The Ogre Apprentice

by Trevor H. Cooley

  The dwarf, Bill, was nodding and stroking his beard thoughtfully. “Well it wouldn’t be so bad, Begazzi, if we could go back in and add some scrollwork along the edges and perhaps redo the roofs with decorative tile.”

  “Some colorful paint and some flowerbeds would help, too,” added Kyrkon. The elf was as odd as the dwarf in his own way. His brown hair was cropped short and his clothes were of a strange cut Fist hadn’t seen before, with tight leather pants and a loose flowing shirt. He also wore riding gloves and a thin sword with an ornate pommel hung at his waist.

  “Oh!” said Sarine, clapping her hands together. “That sounds wonderful! What do you think, Darlan? Bill could oversee the work. He loves that sort of thing. Would the rest of the council have a problem with that?”

  “I don’t see why they would,” she remarked dubiously. “Though Wizard Beehn is the main one you’d have to run it by. He is the one in charge of the grounds, after all.”

  “Well, this is all exciting conversation,” Maryanne said, the gnome yawning with boredom. “But what I really want to know is where your archery range is at.”

  “It’s a school for magic, dear,” Sarine reminded her.

  “But the academy has one,” Fist offered. “In their training grounds out behind the new barracks. They won’t mind if you use it. As long as it’s not already crowded with students.”

  The gnome gave him a grateful smile. “See? Look at this big man, Sarine. He’s my hero.”

  Fist blinked. Maybe she was confused by his clothing. “Uh . . . I’m not a man. I’m an ogre.”

  “Oh, I know,” she replied, raising an eyebrow.

  “Don’t you start on him, Maryanne,” Sarine warned, wagging a finger at the gnome.

  “I’ll be at the range if you need me, Sarine,” the gnome replied. She brushed past Fist as she walked by and said softly, “You can join me there if you like,” before heading towards the academy buildings.

  Oooh, sent Squirrel, his head peeking out of the top of his pouch.

  Fist watched her go, his cheeks reddening. She had spoken to him in much the same way female ogres teased a prospective mate. Surely she wasn’t serious. Was she making fun of him?

  “That didn’t take long,” said Bill, sharing amused looks with Kyrkon.

  “Sorry, ogre,” the elf added. “She tends to fall for the muscular ones.”

  Fist frowned. Now he was sure she’d been making fun of him.

  Sarine sighed. “Oh my. I feel I should apologize for Maryanne. She is my newest bonded and she still hasn’t grown past a few of her former flaws, the poor dear.”

  “Well I don’t like it,” said Darlan and Fist saw that her glare was following Maryanne’s lithe figure as the gnome jogged away. “See to it that you have a talk with her, would you?”

  “Oh, don’t worry about her,” Sarine said, dismissing the idea with a gesture. “She’s harmless.”

  “Uh, Mistress Sherl,” Fist said, wanting to change the subject. “There is something I’ve been needing to talk to you about.”

  She didn’t look away from the gnome. “Yes, what is it?”

  Fist knew how Darlan would react and didn’t want to go over all the details in front of everyone. He cleared his throat and stepped closer, speaking softly. “It’s about Justan. I spoke to him last night and I’ve got news.”

  That got her attention. Darlan turned her gaze on him, her brow furrowed in concern. “Did they make it into Malaroo alright?”

  “Well, he’s okay, but . . .” Fist tried to give her a look to tell her that he’d prefer to speak alone.

  “But what?” she asked, making an impatient gesture.

  “I just think that maybe we should-.”

  “Stop making faces at me and tell me what happened!” she snapped.

  Fist winced. His attempt at subtlety had backfired. Now everyone was looking at him. “Well, Deathclaw and Gwyrtha finally caught up with him yesterday, but when they crossed the Malaroo border . . . they were attacked.”

  “Attacked by whom?” Darlan asked warily.

  “Was it Jhonate’s father?” said Alfred.

  “More basilisks?” Charz asked.

  “Oh dear, what has that boy gotten himself into?” Sarine asked, bringing one hand to her mouth.

  Fist groaned inwardly. “No! Well, yes. Kind of. They were there, but-.”

  “Use coherent sentences, Fist,” Darlan told him.

  The ogre tried to answer all the questions, “They were attacked by an army of the wild people. You know, the Roo-Dan. And they had merpeople with them too. Justan and the others fought them for awhile and then some of Jhonate’s people showed up and helped them.”

  “Jhonate’s people helped this army?” Darlan said.

  “No. Jhonate’s people helped Justan,” Fist corrected. “They defeated the army of wild people together. But then, when the battle was over, the nightbeast snuck in and killed Yntri Yni.”

  There was a moment of stunned silence after this statement. None of them knew Yntri well, but Darlan, Charz, and Alfred had met him while Justan’s party had stayed at the Mage School for a couple days. Charz had even shared a bottle of pepperbean wine with him.

  “How horrible,” Darlan said.

  “Yntri Yni?” said Kyrkon, his face pale and his voice strained. At that moment, Fist saw something in the elf’s eyes that told him Kyrkon was much older than he looked. “Of the ancient ones? But how?”

  “The nightbeast had changed itself to look like one of Jhonate’s people. It . . .” Fist shuddered as he recalled the memory Justan had shown him. “It stabbed him in front of everyone. It looked into Justan’s eyes while it did it.”

  The elf swallowed. “This is a terrible blow. I should send a message to my sect.”

  “You can send a pigeon from the Rune Tower,” Alfred suggested.

  “Thank you,” Kyrkon replied. “I remember where it is. They haven’t moved it in the last two hundred years, have they?”

  “Not that I know of,” said Alfred. “Some of the droppings look at least that old.”

