Priestess of War (The Bowl of Souls Book 10), page 13
Maryanne lashed out with her hand, smacking the ogre across the cheek. “Pay attention, Big Guy! When you’re falling, you’ve gotta know how to land.”
Puzzled, he glanced down at the mountainscape rising towards him. “If I was really falling from this high I don’t think how I landed would matter.”
“The important thing is to land feet first, but don’t take all the shock on your ankles or knees,” Maryanne continued. “Roll with the impact!”
“Does that even work if you’re falling straight down?” Fist wondered.
Better you just don’t fall at all, Squirrel advised.
That wasn’t an option in this dream. The ground was rushing up quickly. Just like the last time he had dreamt it, he wasn’t falling towards the Black Lake. Instead, it seemed as though he would land at a point somewhere between the lake and the Thunder People Territory. He could see the small forms of wizards and Academy warriors intermixed with ogres, running down a wide muddy trail.
“Remember!” Maryanne said, rotating her body so that her feet faced downwards. “Roll with the impact!”
Fist bent his knees, but his body didn’t rotate like hers. He was still face down, but with his knees jutting out. He reminded himself that this was his dream. He willed his descent to slow.
Fist hit the mud with a splat. He lifted his head from the muck slowly, his thoughts filled with consternation. He bet that Maryanne had landed just fine.
We did! Squirrel agreed.
A strong hand grasped Fist’s shoulder.
“Dag-blast it, Ogre! Get yer arse out the mud!” Lenny barked. “We got us a witch to burn!”
Fist blinked the mud out of his eyes, noticing that the dwarf was wearing an unfamiliar suit of armor. It was leather, but with an enormous metal plate in the center with a red letter ‘F’ embossed in it. The dwarf turned away and shouted, his hammer held high in the air.
“Wait! Lenny . . .” Fist said weakly as he watched the dwarf storm ahead with the others.
People streamed by him on either side. Fist tried to stand, but was moving so slowly. Why was he moving so slow? Then he remembered why.
Snakes, Rufus said.
Lots of snakes, Squirrel agreed. The animal was perching nearby on top of Rufus’ head. The rogue horse was standing there with a bland expression, one large finger in his nose. Maryanne was nowhere to be seen.
Fist looked down. Dozens of mud-covered brown snakes hung from his torso and legs, latched onto him with needle-like fangs. Panic welled within him. A scream built within his chest.
Lots of snakes in your dream, Fist, Squirrel said, shaking his head. He reached into his cheek pocket, but instead of a nut, he pulled out a tiny roast chicken leg. He tore into it with his razor teeth. Shock them.
Fist’s panic faded at Squirrel’s comment. The snakes weren’t real. They were part of the dream. He sent vibrating strands of earth and air magic across his skin and the snakes fell from his body, writhing and convulsing.
Fist cocked his head at Squirrel. “Hoooowww diiii-.” Whatever was in the snakes’ venom had caused his body to slow. He continued in the bond instead. How did you come into my dream, Squirrel?
I wanted to see, Squirrel said with a shrug. As he did so, the fur on his shoulders fell out, revealing skin covered in tiny scales. He shivered and a chain reaction started down his back, his dense fur falling out in clumps.
Squirrel, your hair, Fist said. He attempted to raise his arm to point and it rose slowly.
Huh? Squirrel lifted his own arm and the fur fell away to expose a reptilian arm tipped in long black claws. Ooh! He turned around and looked at his tail just as the fur fell off in one long section. He now sported a long reptilian tail with a barbed tip. Squirrel began to laugh.
Fist slowly frowned. He did not like the way this dream was going. It was time for it to end. Without knowing exactly how he was doing it, he closed his eyes and stepped out of the dreaming world.
Fist’s eyes opened again to a sky full of fading stars. It was early yet. The morning sun was just approaching the horizon. He was laying in his bedroll, a cold mountain breeze blowing past his face. He sat up. Maryanne was laying in her own bedroll on his right, still sleeping. Rufus, however, was nowhere to be seen.
