The Sorcerer's Destiny (The Sorcerer's Path) (10 page)

“They are amazingly adept at traveling through this terrain and using their surroundings for camouflage. Three of them have been following us for nearly a day and half.”

“Is that why that walking fur rug wandered off? What a coward! Where are they? I can’t see anything.” The wood sprite tried to penetrate the thick, nearly impassable thicket lining the narrow trail they followed but could not see into the brush and brambles more than a few feet. “I still should have smelled them.” She looked at Bron’s neck. “Well, probably not.”

Only Bron’s Druidic mastery of wood lore enabled him to detect and track their watchers. Bron knew little of ogres other than they were hulking brutes with ferocious tempers and cruel hearts. The fact that the three monsters tracking him and Trielle showed significant patience and mastery of their environment surprised him.

Bron had chosen not to make a campfire when they had neared the Forsaken Valley but, seeing as their presence was now known and were under close scrutiny, he decided to make a small fire that night. He set a pot of tea to boil over the low flames and laid several strips of salted meat on a hot rock to warm.

Trielle dropped down from the treetops shrouded in darkness and helped herself to the small jar of honey Bron brought to sweeten his tea. The sprite dipped berries into the honey and ate them, often licking the fruit clean and going for a second coating.

“Most consider it ill-mannered to double dip,” Bron chastised.

“Hey, my mouth is clean! The closest you have probably come to brushing your teeth was when I hit you in the mouth with a pinecone.”

As usual, Bron ignored the insult they both knew was not true. “Did you find our friends?”

“Your friends maybe. Sprites do not befriend mean, smelly brutes, especially ones who spy on them.”

“You befriended me.”

“For which you continue to fail to show proper appreciation.”

“I shall try harder. Were you able to see them?” Bron asked again.

“Yeah, I found them. Two are lurking a hundred feet to the north and one to the southwest.”

“Hm, if they meant us harm, I would think they would have attacked already. Three ogres against one would not cause them to hesitate I would think.”

“Obviously they know I’m here too and are probably waiting for reinforcements.”

“Obviously.” Bron stood and peered into the darkened woods. “Would you all like to share some food and tea?”

Nothing moved for several moments, but as the minutes passed, three massive forms separated themselves from the darkness and approached. All three stood a full foot taller than Bron did and outweighed him by at least two hundred pounds. One ogre carried a human two-handed sword tucked into a wide, leather belt, one a large axe, and the third a polished club of hardwood the length and thickness of Bron’s arm. Despite their weaponry, none made any overtly hostile actions.

“You trespass, weak blood,” the sword-wielder said in a deep, gravelly voice. “We could kill you for that.”

Bron watched Trielle dart to the treetops out of the corner of his eye. “Yet you have not, and for that I thank you. Would like tea and meat?”

None of the three brutes answered, but they sat down heavily around the small campfire. Bron interpreted this as acquiescence and handed each of them a strip of salted meat and a tin cup of honey-sweetened tea. He spied looks of appreciation upon the ogres’ gruesome countenances as they tasted the venison and tea.

“Is it to your liking?”

“Salt is hard to get in our valley. Many days to the nearest mine.”

Bron had expected these creatures to be far more brutish and barely capable of conversing. Their apparent civility and capacity for reasonably intelligent dialog continued to surprise him.

“My name is Bron.”

“Golac,” the sword-wielder replied and pointed to the one with the axe then club, “Krotko, Culk. Why do you come to our valley, weak blood?”

“Weak blood?”

“Your blood is weakened with that of a human. You are not one of us.”

“I see.”

Golac’s words hurt him more than he had expected. Bron had grown accustomed to being distrusted and unaccepted by the humans, but he had not expected such rejection from the ogres. He had always reviled them, not just for the assault on his mother that had created him and ultimately killed her, but for the fear and hatred he received from so many humans. Why he would feel pain by the rejection of those he detested came as a shock. He would have to meditate on this another time.

“I need to speak with your chief or king.”

Golac shook his over-sized head. “You are not one of us. Only those of the blood or Kin may speak with Sefket.”

