MASTER PETER could be traveling to trade with the elves, so we might meet again on my way back to Jenn as an ogre who could persuade.
A year ago I’d dosed an elf boy named Agulen, who’d visited Jenn with his parents and had developed a rash. (Elf skin color changes with the seasons, which sometimes causes itchy patches.)
He spoke no Kyrrian, but all he had to do was point at his elbows and neck. I spread a paste of galingale, zedoary, and ginger on the spots, while his eyes never left my face. He came back three days later, minus the rash, plus a gift of the bust I carried in my satchel: a carving in gray stone, a likeness of me as I was then.
The sculpture maiden looked solemn, as I’d never seen myself in the mirror. Mother said it was an excellent portrait, and I was a pretty girl. I’d had to admit he’d gotten the little bump on my nose exactly right. Now a cluster of hair sprouted there.
By midafternoon, the barren landscape had softened, and forest had grown up again. I lost sight of the road, so I veered right, but after fifteen minutes, no road.
I stopped short. Ahead I sensed a volcano of terror covered by a thin lid of trustfulness. The trust meant someone captured by ogres.
Ogres! I didn’t sense their feelings, just the captive’s.
I started out again, struggling to control my own volcano of fear.
Was the fright coming from Master Peter? Might I save him? Earn his gratitude?
The fear was a beacon. I followed it, stepping quietly. Soon I stood in shadow at the edge of a small clearing, where an elf man faced half a dozen ogres, who seemed not to sense me as I had failed to sense them. I was aware of only the elf’s emotions.
The ogres had arranged their faces to look benign, as much as they could. The elf tempted my stomach—in early adulthood, slender and tall as a grown human, his green skin tinged with gold for early autumn. He wore a patterned robe and tilted his head up at an ogre, who addressed him in Elfian, which I didn’t speak.
“Aff ench poel?” The ogre ran a hand along the elf’s sleeve, from shoulder to wrist. Its voice was honey.
The ogres wore bearskins, tied at the shoulders and belted to make rough tunics. Their feet were bare.
I heard a promise in the ogre’s tone: Submit and you will be oh so glad.
“Dok ench Grellon, ote hux Zaret,” the elf said in a soft, unworried voice. “Aff ench poel?”
I recognized the repetition and got the meaning. The ogre had asked the elf his name, and the elf—Grellon—had reciprocated. Polite conversation!
“Grellon, dok ench SSahlOO, ote hux HeMM.”
Ah. The ogre’s name was SSahlOO.
It lifted Grellon’s sleeve and licked his upper arm. My hunger surged, and the squirrel I’d eaten earlier threatened to rise.
Grellon didn’t stiffen, but I felt his panic mount.
SSahlOO bared its fangs. The other ogres did, too.
Run, Grellon!
“Er . . .”
They all turned. I saw the elf wake up. He pulled away from SSahlOO and fled—a few steps. But then the ogre spoke sweetly again, while glaring at me, and Grellon slowed, turned, started back, face rapt again.
This elf would not be eaten. I roared, “Get away, Grellon. Save yourself.” I had no idea if he spoke Kyrrian, but I kept bellowing advice over the chorus of sweetness coming from the ogres, even as SSahlOO lunged at me.
It tried to stifle me with its hand, but I wrenched my head free and cried, “Grellon! Think! They just want to eat you.”
He ran.
SSahlOO scratched and punched me, and the others joined in.
Rage flooded me. My muscles tightened; my fists balled. I struck—punched!—head butted!—scratched!—elbowed!—kneed!—kicked! Broke free. Crouched—all ogre—ready for the next onslaught.
I kept my carpetbag slung around my neck. They would not get my dried meat.
Or my healer supplies, but I thought of the meat first.
As one, they jumped up and crouched, too, all of us tensed and ready.
A few seconds passed. My mind returned, and my first thought was: How alike we all look.
One stood up and slouched. “LyOO.”
Was that its name?
The others rose into slouches, too. Bad posture. I could fix that.
