Hemlin crouched behind an old fence post that was too narrow to conceal him. He held his breath and hoped the shadow of the barn beside him would swallow him from view, hoped it wasn’t true that ogres could see in the dark.

  He knew better. They could see in the dark; that’s how they spotted him before.

  He didn’t remember running to the barn or collapsing into the fence post before reaching the cart Melindra hid behind. He remembered the eyes of the ogre that saw him hiding; pure evil, nothing but hate.

  In the village to the north he heard the impossibly deep voices of the monsters. They conversed casually as they looked for plunder and survivors. Occasionally one or more would laugh; a terrible sound.

  Several dogs still barked periodically. From the sounds that reached the barnyard, Hemlin guessed one or two groups of hounds tracked the ogres, occasionally attacking and then retreating, only to return in a minute or two.

  It had been a while since Hemlin last heard a man or woman from the village screaming in terror. Their shrieks were always cut short, then followed by that evil laughter.

  He and Melindra weren’t the only ones who didn’t make it to the shelter.

  As if on cue shifting and whimpering arose from behind a nearby feed trough. The trough was to his right, and he knew Melindra hid behind a cart directly in front of him.

  Others hid in the barnyard with them. The boy wanted to call out to see who was there, but his voice failed him.

  He stayed quiet and still, clutching the fencepost for several more minutes. He had no idea what else to do.

  The wood of the barn to his right creaked slightly. The cattle within shifted together. Suddenly the entire barn began to shake from a ruckus within. The cattle became agitated, mooing and battering the stable doors and pen walls. Snorting frantically and bellowing in alarm, trapped with nowhere to flee, the village’s modest herd sounded like fifty head of cattle crammed into a storeroom.

  Chickens began clucking and fluttering within their coop and a handful of pigs snorted and squealed in alarm. The cacophony of animal sounds grew louder and more frantic as the seconds passed.

  The sound of not-too-distant laughter, deep and monstrous, seized the boy. He felt cold and lost and started to shake. The chattering of his teeth horrified and enraged him; he couldn’t make it stop, and he knew that sound would be the end of him.

  The awful laughter erupted again, this time joined by another voice, even deeper than the first. The second voice was clearly making some kind of joke, for as it snarled and gurgled horrendously in a language Hemlin didn’t understand, the laughing voice became ever louder and more enthusiastic.

  The voices went silent, replaced by a steady cadence of heavy footfalls. Hemlin could feel each step vibrating in the ground beneath him.

  Were there three of them, or four? He couldn’t tell but he knew they were getting closer.

  As the chickens and pigs and cattle carried on it occurred to the boy he was hiding next to the buffet line. Of course they were coming to the barn, if not to look for survivors to get something to eat or maybe some meat to take with them.

  The boy cursed his stupidity.

  Melindra started to sob again. Naturally.

  “Melindra you must shut up!” the boy snapped. “Or go hide somewhere else!”

  He was in no mood for the girl’s thoughtless noise making.

  As if suddenly realizing the fence post did not cover him, the boy ran the rest of the way to the cart and hunkered down next to the girl, who was crying as quietly as she could.

  Closer and closer came the marching ogres. Hemlin heard occasional sobs from behind the feed trough and fought back tears himself; not because he was trying to be brave but because he didn’t want to add to the noise that got everyone killed.

  The boy suddenly gasped, nearly throwing up in his mouth as a rancid stench flooded his nostrils.

  “Oh gods,” he whispered involuntarily, immediately rebuking himself internally for vocalizing. He truly hadn’t meant to speak, but the odor smacked him hard.

  His eyes burned and he almost gagged again. He turned his face away from the direction of the unholy stench, burying his nose in his shirt.

  Melindra toppled over beside him, unmoving once she hit the ground.

  Now she’ll be quiet. Thought the boy.

  The startled whimpers and gasps from the nearby feed trough indicated to Hemlin that others had also registered the odor. With each passing second the child was newly amazed by the shocking horridness of the smell.

  There could be no question this was the stench of the approaching ogres. As their footfalls grew louder the odor became heavier and more like a thick , unseen fog.

  The noises of the frightened farm animals reached its peak.

  Far too quickly the sound of marching ogres came to an abrupt halt.

