Disenchanted (6 page)

“Then I shall hunt down Brand and take Orthslaagt from him — along with his right arm, if I have to!”

“Fool!” spat the witch. “That is exactly what Brand hopes you will do. You are being pulled toward him by the inexorable magic of the blade. Your humanity is slipping away, Boric, your own volition being replaced by the will of Lord Brand.”

“Lord Brand!” exclaimed Boric. “He has pretensions to nobility, does he?”

“He has pretension to more than that, I understand. Occasionally I receive visitors from the east seeking my expertise. One benefit of being officially exiled for witchcraft, you know, is that you get a reputation abroad. Recently news has reached me that Brand is assembling a new kingdom in the east. He rules a petty fiefdom beyond the Wastes of Preel. Some even say he plans to unify all the territory of the Old Realm under his rule.”

“Ridiculous!” Boric rasped. “The Six Kingdoms have grown fiercely independent since the Fall.”

“And they are constantly fighting amongst themselves,” added the witch. “A bold man might see an opportunity in the current situation.”

“All the more reason for me to hunt down Brand and kill him,” said Boric. “He isn’t to be trusted with that sort of power.”

“If you go to him, you will fall under his power,” repeated the witch. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Then what would you have me do, witch?” Boric demanded. “Run from him until I’m a heap of dry bones?”

“Consider it a tactical retreat,” advised the witch. “You must fight the pull of Orthslaagt until you are strong enough to deal with Brand on your own terms.”

“Strong enough!” growled Brand. “My flesh is rotting away as we speak! My humanity is draining away, and I am becoming a monster! I must seek out Brand now, while I still remember what it was to be human!”

“No!” cried the witch. “You must accept that you are no longer human. You must give up your former ways of thinking and embrace your status as undead. Brand’s power over you arises from your desire to regain your humanity. When you let that go, Brand will no longer be able to control you.”

“I don’t want to regain my humanity!” Boric protested. “I simply want to
die
.”

The witch laughed. “Yes, but you want to die as a
human being
. You want to go straight from your heroic life to a jubilant afterlife, without this pesky detour into the gray wasteland of undeath. You must accept that you are a wraith, a foul creature of the night, hated by the living. When you have done that, you will be free to kill Brand and take Orthslaagt from him.”

“But when I have become fully a wraith, I will no longer want to be free of Orthslaagt!”

“A paradox, one must admit,” said the witch, nodding. “Sadly, that is the only answer. There is one thing I can do for you, though.”

“Please,” said Boric. “Whatever you can do, I will be forever grateful.”

“You should be a bit more hesitant about making eternal commitments,” the witch scolded. “Take your clothes off.”

The one thing that the witch could do for Boric turned out to be embalming him, wrapping him with cloth saturated in foul-smelling substances that promised to slow the process of decay. The wrappings were tight but oddly comforting; they made Boric feel less like he was going to fall apart at any moment. She left only his eyes uncovered; at first he had objected to having his mouth and nose wrapped but she pointed out that he no longer needed to either eat or breathe — and that unless it was secured, his jaw would probably eventually fall off. He wasn’t sure he actually needed his jaw to speak; his voice seemed to emit from his mouth in some ghostly fashion, utilizing neither the flow of air across his vocal cords nor the movement of his lips and tongue (although he continued to move these muscles, like a puppet mimicking the speech of the puppeteer). Still, losing his jaw would make him look even more monstrous, and it was important that he at least appear human for as long as possible. When he put on his clothing and armor and covered his head with his cloak, he looked almost normal. She had also painted over the markings on his armor with pitch, both so that he’d be less visible in the dark (“a wraith has to be able to skulk”) and so that he wouldn’t be recognized as the former King of Ytrisk.

By the time she had finished, it was nearly dark outside. The witch lit a lamp and stood back, regarding her work with what Boric could only imagine was pride. She seemed on the verge of saying something when the door to the cottage flew open and three dark figures entered the room, their footsteps eerily quiet. They wore dark cloaks and black leather gloves, their eyes pinpoints of red light burning like coals in faces wrapped in black cloth. Each of them carried a broadsword that was an exact likeness of Brakslaagt.

“Boric the Implacable, son of Toric,” hissed the figure at the lead of the group. “Our master has summoned you.”

