Expiring Covenant (Black Lake Book 1)

Chapter 6
Braes

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I didn’t expect to find Uncle Estn’s property marker by breakin’ my toe on it. The pain bolted through my foot. Hopped on the other as though that would majically help. My ankle caught in the weeds and I fell, face first into the algae-coated bedrock juttin’ out of the lake.

“Aaaahh.”

I pulled my hand away from the bridge of my nose. Blood smeared my fingers, wrenchin’ my face into a shameful grimace, I’m sure. The whimper emittin’ from my face further humiliated me, even without an audience.

“Trek has been nothin’ but one pain after another.”

Mud squished between my toes. Every attempt to raise one foot made the other glide for the open water of the lake. I fell forward and crawled up the face of the giant slab of rock. The ever-wet outcroppin’ was as slick as a tinker’s hard sell at the end of a long summer day. As though shoved by an invisible hand, my elfen self slid for the water.

“Eeeeeeeeek!”

Ice cold! No, colder, as cold as anythin’ I’d ever felt in my life. Breath-stealin’ cold. Every muscle cramped and I let out a long, piercin’ scream, as much from the surprise of it as the pain. I slapped at the water to keep my head above the surface since my legs refused to extend to search for the silt-covered bottom of the shallows.

I went under and sucked frigid water into my lungs. Only the sense of impendin’ death allowed my feet to find the slick floor. I pushed up to find air, choked, lost my footin’ again, and slid farther from shore.

My legs refused to work, which didn’t matter since I was too deep now to stand. Barely got my face above water one last time, but caught little air before sinkin’ back toward the bottom. I was doomed, I knew, yet continued to fight, to reach the fadin’ light above. I was so cold I couldn’t even thrash.

A new pain gripped me. The top of my head burned as though it'd been ripped off, but the black of Black Lake faded. I rose toward the surface, through the murky gloom.

“Ahhhghhhh!”

A most horrible-lookin’ beast pulled me straight up by the hair, before grabbin’ me by one arm, then the other, liftin’ me until we were face to god-awful face. I stared at the ghastly grimace a half-arm’s-length away. Free to breathe, fear kept me from it. Saved from one death only to find a grislier means of expirin’.

An ogre!

Long tusks protruded between the thin’s parted lips reachin’ up besides its snouted face. It opened its mouth.

I hoped the end came quickly, that it would take my head off with a single chomp. The beast emitted a repetitious gruntin’ sound, perhaps thankin’ its favorite god for a timely feast.

“I’d been told ya queerly little elves couldn’t swim a lick. Must be true, eh?”

My uncle told me before he passed, the land he bequeathed had characters of questionable demeanor livin’ nearby. He never said the characters were bloodthirsty ogres.

“What? Rats got yar tongue, little one? The hen has a fix for that,” the giant said.

It—he, swung me into the crook of his arm face down and trudged out of the water and up the shore. The bull’s voice continued to boom, perhaps braggin’ about a wonderful meal I was goin’ to make, but the blood rushin’ to my ears as I hung upside down made it hard to distinguish the words. All I heard was a bangin’ drum. Maybe that was my heart. All I could see was the tall grass glidin’ past my face, ticklin’ my toes.

I bounced up and down with the ogre’s long strides. I focused on the beast’s feet tryin’ to keep from hurlin’. The ogre’s humongous feet, long archin’ talon-spiked toes surrounded by thick fur, flattened the tall rye.

Oh merciful gods, don’t let them cook me alive.

The grass parted and the ogre marched up a gravel path. The bull roared on, but I felt too frightened to even attempt to make out his words. The path led to enormous blocks of granite—steps. What they had to be. Perhaps the beast took me into a temple. What kinds of rites did ogres follow, preparin’ for—whatever I faced?

I’m gonna be a sacrifice of some sort. After hikin’ a fortnight, I’m a beast’s dinner. How apt life is.

A screechin’ noise jolted me. The planks of a door swung perilously close to my head. The ogre shouted, hailin’ others to join the feast, most likely. My face swayed over a threshold, and a bang reverberated—the door hittin’ the wall behind it. I woulda lost my bladder but figgered I’d already emptied it in Black Lake.

The ogre lifted me up and plopped me down hard. In front of me, nose-high, lay a flat wooden surface, the sacrificial altar, held aloft by four thick posts. To my left and right lay even lines of—looked like chairs, five times bigger than they should be.

“What’ve ya brought me, ya lug?” thundered through the temple. “Another lost critter?”

I attempted to quiet my tremblin’, unsuccessfully, peerin’ over the beam I was surely to be butchered on. Across from me stood another great beast, an ogre of the feminine variety. The snout quivered, no doubt estimatin’ my freshness. The ogre bull walked over to her. My view was blocked, but I assumed they shared a ritual to prepare for my dismemberment.

