Protector Of The Grove (Book 2) (41 page)

Burl whirled around, drawing his sword and turning to face the threat. An ogre was standing not far away. He was wearing heavy winter furs and his posture was threatening. He had a large rock held over his head, ready to throw. He was ugly, with a balding head and a jutting brow more prominent than most.

Burl smiled, recognizing him as Rub, one of Old Falog’s sons. “Rub! It is me! Burl!”

Rub scowled at the mention of his name. “You not Burl! Burl is dead.” As he spoke two more ogres joined him, coming out of concealment behind large boulders at the side of the path.

“I am Burl!” he insisted. Burl didn’t recognize these new ogres. One was tall; taller than most ogres; perhaps taller than Fist, though not as bulky. He held a wide club in his hand. The other one was more of average height, but his winter furs were made of wolf skin and he had a tall shock of black hair atop his head. He gripped a long spear with a stone tip.

Rub made as if to throw the rock and Burl let out a roar of challenge. “If you throw that rock, I will catch it. Then I beat your face!”

Rub’s eyes widened and a smile grew on his ugly face. “You is Burl!” He dropped the rock and walked closer. He peered at Burl’s strange clothing. “You not dead!”

Burl rolled his eyes. Rub had never been a smart one. “Who are these?” he said, gesturing at the other ogres.

Rub gestured and the other two came closer. He pointed to the tall one. “This is Bash.” He punched the ogre with the gray skins in the arm. “He is Drog.”

“What is this?” the ogre named Drog said, poking Burl’s chainmail with the end of his spear.

“It is a metal skin,” Burl said proudly. “I winned it from the Barldag army.”

“Metal skins!” The one called Drog spat. “An evil thing.”

Burl turned on him and his eyes narrowed as he noticed for the first time a scar on the ogre’s hand. It was thick twisted scar shaped like a flickering flame.

“You are Fire People!” Burl declared. The Fire People tribe was a lesser one, but fierce. Their warriors were branded with their tribe’s symbol when they became old enough to fight.

“No!” Drog shouted, giving Burl a glare. He pulled open the front of his winter furs to expose a scar in the shape of a lightning bolt in the center of his chest. The scar was angry and red as if just a few months old. “I am Thunder People now.”

Burl frowned. So this Drog was an exiled ogre taken in by the Thunder People? That was rarely done in the successful tribes. Crag had refused to do it as long as Burl could remember. Perhaps the new chieftain had changed things. He looked to the one called Bash. “And you?”

“I was Rock People, but I would not leave the mountain for the Barldag.” Bash slammed his heavy fist onto his chest. “I am Thunder People now.”

“We was small after you left,” Rub said, pointing an accusing finger at Burl. “But now we is big. The Thunder People is the best!”

The two others nodded proudly and Burl smiled. For what they had told him to be true, the new leader was indeed taking in a lot of outcasts. This was good news for Burl. Surely he would have no problem being accepted back into the tribe. “Good! Take me to the chief so I can be Thunder People again!”

Rub hesitated. “But we is hunting and . . . Crag will not want you. He curses you. He curses all his sons.”

“But . . . Crag is dead,” said Burl in surprise.

“He is not!” said Drog.

Bash laughed. “Crag can not be killed. He is like rock!”

“You know this,” Rub said, gaving Burl a confused look. “Even big Fist could not kill him.”

“Fist almost did,” Burl said.

“Bah!” said Rub dismissively. “Fist hit Crag until his own hands broke and still Crag lived. Then Fist gived up and runned away.”

“That is not what happened,” Burl said, his brow furrowed. He had been there that night. He had seen Fist’s brutality as he had sat atop Crag, bashing the chieftain’s face until his fists were red with blood. He had seen the horror in Fist’s eyes as he had realized he had almost killed his father. Fist had run away out of shame.

“It is too!” Rub insisted. “I saw it like you. Fist runned scared when Crag would not die.”

