The Troll King (The Bowl of Souls Book 9) (10 page)

“Oh, right. I didn’t think of that,” she said, a frown appearing on her face. “Ugh, does this mean that all the creatures we killed this morning are back up again?”

“I think so,” Fist said, finding his face echoing her frown. “Unless my lightning burned them too bad to be mobile again.”

“Here I thought we’d done some good,” she moped.

“We did.” Fist assured her. “We closed up that canyon. And we saved Rufus.”

“Ooh! Me!” Rufus agreed as quietly as his big voice allowed.

“I guess,” Maryanne said with a shrug. Then the gnome straightened her back. “And you know what? I think we put a nice scare in that evil. You gave it a taste of your lightning and I bet it didn’t like that.”

Yes
! thought Squirrel.

A smile spread across Fist’s lips. “I hope you’re right.” He stood. “We should get going. The way around this trail will take us longer than I had hoped.”

Fist climbed back on to Rufus’ back and Maryanne leapt up behind him. “Say, why do we need to go the long way around? Why not have Rufus run straight across that path? We’ll just knock a bunch of those infested things over and keep going.”

“Because then the evil will know where we went,” Fist replied. “If it’s mad at us, I don’t want it following us to the camp.”

Keeping hidden wouldn’t be too easy. They were too big to blend into the background and he hoped that the larvae inside the dead things weren’t alert enough to notice their passing. Rufus backtracked a little bit and Fist had him climb down into a copse of trees before descending the slope at a different heading away from the trail.

The way was rough, requiring Rufus to climb down some steep rock shelves before heading up the other side. The rogue horse did so gleefully, huffing and humming an odd tune under his breath as he went. With his large hands and the powerful rear claws, Rufus was well suited to climbing. He was doing exactly what he was created to do and for a rogue horse, nothing could be more enjoyable.

Maryanne seemed to get a kick out the journey as well, but for Fist it wasn’t nearly as fun. They had to cling to Rufus’ back during some fairly frightening climbs. Fist was constantly reminded how heavy his armor and shield were. On one sheer section of the cliff Rufus was climbing, both the ogre and gnome were dangling; Fist with his arms around Rufus’ chest and Maryanne with her arms wrapped around Fist’s waist.

The sun was low on the horizon when they finally passed the first rock marked with the lightning symbol of the Thunder People. Fist hadn’t felt so relieved in a long time. Then he caught the smell of burning flesh. It wasn’t a pleasant smell, like a cook fire. It reminded Fist of the cleanup after the war, when they had piled up the bodies of dead goblinoids outside of the Mage School and the wizards had burned them to ash.

“You see the smoke?” Maryanne asked, pointing over his shoulder.

Fist could see it now. Puffs of black smoke coming from the other side of the ridge where the Thunder People’s camp was. “This is good, right? The dead things wouldn’t set a fire. This means the ogres won the battle.”

“That sounds right to me,” Maryanne replied, though her voice didn’t sound so sure.

“There you two are,” said a gruff voice suddenly from overhead. Fist peered up to see Lyramoor, the elf swordsman, standing on a cliff ledge about ten feet above Rufus’ head. He wore dark leather armor and the hilts of two swords hung at his hips. His heavily scarred face was frowning and he had a throwing dagger balanced in one hand. “What the hell are you riding?”

“Roo-fuss,” announced the rogue horse, enthusiastically drawing out the sound of his name.

“He’s a rogue horse, Fist bonded to him this morning,” Maryanne said, frowning back up at him. “What the hell’re you doing up on that cliff, elf? Trying to decide whether to jump?”

The elf gave her a brief smirk. Lyramoor hadn’t been the most sociable companion on their journey from the academy, but he and the gnome had hit it off. They had a similar acerbic sense of humor. But any amusement faded from his face quickly.

“I am here because the others were captured by your old tribe, friend Fist,” Lyramoor said.

“The Thunder People captured you?” Fist said.

“The others. I wasn’t about to get caught by a bunch of clumsy ogres,” Lyramoor said, correcting him. Lyramoor had spent the majority of his long life as a blood slave, passed around by dwarf smugglers for his body’s magical properties. He was fiercely loyal to the academy for rescuing him, but had vowed never to be anyone’s slave again.

“Alright tell us exactly what happened,” Maryanne said.

The elf climbed down the cliff face quickly, leaping down the last ten feet, then stood facing them with his arms folded. “The ogres were fighting off an army of dead creatures when we arrived. We aided their struggle, but when the battle ended, the ogres took the others prisoner.”

“Why would Crag do that?” Fist wondered. His father knew that their help was the only way that his people could be saved.

“It wasn’t Crag that did it,” the elf replied. “Someone else is in charge of the tribe now and he doesn’t seem too keen on letting your father have his job back.”

Fist scowled and Maryanne placed a hand on his shoulder. “Sounds like you need to go sort them out, big guy.”

“You’d better,” Lyramoor agreed. “‘Cause I was about to go in and rescue Qenzic myself and I was gonna kill as many ogres as I had to along the way.”

“That shouldn’t be necessary,” Fist said, his mind forming a plan. “Maryanne, you climb down. I want both of you to come, but I need you to walk behind me.”

“If you say so,” the gnome said and slid down from the rogue horse.

“We’re walking behind you as if we’re your servants?” Lyramoor growled, obviously not pleased with the idea.

“Just for now. I don’t know who’s in charge, but Crag will have told them I’m coming,” Fist explained. “I need to make a big entrance and they won’t understand how things work in our tribe. Don’t worry. They will have time enough to understand that you’re not my servants afterwards.”

