Disenchanted

by Robert Kroese

  He trudged glumly through the forest all night and the next day. In most places the forest provided enough cover that the sunlight wasn’t overly bothersome, but occasionally he had to hack through the underbrush to avoid patches of full daylight. Eventually the sun set again, and Boric kept moving roughly south. In the midafternoon of the third day since he entered the forest, he came to the southern edge, where the trees gave way to the sandy hills to the northeast of the Kingdom of Skaal. This land was largely unpopulated, being too uneven and infertile to be used as cropland and too distant from trading routes to sustain a settlement. The only people Boric would run into here would be bandits and other unsavory folk — not that Boric the wraith had any reason to fear such people. His primary fear remained the merciless sunlight that assaulted the scrubby hillsides.

  Boric found a fallen tree some distance from the trail, a hundred yards or so from where the trees began to thin. Being incapable of sleep, he would have to wait here until dark. Up till now Boric had given little thought to his next move; he was concerned mainly with putting as much distance as possible between him and the other wraiths. The trail had forked several times and each time Boric had stayed to the left, working his way farther from the Kingdom of Ytrisk. He supposed that the wraiths, if they were trying to anticipate his moves, would assume that he would stay close to more familiar and hospitable lands. But as much as Boric wished to retain his humanity, he had accepted that the comfort of the familiar was a dangerous temptation and that what was once hospitable was now hostile. To survive, he had to think like a wraith. His allies now were darkness, cold, and solitude.

  But allies to what end? How would he ever address Brand’s claim on him if he remained hiding out in the wilderness, slowly becoming an ever-paler copy of the once renowned King Boric? Isolation from human society would only accelerate the process of him devolving into a baleful creature of darkness. Was that really what the witch was suggesting? That he should intentionally become a monster? Or could he somehow come to terms with his wraithness without becoming an abomination? It seemed impossible. The very existence of the undead was a violation of the natural order of things.

  When the sun had once again set, he continued southward, eventually coming to the great east-west road that connected Avaress with the western kingdoms. He now had a choice to make: he could turn west and head toward Skaal — this had the advantage of being the least expected course of action, but the disadvantage of being suicidal: the only thing hated more in Skaal than a Ytriskian king was an undead Ytriskian king. To the east lay Avaressa, the capital of Avaress and once-center of the Old Realm. He’d be less likely to be recognized in Avaressa, and the Avaressian merchants might know something about the machinations of the mysterious Brand. It would be difficult to inquire of anyone directly, but perhaps he could hide in the corner of a tavern and overhear some talk. If Brand really were planning a new empire, then surely there would be some rumors flying around in the taverns of Avaressa. Boric turned east.

  It had been many years since Boric had traveled this way, and he had only a vague recollection of the geography of the area. In particular, he couldn’t recall whether there were any dense woods or caves nearby. The last time he had been down this road he hadn’t been particularly concerned with identifying places where a wraith could safely wait out the daylight. He grew more anxious as the night wore on and the landscape remained hilly but otherwise featureless. The sparse, scrubby trees would provide no shade.

  Less than an hour before dawn he came upon a barely perceptible path leading southward. In fact, even when he stood and studied the ground, Boric couldn’t be entirely certain that it was a path. There was nothing particularly path-like that he could point to; there were no markers of any kind and although the ground was flat and the grass was sparse, there was no perceivable linear shape to it. What he experienced was more of a vague intuition that living creatures occasionally passed here. Did he now possess a heightened sensitivity to life just as he had for sunlight? Whatever it was, he was virtually certain that he could have walked past this place a hundred times in full daylight as a mortal man and noticed nothing whatsoever.

  If it was a path, he thought, then perhaps it led to some forgotten settlement, a town that had been abandoned after the fall of the Old Realm. That meant the possibility of finding a structure in which he could hide. As there was nothing remotely promising in any other direction, he made his way south, following his sense of the path as best he could.

  EIGHT

  As serious as his situation was, Boric found it difficult not to laugh at the sight of Padmos’s bald pate reflecting the bluish moonlight through the window of the old burned-out house. The uncanny infantile wails of Daman the blacksmith emitting from somewhere inside didn’t help his composure either.

