The Ogre's Pact by Troy Denning Page B

patronizing smile. “This is the answer that comes to my mind: The ogres want us to give chase, perhaps so a larger group can catch our armies in the open, thus weakening the defenses of Castle Hartwick.”
    Earl Wendel’s cheeks reddened, as did those of several other men old enough to have fought beside the king during the War of Harts. Camden had used his ogre allies to execute a similar ruse against his brother, with the result that Dunstan’s castle had been captured and his forces driven from the land.
    “But we must do something!” Wendel said. “We can’t let them take the princess!”
    “Perhaps Morten will know something useful,” called Simon.
    The priest was kneeling at Morten’s side, ready to cast his spells. His assistants had shaved the bodyguard’s heavy beard away from the horrible gash on his neck. They had also peeled Brianna’s shredded-bark dressing off the firbolg’s thigh, revealing the jagged lips of an arrow puncture. The skin surrounding the hole was red and disfigured from the fiery healing magic of the princess’s goddess, but the injury looked as though it would trouble Morten for some time to come. Both wounds were surrounded by white foam left over from the cleric’s purifying ritual.
    Simon laid his silver staff over the hole on Morten’s leg, announcing, “He’ll be ready to answer questions in a moment.”
    Tavis received the news with mixed feelings. Certainly, he wanted to hear what Morten could tell them about the ogres-but he was not looking forward to the bodyguard’s report about what had happened earlier in the Weary Giant’s barn.
    Simon uttered a string of mystic syllables, and a blue flash hissed down the length of his forked staff, filling the air with the smell of fresh rain. Crackling bolts of sapphire light danced over Morten’s arrow wound. The hole’s jagged lips joined together seamlessly, and even the burn caused by Brianna’s healing spell vanished. The spell faded, leaving only a faint blue scar in the shape of a lightning bolt to mark the injury.
    Several earls voiced their high esteem for Simon’s magic, but the high priest paid them no attention. Laying the forked end of his staff over the gash on Morten’s neck, he raised a wineskin and began to pour. As the red fluid spilled over the firbolg’s throat, he called upon Stronmaus to change the wine to blood so the veins of a brave warrior might run full once more. A dazzling bolt crackled down from the sky and struck the rod. The pommel flared blue for a moment, then the red nectar grew dark and thick as it spilled into the wound.
    Morten’s breath grew deeper and more steady. His eyes fluttered, then he moaned. He smacked his lips, as though the wine were entering his throat through his mouth instead of a wound. When he tasted nothing, the firbolg’s eyes popped open. He twisted his head to the side and squinted up at the high priest.
    “Simon?” he gasped. “What are you doing here? Where’s Brianna?”
    “We’re at the Earls Bridge,” the cleric explained, his voice soft and patient. Still pouring wine over his staff, he continued, “You suffered a wound-“
    “My wounds aren’t important!” Morten said. “What of the princess?”
    The bodyguard pushed himself into a sitting position, but lacked the strength to stay there and promptly crashed back to the ground. “What of Lady Brianna?” he demanded again.
    Camden stepped to the firbolg’s side. “We were hoping you could tell us,” he said. The king waved his hand at Tavis. Basil, and Avner. “These three found you on Coggin’s Rise. My daughter wasn’t there.”
    Morten turned his head to glare at Tavis. The firbolgs eyes were ashamed and angry, as one might expect of a loyal bodyguard who had just learned of his failure, but they also seemed strangely glazed, as though the pain of his injuries had dulled his mind.
    “You!” Again Morten tried to rise. “I’ll kill you myself!”
    Camden gently pushed the firbolg