The Ogre Apprentice (7 page)

“If I try to make it dim, it will just go out,” he complained.

“Then you’ll just have to expend more energy to keep it going,” she said. “The dimmer you try to keep it, the faster you’ll drain your magic.”

“But why will that help?” Fist asked.

“Think of it like training your muscles,” she replied. “The more you push your limits, the further your limits grow. You won’t be able to increase your magic’s strength very much, but you can increase your capacity. In addition, you will better learn how to tell when you’ve exhausted your resources.”

“Okay,” he said, his brow furrowed thoughtfully. This would send him to bed completely exhausted each night. How would that affect his conversations with Justan? Would it be harder to use the bond over such a long distance if he was that tired?

“Alright, now I wasn’t lying to my grandmother when I told her that I have things to get done. I want you to go to the library and study until lunch time. Then we’ll speak again,” Darlan said and turned to stride away. “And when we do, you’re going to tell me all about how Justan’s meeting with Xedrion went.”

“Yes, Mistress. Oh! But what about my punishment?” he asked.

Stupid
, said Squirrel, shaking his head.

Darlan stopped. “I imagine that the pain you went through, added to the guilt you must feel are probably punishment enough.” She turned back to face him again and her look was deadly serious. “But next time you feel the compulsion to train behind my back, think of this. Most people don’t learn the spells I have taught you until they are mages. Some of the spells, like cloud lightning, are only used by a handful of full wizards.

“I didn’t decide to teach you advanced war spells just because I like you. I do it because you’re bonded to my son and Justan is going to need you. Most of the council thinks I am crazy for teaching you this fast, but I do it anyway despite their objections. If you screw up like this again, whether you live or not, I am the one who will have to face the repercussions. Do you understand?”

Fist swallowed. “Yes, Mistress Sherl.”

“Good,” she said and strode away.

Fist stood there alone for a moment, staring into the water of the moat as the dark forms of the perloi swam lazily by. He wouldn’t let her down. He couldn’t. She was right. Justan needed him.

That was the real reason he wasn’t with Justan in Malaroo now. Fist needed to become stronger. Another war was coming. The Prophet had foretold it. Sooner or later the Dark Prophet would walk on the land again. John had told Fist that Justan would need his strength when that happened and the ogre hadn’t forgotten.

Tightening his fists in determination, Fist followed the moat around to the Rune Tower’s main gate. Once there, he passed over the bridge into the tower and strode down its gilded halls towards the library.

The Mage School in Dremaldria boasted one of the greatest libraries in the known lands, topped perhaps only by the enormous libraries in the Gnome Homeland. Scholars had debated which was greater for centuries, arguing whether it was the number of the books or quality of the books or size of the structure that mattered.

As for size, the Mage School library was huge. It was as long as the Magic Testing Center and six stories tall, with wide staircases connecting each level. Hundreds of bookcases stood in rows radiating out from the circular main desk. A half dozen students wearing assistant sashes stood behind it, checking out and bringing in books.

The main desk is where Fist had his eye because that is where Vincent lurked. The gnomish head librarian did not like Squirrel and the ogre wanted to avoid a scene. To Fist’s relief, Vincent was not in his customary seat.

It was mid-morning now and most students were in classes, but the library was bustling with activity. The long polished tables were crowded with students of every rank preparing for their afternoon classes. It was considered impolite to raise one’s voice in this place, but the room was filled with the low roar of a hundred whisperers.

Fist turned to the right of the main doors and faced a large wardrobe that had been repurposed as the official library weapon closet. A new rule had been instituted after the war. Anyone, wizard or warrior, that wanted to use the library had to leave their weapons in the closet. Fist thought it a silly rule. What were they worried about? Sword fights breaking out over books?

Fist opened the wardrobe and fumbled briefly with the mage staffs that threatened to spill out. Grumbling, he placed his mace inside and walked to the center desk where he waited in line for his turn to speak with one of the librarian assistants. He was only five back in the queue, but he did not make it to the front.

“Droppings!” accused an aristocratic baritone.

Fist winced at the sound. He knew that voice. He turned to see Vincent’s long nose hook over the top of the desk. The gnome peered up at him, his eyebrows twisted with irritation.

“You! Ogre! Come here this instant!”

Fist walked around the desk to the place where the gnome was crouched. Vincent backed out from under the desk where he had been when Fist had entered the library. His tall and slender frame uncoiled as he stood. The gnome was nearly seven feet tall and gaunt with dog-like droopy ears and a two pairs of glasses perched on his high forehead.

“Droppings!” The gnome announced again, shoving his hand out to Fist palm up. “Do you concur?”