“Is Sefket your king or chief?”

“Sefket is chief and King for three more years.”

“Who becomes King in three years?”

Golac shrugged. “One of the goblins.”

“A goblin will be king of the ogres?” Bron asked, startled by such a revelation.

“It is the goblins’ turn to be king of all the Kin. The Kin choose from those the goblins present at the gathering. He shall be King for five summers then we must choose a king from the orc tribes. He is king for five summers before the king is chosen from the ogres once again.”

The existence of a somewhat democratic society amongst what the humans called the brute races fascinated him. The ogres were turning out to be nothing like he had imagined or heard about. He regretted not having more time in which to study their culture further.

“I must speak with Sefket, with all the tribes. There is a great danger coming that threatens all who dwell in this world including the Kin.”

“Only Kin may speak with Sefket.”

“Can you take my words to Sefket for me?”

Golac wagged his head to the negative. “Words are of no more worth than the one who speaks them. You are not Kin, you are not worthy, so your words are not worthy for Sefket’s ears to hear.”

“How can I prove my words are worthy?”

“You are weak blood. You must be judged worthy. You must become Kin.”

“How do I become Kin?”

“Kramloc will decide,” Golac answered.

“Who is Kramloc?”

“Kramloc is our shaman. He will decide if you are worthy.”

“What if I am deemed unworthy?”

“Then we will kill you and eat your bug.”

Trielle buzzed angrily from the treetops. “Try it, you big, stinky ogre, and I’ll put the whole lot of you to sleep!”

Golac glanced at the treetops but otherwise ignored the sprite.

“How long will it take for me to meet Kramloc?” Bron asked.

“Two days.”

“I hope I can prove my words are worthy. Perhaps I can convince you as we travel.”

Golac smiled wryly and shook his head. “You may speak, but know your breath is wasted. None will listen until you are worthy. We will sleep now, but feel free to continue talking. You will have better luck convincing the trees than any of us.”

Bron tried to engage his escorts in conversation the following morning and throughout the day, probing for information about ogre society and history, but the previously talkative Golac had gone as quiet as his compatriots, and his inquiries elicited little more than grunts and single word answers to his many questions. Trielle remained silent and kept a considerable distance from the ogres, but Bron suspected most, if not all, the pinecones that fell from the few trees to strike them came from her and not random droppings.

The druid did not try to elicit much conversation from the ogres on the second day. Bron satisfied himself by studying his surrounds, noticing a definitive increase in the number of paths and a decrease in the density of the otherwise impassable brush and briars filling the inhospitable valley. Near midday, the smoky scent of campfires and cooking meat reached his nostrils, and he knew they were getting close to their destination.

Several times Bron spotted or sensed movement in the thick foliage and felt the eyes of several watchers upon him as they neared the ogre village. He did not know what he would find upon entering their community, but what he saw surprised him. The paths converged onto what appeared to be a sort of town square. Yurts made of sticks, mud, and hide dotted wide dirt tracks through what appeared to be, with only a little imagination, a thriving, bustling town.

Ogres and even a few goblins and orcs wandered the lanes or sold trinkets, food, furs, and some metal items like pots, pans, tools, and a few weapons from tables and stalls set up to create a merchant square. Most deals were made in trade based upon some established barter system, but Bron spotted a few coins exchanging hands as well.

Perhaps a mile to the north, a tall cliff face pockmarked with caves towered above the community. It was toward these cliff-dwellings Golac guided Bron. Most everyone they passed studied the stranger for a moment before quickly returning to their business. The village was large and stretched all the way to the cliffs. Bron estimated there to be several thousand ogres living within and around it.

When they reached the base of the escarpment, Bron found steps cleverly carved into the face, creating zigzagging paths between entrances. When the surface proved ill-suited for stairs, stout ladders made of rough logs lashed together with rope provided a route to the more difficult to reach dwellings. Although they appeared well made and sturdy, Bron was glad he did not have to traverse them as Golac took him to a cave just a few dozen feet above the valley floor.