SIX

After his decisive victory over the Crown Prince of Skaal, Boric had no trouble enlisting locals to assist him in his efforts to vanquish the ogre. The only local whose help Boric really wanted was the chubby, bald-headed merchant, but he let the blacksmith come along because he wasn’t sure the merchant would go along with what he was planning without some prodding from his friend.

“Where are we going?” asked the merchant, whose name was Padmos, as he and the blacksmith tailed Boric through the village. “Surely you don’t mean to hunt the ogre at night.”

“On my way here I rode past an abandoned house on the edge of town,” said Boric. “That’s where we’re going to wait for the ogre.” Boric carried ahead of him a small lantern, allowing them to make their way through the darkened streets.

“That’s the old miller’s house,” said the blacksmith, whose name was Daman. “It’s completely burned out. The roof is falling in.”

“The ogre isn’t going to concern himself with the structural integrity of the house,” replied Boric. “Careful with that thing.” This last was directed at Daman, who was swinging a sword through the air in lazy arcs. He had insisted on stopping by his shop and picking up the sword, which he had made on a slow day a few weeks earlier. Like Daman himself, the sword was crude but functional. Boric didn’t really like the idea of the big oaf carrying a sword, but he didn’t want to waste time arguing. For his part, Boric had decided to hold on to Brakslaagt.

Daman and Padmos, the merchant, muttered back and forth behind Boric. While they were relieved not to be heading out into the hills at night to hunt the ogre, they weren’t so sure about spending the night in a burned-out house on the edge of town. What made this messenger think that the ogre would be coming here? And why did a messenger care so much about a rogue ogre anyway? Didn’t he have messages to deliver?

Boric led the two men to the old house. It hadn’t been much of a house even before it had burned, and now it was just a blackened husk of its former self. Boric led the men into the house, which was really just a one-room cottage with a dirt floor. He set the lantern on the floor and pulled a rolled-up sheet of parchment from his pack, spreading it out on the ground. It was a map of Ytrisk and the northern part of Skaal. The map was old and faded, but along the main north-south road through Ytrisk were a number of darker characters that seemed to have been added recently.

Daman, who had probably never seen a map before, frowned at the strange drawing, but Padmos the merchant seemed to understand what it was. “What are these markings?” he asked.

“Numbers,” said Boric. “You’re familiar with Avaressian numerals?”

The merchant nodded.

“The numbers indicate the order of the ogre’s attacks. Number one, here, represents the first attack.”

“Some numbers are missing,” observed the merchant.

“The ogre doesn’t attack every day. He takes every third day off. You see? One, two, four, five, seven, eight, ten, eleven. The multiples of three are missing.”

“A pattern!” exclaimed the merchant excitedly.

“Indeed,” replied Boric. “And that’s not all. As you know, most of the towns in southern Ytrisk are located at sites of former outposts of the Old Realm, every three miles, give or take. Notice anything about the spacing of the attacks?”

The merchant studied the map. After a moment, his eyes lit up. “He attacks, travels three towns north, then travels four towns south and attacks again. The gap in the attacks occurs when he is traveling the extra distance. But that means that the next town to be attacked is Plik!”

“Correct,” said Boric. “He’s due to attack here tonight, if the pattern holds.”

“But why would the ogre travel in such a predictable way?” asked Padmos.

Boric shrugged. “I doubt he’s aware of the pattern. Ogres are stupid. This one seems to be just smart enough to avoid attacking town after town in direct succession, but not smart enough to be truly random about it. Still, it took me a while to figure out the pattern. After the attack in Sorvekt two nights ago, I realized he would be coming here next. Which is why I’m here.”

“Why
are
you here?” asked Daman suspiciously. “What concern of yours is this ogre?”

Boric realized he was going to have to level with his compatriots. After tonight, with any luck, he wouldn’t need to keep his identity secret anyway. Once the ogre was dispatched, he could return to Kra’al Brobdingdon victorious.

“I’m not a messenger,” said Boric. “My name is Boric, son of Toric, King of Ytrisk.”

“M’lord!” exclaimed both men, falling to their knees.

“All right, enough of that,” said Boric. “We have an ogre to kill.”

The men got to their feet, brushing charcoal from their knees. “If I may ask, m’lord, why did you come here in disguise?”