  Boric was perched uncomfortably on a bough of a nearby oak tree, about twelve feet up and a hundred feet downwind from the miller’s house. As long as the ogre didn’t approach from behind him, he had a good chance of remaining unnoticed while the ogre was distracted by the bait. And if the ogre did approach from behind? Well, ogres weren’t known for their tree-climbing abilities, were they? Boric wracked his memory, trying to recall a story in which an ogre climbed a tree. He came up with nothing, but then neither could he recall a story in which an ogre had been drawn into the open by a bald merchant doused with sour milk and a mewling blacksmith. Sometimes stories weren’t much help.

  “Prince Boric!” called a voice from the house. It was Padmos. “How much longer?”

  Boric gritted his teeth but didn’t reply. Hadn’t he warned those two about breaking character? If they spooked the ogre, he’d have to travel to the next town — assuming they didn’t cause the ogre to alter his pattern — and do this all over again. Meanwhile, Boric’s idiot brothers were undoubtedly scheming against him back at Kra’al Brobdingdon, trying to figure out how they were going to cheat him out of his spoils if he defeated the ogre. He needed to get this over with and get back home as quickly as possible.

  “Prince Boric!” called Padmos again. “I don’t think this is working!”

  “Quiet, you moron!” hissed Daman, momentarily ceasing his wailing.

  “I think he’s left us,” said Padmos. “Left us alone to be ripped apart by an ogre. Figures!”

  “Waaaaahhhhh!” cried Daman, doing his best to drown out Padmos’s mutterings.

  “Stop that!” growled Padmos. “You sound like an imbecile. Is this how you want to die, mewling like a baby?”

  “Waaaaahhhhh!” cried Daman in response.

  “Fool!” hissed Padmos.

  Boric’s hand went to the pommel of his sword as he imagined smacking Padmos on the back of the head with the flat of his blade. But no sooner had he touched the pommel than he jerked his hand away as if he’d been stung. “What in the…” he mouthed to himself. Brakslaagt seemed to be vibrating in its scabbard, as if it had been struck by a hammer. He peered at the pommel in the dim light, but his breath caught in his throat as his attention was seized by something moving underneath him. A hulking figure lurked directly underneath the bough on which Boric perched, barely visible in the moonlight. The ogre!

  Even bent over, with its massive hands nearly dragging on the ground, the creature had to be a good nine feet tall. Forget about climbing trees; the ogre could easily reach up and grab Boric by the ankle without even straightening its torso. Idiot! thought Boric. I’m a sitting duck. It was only dumb luck that the ogre hadn’t yet spotted him. A slight shift in the gentle night breeze, or a quick glance upward, and the ogre would have him. Boric didn’t have a chance.

  The giant beast reached its leathery hand out to the trunk of the tree, seeming to be taking stock of its situation. Its head craned back, cavernous nostrils sniffing the night air. Boric thought he saw the creature’s brow furl in perplexity. It smells me, he thought. It just can’t pinpoint my location. Boric considered drawing his sword, but he didn’t dare move. The smallest sound would be like a
claxon to the ogre.

  “Boric!” called Padmos again. The ogre’s head crooked to hear the sound.

  “Waaaaahhhhh!” cried Daman. The ogre’s limbs twitched with excitement at the wail. It seemed to instantly forget about Boric and lumbered toward the open window. For a moment, Boric lost sight of the creature in the shadows. There was a terrified screech followed by a bellowing roar. The bait had worked.

  Boric swung down from the bough, landing in a crouch at the foot of the oak tree, and then sprinted toward the house. His hand brushed the pommel of Brakslaagt again, and he noted that it was still vibrating, but less intensely. Had it been reacting to the danger posed by the ogre?

  Padmos screamed again. Ahead of Boric, the hulking figure of the ogre bent over next to the window, fishing around inside the house with its right arm.

  “Pull the rope!” cried Boric. The ogre turned its massive head to face Boric, its arm still nearly shoulder-deep in the house. Boric heard muffled shouts from inside the house.

