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Chapter Eight

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As an ogreling, I’d hiked most every cranny within thirty miles of the Hamlet. Often strugglin’ to keep up with Ike. But many a cousin drew me along over the seasons. Suppose my ma bribed ’em to put up with me, drag me along, to keep me from turnin’ into a white mushroom, starin’ at a computer screen twenty-four seven.

She never could understand what drew me to technology. From before I could walk. I explained it was in my blood. Closest explanation I could come up with. She just blinked at me, worked to avoid shakin’ her head.

I made her shake her head a lot.

Tech is the only thin’ that made sense to me.

Ike’s a technology freak too. Why am I the weird one? Well, maybe he is a little more balanced. Ike can do no wrong. Ike is perfect. Perfect little Ike. The promise of ogre kind. Gag me.

Despite all my youngling hikin’ in mind, it had been a while since I’d hoofed it like today. My feet screamed. The straps of my knapsack, heavy with emergency gear in case a blizzard surprised us, hung harshly over my shoulders and ground into my back.

Not unusual for an odd blizzard in June in the highlands, which can obliterate a trail within an hour. October, better chance to see dark clouds roll in, than keep a blue sky. Didn’t serve to scrimp with kit up here, even for a short hike like ours.

Marl, our troll guide, and I kept a close eye on Nuel. For a Northern-raised ogre hen, she was doin’ well, all thin’s considered. Despite the chill air, sweat soaked her shoulders, poured from her forehead and temples, dampened the thighs of her borrowed, purple, troll woolen pantaloons—I wonder who’s joke that was, not findin’ her an ogre-style skirt? And why didn’t she just go up the holler to the department store? I guess that was part of the joke. No one told her there was one.

She breathed mouth agape. That had to be the worst. Not a lot of air up here. A flatland human would have burst a lung the first hour out. Yet not once did she complain. More tusks than I expected.

Marl had to sense Nuel’s distress. I never thought of trolls as incredibly empathetic sorts, but she stopped early, and after that, often. I didn’t complain about it. Kept me from dyin’. Durin’ breaks, poor Nuel would drop onto the pine needles or snow, depending, and suck for air.

Marl instructed that was the worse thin’ she could do. “Lungs don’t like to curl up like the body’s dying,” she’d tell Nuel. But every stop, after fallin’ to her knees, she’d eventually roll into a ball, before Marl’s glare got her into a sittin’ position against a tree.

“One last leg to go,” Marl said as we gathered ourselves from our current pause.

I closed my eyes and prayed thanks to the gods. Nuel whimpered. Her eyes rimmed red somethin’ awful. I imagined the blood probably pooled in her boots from ripped blisters. I know I had a passel of my own.

I checked the sky. No way. The sun was only two-thirds up in the eastern sky. Really? Really? Hadn’t we been at this a couple weeks?

~

Nuel

~

The cavern dark somehow helped ease the pain, but I couldn’t walk another step, without an hour nap and a flask of mountain shine. Before my knees sunk to the damp mine floor, Marl picked me up as easily as if I’m a two-year-old youngling. Clearly she was tired of waitin’ on me.

I wiggled my hand through her waist-long dreads and wrapped my arm around her, pressed my temple into her muscular shoulder. “Ya sure?” I murmured?

She chuckled, what equates to a chuckle for trolls. More like the purr of a kitten, amplified tenfold. With my ear pressed against her, it was incredibly loud. Maybe it contrasted with the pitch silence of the dark shaft, so absent of sound ya could hear yar own heart beatin’.

As much as I hate Kriz, he never once complained, the jerk. The appearance of a wimp, for an ogre, he never once stumbled. Had he ever looked away from a computer screen since he was whelped? How could I not push myself? I thought of Bliar’s words. He knew what was comin’. Warned me a bit. But I made it here. We ogres are tough.

Though I might die any second. Pretty sure my lungs bled. My brain, maybe, too.

The previous afternoon, Kriz had stepped forward and gone to battle with the three of us. I’m gonna have to adjust my opinion of the idjit. But what was with his infatuation with, what was her name? Took me a second. Zia. Attractive hen. I could admit that. But she looked half human. That isn’t possible, is it? Not that there’s anythin’ wrong, bein’ human. But. I’d never heard of a couplin’ ’cross the races.

Marl had claimed we were on our last leg an hour prior to crossin’ the shaft entrance. But we hiked ever deeper into the mountain. Had to be another hour since. I jerked awake several times, the rockin’ of Marl’s stride surprisin’ly relaxin’. I’m not a small ogre. But she carried me so easily. Not once heftin’ me for a better hold, to ease tired muscles.

I woke again with the guttural sound of Trollish in my ear. A flicker from a fire burned my eyes a moment. A gaggle of trolls stood around these new flames, eyes reflectin’ eerily orange. Clearly angry voices grated at Marl for bringin’ non-trolls here.

Some really, really indignant folk. It’s not done. Not appropriate. They don’t belong, rattled and caromed against the granite surroundin’ us. At least they weren’t shoutin’, kill ’em, kill ’em.

Marl grumbled loudly, “Is Tie here?”

“Uh, ya can let me down,” I whispered in Marl’s ear.

Where was Kriz? I twisted a bit.

Two troll bulls had the idjit pressed against the solid-granite wall, one knife against his throat, another threatenin’ a kidney. Considerin’, the bull wore a reserved expression, eyes locked on Marl. Clearly okay to let her do the talkin’ for now.

My Trollish isn’t great, and the speed and fierceness of the shoutin’, as dozens and dozens of more trolls pressed toward us in the dark, my ability to translate wavered, the mood whirled angrier. There were folk ready to slit our throats.

I had failed without openin’ my mouth.

Marl had long lost any sense of control. Clearly low in the troll hierarchy, not many of the assembled bulls cared a trifle what she had to say.

But suddenly the chaos in the chamber tumbled away, shoulders spaced apart, givin’ way to a shufflin’ form approachin’, staff clackin’. Tick. Tick. Tick. The pure white of her dreads struck me first, before the deep, deep lines of her face.

“Why do ya ask about Tie?” she asked in Trollish.

“This hen may perish. The journey here was hard on her.”

Perish? I think not. Okay, I’m exhausted. Just need a breather, but—

A gnarly hand neared my face. Ancient, mottled flesh, as white as her dreads, flowed over bulbous, arthritic knuckles. I sucked still, my lungs clenched. She paused a few inches away from my forehead, as though to show I needn’t fear, before she pressed the back of her fingers, ice cold, colder than ice, against my temple.

“Hot. Ya’re burnin’ up.” Her silvery, cataract-covered eyes narrowed. “If ya’ve brought the plague into our home—” She turned her eyes toward Marl. “I’ll cut ya into strips myself.”

“It was the journey.” She addressed her with a Trollish word I didn’t recognize. But readin’ the mood, this was an important member of the clan. “I swear.” Again with the title. “She’s a flatlander. Altitude sickness. Nothin’ more.”

The ancient hen pursed her lips, finally dropped her hand from me, pressin’ it now against the plethora of dreads flowin’ down her front, until it disappeared in the dark.

“Tie’s here. Take her back.”