The Ogre Apprentice

by Trevor H. Cooley

  The half moon had risen high in the sky, giving the snowscape an otherworldly brightness. The wind had covered most of the tracks with powder, but it wasn’t too hard to find the place where Beard had stopped. In his rage, the ogre had shredded the area around him, beating the ground, breaking branches and throwing rocks.

  Then they saw him. Beard was laying on top of his furs, facing upwards. The snow around him was stained pink with his blood and his chest was still. Nevertheless, as they crept closer, Fist kept his mace at the ready.

  Beard’s hands were torn and bloodied by the violence of his tantrums. The skin of his face was covered with angry infected scratches. But none of that explained the amount of blood they had seen.

  Maryanne reached out and touched his neck. “He’s dead,” she confirmed. “His skin is still hot to the touch. You think he died from a fever?”

  “I don’t think so,” Fist said. Yes, he was covered in scratches, but those were tiny things to an ogre. Fist himself had survived worse.

  “Oh! Look!” she said, pointing. The snow under the ogre’s head was dark and wet.

  Fist held out his arm and summoned flows of air and earth. A bright ball of light swirled into existence, better illuminating the scene. Fist’s breath caught in his throat as he understood. “Squirrel must have done it that first night while we were sleeping in the cave.”

  “What?” she asked.

  He brought the orb down closer. “Look.”

  The source of the blood pooled beneath Beard’s head became quite evident. Tiny green plants had sprouted from both of the ogre’s ears. At the end of one of them was the opening bud of a beautiful purple flower.

  “Honstule seeds,” Fist said. “Squirrel killed him with Honstule seeds.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Justan awoke from his dream with a wince. He was momentarily disoriented by the web-like pattern of morning light on the ceiling above him until reality settled back in and he remembered that it was caused by the thin fabric mesh that covered the open windows to his room. Justan sat up and stretched, arching his back with a groan.

  He had been in the Roo-Tan capital for a month and he was still having difficulty getting used to the grass mattresses that Jhonate’s people were so fond of. They were made of a series of long woven mats stacked on top of each other with layers of a cotton-like fiber stuffed between them. Justan had slept on a lot of different types of bedding in his travels and he would have thought that the grass mats would at least be better than sleeping on the ground, but after long nights tossing and turning, he woke each day sore and irritable. It usually took him several hours before he felt like himself.

  He was seemingly the only person having that problem. Jhonate grew up with them and claimed they were far superior to the cotton or down mattresses common in Dremaldria. Poz and Aldie both enjoyed their Roo-Tan beds. Poz was even talking about purchasing one and bringing it back to the academy with him once his mission was over.

  Justan sighed and rotated his head, feeling a series of pops in his neck. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and swung his legs out of the bed. His feet only fell two inches before unexpectedly landing on something scaly and warm.

  He chuckled. “Good morning, Gwyrtha.”

  The rogue horse was lying on her side right next to his bed, her legs pointed towards the door. Gwyrtha lifted her head and looked back at him. Her thoughts were cheerful. She always woke up instantly. Good morning, Justan!

  It hadn’t been easy getting Xedrion’s servants to allow the rogue horse to sleep in his apartments with him. They worried that her claws would gouge the floors and that they would constantly have to clean up after her. Justan didn’t blame them for their reluctance. The buildings on Xedrion’s estate were immaculate, with polished wooden floors and white walls that had to be difficult to keep clean.

  In the end, Jhonate had bullied them into allowing her inside. The nightbeast could be anywhere and Gwyrtha was the only one who would know for sure if he was approaching. Justan had been pleased that she was allowed, but he hadn’t expected Gwyrtha to be this diligent. Well, at least she wasn’t trying to climb into the bed with him like she had the first few nights.

  You didn’t sleep good again, the rogue horse observed.

  “Yeah. Bad night.” The mattress wasn’t the whole reason for his tossing and turning. He had been having vivid dreams every night since arriving in Roo-Tan’lan.

