Chapter Forty-Two
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“Iza says to tell ya she forgives ya.”
“For what?”
“For bein’ so irritatin’.”
Another day that might have amused me. But I was exhausted, starvin’, covered in a goblin’s blood, bleedin’ still from the slice in my forearm. From my pocket I removed the dryin’ square of cloth Johanson gave me, found a relatively clean area, and wiped my eyes. The dried blood scratched at my flesh as I pushed it around. Need a bucket. I did the best I could one-handed to tie the kerchief around my wound. Ouch.
“Should have let Dr. Adam see to it before we left.”
It would have been easy to close my eyes. Might have fallen asleep right here sittin’ across Tir’s neck. The last week or so felt like years piled on another. The cold bite of the air fought with the warm sun to keep me awake. My body must be ricochetin’ from the drama of the past couple days.
“I can hear Asr now,” Tir said. “Stuck at the lair, he has no idea how the disease, how the Hamlet’s fairin’.”
“What about, I forget yar bull sibling’s name, the one bonded to the orc-artist.”
“Syl and Janding.”
“What says Janding?”
The pause, as Tir spoke with Syl, who then had to reach out to Janding, and back, felt insufferably long.
“Syl can’t reach Janding,” Tir answered.
“Ahhhh.”
“Calm yarself, ogre. Syl’s not far behind us. He should be able to speak to Janding in a few moments.”
As I waited, I found myself wonderin’ about the goblin’s eldest. Did their kind bury their dead like humans and dwarves, or cremate them like the other races? It occurred to me there had never been a daemon death in the Valley, that I was aware of. Fire or Earth, for them?
“Delia’s not farin’ well,” Tir said.
“H—”
“She’s exhausted herself with her healin’. There have been deaths. Ya and we dragons are desperately needed.”
My chest tightened and I struggled to catch a breath. Could I have delayed the confrontation between humans and goblins, or could it have gone as well without me and the dragons? I didn’t wish to arrogantly assume my presence was required to diffuse it, but—pride in what I accomplished battled my modesty. False modesty? Focus, ogre.
“Where are we most needed?”
Again I had to wait for two others to speak. “Twelve new cases to see at the Inn,” Tir finally answered.
I shook my head. Twelve. To start. Did I have the energy? What little I had, seemed to have escaped me. “Dr. Adam?”
“He’s aback Syl, along with Maertin,” Tir said.
I groaned. Plague isn’t enough. I have an arrow wound to worry about.
“Ya’re takin’ too much on yar shoulders,” Tir said, “prolly just as Delia is.”
“Easy words to say.”
Tir didn’t answer right away. When he replied, it was a mentally delivered physical gesture, something of a snort.
I allowed myself to smile. Watched the peaks come and go. My anxiety rose as the summits turned more familiar. My stomach twisted as we neared my own hills. Panic set in when the glare of the sun mirrored off the Lake.
Twelve, just at the Inn. Didn’t want to think who else had died. Anyone I knew, had ever met?
Tir descended. The view below looked peaceful. Smoke slithered up from the trees from the stakes dottin’ the South Shore. Beyond the Lake, the gigantic Inn and her connected buildings sat stubbornly lookin’ across the majic Lake. No two-legged kind appeared about. Strange, for one of the last warm weeks of summer. Past the eastern cove, the Northerner’s encampment was abandoned.
The vertigo struck as Tir soared over the water, the ripples flyin’ underneath us in a dizzyin’ blur. Tir landed less gently than usual, or I hadn’t been grippin’ well enough with my knees, addin’ to my discomfort. I slid down the dragon’s shoulder and struck the ground with stiff knees that jarred me from ankles to chin. I took a step and my knees buckled.
The old innkeeper, Bick’s his name, was walkin’ down the steps to meet me. He pressed himself into the best facsimile of a run. He was shoutin’ a name, “Louisa, Louisa, Louisa.” My name’s Morgan. Not Louisa.
I pushed my forearms out to lift my face out of the tall grass. Tir’s broad head swung around, and the dragon nudged me with his snout. “What’s wrong with ya, ogre?”
“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” Bick shouted.
I managed to my knees and stood. The man was next to me by then, and helped—in intent only. The old, spindly human didn’t have the strength to lift an elf hen, much less leverage an ogre bull, even one of modest stature.
“I guess goin’ a few days without eatin’ or sleepin’ is catchin’ up with me,” I muttered.