“The story is known,” Drog agreed.

“But . . .” Burl stopped as he understood that the Thunder People had changed the story. Ogres did that sometimes, willfully choosing to believe a falsehood so that their lives made sense. It was a necessity for a culture as base as theirs. The truth made Crag weak. If it was remembered how soundly he had been beaten, Crag could not have stayed chief. Burl knew how close he had come to losing the position in the days after Fist left.

It had taken Crag many days to recover from the battle enough to speak. Once he had, everyone had been surprised when he declared a change of mind. Fist had convinced him. The Thunder People would not join the Barldag’s army.

There had been an uproar. Both Old Falog and the ogre mage Tralg had tried to take control of the tribe. Old Falog had finally backed down, but most of the warriors had left with Tralg. Burl had left with them, as had most of Crag’s other sons. They had left sure that Crag would not survive long in his weakened state.

“Gerstag said he killed Crag with his own hands,” Burl mumbled, still in shock at the development. This was not good. Crag had been very angry with him when he left.

“Who is this Gerstag?” asked Rub, his ugly face twisted with suspicion.

“He is no one,” Burl said quickly. He should not have spoken his thoughts aloud.

“He is Rock People,” said the one called Bash. The tall ogre’s features mirrored the suspicion of the other two. He spat. “He is leader in the Barldag’s army.”

“Not now. He is dead,” Burl said.

“You know this?” Bash said, skeptically.

“It is a known thing. Fist killed him.” Burl hadn’t been there when it happened, but the rumors had spread through the army about the large ogre that had come to the humans’ rescue and killed the leader. That had happened early on in the war though. This Bash must have left the Barldag’s army a long time ago.

This news excited Rub. The ugly ogre’s eyes widened and he grabbed the front of Burl’s mail shirt. “You seed Fist?”

Burl smacked Rub’s fingers away. “I did.”

“Crag will want you then,” Rub said, his eyes eager.

This was what Burl wanted to hear and yet his smile faltered before it reached his lips. “Crag wants to hear of Fist?”

“Yes! He tells us to look for Fist,” Rub said. The other two ogres nodded.

Burl swallowed. His news of Fist was not pleasant. How would the chief react? “Take me to him.”

The ogres nodded and Rub started along the worn path. Burl was nervous as he followed him. Even though their meeting had not come to blows, they led him towards the tribal camp as they would a prisoner. Rub looked back over his shoulder repeatedly, keeping an eye on him, while Bash and Drog walked behind Burl with their weapons drawn and ready.

Burl snorted. He walked with his back straight and his chin jutted out proudly. He was no prisoner. He was returning home to his people in triumph after having crushed many enemies in the war. Surely his father, Crag, would hear his tale and welcome him back.

Nevertheless, as the ogres marched him across the ice-crusted and rocky landscape, Burl found himself asking, “Crag curses me still?”

“Yes,” said Rub with a smile. “He curses all the sons that leaved. But not as much as before. Only on morning times and night times.”

“Every day?” Burl asked, surprised. This was worse than he had thought.

“When he is counting the womens!” Drog said with a laugh. “Crag needs many more sons now to grow the tribe.”

Bash laughed with him, jabbing Burl with his club. Though Burl was relieved that Crags curses were a joke, he did not join in their laughter. They had boasted of the strength of the tribe earlier but if Crag was still cursing those that left, the Thunder People must still be struggling to regain their former glory.

Burl felt the dread that had plagued him throughout his journey returning. What would he find once they reached the main tribal camp? What had his people become, a band of cast-offs and exiles? Were they still anything like the Thunder People he had remembered?

The Thunder People’s tribal camp was set in a small valley between two peaks, cutting it off from the harshest of the winds. It also had a large central cave, which made it a prime location for ogres. This fact had been the cause of many attacks from other tribes who wanted it for themselves. Much of Burl’s youth had been spent defending this piece of land.