So sure of their physical superiority, they never even tied me up. Lookin’ over my shoulder, the door stood ajar. Could I make it? I slumped, disheartened. They must have hoped I would run to give them sport. Why the bull turned his back on me.

“The clumsy little thin’ slipped and fell into the lake,” the ogre said.

“Did it now?” the hen boomed. “It makes a fine icicle.”

“I saved him from surely drownin’,” the bull bragged.

“And what’d ya brin’ him here for,” she demanded. “Look at the thin’ shake. Is he sickly?”

Right! I’m sick. Ya shouldn’t eat bad meat.

“He’s chatterin’ from the cold. Look at ’em. Drippin’ wet.”

“All over my floor.”

“Oh hush, hen. Pour him a hot bowl of soup.”

“I’m tired of feedin’ yar tag-alongs. Next thin’ ya know, their kind will be buildin’ a cabin on the next property.”

I caught most every word. They spoke Standish, but with a guttural slur. Prolly from their tusks. I managed to understand I was to be made into a soup. The ogre hen growled, no doubt more of the ritual, before turnin’ toward the cookin’ fire behind her. She fiddled about preparin’ for my death. A moment later she set a wooden bowl upon the altar—perhaps to collect my blood. She also set down some kind of implement—to slice my throat? She pointed for me to move.

I wrestled rather indignant, bein’ told to get myself into position to be slaughtered. Even sheep are led to their deaths. I turned up my nose. Defiant. I would go as a proud elf bull. I didn’t have to be led. Would take death bravely. I moved over and crawled up the several rungs into the higher pedestal. Looked down, as though I sat in an elven younglin’s highchair, lookin’ down at a dinin’ table.

“Eat,” the female demanded.

A last ritualistic meal. These ogres have odd ways.

I picked up the spoon I assumed earlier was to be used to sever my jugular, and sipped at the broth. It was hot, and good, meaty—simplistic recipe, but a good standby. Could have used more vegetables. Salt. Pepper.

“Not much of a talker, is it?” the hen muttered.

“Give ’im time to warm up.”

The ogre bull lay a blanket that had been lyin’ near the hearth over my shoulders. The heat felt wonderful radiatin’ through my wet clothes. I began to accept my imminent demise as I warmed up. If I had to be done in, at least I would pass, seein’ ogres had a civil way with their prey.

I looked about and decided I wasn’t in any form of temple. It looked very much like any elven home, save for the scale of the place. Shelves lined both sides of the hearth with a broad variety of preserved foodstuff. Cookware hung above the fire.

Younglin’ ogres burst in with a din, four of them, one a smallish thin’ about my size, bein’ carried by a middlin’-aged hen. They all chattered at once in that accent I struggled to make out.

“Baby-Ike isn’t keen about ya sittin’ in his chair,” one of the younglin’s told me.

I am in a highchair. Good grief.

“Papa says he watched ya walkin’ the property next to ours,” the elder ogrelin’ said. “The owner was a sickly elf. Left these parts before I was born. Have ya bought the place?”

“No,” I said hesitantly. “Inherited it.”

“Ahh. The old elf, Estn, has gone to meet his maker, has he?” The papa snarled, though I realized, maybe a little late, it may have been his normal voice. “May the gods bless ’im. Ya be buildin’ a home on the place?”

“Aye. I was thinkin’ about it.”

“I can see why ya would re-think the thought, after seein’ yar neighbors,” he said.

I contemplated that. Realizin’ I wasn’t on their menu for the evenin’, I was reconsiderin’ what I thought about ogres, and said as much.

The ogre howled, what I had determined was laughter, watchin’ the bull play with his younglin’s.

“I don’t mean us. Are ya daft? I mean the trolls. Now those kind will skin ya and have ya for dinner as quick as ya can say boo. They’re a grimy lot they are. Don’t ever turn yar back on ’em.”

“Don’t listen to the fool,” his hen gushed. “He’s havin’ fun with ya.”

“Then there’re no trolls livin’ nearby?” I asked. My heart may have skipped a beat, hopin’.

“Of course there are,” the hen said.

“Nasty critters, they are,” the ogre bull said.

“Don’t tease the icicle,” the hen blared.

“If ya wantin’ to build a cabin out of them trees in yar slice of the forest, ya got some dwarves as neighbors too. They’re wonderful at swingin’ their axes, they are. Likely help ya fell as many trees as ya need, trim and even put up the walls, if ya allow ’em to have at yar forest for a time. They respect the woods like the gods themselves. Never over harvest.”

