It may have been Og's imagination, but he could have sworn that Withering Wood had been full of toadstools a minute earlier. Yet as he stepped into the glade, it was distinctly free of tasty red and white fungi. There were some fallen pine needles looking suspiciously innocent in their oh-so-accidental arrangement and some ferns that hadn't been there before. They were mocking Og in their fresh, leafy inedibility.

Newly in his adulthood, Og knew the importance of returning from the Forage with a full sack of mushrooms for the tribe. Yet month after month, it was like the mushrooms were avoiding him.

He swung his spiked club at a nearby trunk in frustration, sending the twittering tree-dwelling wildlife scurrying for safety. The club lodged in the tree, and he grunted as he tried to remove it, without success.

The squirrels all wore shamelessly amused expressions, unafraid of the temporarily non-club-wielding ogre at the base of their tree. Og snarled at them, lashed out half-heartedly and only succeeded in bruising his hairy knuckles on a low branch.

"For Arurk's sake!" He flung down his empty mushroom sack, and tried with both ham-like hands to wrench his weapon free. "Come on you garping piece of… of… wood!" Og never swore, even at his most frantic, much to the mirth of the other ogres. And he was rapidly approaching that point of maximum franticness. It wasn't that he liked the club particularly much; in truth, to say that he didn't would be a grievous understatement. But he knew the scorn of returning home with no mushrooms (again) would be nothing compared to the shame of returning home without his club.

Even before he was able to lift it, Og had been imprinted with the Importance of the Family Club. For seven generations it had been used to commit acts of senseless violence, from his several times great-grandfather Knuk Skullcrusher, down to his father, the late Og Bloodgulper. Over the years the cruel, bent nails had been replaced, as had mandatory bits of skull and hair (Og grimaced) and even the bloodstained wooden shaft had been renewed, but the proud spirit of the Prewett family club remained. Which was why Og loathed it.

Despite outward appearances, the ogres of Lath had an incredibly diverse and intricate social structure. Well, it mostly depended on clubbing things and bringing home the mushrooms. Og was good at neither of these things. In fact, it was fair to say that Ognatius Prewett the Fourth (he insisted on the use of his full title, with no bloody honorific) was a failure as an ogre.

He was a runt, and his beard had never yielded more than a few wispy ginger hairs. For this, and his hygiene habits, the other ogres looked down on him. Then there was his inability to Forage, while his contemporaries all sniggered over their bulging sacks of spotted mushrooms. And now this. The garping club, that represented everything he wasn't, was stuck in a garping tree.

He resumed his efforts, propping his crude skin boots against the roots and leant back holding the club with both hands. His relatively puny arms bulged with effort.

Thud.

He fell flat on his back and his club flew over his head. A stray nail nicked his forehead, which oozed slightly. The squirrels' laughter had become a veritable screech, and he'd had enough. Time to admit defeat and head home. His stomach lurched.

Just then a thought seized him. It would at least delay his humiliation temporarily. He could go to the human village and indulge in some Maiden-Seizing and Hair-Dragging. He'd never actually partaken in this seemingly pointless ritual, but it seemed to provide hours of amusement for Gorg and his odour-enhanced buddies. Maybe his mother was right, it was time to forget his childish dreams of pacifism and soap; time to don the mantle of the noble Prewett traditions of reeking, belching, and clubbing little furry creatures for no apparent reason; time to…

Og shook his head to derail this particularly unpleasant train of thought, partially because he had been unconsciously waving his thick arms as he thought and he was sure the squirrels were snickering again, and partially because the mere contemplation of not washing under his arms more than once a year made him shudder.

How does one actually go about seizing a maiden? he wondered. And what does one do with her once the hair dragging has ceased? Well, Gorg can do it, it can't be that hard, can it? Why not?

With that, he bent down to retrieve his club that had landed a few feet into the clearing. As he brushed the dirt and pine needles from between the rusted nails, he got a feeling that something was not right, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

He lumbered down the footpath out of the wood, his club ploughing an irregular trail in the dry, trampled leaves. A bevy of still-snickering squirrels followed him, leaping from treetop to treetop and being careful to stay well out of his way. Og had almost reached the boundary of the wood before he realised what was not right about the glade:

There weren't any pine trees in Withering Wood.

There's something weird going on here and I'm going to find out what it is. He raised an enormous triumphant arm and turned to go back into the forest, just as an acorn bounced off his skull. The squirrels overhead cackled louder than ever and began pelting him with even more acorns.

Hmm, perhaps maybe he could investigate after a stint of recreational Maiden-Seizing.

Og had never been so close to a human settlement before. He decided he quite liked its squirrel-free qualities. On either side of the cart tracks were wheat fields and tumbledown cottages, quite different from the rude mud huts of Lath. Further ahead was a faded, weather-beaten wood sign, proclaiming, "Welcome toe Yarrowe." An ancient painter had obviously derived extra special pleasure from the curls of the E's.

