Forged In Death, Book 1 of The Death Wizard Chronicles (24 page)

“I smell smoke,” Torg said. “Do you think Jord is cooking something? I can’t remember ever being this hungry.”

“It’s not far, Master Ogre
 . . .
errr
 . . .
Hah-nah,” Ugga said, shifting Bard to his other shoulder. “I smells smoke and food, too, I thinks.”

“Jord didn’t mention anything about fresh game,” Torg said, “but I swear I smell venison.”

“Knowing the Bitch, she got a deer after she left ya,” Ugga said, breathing hard but moving at a steady pace. “There are many in these woods. With her bow, she can slay a Buffelo from a furlong away. With her help, Bard and I kill lots of beasties and tan the hides—and we sell them to the merchants in Kamupadana for gold coins. But the whores tempt us with their pretty bodies. I likes the Brounettos best of all. Bard goes for the Blondies. The Bitch gets angry if we don’t bring back more than a smile.”

“Does Jord get jealous?” Torg said. “It seems she and Bard are a couple.”

Suddenly Ugga dropped Bard to the ground and collapsed, as if he had been struck in the back with an arrow. Torg drew his sword and looked quickly around, searching for signs of an ambush.

Ugga’s face reddened, his eyes filled with tears, and he appeared to be in terrible pain. Baffled, Torg started toward the crossbreed to see what he could do. But then he sighed in relief. Ugga wasn’t injured. Instead, a titanic fit of laughter had rendered him helpless.

The crossbreed rolled onto his side and held his thick stomach, thrashing his legs and pounding his fists on the ground. Bizarre grunts and squeals came from his mouth. He belched and farted before succumbing to a fit of coughing. A good time later he managed to compose himself, sitting up and wiping his eyes.

“Master Ogre
 . . .
Hah-nah, I means
 . . .
if ya do not intend to kill me, ya won’t say such a thing again. In all my life, I has never heard anything so funny. Bard and the Bitch, a Cup-pull?”

Ugga lost control again. As he laughed, gobs of sputum froze on his beard. It went on for so long, Torg finally sat cross-legged on the ground and waited for it to stop.

“Sorry
 . . .
sorry
 . . .
Hah-nah,” Ugga said. “After we have eaten, we will tell ya the story of Bard and the Bitch. Then ya will better understand the reasons for my crazy giggling.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard this kind of laughter. To be honest, it warms my heart. And after you tell me about Bard and the Bitch, I’d like to hear the story of Ugga.”

“Only if ya tell me about Hah-nah.”

“Fair enough.”

Ugga lifted Bard and started up the hill, Torg at his side. When they reached the crest, Torg stopped. The land descended toward a narrow creek and then rose again in a series of lumps and ledges before flattening into a high plain. Where the plain began, a row of pines towered like titans over the lesser trees that stood nearby. Each tree was twice as large as any pine Torg had seen—more than two hundred cubits tall with trunks eight cubits thick. There were trees in Dhutanga that were greater in size, but Torg had never witnessed any so majestic on this side of the mountains.

“What makes them grow so mightily?” Torg said.

“Not even the savages can tell us,” Ugga said. “Betwixt here and the mountains, there are none so grand. Aren’t they handsome, Master Hah-nah? I loves them, I does. I stands and stares at them until the snow freezes my beard. They love Ugga too. They hide Ugga and his friends from their enemies.”

“They’re magnificent. But I can’t imagine why they’re here—and only here.”

“I does not know. But the Bitch might. When she comes near, the trees sing.”

They walked beneath the giant pines. Torg stopped again and counted the wondrous trees. There were exactly thirty side by side, and in a line so straight it resembled a palisade. He touched the trunk of the nearest tree and felt energy gush through his fingers into his arm.

“Ya are brave,” the crossbreed whispered. “I dares not touch them. They are too strong for me.”

Torg approached another tree until his nose was just a finger-length away. He could sense the life energy surging beneath the furrowed bark, and he took a deep breath. Tendrils of green light squeezed from between the fissures and oozed into his nostrils. The Silver Sword glowed in response.

He stood in silence for a short while, feeling peaceful and safe. Then he gazed upward at row upon row of branches, which grew in circular patterns along the trunks like stacks of plates. The behemoths in the heart of Dhutanga were taller, reaching four hundred cubits tall and thirty thick. But the hearts of those trees were dark and dangerous. These majestic pines exuded wholesomeness, as if tended by a benevolent spirit.

“When the Bitch is here, they sing,” Ugga repeated. “They don’t seem to mind your sword, but they don’t like my axe. I hides it when I’m near.” Then Ugga lowered his head. “Will someone steal it while I’m away?”

“Don’t worry, your axe is well hidden. Besides, who would have the strength to lift it, much less carry it off?”

Ugga’s face brightened. “Ya are right. But I misses it so much. I will go back for it later.”

The high plain stretched as far as the eye could see. Beyond the pines, the forest became a traditional mixture of conifers and leafless hardwoods. The smell of smoke and roasting meat intensified. Torg’s mouth watered. He had become obsessed with the idea of eating. The cave monkeys had fed him well, but their worm soup—despite its excellent flavor—had grown monotonous. Torg wanted what his Vasi master liked to call a square meal: meat, bread, vegetables, fruit.

“How far, Ugga? Will I die of hunger before we get there?”

“A stream meanders down a ways. Do ya hear its bubblies? Beyond the stream, the timber becomes dense. The Bitch chose that spot, long ago. It is her house, ya know, but she lets us stay with her. I thinks she is clever. But the savages are scared of her. When she’s around, they act like she isn’t there.”

