Chapter Five
~
Before settin’ off, I got Delia comfortable between furs on my porch chair, which fit her slight frame more like an angled bed. The heavy bag slung over my shoulder contained all of my extra remedies, enough to stock several healers for months—I may study the undergrowth more than I need to when I hike. In one pouch I held the majority of the gold nuggets I’d collected over the years.
First priority, retrieve my staff. The hike to Delia’s ruined stake took little time and tired me less than I expected, though I did retrieve energy from the ethereal. I told myself my body only needed fresh air and exercise to recover from the ghoul that afflicted me. That and a week sittin’ on the porch with Delia.
The clearin’ around the ash and debris lie quiet, as though the local birds mourned. Even the wind-song through the pines sounded muted. My snout twitched with a scent new to me. It was a stalkin’ creature, neither human, troll, nor ogre. I could make out only one—no pack. I concentrated, separatin’ the natural pheromones from the sweat, the decayin’ venison the bein’ carried with it, perhaps the previous evenin’.
The eeriness of not recognizin’ the creature discomforted enough to make me wish I carried my bow. I stepped farther into the flat patch of earth and searched for my staff. My skin prickled. It wasn’t where I left it. A sense of panic rushed through my body, makin’ me physically ache.
Ohhh.
I walked around the ruined hovel, hopin’ I simply got turned around, but still didn’t find my staff. I stood in the middle of the clearin’ and tried to calm my mind. It’s just wood, but not just a thin’. I use it to focus my thoughts, to channel the ethereal energy I use, a bit of which it always retained. It has a persona, speaks to me, enables much of my majic. If that’s what it is. It’s just a word I use for the—kinship we share.
Closin’ my eyes, I reached out mentally for the aura of the staff. I sensed it to my northwest. I rushed forward, followin’ the trail of the bein’. Why had it taken my staff? It made no sense. Was nothin’ to another soul.
The trail turned southerly, but my staff was near, just to my right. I studied the shadows. Lyin’ near the rugged roots of an ancient black oak, I almost overlooked my old friend. I hurried to it and picked it up. A faint glint billowed from it. My skin tingled. I sensed anger, revulsion.
For what?
I brushed a bit of soil from its oil-buffed surface. “Sorry I had to leave ya. Couldn’t be helped. So who’ve ya been travelin’ with?”
A jolt jarred my arm and shoulder, as though lightenin’ found me through the Earth. But there wasn’t a cloud in the azure sky overhead.
I stumbled, and cursed. “I said I’m sorry.”
A last prick filtered through my palm. I lifted the staff and held it directly in front of me, and grimaced at the carved likeness of a ram’s head like one would an errant youngling. I shook my head, over the devious sensation the staff ridiculed me with.
“Not my fault,” I argued, turnin’ northeast, tryin’ to ignore the sensation of bein’ watched.
~
Homesteads checkered the steep, rollin’ hills south of the Lake. There were less than half as many settlers a year earlier. The Hamlet grew in healthy bounds. I reached the south shore of the eastern cove and stared across the water. The Inn expanded west with a new wing, also four stories. The line of storefronts extended along the waterfront two-hundred more feet, two stories high. Two new enormous residences snuggled close to the tree line, and a team of trolls labored at a third, where granite rose out of the turf.
There were a half-dozen boats sprinkled across the Lake, with another dozen fishermen linin’ two piers stretchin’ a hundred feet into the Lake. The tell-tale whiffs of smoke claimin’ the home of chimneys extended east and west. A flutter of gray yanked my eyes back toward the Inn. At first I couldn’t guess what the object was. A nearby challenge of a jay made me look up. It provoked a memory, and recognition.
I walked on, eyes on the slate-gray, folded wings of the bull dragon. So I’d finally get a close-up look of one of the majestic creatures. My lips smiled around my tusks on their own. Usually the dragons were blots against the sky, flyin’ in formation, as many as six at a time. That’s quite a sight.
A new movement two hundred yards further dropped my jaw. What had blended into the surroundin’ rock and seedin’ grass made the gray dragon look tiny.
The queen.