I was stammerin’, before realizin’ I didn’t know what I was gonna say. Trolls, ogres, and now dwarves. That’s not characters of questionable demeanor. Had Uncle teased me? This ogre is defined by his sarcasm, evidently.

“Those dwarves are hard bargainers,” the ogre continued. “Come off rather gruff, but ya’re safe as long as they’re not showin’ their teeth.”

The hen wicked a hard glare back at her mate. So, this ogre bull, just likes to tease? What can I take seriously, if anythin’?

Meanwhile, the six ogres got busy talkin’ about family matters. I dried out by the fire tryin’ to observe the giants subtly. Decided ogre-kind were much, much more demonstrative than elves, considerin’ the teasin’ banter between mama and papa, and if the special care the eldest female younglin’ lent to the youngest is typical.

I found the baby my favorite. Perhaps it was the absence of any tusks as yet. Made him look less giant-like, less fearsome, with that round face. Though not even walkin’, the ogrelin’ appeared a stern one. Eyes never relaxed, pierced whatever it was he studied, lips pursed into a natural scowl.

Another good hour passed almost unnoticed. I finally excused myself. But not before the “little hen of the house,” with shoulders as broad as four elves standin’ side-to-side, prepared me a sack of food to keep me goin’ while “I settled in.”

I thanked them and wandered away toward my new property. Almost reconsiderin’ the offer to sleep as many nights as I needed in my new neighbor’s barn. But a good neighbor is maybe one not under foot.

I stood in the middle of what would be excellent grazin’ for most any kind of livestock I wished to raise. Looked out over the spooky lookin’ Black Lake, said to be bottomless, with unknown beasties livin’ in its depths.

What sorts of neighbors will creep out of it?

I turned north, facin’ my uncle’s ancient forest, now mine, and figgered that moment was as good as any to search out the dwarves. Summer didn’t last long in the highlands I’m told, so gettin’ a cabin started early would be better than later.

I hiked for the whiff of smoke I could make out comin’ from the edge of the trees off on the southeast edge of Black Lake, the general direction in which the ogre, Birs, had pointed. I nibbled on one of the biscuits the ogre hen gave me.

“It’s proper to introduce yarself to the landowner before traipsin’ through his field.” The gruff voice sounded like raked gravel, made me jump.

“I saw ya come from the home of them ogres. I’m surprised ya survived it. How’d ya manage? Use some of that elven majic, did ya?”

I stared at the troll. Had to be a troll, though I’d never met one in my life.

Survived it? The troll didn’t glower as though he believed I’d been in danger. He actually grinned the tiniest amount as though enjoyin’ a private joke. So, trolls are as bad at teasin’ as ogres?

The troll could have been a cousin of Birs’, though taller and a tad leaner, and instead of a snout, the face toted a bulbous nose. The giant owned arms longer than nature required. Knuckles hung nearly to his knees, though in truth he slumped, it seemed from old age, considerin’ all the gray hair which squirmed out of the top of his shirt and his sleeves, as though it fought to escape. Dreads hung deep across his chest.

Havin’ lived through two adventures very recently, maybe I leaned cocky. “That is exactly how I did it, majic,” I said, and lifted my chin with much more bravado than I deserved. Such a fraud.

This new giant walked near and sat gently in the grass, so we were as close to eye-to-eye as we were likely to get. He extended his hand and introduced himself. I swallowed hard and allowed the hand to surround my own as the troll asked me question after question. He practically had my life story, without slowin’ down. Trolls, very curious creatures. Who knew they’re so good at conversation, too. We chatted right there in the field over two hours.

“We’re losin’ our sun,” the troll, Yoso is his name, said, pointin’ casually at the splintered star squintin’ through the far, tree-ridged horizon. “That bedroll won’t give ya enough warmth up here in the highland. Where’s yar bed fur?” he asked.

“This is all I have,” I said.

Yoso shook his head. “The breeze comin’ off Black Lake will have ya shakin’ all night long. Our brood are grown and moved on. Ya come join the hen and me. We’d enjoy the company. Plenty of space. Not that ya’d take much space,” he teased.

My mind spun. I’ve lived a life of dread of ogres and trolls. Oh the stories told. Today found me sharin’ stew with one, and an opportunity of beddin’ down with the other. Goin’ out into the world was not what I expected. Especially since enterin’ the Range.

“Yar offer is very kind,” I told my neighbor. “But don’t wish to intrude.”

A troubled look clouded the troll’s face.

“Is there a problem?” I asked.

“I—I was tryin’ to think how to calm the hen,” Yoso said. “She’ll be a might scared I suspect, me invitin’ one of the majical kind into our home.” He paused. “Ya’ll need, need to let, let me go in first and prepare her. Please don’t be offended.”

I smiled. Imagine. A giant troll fearin’ an elf.

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