Paul Thompson: Sister of the Sword

“You go now!” Garnt snapped, face paling. He sent an ogre named Ont to accompany Harak as guide and interpreter.

A day later Ont was leading Harak through a lofty crevice between two of the highest peaks in the range. The air was so thin that Stone Toe’s breath came in labored, deep-chested gasps. Harak took pity on the horse and dismounted, leading him by the reins.

Even Ont found the height difficult. He rested frequently, leaning a heavy arm against the unyielding mountain and breathing hard. During one of these breaks, Harak asked why the great chief lived so high.

Ont’s knowledge of the plains tongue was limited, but he explained the mighty Ungrah-de, being much bigger than his fellow ogres, could breathe effectively at high altitude. It was clear Ont considered himself a mere youth in comparison to the great chieftain.

Harak he dismissed as a “bird,” the uncomplimentary epithet ogres used to describe any small and insignificant creature.

Harak assumed the ogre was exaggerating. Ont was two full spans taller than Harak’s own considerable height and much more heavily muscled than any human. However, when they reached Ungrah-de’s camp, situated on a plateau below the highest peak in the entire range, he realized his guide was only relating the truth. Ungrah-de proved to a towering creature, and the males of his tribe all topped Ont by at least a handspan.

With Ont interpreting, Harak greeted the celebrated Ungrah-de and offered him the gifts Nacris had sent. In addition to the Silvanesti sword, there were various other pretty items stolen by the raiders on their sweep across the plains.

Painted pots and leather goods did not interest the ogre chief. Ungrah-de kicked through the pile of gifts at his feet until he came upon a rare item—a bronze scale. Cunning Nacris had included it intentionally. It was the same scale Duranix had sent to Zannian as a warning to turn back from Yala-tene.

Ungrah-de picked up the scale in one hand, sniffed it, and said a single word to Ont.

The smaller ogre, translating, turned to Harak and asked, “Dragon?”

“Yes,” Harak said, “a scale from a bronze dragon.” Kneeling before this gargantuan ogre, he felt exactly as Ont had characterized him, like a bird, a sparrow in a ring of vultures.

Ungrah asked a question, and Ont relayed. “You take from dragon?”

A little embellishment never hurt a story. “No. My chief, the mighty Zannian, struck this off the dragon Duranix.”

“Where is dragon now?” the chief asked, through Ont.

Harak looked up at the hulking ogre. “Flown away, to the setting sun. The powerful Zannian chased him away.”

Ont translated this. Ungrah responded with a sharp-sounding query.

“He says, if your chief so strong, why need Ungrah-de?”

“Tell the dread chief my people are worn down from long days of fighting. The villagers have chosen to hide behind walls of stone and refuse to come out and fight, face to face, like men—ah, like ogres.”

Ont conveyed this reply. More of Ungrah-de’s warriors gathered around them. The chief thrust his jutting jaw forward, clacking his lower tusks against his upper fangs. He asked what was in the alliance for him.

“Plunder,” Harak said loudly, spreading his hands wide. “All the horses and oxen you can carry off. Cloth, furs, and anything else in the village.”

“Humans?” Ungrah asked slyly.

Though it made his stomach churn, Harak nodded. “Yes. As many as you can take.”

When Ont translated this, the ogres began talking all at once, bellowing, pointing, and gnashing their prominent teeth. Harak tried to interrupt but it was like whistling against thunder. Ungrah-de noticed the human trying to speak and roared for quiet.

Ogres are taciturn and slow to speak, but once they get going, they’re equally hard to silence. When his bellow failed, Ungrah snatched a club from his belt and laid about with this huge persuader, knocking some of his warriors out cold. Others retreated out of reach, nursing bloody noses or spitting out cracked teeth.

Ungrah shoved the end of the club in Harak’s face and roared a question. Ont, after shouldering his way out of the mob, translated.

“He says what else do you have for him?” Ont added in a low voice, “Give cursed blade now. I pick you up and run when Ungrah die!”

Harak nodded, feigning agreement, but he also noticed Ungrah watching them both warily. The chieftain, he was certain, had understood Ont’s words.

Harak opened his fur coat and drew out the wrapped bundle. As he pulled the leather away from the sword, ogres around him grunted. Lacking metal themselves, they greatly prized the few pieces they acquired by raiding or trading.

Obvious appreciation showed in Ungrah-de’s dark eyes, and one taloned paw moved as if to touch the blade. He hesitated.

“It’s all right. Ont thinks it’s cursed.” Harak pulled away the rest of the wrapping and held the sword in his naked hands. “But it’s not.”

Ont’s shaggy brows arched upward, and his wide mouth fell open in surprise. In the next instant, Ungrah took hold of the long sword (in his huge hands it resembled a dagger) and ran the keen point through Ont’s throat. Dark blood welled out of the wound. His knees folded and, gurgling, he toppled. Ungrah withdrew the blade smoothly. The treacherous ogre writhed on the icy turf until a pair of Ungrah’s troop finished him with their clubs.

Harak was still staring at the dying Ont when he felt the warm, sticky tip of the elven sword pressed against his jawbone. Without moving his head, he shifted his eyes to the wielder.

“Great, dread chief,” Harak said carefully, “surely you won’t kill me after I have gifted you with such a blade?”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Ungrah said, and Harak quickly realized his command of the plains language was far better than Ont’s had been. “Was this not a plot by little Garnt to murder me?”

“Yes and no, great chief. My story was true. I am here to persuade you to return with me to the Valley of the Falls to fight alongside my chief, Zannian.”

The sword moved forward a hair, breaking Harak’s skin. “What was this foolishness about the Silvanesti blade?”

Despite the debilitating cold, sweat formed on Harak’s brow and slowly trickled down behind his ear to sting the tiny cut the ogre had given him. With the blade still pricking his jaw, he explained how he had duped Ont’s chief into helping him find Ungrah-de.

“It’s good you slew Ont,” Harak finished. “If he had gone back and told Garnt you were not struck down by the curse, there might have been war between your bands.”

Ungrah took the sword away from Harak’s face. “As I am a wolf, they are rabbits,” he scoffed. “Garnt’s tribe is no threat. Someday I will eat them.”

Harak wondered queasily if that was a boast, or merely the simple truth.

The chieftain bellowed commands, and the ogres erupted into action. Harak thought they were breaking camp, preparing to march to Zannian’s aid, and he grew puzzled when they began piling up a great heap of broken tree trunks and dry brush in the center of the camp.

“Great chief, what’s happening?” he asked.

“We go to your fight, but first we punish ourselves.”

Harak’s questions were lost in a forest of giant, fur-clad bodies, dashing about the high, arid plateau in busy preparation. Though brutally strong, for their size the ogres were surprisingly agile and plainly inured to their harsh environs. He counted close to a hundred, of both sexes. They would be a powerful reinforcement for Zannian. Too powerful, perhaps. He wondered what would happen if the ogres decided to turn on their human allies.

Embers were brought from the recesses of the ogres’ cave to the enormous pile of wood and brush in the center of the camp. Driven by the incessant daytime wind, the woodpile rapidly caught fire. Harak wondered if the creatures planned to immolate members of their own band.