There was a scattering of tiny raisin-like ovals on the gnome’s palm. “Uh, yes,” Fist said. “Those look like poop to me.”

“Poop is an uncouth term, but indeed they are,” Vincent said accusingly. “And I have been finding them everywhere. In my chair. In-between pages of my books . . !”

“You might have mice,” Fist suggested.

“Mice? Don’t be absurd,” Vincent said.

“Maybe rats, then?”

The gnome’s eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips, wrinkling the pencil thin mustache above his lips. “There hasn’t been a mouse or rat in the library for decades, young ma- . . . ogre! No, there is only one rodent that has been allowed in this auspicious space and that is your little pet!”

Squirrel squeezed out of his pouch and scurried up to Fist’s shoulder where he affected a look of surprise, pointing at himself.
Me
?

“Gosh, I don’t know, Mister Vincent, sir,” Fist said. “Squirrel is really clean. I don’t usually find his poop anywhere.”

Squirrel snorted and nodded in agreement and Fist suddenly became suspicious. Where did Squirrel put all his droppings? After all, he was constantly eating. They had to go somewhere.

He shook the thought away. He really didn’t want to know. “I think those are rat poops.”

“Again, I say to you,
absurd
,” Vincent insisted, tossing the handful of droppings onto the desktop in front of him. He picked up a thick book from the desk and leafed through it. “I researched the matter. This is Bierbaum’s Twenty Third Treatise on Flora and Fauna in Dremaldria and the Region Thereabouts. It belongs on floor two, aisle thirty six. My evidence is on page two hundred and eighty seven. It is a chapter on the distinction between rodent droppings.”

Fist wrinkled his nose. Someone wrote books about that?

“Bierbaum says here in paragraph two, very clearly I might add, that there is a distinct variation in shape and color between the various squirrel species and the common rat. He states . . .” The gnome cleared his throat and began patting his chest with his free hand. “Where are my glasses?”

“On your head,” Fist said.

“Right,” Vincent said pulling a pair down onto the bridge of his nose in a quick manner, causing the other pair to fall off his head and land on the desk in front of him with a clatter. He gave the end of his nose a tug. “I quote, ‘The common rat lays ovaloid droppings, usually black in coloration in much the size of a grain of rice. Squirrel droppings are much the same size and shape. However-!”

The gnome raised a skeletal finger and there was a smattering of laughter from the students nearby. “‘Squirrel droppings are slightly lighter in coloration because of their more specific dietary choices and, whereas rat droppings are marked with an angular taper on both ends, squirrel droppings have a distinctive rounded edge.’ Close quote.”

He picked one of the droppings up of the desk and held it out to Fist. “See? Dark brown, not black, and with rounded edges. You may think that this not conclusive proof, but wait, there’s more.” He placed the dropping back on the desk and picked up another book from a nearby stack. “Pritchard’s Animal Almanac volume seven. From floor two, aisle thirty-six, row four, page hmm, let’s see . . .”

There was more laughter from the students and Fist turned his head in time to see that Squirrel was mimicking the librarian’s gestures, fiddling with an imaginary pair of spectacles and moving his mouth along with the gnome’s.

“Stop it, Squirrel!” Fist whispered, then sent through the bond,
You’re going to get yourself banned from the library again
. Luckily, Vincent hadn’t seen Squirrel’s little performance. He hadn’t even looked up from his book.

The gnome flipped a few pages. “Ah, here it is. Page one hundred and thirty-six, paragraph two. Quote, ‘The common rat has the distinction of leaving its droppings scattered here and there without any discernible pattern as they defecate as the urge hits them. Squirrels, on the other hand, are neater and tend to leave their droppings in piles.’ End quote.”

He looked back up at Fist. “And there you have it. Piles of droppings under my desk. Piles of droppings in my hat-.” He lifted a felt hat with a short brim from the desk and jiggled it so that Fist could hear the tiny droppings rolling inside. “And piles of droppings in my pockets!” Vincent reached onto the breast pocket of his tweed vest and pulled out a tiny handful of droppings that he then piled onto the desk in front of him. “Proof definitive! This was no mouse or rat.”

Fist looked at Squirrel and the little beast gave him an exaggerated shrug. The ogre could feel the intensity of his amusement through the bond. The ogre swallowed and said, “I don’t know how it could be Squirrel. Because I keep him close when we’re in the library and Squirrel stays with me at night.”

“He’s got a good point, Vincent, sir,” said one of the assistants standing nearby. “That’s a lot of droppings and he’s just one squirrel.”

Fist nodded in agreement. “Yeah. And how could he have got them in your pockets? Squirrel’s too big to fit in your pocket.”

