Expiring Covenant (Black Lake Book 1)

Chapter 3
Estn

~

I turned my face into the cool, mountain breeze. The sun hugged the peaks to the west. Through a break in the thick pines I stole my first glimpse of the sky’s reflection off what must be the infamous Black Lake, far below. As an elf, born with that innate connection with the land, I should appreciate the magnificence of the view. But the ache pushed it aside. The shame refused to share my heart.

I had been right. Needed to start over. Get away from the clan, the faces of those who knew.

I hiked seven days until I exited the elven realm. When I found myself on roads struck by humans, their wary eyes made me push on—not that I intended to settle among their kind. I always had my sights on the Wildes. Once there, no soul aware of the scandal would ever find me.

The Wildes. Land of few folk regardless of race—elf, human, troll or ogre. I shuddered, considerin’ what other races might dwell there—those who might regard my kind a dandy snack.

“If I meet my end, no one will care.” I lifted my chin. “Not sure I do.”

I stretched. Guess I had two hours of walkin’ before I reached the valley, where I could camp on the shore of the majical lake. The weight of my pack, containin’ what’s left of my previous life, all that I brought to start over, weighed heavily on more than my shoulders.

“No remorse, elf. What’s done is done. No goin’ back.”

I slid my thumbs under the straps of my pack preparin’ to pull it off, to sit a spell to rest. But an eagerness nipped at the edge of my mind, to reach the lake below, to explore the lake of lore, home of gnomes and water beasts that dragged unsuspectin’ anglers to the deeps to feed upon them. No other lake on Earth is supposed to be as deep, as dangerous.

“No gnome or fairy I heard of ever ate a soul,” I mumbled. “No troll or ogre ever snuck up on an elf unheard.”

That moment I decided to camp on the lake for a full day, two nights. That would be the proper rest for my old, tired body. I trudged forward, ready to face the lake.

~

The sky blushed purple in the few open gaps overhead, but it was dark under the forest’s thick canopy. I thought of the ancient limbs my ancestors once dwelt in the far north, at the very edge of the world—trees whose trunks were said to be so grand thirty elves hand-to-hand couldn’t reach around. That was before the wars, before the sacred conifers were burned to bring the elves to Earth where they could be slaughtered.

The image cemented in every elflin’s mind flooded upon me, addin’ to my private despair—of goblins ignorin’ the rain of arrows from the limbs above as they piled logs twenty feet high against the base of the elven homes, fodder for the fire required to set the ancient bark aflame.

I picked my way between these much younger trees, unworried about my footin’. Though the ground was black, the thick pile of pine needles made the walkin’ easy, no stones or pesky roots to stumble over.

A good hike later, the sky opened overhead and a half-moon lit the land that flowed away from me. The dew-covered spring grass glimmered silver. Below, the breadth of the frightenin’ waters of Black Lake stared back, like a glarin’, challengin’ black eye.

The skin of my arms prickled, nape tingled. Not from the infamous water. A fire flickered to my right, too close. I stared for a moment, searchin’ for movement. Could discern none, nor sound from the camp. The night held only the call of crickets, the bellow of frogs, and the faint rustle of water lappin’ on a gravel bank far below.

I stepped back into the trees. Once upon the pine needle floor I stopped and removed my pack. Had no stomach for explorin’ in darkness to find a better place to sleep, even with half a moon. Whoever camped nearby likely slept, probably stay that way, for the flame of their campfire faltered.

Rubbin’ my shoulder, I peered back toward the lake, and sucked in a breath. A pinprick of light interrupted the black. It had to be on the other side of the lake. Regardless of the threatenin’ lore, others had made their way to the shore.

I unrolled my night furs, shiverin’ against the droppin’ temperature. If there was light to see it, my breath surely woulda billowed. I pulled the rim of my cap over my ears, low over my forehead. Took a chunk of dried meat out of my pack to chew, and settled between my furs. If only I had arrived early enough to make a real camp, to have collected wood for my own fire. What about my neighbor? Friend or foe?

~

I wasn’t sure if the gatherin’ light in the eastern sky woke me, or a sound. I lay listenin’. It was indeed a footstep, and no browsin’ elk or deer. The shlush of feet pressed aside dew-soaked grass. I sat up, turnin’ my head to get a better feel for where the sound arose. Whoever camped below, to my west, made their way into the edge of the forest.

I eased my bow and quiver from the loop on my pack and backed silently over the pine needles farther into the forest, to wait and watch. I leaned into the shadow of a tree trunk split by age and rot, and followed the heavy footfall.

No elf. Even a human creeps with more stealth.

A knife slid out of a leather sheath with a soft shh. I bent my bow, grimacin’ at the faint creak of the ash, fitted the string, pulled an arrow from my quiver, notched it—and waited.

Another noise. Sniffin’.