Scared of her? Why that would be? But an increasingly intense aroma drove the puzzlement from Torg’s mind. Close to madness, he ran recklessly toward the shadowy area where the house was hidden.

The stream was wide and lively, but Torg leapt over it as if it were a trickle. He charged into the woods, dead leaves crunching beneath his feet. He jumped over fallen logs and tore through tangled branches before reaching a clearing, within which was a small hut. Sweet-smelling smoke poured from a vent in the center of the angled roof, but that was not the main source of the wonderful odor. Jord stood outside, tending a blazing fire, and suspended above it on a sturdy spit was the carcass of a skinned and gutted deer. A metal pot containing a fragrant stew hung over another fire. Jord had been busy. Torg was amazed that she had accomplished so much in such little time, but he was too dazed to ponder it any further.

“The bread is in the oven,” Jord said. “Go inside my house and get warm. The Bitch will take care of ya. Ya have earned a bit of rest, me dear.”

Torg staggered through the door, and despite his hunger he collapsed
onto a bed of leaves and saw no more.

He slept for the rest
of the afternoon. Finally loud snoring woke him. When he opened his eyes Bard lay beside him, still overcome by the effects of Torg’s spell. But the snoring was a good sign. It meant Bard was sleeping normally and could wake at any time. Apparently his recuperative powers were almost as strong as Ugga’s.

A deerskin cloak had served as Torg’s blanket, presumably a gift from Jord. He sat up and saw the Silver Sword leaning against the wall near the door. This relaxed him a bit, and he took the time to examine the interior of the hut. A hearth sat in the center of the round dirt floor. Smoke from a well-tended fire leaked out through a vent in the thatched roof. The walls were made of strips of bark woven between vertical posts and plastered with clay and dried leaves. Near the hearth was a crude table with three stumpy chairs. The hut lacked windows, but its door was ajar.

Torg stood and stretched. A pair of boots stuffed with wool socks had been placed near the door. He strapped on the boots and walked outside, unsure of what to expect.

Jord and Ugga were nowhere in sight. Dusk had not yet arrived, but the sky was gloomy, and a breeze blew strong and cold. A storm was in the works, maybe even a blizzard. Torg looked back at the hut with relief. They would need its protection tonight.

The smell of roasting venison drifted in the air. Torg examined the deer carcass with lust in his eyes. Drops of fat sizzled on the fire. Near the spit was an iron pot containing what appeared to be vegetable stew. And nearby on a flat rock were several loaves of dark bread, recently left there to cool. Jord or Ugga had to be somewhere near, or they wouldn’t have left the bread unattended. Raccoons, squirrels and other wily creatures were numerous in these parts.

Somewhere beyond the clearing, Torg heard a series of loud crashes sounding like drums or, maybe, the pounding of hooves. He saw flashes of movement, but they were unrecognizable.

“Ya have finished your napping, I sees,” said a voice from behind.

Torg fell into a defensive crouch. He was not used to anyone—or anything—being able to sneak up on him. “How did you do that?”

Jord laughed. “Ya deserved a little fright, after all ya have done to me and my friends. The look on your face was a very funny thing—but ya are still an ug-gly booger. Even Ugga is prettier. What manner of beast are ya, anyways, with no hair and such wrinkled skin?”

“I thought you agreed to call me Hana,” Torg said grumpily, still disturbed she had been able to come upon him unawares.

“Hah-nah
 . . .
yes,” Jord said. “Sorry. Even Ugga calls ya Hah-nah. Master Hah-nah, he says. He’s silly, my big Ugga. But he is quite taken by ya. Ugga says ya liked the trees. If that’s so, then I likes ya too.”

“It’s so. Speaking of Ugga, where is he?”

“Where do ya think? He went to get his axe. Couldn’t bear to be without it. But he should be back soon. And then we’ll eat, before the storm blows in. The night will be nasty, I believes.”

“I’m so hungry I could eat a horse.”

Jord’s eyes blazed. They were the color of pine needles. “We’re not Bar-Barians. We don’t eat horses.”

“Or bears,” boomed a voice from the edge of the clearing. Ugga strode into view, his axe slung over his shoulder. “Hello, Master Hah-nah. Ya have a good rest, I hopes?”

“It was grand,” Torg said. “Bard’s still asleep, but I think he’ll be waking up soon.”

“Ya think right,” came a voice from near the hut. Bard stood just outside the door. “I sees that while I slept, ya all have become a happy family. Is there a story to be told, Ugga? Has the Bitch put a spell on the unfriendly ogre and made him a nicey guy?”

“I’m impressed,” Torg said. “Most would have slept through the night. You’re strong.”

Bard seemed pleased. “Well, whatever ya did, I feels so very good now. I don’t feel good enough to eat a horse or a bear, but I could eat most of that deer.”

“Let’s do it,” Ugga bellowed. And he stomped over to the spitted carcass and tore off an upper leg with his bare hand. The shanks already had been removed.

“Ugga!” Jord said. “Where are ya manners?”

“Who cares about manners?” Torg said.

He ripped off another leg. Bard joined them.

“Men,” Jord said huffily. “Ya are nothing but a bunch of Bar-Barians.” She picked up a clay bowl and delicately ladled a modest serving of vegetable stew.

“Have some wine, Master Hah-nah,” Ugga said. He hefted a keg and poured a fragrant red wine into a clay cup.