  “Pull it!” cried Boric again. The ogre’s face contorted in anger at Boric. Still fixated on the “baby” in the house, it clearly resented this intrusion. It bared a mouthful of crooked yellow teeth and pulled its arm from the house. It advanced toward Boric, but suddenly stopped short as its right arm jerked to a halt behind it: a loop of thick rope was wrapped around its wrist. The other end of the rope disappeared inside the house.

  “We got him!” hollered Daman from inside the house. “We did it!”

  Boric swallowed hard. He wanted to believe that it really was that easy, but he knew that he had underestimated the size of the ogre. What if…?

  As if in response to his half-formed question, the ogre planted its feet wide on the ground, leaning away from the house, and then thrust its arm forward. Miraculously, the rope didn’t break, but what did happen was arguably worse. Boric had secured the other end of the rope to what remained of the stone chimney that ran down the center of the house, and as Boric stared in awe, a sizeable chunk of the chimney exploded from the house as if the wall was made of paper, revealing two terrified men cowering inside. The fragment of stone and masonry sailed over the ogre’s right shoulder toward Boric, who barely managed to dive out of the way. The chimney struck a sapling behind Boric, reducing it to splinters. Boric had to admit that as much as he disliked the elves, they made some damn strong rope. The cord was barely half an inch thick, but it was stronger than steel.

  The ogre grinned at Boric. Boric smiled weakly back at the ogre.

  Ogres are stupid, thought Boric. I can outsmart him. But another part of his brain retorted, Of course you can. Why, look how well you’re doing so far!

  The fact was, Boric knew, ogres were stupid, at least in most capacities. You wouldn’t want to rely on an ogre to recount the Seven Ages of the Old Realm or remind you which of the wines of Swarnholme went best with lobster. But there was one thing that ogres were very smart about, and that was smashing things. For all their other intellectual failings, ogres were precocious smashers. An ogre might never have figured out how to create an incredibly effective weapon by securing a rope to a five-hundred-pound chunk of stone, but by Grovlik, an ogre knew what to do with such a thing when it was presented to him.

  And that’s why the ogre smiled.

  Boric got to his feet and brushed the dust off his tunic, glaring defiantly at the ogre. If he was going to die, he was going to die like a man.

  The ogre wrapped the silvery elven cord around his wrist several times and pulled. The chimney lifted off the ground and soared into the air, whirling in a great arc over the creature’s head. Boric gulped. As big as the ogre was, it was even stronger than its size indicated. It whirled the chimney faster and faster, seeming to relish its power over Boric. It had already demolished the only tree nearby; there was no cover within reach. Boric stood on the balls of his feet with his sword drawn, shifting his weight back and forth as he waited for the ogre to release the chimney.

  The ogre brought the chimney around one last time and then stepped forward to send the massive chunk of stone hurtling toward Boric. Boric dove under the projectile, sliding face forward on the dirt toward the ogre. The chimney missed him by inches, thudding to the ground where he had been standing less than a second before. Boric sprang to his feet and stabbed at the ogre’s groin, but the ogre took a step back and swatted at Boric’s head with its left hand. Even this absentminded blow was enough to knock Boric off his feet. His shoulder slammed into the ground and he rolled into a defensive crouch, raising his Brakslaagt before him.

  “Shit,” muttered Boric, wiping blood from his chin. The ogre’s arms were too damn long. There was no way to get past those oak-tree limbs to strike anything vital. He was going to have to do this the hard way. The ogre took a step toward him. Boric turned and ran.