A giant lumbered through the trees, shoulders shiftin’ left and right. It faced my belongin’s, but looked left—directly toward me in the gloom. The creature lifted his chin, and sniffed, constantly sniffin’. The giant stopped, and glared. A bull. Tusks glinted in the early, angular light. The giant had to see me, but no recognition registered in his demeanor.

Sniff. Sniff.

The giant raised his hand a bit, looked down, and slid his knife into its sheath. The sshh ended with a chhh as the hilt struck leather. The bull stood erect.

Sniff. Sniff.

It turned, and walked the way it had come.

I remained still as the thin’ returned to his own camp, the creature’s bare feet slidin’ through the grass, and the clinkin’ of a pan as the bull prepared breakfast. He couldn’t see me maybe, but he definitely scented me.

Great. An ogre.

I had never seen an ogre before, in person, but no other race claimed a flatish snout or tusks like that. Wasn’t that surprised to find one at Black Lake. Had heard they weren’t above wanderin’ about. Why had this one left his realm in the west? A tinker once told me they were common in the Wildes.

There’s a lot of everythin’ in the Wildes—if the rumors are correct.

I made my way to my belongin’s and gathered them up. As I walked toward the lake, the ogre stood and glared at me. I considered givin’ the giant a wave, but decided against it. Even with the distance that separated us, I could hear the thin’ snort.

Sniff. Sniff.

I walked, not too near, but near-enough the edge of the lake until I came to a shallow lea where heavy rain deposited coarse sand and polished gravel, makin’ a pleasant little beach, soft on bare toes, convenient to level for a place to sleep—a nice temporary spot to camp, as long as it didn’t rain.

The sun felt good against the chill of mornin’. I looked over my shoulder at the ogre, still well in sight. The bull stood as though I called to him, and peered back. The ogre was too far away for me to hear the sniff-sniff now, but I imagined it, nonetheless.

The impasse isn’t ideal, but at least the giant isn’t attackin’ me.

~

I passed the day mostly in slumber, recuperatin’, doin’ little else than collectin’ firewood and buildin’ a campfire, throwin’ a line into the water. We elves aren’t big fans of water, considerin’ we model our swimmin’ technique after large rocks, so no surprise my fishin’ skill left a little to be desired. But I didn’t feel up to huntin’. If venison was what I wanted, I had perfectly good, smoked venison in my pack to gnaw on.

The third juvenile trout that threw itself upon my hook thrilled me—not totally incompetent at this, maybe. I grinned and slapped my hands together in celebration for a tasty little dinner. I scaled the water-beasties, diced them into cubes, and set them in a tin with a slap of lake water by the fire to simmer for the afternoon. It wouldn’t make a magnificent soup, but it would differ from my diet the past fortnight.

Any kind of change can be pleasant when ya’re in a rut. Otherwise without a lot of alternatives.

I lay back, crossed my hands behind my head, and closed my eyes, enjoyin’ the battle between the cool breeze and the warm sun. Within ten minutes I heard the slow patter of eight hooves against the soft loam. I peeked west. A pair of hobbled goats, a billy and a nanny, made their way toward me, grazin’ on the grass as they went, their curiosity obvious. Every few moments they looked up at me—judgin’ my nature. Goats aren’t a large element of elven life, but not unheard of. Knew them to have a curious nature.

Nibble, nibble. Peek. Nibble, awkward steps forward. The minutes passed and the goats neared. When I coulda thrown a pebble and hit them, the thunderous steps of the ogre pounded the grass. I leapt up and studied the approachin’ giant.

Does he suspect I’m tryin’ to steal his animals?

As afraid of gettin’ forced into the water as an attack by an ogre, I ran several yards up the embankment. The ogre looked up. His expression seemed to turn from concern to confusion. Thankfully his hands were open and empty, but the bull looked left and right, turned and trotted up the hill as well.

I locked my eyes with the ogre’s, to the ripplin’ surface of the lake, back to the ogre. The uncomfortable sensation of bein’ pinned against the water made me take another step toward the forest. The ogre did the same, and froze, as though mimickin’ me.

Are we to dance? Is this a game?

The goats neared my camp and my fear of losin’ my dinner momentarily overpowered that of bein’ boxed in. I stepped toward the goats, hissed, and waved my arms at them.

The ogre moved forward, toward his beasts.

I backed up.

The ogre backed up. Definitely a dance.

The billy sniffed at my simmerin’ fish.

“Shhhh! Get away!”

“Why are ya scorchin’ yar bait, anyway?” the ogre asked.

The words spoken in perfect Standish, except for the hint of a slur, no doubt due to the tusks, startled me. I returned the giant’s glare. “Tis my dinner.”

“Doncha have any sense of smell, elf? I’m surprised it hasn’t gagged the goats.”

The image of a goat sickenin’ over the smell of my dinner nearly made me laugh, but I stared into the ugly snout of a giant that could crush me with his bare hands. Decided it wasn’t an appropriate time to even smile. I studied this neighbor.

