The Ogre Apprentice (The Bowl of Souls Book 8), page 7
“Oh Fist, if I’m angry with you it’s because I care. I don’t waste my emotion on people I don’t care about.” She poked his chest with a stiff finger. “I am still furious with you about the trick you pulled earlier, by the way.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” Fist said.
“What got into your head?” she asked.
The ogre shrugged. “I wanted to try the spells again, but I thought you’d be in a meeting all morning, so I got Charz. I knew that I couldn’t hurt him with them and I didn’t think I’d hurt myself.”
“You think your spells didn’t hurt him?” Darlan said, an eyebrow raised. “His skin was smoking when we got there. Patches of his back were glowing hot. Sure he healed up afterwards, but you owe him an apology.”
Fist’s face blanched. She was right. He had known that the spells would cause the giant pain and he had ignored the fact. “I will try to make it up to him.”
She folded her arms. “So what went wrong with the spell?”
“I tried my other spells first. I made a column of earth and I did that clay encasement spell you taught me the other day. They worked good, but I think I used up too much of my magic for the big spell,” he said. “I made the cloud and built up the electricity but when I let it go, I didn’t have enough earth magic left to protect me.”
Darlan nodded. “That’s a danger with large spells like cloud lightning. They are usually used as a last defense and you are often already exhausted by the time you’re in a situation where you need to use them. You need to learn your limits or you will kill yourself one day.”
“I understand,” the ogre said.
“Hmm. I think it’s time we trained your stamina,” Darlan said, stroking her chin as she thought. “Alright, this is how I want you to do it. Each night, just before you go to bed, drain your magic completely.”
“How?” he asked.
She smiled. “It’s an old trick I learned back when I was an apprentice. What you do is you make a ball of light. Then you focus on keeping it as dim as possible.”
Fist frowned. Making a ball of light was one of the first spells she had taught him. It required only a low amount of focus, but it was very inefficient, taking a lot of energy and making a bright light. Dimming it required tightening up the spell, which meant pouring more energy into it. That was why wizards still preferred to use candles or light orbs. Still, there had to be faster ways to drain his magic.
“If I try to make it dim, it will just go out,” he complained.
“Then you’ll just have to expend more energy to keep it going,” she said. “The dimmer you try to keep it, the faster you’ll drain your magic.”
“But why will that help?” Fist asked.
“Think of it like training your muscles,” she replied. “The more you push your limits, the further your limits grow. You won’t be able to increase your magic’s strength very much, but you can increase your capacity. In addition, you will better learn how to tell when you’ve exhausted your resources.”
“Okay,” he said, his brow furrowed thoughtfully. This would send him to bed completely exhausted each night. How would that affect his conversations with Justan? Would it be harder to use the bond over such a long distance if he was that tired?
“Alright, now I wasn’t lying to my grandmother when I told her that I have things to get done. I want you to go to the library and study until lunch time. Then we’ll speak again,” Darlan said and turned to stride away. “And when we do, you’re going to tell me all about how Justan’s meeting with Xedrion went.”
“Yes, Mistress. Oh! But what about my punishment?” he asked.
Stupid, said Squirrel, shaking his head.
Darlan stopped. “I imagine that the pain you went through, added to the guilt you must feel are probably punishment enough.” She turned back to face him again and her look was deadly serious. “But next time you feel the compulsion to train behind my back, think of this. Most people don’t learn the spells I have taught you until they are mages. Some of the spells, like cloud lightning, are only used by a handful of full wizards.
“I didn’t decide to teach you advanced war spells just because I like you. I do it because you’re bonded to my son and Justan is going to need you. Most of the council thinks I am crazy for teaching you this fast, but I do it anyway despite their objections. If you screw up like this again, whether you live or not, I am the one who will have to face the repercussions. Do you understand?”
Fist swallowed. “Yes, Mistress Sherl.”
“Good,” she said and strode away.
Fist stood there alone for a moment, staring into the water of the moat as the dark forms of the perloi swam lazily by. He wouldn’t let her down. He couldn’t. She was right. Justan needed him.
That was the real reason he wasn’t with Justan in Malaroo now. Fist needed to become stronger. Another war was coming. The Prophet had foretold it. Sooner or later the Dark Prophet would walk on the land again. John had told Fist that Justan would need his strength when that happened and the ogre hadn’t forgotten.
Tightening his fists in determination, Fist followed the moat around to the Rune Tower’s main gate. Once there, he passed over the bridge into the tower and strode down its gilded halls towards the library.
The Mage School in Dremaldria boasted one of the greatest libraries in the known lands, topped perhaps only by the enormous libraries in the Gnome Homeland. Scholars had debated which was greater for centuries, arguing whether it was the number of the books or quality of the books or size of the structure that mattered.
As for size, the Mage School library was huge. It was as long as the Magic Testing Center and six stories tall, with wide staircases connecting each level. Hundreds of bookcases stood in rows radiating out from the circular main desk. A half dozen students wearing assistant sashes stood behind it, checking out and bringing in books.