He followed the road. Dirt became grimy cobbles, and the houses grew closer together. In the distance, anxious mothers ushered their children inside. A dog barked and he sped up. This was going to be harder than he thought; all the humans were running away.

There was a pint-sized cottage built right on the verge, with wild flowers and overgrown grass covering the picket fence. Og's curiosity got the better of him and he stooped to look in the open front window. A shrivelled old lady was perched in a rocker under a quilt. Indignant at this invasion of her privacy, she hurled a cast-iron pot at him with surprising accuracy and Og could already feel his eye swelling shut.

"Bug'roff, you filthy crook! I'll teach you to peep in my windows, you…" She raised her scrawny arm to throw another deadly piece of cookware.

Definitely not a maiden, Og surmised as he hurried off, rubbing his red eye, fortunately missing some of her decidedly unmaidenlike word choices. A gust of wind afforded him a whiff of something, a mixture of animal manure, vegetables and roasting meat. He traced the source of the smell to a huge gathering of humans a mile up the hill. As he grew closer he heard the clamour of hundreds of them squeezed into a small space, all jostling and chattering away about their daily shopping.

He stumbled onwards, quite overwhelmed. The tallest human might only reach his chest, but there were just so many. They were quite fascinating nevertheless, scurrying about like ants. However he didn't have much chance to observe these creatures, because as he approached, a warning call went up.

"Ogre!"

Within seconds the bustling crowd vanished and Og was left alone in the middle of the empty marketplace. A few scraggly hens and a bewildered cow stared back at him.

"Wait! Come back! I…"

"New at this, are you?" A voice startled Og from behind an applecart. He bent down for a closer look and discovered it belonged to a tiny human with dirty blonde pigtails and freckles on its nose.

"I am actually. Are you a maiden?"

"Yes?" the human said uncertainly, as though she wasn't sure she was a maiden but would very much like to be if she could get away with it.

"Oh good." Og cleared his throat and straightened up a little. The human was now eye-level with his thigh.

"I am Ognatius Prewett the Fourth, and I'd very much appreciate it if you'd allow yourself to be seized and dragged… about… a bit…" He trailed off. The young human was looking at him with almost pity on her face. He sighed. "I'm doing it all wrong, aren't I?"

"Yes," the girl admitted, but seeing the look of abject dejection on Og's craggy face as he slumped onto the cobbles, she added kindly, "It's okay, really, I'll show you how."

"You will?" His muddy eyes brightened.

"You bet. Up you get now. You should start by bellowing loudly and smashing some things. That apple cart looks good." The human scrambled out of the way.

"But what if I frighten someone?"

"That's sort of the point."

"Oh."

Og gave an experimental roar and swung at the cart with his club, sending shiny, green apples rolling into the overflowing gutters. On cue a group of ladies shrieked inside The Plough & Ferret, only to be hushed by other captivated spectators.

"Very good. Next smash some windows, overturn a stall or something. Just break stuff."

Og obeyed, somewhat reluctantly. The girl urged him on.

"Right, now you've got to seize me. Maybe not by the hair but my skirt might do."

"But I'll tear that pretty frilly dress of--"

She put her hands on her hips and jutted out her chin, reminding him of his mother in miniature.

"Who's the expert here, me or you?"

He sighed and picked her up (very carefully) by the skirt. She wriggled and squealed and kicked him very hard in the ribs. She caught Og by surprise and he nearly dropped her.

"What did you do that for?"

"Got to make it look authentic. Alright then, roar again then put me over your shoulder and stomp out of town. And make it snappy, I see angry villagers with pitchforks."

Og hastily trotted down the paved road out of the village, still grumbling.

"I still don't see why you had to kick me so hard."

"Oh, don't be such a baby. You're not a very good ogre, you know."

"And you're just a silly, little human," Og said defensively.

Unperturbed by Og's gruffness or the fact that she was upside down ten feet in the air, the human chattered on. "What happened to your head? And your eye?" With a small finger she poked Og's forehead where his club had grazed him earlier.

He blushed. "Low branch," he said, a little too quickly.

"Don't believe you."

"Don't then. See if I care." Og noticed he was being just as childish as the girl, but before he could be bothered by it, her spitfire mind was off in another direction.

"What kind of a name is Ognatius Prewett anyway? You're supposed to have names like Thurg or, or… Snot." She giggled.

"Well, most people call me Og," he admitted. "What are you called? Annoying Snub-nosed Human?"

"Hey!" She stuck the aforementioned nose in the air, and summoned up all the dignity a four-foot person can muster while still draped over an ogre's shoulder. "It's Fern actually. Lady Fern Allyson Pumpkinseed. My father's the Earl of Turgen you know."