The golden queen. Her wing tips must reach seventy feet in both directions. My heart rushed. I picked up my pace, tryin’ to wipe the silly grin off my face.
“Wouldn’t Delia get a kick out of this.”
Reachin’ the North Shore, I hiked west. The trolls I passed stopped workin’ and glared down at me. I gave them what I hoped appeared to be a friendly wave. I know their kind are pretty dull-sighted—even worse than us ogres. I tried to convince myself they’re merely tryin’ to identify me, and not challengin’ my presence with their scowls.
Goats followed me along a fence line, showin’ more curiosity than the trolls. As I neared the Inn somethin’ stole my eyes away from the two drowsin’ dragons. Bein’s clustered on the Inn’s broad veranda—humans, ogres, trolls, a pair of elves, and another giant species—had to be a goblin. I shivered. Had heard their kind was welcomed hereabouts. Still hard to believe.
Heads tilted in that manner that suggest concern, and it wasn’t because of the goblin, because they leaned toward me, listenin’. In the middle of them all was a youngish ogre, sittin’ on the veranda railin’, arms crossed over his chest. Light-colored dreadlocks reached the middle of his back. He sported shoulders a troll couldn’t scoff at. A barrel chest.
The goblin raised an enormously gangly arm and pointed east, then southwest, across Black Lake. Every face followed the direction of his gesture except the impressive-lookin’ young ogre, and the two elves whose chins barely reached knee-high to the goblin. The elves and ogre’s expressions were locked on each other.
I shivered. Three giant races, humans, and elves speakin’ calmly together. My papa never would have believed it could happen.
They all quieted and looked down at me as I neared. For no reason, I felt guilty of somethin’, my steps shortenin’.
“Good day, friend,” the beefy ogre who looked as though he could easily toss me twenty feet into the Lake, called down.
A half-dozen additional good days followed the ogre’s greetin’.
I answered with a nod and a smile. “It’s turned into a warm one, hasn’t it?” Talkin’ about the weather is always a safe openin’.
Heads nodded. I continued to the set of stairs farther down the boardwalk, but knew every face behind me followed my progress. When I reached the top of the boardwalk I couldn’t keep from lookin’ back. Heads leaned closely together in conversation, several sets of eyes still on me. I nodded to them again. One by one, each looked away.
Perhaps today isn’t the best day to visit the Hamlet.
I turned left and followed the walk, studyin’ the signs hangin’ high over the doors of the various whitewashed storefronts. A few human females strolled along peerin’ back and forth from the Lake and the wares displayed in the windows. The humans ignored me, as though they had been around ogres their entire lives. Their strange footwear made distinctive clatterin’ sounds on the planks of the walk. Reminded me of one other thin’ I needed to acquire for Delia. I had almost forgotten footwear. Do they come in sizes, like shirts and such? Not a topic an ogre would be versed in. I’m glad the gods graced my kind with feet that didn’t need cumbersome shoddin’. One of the few benefits ogres share with trolls. Well—along with our tusks and practice of wearin’ our hair in dreads.
I glanced back down at the dragons again, and felt a smile again crossin’ my face. It took a lot of effort to turn my attention back to what it needed to focus on. As it is, I wouldn’t get home until well after dark. Hikin’ across Black Lake’s watershed at night is not pleasant. A good way to end up at the bottom of a deep ravine wrong side up.
Signs farther down the boardwalk indicated establishments more in line with what I need, but I was driven to stop at the one nearest the Inn. The Hamlet’s original store, and I know those inside as talkative folk. I could trust them to give me good direction for the thin’s Delia would need. I wasn’t that practiced or confident in my barterin’ skills. But by experience know they won’t take advantage of me.
A high-pitched screech accosted me as I opened the door.
“I don’t want to hear no more such talk.”
The creature pointed a long, bony hand with a finger extended toward a nearly white-haired troll hunkered down on a human-sized chair much too small for her, knees juttin’ into the air. The troll held an unlit pipe between yellowed teeth. The smile nonetheless brightened her face. She casually removed the pipe with a long hand that looked far out of proportion with her body. But then she’s sittin’. Maybe it would have looked more fittin’ if she was standin’.