The Big and Little People campsite was at the rear of the Thunder People camp close to the base of the cliff face, not far from the prison caves. On the far side of the fire site, he could see the still forms of Locksher and Qenzic. Lyramoor was already up, likely patrolling the defenses. A short probe of the bond told him that Rufus had accompanied the elf.
Charz was gone as well, though it was likely he had never returned to camp the night before. The giant often spent nights in the women’s caves enjoying the attention of the Ogre females. Charz enjoyed this lifestyle. There were plenty of fights to be had and the ogres fawned over him. He was likely the only one of Fist’s tribe that would be sad when this was all over.
Squirrel? Fist sent, knowing he was somewhere close by. How did you get in my dream?
The little creature scampered out from inside Maryanne’s bedroll where he had been sleeping. A spike of consternation stabbed through the bond. Why did you wake up? I was almost Deathclaw again.
I don’t want you to be Deathclaw, Fist said. His little friend was too obsessed with becoming like the raptoid assassin. Fist feared it would get him hurt. I like you as Squirrel.
Squirrel is weak, Squirrel said, folding his arms defiantly. Squirrel hides and watches when the fight comes. You need a Deathclaw like Justan has.
Our tribe does not need you to fight. Fist reached out and Squirrel climbed onto his forearm. Fist brought the small beast close to his face.
The ogre reminded himself that Squirrel was actually quite big for one of his kind. Their bond had allowed him to grow larger than others of his race. He was more the size of a house cat than a squirrel. Still, in Fist’s hand he seemed so tiny.
The ogre stroked Squirrel’s head with one finger. You are my friend. I do not want you to get hurt.
Squirrel pushed his finger away. A memory flooded Fist’s mind. It was one he had seen before. Squirrel frantically trying to stop ogres as they attacked an ogre female, one of them smashing Fist’s head with a boulder. Squirrel could not save Puj. Squirrel could not save you. Deathclaw could.
You trapped Glug. You killed Beard, Fist said. Not Deathclaw. You. And you found a Squirrel way to do it. But that is over. We have Maryanne with us now. And Charz.
They were there before, Squirrel reminded him.
And Rufus, Fist added. He can fight so you don’t need to.
Squirrel sat quietly, thinking on it a little longer. Finally, he shook his head. I will find a way. I will find a Squirrel way to do it. With that, he jumped down from Fist’s arm and skittered off towards the cliff face.
“Squirrel problems?” asked Maryanne with a yawn. She frowned sleepily and reached into her bedroll to pull out a handful of tiny seeds. “Blast it! Got seeds down my smallclothes.”
“At least that means he likes you. Otherwise it’d be poop,” Fist said. He sighed and rubbed his face with his hands. “I’m worried about him. He constantly thinks about fighting.”
Maryanne pushed her blankets aside and sat up, shivering in the morning air. Fist tried not to notice the way her undershirt gaped open at the neck. She leaned against his arm. “Don’t worry too hard, Big Guy. He’s a resourceful critter.”
“I know, but . . . I liked it better when he preferred to hide in the trees.” Fist said.
“I get it. But people grow. They change. Especially ones that started out without much smarts. I should know.” She rolled to her knees and leaned in to kiss him. “Don’t worry too hard. Also don’t think I didn’t notice you look down my shirt.”
Fist blushed. “I didn- . . . I tried not to.”
“I know you did,” she said with a chuckle. The gnome warrior turned away and started pulling on her leather armor. “That’s one of the things that makes you so cute.”
Rufus’ voice sounded loudly through the bond. Attack coming!
Fist stood out of his blankets. “They’re coming!”
“Finally,” Maryanne said, lacing herself up quickly. “How close are they?”
Fist reached to Rufus through the bond. “Lyramoor sighted dead ones coming up the east pass. Rufus smells more coming from the south fork as well!”
A horn sounded from the top of the cliff wall, as a scout alerted the rest of the camp. The horn was one of the innovations brought to the Thunder People by the ogres who had once been of the Sound People tribe, their other contribution being large sets of drums spaced throughout the territory that soon beat rhythmically, joining the horn in rousing the ogres to action.
“Augh! I had hoped for another day,” Locksher complained, dragging himself out of his bedroll as Qenzic the Heir trotted by. Sabre Vlad’s son was already dressed and armed for battle with his small shield strapped to his left arm.