Blood seeped through my shirt and breeches. I felt bruised, and the cuts stung. Ogre scratches wouldn’t kill ogres, would they? A few of the others were bleeding, too, and seemed unalarmed.
The one who’d said LyOO was taller and broader than the others, with sprouts of gray in its chin hair. They all had chin hair. I had chin hair. That didn’t make it male.
The speaker continued, in Ogrese, of course. I understood nothing. Lucinda, couldn’t you have given me that?
But the language was beautiful, as liquid and smooth as my honey-and-oil syrup. The sounds ran together. I couldn’t determine when one word ended and another began, though I could tell they weren’t trying to be persuasive.
Was the fight over? I rose out of my crouch, too, shoulders back, posture perfect.
SSahlOO started toward me, open hands raised, meaning, I hoped, no harm. When it reached me, it stroked my cheek.
I jumped back. Was it testing my plumpness? Did ogres eat other ogres?
This caused laughter and amused head-shaking.
I felt myself blush, which I didn’t know ogres did. Had I given myself away?
Seemingly not. They laughed harder, rocking from side to side. The ones laughing the most hopped from foot to foot.
SSahlOO said something that, by tone, had to be a question. Another question followed. Then it waited.
“Er . . .”
Eyebrows—well, facial hair above the eyes—went up all around.
I addressed SSahlOO: “Er . . . I don’t speak Ogrese.”
Its expression grew vaguely pleasant. Its voice softened our bumpy Kyrrian. “I merely welcomed you. We want you to feel as at home with us as with your . . .” It looked puzzled in a kindly way. “Your own sort, your . . . friends.”
The girl in me was lulled, but not the ogre that surrounded her. They would eat me!
Could I eat them?
How could I think that? Ugh on me!
They’d be tough and stringy.
I tried to imitate it. “I’m sure you all welcome me, and I’m hoping you’ll be my new friends.” I reached out to touch the ogre’s face. “You seem—”
They were laughing again, but SSahlOO grabbed my hand and held it, not hard. The hand bounced with its laughter. I could have broken away, but I didn’t know what would happen if I did. Its touch made me uneasy, though not terrified anymore.
Then, seemingly for no reason, a different ogre knocked SSahlOO’s arm away from mine. SSahlOO whirled, snarling. The two glared at each other. The second ogre lunged. Both rolled on the ground. The others laughed harder.
Should I do something?
After a minute, before either combatant finished off the other, the big ogre—apparently the leader—said the word I’d heard before: “LyOO.” Maybe it meant stop, because the skirmish ended, and the two stood, flanking me, but neither took my hand.
When the others finally stopped laughing, I said, “I think you asked me two questions, SSahlOO.”
It told its seeming enemy, “See? She recognized my name.” It knew I was female. How could it tell?
The enemy said, “My name is EEnth.”
SSahlOO said, “Before, I wanted to know if you don’t like elf. Or was something wrong with that one?”
Another one chimed in. “Why don’t you speak Ogrese?”
I swallowed. What could I say except part of the truth? “The elf looked delicious, but I don’t eat elves or humans or giants or gnomes. Or horses.” Or a lot of other animals.
SSahlOO’s jaw hung slack. If it had been Wormy, I would have told it to close its mouth for the sake of its throat.
The leader gestured with its hands. “You’ll take the elf’s place.”
They all advanced on me, baring their teeth.
I ran, though I knew it was hopeless.
They must have expected me to fight, because they didn’t spring after me instantly. The rage I’d felt earlier returned, and fury speeded my legs. My satchel bounced against my thigh as I crashed through low branches and caromed off tree trunks. Soon, I heard pursuit.
Another few moments and the chase ended. Arms circled my legs. I was down.
An ogre pinned my shoulders and opened its mouth. The others crowded around, watching. I thought my heart would burst out of my chest.
Mother, this is the end. Wormy, I hope you find love.
It lowered its head. I closed my eyes, giving up.