The Ogre's Pact (9 page)

The sour tone in the king’s voice made it clear that he had no true wish to hear suggestions, so the earls offered none.

Camden gave them a patronizing smile. “This is the answer that comes to my mind: The ogres want us to give chase, perhaps so a larger group can catch our armies in the open, thus weakening the defenses of Castle Hartwick.”

Earl Wendel’s cheeks reddened, as did those of several other men old enough to have fought beside the king during the War of Harts. Camden had used his ogre allies to execute a similar ruse against his brother, with the result that Dunstan’s castle had been captured and his forces driven from the land.

“But we must do something!” Wendel said. “We can’t let them take the princess!”

“Perhaps Morten will know something useful,” called Simon.

The priest was kneeling at Morten’s side, ready to cast his spells. His assistants had shaved the bodyguard’s heavy beard away from the horrible gash on his neck. They had also peeled Brianna’s shredded-bark dressing off the firbolg’s thigh, revealing the jagged lips of an arrow puncture. The skin surrounding the hole was red and disfigured from the fiery healing magic of the princess’s goddess, but the injury looked as though it would trouble Morten for some time to come. Both wounds were surrounded by white foam left over from the cleric’s purifying ritual.

Simon laid his silver staff over the hole on Morten’s leg, announcing, “He’ll be ready to answer questions in a moment.”

Tavis received the news with mixed feelings. Certainly, he wanted to hear what Morten could tell them about the ogres-but he was not looking forward to the bodyguard’s report about what had happened earlier in the Weary Giant’s barn.

Simon uttered a string of mystic syllables, and a blue flash hissed down the length of his forked staff, filling the air with the smell of fresh rain. Crackling bolts of sapphire light danced over Morten’s arrow wound. The hole’s jagged lips joined together seamlessly, and even the burn caused by Brianna’s healing spell vanished. The spell faded, leaving only a faint blue scar in the shape of a lightning bolt to mark the injury.

Several earls voiced their high esteem for Simon’s magic, but the high priest paid them no attention. Laying the forked end of his staff over the gash on Morten’s neck, he raised a wineskin and began to pour. As the red fluid spilled over the firbolg’s throat, he called upon Stronmaus to change the wine to blood so the veins of a brave warrior might run full once more. A dazzling bolt crackled down from the sky and struck the rod. The pommel flared blue for a moment, then the red nectar grew dark and thick as it spilled into the wound.

Morten’s breath grew deeper and more steady. His eyes fluttered, then he moaned. He smacked his lips, as though the wine were entering his throat through his mouth instead of a wound. When he tasted nothing, the firbolg’s eyes popped open. He twisted his head to the side and squinted up at the high priest.

“Simon?” he gasped. “What are you doing here? Where’s Brianna?”

“We’re at the Earls Bridge,” the cleric explained, his voice soft and patient. Still pouring wine over his staff, he continued, “You suffered a wound-“

“My wounds aren’t important!” Morten said. “What of the princess?”

The bodyguard pushed himself into a sitting position, but lacked the strength to stay there and promptly crashed back to the ground. “What of Lady Brianna?” he demanded again.

Camden stepped to the firbolg’s side. “We were hoping you could tell us,” he said. The king waved his hand at Tavis. Basil, and Avner. “These three found you on Coggin’s Rise. My daughter wasn’t there.”

Morten turned his head to glare at Tavis. The firbolgs eyes were ashamed and angry, as one might expect of a loyal bodyguard who had just learned of his failure, but they also seemed strangely glazed, as though the pain of his injuries had dulled his mind.

“You!” Again Morten tried to rise. “I’ll kill you myself!”

Camden gently pushed the firbolg back down. “Why should you want to kill Tavis?”

Morten continued to glare at Tavis. “He betrayed Brianna.” the bodyguard declared. “The knave’s been using her to protect his den of thieves, and today she learned the truth.”

“Tavis?” Camden asked.

Gasps of astonishment and disbelief droned through the king’s entourage, with Earl Wendel’s voice loudest of all. “Impossible!” he declared. I’ve known Tavis Burdun for a decade. He’d never do something like that.”

As the earl was speaking in his defense. Tavis heard Basil and Avner whispering to each other behind him, obviously concerned by the turn the conversation had taken.

“Stay where you are, scofflaws!” Tavis hissed, speaking over his shoulder. “Running will do no good now.”

