Unicorn Point

She changed to ‘corn form and trotted out and around until she spied an especially big and ugly ogre, poking his way along a bit to the side of the others. She changed to girlform, while Clip assumed hawkform and perched in a tree, watch ing.

“Hey, lady-snout!” Fleta called to the ogre. “Dost put thy hair in curlers and paint thy face to make it so pretty?” Irony was of course lost on the creature. It took her words literally—and was furious, because no ogre could afford to be considered pretty. It roared and stepped toward her, but hesitated, because of the fear for pitfalls and ambushes. Its beady eyes searched the forest, and it hefted a giant stone menacingly.

“Slow, too!” Fleta taunted. “Why, I could outrun thee in this form!”

That was another potent insult, for she was a mere slip of a creature compared to him. The ogre watched for ambushes, but was just barely smart enough to realize that if he pursued her along the exact route she took, there would be no pitfalls she did not fall into first. He took off after her.  Fleta ran, and now Clip saw reason for her name: she was buxom and pretty (for those who might like the human type), but also fleet of foot. Her black hair-mane flung out behind as she moved, and her buttocks twinkled in a manner that made the ogre’s mouth water. Ogres loved to eat humanform flesh, and giriform flesh was acknowledged to be the tastiest.  She was the best possible lure, to make the ogre forget what little caution it might possess and pursue blindly. It would be easy to trap or waylay this ogre!

Yet she had demanded that this wait until after the ogre got the flag. Clip flew after, flitting from tree to tree so as to minimize his exposure to thrown rocks, and hoped this was not as crazy as it seemed.

Fleta, remaining just ahead of the monster, led it safely to the flag. “See, there’s our flag, and you can’t get it because then you’d lose me!” Fleta called. “What a fool thou dost be!”

The ogre grinned, pleased at the compliment. But her words did serve to remind him of his original mission. Quickly he hauled himself hamfist over hamfist up the tree, until he grabbed the flag, then slid down. Fleta, in supposed astonishment, had not moved. “Thou didst take our flag,” she exclaimed. “Be I not tasty enough?”

The ogre stuffed the flag in his ear for safekeeping and lurched after her. Fleta screamed as if in horror and ran again.  She led the ogre to the side, some distance from the original flag site, then dived under a giant spruce tree. “I be safe here!” she cried.

But one of her dainty feet poked out. She had not gotten completely out of sight! The ogre grabbed—just as the foot was pulled out of the way. The ogre grabbed again, plunging under the tree, until it too was lost in the maze of branches.  “Now. Uncle!” Fleta called.

Clip, hovering nervously near, was more than ready. He flitted to the ground, converting to his natural form and landing squarely on four feet. He saw the hummingbird sail up out of harm’s way; then he rammed horn-first into the bulk of the ogre tangled in the foliage.

His first strike caught the monster from behind. His horn sank in half its length before he jerked it out, but the brute had not received a mortal wound. The ogre wrenched around, a hamfist striking out. It smashed into a large branch, snap ping it off—and Clip’s second strike drove in under the ogre’s massive arm, seeking the heart.

But the angle was wrong, and he only punctured a gross lung. He jerked back, and the ogre reached for him with both arms, catching at his head. Unable to get away. Clip launched forward, his horn driving up the ogre’s flaring nose.  This time the stroke was true: the tip of the horn punctured the creature’s small brain. The ogre made a gasp of irritation, and collapsed.

Clip backed out of the foliage, assuming manform. The ogre was entirely out of sight; only the broken branches and skuff-marks on the ground showed where he had gone.  “Cover the traces so he can’t be found,” Fleta said. She drew from her pocket a bright blue flag.

Clip was appalled. “Thou hast our flag? We dare not touch it, lest we be disqualified!”

“Nay, this be not our flag,” she said brightly. “See, it be brighter, and not quite the right shape; it were the best we could do on the spur.”

“But-“

“I shall just put this fake flag up where ours was,” she explained.

“But all they have to do is take the real one, which they can readily do—”

“An they see it, aye,” she agreed. “Thou must make sure they do not.” She ran back toward the original flag location.  Clip went back to look at the dead ogre. Sure enough, the original flag was still stuffed in its ear. He fetched a broken bough and used it to sweep the ground, masking the traces.

Then he set it on the ogre, further concealing him. Only a person who knew where to look would find either ogre or flag.