Flash Fiction: Toadeater
A stench wrenched nine-year-old Toadeater from his sleep, bringing him to his feet with a roar.
The chain and collar around his neck brought back to him where here was.
He knew it was a myth that ogres don’t feel terror.
That smell, that was terror.
The hair-faced dwarf guard raised his hammer, yelling at him.
Stupid dwarf. The dwarf knew Toadeater didn’t understand him.
Raising his hand, Toadeater pointed behind the guard at the night-shrouded wood, and screamed, “Orcs!”
The dwarf’s face went white. He spun and started screaming, “Orcs!” and other words.
All about the camp, sleeping dwarfs came to their feet, grabbing their weapons.
At least both people used the same word for orcs.
And had the same fear of them.
With effort, Toadeater remembered the two dwarven words he needed. “Free, Fight,” he said, pointing to the chain holding him in front of the wagon then the woods.
The dwarf looked at him shocked and said something too fast for Toadeater to catch.
Toadeater knew close to fifty dwarf words. He was not just a dumb animal fit only for pulling wagons, like they treated him. He tapped his chest and added another, “Free, Guardsman, Fight.”
He was pretty sure what the ugly dwarf said next was cursing; then he looked over his shoulder at the wood. There were a lot of orcs there. Not even a dwarf could miss that stench now. With a huff, the hair faced dwarf turned back to Toadeater, set his hammer down, and raised his fist. “Iron Hammer.”
Toadeater knew what Hammer meant and wondered what Iron meant. But he now knew the name of this dwarf.
Iron Hammer roared.
It was a truly pathetic roar that would embarrass any self-respecting ogre. Yet Toadeater was glad to put his head down on the ground and grovel out his name. “Toadeater.”
Where had the dwarf learned how ogres greeted their chief?
He cursed under his breath. He should now have chosen a warrior name; not given the mocking name his clan had called him by.
The dwarf stepped within reach.
As much as he loth to, he let this creature that had use him as a beast of burden to pull his cart live.
Iron Hammer swung his hammer, striking a plate next to where the chain attached to the wagon.
The pin holding the chain to the wagon fell out.
Blood roared in his ears. Toadeater was free.
Making note of that spot, and the clever way that plate held in the pin so pulling on it would not free it, he knew such a trick would never hold him again.
Another dwarf started yelling at the two of them. Iron Hammer turned and yelled back.
Orcs broke from the wood, hundreds charging in a silent mass, ending their argument, and both dwarfs turned to face the oncoming hoard.
Little more than a child, an undersized one at that with a half blood mother, he was still an ogre, and three times the size of any dwarven warriors guarding this caravan.
And no longer chain.
Raising both arms above his head, He roared a full ogre challenge, something he had never dared do before in his life.
With his best leap, he jumped over the dwarf that had been yelling at Iron Hammer, landing perfectly on the timber wagon. Picking up a nice club sized one, he paused.
He could drop it and flee.
The orcs could not catch him. They might not even be able to defeat the dwarfs. That, so tempted him.
But no. He’d roared his challenge. He had to fight now, or he had no honor.
Two mighty leaps put him among the charging orc, swinging his massive club.
Pieces of orc flew in every direction.
Toadeater gloried. Never would the elders take him, the runt, into battle. But he was an ogre. Battle was what he lived for.
One orc managed to leave his sword stuck in his thigh before Toadeater brought down his club, splattering him in every direction.
In his rage at being stabbed, he used too much strength. His next swing was with a club half as long as it had been.
“I am Toadeater! Fear me!” he roared, swinging that sump.
He missed.
The missed orc turned and fled.
So did the next when that swing too missed
And the next.
Then all were fleeing to the wood.
He’d won! No, they’d won, as every dwarf had bodies of orcs around them, though none so many as he.
His first battle. Not only to survive it, but to win!
Dropping his now mostly useless club, he pulled the sword out of his leg and picked up the still warm lower half of an orc. Instead of eating it there as a child or animal would, he walked to the guardsman’s fire and set it to roast. He would show them he was no child.
The dwarfs began arguing.
Iron hammer approached. “Toadeater, Guardsman, Iron Hammer?”
“Toadeater, Guardsman, Iron Hammer,” he agreed.
“Iron Hammer, Free, Chain,” the dwarf said, pointing to the chain around his neck that almost reached the dirt, then to an anvil at the tail of the caravan.
Toadeater followed him.
Other dwarfs vented their anger, but not at him. Walking back, he understood. They hadn’t won after all; they had only survived. No wagon beasts lived. These wagons were not going anywhere. Some dwarfs were already sorting out what they could carry. They needed to get out of here soon. This wasn’t over.
Iron Hammer struck the collar from his neck.
He was free, and they were taking him with them. He had a chance to earn honor here in a way the runt of a half blood never could have with his tribe.
Maybe Toadeater wasn’t a bad name after all.
Grabbing another timber and raising it over his head he roared, “Toadeater, Guardsmen, Iron Hammer.”