The main desk is where Fist had his eye because that is where Vincent lurked. The gnomish head librarian did not like Squirrel and the ogre wanted to avoid a scene. To Fist’s relief, Vincent was not in his customary seat.
It was mid-morning now and most students were in classes, but the library was bustling with activity. The long polished tables were crowded with students of every rank preparing for their afternoon classes. It was considered impolite to raise one’s voice in this place, but the room was filled with the low roar of a hundred whisperers.
Fist turned to the right of the main doors and faced a large wardrobe that had been repurposed as the official library weapon closet. A new rule had been instituted after the war. Anyone, wizard or warrior, that wanted to use the library had to leave their weapons in the closet. Fist thought it a silly rule. What were they worried about? Sword fights breaking out over books?
Fist opened the wardrobe and fumbled briefly with the mage staffs that threatened to spill out. Grumbling, he placed his mace inside and walked to the center desk where he waited in line for his turn to speak with one of the librarian assistants. He was only five back in the queue, but he did not make it to the front.
“Droppings!” accused an aristocratic baritone.
Fist winced at the sound. He knew that voice. He turned to see Vincent’s long nose hook over the top of the desk. The gnome peered up at him, his eyebrows twisted with irritation.
“You! Ogre! Come here this instant!”
Fist walked around the desk to the place where the gnome was crouched. Vincent backed out from under the desk where he had been when Fist had entered the library. His tall and slender frame uncoiled as he stood. The gnome was nearly seven feet tall and gaunt with dog-like droopy ears and a two pairs of glasses perched on his high forehead.
“Droppings!” The gnome announced again, shoving his hand out to Fist palm up. “Do you concur?”
There was a scattering of tiny raisin-like ovals on the gnome’s palm. “Uh, yes,” Fist said. “Those look like poop to me.”
“Poop is an uncouth term, but indeed they are,” Vincent said accusingly. “And I have been finding them everywhere. In my chair. In-between pages of my books . . !”
“You might have mice,” Fist suggested.
“Mice? Don’t be absurd,” Vincent said.
“Maybe rats, then?”
The gnome’s eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips, wrinkling the pencil thin mustache above his lips. “There hasn’t been a mouse or rat in the library for decades, young ma- . . . ogre! No, there is only one rodent that has been allowed in this auspicious space and that is your little pet!”
Squirrel squeezed out of his pouch and scurried up to Fist’s shoulder where he affected a look of surprise, pointing at himself. Me?
“Gosh, I don’t know, Mister Vincent, sir,” Fist said. “Squirrel is really clean. I don’t usually find his poop anywhere.”
Squirrel snorted and nodded in agreement and Fist suddenly became suspicious. Where did Squirrel put all his droppings? After all, he was constantly eating. They had to go somewhere.
He shook the thought away. He really didn’t want to know. “I think those are rat poops.”
“Again, I say to you, absurd,” Vincent insisted, tossing the handful of droppings onto the desktop in front of him. He picked up a thick book from the desk and leafed through it. “I researched the matter. This is Bierbaum’s Twenty Third Treatise on Flora and Fauna in Dremaldria and the Region Thereabouts. It belongs on floor two, aisle thirty six. My evidence is on page two hundred and eighty seven. It is a chapter on the distinction between rodent droppings.”
Fist wrinkled his nose. Someone wrote books about that?
“Bierbaum says here in paragraph two, very clearly I might add, that there is a distinct variation in shape and color between the various squirrel species and the common rat. He states . . .” The gnome cleared his throat and began patting his chest with his free hand. “Where are my glasses?”
“On your head,” Fist said.
“Right,” Vincent said pulling a pair down onto the bridge of his nose in a quick manner, causing the other pair to fall off his head and land on the desk in front of him with a clatter. He gave the end of his nose a tug. “I quote, ‘The common rat lays ovaloid droppings, usually black in coloration in much the size of a grain of rice. Squirrel droppings are much the same size and shape. However-!”
The gnome raised a skeletal finger and there was a smattering of laughter from the students nearby. “‘Squirrel droppings are slightly lighter in coloration because of their more specific dietary choices and, whereas rat droppings are marked with an angular taper on both ends, squirrel droppings have a distinctive rounded edge.’ Close quote.”
He picked one of the droppings up of the desk and held it out to Fist. “See? Dark brown, not black, and with rounded edges. You may think that this not conclusive proof, but wait, there’s more.” He placed the dropping back on the desk and picked up another book from a nearby stack. “Pritchard’s Animal Almanac volume seven. From floor two, aisle thirty-six, row four, page hmm, let’s see . . .”
There was more laughter from the students and Fist turned his head in time to see that Squirrel was mimicking the librarian’s gestures, fiddling with an imaginary pair of spectacles and moving his mouth along with the gnome’s.
“Stop it, Squirrel!” Fist whispered, then sent through the bond, You’re going to get yourself banned from the library again. Luckily, Vincent hadn’t seen Squirrel’s little performance. He hadn’t even looked up from his book.
