Fist envied Squirrel that option. He had no choice but to continue enduring the dreams as he tried to understand them. Things became worse the further they traveled into the mountains. Fist’s dreams increased in both intensity and frequency. For three nights in a row he awoke twice in the night, anxious and shaken by the terrible events of his dreams. These occurrences left him tired and irritable and he seriously considered abandoning Darlan’s directions and drain his magic just so that he could sleep through the night. It wasn’t until the fourth such night that he had a breakthrough.
Fist was laying on cloudy softness. He felt the warmth of the sun on his face. It was wonderful, peaceful, but he found himself fighting against it. That peaceful feeling was wrong. He heard a rumbling in the distance. A cool moist breeze blew past him, thick with the smell of rain.
He forced himself to open his eyes and look at his surroundings. He was on an island of sunlit cloud. On one side of him was empty blue sky. On the other was an encroaching darkness, a billowing storm front stretching high above him. Lightning danced through the smoky black clouds. Fleeing from the storm, running at the edge of it, was Fist’s father, his heavy feet disturbing the white cloud below him as he ran.
Crag bellowed at him, “Stand, Fist! Fight!”
Fist’s first urge was to close his eyes, pretend the oncoming storm was an illusion, and bask in the sun’s rays while he could. It was what he usually did. After all, he had no reason to heed Crag’s words; no desire to think on the turmoil his father’s presence brought.
The memory of Sarine’s voice rippled across his mind, “Don’t let the dream overtake you . . . there are some aspects of it that you can control.”
Fist held onto her words resisting the urge to do as he had always done and ignore Crag’s plea. This was his dream. He had a vague understanding that he had endured it many times in the past. Not this time. He would take charge.
Fist stood and faced the approach of his father. He shouted, “I will fight!”
As the words left his lips Fist saw that the approaching darkness wasn’t a cloud at all. It was made up of thousands of winged beasts. The cool moist air that blew towards him was thick with the smell of rot and the flashes of light he saw weren’t lightning. They were the flickering glow of the beasts’ eyes.
The shock of this understanding threatened to suck his concentration away, but he resisted the compulsion. He needed to analyze the dream and learn from it. There was something familiar about the beasts, but it eluded him. What was it?
Suddenly, Crag was there standing on the cloud before him. The ogre chieftain was covered in wounds, his face bruised and bleeding. His voice was ragged. “Fight, Fist!”
“I will,” Fist said, “But how? I have no weapons and there are so many.”
“Toompa!” Crag snarled and swung his muscled arm. The punch struck Fist squarely in the chest so hard that he was launched off of the cloud.
As Fist plummeted towards the ground below he looked up, determined to stay aware. This was his dream. He would retain control.
The dark mass of beasts caught up to Crag and surrounded him, obscuring the chieftain from view. The swarm dove after Fist, pouring over the edge of the cloud like filthy water out of a bucket. Then, in unison, they opened their tooth-filled mouths and the sound that came out of them was soul-piercing. It was a sound filled with anger. Filled with hatred. Filled with longing. A chittering moan.
Fist awoke, gasping. It was bitterly cold and dark. He had no idea what time it was. The night sky was overcast, blocking out the moon and stars. Only the dull glow of the coals in their fire pit gave off any illumination.
Moonrats, said Squirrel with a shiver. The little animal was a few feet away, curled up with Puj in her furs.
Did you have the same dream? Fist asked.
Fist felt a hand nudge his shoulder and looked up to see the face of Locksher dimly illuminated by the coals’ light. He was crouching next to Fist and both of his eyebrows were raised in interest. The wizard whispered, “Did you hear that?”
“What?” Fist whispered back.
“Shh!” Locksher replied, a finger to his lips. “Listen.”
Then the sound echoed out again, the moonrat moan. It started as a lone voice, but was soon joined by a dozen more. The sound wasn’t as large and terrifying as it had been in Fist’s dream, but it still sent a chill through him.
Locksher let out an excited laugh. “Ohhh that’s interesting.”
Fist sat up and heard the rustle of the whole camp stirring. Everybody had heard it that time.
