The Troll King (The Bowl of Souls Book 9)

by Trevor H. Cooley

  “It is good, Fist. I will fight,” Crag said, his gaze earnest with determination. “I am Chief Crag. I will win!”

  Fist looked into the grizzled chief’s eyes. When Fist was small, he had looked up to his father. Even when Crag had beaten him, he was proud to be son of the chief. But Fist had never really liked him. He had felt only brief sadness when he had thought Crag dead and the revelation that he was alive had brought him no joy. Throughout the journey from the Mage School to the mountains, he had been full of bitter feelings towards the ogre. Now, for the first time in his life, Fist felt a surge of affection for Crag.

  He grasped Crag’s hand and turned to the crowd, raising his father’s arm into the air. “Do you see the difference between these chiefs? Crag is strong! Crag is brave. Falog would trick you, but Crag would not. He would even fight this giant that is as big as two ogres. He would fight this giant that has killed so many other chiefs!”

  “Yes!” shouted Crag. Proud to hear those words coming from his son’s mouth. “I will fight that giant and I will win! I am the real chief of the Thunder People!”

  There was a roar of acceptance from the crowd. A new chant rose up from among them. “Crag! Crag! Crag!”

  Old Falog glared at Fist and his father and gestured with his good arm. The thorn giant moved into the circle, stretching his powerful arms and flexing his clawed hands menacingly.

  “But Crag can’t fight!” Fist shouted. He sent a surge of magic down Crag’s arm and wrenched the ogre’s wrist, snapping both bones in his forearm. “Because his arm is broken just like Falog’s!”

  Fist let go of his father’s hand, letting it flop over. The crowd gasped as Crag stared at his broken appendage stupidly. It didn’t hurt because Fist had numbed it, but the grizzled ogre looked at his limp limb with deep sorrow. Crag had been slashed, stabbed and beaten; he’d had broken ribs, a broken jaw, and even fractured his skull, but he had never broken an arm or leg before. It was something he had taken pride in. Too bad he was so stubborn. He had given Fist no choice.

  “Crag uses the injury rule!” Fist announced. He focused an angry gaze on Old Falog. “He will have to choose another fighter.”

  “Tricks!” Old Falog shouted. “You use tricks to cheat!”

  “His arm is broken,” Fist said innocently. “All can see it.”

  “He cannot choose you, Fist!” Old Falog replied, his face pained as he cradled his arm. “Ogre mages cannot fight for chief!”

  “It will not be me,” Fist agreed. He turned to Crag and whispered in his ear.

  The veteran warrior blinked at him numbly for a moment. Then he smiled as Fist’s words sank in. “I choose Charz!”

  “Huh?” The rock giant blinked, then broke out in laughter. “Ha ha! Good one, Fist.” He handed Fist his trident and rubbed his hands together as he stepped out into the circle. “I accept! I’m gonna show you ogres how a member of The Big and Little People Tribe fights!”

  The level of excitement in the crowd increased. A series of new chants burst out, some of them calling for Mog, some for Crag, some just saying giant, but they were so jumbled that no particular chant gained steam. The end result was a rhythmic cacophony of voices punctuated by the stomping of feet.

  Maryanne, reached out to grip Fist’s arm tightly. “Clever move, big guy.”

  “Ooh! Ooh!” shouted Rufus in agreement, slapping the cave floor loudly with his hands. This will be good fight!

  Fist is smart, Squirrel said in approval.

  Old Falog’s eyebrows knit together in concern. He jerked his head towards Mog and the grey skinned giant bent closer to listen. “Is he a threat?”

  Mog cocked his head and sized up Charz’s well-muscled ten foot frame. “Rock giants is tough, but I is tougher. I will win for you again, chief.”

  Mog rose to his full height of eleven and a half feet, his back letting out a series of loud pops. The thorn giant beat his chest with his fist and let out a roar of challenge. Charz responded by flashing a grin. He raised his arm and flexed, then pointed at his bulging bicep, while nodding at the crowd.