The man fussed after an ogre hen who ran toward us. “His other arm—his other—help him under—give him a hand,” Bick stammered.
She took Bacchus away from me and dropped the staff unceremoniously on the ground, and pulled my arm over her shoulder.
“No, I need Bacc— I need my staff.”
“I’ll come back for it,” the hen huffed.
“What happened to your hair?” Bick demanded. “The white. You’re covered in blood. Was the battle bad? How did ya all fare?”
“No battle,” I said distractedly. I caught the aroma comin’ from the hen, yeasty biscuits, bacon, sausage, seared red peppers and onions. As good as she smelled, it made my stomach turn, but the scent was heavenly. I looked at the hen. Louisa must be her name.
I guessed she was in her late twenties, surely mated off. Her hair was strikin’. Almost yellow, extraordinary for our kind. She had the common black eyes though, that penetrated, set within skin as pale as fresh milk.
I collected my balance and could have walked, but Louisa’s arm around my waist, strong ogre grip across my wrist strung over her shoulder—I could ignore the pain the grip jabbed into my forearm—her attention felt marvelous. Again, there was that scent.
“No battle? But the blood?” Bick demanded for the third time.
“The goblins’ clan leadership became an issue.” I lost my train of thought when I breathed in heavily of the fresh biscuit scent. “Uh. The heir challenged me.”
“Ya fought a goblin?” Louisa asked.
I felt an energetic pulse of pride do a double thump in my chest.
“Wonder ya can even get yar feet under ya,” she said, shakin’ her head.
My energy escaped. The pride musta done it.
“Tir!” Bick shouted. “Would ya fetch Gladys from the lair? We desperately need her nursin’ skills.” The man ran—if you could call his shuffle a run—ahead of us. “I’ll find ya some fresh clothes, Morgan,” he called back. Clothes?
“Ya need ’em,” Louisa mumbled. “Smell like a dragon’s scat pile.”
I heard Tir launch as we reached the stairs to the Inn’s veranda.
“Ya look in good hands,” Tir told me.
I smiled, and sniffed again, lookin’ forward to tastin’ the bacon that went along with the hen’s aroma.
Inside, the ancient troll hen, who seems to pretty much rule the Valley, shouted orders. Men, women, hens, and bulls rushed to fulfill her wishes. “Into the kitchen,” she bellowed. “Can’t be stinkin’ up the dinin’ hall. What happened to yar hair, warlock?”
I smell that badly?
Louisa cackled. “Let’s burn the rags he’s wearin’.”
Rude hen.
The new sensations comin’ from the kitchen made me feel faint. Louisa’s grip tightened, as she propelled me forward. A troll bull struggled through an outer door with a wash tub, bangin’ it against most every inch of the jam four times.
“Right there,” the troll hen shouted. I remembered her name—Eina.
The bull was her mate—Yoso. He dropped the tub with a bang.
“Can’t ya make more noise, ya oaf.”
He kicked the tub, and it slid a foot further into the room. The troll hen cackled. I was relieved she has a sense of humor. She pointed at the tub, and Louisa dragged me to it. I stepped into it without argument. Louisa ripped my jacket and vest off, grabbed the front of my shirt and yanked. There was a rippin’ noise
“Hey! This is one of only two shirts I own.”
“Ya need more shirts,” Louisa mumbled. “Burnin’ this one.”
She pulled my shirt over my head with one motion. I screeched in pain as it pulled over my forearm.
“Oh, act a proper ogre bull,” Louisa said.
“Easy for ya to say.”
I found myself standin’ half-naked in front of five hens—though most of them were busy about the kitchen or stoves.
“Off with those filthy britches,” Eina ordered.
“Not here.” I heard my voice go up at least twenty octaves.
The troll hen picked up a knife with a twelve-inch blade. “Then I’ll take them off ya.”
She twisted the knife about. Was an effective threat. I dropped my pants and the troll grabbed a bucket, which she topped off with water from an enormous, pitch-blackened kettle. She hoisted the bucket over my head and doused me. Warm water felt pretty good. Maybe even woke me up a bit. I was stinkin’ naked. In front of hens. An attractive one I hadn’t yet been introduced to.
“Ya know what to do with these?” Louisa asked, handin’ me a cloth and cake of soap.
The water must have been tremendously hotter than I first noticed, because my skin burned. I tried to imagine how in Hades I allowed myself to get in such a predicament. I closed my eyes as Eina flushed me again.
~
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