“Well, the fact that you’re on that big thing should impress them,” Lyramoor admitted. “They sure were fascinated with Charz. I think the only reason they captured Qenzic and Wizard Locksher instead of killing them was because he said they were under his protection.”

Fist nodded, grateful that he had made the rock giant stay with the others instead of coming with him and Maryanne. Now he needed to make his arrival as impressive as possible. He pulled his shield from the harness on his back and unsheathed his mace. Squirrel leapt from Rufus’ head to sit on Fist’s shoulder and the rogue horse turned to face the others.

“What do you think?” Fist asked.

“That looks pretty impressive, I guess,” Maryanne said. “Just make sure you don’t fall off.”

“Yeah.” Fist was concerned about that very possibility. He wasn’t used to riding and the thought of heading down the trail with only his knees to hold him in place was daunting. “We’ll go slow. Okay, Rufus?”

“Slow,” Rufus repeated, assuring the ogre through the bond that he wouldn’t let him fall.

Fist took a deep breath and urged Rufus to move down the trail. The rogue horse set off on a slow but steady pace and Fist managed to stay on with only a few wobbles. Maryanne and Lyramoor followed behind him, sharing amused looks.

They didn’t have to travel very far before they came across the first Thunder People scouts. Rufus rounded a corner of the trail and nearly ran into two ogres carrying spears. They cried out and leapt back yelling, “Attack! Attack!”

Fist recognized one of them. He was an average sized ogre with a flattened nose that used to join him on hunting trips. “Flick! It is me. Fist!

“This is Big Fist?” said the unfamiliar ogre suspiciously, still waving his spear.

“It . . .  is!” said Flick, his face pale. “Big Fist is returned and he has metal skins and-and . . . he rides a gwatch!”

“No,” replied the other ogre. “That is not a gwatch. Gwatches has white furs.”

More ogres ran up, having heard the scouts’ shouts of “attack”. They froze in place when Fist came into view, but Flick excitedly waved them over. “It is Big Fist! He rides a black gwatch!”

The ogres were very excited by this and came forward to investigate. They gathered around Rufus, some reaching out hesitantly to touch him. Many of them murmured about the gwatch. Fist decided not to correct them.

“Gotch?” Rufus asked, confused.

Gwatch
. Fist explained to Rufus through the bond. The gwatch was an ogre legend. A hairy ghost troll that lived in the highest part of the peaks. They were considered good luck. It was said that a gwatch could talk to you in your head and if you ever heard a gwatch talk to you, you would be sure to win the next time you were in battle. Many proud ogre warriors had climbed into the mountains hoping to find one of these gwatches, but few returned.

I am not gotch
, Rufus protested.
I am not troll
.

I know. Please just put up with it for now. I will explain it to them later,
Fist promised. Aloud, he announced, “I am Fist, son of Crag! Now bring me to your chief!”

They started leading him towards the camp, but soon a dozen more ogres stormed towards them. Fist had to announce himself again and Flick continued the rumor that Fist rode a gwatch. Once again, they were suitably impressed with this tale. Some of them questioned Fist’s choice of companions, but once Fist told them that Maryanne and Lyramoor were part of his tribe, they didn’t dare try and keep them from coming with him.

The process repeated and as they came closer to the camp the procession grew. The ogres were fascinated, asking about Fist’s armor and mace and even why he kept a food on his shoulder. Fist tried patiently to answer their questions at first, but he soon lost interest. The burn piles had come into view.

Ugh
, said Squirrel.
Stinks
!

There were five of them. Huge bonfires made of wood and stacked corpses, many of them ogres. Cleanup from the battle was still going on. Ogres were beating still moving corpses with clubs, breaking the bones so that they weren’t a threat. Others dragged these twitching mangled bodies riddled with larvae to the fires and piled them on. Black smoke hovered in the air and Fist had to force himself not to gag.

I not like this
, Rufus complained. The rogue horse had enjoyed battle in the past, but this wanton loss of life sickened him.

You shouldn’t
, said Fist.
But don’t be angry with them. They have to do this.
It was a brutal, but necessary procedure in order to keep the evil from spreading.

Then he heard the screams.

A short distance away, four ogres, their arms and legs bound with leather strips, were thrown to the ground. Their skin was flushed red. Their eyes bulged and their mouths foamed as they screamed incoherently. Fist noted that each of them had nasty wounds, most of them bite marks. These ogres were infested.

While they contorted, trying to pull free of their bonds, a grim faced ogre approached them. He carried a large knotted club that was blackened with dried blood. Fist urged Rufus towards him. The rogue horse pushed his way through the crowd surrounding them as the large executioner stood over one of the raving infested. The executioner lifted his club.

“Stop!” Fist commanded.

The ogre paused with the club still held high over his head and turned his head to look at Fist, his face mildly confused. Then he saw Rufus approaching and his look turned to abject surprise.

“Stop!” Fist said again and jumped down from Rufus’ back. He put his mace away in its sheath and made his way towards the executioner.

Several of the ogres questioned him, “Where is you going?”

“I am saving these ogres,” Fist said. He approached the ogre with the club. “What are you doing?”

“These ones is turned evil,” explained the executioner, slowly lowering the club as he looked at Fists strange garb with curiosity. He had a flame-shaped brand on his chest that had a big x carved through it. A newly healed brand in the shape of a lightning bolt was next to it. This told Fist that the ogre had once been part of the Fire People tribe before joining the Thunder People. “We must kill them and smash their bones and burn them. Uh . . . is that a food on your shoulder?”