“What is that hellish sound?” asked Maryanne, joining Locksher at Fist’s side.
“Ghosts!” said a frightened Puj from within her furs.
“No. It’s moonrats,” Fist said. “But what are they doing up here?”
“That’s a good question,” Locksher replied and his toothy grin gleamed in the coals’ glow. “How many of them do you think there are?”
Fist thought how creepy Locksher could get when he was interested in something. “I-I’m not sure.”
The wizard threw up his hands and Fist switched to magesight in time to see a golden net of air fly from Locksher’s fingertips, expanding to form a thin dome over the campsite. “Listen and watch,” the wizard said.
The moans started up again. This time Fist paid closer attention. The first moan came from the north, further up the mountain slopes. The voices that replied to it were scattered all around.
As the sounds hit the camp, parts of Locksher’s dome rippled, each vibration caused by a single moonrat voice. When the sounds faded, the wizard said. “Did you count that? How many?”
Fist had tried to count, but it was a jumble. “I don’t know. Fifteen? Twenty?”
“Seventeen,” replied Maryanne.
Locksher nodded his head. “I concur.”
“How could you tell that?” Fist asked, looking at the dome. The surface was trembling still. “The ripples were so close together.”
“Ripples?” Maryanne said. She looked up, following Fist’s eyes. “Oh that. I wasn’t using magesight. I was listening.”
“Really? Good ears,” Locksher said in approval. At Fist’s questioning look he explained, “I knew she was right because the spell told me. That’s how I designed it.”
Qenzic and Lyramoor joined them moments later. The elf was agitated. “What the hell are moonrats doing here? Usually they stick to the Tinny Woods.”
Not anymore, Squirrel observed, poking his head out from under Puj’s furs where the ogress was still cowering.
Fist nodded in realization. “Squirrel just reminded me. Earlier, when we were traveling through the woods, we didn’t hear moonrats once.” The most powerful of Mellinda’s children had been destroyed in the war, but many of the yellow and green eyed ones had survived. They were tamer than before but still let out their moans from time to time.
The wizard snapped his fingers, “You’re right, Fist! I was so focused on the chest that I didn’t even notice.” He reached up and gripped his hair with both hands. “Blast me, but I should have. Vannya would have noticed.”
“What are the moonrats doing here?” Lyramoor repeated.
“I don’t know. I don’t know,” Locksher replied. “I have a few theories, but I would like to find out more before I espouse them. Hmm, listen. I believe they’re about to start up again.”
As if on cue, the moonrat’s cries started up again. Several frightened gasps echoed from the ogre side of the camp. Fist watched the golden dome overhead shiver and tried to pick out their numbers by sound as Maryanne had done. He failed miserably.
One more, Squirrel said.
“Eighteen this time, I think,” Marianne said. “But they are further north of us than before.”
“I hate those things,” Lyramoor growled.
“Did you notice something different about their moans?” Locksher asked, arcing his eyebrow again. “I don’t mean, different now than a few minutes ago. I mean differe
nt now than they were before Mellinda was destroyed.”
“Actually I think it is different,” Qenzic said. “They sound less mournful. More . . . angry.”
Hungry, Squirrel said and Fist agreed with his assessment. The sound was haunting, but in a more aggressive way than before.
“I will require a specimen to study,” Locksher decided. “I need to determine if the enemy we are facing is behind this.”
Lyramoor drew one of his swords. “Does the rat have to be alive?”
“Preferably,” Locksher replied. “Though one of both would be nice.”
“I think we can manage it,” Qenzic said. “Though these things are nasty. A nonfatal attack will be harder to manage since it’s this dark out. I wish we’d thought to bring a net.”
“Oh, I have just the thing, boys,” Maryanne said with a smile. She pulled an arrow out of her quiver.
In the dim light, Fist could barely make out the impressions of air and earth runes on the arrowhead. He suddenly had a better understanding of how the archer could be useful on this mission. “Shock arrows?”
“Shock arrows,” she confirmed. “I had the wizards magic up some for me before I left the school. When I nail one of those rats with a leg shot, this’ll put ‘em down for a good minute. Long enough for you two to hop in and hogtie ‘em or whatever.”
