountainside. Somewhere up there, nine of Hiatea’s most ruthless hunters were slinking toward the gorge, as quiet as shadows and as hard to see as the wind.

  The ogres continued to climb, oblivious to the death waiting above. For no good reason, Brianna found herself holding her breath as she watched. Every so often, a warrior would pause to rest or catch his balance. The princess’s heart would leap into her throat and pound like a drum until the brute resumed his ascent, usually after a sharp grunt from the climber behind him, but there was no sign that the warriors had caught the scent of her allies. Finally, the ogre in front of Brianna’s stepped into the ravine mouth and reached up to grab a handhold.

  That was when the whole line came to a halt. The princess craned her neck to see the cause of the delay. She found only the hunched backs of several ogres, spread along the shadowy ravine like so many boulders.

  The ogre shaman’s voice rolled down the ravine. “What wrong, spy?” he demanded. “Why stop?”

  When the spy did not answer immediately, Brianna felt cold fingers of despair slipping around her heart. It would do her no good to attack until all the ogres were in the ravine, so the warriors close to her would be too busy fighting to worry about their prisoner. The princess could not spring her trap before then, or the brutes would organize a defense and prevent her from escaping. Unfortunately, the traitor Runolf—Brianna thought of the man that way to keep her hatred of him from tempering—was about to force her hand.

  Runolf had joined the ogres at dusk, as the brutes ended a chilling two-hour wade down the Clearwhirl. After receiving a gruff greeting from the shaman, the traitor had led the group through a dark spruce forest and into the icy hinterlands of the north valley, guiding them without incident to this ravine at the edge of the Ice Spires’ forbidding wilderness.

  And now it appeared that in addition to leading her kidnappers to safety, Runolf would ruin Brianna’s only hope of escape. He was clearly a good enough scout to know mountain lions never hunted in packs. They were stealthy creatures as solitary as they were vicious, often fighting to the death even when male and female came together during mating season. Assuming the traitor realized that more than one beast lurked above his head, he would also know someone had used magic to summon the pack.

  The ogre shaman finally grew tired of waiting for Runolf’s answer. “Climb, spy,” said his muted voice. “Take us Needle Peak.”

  “This is as far as I go, Goboka,” came Runolf’s answer. “You know the rest of the way—probably better than I.”

  Goboka, the shaman, was silent for several moments, then his voice asked, “Why afraid? What danger ahead?”

  Brianna resisted the urge to call her attack. If the ambush was foiled, she would lose nothing by waiting until Runolf actually told the shaman about the mountain lions. On the other hand, if the traitor had merely decided to turn back, her plan still had a good chance of working.

  “The danger ahead is minor,” said Runolf. “But I’ve risked enough on your behalf. You can face it alone.”

  Brianna heard Runolf’s boots scraping on the rocks as he started down the ravine. She thought Goboka would kill him on the spot, but soon saw the shaman’s warriors pressing themselves against the craggy wall to let their departing guide pass.

  The princess did not know quite what to make of the sudden desertion. It seemed likely that the traitor knew about her ambush, but for some reason of his own had decided to keep the secret. As for Goboka, Brianna felt certain the shaman was merely biding his time until Runolf left the crowded confines of the ravine, where his smaller size would prove a valuable advantage against the looming ogres.

  As Runolf came near, he gazed into Brianna’s eyes and gave her a brief nod. The princess noted no suggestion of apology or shame in his expression, only a tight-clenched jaw like she had once seen on Morten’s face as he went off to execute a treasonous earl. Brianna tried to curse him. She managed no more than a garbled rasp around her gag, but the meaning was plain enough. The traitor looked away and stepped past.

  Goboka’s voice instantly boomed down the ravine, “Kill him!”

  The last two ogres stepped abreast of each other and reached for their hand axes, but Runolf was ready for them. Throwing himself between them, he drew his weapon and lashed at the heel of the attacker
nearest his sword arm. The brute’s ankle came apart in a spray of blood and, bellowing in pain, he dropped to his knee.

  The second ogre’s axe arced down at Runolf, who avoided death only by hurling himself at the poor brute he had just injured. He struck the groaning warrior full in the chest, bowling him over and in the same move tucking a shoulder to start a somersault. The traitor rolled right up his foe’s huge body, slashing the throat of the astonished ogre as he passed over, and came up standing on the ground. He spun and charged, his flashing blade beating back the brute he had not yet killed.