  Like Fist’s dreams, Justan’s were strange and disturbing. There were several different ones that repeated, but in the dream that stood out the most, he was surrounded by a circle of friends and allies. The circle was wide, hundreds of people standing shoulder-to-shoulder. They all had their backs to him, looking outward while he was standing in the center. It was dark and lonely where he stood.

  His bonded were somewhere outside the circle warning Justan of approaching danger. He then heard something coming in from all sides, a clicking noise like the sound of hundreds of insect feet on rock. He yelled out to warn the people surrounding him, but they ignored him, keeping their stiff stance as the threat came closer and closer.

  Then Justan realized that the clicking sound was coming from beneath him. He could feel it in his toes. He became sure that whatever it was would rise from the dark soil inside the circle. Justan usually awoke from these dreams as huge chitinous claws burst from the ground and, instead of attacking him, ripped into the unprotected backs of his friends.

  Justan shuddered at the memory. He dearly hoped that his great grandmother was wrong about this. If his magic was using his dreams to tell him something, it wasn’t good.

  Jhonate comes, said Deathclaw from his position on the roof overhead. Justan’s apartments were located in one of the interior buildings on the palace grounds and the only entrance was from the outside. Since the raptoid disliked sleeping indoors, he preferred this arrangement. This way he could watch everyone’s comings and goings and let Gwyrtha keep track of Justan indoors.

  Justan focused on the Jharro ring Jhonate had given him and saw that the raptoid was right. Her thoughts were guarded, but she was coming towards him with purposeful strides. Justan slid across Gwyrtha’s back and headed to the side of the room where his things were stored.

  His bedroom was wide and spacious and only sparsely furnished, which matched the attitude of the Leeth’s family. Unlike all the other nobles he had met, they preferred life clean and uncluttered. They didn’t use rugs or tapestries and the furniture itself was plain and functional.

  Justan’s clothes were kept in an unusual Roo-Tan convention, something called a closet. Instead of using a wardrobe or chest of drawers, they kept their clothing in a smaller room that was separated from the rest of the bedroom by a thin curtain.

  Justan opened the curtain and grabbed his nicest pair of pants off of one of the wood pegs in the closet. He began putting them on as he heard Jhonate open the outer door and enter the sitting room.

  That is Jhonate, Gwyrtha verified as she did with any visitors.

  “I sensed that you were awake,” Jhonate said both aloud and through the ring. Justan heard her in the other room walking over to the table and setting something down. Gwyrtha smelled oiled leather.

  “Just getting dressed!” he replied as he looked through his shirts, trying to decide what to wear. He had several more now than he had when he arrived. Over a dozen of them, in various colors and degrees of finery. Xedrion’s servants brought something new in almost every day. Justan wasn’t quite sure why. No one had ever said anything about it to him. All he knew was that today his selection was important. It was the day of Yntri Yni’s funeral and he needed something appropriate.

  He didn’t have time to decide before the door to his bedroom burst open and Jhonate strode in. Justan turned in surprise. She never entered while he was changing.

  Jhonate was wearing the Roo-Tan version of a ceremonial warrior uniform. Long deerskin pants studded with clear green river stones and a white blouse whose sleeves were embroidered
in swirling green patterns, matching the color of the ribbons in her hair. The breastplate she wore today was different than usual, made of a deep red hide and laced up the front instead of the sides. It had been shaped to fit the contours of her body and painstakingly stamped into it was an intricate scene depicting the Jharro Grove.

  As for Justan, he was still only wearing his pants.

  Jhonate paused for a moment as her eyes took him in, flickering across his muscles and lingering on the frost rune in the center of his chest. Then she advanced.

  Justan wasn’t sure of her intentions until the last moment. She dropped her staff and reached up and grabbed his head, then leapt up and wrapped her legs around Justan’s waist. Her lips locked onto his.

  The force of her attack slammed him back into the closet. Justan’s head struck one of the wooden pegs and two more dug into his lower back, but he didn’t care. He grabbed her with both arms and pulled her tightly to him. She let out a low moan and kissed him even harder, her tongue seeking his.