Lyramoor snorted. “Hogtie a moonrat. Right.”
“Is that so hard for you?” Maryanne asked, causing the scarred elf to let out a growl.
“They have an extra set of limbs on their backs and a hand on the end of their tails.” Qenzic explained. “It’ll be a pain, but don’t worry. We’ll manage.”
“Just be careful,” Locksher said “The enemy’s power is similar to Mellinda’s. If it is controlling them, you might have to deal with bewitching magic.”
“I’ve got the bond,” Maryanne said.
“Spirit magic can’t touch me,” Lyramoor replied.
Qenzic gave the two of them envious looks. “I . . . I’ll be careful.”
“Good. Good,” the wizard said absently, rubbing his chin. He took his notebook out and began writing furiously.
The warriors slipped out of the camp, heading northward. Seconds later, the chorus of moans sounded out again. The fire in the pit blazed back to life as several nervous ogres began shoving dry wood into the coals. All the commotion caused one large figure to stir.
“Will someone tell those blasted moonrats to shut up!” Charz roared. The giant reached over and yanked the furs off of a snoring Rub, then wrapped them around his head and turned on his side. The sleeping ogre was left naked in the frigid night air, but he didn’t seem to notice and kept snoring away.
“Master Locksher, you said you had theories,” Fist said to the wizard. “What do you think this means?”
“Hmm . . . I think it may be possible that there is some truth to Sherl’s original assertion.” He continued to write as he spoke. “What if Mellinda wasn’t destroyed completely? What if she somehow simply changed location instead?”
Fist frowned. “But how? We destroyed all her powerful eyes.”
“So we thought,” he said, his ink cylinder moving faster. “Latva’s plan was a clever one. I have read his journals. He crafted the plan over decades. He led the country’s best warriors and wizards into the heart of Mellinda’s domain, causing her to pull all of her power in close, bringing her most precious children in range. He knew that it was the only way to truly defeat her. He needed the blue eyes destroyed for sure and he worried that if enough orange eyes survived, she could escape with at least part of her essence.”
“So you think his plan failed?” Fist asked, his throat tightening.
“It’s hard to say.” Locksher shrugged. He seemed more interested than frightened by the possibility. “It certainly seemed to work. After all, Sherl’s attack destroyed the heart of Mellinda’s domain. Jhonate, with Beth and Master Tollivar’s help, hewed her essence in two . . .” He cocked his head. “That was how they described it, wasn’t it? Hewn in two?”
Locksher flipped a few pages and jotted down another note. “Anyway, the remnants of her army scattered. By all reports, they lost all contact with her. The remaining green and yellow eyed moonrats changed their behavior, losing their aggression. I certainly thought it was over.”
“So,” Fist’s mind was churning with unsettling possibilities. “If one of her blue eyes escaped the destruction-.”
“Master Latva was sure that one surviving blue eye could have contained the entirety of Mellinda’s soul and power. It was her escape plan, so to speak. After hundreds of years of imprisonment, all she had to do was place the eye inside of an individual and possess them, free again to conquer the known lands.”
Locksher paused and looked up at Fist. “I’m making you anxious, aren’t I? Sorry. Vannya says I have a tendency to do that when I’m spouting off theories.”
“It is a frightening idea,” Fist admitted.
Locksher reached out a hand and hesitantly patted Fist’s arm. “You shouldn’t worry. If a blue eye had survived, Mellinda wouldn’t have stayed around linked to her body waiting for Jhonate to use that white dagger on her.”
“Oh. Good,” Fist said, feeling somewhat relieved.
“At least, I don’t think so,” Locksher said, tapping the end of the ink cylinder on his chin. He started writing in the notebook again. “I’ll know more when I’ve run some tests on these moonrats.”
Fist was about to ask another question, but was interrupted as Crag stormed past the fire to stand in front of him. “Pack up, Fist. Our tribes must leave now.”
“Why is that?” Fist asked.