  Hoping to use Runolf’s distraction to good advantage, Brianna closed her eyes and pictured Hiatea’s flaming spear in her mind. The talisman on her breast grew warm, and she thought, Hunt, my friends! Slay the ugly ones!

  The mountain lions sprang from their hiding places, bounding along the rim of the ravine, descending into the dark gorge as silent as owls. The beasts hit their targets with raking claws and snapping teeth, filling the ravine with the pained cries of dying ogres.

  The two brutes nearest the ravine mouth fell instantly, their necks crushed by their attackers’ powerful jaws. Several more warriors were tumbling down the steep channel with mountain lions still clinging to their backs. Farther up, a few had actually managed to keep their feet, and were spinning in wild circles, bellowing madly and wildly flailing their arms in an effort to halt the vicious claws slashing their backs. Brianna could not see what had become of Goboka, but she did hear his angry voice bellowing off the craggy walls as he struggled with one of the murderous beasts.

  A low growl sounded from the murky ravine, then a dark shape came leaping out from a crag’s shadow. Brianna’s ogre let her slip to the ground, at the same time using his free hand to meet the mountain lion with a powerful backhand smash. The beast crashed into the mountainside, then righted itself as the ogre pulled his hand axe off his belt. The mountain lion eyed the weapon warily, then flattened its ears and snarled.

  As the warrior and the mountain lion faced off, Brianna rolled onto her back and spun around so that her bound feet pointed at the ogre. She waited until he stepped forward to attack the mountain lion, then thrust both heels at the ogre’s leg. The kick caught him at the ankle, sweeping his foot from beneath his body. He teetered on one foot for a moment, then crashed down, his skull smashing the rocky ground with a terrific crack. The brute’s eyes rolled back in their sockets, and the axe fell from his grasp.

  The mountain lion gathered itself to spring.

  No, me first! Brianna ordered.

  The princess lifted her bound hands. The lion leaped over, severing the greasy rope with a single snap of its powerful jaws. Brianna pointed at her feet, and the mountain lion bit through those bindings too.

  Seeing that its job was done, the lion whirled around and jumped on the stunned ogre. It gave a tremendous snarl, then bit through his throat. At the same time, the bloodthirsty beast raked his abdomen with the claws of its rear feet, spraying entrails and foul-smelling blood everywhere.

  Brianna rose and saw that her allies in the ravine had not been so successful. Although many of her foes had fallen to the initial assault, the ogres had not taken long to recover from their shock. She saw at least three mountain lions lying motionless on the ravine floor and did not know how many more had fallen in murky shadows where she could not observe them. The two live beasts she could see were on the defensive, reduced to dodging axe blows and countering with quick slashes as they slunk between their attackers’ legs. Goboka was scrambling down from the top of the ravine, scowling angrily at the scene below.

  Clasping one hand to her amulet, Brianna pointed at Goboka. “Big ogre—kill!”

  At her command, the two visible cats whirled around to claw their way up the steep ravine. They were quickly followed by the female that had freed Brianna and one other that had been lurking in the shadows. One of the lead cats fell to a warrior’s timely axe blow, but it looked as though the others would survive to reach the shaman.

  Brianna did not wait to see the outcome. She turned to rush away from the ravine—and saw that Runolf had not yet cleared the way. He was still fighting the last ogre, though he had the brute pressed against the mountainside and appeared likely to win the battle.

  “Go ahead and clear the way,” Brianna whispered. “I’ll deal with you after the battle.”

  The princess grabbed the hand axe dropped by the ogre that had been bearing her, then hurled it at Runolf’s foe. The weapon flew straight and true, skimming just over the traitor’s head to bury itself deep into the breast of its target. The brute’s eyes opened wide, and his hands dropped to his side. Runolf finished the warrior quickly, driving his sword up through the heart.

  Pulling his sword free, the traitor looked at Brianna, who was charging toward him at a dead run. For a moment, Runolf did not seem to know quite what to do. He raised his sword, as if preparing to fight, then he shook his head and stood aside.

  “Hurry,” he called, waving at her. “Goboka’s free.”

  The shaman’s deep voice rumbled down from the ravine, uttering the guttural name of his wicked patron, the god Vaprak. Brianna cringed but did not look back, knowing what the invocation meant. Until now, Goboka had been too busy fighting mountain lions to use his shaman’s magic, but that had changed.