After allowing the drone to continue for a moment, the king raised his hands for silence. Looking to Tavis, he demanded, “What of Morten’s charge?” Then, almost as an afterthought, he also asked, “How does it concern my daughter’s disappearance?”

“Some books were taken from Earl Dobbin, and the thief sought refuge in my inn,” Tavis admitted. “But I knew nothing about it until afterward, and I speak honestly when I say the incident has nothing to do with Brianna’s disappearance.”

“You can’t believe him,” Morten scoffed.

“Why not?” demanded Wendel. “Firbolgs can’t lie.”

“That runt’s no firbolg!” Morten bellowed. He managed to push himself into a seated position and stay mere. “Just look at how small and skinny he is. You can tell he was raised on human food, and on human lies!”

Camden frowned thoughtfully. “Morten might have a point there,” he allowed. “But I don’t see how it concerns Brianna. Even if he wanted to silence her, he hardly had the time to call a pack of ogres.”

Bjordrek stepped to the king’s side. “True, sire. But who else could treat with ogres?” He spoke quietly, his gray eyes fixed on the scout. “Only Tavis has the skill to find their home and survive long enough to strike an agreement.”

“That’s ridiculous!” objected Wendel. “Tavis is no thief, or be wouldn’t have brought Morten here. It would’ve been simpler to leave the oaf for dead.”

Morten scowled at this. “Tavis Burdun was hiding Earl Dobbin’s stolen books. If that doesn’t make him a thief, nothing does,” the bodyguard declared. “Why he saved me, I don’t know.”

“It appears there are a great many things we don’t know, and it may take some time to sort them out,” the king said. “Until we do, Tavis and his friends shall remain at Castle Hartwick.”

A knot formed in Tavis’s stomach. “What of Princess Brianna?” he demanded.

“She is not your concern. Now do as I command.” Camden’s eyes grew hard, and for the first time he glanced at the scout’s famous bow. “Or will you take arms against your lawful liege?”

Suddenly, Bear Driller felt heavier than anything Tavis had ever held in his hands. The scout had no idea whether he could loose an arrow at his own king, but he knew that obeying Camden’s order would mean Brianna’s loss-and he could not allow that, any more than he could lie. “I won’t abandon Brianna,” he said.

“Then you are an outlaw.” Camden stepped back behind Hauk’s sentries, pointing a finger at the scout. “Seize him.”

Bjordrek’s eyes grew round. “But Your Majesty, if he-“

“No firbolg would fire on his liege.” The king motioned Hauk forward. “Even a firbolg thief.”

As the sergeant and his men moved to obey, Tavis nocked his arrow and in one swift motion raised Bear Driller into firing position. Basil gasped. Avner cheered, and Hauk’s sentries stopped in their tracks. Several earls pulled small dress swords from their belts, and Morten managed to drag himself to his feet.

“Go on.” the bodyguard said. “He can only kill one of you.”

Tavis loosed Bear Driller’s bowstring. The arrow hissed past Camden’s head, passing so close the fletching brushed the royal ear, then shot out over the Clearwhirl’s chasm. Before the color could drain from the cheeks of the astonished king, the scout was pulling another shaft from his quiver. Behind him, he heard Basil’s flat feet running up the road. Avner seemed to be staying close at hand.

“I’m no thief.” Tavis said, nocking his arrow. “But I’ll do what I must to save Brianna-even it means defying my king.”

“Traitor!” Morten shouted. “This will cost you your head!”

“Perhaps, but only after the princess is safe,” the scout replied. Then, without shifting his gaze from Camden’s disbelieving eyes, he began to back slowly up the trail. “Mount up. Avner. It’s time to go.”

No one moved to stop them.

Save for the cold breeze pouring down its steep channel, the ravine seemed an ideal place for Brianna’s ambush. The jagged boulders along the rims would serve as excellent hiding places, and, after her allies pounced, the deep shadows of the rocky bed would make it difficult for her captors to keep track of the evasive beasts. Only the wind, blowing downhill instead of up, was wrong. If the ogres had sharp noses, they would notice the smell of mountain lion as the princess’s swift friends slipped into position. But with the way the brutes stank, how could they have a decent sense of smell?

Brianna was at the mouth of the ravine, suspended from an ogre’s bony shoulder by the same greasy rope that bound her hands and feet. A filthy rag had been stuffed into her mouth and secured in place with a strip of equally filthy cloth, and every time she inhaled she almost retched on the rancid odor that hovered about her captors like a fly swarm. Her flesh had grown numb from the stinging mountain cold, and the princess did hot know how much longer she could endure.