The Academy graduate made a habit of sleeping fully dressed and Fist had tried to emulate him. The ogre had slept in his long pants and a shirt, so all he had to do was pull on his boots and strap on his breastplate. Maryanne was still dressed faster than him. She appeared at his side to help him attach his shield harness.
“You should be quicker to rise, Wizard!” she said with a yawn. “Maybe don’t keep such late nights.”
Locksher had set up a makeshift lab in one of the smaller nearby caves and spent every spare moment in there working on various tests. He was determined to figure out the mystery of the woman that the Dark Prophet had put in charge of the Black Lake. Unfortunately, his only major clue was that red spirit magic that no one could quite figure out.
“You seem tired yourself, Maryanne,” Locksher noted, using fire magic to heat a cup of potion he had poured from a flask. “Dark circles under the eyes. Constant yawns. What excuse do you have?”
She set Fist’s shield on his back. “Sarine again. Come along, they’ll be needing you soon.”
The wizard waved them away, taking a sip from his now steaming cup. Fist and Maryanne jogged towards the territory entrance, passing ogres in various states of readiness. Four days without an attack had made them lax.
“So did you tell her?” Fist asked.
Maryanne had been uneasy about the idea of telling Mistress Sarine about the fact that her long dead husband whom she had mourned almost two centuries ago still existed in some bizarre form, his soul trapped inside a scar in her great grandson’s chest.
Maryanne’s nose wrinkled. “Yes. Which is why I didn’t get much sleep. The old lady talked up a damn storm.”
“Then she was happy about it?” Fist asked.
“Kind of. Kind of not,” she replied.
They passed the big cave where ogres were milling about carrying supplies. Fist caught a brief sight of Mog standing at the entrance. He hoped that Charz would be able to coax him to fight today. The netherhulk was eleven-feet-tall and powerful, with acidic saliva and a thick skin resistant to the Black Lake’s maggots, but he was notoriously lazy. They could only get him to come out and help half the time.
“What do you mean, ‘Kind of not’?” Fist asked
The gnome shrugged. “At first, she was thrilled. The thought of seeing old Artemus again had her feeling like she was a girl of fifty. Then she got mad that Sherl had been keeping it a secret.” She punched Fist in the arm. “I’m still kinda mad at you about that by the way.”
“I didn’t want to keep it secret,” Fist said, echoing the defense he had made the night before. “Mistress Sherl told me to wait and . . . well, she’s my Mistress.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Anyway, after spending an hour grumbling, she starts to get worried ’cause the last time he saw her, she was young and now she’s old and wrinkly and saggy.”
Fist frowned. “I don’t understand how that matters. He doesn’t have a body at all.”
“And there’s that. It’s weird,” she said, reaching up to rub her eyes. “She’s probably yelling at Sherl about it now and I’ll get to hear about it tonight. I’m just glad I’m not in Kyrkon’s place, hauling her knitting around while she agonizes about the whole situation all day.”
“Instead, you’ll spend your day fighting stinking dead things,” he said regretfully, wishing that he was the one back at the Mage School worrying about less death-defying pursuits.
Maryanne smiled. “Thanks, Fist. You’re right. I should be looking at the positive side of things.”
Ooh! They are at the first trap, Rufus sent excitedly.
The long days since the last battle had given the defenders plenty of time to rig surprises. In the east pass where Lyramoor had seen the army approaching, several spiked pits had been dug and carefully concealed. While such inconveniences wouldn’t destroy the infested dead, it would immobilize many of them and slow down the army’s approach.
Rufus watched from a clifftop far away as the first group of dead stepped on what appeared to be sandy earth and fell into the trap. The dead at the front lines were clumsy goblinoids, their movements controlled by the magic of larvae crawling within their flesh. Perhaps a dozen fell inside before the army’s movement stopped. Then something surprising happened.
The larger of the goblinoids, a pair of orcs, began reaching down into the pit to haul up those not too badly damaged to continue. While they worked, the dead forces parted, allowing a pair of strange creatures to come forward.