“I’m just sayin’,” the troll hen said. “Hortense continues to help her with her stride. No reason someone couldn’t help her with her lisp, if she can be helped.”
“A witch!” the orc snapped. “I’ve never heard such a thin’. Well it isn’t for ya or me to decide, is it? Welcome, friend,” she continued, her tone unchanged. “How can we help ya?”
I opened my mouth, but words failed to form. The word witch kept repeatin’ in my head. Was the discussion between the two hens a desirable thin’, or negative? Was it somethin’ I could leverage? Was there good to be done?
“I won’t bite,” the orc female said. Her lips curled up a fraction, showin’ a hint of her needle-sharp teeth.
“I remember ya,” the troll hen said. “Morgan. Right? Ya stomped into the Inn for a hot tea last season. We had a surprise freeze that caught us all off guard. Ya were hikin’ back from up north, if I correctly recollect.”
I smiled. “Ya have a good memory.”
The orc cackled. “Yar kind have been accused of havin’ too good a memory.”
“Hush, ya old hag.” The troll waved her pipe-gripped hand at her friend.
A laugh came from the far, front-corner of the shop. A bull orc I hadn’t noticed sat perched on a stool, usin’ a knife of some sort, carvin’ on a huge chunk of driftwood. He didn’t turn to face us. His eyes stayed down, but he wore a grin displayin’ those pointed teeth.
“Ya’re the one who brought me that beautiful opal,” the orc bull said. “Treat him well, Mama. A Northerner paid us well for that stone.”
“After ya set it in gold,” she called back.
“Ya mentioned a witch,” I interrupted them. “Did a witch put a spell on someone?” Didn’t know how else to start the conversation. Maybe mentionin’ a negative, not the best first step.
“Heavens no.” The troll waved the pipe again. “A local child was afflicted with a flux that paralyzed her. She’s recovered for the most part. We were just—”
“Ya were, not me,” the orc interrupted. “I won’t sit still for such silly talk.”
“Just talkin’ about the possibility,” the troll continued, “of getting her help beyond what the doctor has been able to do. Ya know a witch here abouts? Of course ya don’t. Don’t listen to this old hen. I ramble on too much. What’s brought ya out of yar forest?”
I hugged my staff against my shoulder and pressed my cheek against the smooth, cool surface of the oiled wood. “Paralyzed her? What a shame. Bet her folk were ’plexed a might.”
“This whole community was. Dear Gladdie is the sweetest thin’ ya will ever meet. First human child born in the Hamlet.”
“I’ve never heard of a ghoul that paralyzes its prey,” Morgan mumbled.
“We thought she was gonna die. Had a horrible fever, she did. There are those who believe only the constant keenin’ of our dragons brought her back.”
I looked to my left, as though I could see through the wall, the two giant behemoths sleepin’ on the lake gravel outside. Their kind have close ties to the ethereal it’s said. If they indeed helped the child, perhaps—
“So, ya find any more special gems?”
The orc hen’s question pulled my mind back to my more pressin’ need. “No, afraid not. I do have nuggets to trade, though. And I’ve brought medicinal herbs.”
The troll’s face lengthened with arched brows and her smile broadened. “I’ll fetch Gladys. She’ll surely be interested.”
The ancient troll struggled to rise from the low chair. After several grunts she was at the door and disappeared with more energy than I expected. The tiny orc was at my hip, reachin’ up and rudely peelin’ my heavy bag off my shoulder without a word. Her black eyes were slits of intensity.
“I, I—”
The crocks clanked together as the orc set the bag heavily on the floor. I almost laughed as the hen opened the bag, face dippin’ inside before reachin’ in and liftin’ out my home-fired, clay jars, sniffin’ the lid of each as she aligned them on the counter. The limited space began to fill and the hen stopped and opened one of the crocks.
“Dried well. Pre-crushed. Won’t last as long. But convenient for the busy apothecary. Clean. No stems. Good work. But need to be in appropriate containers since they’re already prepared. The clay won’t do.”
