Messenger of the Dark Prophet (The Bowl of Souls: Book Two) (21 page)

 “I see,” Justan said.

John continued, gesturing with the frond as he went, tracing glowing figures on the ground. “Now everyone is born with some talents on either side, but most
people’s
abilities are weighted heavily in one side of the circle or the other.”

“Like how most of the students here are strong magically and weak physically or how most warriors are not great strategists.” Justan surmised.

“Correct.” John said. “But every once in a while there is someone who does not reside on either side, but instead is born here.” He pointed to the line in the center of the glowing circle.
“On the edge of might and magic.”

Justan was stunned and shaken. He began to understand. It had been in front of him the whole time and he was so stubborn that he had ignored it.

John stood. “I wish that I could stay longer, but it is time that I go. Let me leave you with one thing. You are who you are, Justan. It is accepting who you are that is the hard part.” With that, he parted the fronds and left.

Justan was speechless. Frantically he pushed through the fronds after the wizard. “Wait, John! I need to-” But the man was gone. Justan hurried back to the
Rune
Tower
, hoping to catch up with the man, but he was nowhere to be found.

He debated going back to the library, but instead walked along the trails in the garden savoring the smells and the night air and reveling in his new discoveries. He had never felt as good about himself as he did at that moment. Justan vowed that if he ever saw the wizard again, he would have to do something to repay him.

After a while, he wandered out of the gardens and headed back to the dormitories. As he passed by the well-lit center square of the school and the sight of the construction of the new clock tower, a voice hailed him. An excited Qyxal ran up. The elf’s eyes were wide and full of excitement.

“Justan, did you hear the news?”

“The news about what?” he asked. It was rare to see the usually reserved elf in such a mood.

“The Prophet was here today. The rumors are flying all over the school. They say that he burst into the High Council meeting this afternoon without being announced and gave the wizards a tongue-lashing! Now no one knows what it was about, but everybody is hoping to get a glimpse of him!” Qyxal said, and then looked worried as Justan abruptly sat on a nearby bench, his face drained and pale. “Are you okay?”

Justan sat there in the center square, unable to answer. Surely it hadn’t been . . . but surely it was. He tried to recall the man’s features, but the details slipped from his mind. He was starting to understand how his father had felt when he met the Prophet.

Chapter Fourteen

Fist awoke in a panic, sitting up so fast that Squirrel flew from his sleeping spot on the ogre’s broad, hairy chest. It skittered to a stop on the floor, chattering angrily. Fist ignored his little companion and padded to the door, mace in hand. Something was wrong.

A lot had changed in Fist’s life during the last year. His boulder-lined shelter was now truly a house, with a thatched roof and comfortable fur rugs lining the floor. Tamboor had taken many of the furs that Fist acquired and sold them, using the money to purchase Fist the things he needed for his home.

They had chiseled away the rough spots on the boulders and filled in the gaps so that cold air couldn’t seep in. They built a chimney. Tamboor had even taught the ogre how to cook inside and bought him a pot to use.

Fist's life had grown comfortable. He got all the action he needed hunting the wild beasts that threatened the mountain town and in particular, Tamboor’s family. He now had a fine spear and massive steel mace that Tamboor had procured for him.

He was content. Usually his sleep was deep and dreamless, but during the last night his sleep had been mixed with uneasiness. He had tossed and turned all night long.

Now, as he charged from his home, he was filled with dread. His hackles were raised and his heart pounded in his chest. He didn’t know what was going on, but his instincts had him prepared for battle.

Fist’s calm grove of trees seemed peaceful as usual, but something was amiss. He trotted around the grove a ways,
then
froze. He listened carefully and heard twigs snap. Holding his mace at the ready, Fist advanced towards the sound.

He heard voices.
Orc voices.
What were orcs doing on his newfound tribal land?

Soon he saw them through the trees. The invaders were two burly orcs and a gorc. All three were fully armed. The orcs wore leather hide armor with metal helms. Each carried a wicked long blade with serrated edges that looked more like saws than swords. The gorc was smaller than the orcs and had a patch over one eye. He carried a long sharp dagger and a bow with a crude arrow notched at the ready.

With a growl, Fist approached them. He stood in their path and rose to his full height with his arms crossed. At his full height, Fist was just over eight feet tall and weighed close to four hundred pounds, most of it muscle. The one-eyed gorc squealed in fear at the sight of the enormous ogre standing in their way. The orcs gulped. They hadn’t seen many ogres quite so big.

 
“Stop!”
Fist commanded in the ogre tongue, his deep voice booming. “Don’t you see the markings? You are in territory of the Big and Little People tribe. Leave my land now or I kill you!”

Two of them looked eager to do exactly that, but one orc stood his ground. “We seen
yer
marks,” the orc barked.
“Our leader,
Gerstag
,
sented
us.
He say to tell you we are big army of the
Barldag
. Your tribe joins us or dies like the humans!” The others seemed to gain courage from the
orc’s
speech and straightened their spines, looking up at Fist defiantly.

Though he betrayed no emotion, the
orc’s
words struck Fist a mighty blow. It had taken him so long to find a place where he belonged. Now that he finally had it, he could sense it falling through his fingers.