  “Rock giant,” said Mog. “What is that thing on your chest?”

  Charz lowered his arm and touched the crystal pendant that hung from the iron chain he wore around his neck. “This thing? It’s a trophy! Took me a hundred years to earn it.” He held up two fingers. “Twice.”

  “I want it,” Mog said with greedy eyes.

  “If you can beat me, it’s yours,” Charz replied with a grin.

  The thorn giant licked his lips eagerly. Charz cocked his head and thought for a moment, then reached up and pulled the iron chain up over his head. He turned and handed it to Fist. “Hold this. I don’t need him pulling on it and breaking the chain or something.”

  Fist took the heavy pendant from him with a solemn nod and slid it over his head. This crystal was the source of the magic that gave Charz his ability to heal. If the giant wandered too far from it, he would weaken and perhaps even die.

  For the first hundred years of the giant’s life, the crystal had been kept in a strongbox by the slavers that had forced him to fight in their arena. When Fist had first met Charz, it had been embedded in the wall of a cave by the bonding wizard who had been forced to imprison him. This was the first time Fist had seen the giant take it off since reclaiming his freedom.

  “You know, this reminds me of my arena days.” Charz chuckled. “Didn’t want to be there, of course, but it wasn’t all bad. I gotta fight battles like this almost every day.” He turned back to face his opponent. “Did kinda miss the crowds.”

  The two of them stood facing each other, waiting for something. Crag kicked Fist in the leg and Fist remembered that, as ogre mage, he was supposed to start it off. He raised Charz’s trident into the air and set off a crack of lightning that started the fight.

  Mog came at Charz, his arms outstretched, his claws grasping. Charz lashed out with a left hook, punching the back of the thorn giant’s right hand, knocking its arm inward. Then he lurched forward and threw a stiff right punch to its abdomen.

  Mog doubled over and Charz slid to the side, sending in a left punch to the back of its head. There was a loud crack as his rocky knuckles met its thick skull. The thorn giant continued his forward momentum and Charz launched a mighty kick into its backside, sending it sprawling into the crowd.

  The giant barely missed striking Fist. Maryanne had to leap out of the way. Rufus, who stepped to the side to avoid it, clapped his hands and let out an excited “Ooh! Ooh!”

  Several ogres in the crowd, however did not move fast enough. Mog plowed them over, the weight of his body smashing one ogre’s head first into a stalagmite, knocking him unconscious.

  “Make the circle bigger!” Crag shouted. The ogres had miscalculated. They hadn’t known how big the combatants would be when they made the circle. The ogres in front scooted back and the tribal battle circle widened by a few yards, then contracted a little as the ogres in the rear pushed back, trying to see what was happening.

  Mog laid there for a few seconds, unmoving, and Charz frowned. “What’s this? A thorn giant downed so easily? Come on! Get up!”

  The grey-skinned giant pushed himself to his knees and stood. When he turned to face Charz, he didn’t look any worse for the wear. “I is not a thorn giant.”

  “Sure you are,” said Charz, his frown fading when he saw that the fight wasn’t yet over. “Come on, Mog. Just ‘cause you’re small for your race don’t mean you ain’t a thorn-!”

  Mog grabbed the leg of the unconscious ogre beneath him and roared as he swung him in a mighty throw, hurling the ogre through the air towards the rock giant. Charz raised his arms to catch the ogre, but the weight of its seven foot body struck him in the chest, knocking him off his feet.

  Charz landed on his back and pushed the ogre off of him. But by the time he got to his knees, Mog was standing over him. The gray-skinned giant grabbed Charz around the waist, his brown claws puncturing Charz’s thick skin, and lifted
him in the air, then upended him and slammed him head first into the ground.

  “Not a thorn giant!” Mog repeated, bending over him.

  Charz kicked up with both feet, catching the larger giant in the face and sending him stumbling backwards. Charz stood and, looking a bit woozy, said, “What are you then? A giant . . .” His jaw worked and he shook his head, blinking. “Damn, can’t think of anything funny.”

