Disenchanted

by Kroese, Robert

  By the time she had finished, it was nearly dark outside. The witch lit a lamp and stood back, regarding her work with what Boric could only imagine was pride. She seemed on the verge of saying something when the door to the cottage flew open and three dark figures entered the room, their footsteps eerily quiet. They wore dark cloaks and black leather gloves, their eyes pinpoints of red light burning like coals in faces wrapped in black cloth. Each of them carried a broadsword that was an exact likeness of Brakslaagt.

  “Boric the Implacable, son of Toric,” hissed the figure at the lead of the group. “Our master has summoned you.”

  SIX

  After his decisive victory over the Crown Prince of Skaal, Boric had no trouble enlisting locals to assist him in his efforts to vanquish the ogre. The only local whose help Boric really wanted was the chubby, bald-headed merchant, but he let the blacksmith come along because he wasn’t sure the merchant would go along with what he was planning without some prodding from his friend.

  “Where are we going?” asked the merchant, whose name was Padmos, as he and the blacksmith tailed Boric through the village. “Surely you don’t mean to hunt the ogre at night.”

  “On my way here I rode past an abandoned house on the edge of town,” said Boric. “That’s where we’re going to wait for the ogre.” Boric carried ahead of him a small lantern, allowing them to make their way through the darkened streets.

  “That’s the old miller’s house,” said the blacksmith, whose name was Daman. “It’s completely burned out. The roof is falling in.”

  “The ogre isn’t going to concern himself with the structural integrity of the house,” replied Boric. “Careful with that thing.” This last was directed at Daman, who was swinging a sword through the air in lazy arcs. He had insisted on stopping by his shop and picking up the sword, which he had made on a slow day a few weeks earlier. Like Daman himself, the sword was crude but functional. Boric didn’t really like the idea of the big oaf carrying a sword, but he didn’t want to waste time arguing. For his part, Boric had decided to hold on to Brakslaagt.

  Daman and Padmos, the merchant, muttered back and forth behind Boric. While they were relieved not to be heading out into the hills at night to hunt the ogre, they weren’t so sure about spending the night in a burned-out house on the edge of town. What made this messenger think that the ogre would be coming here? And why did a messenger care so much about a rogue ogre anyway? Didn’t he have messages to deliver?

  Boric led the two men to the old house. It hadn’t been much of a house even before it had burned, and now it was just a blackened husk of its former self. Boric led the men into the house, which was really just a one-room cottage with a dirt floor. He set the lantern on the floor and pulled a rolled-up sheet of parchment from his pack, spreading it out on the ground. It was a map of Ytrisk and the northern part of Skaal. The map was old and faded, but along the main north-south road through Ytrisk were a number of darker characters that seemed to have been added recently.

  Daman, who had probably never seen a map before, frowned at the strange drawing, but Padmos the merchant seemed to understand what it was. “What are these markings?” he asked.

  “Numbers,” said Boric. “You’re familiar with Avaressian numerals?”

  The merchant nodded.

  “The numbers indicate the order of the ogre’s attacks. Number one, here, represents the first attack.”

  “Some numbers are missing,” observed the merchant.

  “The ogre doesn’t attack every day. He takes every third day off. You see? One, two, four, five, seven, eight, ten, eleven. The multiples of three are missing.”

  “A pattern!” exclaimed the merchant excitedly.

  “Indeed,” replied Boric. “And that’s not all. As you know, most of the towns in southern Ytrisk are located at sites of former outposts of the Old Realm, every three miles, give or take. Notice anything about the spacing of the attacks?”

  The merchant studied the map. After a moment, his eyes lit up. “He attacks, travels three towns north, then travels four towns south and attacks again. The gap in the attacks occurs when he is traveling the extra distance. But that means that the next town to be attacked is Plik!”

  “Correct,” said Boric. “He’s due to attack here tonight, if the pattern holds.”

  “But why would the ogre travel in such a predictable way?” asked Padmos.

  Boric shrugged. “I doubt he’s aware of the pattern. Ogres are stupid. This one seems to be just smart enough to avoid attacking town after town in direct succession, but not smart enough to be truly random about it. Still, it took me a while to figure out the pattern. After the attack in Sorvekt two nights ago, I realized he would be coming here next. Which is why I’m here.”