“This place is haunted,” Crag said as if the answer were obvious. “Ogres can not fight ghosts.”
“They are not ghosts,” Locksher said without looking up at the chief.
Crag shot the wizard an irritated glance. He did not like it when the human spoke to him informally, something Locksher did quite often. Fist had spoken to Locksher about it before, but the man didn’t understand ogre etiquette. When you are a person of low status speaking directly to the chief, you should always acknowledge that he was chief. Ogres had a complex system of status within the tribes and it was constantly ebbing and flowing. As far as the other ogres were concerned, the wizard was just one of Fist’s hangers on. Useful, perhaps, but basically a nobody.
“The wizard is right, father,” Fist said, trying to give his master a boost in Crag’s eyes. “The sounds are being made by big rats called moonrats.”
“Rats?” the chief scoffed. “Little rats make this noise that hurts me inside?”
This remark surprised Fist. It was the closest he had ever seen his father get to admitting he was frightened. “Big rats,” Fist corrected. “Big rats with eyes that glow in the dark.”
“Rat ghosts?” the idea seemed to frighten the chief even further. “This is Rub’s fault. He eats too many rats.”
“They’re not-,” Locksher began, but Fist nudged him. The human sighed. “Don’t worry, Chief Crag. Our great leader Fist’s magic will protect us from these ghosts. As long as he is here, they cannot hurt us.”
“Oh?” said Crag, a hesitant smile forming on his face. “Is this true, Fist?”
“Yes, Father,” Fist said dully. “I promise that I won’t let these moonrats hurt you.”
“Good!” Crag said, his smile widening even though the chorus of moonrat moans started up again. “I will tell the others.”
The chieftain strode over and announced to the tribe that Fist’s magic would protect them from the rat ghosts. For some reason this proclamation actually worked. The ogres lost their sense of panic. Some of them tried to go back to sleep. The only ones that weren’t mollified were Beard and Glug. The looks they passed Fist were resentful.
“Why did that work?” Fist wondered. “Nothing changed. Why aren’t they scared anymore?”
“You are Fist,” Puj said. She had stuck her head out of her furs and sat up
. Squirrel was perched on her shoulder.
You are Fist, Squirrel agreed.
“Why does that matter?” Fist asked. He had been with his people for close to three weeks now and he still didn’t understand why they trusted him. He had left their tribe after all. He had nearly killed Crag and then ran. He had lived with humans and fought against his own kind during the war. “Why do you have so much faith in me?”
“Faif?” Puj asked, unfamiliar with the word.
“Why do you all trust in me?” he asked.
“Crag telled us,” she said matter of factly. “When he picked the ones that got to go get you. He telled us about his dream.”
Fist blinked in surprise and turned back to look at his father. Crag had climbed back under his furs and was instructing the warriors around him to go back to sleep. “Crag had a dream?”
“He telled us,” she said again. A stiff breeze blew across the campsite, causing the fire to flare and Puj pulled her furs more tightly about her. “The night when you telled him not to join the Barldag, after you fighted him and runned away. Crag falled asleep for a long time. Then he had a dream. He seed the big evil coming. A giant speaked to him and sayed that Big Fist will come back one day and save the tribe.”
She ended her tale with a firm nod. Squirrel nodded along with her. You will save them.
He didn’t know what to think of that. “Did you hear that, Master Locksher?”
“Hmm?” said the wizard. He was tapping the ink cylinder against his chin again as he reviewed his notes.
“Never mind,” Fist said. Where did Crag’s dream come from? Was it possible for an ogre without spirit magic to have a dream that told the future? Maybe he would be able to get Maryanne to ask Sarine about it. At the very least, he resolved to talk to Crag about it in the morning.
Maryanne and the two academy warriors arrived back at the camp a few minutes later. They had succeeded in their mission. Qenzic carried one dead moonrat over his shoulders, while Maryanne and Lyramoor struggled with a live one. They had bound each set of legs together and simply lopped off the hand at the end of its tail. Its muzzle was tied shut with rope, but that didn’t keep it from making a constant series of snarling sounds.
The Ogre Apprentice Page 28