  The ogres stopped just on the other side of the barn. Hemlin couldn’t see them but knew they were there, standing in a fog of their own foulness. A pig squealed frantically – louder than the others – then stopped abruptly, cut short by a heavy, wet, smacking sound.

  An ogre said something, its mouth clearly full as it spoke. Another ogre replied, its voice also muffled.

  A deep shout erupted from the village. Another ogre for sure, but it sounded alarmed or upset.

  The voice in the village went silent. Two more deep, guttural voices shouted, half-roared, then each went silent in turn.

  One of the ogres on the other side of the barn said something that sounded like a question. A different ogre replied with what sounded like another question.

  From the direction of the village yet another ogre let out a fierce roar. The outburst ended abruptly, not naturally.

  The unseen ogres feeding on the pig exchanged quick, brutish comments.

  Someone behind the feed trough, Hemlin couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman, gagged out loud then vomited.

  “Gods they stink,” whoever it was gasped.

  The heavy footfalls of the ogres resumed and rounded the barn. They stopped at the fence around the barnyard. There was no gate on that side of the corral.

  Hemlin heard them sniffing the air, then one said what sounded like “Greelsh.”

  Two other ogres chuckled heavily. The boy had the distinct feeling the word “greelsh” was some sort of food reference.

  The sharp crack of wooden planks busting and shattering preceded a shower of dust and splinters that peppered the ground. The three ogres stepped into the barnyard.

  Hemlin saw their silhouettes against the sky as they walked towards the middle of the corral and stopped. Two of them were at least eight feet tall and the third was surely ten feet or more. The terrifying creatures turned in unison and faced in the boy’s direction.

  He knew they could see him. He wanted to hide his face but he couldn’t look away from the awful spectacle of the monsters.

  He felt the hatefulness of their glare like heat upon his face. A great weight bore down upon his head and shoulders.

  This is how I die.

  The boy was so exhausted from fear and had given up hope long before fleeing to the barnyard. He simply accepted his fate, even welcomed an end to his terror.

  Suddenly the ogres grunted and whipped their heads to their left, Hemlin’s right.

  The boy turned his head to follow their gaze. Instantly every muscle in his body tensed at the sight of the tall, black thing standing at the far end of the barnyard. Then immediately he realized this was not the thing from the shadows; it wasn’t tall enough.

  The boy looked intently at the dark form, taller than two of the ogres and standing like a man. It wore a black cloak with the cowl hung low over its face.

  A smaller creature stood on the figure’s shoulder. A frog?

  Hemlin did a double take. A purple frog, two feet tall, wearing a deep blue cloak stood with its hands on its hips staring down the three ogres.

  “By the laws of the Duke of Weidsmuth I identify you as ogres, enemies of the people, and subject to death,” the frog spoke.

  The frog talks? The boy struggled to make sense of the situation.

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  The nine-foot figure pushed a large sack forward to spill the contents onto the ground. Seven immense ogre heads, jaws agape and lifeless eyes wide, rolled onto the barnyard.

  The three ogres let out grunts of surprise and anger. Two raised immense clubs and the tallest brought up an enormous axe and gripped it in both hands.

  The cloaked figure shifted its feet and moved with a grace impossible for something so large. It drew a sword with a blade nearly seven feet long and curved slightly near the tip. The purple frog hopped away as the tall figure’s cowl fell back onto its shoulders to reveal the head of a black wolf.

  Hemlin gasped audibly and shook his head. He looked again and the wolf remained; he even noticed how the legs bent the wrong way for a man and caught a bushy tail beneath the cloak.

  So many things happened next the boy could not keep up. Only later when the fear and shock of the moment had passed and his mind calmed did he process it all.

  The ogres lunged as a group.

  The tallest one with the axe suddenly vanished into thin air just after the frog, now seated atop a nearby fence post, spoke a strange word.

  The wolf moved as if to charge but instead shifted to its left. The closest ogre believed the feint and swung hard, its club passing through the empty air where it thought the wolf would be.

  The wolf-warrior reversed momentum into beautiful spin, bringing his blade around into a clean circle with both hands on the hilt. The steel whistled and passed completely through the ogre’s truncated neck, lopping the head clean off.

  Stunned by this development the second ogre faltered briefly then snarled and shook its club as it shifted side-to-side in a deep stance. It moved with surprising balance and efficiency as it sized up its opponent.