The gnome’s thin lips twisted into a scowl. “I do not have a full explanation, but it is obvious that the little devil placed them in there somehow.”

“I will talk to him, sir,” Fist promised. “But he says he didn’t do it.”

Squirrel shook his head innocently.

“Nah, it wasn’t Squirrel,” said one student.

“Oh please don’t tell me we have rats,” worried another.

Vincent frowned at all of them. “I’ll find more proof,” he argued. “Why I am sure that there is more research on the second floor. Perhaps in Professor Varder-.”

“Vincent, sir?” Fist interrupted, remembering one of Justan’s tricks. “The reason I came here was that I want to research the War of the Dark Prophet.”

The gnome blinked for a moment and his demeanor changed. He was suddenly quite professional. “Histories, then. Floor three, aisles fifty through fifty-five. It’s a broad subject. What part of the war specifically?”

“Oh, uh, the Prophet’s companions,” Fist said.

“Aisle fifty-two, then. Look on the third shelf. Grennedy did some of the best work,” the gnome said. “Watch your step. Your feet are quite large for those stairs.”

“Thank you,” Fist said and turned towards the staircase. The gnome’s politeness at the end had made him feel guilty for lying.
That was close, Squirrel. You need to stop being so mean to Mister Vincent
.

Mean
? Squirrel replied. He didn’t see it that way.
Funny
.

Well, he doesn’t think so
, Fist replied.
How did you carry all your poop in here anyway
? Squirrel started to send Fist a series of memories and the ogre cut him off part way through, his stomach turning.
Just don’t do it again
.

“Fist!” shouted a loud male voice, drawing a frown from Vincent and the attention of the students nearby. Fist saw that it was Roobin, one of the academy graduates on guard duty at the school. He was dressed for battle in full chainmail, with a broadsword at his belt and he was breathing heavily.

 The guard trotted up to him. “Good, Wizard Sarine said you would be in here.”

“What is it, Roobin?” Fist asked. He didn’t know the man very well. He had fought along side him during the war but hadn’t seen him much since.

“There’s a group of ogres at the wall,” Rubin said.

“Ogres?” Fist said in surprise. “Are we under attack?”

“We don’t think so,” Roobin replied. “There’s ten of them and we have them surrounded, but they say they’re not here to fight. They want to talk to you.”

“Me?” Fist asked. “Why?”

“One of them says he’s your father.”

Fist ran towards the gate, his mace clenched in his ungloved hand, quickly outpacing the academy graduate that had come to fetch him. His mind churned as he sped down the road, forcing Squirrel to cling to his shoulder and leaving startled students in his wake. His father? It wasn’t possible.

Crag was dead. The Thunder People were destroyed. This had to be some sort of trick, but why? Why would ogres come to the school looking for him? A theory began to develop in his mind.

When he arrived at the front gate, Darlan was there waiting, as was Professor Beehn and Charz. They were speaking with Riveren the Unbending and Kathy the Plate. They paused their conversation as Fist ran up to them.

Fist switched his mace to his gloved right hand and stopped. “Is it true what Roobin said?”

“One of our student scouts reported seeing a group of ogres approaching through the woods this morning,” Riveren replied. The Captain Commander of the Mage School Guard had fiery red hair and a pointed beard and Fist could see the haft of his double-bladed axe rising from behind one heavily muscled shoulder.

“Roobin said there was ten of them,” Fist said. That was a significant number. Ogre tribes were usually quite small. Some of them might only have ten males altogether and they never left their females completely unguarded. They hunted in groups of three or four at the most. If any force of more than five left the tribe’s territory, it was considered a war party.

“We sent out a patrol to intercept them,” Riveren continued. “Kathy led the patrol.”

He gestured to Kathy and the woman nodded, her short-cropped hair ruffled by the breeze. She was the academy defense teacher. She wore a bulky suit of plate armor and carried her helmet under her arm. Her tone was formal as she reported, “We came upon an armed party of ten ogres, nine males, one female.”

Fist registered slight surprise at this. Ogre females rarely left the tribal territory. The males liked to keep them close and protected. Perhaps this was a group of outcasts left wandering after the collapse of Ewzad Vriil’s forces.

“They were traveling directly towards the school from the southeast. We cordoned off their approach and I commanded that they turn around and leave,” Kathy said.

“Why didn’t you just attack them?” Fist wondered.

“Good point,” said Charz. Ogres weren’t as aggressive towards humans as the goblinoid races, but it would seem unwise to let a group that large roam free.

“It is standard academy policy to determine the level of a threat before attacking.” Kathy hesitated for a moment, then said. “One of the ogres stepped forward and said that they were not here to fight. He claimed that they were from the Thunder People Tribe and that they had come to find you.”