The gnome flipped a few pages. “Ah, here it is. Page one hundred and thirty-six, paragraph two. Quote, ‘The common rat has the distinction of leaving its droppings scattered here and there without any discernible pattern as they defecate as the urge hits them. Squirrels, on the other hand, are neater and tend to leave their droppings in piles.’ End quote.”
He looked back up at Fist. “And there you have it. Piles of droppings under my desk. Piles of droppings in my hat-.” He lifted a felt hat with a short brim from the desk and jiggled it so that Fist could hear the tiny droppings rolling inside. “And piles of droppings in my pockets!” Vincent reached onto the breast pocket of his tweed vest and pulled out a tiny handful of droppings that he then piled onto the desk in front of him. “Proof definitive! This was no mouse or rat.”
Fist looked at Squirrel and the little beast gave him an exaggerated shrug. The ogre could feel the intensity of his amusement through the bond. The ogre swallowed and said, “I don’t know how it could be Squirrel. Because I keep him close when we’re in the library and Squirrel stays with me at night.”
“He’s got a good point, Vincent, sir,” said one of the assistants standing nearby. “That’s a lot of droppings and he’s just one squirrel.”
Fist nodded in agreement. “Yeah. And how could he have got them in your pockets? Squirrel’s too big to fit in your pocket.”
The gnome’s thin lips twisted into a scowl. “I do not have a full explanation, but it is obvious that the little devil placed them in there somehow.”
“I will talk to him, sir,” Fist promised. “But he says he didn’t do it.”
Squirrel shook his head innocently.
“Nah, it wasn’t Squirrel,” said one student.
“Oh please don’t tell me we have rats,” worried another.
Vincent frowned at all of them. “I’ll find more proof,” he argued. “Why I am sure that there is more research on the second floor. Perhaps in Professor Varder-.”
“Vincent, sir?” Fist interrupted, remembering one of Justan’s tricks. “The reason I came here was that I want to research the War of the Dark Prophet.”
The gnome blinked for a moment and his demeanor changed. He was suddenly quite professional. “Histories, then. Floor three, aisles fifty through fifty-five. It’s a broad subject. What part of the war specifically?”
“Oh, uh, the Prophet’s companions,” Fist said.
“Aisle fifty-two, then. Look on the third shelf. Grennedy did some of the best work,” the gnome said. “Watch your step. Your feet are quite large for those stairs.”
“Thank you,” Fist said and turned towards the staircase. The gnome’s politeness at the end had made him feel guilty for lying. That was close, Squirrel. You need to stop being so mean to Mister Vincent.
Mean? Squirrel replied. He didn’t see it that way. Funny.
Well, he doesn’t think so, Fist replied. How did you carry all your poop in here anyway? Squirrel started to send Fist a series of memories and the ogre cut him off part way through, his stomach turning. Just don’t do it again.
“Fist!” shouted a loud male voice, drawing a frown from Vincent and the attention of the students nearby. Fist saw that it was Roobin, one of the academy graduates on guard duty at the school. He was dressed for battle in full chainmail, with a broadsword at his belt and he was breathing heavily.
The guard trotted up to him. “Good, Wizard Sarine said you would be in here.”
“What is it, Roobin?” Fist asked. He didn’t know the man very well. He had fought along side him during the war but hadn’t seen him much since.
“There’s a group of ogres at the wall,” Rubin said.
“Ogres?” Fist said in surprise. “Are we under attack?”
“We don’t think so,” Roobin replied. “There’s ten of them and we have them surrounded, but they say they’re not here to fight. They want to talk to you.”
“Me?” Fist asked. “Why?”
“One of them says he’s your father.”
Chapter Four
Fist ran towards the gate, his mace clenched in his ungloved hand, quickly outpacing the academy graduate that had come to fetch him. His mind churned as he sped down the road, forcing Squirrel to cling to his shoulder and leaving startled students in his wake. His father? It wasn’t possible.
Crag was dead. The Thunder People were destroyed. This had to be some sort of trick, but why? Why would ogres come to the school looking for him? A theory began to develop in his mind.
When he arrived at the front gate, Darlan was there waiting, as was Professor Beehn and Charz. They were speaking with Riveren the Unbending and Kathy the Plate. They paused their conversation as Fist ran up to them.
Fist switched his mace to his gloved right hand and stopped. “Is it true what Roobin said?”
“One of our student scouts reported seeing a group of ogres approaching through the woods this morning,” Riveren replied. The Captain Commander of the Mage School Guard had fiery red hair and a pointed beard and Fist could see the haft of his double-bladed axe rising from behind one heavily muscled shoulder.
“Roobin said there was ten of them,” Fist said. That was a significant number. Ogre tribes were usually quite small. Some of them might only have ten males altogether and they never left their females completely unguarded. They hunted in groups of three or four at the most. If any force of more than five left the tribe’s territory, it was considered a war party.
