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Chapter Fourteen

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That second afternoon, I had to put my foot down. The hen could argue about nothin’ at all and everythin’ in between, and had been doin’ so non-stop. Of course she’s an expert in all matters of life and beyond. Remind me to have her explain to me how the gods truly feel ’bout thin’s.

After I dressed that buck and we devoured it down to bone, she said she wasn’t movin’ again till mornin’. The smell of the carcass and blood, the whiff of meat bastin’ over our fire, would draw a couple packs of wolves, a bear or two this time of season, since they weren’t yet in good hibernation mode. Probably a cougar. A wolverine. Not the kind of camp visitors even a daemon would invite.

Even as a city flatlander, ya’d think she’d trust me on the matter, but I had a job convincin’ her we had to push on for a bit. I threatened to leave her behind. Pull her along by her dreadlocks. I didn’t make her hike an additional two miles before we lost the last of our light.

As a Range-raised ogre, the cold was bearable to me, considerin’ the months on end we spend most winters with snow up to our second-story windows. But with the sun goin’ down, the temperature dropped ’bout thirty degrees, and I honestly worried for Nuel. Raised in the comfort of a city, she’d no doubt never experienced this. Her face blanched and her talkin’ even stopped. A deadly sign for any hen. Though I was indeed thankful for the peace.

We had nothin’ more than a sheepskin apiece to lie on and a wool blanket to cover ourselves, so it was all ’bout acclimation. Thankfully that first night was warmer. I collected plenty of wood fall for our fire, but at this temperature even a full blaze is only worth a smidgen once ya lay more than a foot from it on the frozen ground.

A tarp to use to keep the warmth from floatin’ away would have been sorely useful. But we hadn’t been expectin’ to be more than a half day’s hike from the Hamlet.

Given anyone but her, we would have slept back-to-back to conserve body heat, and use one of the sheepskins as a cover, but I couldn’t even find myself suggestin’ it. She’d think somethin’ awful of me, no doubt. And especially after the grief she’d given me the last two days about every triflin’ thin’—not to mention insistin’ we get away from the deer carcass—I didn’t have the energy to instill in her that’s the way folk survived the cold.

I won’t say I slept soundly, but after I got over the guilt of leavin’ her to shiver alone, I woke with the tiniest hint of light to our east, with her practically sittin’ in our fire.

“How can it be so cold?” she asked, burnishin’ the hair off her knuckles.

Good ’morn to ya too, hen. I pulled my blanket back over my head and curled tighter.

“Don’t dare go back to sleep. Been watchin’ ya sleep for four hours. I hate ya. We gotta get out of these woods. Makes no sense it’s so cold. Get up. Now. I’m freezin’. I hate these woods. This place.”

A bit of exercise would get the blood movin’ again. She needed a bit of blood creepin’ into her skull. If I ever have to spend another minute with the hen after this, I might have to kill her with my bare hands. Be an enjoyable sensation.

“Get up.” In fairness, it sounded a little like a plea. “How could ya even sleep?”

I heartily emptied my lungs. I might kill her before the journey started today. Hmm. The exhale added a couple warm degrees under my blanket. So I basked in the heat another moment. Each time she whined, made me snuggle in deeper. I could enjoy her agony another minute.

I didn’t have a word for her, in Trollish or Ogrish, as we packed our kit and put out the fire. I estimated we’d make our rendezvous in about five hours, all thin’s fair, and no goblin troupe encircled us to interest us in a timeshare, or to extend our auto warranty.

Hope whoever met us would already be there, with food prepared. That venison didn’t last as long as an ogre would expect.

~

Nuel

~

The idjit deftly killed that deer. I admit that. No city bull would have the skill. He cleaned it in minutes, had lengths of venison strung over a blazin’ fire as though he did that nightly to survive. He had a ten-inch knife in his kit, and rope he used to hang our meal. But he didn’t carry a power bank for his phone. Silently I thanked the mountain god for the bull’s sense of priorities. Though I had to point out his idea of cleanliness left somethin’ to be desired.

Jeez, the deer was chewy. Could have used some salt.

And then the idjit insisted we hike on. I could have killed him. But his argument started to make sense, the fourth time through. On the hike to the troll mine and since, I’d caught sight of more than one wolf givin’ us the hungry eye.

How can an ogre sweat and freeze at the same time? Exhaustion flushed from every pore. How could Ike have considered sendin’ me into the wilderness is a reasonable thin’ to do? With his freak cousin, stuck speakin’ Trollish now, for some reason. Makes no sense that sweat pours down my face the same time I’m shiverin’ from cold.

And then the sun went down that second evenin’, and the cold wrapped around me like death. Never considered cold could cause that amount of pain. I wouldn’t survive til mornin’. My joints ached. Every inch of flesh half exposed to air burned, burned. How can cold feel like a red-hot brand?

Every minute, I assumed I’d succumb. There would be no tomorrow for me. The idjit would wake and find me frozen solid. He’d smile, and set off east. Not even bother to bury me. He’d be at peace.

Had I, am I, that ugly to him?