A chill went up Fist’s back but he told himself that it wasn’t proof of anything. It was to be expected that these imposters would know that much about him. He had gained a reputation while part of the Thunder People after all.

“Tell him the rest,” Darlan said firmly.

Kathy glanced at her and then Riveren. The thick black stripe painted across her pretty face hid some of her emotion, but Fist could see something was troubling her. The commander gave her a nod and she cleared her throat.

“The ogre took another step towards me and one of my bowmen fired.” She met Fist’s gaze. “The arrow struck him in the eye. The rest of the ogres almost attacked, but he stopped them. He yanked out the arrow and then . . . then he said that he was your father.”

“And his eye?” Darlan asked.

“It looked bad, Mistress Sherl. The ogre female was tending to it when I left.”

Fist blinked at her, unsure how he should feel. “Did he tell you his name?”

“He called himself Crag,” she replied. At the frown that appeared on his face, she said. “I apologize that your father was maimed. The bowman was under my command. I take full responsibility for his actions.”

“I am not mad at you. I don’t think he’s really my father,” Fist said. He looked to Darlan. “I was told that the Thunder People were destroyed and he was dead. Even if Gerstag lied to me . . . Why would Crag come this far from the Thunder People territory? And how would he know I was here?”

“You fought other ogres during the war,” Charz said. “Maybe one of the survivors told him.”

“I killed the ogres I fought,” Fist replied. He returned his attention to Kathy, “What did he look like?”

“Uh, he was ugly,” she said automatically. Then as if realizing she might offend, added, “I mean, his face was all smashed up and he had a bunch of scars. Also, he looked older than the others.”

It’s him
. Squirrel sent.

No
, Fist replied.

Squirrel clutched at his ear and forced a memory through the bond. It was one that Fist had shared with him long ago, the visage of his father, bruised and broken on the night of Fist’s expulsion from the tribe. It was the same face he had seen in his dream that night.

Fist winced
. I remember him, Squirrel
. “She describes him right, but this ogre is not acting like Crag. Bringing a female away from the tribe? Backing down from a fight?” He shook his head. “No, I think it’s a trick.”

“But why?” Professor Beehn asked. He was wearing his formal council robes, bright gold with a streak of white across the back. The wizard’s bond with Alfred had done wonders for his health. He stood without help and it seemed like he looked thinner every time Fist saw him. “Why would a group of ogres come here to trick you?”

“I don’t know,” Fist said. He decided to share his budding theory “What if they were sent by the same person who sent basilisks after Justan?”

Darlan’s brow furrowed. That was not a possibility she had considered. “You think they may have been sent to kill you as an attack on Justan?”

“Maybe,” Fist said, but coming from her lips the idea sounded far fetched. He sighed. “But maybe not. How would the person after Justan know so much? Not very many people know the name of my old tribe. Or my father’s name.”

“The other ogre tribes might,” Charz suggested.

Fist nodded. “That is true.”

“Then what do you want us to do?” Riveren asked. “They are waiting just outside the wall only a few hundred yards from the gate. Kathy’s party is still watching them from the tree line and we have another score of archers ready to fire from the wall above.”

“I will go to them,” Fist decided. He had to know.

“No,” said Darlan. “If this is a trap like you think it is, I don’t want you stepping anywhere near them.”

“I will know if it is Crag as soon as I see him,” Fist replied. “And you heard Riveren. All of Kathy’s men are still there. And the archers on the wall.”

“We could cut them all down in under a minute,” Kathy said.

“And I’ll be there,” Charz declared, rubbing his fist into his palm. “Maybe I’ll actually get to fight an ogre today.”

Fist liked that idea. Ogres were not fond of giants, but worked with them from time to time. Having Charz with him would bolster his strength in their eyes.

Me too
, said Squirrel, his hands on his hips and his chest thrust out.

Darlan pursed her lips, but said, “Alright, Fist. You can go. But I will be going with you as well.”

“But . . .” The glare she directed towards him kept Fist from finishing his protest.

“No offense, Sherl,” said Charz, raising one rocky eyebrow. “But if these ogres see a woman ordering Fist around, they’re gonna see it as a sign of weakness.”

She raised an eyebrow at Fist. “Do you care what these other ogres think?”

It was a good question. Anxiety had flooded his chest when she had insisted on coming. But why? There was no reason for him to be ashamed that she was his master. She was a female human, but Darlan was more powerful than any but a handful of living wizards in the known lands. No one who spent more than five minutes with her could ever think her inferior to any male.

“No,” Fist decided. “I don’t care. Why should I?”

