The Troll King (The Bowl of Souls Book 9) (12 page)

“He challenges you,” said one of Falog’s supporters.

“Crag challenges the chief!” said another.

Old Falog’s smile grew. He stood and raised his voice. “Then what must I do?”

“You must fight for chief!” came a shout from the crowd.

“Is that what you want, Crag?” Old Falog asked. “I fighted and killed the chiefs of many tribes while you was gone.”

Crag laughed. “Yes!” he said, raising his arms confidently. Crag was known as one of the best fighters in all the tribes. He had fought many such battles and had won every single one. “I challenge you, Old Falog. We fight for chief!”

The assembled ogres roared in approval and several of them ran to tell others about the fight. A battle for chief was a big event and an entertaining diversion from the grave danger they were all facing.

Fist had a terrible feeling about this. Crag should win easily, but Old Falog had already beaten the chiefs of the Rock, Fire, and Water people at least. Something was wrong.

“We fight to the death!” Old Falog pronounced and Fist’s terrible feeling grew even worse.

The cheers from the tribe faded somewhat. In normal times a battle to the death was even more exciting for the ogres, but they had all seen a lot of killing lately and both of these ogres were good leaders.

Crag shrugged. “If you want to die.”

“This is how you choose your leaders?” Maryanne said and Fist couldn’t tell if the way she shook her head was in disbelief or approval.

“No!” Fist declared, sending a glowing arc of electricity into the air. The crowd quieted. “As ogre mage, I decide the rules for this chief fight. The evil is too strong for ogres to kill each other. The loser does not die.”

There was a general rumble of agreement.

Old Falog glowered at him. “I will allow this. But, the loser must never fight for chief again!”

“Good!” said Crag enthusiastically and cheers erupted from the crowd again. “Where will this fight happen?”

“Here!” Old Falog replied. “Right here in this holy place. Make the circle!”

A fight in the big cave had been done before, but there was a mix of grumbles within the cheers this time. The tribe had grown far too large for everyone to fit inside and many of the ogres knew that they would not be able to see the fight, especially after they had cleared room for the tribal battle circle.

 Nevertheless, the circle was formed. The ogres backed away, leaving a space large enough for a good brawl. Scuffles broke out as many of them jostled for position.

Crag postured and stretched, excited that he would soon be chief again. Burl and Drog slapped his back, offering encouragement. Old Falog didn’t even move from his chair, but sat there covered up with his cloak, a satisfied smile on his face. Fist looked around the cave, noting that Old Falog’s supporters were just as confident as he was.

“Something wrong?” Maryanne asked.

“I think so,” Fist replied. He gestured to Charz and the giant pushed his way over to them. “You’ve been here longer than us. What do you think?”

“Something ain’t right,” Charz replied. “That wrinkled old fella is crafty. He’s got something planned.”

Crag stepped into the circle and raised his arms to the cheers of the crowd. “Are you ready, Old Falog?”

The wizened ogre stood and announced, “I use the injury rule!”

“What?” said Crag. Burl and Drog looked surprised as well, but there was only anticipation from the crowd. They had seen Falog do this before. “What injury?”

Old Falog threw open his fur cloak and held out his left arm. Crag winced. The old ogre’s forearm was bent at an odd angle. At some point it had been broken and had not been set correctly. “While you was gone playing with the little peoples, my arm was broke fighting the evil.”

Uh oh
, said Squirrel.

“Uh oh,” Fist echoed.

“What does it mean? What’s the injury rule?” Maryanne asked.

“It’s not used very often,” Fist said. “Ogres are tough and we heal really quickly, but if there’s ever a fight that needs to take place and one ogre is too badly hurt, he can choose another fighter to take his place.”

“But what if Crag doesn’t agree to it?” Maryanne asked.

“He has already agreed to the fight. It’s too late for him to back down,” Fist said. “Besides, he’s too proud.”

“I agree to the injury rule,” said Crag, as if on cue. “Who is your fighter?”

 “Mog!” Old Falog cried theatrically.

A grunt echoed from the rear of the cave. The crowd began chanting, “Mog! Mog! Mog!”

“It should be okay,” Charz assured them. “I’ve wrestled with Crag. He’s good.”

In the shadows at the back of the cave there was an alcove where the giant spider that once ruled this territory used to sleep. The ogres didn’t use it often, but unfolding from this alcove was a large figure. As the chants built, it slowly made its way into the light.

Fist swallowed. The thing was enormous. “What is that?”

Mog was a giant of some kind, at least eleven feet tall. He had long brown hair and a squat bulge of a nose. His skin was a bluish gray and looked thick and gnarled, with strange wart-like bumps raised up all over it. He wore only a thick fur loincloth and in the center of his chest was a larger version of the lightning brand that Falog’s supporters had.

As he walked towards the tribal circle, the chanting increased. “Mog! Mog!” He looked at Crag and yawned showing a mouth full of stained yellow teeth and a warty orange tongue.

“Holy turds of the gods,” said Charz, a grin spreading across his chiseled face.

“That’s a thorn giant,” said Maryanne. “It’s kinda small, though.”

Small
? said Squirrel.

“They normally live on the other side of the mountains in Khalpany,” Charz said. “Tough bastards, and huge. This one must’ve been the runt of the litter.”

“They is born in litters?” asked Burl, wide-eyed.