  Mog charged him. Charz tried to spin out of the way, but he was still staggering from Mog’s previous attack. The gray-skinned giant bore him back to the ground, and pinned Charz beneath his weight. Mog shoved his forearm under Charz’s chin and leaned in close. “I is a netherhulk.”

  Mog opened his mouth and stuck out his long warty orange tongue and licked up the side of Charz’s face, leaving a trail of yellowish slime behind. Charz grimaced and tried to wedge him off, but Mog shifted his weight, keeping the giant pinned while he started running his tongue across Charz’s forehead.

  “Gross!” Charz cried.

  “This isn’t good,” said Maryanne, her voice worried.

  Suddenly, steam rose from the Charz’s face. The yellow slime bubbled and fizzed and the giant cursed in pain. Charz began punching the netherhulk repeatedly in the ribs with his free arm, but had difficulty getting enough leverage to do any real damage.

  “Netherhulks usually live deep underground,” Maryanne said. “They use their acid to bore through rock and break down the bones of their prey. I didn’t know they ever came to the surface.”

  Yuck, thought Squirrel.

  Fist had to agree with Squirrel. “But I thought you said he was a thorn giant.”

  “I’ve never seen a netherhulk before. Wasn’t even sure they were real,” she said defensively. “I guess they look a lot similar to a thorn giant.”

  “Get off me, you disgusting son of a . . .” Charz cursed and continued to punch and squirm as the acidic slime bored deeper into his flesh. Mog started to lick down the other side of his face and Charz barked out a pained laugh. “Fine, you asked for this.”

  Charz turned his head and bit savagely into the side of the netherhulk’s fleshy tongue. Mog yelped and tried to back off of him. Steam bubbled from Charz’s lips, but he didn’t let go. His arms were now freed. Charz twisted and sent out a savage punch into the side of Mog’s head, tearing him free.

  Mog squealed and backed away while the rock giant spat out a piece of orange flesh. Charz got to his feet and glared. The yellow slime was still sizzling, leaving a raw open wound in a U shape up and over his face.

  “My tongue!” Mog cried, his hands over his mouth.

  “Your tongue?” Charz hacked and spit again. Yellowish slime mixed with blood hit the floor and steam poured from his mouth. “Aagh I really didn’t want to have to do that. Dirt, this hurts!”

  Mog spat a yellow wad of acid on his fist and roared as he leapt forward, throwing a punch of his own. Charz was ready for it. He knocked the attack to the side and followed it up with a right and left punch to the netherhulk’s jaw. Blood and acid sprayed, some of it striking spectators. Ogres yelled, frantically trying to wipe it off.

  Mog raked his claws across Charz’s chest, carving narrow grooves in his rocky skin. Charz caught Mog’s hand and wrenched his fingers back. There was a series of small popping sounds and the netherhulk squealed.

  His eyes frenzied, Mog shoved the rock giant with all his might. Old Falog yelped and dove out of the way just as Charz crashed into his stalagmite throne. The rock giant recovered quickly and went back at him, but Mog reached into the crowd and ripped a heavy club from the hands of a startled ogre. Just as Charz reached him, Mog swung the club in a mighty backhand.

  Charz put up his hands at the last second to block it and, Wham! The stout wooden club shattered into thousands of pieces that peppered the spectators. The blow struck Charz’s upraised arms with such force that a spiderweb of cracks blossomed across his rocky skin and he was sent sprawling back into the throne.

  Charz laid there for a moment, then chuckled and eased back into the chair, blood running freely from the cracks in his arms and down the sides of the throne. His words were slurred as he said. “You wanna break rules, Mog? You wanna use weapons? Break people’s things?” He laughed. “Not nice.”

  Mog snarled and came at him, intending to pin him on the chair. Charz waited to the last second, then sprung up from the seat, launching a heavy uppercut that caught the netherhulk right under his chin.

