A Meddle of Wizards. Alexandra Rushe

the back of Snaggle Tooth’s thighs. The ograk bawled and went to his knees. Mauric’s blade flashed again. A ludicrous expression of surprise crossed the goggin’s deformed face. With a meaty thud, Snaggle Tooth’s body toppled to the ground and his misshapen head rolled away.

      Skrell and Black Patch skidded to a halt, staring at their dead companion in brutish incomprehension.

      “One gut bag down, two to go,” Mauric sang.

      The ograks howled and renewed the attack. Mauric drew a knife from his boot and threw it. The weapon spun end over end and sank deep into Black Patch’s good eye. The goggin stiffened. Black blood spurted from the wound, and the ograk crumpled to the ground.

      “Two down, one to go.” The warrior tossed his sword from hand to hand, taunting Skrell. “Your turn, Pus Mug. Come and get it.”

      Under different circumstances, the panicked look on the remaining ograk’s face might have been comical. Skrell dropped his club and sprinted for the distant tree line. As he neared the shelter of the woods, the air in front of him shimmered, and a large, sandaled foot appeared. The ograk disappeared beneath it.

      Tiny Bart materialized. With a loud pop and a wet squishing sound, the giant crushed the ograk beneath his shoe like a bug. He stomped over to a rock and scraped the gog goo off the bottom of his sandal.

      “No fair,” Mauric said, frowning. “That was my ograk.”

      “Were it, now? ‘Pears to me he be getting away.”

      “I was giving him a head start.”

      Raine stared at the jellied remains of the ograk. The bloodied pulp resembled so much road kill. Mauric’s and Tiny’s voices sounded tinny and far away over the roaring in her ears.

      “Thought you said the lass be peaked,” Tiny said. “What she be doing climbing a tree?”

      “She didn’t climb,” Mauric said. “I put her there.”

      “So’s you could have yer sport with them goggins?”

      “Aye.”

      “And a fine job you made of it, too. Shame on me fer spoiling yer fun.”

      “No harm done.”

      “Hmm.” Tiny cut his eyes at Raine, then back at Mauric. “Me mam allus says what goes up be a-coming down. You ever hears that one?”

      “Sure. That’s an old chestnut. What’s it got to do with anything?”

      “Nothing, ’cepting the lass be about to fall.”

      “What?” Mauric whirled to face Raine.

      “Sharp as a whistle, me mam.” Tiny beamed. “Best hurry if you wants to catch her.”

      “Hold on, Raine. I’m coming.” Sword in hand, Mauric broke into a run.

      The blood dripping from his weapon was black and viscous, like the mush Tiny had cleaned off his sandal. Raine’s head felt curiously light, as if it might detach and float away. Great green gobs of greasy, grimy gopher guts. The childhood jingle played inside her head. Mauric was closer now, she observed through a fog. A few more strides and he would reach her.

      Great green gobs of greasy, grimy gopher guts. Great green gobs of—

      The rocky ground rippled and swelled, rising to meet her.

      “Tro,” she heard Mauric say as she toppled out of the tree.

      Chapter 8

      Fever Dreams

      By the time they reached the cave in the mountains Tiny had found, it was snowing. A bitter wind blew through the pass, flinging bits of sleet and grit into their faces. Snow devils whirled around them and danced among the black rocks.

      “There it be,” Tiny said, pointing.

      From his perch on the giant’s shoulder, Mauric squinted at the opening in the rock. It didn’t look promising, little more than a crack in the side of the mountain.

      “How far back does it go?” he asked.

      “Dunno. I stuck my arm in and wiggled it about a bit. Plenty o’ room for the two of you, thas’ for sure.”

      “Is it empty? I don’t fancy bedding down with a nest of ograks or waking up with a hungry borg standing over me.”

      Magog’s ferocious three-headed bears roamed these mountains. Mauric had never encountered a borg, and he wasn’t anxious to make the acquaintance. Borgs were teeth at one end and poisonous, spiny barbs at the other.

      “I puts my pie hole up to the opening and hallooed. If there be anything in there, they be terrible sound sleepers.”

      A moan drew Mauric’s attention to the unconscious girl in his lap. Raine’s skin was pallid, the color of two-day old porridge. She was obviously unwell; lines of pain and exhaustion etched the corners of her eyes. Hard to believe this gaunt, sickly creature was Hara’s twin. He studied Raine’s drawn features, searching for the likeness that had been so readily apparent to the goggins. All humans must look alike to an ograk, he decided, because he didn’t see the resemblance. True, the profile was similar—the same straight nose and stubborn jaw, but, whereas Hara’s face had been soft and round, with full, pouting lips, Raine’s face was gaunt and angular.

      Hara . . . Mauric recalled Magog’s bride with a twinge of regret. Now there was a ripe, inviting lass with a body a man could lose himself in. Her twin, by contrast, was a bag of bones, slight-hipped, flat-chested, and white as a tucker. Raine’s hair was different, too—dull, lank curls. Hara’s tresses, he remembered with a sigh, had swished about her hips in a fall of ebon silk.

      Raine shivered and Mauric touched her forehead with the back of his fingers. Her skin was hot and dry, and the pulse at her throat fluttered like a captured bird. Tro, what had Gertie and Bree been thinking to leave him with a sick woman, and a virtual stranger at that?

      He adored Gertie, he truly did. The cantankerous old fur ball was a trusted family friend, a confidant and mentor. Why, his fondest childhood memories were of summers spent in the troll’s cabin in the Far Hold, the northern mountains of Finlara. Gertie had taught him to hunt and track, to climb, wrestle, and swim. She’d schooled him in the art of whistling and the proper way to smoke a pipe. She’d given him his first drink. From her, he’d learned Trolk and the history of Tandara before the Maiming. When he was old enough, she’d taught him the art of swearing—the old gal had a mouth that would make a sailor blush.

      In truth, there wasn’t much he wouldn’t do for Gertie, but, by the gods, this inched perilously close to the limit. Like any hale, healthy Finlar, Mauric was terrified of sick people. Add to that the fact that this particular invalid was Hara’s twin and the possible Wielder of the Eye, and you had a recipe for indigestion. What if he did something wrong?

      What if he broke her? Damn wizards.

      “Warrior?”

      “I heard you.” Mauric shrugged aside his ill humor. “Take the girl while I go inside and have a look.”

      He handed Raine to Tiny and shimmied off the giant and onto the rocky trail.

      “Here.” Tiny handed Mauric a cloth torch. “Fer light.”

      “Thanks,” Mauric said. The torch, no bigger than a candle in the giant’s hand, was longer than Mauric’s arm.

      The track they were on was narrow, scarcely wider than an ox cart. Cautiously, Mauric peered into the crevice in the cliff face. Watery light spilled into the entrance and faded to black.

      He didn’t much care for caves. The thick, suffocating dark and the sense of stone pressing down on him made it hard to breathe. He particularly disliked unexplored caves. Anything could be in there, watching and waiting.

      Taking a deep breath, he eased inside and listened, skin and nerves prickling with unease. Nothing stirred. Heartened,