“Killing an ogre requires some discretion and stealth,” said Boric. “Ogres are powerful and cruel, but also craven. They spook easily. Fortunately I was able to head off brave Prince Corbet before he stank up the hills with the stench of lavender and rose petals. Now, you two find some wood and help me build a fire.”

“A fire?” asked Daman. “Is that a good idea? We might attract the ogre.”

“Well, what did you think we were trying to do?” asked Boric.

The blacksmith nodded slowly, the reality of the situation dawning on him. The two men went out to find firewood.

“Make as much noise as you can!” called Boric after them.

“I thought we didn’t want to spook the ogre?” said Padmos, ducking his head back inside.

“Oh, he’s not going to feel threatened by a couple of idiots stomping about in the dark,” said Boric. After a moment he added, thoughtfully, “No offense.”

Daman grumbled something and the two left again. After a few minutes, they returned, each bearing an armload of twigs and wood scraps. Daman assembled a mass of kindling and straw and expertly got a flame going with a piece of flint and a small steel bar. It wasn’t long before the fire was burning brightly in the center of the room, warming them nicely against the cool air wafting in through the gaping windows.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” said Boric. “The light should draw the ogre’s attention, but now we need some bait.”

“Bait?” asked Padmos, scratching his gleaming pink scalp. “The ogre eats babies. We can’t leave an infant out for the ogre!”

“No, we can’t,” agreed Boric. “But we’ve got something almost as good.”

Surprisingly, Daman caught his implication before Padmos did. The burly blacksmith broke into hearty laughter.

“What?” asked the merchant angrily. “What am I missing?” His soft white cheeks reddened as he spoke, causing Daman to tumble to the ground, clutching his sides. Tears rolled down the blacksmith’s face.

“Oh, no!” exclaimed the merchant, as a realization washed over him. “You are
not
using me as bait!”

“Come on, Padmos,” cried Daman, still lying on the ground. “You’ll be a hero!”

“Bah!” grumbled the merchant, rubbing his fleshy bald pate.

“He’s right,” said Boric. “I’ll be heading back to Brobdingdon as soon as we’re done, so you two can take all the credit for slaying the ogre. Plus, there’s a gold in it for each of you.”

Daman was suitably impressed with this but Padmos still looked unconvinced. “Two gold,” he said. “You gave that kid at the tavern two silver just for watching your pack.”

“That kid saved my life,” Boric said. “Fine. Two gold for each of you. One now, one when the ogre’s dead. Fair?”

The two men grunted assent and Boric handed each of them a gold coin.

“Now, Padmos,” said Boric. “Let me see that lustrous noggin of yours.”

Padmos stepped forward uncertainly, leaning his head toward Boric.

“Excellent,” exclaimed Boric. He uncorked a small bottle and poured a bit of liquid onto Padmos’s head, smearing it around with his other hand.

“Augh!” Padmos cried. “What is that?”

“Sour milk,” answered Boric. “We want you to smell like a baby, after all. Let’s get some on your tunic.”

“No, sir!” said Padmos. “M’lord, I’m all for catching this ogre, but I won’t be humiliated in this manner!”

“Really?” asked Boric. “How would you like to be humiliated? I have another bottle, if you really want to go for authenticity.”

“What’s in the other bottle?” asked Padmos skeptically.

“Well, it’s not milk, I’ll tell you that.”

Padmos reluctantly agreed to be doused with the sour milk.

“There! Now you smell like a baby!” exclaimed Boric. “All right, let’s hear you cry.”

“Cry?” said the merchant dubiously.

“Babies cry,” said Boric. “Surely you’ve heard one.”

“Some babies are sound sleepers,” offered Padmos weakly. “Some babies hardly make a peep.”

“Not the ones who get eaten by ogres,” chided Boric. “Come on, now.”

Padmos gave a little bleat.

“What are you, a sheep?” asked Boric. “Cry like you mean it!”

Padmos bleated a bit louder.

“Wow, you are a terrible baby,” observed Boric. “If you were my baby, I’d be praying that an ogre would eat you.”

“I’m doing my best!” protested the merchant. “I’d like to see you do better!”

Boric let loose an impassioned cry, startling Padmos.

“Not bad,” admitted the merchant.