  The impact knocked Mog up on his toes. Charz reached up and grabbed the hulk by the back of the head, then slammed him down, face first into the seat of the throne. He lifted Mog’s head by the hair and the netherhulk moaned back at him.

  “Well this chair is a weapon,” Charz said, grinning through acid eaten lips. He smashed Mog’s face into the seat again. “And I’m breaking your face all over it!”

  He slammed Mog’s face in the chair twice more, then stood back, letting the larger giant slump to the floor. He turned to face the crowd and raised his fist into the air as he shouted, “Crag! Crag! Crag!”

  The ogres took up the chant and Crag laughed as he walked into the circle to join the rock giant. He reached up, grabbed Charz’s arm with his good one, and yelled. “Crag is chief again!”

  Chapter Seven

  The chanting continued for several minutes. While Crag and Charz shared in their glory, Fist walked over to the stalagmite throne. He found Old Falog crouched next to it, clutching his arm and staring bitterly at the unconscious netherhulk that lay on the ground.

  “Can I heal your arm?” Fist asked.

  The newly deposed chief stood and made to sit back down on his throne, but thought better of it. Acidic saliva and blood had pooled on the seat and sizzled as it slowly ate into the dense stone. Falog settled for pulling his red fur cloak more tightly around him and arching an eyebrow.

  “Healings is the women’s job,” the ex-chief said. He started to call out to his harem, but the females had already disappeared, leaving their goblin tooth tiaras behind.

  Falog’s expression drooped even further. The ogre reached up with his good arm and pulled off his orc-tooth crown. He dropped it into the puddle of acid on the seat of the throne where it immediately began to blacken and hiss.

  Why fix him? Squirrel asked from his perch on Fist’s shoulder. He is bad.

  He doesn’t have to be, Fist replied.

  “In my tribe anyone can heal,” Fist replied. “You saw how I fixed your arm earlier.”

  “It breaked too easy,” the old ogre grumped.

  “You did that on purpose,” Fist reminded him. “Besides, that was because you pulled your arm away before I was finished. This time I will fix it right. Your arm will be as strong as it ever was.”

  Falog blinked. “Why do you have a food on your shoulder?”

  Do not heal him, Squirrel commanded.

  He does not know any better. “He is not a food,” Fist said patiently. “His name is Squirrel and he is part of my tribe.”

  The old ogre cocked his head in suspicion. “You do not sound like a ogre anymore. You talk like the little peoples.”

  Ogres didn’t bother with terms like humans and elves and dwarves. They were all just ‘little people’. To the ogre tribes, those races were distant and rarely seen and if they were, they were almost always enemies. Fist wanted to change that.

  “I learned a lot from those ‘little people’ while I was gone, Falog,” Fist said. “They taught me many things.”

  “Oh, these magics you use,” Old Falog surmised, giving him a knowing nod. “You taked it from them.”

  “No. The magic is mine,” Fist corrected. “I just didn’t know I had it when I left here.”

  It was actually more complicated than that. The reason he hadn’t known was that his magic had been very weak when he’d left. Fist’s abilities had been strengthened because Justan’s magic was so high. It was one of the benefits of the bond.

  Fist saw no reason to explain that to t
he ogre though. “But the humans did teach me that magic is for more than killing.” He stuck out his hand and extended threads of air from his palm, causing a soft orb of light to form. “It can bring light.” Falog’s eyes widened at the orb’s soft glow and Fist added, “And it can heal. Let me fix your arm. It does you no good to keep it broken. Not anymore.”

  They were interrupted as Maryanne and Rufus joined them. The rogue horse bent down and sniffed at the netherbeast, while the gnome warrior frowned at the old ogre. “What are you doing, Fist?”

  “I am trying to heal Old Falog’s arm, but he won’t let me,” Fist explained.

  Falog frowned. “Why would Big Fist, the ogre mage, help Old Falog? You hate me. You maked me not the chief anymore.”