She apparently mumbled to herself, but I didn’t disagree with her. She sat on the floor cross-legged and pulled the remainin’ crocks out, settin’ ’em on the floor beside her after inspectin’ each. She obviously knew her remedies well, as her expression changed as she identified the more valuable, hard to find herbs.
The door opened and a human woman entered. I couldn’t help comparin’ her features to Delia’s. The same light-colored eyes, soft-lookin’ skin, but etched in wrinkles that showed years of grimaces and smiles about the eyes and mouth. Her hair was gray, weaved together trailin’ down her back. She was a head and a half taller than Delia, but nearly as fragile lookin’.
“Good to see ya again, Morgan,” she said.
Do they all know my name? “Hello, ma’am. How are ya today?”
She extended her hand. I took it nervously, afraid to hurt her, but she gave me a strong clench I didn’t expect. She welcomed me graciously, and chatted about inconsequential thin’s for too long, until the orc interrupted harshly, drawin’ her attention to her spoils.
The two hens huddled, their excited words flowin’ in a torrent I couldn’t keep up with. I’m a hermit, unused to conversation, after all. The two females askin’ questions at the same time felt like a dozen angry jays battlin’ for the right to claim the same limb.
I flinched as a hand settled on my shoulder. I hadn’t heard the door open, much less sensed the presence of the enormous ogre standin’ next to me.
“Give the bull a breath of air, ya mouthy hens,” the newcomer said. The thinnest grin creased his face.
The orc hefted my bag of gold nuggets she earlier left discarded on the floor and threw it at the barrel-chested ogre, strikin’ him square on. It couldn’t have felt good, considerin’ the vigor the hen chucked it. Instead of growlin’ as I expected, the bull let out a hearty laugh as he caught the leather tote bouncin’ off his chest. His whole body vibrated. He dropped his hand off my shoulder and took two broad steps to lean against the near counter, where he set my gold.
“Ya come up from the south?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Ya come across the path of anyone out of the ordinary?”
I thought about the creature who carried away my staff, only to discard it. I nodded again.
The other ogre’s brows arched. “When yar business is concluded here, would ya be willin’ to show me where?”
“I would. But the trail was at least a half-day old this mornin’.”
“Taiz’lin and I can cover a lot of ground,” the big ogre said.
I couldn’t keep from lookin’ toward the Lake again, where the two dragons slumbered. Was he one of their riders?
“Ya wouldn’t be too timid to sit a dragon’s back, would ya?” An invisible smile, all in the eyes, covered the ogre’s face. His chin inclined against his muscled chest as though darin’ me.
“I— I expect I’ll be carryin’ too much back to—”
The two orcs cackled. The ogre’s smile revealed itself in earnest.
“If ya can carry it, Taiz’lin won’t be bothered by it,” he said.
My face burned and I concentrated on changin’ the subject. “Who’s it ya’re lookin’ for?”
“My friend Maertin got us word this morn’ that a lawless band of goblins crossed his clan’s domain the last fortnight. He followed their trail into the southern mountains.”
“Goblins, goblins, goblins,” the tiny orc interrupted. “That all ya’re gonna talk about, Ike? Talk to him later. We have important business to transact here. Run along, ya little runt.”
I took a hasty step back, expectin’ the ogre to take offense. I didn’t want to be in the way if the two went at it. But a smile freely curled around the young ogre’s tusks. He winked at me. Musta picked that up from humans. Not something ogres do, much.
“Tis fair.” He reached out his hand. As we shook, he said, “Come see me when yar business with this ancient hag is complete. We’ll save ya a few steps on yar trek home.”
He turned and walked out of the shop, ignorin’ the orc’s growl. Through the open door, I could see the troll hen standin’ at the boardwalk railin’, lookin’ out over the Lake. Ike, the orc had called him, spoke softly to the troll as he closed the door. My staff resonated in my hand. Its independent stirrin’ usually warns of danger, but there was somethin’ different this time. There was a comfort in the message. The staff embraced the aura of the two outside, as though tellin’ me I could trust them. There was a special—kinship. That’s what it was. Kinship between the ogre and troll.
~