  “Why are you here?” asked Daman suspiciously. “What concern of yours is this ogre?”

  Boric realized he was going to have to level with his compatriots. After tonight, with any luck, he wouldn’t need to keep his identity secret anyway. Once the ogre was dispatched, he could return to Kra’al Brobdingdon victorious.

  “I’m not a messenger,” said Boric. “My name is Boric, son of Toric, King of Ytrisk.”

  “M’lord!” exclaimed both men, falling to their knees.

  “All right, enough of that,” said Boric. “We have an ogre to kill.”

  The men got to their feet, brushing charcoal from their knees. “If I may ask, m’lord, why did you come here in disguise?”

  “Killing an ogre requires some discretion and stealth,” said Boric. “Ogres are powerful and cruel, but also craven. They spook easily. Fortunately I was able to head off brave Prince Corbet before he stank up the hills with the stench of lavender and rose petals. Now, you two find some wood and help me build a fire.”

  “A fire?” asked Daman. “Is that a good idea? We might attract the ogre.”

  “Well, what did you think we were trying to do?” asked Boric.

  The blacksmith nodded slowly, the reality of the situation dawning on him. The two men went out to find firewood.

  “Make as much noise as you can!” called Boric after them.

  “I thought we didn’t want to spook the ogre?” said Padmos, ducking his head back inside.

  “Oh, he’s not going to feel threatened by a couple of idiots stomping about in the dark,” said Boric. After a moment he added, thoughtfully, “No offense.”

  Daman grumbled something and the two left again. After a few minutes, they returned, each bearing an armload of twigs and wood scraps. Daman assembled a mass of kindling and straw and expertly got a flame going with a piece of flint and a small steel bar. It wasn’t long before the fire was burning brightly in the center of the room, warming them nicely against the cool air wafting in through the gaping windows.

  “Don’t get too comfortable,” said Boric. “The light should draw the ogre’s attention, but now we need some bait.”

  “Bait?” asked Padmos, scratching his gleaming pink scalp. “The ogre eats babies. We can’t leave an infant out for the ogre!”

  “No, we can’t,” agreed Boric. “But we’ve got something almost as good.”

  Surprisingly, Daman caught his implication before Padmos did. The burly blacksmith broke into hearty laughter.

  “What?” asked the merchant angrily. “What am I missing?” His soft white cheeks reddened as he spoke, causing Daman to tumble to the ground, clutching his sides. Tears rolled down the blacksmith’s face.

  “Oh, no!” exclaimed the merchant, as a realization washed over him. “You are not using me as bait!”

  “Come on, Padmos,” cried Daman, still lying on the ground. “You’ll be a hero!”

  “Bah!” grumbled the merchant, rubbing his fleshy bald pate.

  “He’s right,” said Boric. “I’ll be heading back to Brobdingdon as soon as we’re done, so you two can take all the credit for slaying the ogre. Plus, there’s a gold in it for each of you.”

  Daman was suitably impressed with this but Padmo
s still looked unconvinced. “Two gold,” he said. “You gave that kid at the tavern two silver just for watching your pack.”

  “That kid saved my life,” Boric said. “Fine. Two gold for each of you. One now, one when the ogre’s dead. Fair?”

  The two men grunted assent and Boric handed each of them a gold coin.

  “Now, Padmos,” said Boric. “Let me see that lustrous noggin of yours.”

  Padmos stepped forward uncertainly, leaning his head toward Boric.

  “Excellent,” exclaimed Boric. He uncorked a small bottle and poured a bit of liquid onto Padmos’s head, smearing it around with his other hand.

  “Augh!” Padmos cried. “What is that?”

  “Sour milk,” answered Boric. “We want you to smell like a baby, after all. Let’s get some on your tunic.”

  “No, sir!” said Padmos. “M’lord, I’m all for catching this ogre, but I won’t be humiliated in this manner!”

  “Really?” asked Boric. “How would you like to be humiliated? I have another bottle, if you really want to go for authenticity.”