  The frog on the fence post spoke another strange word. The missing ogre reappeared high in the air over the barnyard. It howled and fell like a stone, crashing to the ground right beside the club-wielding ogre squaring off with the wolf.

  The latter flinched, surprised by the ogre falling from the sky. The wolf pounced, slicing the ogre’s club off just above the monster’s grip; in one fluid motion the wolf then shifted forward to smash the ogre’s face with a forward elbow thrust.

  The ogre staggered back heavily, its chin raised as its head was knocked back by the forceful blow. In a blur of motion the wolf stepped through his momentum and brought the long, steel blade around and through his opponent’s exposed neck.

  The ogre’s body took another full step back before collapsing as the head rolled forward onto the ground. The wolf casually kicked the head over to the other four heads that spilled from the sack.

  Hemlin watched, stunned and mesmerized by the unfolding scene. Saved by a giant wolf-man that wielded a sword like some epic hero, and a talking frog magic-user. He now wished Melindra hadn’t fainted, for who would believe this tale?

  Then he remembered the others hiding in the barnyard. He turned excitedly towards the feed trough to see a woman and a girl, young but older than he, staring in awe at the spectacle of the two strangers.

  “Well done,” said the frog to the wolf. “You came close.”

  “You’re trying to cheat,” the wolf said in a calm, deep voice that was somehow both rough and refined.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” the frog replied. “I was simply participating in the battle; trying to help out, do my part as it were.”

  “You were trying to deprive me of my victory and avoid paying the ten gold,” the wolf corrected.

  Ten gold??? Hemlin had never heard an adult speak of that much money in a serious tone.

  “How can you say that?” the frog sounded hurt. “I’m actually quite sorry you weren’t able to get the last head…”

  The prostrate ogre that had fallen from the sky groaned and rolled onto its knees and elbows.

  “In that case,” the wolf said slyly. “Not to worry.”

  Pointing at the ogre with his sword as it lumbered to its feet, he said. “They’re tougher than one might think.”

  “So I see,” the frog said rather glumly; it produced a small drinking flask from a pocket and took a long pull.

  The wolf waited as the ogre fumbled for the axe it had dropped. Clutching the weapon in one hand, the monster rose to its feet and staggered back a half step.

  “They speak common?” the wolf asked the frog.

  “Some do,” the frog replied, now holding the flask in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. “Unlikely these on the Jagged Jaws are that educated.”

  The ogre shook its head and rolled its shoulders, then emitted a low growl.

  The wolf responded with its own low growl. Hemlin felt this growl in his chest, then became dizzy. The ogre faltered on its feet and shook its head vigorously.

  “Careful now,” the frog pointed to the boy by the cart.

  “Of course,” the wolf concerned. “My apologies youngster,” he spoke to Hemlin over his shoulder.

  “Ask it if it is ready?” the wolf instructed the frog.

  The frog blew out a cloud of smoke and said something in a ridiculously guttural voice; short and choppy.

  The ogre raised its eyebrows, surprised to be addressed in its own tongue. It uttered a single deep syllable then moved the axe in a tight circle with its right hand.

  The wolf advanced in small shuffle-steps to close the distance. The ogre stepped forward, bringing its axe up for a straight overhand attack.

  The wolf didn’t move an inch until the last possible second, when he subtly rocked back onto his rear foot and allowed the axe head to swipe harmlessly past, mere inches from his snout. He then exploded into a forward lung; the long blade disappeared into the ogre’s torso.

  The thing lurched and dropped its axe. It probably would have fallen had the sword not held it up.

  The sword-wielding wolf took a full step backwards, bringing the blade back out of the ogre in a shower of dark liquid. As the ogre started to topple, the life leaving its eyes, the sword flashed across taking the head cleanly off the top of the doomed ogre’s neck.

  The wolf caught the falling head with its knee and bumped it into the air. Now clearly caught up in the theatrics of the moment, the graceful canine humanoid caught the ogre head on the back od his right hand and rolled it along his arm, over the shoulder and behind his neck, to catch it with the opposite shoulder and roll it back down the other arm onto the ground alongside the other ogre heads.

  The warrior cleaned his blade with a bit of his cloak then quickly sheathed it.