The instant Golac pushed aside the hide acting as a door, a plethora of odors, both familiar and strange, assaulted his senses. Herbs, barks, and crafted unguents wafted through the opening. The smell of distilled willow bark and other potions used to remedy a variety of ailments filled the cavern. Strange glyphs and crude images decorated the walls, scrawled there in paints made in much the same way Bron created his own pigments from bark, berries, and beetle shells.

An ogre stood over a table littered with dried herbs and bark, crushing some unknown ingredients with a stone mortar and pestle. He turned and faced the visitors as they entered without pausing in his amalgamations. Kramloc was venerable specimen with long, white tufts of hair sticking out from the sides of his head. Although stooped with age, he still topped Bron by several inches.

“Golac, why have you brought a weak blood to my cave instead of killing him the moment he trespassed in our valley? You know the laws.”

Golac dipped his head submissively. “Wise One, I found him unusual and chose to speak with him before executing him.”

The shaman studied Bron for several seconds. “You always were a clever one. What does he want?”

“He claims to have important words for Sefket. He says we are in danger.”

“Do you think his words are worthy of our King’s ears?”

“I thought he might be tested and given a chance to prove his worth.”

“So clever you are. I should train you to be my replacement for when I am gone.”

Golac’s face clouded and he took a deep breath before answering. “I am a warrior, Wise One.”

“A good one as well,” Kramloc agreed. “Perhaps you are destined for even greater things. Perhaps you shall be King one day.”

“If the gods will it, it will be so.”

The shaman turned his attention to Bron. “You say you have words for our King, words of warning?”

“Yes. There is a great—,” Bron began.

“Silence, weak blood!” Kramloc barked. “You are not Kin, and you have not proven your worthiness. Until you have, you will hold your tongue and not insult us with your unworthy voice.”

Bron suppressed his mounting anger and forced a sense of peace and calmness back into his heart. “Wise One, I understand this to be your way, your tradition, but what I have to say is a matter of life and death. Will you die for the sake of tradition?”

Kramloc stalked past Bron and held the hide flap open wide. “Look down there, weak blood. Our ways and traditions are about all we have left. Everything else was taken from us by the people with the same blood polluting your body. If we give up that, then we are unworthy. Better to be dead than unworthy.”

“There must be a way to prove I am worthy of sharing my words, or Golac would not have brought me here.”

“You will prove your blood is strong. You will fight, and you will win, or you will die. You will fight as an ogre, forbidden to use your goddess-given magic. Yes, weak blood, I know what you are.”

“This is the only way?” Kramloc nodded. “Who must I fight?”

“You will fight our champion Bojan in the morning. I suggest you spend that time resting and reflecting upon what it means to be ogre.”

The shaman turned away, ending any further discussion. Golac opened the flap and ushered Bron out. The ogre escorted him back to the village and showed him to a small yurt near the center. The room had almost nothing in the way of furnishings with the exception of a pallet made of woven reeds to sleep upon and a small fire pit in the center of the room.

“I will bring you water and food,” Golac said. “Do not leave the yurt. It is forbidden for non Kin to walk amongst the people unescorted.”

Trielle zipped in through the smoke hole above the fire pit the moment Golac departed. “Did you talk to the big big stinky? What did he say? Can we go home now?”

“I cannot speak to their King yet. I must fight to prove myself worthy of gaining an audience. No one here will listen to me until then.”

“All right, a fight! Finally, something interesting. So you club this guy, talk to the big big stinky, and we go home and eat some proper food. See if you can wrap this up in the next hour or so, would you? I’m hungry, and the smell here is killing me.”

“I do not think it is going to be that easy. I must fight their champion in the morning without using my magic, and if I do not win they will kill me.”

“Like hell they will! I’ll stab every one of them and put this entire smelly town into hibernation!” the sprite declared and flew around the room stabbing at invisible ogres with her tiny spear.

“I appreciate your support, but I don’t think that is a good idea. Kramloc says I must reflect on what it means to be an ogre.”

“Well, you have the smell down pretty good, so it shouldn’t take long to master the rest. Breathe more through your mouth, jam a finger into any opening up to the second knuckle, and poot like a buffalo.”