  Justan sensed Gwyrtha’s amusement and Deathclaw’s disgust. He shut off the bond, tuning them out. He had learned to live for times like these.

  They didn’t come often. Jhonate’s ardor had a slow burn. She spent so much time worried about what was proper and what her father might think that when she finally gave into her feelings, she did so in an intense way. Never before had he been half-dressed when she did it, though.

  They slid to the ground, clothes falling down all around and on top of them. Several agonizingly wonderful minutes went by. Finally, Jhonate kissed down his jaw line and bit his ear hard before pulling back from him.

  “What got into you?” Justan gasped, trying to dislodge one of his hands that had gotten trapped under her breastplate.

  “This is the last day, my love,” she said breathlessly.

  “It is?” he replied, yanking his hand free before pulling her back in and kissing her neck.

  Jhonate let out a throaty laugh and allowed him a few seconds before pushing him back again. “Yes. Tonight, the nightbeast will attack and we will kill it. The final obstacle between us will be gone.”

  “The final obstacle?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. In his mind that seemed a bit optimistic. “I thought that obstacle was the Protector of the Grove.”

  Jhonate gave him a chiding look. “Father’s mood has been changing of late. He has been impressed by your attitude and strategic mind as we have planned for this day. Yesterday, in a meeting, I even heard him praise you to the leaders of the other houses.” She stood and, looking down at him, added, “I think he has come to like you.”

  “Like me?” Justan laughed, extracting himself from the fallen clothes. “Xedrion bin Leeths?”

  Jhonate retrieved her staff and looked into the room’s standing mirror. She examined her hair and began adjusting her clothes. “I believe you have won him over. All you need to do is survive the nightbeast’s attack, preferably by killing him, and father will approve our marriage,” she said as if it were a simple task. “My mother has already begun making plans.”

  “Oh, that’s all I have to do?” Justan said. Of course she made it sound easy. That was Jhonate’s way.

  The reality of the matter was that they were up against an assassin with over a thousand years of experience. Even with all their preparation, there was a good chance that Vahn would succeed and Justan would die. Oddly, now that the day had arrived, his anxiety level was pretty low. The prospect of his death at the nightbeast’s hands didn’t worry Justan. His only concern was what would happen to his bonded if he were to be killed.

  He looked down at the mess in his closet. “I was trying to decide which shirt to wear when you arrived.”

  “Choose the light blue one I had sent to you yesterday,” Jhonate said.

  Justan moved a couple other shirts aside and picked up the blue one she was talking about. It had a plain front, but its sleeves were embroidered in similar patterns to Jhonate’s. He slipped it on and began buttoning up the front. “So you’re the one sending me all these clothes.”

  “Some of them. The more colorful ones were sent by my mother. She is quite fond of color.” Jhonate nodded at her reflection in the mirror and ducked back into the sitting room. When she returned, she was carrying a red leather breastplate stamped in a Jharro tree design similar to the breastplate she was wearing, but it was laced up the sides, and had a solid front.

  “I know you shy away from wearing armor, so I had this made for you,” she said, handing it to him. He was surprised to find that it wasn’t made of hardened hide, but was made of supple leather. “My people call it a two-chance vest.”

  “Two chance?” Justan asked, looking at the vest dubiously. The reason he didn’t normally wear armor was because of his fighting style. He required a lot of free movement with his swordplay. He had tried several different types over the years, but he hadn’t found any that didn’t get in the way or weigh him down.

  “The interior of the leather has been runed with blessing magic,” Jhonate explained. “The magic will absorb one blow of lethal strength before failing. The effects are limited, I know. But it could save your life.”

  “Two chances to cheat death,” Justan said. He pulled the vest on over his head and tightened the laces on the side, then twisted his body, miming sword thrusts. “This moves pretty well. Thank you, Jhonate.”

  She had her arms folded and was looking at him, chewing her lip. “I should give back the ring you gave me.”

  “What?” Justan said, taken aback.

  “For just this one night,” Jhonate specified. “The ring has protected me many times. It would do the same for you.”