Fist had often wondered about the great army that the ogre mage had tried to
raise
back in high mountain wilds. Every time the thought had risen in his mind, he had ignored the threat. He hadn’t even mentioned it to Tamboor, hoping that the ogre mage had been unsuccessful in his attempts to unite the goblinoids and giants.

“The
Barldag’s
army is here now?” Fist asked. The goblinoids nodded.

His worst dreams were being realized. Now the only thought in his mind was to warn his human friends. Fist was trying to decide just how to kill the three goblinoids the fastest, when Squirrel appeared in a branch above them. Squirrel chattered fiercely, shaking one tiny fist at them and berating them for coming onto its land.

“Look what I
sees
.
Little meats for breakfast.”
The one-eyed gorc smiled and brought up his bow. He began to pull the arrow back and didn’t even see the metal head of the mace coming. Fist’s new weapon plowed through its skull, leaving a ruined mess and the gorc dropped to the ground soundlessly.

Fist smacked the bloody head of the mace into his palm. “No one hurts my tribe!”

The orcs started to laugh, thinking the death of the gorc nothing but an ogre joke. Fist threw the mace at the first orc. Its laughter ended in a squeak as the round steel head thudded into its chest. The force of the strike knocked the orc off its feet, shattered its ribs, and pulverized the vital organs beneath.

The remaining orc backed up, “The
Barldag
commands that you join us!”

“If the
Barldag
comes, I will kill him too!” he promised and charged.

The orc desperately lashed out with its sword, scoring a minor hit along Fist’s side. The ogre took the scratch with a slight wince and grabbed the
orc’s
helmet between his giant hands. He squeezed and the metal screeched until there was a loud pop and the orc stopped thrashing.

Fist threw its crushed helmet to the ground and spat at the bodies of the goblinoids. He then picked up his mace and whistled. Squirrel jumped from the tree to his shoulders.

Fist stood in his quiet grove for a moment while Squirrel munched a seed and wondered how far away the army was. The orcs had said that
Gerstag
was their leader. That was an ogre name and it sounded familiar to Fist. Though he could not place where he had heard it, the name confirmed to him that at least some of the ogre tribes had joined the
Barldag's
army. This did not bode well at all.

He had to warn his human friends so that Tamboor could get word to the rest of the town. The
Barldag's
army would destroy everything in sight. He looked at his beautiful territory and felt like weeping. How much time did he have?

Fist sniffed the air and his heart sank even further. With squirrel safely in its pouch, the ogre ran to a nearby clearing and saw with his eyes what his nose was telling him.
Smoke.
Great columns of smoke were rising from the human town of
Jack
’s Rest. He had no time at all.

Fist ran back to his house and retrieved the fine steel spear that Tamboor had purchased for him. The ogre took one last sorrowful look at his marvelous home and hurried through the woods. He couldn’t save the land, but he had to at least save the only family he had left in the world.

Fist ran through the familiar trails of his woods, the smell of smoke thick in his nostrils. He felt a pang in his heart as he thought of the friendship that the humans had shown him. Right now in the village, people were fighting and dying at the hands of this evil army.

As Fist sprinted, he caught sight of a party of four goblin scouts slinking through the trees just inside of his territory. They were moving toward the home of his human friends. Once again, anger surged through the ogre.

The little goblins looked up in surprise just as Fist’s spear took one of them in the belly. He followed with an underhand blow of his mace, caving in the pelvis and belly of another goblin, sending it soaring up through the air. Before the two remaining scouts could do anything more than squeal, he smashed their heads together with a wet crunch, his enormous strength ending their lives quickly.

Adrenaline surged through his massive body as he retrieved his weapons and raced recklessly through the forest. He didn’t give much thought to what would happen once he found his friends. Maybe they could escape down to the towns in lower altitudes. He didn’t have time to worry about how the humans in another town would receive
him,
his only concern was getting to Tamboor's family. They were his tribe now.

As he got closer to the house, he saw with relief that there wasn’t any smoke coming from that direction. Perhaps he would get there in time. Squirrel crawled out of its pouch and curled up along the back of his neck as he ran, its furry warmth helping to comfort the ogre. Fist rounded the big rocks that lined the edge of Tamboor’s property and sighed with relief. Everything seemed to be untouched.

When the ogre’s presence had first been revealed, Tamboor hadn’t let Fist have anything to do with his family. But as the friendship between the human and ogre had grown and his wife and children kept insisting, Tamboor had relented. Fist had become a regular visitor to their home.

The inside of the house was small for the ogre and he had to hunch over more than usual to move inside the place, but he didn’t mind. The children loved Fist and climbed all over him, including the ogre in their games. Fist pretended that he was putting up with the children’s attention, but both Tamboor and his wife knew that he enjoyed the children’s play just as much as they did. Their only problem had been keeping Fist’s existence a secret to the town.

Tamboor had taken the credit for killing all of the monsters that Fist hunted. Though the ogre had not known it, he had even bought Fist’s land from the mayor of Jack’s Rest so that none of the townsfolk would go up there without his permission. It had worked so far. No one in the town even suspected the ogre’s presence.

As Fist approached the house, Tamboor’s wife
Efflina
opened the door. At first she smiled, but when she saw the state the ogre was in, she became worried. Blood was spattered on his arms and ran from the cut along his side.