They neared the camp, passing two outbound hunting groups and one huge ogre standing guard. Burl had never seen this one before. He was much bigger than Fist and carried a club almost as tall as Burl was. What was he? Part giant? He meant to ask the others, but as they came around the last bend in the trail the camp came into view.

Burl had never seen his tribe so large. Ogres ran everywhere, back and forth, carrying hides and carcasses. There were several tents like the Rock People used and even new caves chiseled into the rock. “Why so many?”

“I telled you we is the best!” Rub said proudly.

“Many come from the war, but many more run from the evil,” Bash added.

Burl frowned. “What evil?”

“What is this?” shouted a large, gruff voice.

Burl turned, smiling. “It is your son, Burl! I am returned!”

Crag stomped over to him, a crowd of other ogre’s in tow. The grizzled ogre warrior looked much like Burl remembered. His nose was maybe squished a bit flatter. He may have had a few more scars. But that is what made Crag a strong chief. Every fight he survived made him look more intimidating.

“You is not my son. You is a runner!” Crag growled.

“I am a returner,” Burl argued. There was a firm difference between the cowardly act of running and what he had done by going to war. “I am Thunder People.”

Crag’s eyes narrowed. “You are Tralg’s.”

“No!” Burl spat. “I followed the Barldag. Not Tralg.” The stupid ogre mage had died during the first real battle Burl had seen.

“Then why do you come back?” Crag asked.

“I was wrong,” Burl explained. “The Barldag lost.”

Crag smiled. “You losed!” The chieftain turned to the other ogres assembled and raised his hands. “Burl losed to the little peoples and now Burl returns to beg me!” There was a scattering of laughter. Crag folded his arms. “The Thunder Peoples is big now. Why should I take you?”

It was time to use his guaranteed way in. “I bringed this gift for you.” Burl pulled the sheathed sword from his waist and held it out to Crag handle first in the way he had seem the orc soldiers do. The heavy steel had not been polished or well-maintained in any way and bits of rust stained the edges of the blade, yet it still gleamed satisfyingly in the sun. “A great sword that can kill many.”

Crag’s fist struck Burl’s face with a meaty thump. Burl stumbled backwards and fell over a rock, landing on his rump. The chief sneered at his confused expression. “I am a ogre!” shouted Crag, enraged. “I have my club. It is enough.”

Burl blinked in surprise. “But you will need it. When Fist returns.”

Crag shook his head. “He is dead. The Barldag’s wizard took him.”

Burl suppressed a smile. So they didn’t know. He stood and raised his voice. “He is not. I seed him!” Burl turned so that all the assembled ogres would hear. “I seed Fist fighting with the small peoples against the Barldag!”

Crag’s eyes went wide. “You seed this?”

“He had a big armor and shield!” Burl proclaimed. “He bashed with a club of steel and he made lightnings with it!” He turned back to Crag. “Fist is a ogre mage much much stronger than Tralg was. If he comes back, you will need this sword.”

“Do you lie, Burl the runner?” the chief warned.

“No!” Burl said. “I seed it!

“Fist is alive,” Crag said with wonder.

“He is strong!” said Burl. “He killed Gard of the Fire People with lightnings. He killed giants and big beasts!”

The ogres mumbled together in concern. If Burl was right and Fist was as powerful as he said, the whole tribe could be in danger. Burl turned his eyes to the chief, hoping to see Crag just as afraid as the others. To his disappointment, there was a smile on Crag’s face.

“Fist lives and he is strong!” Crag said raising his arms. Several ogres in the crowd cheered, but most were still silent.

“He is strong,” Burl assured him. “And he will come and fight you.” He looked at the others “He could destroy us!”

“He will not,” Crag said. “Fist will help us.” He grabbed Burl by the front of his chainmail shirt and pulled him closer. “You will take me to him!”

The Bowl of Souls series will continue in

The Jharro Grove Saga: Book Three

Coming Fall 2014

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