“If ya’re such a good cook, ya can supply my meal, then.”

“I’d be happy to,” the ogre said, jammin’ an overly-long finger toward my cook fire. “If ya’ll bury that.”

“I can’t very well throw away perfectly good fish,” I said.

“Perfect nor good are words I would use for that. Ya’re stinkin’ up the whole lake.” He pointed again, this time at his broad snout. “This makes me an expert with thin’s that reek. And I tell ya that reeks.”

“I never knew ogres to be such—” I searched for the right word.

“We have decorum,” the ogre offered.

I couldn’t help himself. A chuckle escaped. I clamped it down.

“What’s so funny, elf?”

There was a clank and a hiss. The billy had knocked over the tin. I let my shoulders droop as I watched the goat smell the concoction soakin’ into the fire’s ashes. The goat snuffled, and walked away quickly.

“There ya go,” the ogre said. “I’ve seen goats eat muck that would disgust a slug. He seemed in rather a hurry to get away from yar meal.”

“Well, what do ya have in mind for our dinner then, ogre?” I asked.

The ogre stood up straight. “Suppose I did give ya an invite. Considerin’ Bert spread that stench over yar camp, I guess I owe ya. Bury that stench and join me.”

The ogre turned and headed for his own camp. I watched him walk away. The bull was obviously no longer worried about the whereabouts of his two goats. He must have assumed his claim had been properly demonstrated, or figured by my less than outstandin’ culinary skills, the goats had no worries. I smiled. An ogre with personality. More than I woulda expected.

~

As the sun fell, I sat on my furs next to the ogre’s elaborately arranged fire, within the initial outline of a cabin, I figgered. Piled stones created a heated space that acted as an oven, where the ogre baked biscuits. In a well-blackened cauldron, Birs was his name, stirred a venison stew that smelled better than anythin’ I had ever smelled—at least since my mate left. Definitely better than the fare from the odd tavern I’d rested the past two weeks.

“Ya have a sad story there, elf,” Birs said. “So she skedaddled after another, a minstrel, he was, eh? So where ya headed now?”

“The Wildes, I think.” Can’t believe I told him. Perhaps, it’s because he shared about the recent deaths of his sire and mama. Desire to mate a hen he knew well of, back on the western plain.

“Hmm. The Wildes, eh? I hope to have a respectable home carved out here in a couple seasons.” He pointed at the ground. “Hope to draw me a mate. Have my eyes on a beauty from my old clan,” Birs repeated, then paused. “They say ya learn from yar mistakes. So what do ya recommend a sort like me do, to avoid such a tragedy as ya experienced?”

It was indeed amazin’ I shared my painful story to begin with. I left my kind to get away from anyone who knew my scandal. First person I meet, an ogre no less, I blabbed like a younglin’.

I looked into the pale contents of the mildly fermented barley that swished in the wooden cup the ogre gave me. Could the brew be majical, conjurin’ my life story out of me? No. The ogre was an open soul, easy to talk to. Didn’t seem the sort to make judgments.

I mumbled, “Never take ’em for granted. Love ’em with equal zest every day, as the first day ya started courtin’ ’em.”

The ogre didn’t speak for a moment. He studied the fire and moved his jowls left and right as though he tried to swallow a critter that fought back. It made his snout twitch a bit comically.

“Doesn’t sound that complicated,” Birs said. “Must be why it’s so important. Like ignorin’ yar big toe until ya stub it.”

“Hm,” I grunted. “Perhaps I shoulda stubbed my toe more often.”

The ogre chuckled—a rumble deep in his chest. More a growl, which startled me the first time, until I recognized it for what it is.

“I thought ya elves were smart. So how’d ya ruin it so badly?”

It was my turn to smile, at the ogre’s fresh honesty. “Ya may be aware we elves are long lived.”

“That ought to be convenient for redoin’ what ya mess up.” Birs stirred the stew solemnly.

I appreciated the ogre intended no sarcasm. “Unfortunately ya don’t get second chances on the important thin’s in life. I thought my mate and I had plenty of time. I spent time workin’ my way up in the elder council, and explorin’. Before I knew it, I ran out of time.”

“Then start over.” The ogre leaned over, grabbed a chunk of rock the size of an elf, and plopped it in front of me. “One of my property markers. Got two more to stamp out. Cold up here in the highlands durin’ the winter, but it’s mighty pretty.

“Good grazin’ for any kind of stock in the valleys. Short growin’ season, but enough grows wild here ’bouts, ya can find berries, celery, tubers, mushrooms and such. There’s fish aplenty, and the huntin’ can’t be beat. My mate and I’ll raise a brood of a dozen, if I get my way.”

I stared into the fire for a long moment.

Perhaps I don’t need to go as far as the Wildes to find my place.

“I’ll bet ya’ll be a fine neighbor, too,” I told the ogre.

~