These were narrow long-limbed creatures with small whiskered heads. Thick brown shells rested on their backs and forearms. When most of the fallen dead had been retrieved, these new creatures began clumsily tearing into the cliff wall on either side of the pit with thick claws. Clumsy or not, their digging was effective. Dirt and rocks began pouring inside.
Rufus relayed what he had seen through the bond.
“Something’s different with the evil this time,” Fist said, his brow furrowed with concern. “The dead are acting smarter.”
“Like how?” Maryanne asked. As they ran, she spied a familiar ogre that was still asleep by his fire despite the alarm. She paused to boot him upside the head. “Up, Rub!”
“Up!” Rub shouted, then rubbed at the side of his head. “Ow . . .”
“They’re working together,” Fist told her, still receiving Rufus’ view of the scene. It was a bit disorienting, like seeing from his eyes and the rogue horse’s at the same time. He had to stop jogging and close his eyes. “They were helping each other out of one of our pit traps. Now they’ve got some diggers filling them back in.”
As Rufus watched, another creature came into view, pushing its way to the edge of the pit. It looked like a lupold; oddly-shaped beasts with the torso and head of a wolf, but long limbs with claw-tipped humanoid hands. However, this was one covered with reddish fur and was much larger than the lupolds that had climbed the cliff face to attack Fist’s companions high above the Black Lake.
The creature walked on all fours, but stood shoulders above the infested goblinoids and the other beasts that worked to fill in the pit. This one did not move with the clumsy movements of the controlled dead. It was agile and actively sniffed out the area. When it stopped at the pit’s edge and stood on its back legs, it was as tall as any ogre.
It took a few steps back, then ran and leapt across the pit, landing easily on the far side. The creature paused and sniffed the air. It crept forward, testing the ground in front of it until it found the edge of the next pit. Growling, it upended the latticework of sticks and skins that kept the trap disguised.
“And now they have some kind of big lupold thing out there tripping our traps,” Fist added. “I don’t think it’s infested.”
“A big one? I’ve heard of those. It’s called a lupero. That’s not the best news,” Maryanne said. She saw his discomfort and smacked his back. “Try walking with one eye open. I find that it helps sometimes when Sarine is showing me something and I’m on the move.”
Fist cracked open his right eye and was happy to discover that she was right. He still saw both sources of vision at once, but it wasn’t quite as disorienting. “I wonder why that works.”
“You got something in your eye, Big Fist?” Rub asked. The ogre was still sitting there, one hand rubbing his head while he squinted up at them.
“Just get moving, Rub. We got a fight coming,” Maryanne said. She grasped Fist’s hand and pulled him on towards the defenses. “Can Rufus do anything from where he’s watching? Throw a rock down at it or something?”
“Not from where he is. Even if he could get close enough I don’t want him to. He’s alone right now and there could be more surprises. But he’s not far from a boulder trap Lyramoor set up. If he waits until the creature gets to that spot, he can push it down the slope and . . . Oh.” Fist slowed back down to a walk again.
Maryanne frowned. “What do you mean, ‘oh’?”
“He’s just gonna throw that boulder.”
Rufus ran for the boulder trap, growing in size as he went. He sensed Fist’s doubt, but ignored it. Throwing rocks was something he had done for centuries, after all. There wasn’t all that much to do in the valley where the Prophet had secreted the rogue horses away and the handful of them with arms had made a game of it.
The boulder was three feet in diameter and dense, bigger than he would usually attempt. Lyramoor had directed a pair of ogres to roll it to the cliff’s edge and wedge it in place so that it could be pushed at the right moment. The idea was that it would fall and hit the steep slope at the cliff’s base, setting off a rock slide that would pummel and bury anyone at that narrow point of the pass.
When Rufus reached the boulder, he had become large enough to pick it up and cradle it in the crook of his massive arm. The rock was still back-strainingly heavy, but Rufus was a rogue horse that had developed an instinctive ability to change the nature of his body’s malleable chemistry on demand.
The muscles of his wide ape-like torso grew denser, his ligaments stronger, until carrying the rock was less of a burden. He stood up straight on his cat-like rear legs and focused in on the lupero in the distance far below. It had destroyed a third pit trap and, while he watched, leapt over it to approach the final one.