“Very good,” she said, giving him a curt nod. “But nevertheless, I won’t ‘order you about’ unless it is absolutely necessary.”

“I’ll watch from above with the archers,” Beehn offered. “If something happens, I can help from the wall.”

“Thank you, Beehn,” Darlan said.

“Escort them, Kathy,” Riveren said.

Kathy placed her helmet on her head. “Let’s go.” While Beehn and Riveren climbed the stairs to the top of the wall, Kathy led the rest of them out the gate.

The Mage School was surrounded by forest on all sides, but the trees had been cleared back several hundred yards from the wall. This made it easier for defenders to see any incoming threat. It was doubly important now that the wall was only half its former height. Many of the trees were taller than the wall itself.

Fist’s anxiety rose again as they walked along the perimeter of the wall. What would he find? He felt a slight relief when the first ogres came into view. He didn’t recognize them. One of them even had a Fire People brand on his arm. 

Then he saw Crag. Fist wasn’t sure at first because the female ogre was plastering something brown all over the right half of his face, covering his wounded eye. He looked to be the right height and his hair was the familiar brown speckled with gray. The female had stripped the winter furs off of his upper body and his build was like Fist remembered it. His skin was covered with scars and his muscles jutted out at angles as if he were chiseled from sandstone.

The female spat more of that brown stuff into her hand and slapped it over his eye. The scarred ogre bellowed in pain and protest and Fist knew that voice. He switched to mage sight and then to spirit sight, but there was no magic disguising the ogre or changing his face. He wasn’t an imposter. This was indeed his father.

“Hold still, Stinky Chief!” barked the female. She was just as muscular as the males, but slightly shorter. Her hair was long and black and matted, but she was pretty for an ogress. She had big dark eyes and there was no hair on her chin. “You need more leaves.”

She scooped up a handful of dead leaves off of the ground and shoved them in her mouth. As she began chewing, Fist realized that the brown sludge on Crag’s face was her idea of a poultice. He winced. He had forgotten how awful ogre medicine was.

One of the ogres saw Fist approaching and shouted, “Crag!” The ogre who yelled wore a chainmail shirt and carried a massive sword. There was something vaguely familiar about this one. With that gear, he was likely a leftover from the war. Fist wondered how many good people he had killed.

The armored ogre pointed. “Fist is here!”

The rest of the ogres turned to look at Fist. The ogress tried to apply more chewed leaves to Crag’s face, but he pushed her aside and shoved through the others. A broad smile split his grizzled face. “Fist! You come!”

“Crag,” Fist said slowly. “Gerstag told me you were dead.”

“Gerstag lied,” Crag said. “His Rock People comed and taked the stupid ones that wanted to join the Barldag’s war, but I stayed,” he said, smacking his fist on his chest. “I listened to my son, Fist.”

“You listened to me?” Fist frowned, hesitant to believe that what Crag said was true.

“I am chief, but you is the smartest,” Crag said and by the expressions on the other ogre’s faces, they were as surprised to hear this admission as Fist was. Ogres as a rule disliked admitting their faults and Crag was more stubborn than most.

Still grinning, Crag walked forward and grabbed Fist’s arms. Fist fought off the urge to back away. It was the closest Crag had ever come to giving him an embrace. The ogre sized him up with his good eye. “You is bigger now?”

“No,” Fist said, somewhat shaken by his father’s affection. “I stand straighter now.”

Crag cocked his head. “There is a food on your shoulder.”

Squirrel’s eyes widened in surprise and he looked around for the food he had missed.

“That is not a food,” Fist explained. “That is Squirrel.”

“Oh . . ,” Crag said, though it was obvious he didn’t understand. He gave Fist’s arms a squeeze. “You feel strong,” he said, approval in his voice. He glanced at Kathy and Darlan and Charz, who were standing slightly behind Fist, watching the ogres’ interaction warily. He dismissed the human women offhand. “You have a giant?”

Charz snorted and Fist ignored the question. “You are bleeding, Crag.”

A large chunk of the impromptu poultice that the female had applied to the ogre’s wound had slid off of Crag’s face, allowing blood to flow freely down his cheek. Fist had learned a lot about the way injuries should be treated during his time at the Mage School and the wound looked even more horrible up close. The thought of the ogress’ saliva being packed into the wound with all those rotted leaves was enough to make him cringe.

Crag grinned away the pain. “It will be good. Puj put leaves on it.”

“Yes!” said the ogress, her smile showing bits of brown leaves wedged in her teeth. “It will heal.”

“Let me see,” Fist said. He planted the spikes of his mace in the ground and raised his hands towards his father’s face. He sent out strands of earth magic, probing the injury.