  The elf didn’t smile at the joke, but nodded somberly and began walking towards the tower. He gave Sarine a quick glance along the way and she gave him an encouraging look in return. Fist had been bonded long enough to know that a mental communication had just taken place.

  “The Prophet will be so heartbroken,” Sarine said. “John knew that elf for a long time.” She frowned. “But why would someone send a nightbeast after one of the ancient ones? What would they have to gain?”

  “It wasn’t after him,” Fist replied. “It was after Justan. Yntri Yni was just in the way.”

  “Poor Justan,” Darlan said. “He must be wracked with guilt over it.”

  “And just who sent a nightbeast after my great grandson?” asked Mistress Sarine. There was real anger in her voice now.

  “Someone in Malaroo,” Darlan said. “We don’t know who for sure, but there is the distinct possibility it could be his future father-in-law.”

  “The leader of the Roo-tan? And you let him walk right into it?” Sarine said to Darlan, dumbfounded.

  “It’s wasn’t Jhonate’s father,” Fist said. “Justan met Xedrion after the battle and found out that he had nothing to do with it.”

  Darlan’s shoulders slumped with relief. “Well that’s good. Does he have any other ideas who it could be?”

  Fist shrugged. “Justan has no other enemies that he knows about.”

  “It still has to be someone in the Roo-Tan,” Darlan said. “Someone that doesn’t want an alliance between their people and the academy. When you speak with him tonight, tell him to look into any other people among the Roo-Tan that have the kind of wealth needed to hire a nightbeast.”

  Fist nodded, but he was pretty sure Justan and Jhonate were already doing just that. “Okay.”

  Darlan turned to Sarine and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Please excuse me, Mistress Sarine. I’ve just realized that I have more matters to attend t
o. I’m sure Alfred can show you the rest of the changes in the school without me.”

  “I would be happy to,” the gnome warrior replied with a short bow.

  A slight bit of irritation rippled across Sarine’s features, but she put on a polite smile. “Of course, dear. But just call me Sarine. We’re family, after all.”

  “I’d prefer to use your proper title for now, thank you,” Darlan replied.

  The comment stung the old woman, but she smiled at her granddaughter anyway. “We will have plenty of time to discuss things later.”

  “That we will,” Darlan replied, forcing a smile of her own. Then she grabbed the arm of Fist’s robe and yanked him in the direction of the Rune Tower.

  Fist followed along meekly, relieved that they were leaving the bonding wizard behind. Fist had found the old woman troubling. She had an intangible quality about her that made her presence overpowering. Perhaps it was a family trait because Darlan had it too. With those two women standing side by side, the large ogre had felt positively small.

  Darlan headed straight for the moat around the Rune Tower. They followed along its bank until she was sure that they had moved out of eye and earshot of her grandmother. Then she stopped and turned around to face Fist.

  “Alright, listen. I had to get you away from her before you blurted something I hadn’t prepared her for.”

  “You mean, about the Scralag?” the ogre surmised.

  “I haven’t told her about that yet. I told her about the rest of Justan’s bonded earlier, but not that one,” she said. Darlan reached up with both hands to rub at her temples. “I haven’t told her about Artemus yet for a few reasons. First of all, I barely know the woman. I have no idea how she’ll react to the news that her husband’s soul is still around, trapped inside my son’s chest. Secondly, I am angry at her.”

  “You seem angry a lot of the time,” Fist remarked, then winced, regretting the words as soon as they had left his mouth.

  Stupid, Squirrel agreed. The ogre braced himself for a dressing down or perhaps even an incineration but, to his surprise, she chuckled.

  “Oh Fist, if I’m angry with you it’s because I care. I don’t waste my emotion on people I don’t care about.” She poked his chest with a stiff finger. “I am still furious with you about the trick you pulled earlier, by the way.”

  “I know. I’m sorry,” Fist said.

  “What got into your head?” she asked.

  The ogre shrugged. “I wanted to try the spells again, but I thought you’d be in a meeting all morning, so I got Charz. I knew that I couldn’t hurt him with them and I didn’t think I’d hurt myself.”

  “You think your spells didn’t hurt him?” Darlan said, an eyebrow raised. “His skin was smoking when we got there. Patches of his back were glowing hot. Sure he healed up afterwards, but you owe him an apology.”

  Fist’s face blanched. She was right. He had known that the spells would cause the giant pain and he had ignored the fact. “I will try to make it up to him.”

  She folded her arms. “So what went wrong with the spell?”

  “I tried my other spells first. I made a column of earth and I did that clay encasement spell you taught me the other day. They worked good, but I think I used up too much of my magic for the big spell,” he said. “I made the cloud and built up the electricity but when I let it go, I didn’t have enough earth magic left to protect me.”

  Darlan nodded. “That’s a danger with large spells like cloud lightning. They are usually used as a last defense and you are often already exhausted by the time you’re in a situation where you need to use them. You need to learn your limits or you will kill yourself one day.”

  “I understand,” the ogre said.

  “Hmm. I think it’s time we trained your stamina,” Darlan said, stroking her chin as she thought. “Alright, this is how I want you to do it. Each night, just before you go to bed, drain your magic completely.”

  “How?” he asked.

  She smiled. “It’s an old trick I learned back when I was an apprentice. What you do is you make a ball of light. Then you focus on keeping it as dim as possible.”

  Fist frowned. Making a ball of light was one of the first spells she had taught him. It required only a low amount of focus, but it was very inefficient, taking a lot of energy and making a bright light. Dimming it required tightening up the spell, which meant pouring more energy into it. That was why wizards still preferred to use candles or light orbs. Still, there had to be faster ways to drain his magic.

  “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.

  T
he 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?”