  Behind him, he heard the ogre laughing its horrible, shrieking ogre-laugh, like a pack of wolves in a hailstorm. Fine, thought Boric, as he put distance between him and the ogre. Have your laugh. We’ll see who’s laughing when —

  He was distracted by a jolt running up his arm as Brakslaagt nearly vibrated out of his hand, and he lost his footing on the uneven ground. As he fell, gravel pelted his neck, and he felt a rushing of air. A shadow passed over him. Lying prone on the ground, he craned his neck to see the ogre’s improvised flail retreating into the sky. The massive hunk of stone had missed him by an inch, at most. By Greymaul’s mace, the ogre was fast. If it weren’t for Brakslaagt’s warning…

  Boric got to his feet and continued running. In a few seconds, he reached the tree where he had perched earlier. He slid Brakslaagt into its scabbard and leapt for a bough just over his head, hoisting himself onto it. Behind him, the ogre chortled with anticipation. Boric turned to see the chimney hurtling away from him. The ogre grinned, knowing that there was no escape for Boric. He swung the chimney around again and again, until it was just a blur in the night sky. But Boric wasn’t watching the chimney. He was watching the ogre’s feet for the telltale shift of weight that signaled…there!

  Boric swung from the bough, landing just on the other side of the tree from the ogre. The ogre’s tiny, smashing-optimized brain outdid itself in making a minute change in trajectory to adjust for his target’s new location but failed to accurately assess the ramifications of another obstacle in its path. Boric flattened himself on the ground and the chimney sailed over his head, but rather than soaring back toward the ogre, it arced sharply around the tree, wrapping the rope tightly around the trunk. The ogre, furious with the tree for trying to steal his new toy, roared with anger and leaned backward, pulling with all his might against the tree’s grip. As curious as he was to see which would give first — the tree, the ogre, or the elven rope — Boric didn’t wait to find out. While the ogre was still gripped with arboreal fury, Boric sprang forward, lifted Brakslaagt over his head, and brought it down with both arms, slicing the ogre’s hand clean off.

  Its burden suddenly relieved, the ogre catapulted backward, tumbling crazily, massive limbs flailing, its right wrist spurting great fountains of greenish-yellow ogre blood, finally coming to a stop as it crashed into the ruined house. What was left of the roof crashed down on top of it, and the ogre lay there for a moment, covered in plaster and burned lumber, its gigantic feet twitching spastically.

  Boric didn’t dare give the creature a second’s respite. He ran toward it, but even as he did so, the monster sat up and began to crawl out of the rubble. It tried to reach out toward Boric with its missing hand, great sluices of ogre blood pumping forth from its wrist. Boric lost his footing in a pool of the slimy stuff, stumbling and sliding uncontrollably toward the monster, finally slamming awkwardly into the mass of tangled hair covering its groin. He nearly lost consciousness from the stench. It smelled like a sulfur mine filled with rotting fish.

  Boric retained just enough presence of mind to be aware of the ogre’s other hand moving toward his throat. Boric swung wildly with Brakslaagt, hoping to buy a moment to regain
his footing. To his surprise, the blade sliced through the monster’s wrist, severing its remaining hand. The ogre, apparently coming to grips with the fact that it had lost two important appendages, howled with rage and wrapped its handless arms around Boric’s body in an attempt to crush him in a bear hug. Still off balance, Boric didn’t have time to react except to suck in a great gulp of putrid air and tuck his arms into his sides. The ogre squeezed Boric tightly and Boric pushed back, trying to keep the creature from crushing his ribcage. Hot ogre blood poured from the two stumps and over Boric’s body, making him feel as if he were being encased in wax.

  There was nothing to do now but wait and hope that the ogre passed out from blood loss before Boric died from asphyxiation. Boric had once held his breath for four minutes in the icy water of the River Ytrisk, having lost a bet between his two older brothers, but this was different: Boric was already out of breath from the melee, and the foul air burned his throat and lungs. He was on the verge of losing consciousness, and when he did, his muscles would slacken and the ogre would crush his ribs like twigs. He knew he couldn’t last much longer, and the ogre, despite its copious blood loss, showed no sign of weakening. In the distance, just before his eyes closed, Boric thought he saw the silvery silhouette of a wyndbahr approaching, its massive wings fluttering in the moonlight.

  Then suddenly the monster’s grip slackened. Boric filled his lungs with air and pushed the ogre’s arms away. He tumbled to the ground and skittered away from the unconscious creature. Brakslaagt, still clutched in his right hand, was at rest: the danger had passed. The Ogre of Chathain was dead.