Always take care of what takes care of you
And life will be blessed with Gardener's Grace
Oil your metal and feed all your pets
Keep your promises and respect your friends
Guilt rots the roots of immortality
So seek redemption before freedom ends
—Inshushin Yandornak Ishtaran
A mule has a lot of blood. The trail is stained with it for yules, stretching from the white stones of the safespot to a wide ring of colossal fir trees.
Ishkur signals with a clenched fist to stop his apprentice. Sad bliss. He crouches and points. Serene horror. An ogre leans against one of the trunks, cradling Daisey. Her donkey ears twitch and horse tongue lolls.
Three other pincer-jawed giants form a half-circle around the far side of the shaded clearing, each with their own prisoner. The swollen likenesses of men, instead of a mule, rest in their laps like children for a demonic story time.
Cevee sets her helm on a root and smears it with moist earth. "I d-don't want them to s-see."
Ishkur taps his lips and says in a whisper, "Remember, ogre eyes are bad, but their hearing is exceptional." He grins. "Dulling the gleam is a good habit for a scout: one I should've maintained."
She gestures, her wrist limp. "T-those... s-sacks on ogre l-laps are still p-people right?"
"I hope three of the soldiers we've been tracking, with my gear they took, nearby."
"You s-said, ogres make t-their prey into w-wombs and w-watchdogs."
"Gestation sacks with eyes, growing their bugfaced babies." Ishkur pats Cevee's stomach. "Imagine a little man's head here, keeping watch while you slept. Your baby in the man's swollen belly, nursing on his liquefied organs."
She sticks her tongue out and shudders.
"Macabre, but practical." He takes off his gauntlet. "No more shine. Now, give me your spear and ready your sling somewhere safe."
"I'll c-climb for a good s-shot." She pats the ancient fir hiding them. "But w-what if they w-work together, or s-start chopping w-with something?"
"If they come for you, climb higher and hold on." Palms cupping her butt cheeks and heels, he boosts her to the lowest branch. "You'll be fine. Pregnant ogres should be easy to distract and draw away."
"Y-yes, Sir."
Spear in hand, and his recovered dagger sheathed, Ishkur crawls on forearms and knees. Bulging tree roots and scattered bushes aid his stealthy approach.
Ignore me, donkey ears.
A thin branch, bent by his spear's shaft, whips to slap his thigh. Daisey snorts and shudders. Uh-oh.
Across from the mule and her ogre, a bloated human says in a mix of English and Orc, "Just relax, you dumb animal."
The gruff voice is familiar. That old soldier? Sausage-like appendages and no neck. Graytip?
"Embrace the gift of life growing in you, Mule."
That is him. Ishkur twists the spear in his grip. Now, where's Ripin, that shitty nose hair Obsidian?
"Is it a female?" Another familiar voice from the lap of another ogre.
Not Ripin.
"It is now!" says the last of the man-sacks. "I wonder what's in those packs."
YOU ARE READING
Ranger of Path
FantasyIshkur, an orphan nostalgic for the heroic roots of his adoptive band of ambitious adventurers, sets out on a redemptive mission to recover the secrets of a forgotten trade route traversing a contested realm. The orders that he finds in his pocket...