  “What’s in the other bottle?” asked Padmos skeptically.

  “Well, it’s not milk, I’ll tell you that.”

  Padmos reluctantly agreed to be doused with the sour milk.

  “There! Now you smell like a baby!” exclaimed Boric. “All right, let’s hear you cry.”

  “Cry?” said the merchant dubiously.

  “Babies cry,” said Boric. “Surely you’ve heard one.”

  “Some babies are sound sleepers,” offered Padmos weakly. “Some babies hardly make a peep.”

  “Not the ones who get eaten by ogres,” chided Boric. “Come on, now.”

  Padmos gave a little bleat.

  “What are you, a sheep?” asked Boric. “Cry like you mean it!”

  Padmos bleated a bit louder.

  “Wow, you are a terrible baby,” observed Boric. “If you were my baby, I’d be praying that an ogre would eat you.”

  “I’m doing my best!” protested the merchant. “I’d like to see you do better!”

  Boric let loose an impassioned cry, startling Padmos.

  “Not bad,” admitted the merchant.

  “No, no,” said Daman. “It’s like this.” The blacksmith broke into a heartrending wail.

  “Brilliant!” exclaimed Boric. “All right, Daman, you’re on sound effects.”

  “I what?” asked Daman. “No, I was just demonstrating — ”

  “And a fine demonstration it was,” said Boric. “Now you just need to do it for the ogre.” He ushered the two over to the eastern window, the direction he expected the ogre to be coming from. He had Padmos crouch on the ground under the window, so that his bald head was just visible from outside. He stationed Daman next to Padmos, coaching the big man to wail as loudly as he could.

  “Wonderful!” exclaimed Boric over Daman’s incessant bleating. “Together you two make a formidable infant.” Boric turned to leave.

  “Wait!” cried Padmos. “Where are you going?”

  “Outside,” said Boric. “I can’t take the racket in here. And it stinks like sour milk.”

  SEVEN

  Boric drew Brakslaagt and faced the three intruders. The witch gasped and shrank back.

  “It is pointless to fight us, brother,” hissed the wraith in front. “You are one of us, Slaagtghast.”

  “Back off!” shouted Boric in what he intended to be a growl but ended up sounding distressingly similar to the hiss of the wraith. “I’ll deal with Brand in my own time!”

  The wraiths moved closer. “Our lord has summoned you, Slaagtghast. You cannot refuse his call.” Something in the lead wraith’s aspect seemed oddly familiar to Boric.

  “Why do you keep calling me that?” Boric demanded angrily. “I’m Boric, son of Toric, King of Ytrisk!”

  A rustling sound like the raking of leaves arose from the macabre trio. Boric realized they were laughing at him. “We dead cannot be kings,” rasped the leader. “We dead have no fathers. We have only our Master and the brethren of the Brakboorn. You are Slaagtghast, holder of Brakslaagt.”

  Boric realized now why the leader seemed familiar. He had faced this man before.

  “Corbet?” he gasped.

  The leader hissed fiercely. “Corbet is dead!” he shrieked. “I am Vektghast, servant of Lord Brand!” He raised his sword while the other two wraiths moved to flank Boric.

  Boric hesitated, unsure what to do. Could the wraiths kill him? That is, release his spirit from his corpse? He doubted it. Probably they would just hack his body to pieces, removing that much more of his humanity. Corbet and the other wraiths seemed to be mostly an assemblage of torn clothes, chainmail, and steel plates; he wasn’t sure there was any flesh left beneath their vaguely insect-like carapaces. Corbet, he knew, had been dead for some seven years. And seven years from now, thought Boric, that will be me.

  He let his sword fall to his side. This was not a battle he could win. If neither he nor his opponents could be killed, then this encounter could only end with him fleeing or surrendering. Best to go along with the wraiths until an opportunity to escape presented itself.

  “I see you have recognized the futility of resistance,” the wraith that was Corbet said. “It is for the best. I resisted too at first, and lost my head as a result.”

  Boric saw that indeed Corbet’s helm appeared to be empty except for two pinpoints of red light. That’s what being headstrong got you apparently. Boric slid Brakslaagt into its scabbard and held out his arms in a gesture of surrender.