"Very impressive, I'm sure, Lady Fern. What are you doing in a hole like Yarrow if you're so noble?"

The little Lady looked a bit sheepish. "I ran away. Actually I was sort of hoping to get Seized. And don't call me Lady Fern, no one does. It's just Fern."

"You wanted to be Seized!" He was incredulous.

"Ever since that prat Nasturtium Miller was Seized last month she's been unbearable. Hasn't shut up about it once. I wanted to show her she's not so special."

Og was flummoxed. He'd never encountered anyone quite like this human girl. His long strides had brought them to a crossroads five miles out of the village. The peeling paint of the left arrow spelled out "Witheringe Woode" and the right declared, "Here be Ogres." Presumably the same painter of "Welcome toe Yarrowe" had done the E's with relish. Straight on was labelled "Toe Turgene." He lifted Fern down from his shoulder and stood her on the grass beneath the sign.

"Okay then, Just Fern, what now?" He really hadn't thought out the plan this far. He'd got up to the Seizing part, but he hadn't really expected the maiden to talk back. In any case, those stringy plaits didn't look strong enough to withstand any Dragging.

"Excuse me," a small croaky voice cut into his thoughts. "Might you direct me to Mending River? I'm a bit lost."

Fern squeaked in surprise. "A talking frog!"

"You might say that," the frog said coldly, "but I prefer 'Fairy Tale Cameo Actor'. I'm on my way to a job now actually. Nothing great, but at least it's a talking part this time. My agent's trying to find me something better, but jobs are hard to come be these days. Haven't had a Princess in months, and even witches don't have much use for me lately. Of course a kissing scene is far too much to expect."

Fern was sitting on the grass with her mouth open, trying to process this information, but Og didn't seem surprised.

"It's down there to the left." He pointed. "Turn left again just before you get to Withering Wood. We can walk you if you like."

"Oh I don't want to be a bother," said the frog in a tone that belied his words, "but it is an awful long way to hop…"

"Come on then." Og scooped up the frog and made to pick up Fern again, who shook herself out of her stupor long enough to say, "I'll walk."

They set off down the track, Og taking tiny steps so that Fern could keep up, and even so, having to stop every now and then for her to catch up.

The frog droned on oblivious to the fact that no-one was listening. "I used to be a big star you know. Have you heard the tale about the frog who got turned into a prince? That was me. Was turned back into a frog afterwards for tax purposes, of course. And then there was the time I…"

"Are you sure I can't carry you?" Og asked Fern, ignoring the frog.

Despite her aching feet where her dainty kidskin boots were rubbing her ankles raw, Fern's pride prevented her from going back on her decision. "I'm fine."

"Suit yourself." He added in a lower whisper, "Although the faster we go, the sooner we'll be rid of Mr Chatterbox here."

"Oh, alright then."

Og folded himself, so she could clamber onto his shoulder into a more graceful position than feet-up. Eventually Fern seated herself on his shoulder with an arm around his neck. The view of Turgen County was interesting from so high - instead of the stalks of endless fields of wheat, she could now see the tops of endless fields of wheat.

"… used to show off terribly, did old Jeremiah, inflating his neck sack trying to impress the ladies, though obviously I was far more popular, being famous and all. Though he did always have some fine wine…"

Og switched off to the frog's inane chatter and practiced pulling villager-scaring faces instead.

Fern giggled near his ear. "Have you got a toothache?"

"No."

"What are you doing? You look very silly."

Og gave his scariest growl, sending Fern into hysterical laughter.

"If you're going to laugh at me, I'm going to put you down right now and you can walk home. You might just get there before sunset. If you run."

Fern's face contorted into an expression that might have passed for contrition if it hadn't been for the twitching corners of her mouth giving her away.

"I'm sorry, Mister Og the Scary Ogre. Please don't put me down."

'Mister' Og didn't have time to react to this new slight to his manly ogrishness, because they were nearing the turning to Mending River and he didn't want to listen to the frog for a second longer than was absolutely necessary. He put the verbally incontinent creature down on the grass growing in the middle of the cart track.

"I'm sure you can find your way from here, Mr Frog. Hop along now."

"It's Mr Wobblington. Reginald Elvis Wobblington, at your service. Much obliged," the frog acknowledged before hopping into the undergrowth. There was a blissful silence. Og savoured it, but it wasn't to last.

"Is that Withering Wood? Can we go in? Can we, can we? Nurse said it's very dangerous and I'm never to go into it. But it doesn't look dangerous." Fern was wriggling so excitedly that she nearly fell off his shoulder.

"You'd be surprised," he said, thinking darkly of the squirrels. "Very unsafe for little girls. And I should take you home before they have the entire armed regiment out looking for you."

"Please? Pretty please with sugar on top? I promise I'll be good. I won't laugh at you once, you'll see."