Excerpt from The Last Ogreguard (Tales of the Ogreguard, Volume I)

Chapter 2. The Circle of the Guard

The clearing was strewn with gray stones that were half-buried in the ground and covered by pale green lichens.  The rocks themselves did not appear unusual, but their arrangement formed definite shapes that could not be random.  Ogaeron was sure they had to be ancient buildings whose walls had fallen down (or been thrown down) long ago.  He counted at least eight structures in the middle of the clearing.  From their size, he thought they might have been houses, or storerooms, or perhaps meeting halls.   Several mounds surrounded these ruins, each about fifteen feet long and ten feet wide.  They were raised up several feet above his head and covered over with grass.  The outer edge of the clearing was marked by a line of stones, which seemed to be an old defensive wall.  Every few hundred feet along its length, he found larger piles of stone that might have been watchtowers, or perhaps armories and guardhouses. 

Ogaeron suspected that the ruins were vestiges of the Circle of the Guard, the very first Guardian settlement in the Greenwood.  He couldn’t prove it, at least not yet, but the site certainly seemed to fit the descriptions he had read in the Ogreguard Annals.   If this was the Circle, then all of these structures had been destroyed over a thousand years ago at the Battle of the Fifty Fallen.   The prospect of discovering a site of such antiquity was exciting.  Who knew what they might learn from it, what secrets it might be hiding?

Ogaeron had a keen interest in archaeology, and he had jumped at the chance when Wynnie had suggested they visit the site.  He guessed that she was probably just trying to break him out of his moodiness.  He had been withdrawn and sullen recently, and they had been fighting a lot about everything and nothing.     But whatever the reason, he was not going to miss the opportunity.   He needed Wynnie to watch his back.  The site was deeper within the Greenwood than they normally patrolled, and thus too dangerous for one Guardian to visit alone.   

“How much longer, little Brother?” she asked, shouting at him from the far side of the clearing. 

“Not much,” he called back.  “Let me finish measuring this last mound.” 

“Ok, but we need to move soon.” 

They had arrived in late morning and eaten lunch among the ruins.  It was now late afternoon, and time was running short.  They still had a trap survey to complete before they returned to the Tower, but he wanted to gather as much information as possible before they left.   He paced off the length of the mound and scribbled the number down on the diagram he was creating, a map of the site with the location and size of all of the structures clearly marked.   Once this was complete, he would identify some promising spots to dig. 

Ogaeron took his long measurement staff and pushed it into the ground a short distance from the mound.  The staff had feet and inches marked off along its length.  He would read it from the top of the mound and then subtract off his own height.  To see the markings on the staff more clearly, he had fashioned a device he called a “spotter.”   It was made out of a metal tube and lenses he had found in an old storeroom at the Tower.   

He climbed up the slope to the top of the mound.  Along the way he took note once again of the distinctive red flowers that were growing all around him.  The same blooms could be found on all of the other mounds in the clearing, but nowhere else.  When he reached the top, he aimed his spotter at the staff and peered through it intently.    The measurement came in at ten feet, five inches.   But just as he was about to lower the spotter and record this number, it began to seem a little off.  He started over and lined the spotter up again to remeasure.  Now it appeared to be ten feet, four inches.  Moments later it was at ten feet, three inches.  And then ten feet, two inches.

Ogaeron looked down and realized suddenly that he was sinking into the ground.  The mound was slowly giving way beneath his feet.   “What in the Wood!” he exclaimed. 

“What’s wrong?”  Wynnie called to him. 

“Nothing, I’m just. . .”  He tried to step out of the hole he was in, but his movements set loose a sudden collapse.  The ground gave way completely beneath him, and he dropped down to his armpits.  His chin and arms were now on the ground, and his legs were dangling in what felt like empty space below him.   He felt like the cork in a mound shaped bottle.    

“Uh, Wynnie?”  he called out.  “A little help, please.”

Wynnie came charging in ready for action, but she pulled up short and laughed when she saw him.  “What have you done now, little Brother?  If you want to play hide and seek, you should find a better spot.  I can still see you clearly in this one.”

“Yes, very funny,” he replied.  “Now could you help me out of this.  I think these mounds must be hollow.”

“You know, I think you just might be right,” she said with another laugh. 

“I’m glad you’re enjoying this so much.”  He held out his paw for help.

She stepped closer with her own paw extended, but her weight on the mound triggered another collapse.  She leapt back out of the way as the size of the opening grew larger.  Ogaeron fell straight through and disappeared beneath the surface along with an avalanche of dirt and rock. 

“Ogaeron,” she called out in alarm.  “Are you okay?” 

She approached the edge of the opening warily and peered through.  He was lying dazed next to a large stone block several feet below her.  He looked up at her in confusion for a moment, trying to make sense of where he was.  

“Ogaeron?  Are you hurt?”

He did not immediately respond.   He sat up slowly and began looking around.  “Not seriously,” he replied at last as he came back to his senses.  “Although I’m sure it’s enough to earn me a lecture from Bartholomew.  Hit my arm on whatever this is.”   He gingerly moved his arm around.  “Don’t think it’s broken, just bruised.”  

“Hold on a second.  I’m getting a rope from my pack.  I’ll be right back.”

