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Mist was rising from the wetlands. The afternoon sun was stretching long fingers over the distant mountains and the land was preparing for night.
Ragnar eyed the faint tendrils wafting over the fields and through the weeds with disquiet. He had no liking for fogs or mist-filled swamps. To him they were the ghosts of the craven dead, those unworthy to join the warriors and their families in Vatun's hall. These ghosts would try to trick a warrior into an ignoble death and hide his spirit within the mist to join them in their misery.
Already the ghosts were playing their tricks. They called out from the thick stand of cat-tails ahead, first with piping voices and then with deep rumbling replies. Ragnar strained to make out the words, but any meaning to the sounds were tantalizingly just beyond his perception.
The road ahead was empty as far as could be seen, but with the voices now came the creak of wood and a thumping as if something was being dropped and dropped again. Each step brought the sounds closer and the piping squeak became the voice of a goblin, and the deep reply, that of an ogre grinding out an answer.
They sang of the bog and muddy heath, of endless labor that even death would not relieve. Now their voices were clear and loud. A pair of ogres stepped onto the road, not ten yards from where Ragnar stood transfixed by their appearance. They carried a wooden pole between them, the tongue of a wagon.
There were two more behind the first, all four straining to drag the wagon onto the road. Goblins were piled along the driver's bench. More were in the bed of the wagon, hidden behind the high, plank sides. Ragnar could not see them but he could hear their voices as they sang.
The ogres had their heads down as they pulled and the goblins had not seen him yet. The fog and failing light aided him, but these beasts had grown fearless and lax in this conquered land, no human warrior had walked this road openly in more than half-a-dozen years. They had no thought of guard or worry of danger, they owned this road as they owned all the land of Geoff.
Ragnar sprinted toward them. The wagon turned in his direction, a slow, creaking motion, the axle squeaking louder than the singing goblins.
"Oooofff!" an ogre grunted out as Ragnar's axe slammed into its stomach. Its thick hide split open as the curved edge sliced into its vitals then was pulled away, opening the wound further. As it doubled over the axe came down again but skidded across its rock-hard skull.
The wagon was in motion, three ogres still pulling, but suddenly aware that something was not right. The smell of blood was in the air. The force that pulled the wagon reduced by one.
Goblins screamed, a sound not much different than their voice in song. The ogres stumbled to a halt, one tripping over its injured comrade, the blade of Ragnar's axe whistling over its head.
"Hells!" Ragnar cursed, his axe would have struck the monster in the throat. He half-spun, dragged by the heavy blade, but brought his axe high in the backswing and down on the ogre again.
The monster caught itself on the wagon pole, still held by the other ogre pair, and put a knee against the fallen ogre's back. It was turning, spinning round, when Ragnar chopped it in the shoulder.
It was like he'd hit a knot in an ancient bronzewood tree. The axe thunked against the bone and wedged tight for a moment, till Ragnar tore it free with panicked strength.
With its wounded arm the ogre threw Ragnar stumbling back, sending him to one knee. Its inhuman strength had fled its injured arm, only the ogre's ponderous weight was behind the blow.
Ragnar swung his axe low into the ogre's ankle. Again it was like hewing wood and he did little damage to the beast, but the ogre tried to yank its feet away from the scything steel. It tangled with its comrade now behind it and both fell.
A wide, steelrimmed wheel pressed against Ragnar's back. The wagon still moved and threatened to drive him into the road. A leap forward spared him for a moment, but he felt the touch of the crushing weight fall now against his leg. Ragnar scrambled, almost loosing his axe as he clawed at the oerth to pull himself to safety.
The wheel scraped over the edge of his boot, hobnails were drawn out and its sole dangled loose, but Ragnar was unharmed. The wagon rolled on, first over the ogre with the useless arm, up its chest, grinding into its split shoulder, then onto the back of the other ogre, The wagon stopped, pinning the gutted ogre face first to the ground.
* * *
(To Be Continued)