  As the wraiths converged on him, Boric felt something like a red-hot blade being pressed against his neck. He gasped in pain as a mass of brown goo flew past him, striking the three wraiths square in what remained of their faces. “Gaaahhh!” they cried. “What sorcery is this?”

  “Rabbit stew,” said the witch. “Run, Boric!”

  Boric darted past the wraiths, who were hissing and screaming at the foul liquid steaming inside their helms. Boric, himself nearly overcome with nausea at the stench, ran outside into the dark and did his best to scrape the remnants of stew off his neck and shoulders. He felt instantly refreshed and invigorated in the cold night air.

  He saw three horses tied to trees near the edge of the clearing and ran toward them. The beasts whinnied nervously as he approached; clearly they had no love for the undead. Slicing through their reins with Brakslaagt, he proceeded to slap two of the horses on their hindquarters with the flat of the blade, spooking them to dart into the forest. He leapt onto the third horse and kicked his heels into its sides. “Hyah!”

  The three wraiths stumbled out of the witch’s cottage, cursing and hissing. “After him!” shrieked the one who had been Corbet.

  The horse darted past the wraiths and onto the trail. It seemed hesitant to reenter the woods, but Boric urged it on mercilessly. As the horse galloped down the trail, Boric spared a glance behind him. The three wraiths were following closely but couldn’t keep pace with the horse and rapidly fell behind. Then, just when Boric was starting to think he was safe, the horse collapsed beneath him, as if one of its front legs had given way. Boric flew over the horse’s head, spinning head over heels, and landed flat on his back some ten paces down the trail.

  “Accursed beast!” spat Boric, looking back at the horse. “What do you think you’re…” But then Boric saw that the animal was lying on the ground, shuddering and nuzzling its foreleg, which was bent at an unnatural angle. It had tripped over a root protruding from the ground.

  “Idiot!” muttered Boric, this time at himself. The horse hadn’t been able to see the root in the near total darkness of the forest path. He had forgotten that living creatures — even horses — needed light to see. No wonder the poor animal had hesitated.

  Boric got up and ran, with the three wraiths not far behind. Even with his preternatural night vision, running down a narrow, ill-maintained trail through the Forest of Twyllic was a hazardous occupation. The ground was u
neven and littered with rocks, dead branches, and roots, and he frequently had to dodge low-hanging branches. If he fell or got caught on a branch, the game was up: the wraiths would be upon him. And then…what? They’d haul him in front of Lord Brand, presumably. Boric realized as he thought this that there was nothing he wanted more than to face his tormentor. Maybe the witch was wrong, and that if Boric went to Brand now, while he still possessed his wits, he could strike him down, freeing himself and the other wraiths from his control. Still, it galled him that Brand thought he could send the other wraiths to fetch him as if he were Brand’s property. No, as much as he wanted to face Brand, he would do it on his own terms.

  Distracted by his thoughts, Boric suddenly realized he had left the trail. Before he could stop running, he lost his footing and found himself tumbling uncontrollably down a steep embankment, thrashing through shrubs and saplings on the way down. Finally he smacked into the trunk of a tree and came to a stop, dazed. Far above, he heard movement and harsh whispers. Had the other wraiths seen him fall? He remained as still as he could — helped in this endeavor by having neither breath nor a heartbeat — and hoped the wraiths were continuing on the path above. After a moment, the sounds faded into the distance.

  Boric got to his feet, carefully moving down the slope. It wouldn’t be long before the wraiths realized their mistake and came back for him. Working his way from shrub to shrub, he eventually made it to the bottom, which was a dry creek bed about fifty feet across. It was overrun by trees and bushes, but it looked to be traversable with some effort. Considering his options for a moment — left would take him roughly north, toward the witch’s cottage, and right would take him farther south, the direction he had been going — he decided to continue south. This was the direction the wraiths would expect him to take, but he didn’t dare head back into Ytriskian territory. He was too likely to be recognized by his fellow countrymen, who harbored a long-standing superstition regarding walking corpses. Anywhere else, he might pass as a wounded soldier wrapped in bandages — as long as he wasn’t inspected too closely.