He stood up and looked around him in the chamber.  The block his arm had struck was a stone platform, about two feet tall and four feet long.  It occupied the center of the room.  As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he could begin to make out something lying atop it.   He gasped in surprise as he realized that it was a skeleton.  And not just any skeleton.  Judging by the size and the garments, these bones were the remains of a Guardian.   The arms were crossed over his chest.  The right hand grasped the jeweled hilt of a sword with the blade pointed down towards the feet.  An inscription ran along its length.  The left hand held a scroll of parchment.  A curved hat sat next to the skull.

When he could tear his eyes away from the mesmerizing sight, he began to explore the rest of the chamber.  There was no hoard of treasure, but there was still much to spark his interest.  The walls were curved forming an oval shape with the platform in the middle.  Elaborate inlaid designs, white in color, covered most of the surfaces.  Ogaeron could not begin to understand most of it.   But he could read the text set into the longer wall just opposite the Guardian’s remains.   

ES GARZIN ATHAEQ AEMYN

ODAEGAELF HARZARETT

105 YAN AYGSIN

The first line was the text of the Oath, words that every Guardian knew.  “Even unto death do we swear.”  The second line identified the occupant of the tomb, for clearly that’s what this was, as Odaegaelf the Dauntless.  And evidently, Odaegaelf had died in the year 105 (Yan Aygsin or Year of the Watch). 

He was still studying this inscription when the end of a rope dropped down from the ceiling.  He looked up to see Wynnie’s face peering down at him.  “Climb on out, little Brother.”

“Give me a minute,” he replied.  “This is a Guardian tomb.   We need to study this.”

“Agreed, but not now.  Something’s off in the forest.  I can feel it.  It’s time to be gone.”

“It will just take a moment,” he replied with irritation.  “We have time.”    He did not wait for her to reply.  He pulled out his notebook, which had fallen with him down into the barrow, and began jotting down notes as quickly as he could.  He copied several of the intricate patterns from the wall and sketched the sword and its inscription.  All the while, he was acutely aware that Wynnie was staring down at him impatiently. 

“Okay, that’s enough,” she said.  “We need to move.”

“Just one more second,” he begged.

“Now, Ogaeron.  Time’s up!”

He looked around hurriedly, and his eyes landed on the scroll.  On impulse, he slipped it from the bony grasp of Odaegaelf and stuffed it inside his tunic.  With this treasure tucked safely away, he grabbed the rope and began to climb.

“Coming,” he shouted up to her.

He could no longer see her in the opening above.  Before he had reached the top, the distant sounds of grunting and growling reached him.  The hackles on his neck rose at the sound.  It sounded a lot like. . .

 “Goblins!” Wynnie shouted from the surface. 

“Ogallaly’s Teeth!” he swore.  

He redoubled his efforts and quickly climbed the remaining distance to the surface.  He rolled out onto the ground and leapt to his feet.   He could see Wynnie charging off to confront the foul creatures.   There were six in all, each similar in size to a Guardian and each armed with sword and shield.  Their arms were long, and their skin gray and warty.  Drool oozed continually over their protruding lower lips. They resembled nothing so much as large long-limbed toads.   As Wynnie approached them, the goblins split up into two groups—three remaining to confront her and three peeling off to attack Ogaeron.   

He descended the mound and headed to his pack to retrieve his sword.  The blade had gotten in the way as he was mapping, so he had set it aside.   Unfortunately, it was too far way now, and the first goblin was on him before he could retrieve it.  The beast greeted him with several rapid sword thrusts.  He dodged these easily and then rolled aside.    He came up next to Wynnie’s pack and picked up a bow and arrow she had left there. 

Weapon now in hand, Ogaeron fled from the goblins and headed up the side of a neighboring mound.   When he reached the top, he found that he had opened up just enough distance that he could turn, notch the arrow, and set it loose.  He winced at the pain in his left shoulder.

Thwack! The bolt skewered the closest goblin through the chest, sending it falling backwards into a second goblin.  They both tumbled down to the foot of the slope.

The third goblin leapt over his mates and came charging up the slope at Ogaeron. It stopped a few feet away with its curved blade held out menacingly.

“You have no weapon, Guardian,” it hissed with its baleful yellow eyes fixed on Ogaeron.  “Surrender and we shall be merciful.”

“I think not,” he replied, his reflexive Ogreguard bravado kicking in.  “That is, unless you want to put down your weapon and pour us some tea?”

The goblin responded by swinging its blade at him.  He took two quick steps back to avoid the blow. 

“Not a tea drinker, eh?” he taunted.  “Have you tried chamomile?  It’s really quite soothing. The perfect sort of thing for winding down after a long day of murdering and pillaging and laying waste to civilization. I think you’d like it.”

“You Guardians talk too much,” it said. “And you still have no weapon.”  The goblin advanced again closing the distance between them.

“Really? What’s this?” he asked, holding up his bow.  Unfortunately, he did not also have another arrow to hold up. 

“No arrow, no weapon,” the goblin hissed.

“Are you sure about that?” Ogaeron stepped forward and swung the bow at the goblin’s head. The beast ducked and then slashed at him from the side. Ogaeron calmly parried this stroke using the bow and then spun around behind the goblin. Before it could turn fully, he swept the vermin’s feet out from under it. A blow to the head finished the job quickly. . . .