  Runolf’s mouth fell open. “Stronmaus save us!” The traitor took an involuntary step backward, then caught himself and rushed toward Brianna. “Milady, forgive me.” he called. “Had the decision been mine, I wouldn’t have betrayed you.”

  Brianna started to demand whose choice it was, but a half dozen mountain lions bounded past her. For an instant, the princess did not understand what was happening—then she noticed the dark blood streaking their coats, and the gruesome wounds in their bodies. Goboka had raised her allies from the dead and turned them to his own will.

  One lion threw itself on Runolf’s sword, tearing the blade from his hand with its momentum. The rest of the zombie beasts fell on the traitor in a pack, tearing him apart with eerie calm. There were no snarls or any sound at all, save for the cracking of bones and the sick, wet sound of tearing flesh.

  Clutching her amulet in one hand, Brianna spun around to face Goboka. The princess was too late to cast a spell, for the last of the undead mountain lions had already sprung into the air. The thing crashed into her body with a tremendous blow, forcing the air from her lungs and knocking her off her feet. The lion landed with its paws pinning her to the ground, then closed its cold teeth around her throat. It bore down until its fangs just broke the skin and little rivulets of blood dribbled down her neck.

  “Not speak,” ordered Goboka’s voice. “Lion tear out throat.”

  Brianna obeyed. She listened in terrified silence as the shaman’s heavy feet scraped down the ravine and stomped toward her, knowing that she could do nothing except hold very still and wait for Goboka’s wrath.

  The shaman kneeled at Brianna’s side, then reached under the mountain lion. He slipped a filthy talon down her breast and hooked it under Hiatea’s amulet, then broke the silver chain and pulled the blood-flecked necklace from around her neck.

  “Nasty magic.”

  The shaman tossed her amulet aside, then pushed the dead beast off the princess. He summoned one of the survivors of the ambush, then said something in their own guttural tongue that made the warrior’s purple eyes widen. The brute picked Brianna up and tucked her under his arm with such force that she feared he would crack her ribs.

  Goboka grunted his approval, then went over and sat down cross-legged among the scattered remains of the traitor. “Bad man,” he said. “Get what he deserve.”

  The shaman grabbed an arm and began to eat.

  5

  The Border Mountains

  A small hand tugged gently on Tavis’s cape. “I see Morten and the earls down in the valley,” came Avner’s hushed voice. “We’d better go.”

  “In a minute,” Tavis replied, not bothering to look down
the mountainside. The boy’s news was no surprise to him. After raising Bear Driller to the king, the scout would have been shocked only if Camden had failed to send someone after them. “As long as you can see them, we have plenty of time.”

  Tavis and his companions stood just below timberline, on a windy shelf of tundra where they had come across a smoldering funeral pyre. Thin ribbons of greasy, rancid smoke still curled up from the scorched bones, vanishing into the gray dawn like the last vestiges of departing spirits. The skeletons were so large that a raven had crawled inside one rib cage to peck at the charred remains of a heart, while the femurs were the size of verbeeg clubs. The skulls were brutish and huge, with sloping foreheads, massive brows, and jutting jaws with long, curved tusks. Some of the heads even had the charred remnants of topknots clinging to their crowns.

  “They’re ogres,” Tavis announced. As he spoke, the scout’s eye fell on a shoulder blade lying near the base of the pile. It was much smaller than the others, and the fire had not cracked or scorched it nearly as much. “At least most of them are.”

  Tavis picked up the scapula. There were several long gouges in it suggesting that an ogre had used his tusks to scrape the meat off the bone.

  “Whose was that?” Avner gasped. Both the boy’s stolen gelding and Blizzard stood behind him, their nostrils flaring at the acrid stench of the charred bones. “Brianna’s?”

  Tavis’s heart began to pound, but he tried to remain calm. “I can’t tell from a single bone,” he said. “But it’s clearly too small to have been an ogre.”

  “Then perhaps we should concentrate on our own escape,” suggested Basil. “There’s nothing we can do for Brianna now.”

  “We don’t know that.” Tavis’s voice was sharper than he intended. “The bone might belong to someone else.”

  “What makes you believe that?” Basil asked.

  “Every now and then, I’ve noticed partial tracks of what looks like a soft-soled shoe or boot,” Tavis replied. “The ogres have been sticking to hard ground and the sole is smooth, so the print doesn’t reveal much—not even the size or shape of the foot. But I do know this: ogres don’t wear shoes.”