  Justan stepped closer to her and grasped her shoulders. “You keep it. Vahn threatened all those around me. I would feel more secure if you had it.” He smiled. “Hopefully I won’t need to cheat death more than once this night.”

  “Hmph,” she said, reaching up to straighten his collar. “Put on your boots. We need to go and meet with my father to go over the last of the preparations.”

  Justan retrieved his trail boots from the closet.

  “Not those,” Jhonate said. “We are attending a funeral. Wear the boots I sent you last week. They are in much nicer condition and will give you better traction among the Jharro roots.”

  Justan grabbed the newer boots and began putting them on even though they weren’t as comfortable. “You said that you were going to start treating me with respect, but, you still never ask me nicely. You just tell me what to do. I’m going to be your husband soon, but you still talk to me as if you were the trainer and I your pupil.”

  Her eyes darted towards him and he raised a hand hastily, hoping to stave off an angry retort. “I don’t mind it most of the time, but when you do it in front of your family they give me this pitying look. I guess what I am asking is that you make suggestions from time-to-time instead of demands.”

  “I . . . apologize for that. It is a habit,” Jhonate replied, her expression chastened. “My mother noticed this as well. I shall try to improve.”

  Justan blinked, surprised by how readily she took that criticism. Her mother must have had quite the talk with her indeed. He belted on his swords and grabbed his bow and quiver. “I’m ready.”

  Me too, said Gwyrtha, eager to get outdoors.

  They walked into the sitting room and Jhonate grabbed a small bunch of bananas off of the table. She tossed them to Justan. “Here, I ‘suggest’ you eat one. There may not be time for meals until the funeral is over.”

  Justan caught the fruit, peering at it glumly. “No apples? Peaches? Eggs would be nice.”

  She gave him a dull look. “Not this morning. Might I ‘recommend’ we leave? My father is waiting and I have already delayed.”

  Justan sighed. He had never eaten a banana before coming to Malaroo. In Dremaldria they were considered a delicacy, something only nobility could afford to eat. Among Jhonate’s people they were a daily staple. There were so many varietie
s, some of which were fried or baked others eaten raw.

  He had been excited the first few times he had tried them, but Justan had soured on them since. Not only were the peels bitter and had to be removed fully, they were such a finicky fruit. Finding a good banana was all about timing. One day they weren’t ripe enough and the next day they were mushy.

  He followed Jhonate out the door and attempted to eat his breakfast as they walked. This bunch had four long fruit. They were yellow with brown splotches just starting at the top and end. This was normally a good sign, but when he went to break off the top of the banana, it just bent, partially smooshing the flesh inside. He was forced to split it long ways and pop the fruit out. He frowned as he ate it. This one was overripe and slightly bitter.

  Ooh! I’ll eat it! Gwyrtha offered. As much as Justan had come to dislike the fruit, the rogue horse loved them. He tossed the rest of the bunch to her and she scarfed them down, peel and all.

  “Humans eat the strangest things,” observed Deathclaw as he jumped down to join them from the roof above. He was in the middle of his morning meal as well. The raptoid was carrying the bottom half of a small bird loosely in one hand and a gray feather was sticking out the corner of his mouth.

  “Good morning, Deathclaw,” Jhonate said, not bothering to turn and look at the raptoid.

  “Jhonate,” Deathclaw said and shoved the rest of the bird in his mouth. The crunching noises that ensued were enough to make Justan wince.

  “Tell me, Justan,” Jhonate said as they climbed the stone steps to the palace proper. “Did Fist finally catch up with the ogre he was chasing?”

  Justan had been keeping her abreast of Fist’s journey. She had become quite involved in the tale. She found the interworkings of the ogre society to be base and disturbing, but was particularly interested in the similarities between Mellinda’s magic and the evil in the mountains.

  Justan reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. “In a sense he did. Actually he arrived there to find out that Squirrel had killed him.” He filled her in on the details of Beard’s grisly demise. “Fist said that the roots had grown so far into Beard’s brain that they had destroyed the section controlling his breathing. That’s what killed him.”