Disenchanted by Robert Kroese Read Free Book Online Page B

were tight but oddly comforting; they made Boric feel less like he was going to fall apart at any moment. She left only his eyes uncovered; at first he had objected to having his mouth and nose wrapped but she pointed out that he no longer needed to either eat or breathe — and that unless it was secured, his jaw would probably eventually fall off. He wasn’t sure he actually needed his jaw to speak; his voice seemed to emit from his mouth in some ghostly fashion, utilizing neither the flow of air across his vocal cords nor the movement of his lips and tongue (although he continued to move these muscles, like a puppet mimicking the speech of the puppeteer). Still, losing his jaw would make him look even more monstrous, and it was important that he at least appear human for as long as possible. When he put on his clothing and armor and covered his head with his cloak, he looked almost normal. She had also painted over the markings on his armor with pitch, both so that he’d be less visible in the dark (“a wraith has to be able to skulk”) and so that he wouldn’t be recognized as the former King of Ytrisk.
    By the time she had finished, it was nearly dark outside. The witch lit a lamp and stood back, regarding her work with what Boric could only imagine was pride. She seemed on the verge of saying something when the door to the cottage flew open and three dark figures entered the room, their footsteps eerily quiet. They wore dark cloaks and black leather gloves, their eyes pinpoints of red light burning like coals in faces wrapped in black cloth. Each of them carried a broadsword that was an exact likeness of Brakslaagt.
    “Boric the Implacable, son of Toric,” hissed the figure at the lead of the group. “Our master has summoned you.”

SIX
    After his decisive victory over the Crown Prince of Skaal, Boric had no trouble enlisting locals to assist him in his efforts to vanquish the ogre. The only local whose help Boric really wanted was the chubby, bald-headed merchant, but he let the blacksmith come along because he wasn’t sure the merchant would go along with what he was planning without some prodding from his friend.
    “Where are we going?” asked the merchant, whose name was Padmos, as he and the blacksmith tailed Boric through the village. “Surely you don’t mean to hunt the ogre at night.”
    “On my way here I rode past an abandoned house on the edge of town,” said Boric. “That’s where we’re going to wait for the ogre.” Boric carried ahead of him a small lantern, allowing them to make their way through the darkened streets.
    “That’s the old miller’s house,” said the blacksmith, whose name was Daman. “It’s completely burned out. The roof is falling in.”
    “The ogre isn’t going to concern himself with the structural integrity of the house,” replied Boric. “Careful with that thing.” This last was directed at Daman, who was swinging a sword through the air in lazy arcs. He had insisted on stopping by his shop and picking up the sword, which he had made on a slow day a few weeks earlier. Like Daman himself, the sword was crude but functional. Boric didn’t really like the idea of the big oaf carrying a sword, but he didn’t want to waste time arguing. For his part, Boric had decided to hold on to Brakslaagt.
    Daman and Padmos, the merchant, muttered back and forth behind Boric. While they were relieved not to be heading out into the hills at night to hunt the ogre, they weren’t so sure about spending the night in a burned-out house on the edge of town. What made this messenger think that the ogre would be coming here? And why did a messenger care so much about a rogue ogre anyway? Didn’t he have messages to deliver?
    Boric led the two men to the old house. It hadn’t been much of a house even before it had burned, and now it was just a blackened husk of its former self. Boric led the men into the house, which was really just a one-room cottage with a dirt floor. He