“It’s an expression,” Charz replied. “Anyways, I ain’t seen one in a hundred years. Never thought I would again.”

Fist swore and stepped into the crowd. He grabbed Flick by his furs and yanked him closer. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

Flick blinked. “It is Falog’s trick. We is not supposed to tell.”

Growling, Fist released the ogre and returned to his friends. “This is how Falog has been defeating the other chiefs. I should’ve known it would be something like this.”

Maryanne raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, you walked right into this one.”

“What do you think, Charz? Does Crag have a chance?” Fist asked. He had seen Crag kill giants before, but that was years ago. And he had never done it with his bare hands, and never alone.

Charz shrugged. “I wouldn’t bet gold on it. He’s good, but if this thing’s a chief killer it knows how to fight.”

Mog peered at Crag with bleary eyes. It reached up and scratched its head with the brown claws on the end of its thick fingers. Its voice was surprisingly high for a creature its size. “Is this the one you want me to kill, Chief Old Falog?”

“Was you asleep back there?” Falog asked, his voice irritated. “You was supposed to be watching.”

The thorn giant shrugged. “Sorry . . . is it the one?”

“Yes!” the ogre snapped. “But do not kill this time. Just break him. This is new rules.”

“Oh,” the giant said.

Fist stepped into the circle and leaned in close to his father’s ear. “This is a bad idea. You should refuse to fight it.”

“I can not,” Crag said and for the first time in his life, Fist saw a hint of fear in his father’s eyes. But it passed quickly. The grizzled ogre veteran rotated his head on his shoulders. “I fighted giants before.”

Fist stepped to the center of the circle and pointed at the thorn giant as he spoke to Falog, “That is not an ogre. You must choose an ogre to fight for you.”

Falog looked amused. “That is not a rule.” He sneered. “The other chiefs was not too scared to fight. Is Crag?”

Fist turned back to his father. “Crag, let me take your place.”

Crag raised his eyebrows. “Does Fist want to be chief of the Thunder People now?”

“No,” Fist replied. “But if Falog is using a fighter, so can you. Tell Falog that you want to pick someone else.”

“A different ogre fight for Crag? Am I broken like Falog now?” Crag snorted and shook his head. “No. Also, you are a ogre mage. You can not fight for me.”

Fist gritted his teeth. Technically Crag was right. Ogre mages were not allowed to fight for control of a tribe.

Fist
! Squirrel climbed up Fist’s body to sit on his shoulder. The little creature pointed at Old Falog and chattered as he shared a brilliant idea through the bond.

Fist suppressed a smile as he walked back to the center of the circle. “Old Falog, you want to use the injury rule, but I do not think you are injured.”

The old ogre frowned and stuck his left arm out again. “It is bad. You can see it!”

Fist approached him and Old Falog jerked his bent arm back under his cloak, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “I think you are trying to trick us,” Fist pressed. “Let me see it closer.”

Falog hesitantly stuck his arm out again. Fist reached out and grasped the ogre’s forearm, then quickly began pouring his magic inside. It was evident that both bones in Falog’s forearm had been broken and twisted, setting crookedly. Fist numbed the arm and sent in threads of water and earth magic, weakening the healed sections of bone. With a quick twist, Fist re-fractured the bones, then set to work fusing them back together.

To the ogres crowded around it looked like Fist had simply grasped the old ogre’s arm and bent it back into shape. Old Falog yelped in alarm and jerked his arm from Fist’s grip, but he was too late. It was rushed work and would still need healing time on its own, but the arm was straight.

“See!” Fist pronounced. “Old Falog was tricking us! His arm is not bad.”

Old Falog pulled his arm back under his cloak. “No! You maked the trick! You used your magic!”

“The arm is not bad,” Fist said again letting a smile touch his lips. “You will need to fight Crag yourself, Old Falog.”

“No! It hurts still!” Falog said, his face panicked.

“I did not see,” shouted an ogre in the back of the crowd. “What happened?”

“The Chief’s arm was straight,” replied another voice.

“Show us!” shouted another.

 “Are you scared to fight Crag?” Fist pressed. He turned to the crowd. “Should the chief of the Thunder People be scared to fight?”

“No!” some shouted. Others looked confused. Even Falog’s supporters were hesitant to back him.

In desperation, the old ogre swung his newly healed arm against his stalagmite throne. There was an awful crunch and he cried out in pain. Old Falog raised his arm in the air again. It was more hideously bent than before, his hand hanging limply. “See! It is bad! Fist lies! The rule of injury is real! Mog must fight for me like he did before!”

Poop
, thought Squirrel.

Sorry, Squirrel. It was a good idea
, Fist thought with a wince. If he’d had just a few more seconds to work on those bones, the old ogre wouldn’t have been able to break them. Fist felt a hand on his shoulder.

“It is good, Fist. I will fight,” Crag said, his gaze earnest with determination. “I am Chief Crag. I will win!”

Fist looked into the grizzled chief’s eyes. When Fist was small, he had looked up to his father. Even when Crag had beaten him, he was proud to be son of the chief. But Fist had never really liked him. He had felt only brief sadness when he had thought Crag dead and the revelation that he was alive had brought him no joy. Throughout the journey from the Mage School to the mountains, he had been full of bitter feelings towards the ogre. Now, for the first time in his life, Fist felt a surge of affection for Crag.