There were two ogres behind the one carrying Brianna and ten ahead, many of those bearing the warriors who had died on Coggin’s Rise. Several of the corpse-bearers had already entered the ravine, and the extra weight of their burdens was causing them to slip and stumble as they climbed. Regardless of the wind’s direction, the princess did not think she would ever have a better chance to surprise her captors.

Brianna closed her eyes and pictured Hiatea’s flaming spear in her mind. The talisman on her necklace grew warm, and she thought, Yes, my sisters and brothers, now we hunt.

The unvoiced call of nine vicious spirits answered Brianna’s summons, pouring from the goddess’s talisman into her breast. The princess suddenly felt hungry and vexed, filled with a fiery rancor that made her ache to rake open bowels and bite necks apart. She opened her eyes and ran her gaze over the dark mountainside. Somewhere up there, nine of Hiatea’s most, ruthless hunters were slinking toward the gorge, as quiet as shadows and as hard to see as the wind.

The ogres continued to climb, oblivious to the death waiting above. For no good reason, Brianna found herself holding her breath as she watched. Every so often, a warrior would pause to rest or catch his balance. The princess’s heart would leap into her throat and pound like a drum until the brute resumed his ascent, usually after a sharp grunt from the climber behind him, but there was no sign that the warriors had caught the scent of her allies. Finally, the ogre in front of Brianna’s stepped into the ravine mouth and reached up to grab a handhold.

That was when the whole line came to a halt. The princess craned her neck to see the cause of the delay. She found only the hunched backs of several ogres, spread along the shadowy ravine like so many boulders.

The ogre shaman’s voice rolled down the ravine. “What wrong, spy?” he demanded. “Why stop?”

When the spy did not answer immediately, Brianna felt cold fingers of despair slipping around her heart. It would do her no good to attack until all the ogres were in the ravine, so the warriors close to her would be too busy fighting to worry about their prisoner. The princess could not spring her trap before then, or the brutes would organize a defense and prevent her from escaping. Unfortunately, the traitor Runolf-Brianna thought of the man that way to keep her hatred of him from tempering-was about to force her hand.

Runolf had joined the ogres at dusk, as the brutes, ended a chilling two-hour wade down the Clearwhirl. After receiving a gruff greeting from the shaman, the traitor had led the group through a dark spruce forest and into the icy hinterlands of the north valley, guiding them without incident to this ravine at the edge of the Ice Spires’ forbidding wilderness.

And now it appeared that in addition to leading her kidnappers to safety, Runolf would ruin Brianna’s only hope of escape. He was clearly a good enough scout to know mountain lions never hunted in packs. They were stealthy creatures as solitary as they were vicious, often lighting to the death even when male and female came together during mating season. Assuming the traitor realised that more than one beast lurked above his head, he would also know someone had used magic to summon the pack.

The ogre shaman finally grew tired of waiting for Runolf’s answer. “Climb, spy,” said his muted voice. “Take us Needle Peak.”

“This is as far as I go, Goboka,” came Runolf’s answer. “You know the rest of the way-probably better than I.”

Goboka, the shaman, was silent for several moments, then his voice asked, “Why afraid? What danger ahead?”

Brianna resisted the urge to call her attack. If the ambush was foiled, she would lose nothing by waiting until Runolf actually told the shaman about the mountain lions. On the other hand, if the traitor had merely decided to turn back, her plan still had a good chance of working.

“The danger ahead is minor.” said Runolf. “But I’ve risked enough on your behalf. You can face it alone.”

Brianna heard Runolf’s boots scraping on the rocks as he started down the ravine. She thought Goboka would kill him on the spot, but soon saw the shaman’s warriors pressing themselves against the craggy wall to let their departing guide pass.

The princess did not know quite what to make of the sudden desertion. It seemed likely that the traitor knew about her ambush, but for some reason of his own had decided to keep the secret. As for Goboka, Brianna felt certain the shaman was merely biding his time until Runolf left the crowded confines of the ravine, where his smaller size would prove a valuable advantage against the looming ogres.

As Runolf came near, he gazed into Brianna’s eyes and gave her a brief nod. The princess noted no suggestion of apology or shame in his expression, only a tight-clenched jaw like she had once seen on Morten’s face as he went off to execute a treasonous earl. Brianna tried to curse him. She managed no more than a garbled rasp around her gag, but the meaning was plain enough. The traitor looked away and stepped past.