  “There you are constable,” said the wolf. “If it is more convenient for you, feel free to add the ten gold to my final bounty. Or you may tender coin directly, as you wish.”

  “How kind of you to provide me with options,” the frog had another long pull from the drinking flask.

  “You know, three of those heads came from ogres that were dead when we arrived.,” the frog pointed out.

  “Two were killed by hounds and another hard an arrow through its eye,” the wolf added. “What’s your point? I wagered I would take the head of every ogre we encountered; I never enumerated nor said ‘every ogre that entered Cobble Home’.”

  The frog grunted.

  “You’re looking for a reason to welch,” the wolf accused.

  “I was simply checking the parameters of our bet to be certain all were in order,” the frog took a drag off his cigarette and blew a column of smoke off to the side, taking care not to get any on his companion.

  The wolf suddenly growled and looked to its right. The tall, spindly thing either stepped from the shadows or materialized from nothing, Hemlin couldn’t decide which.

  With alarming speed the thing went straight for the wolf, who in turn dove into a lateral roll. The warrior recovered from his roll halfway across the barnyard but the black thing from the shadows circled undaunted as it prepared to leap forward.

  “Fidzum O Terru Graspis.” The purple frog made a grabbing motion, closing his small fist as he spoke.

  The ground beneath the Ghrast rose like an avalanche falling up a mountain. The chunks of soil and rock formed a giant closed fist around the creature. Bones crunched as the thing groaned and opened its mouth; many whispering voices hissed a word, and the earthen hand about it crumbled into a pile of rubble.

  The frog must have anticipated this, for he flung some powder in the air right away, saying “Ignus Ka Ignak!”

  From the cloud of dust made by the powder, dozens of tiny fireballs emerged and flew hissing into the Ghrast. Each little ball of fire exploded on impact and became a fire upon the monster’s body. Within one or two seconds nearly the whole being was ablaze.

  The monster shrieked and rushed out of the barnyard. A streak of fire it became, shrieking and speeding into the night.

  “Nice,” said the wolf as he gathered the ogre heads back into the sack.

  “I do what I can.” The frog hopped to the cart where Hemlin crouched, a good thirty feet from his fence post.

  “How do you feel, youngster? Any dizziness or upset stomach since you heard the wolf growl?”

  “What?” Hemlin stammered. “I, no… You’re a talking frog.”

  Pidwermin let the silence following these words hang for half a moment. His eyes shifted far to the right for a second, then returned themselves to the boy’s gaze.

  “Yes, thank you. I see the schools out here are every bit as good as the ones in the municipalities.” The frog flicked the butt of his spent cigarette and pulled hard on the flask once more.

  “Forgive my ill manners; I am Pidwermin, Constabulary of the Duke’s Rangers in this lovely region. This,” the frog pointed to the wolf. “Is Kovak, ranger in the service of the duke and the people hereabouts.”

  A talking, purple frog who makes magical fire and places wagers with werewolves involving the cutting off of ogre’s heads. The boy kept these thoughts to himself but entertained them nonetheless.

  “You’re lucky we found you; we thought everyone in the village was in the shelter,” said the frog. “Sheriff Tansin should be back in the village square now, which means I must go to the square to see to final formalities. Won’ t you join me?”

  Hemlin nodded.

  The wolf held the sack of ogres heads out, and the frog opened a small pouch on his belt. Together the two of them carefully placed the large sack containing the heads of ten ogres into the small beltpouch about the size of an apple. Every last fold of cloth and bulge of contents somehow fit into the small pouch.

  Hemlin stared in awe at the wolf named Kovak. The wolf in turn nodded to the boy, who quickly looked away.

  “He looks fierce – indeed he is if one is an ogre or goblin – but he is no threat to the common, decent folks of these realms,” the frog assured the boy.

  “I’ll remain here until you’re finished,” Kovak informed the frog.

  “Very well,” said the frog. “I won’t be long.”

  The woman and the girl from behind the feed trough were waking Melindra.

  Hemlin’s teeth began to chatter; not from fear, but from the cold air. He had not realized how cold it was outside, for his immediate survival instincts had been busy with other concerns.

  The wolf slipped into the shadows to avoid frightening the girl. He remained out of sight as the small group walked the trail back to the village proper.

  ?