Reckoning

by David Adams

  They needed nearly ten minutes to pass over the plain, and by the time they approached the rock outcropping the quarter moon was providing the only light. Reflected off the snow, the light was sufficient. Glaze set down a short distance from the cave entrance, and could see Uesra become animated, calling to the others to announce that Darius and the dragon had arrived.

  As Darius tried to stretch out his cramping muscles so he could walk properly once more, Glaze said, “There is something I will give you before you depart. It may prove useful.” He tossed a large blue gem forward, which landed near Darius’ feet. “You may meet up with trolls as you continue east. Their leader is named Morg. If you have occasion to be in his presence, your situation will undoubtedly be dire. If so, give him the gem, as a present from me.”

  Darius took the gem from the snow, feeling an odd warmth coming from it. “He’d let us go in exchange for this?”

  “Possibly. It is hard to say with trolls. It is best you avoid them. But consider this a last attempt to gain your freedom, should you need it.”

  Darius pocketed the gem with a nod of thanks. “Let’s hope we don’t.”

  Glaze waited patiently with Darius while his friends regrouped and started making their way toward them. From what the dragon could read of their expressions, he saw a wary hopefulness. They spread out, weapons sheathed but their hands poised to draw them at an instant’s notice.

  “Best we avoid any misunderstandings at this point in our acquaintance,” the dragon said. “Farewell, Darius. I hope our paths do not cross again.”

  This last comment was made without malice, but before Darius could respond in a similar fashion, Glaze launched himself skyward. Darius watched him circle once, dip his wings as if in salute, and then race away to the north.

  * * *

  Somewhere, buried deeply in Dentris Batog’s mind, was a part of him that sought a haven from despair. That part understood he was home, surrounded by friends, family, and strong men of arms led by a brave and wise king. But he had a mission to fulfill, and could not turn from the task set before him. The small inner voice that sensed one last fading ray of hope was muffled and then stilled.

  He moved through the castle he had known for over thirty years, his steps sure and steady. Those who recognized him smiled, a silent welcome home, but he pressed on with a pale, tight visage. Those in his wake assumed he brought ill news from the east, though later they would consider his expression in a different light.

  Dentris ascended the long flight of stairs that led to Gregor’s throne room. Near the top he turned back, and through a window could see much of the capital city of Golden, of which the castle was the centerpiece, built on the highest point of land to provide the best views and the greatest visibility. The sun was just starting to set, and its deep orange glow reflected off the roofs and streets, giving the city an otherworldly quality. Dentris felt his throat tighten at the sight, felt his eyes begin to water. He swallowed, cleared his throat, and turned away.

  He was admitted to the throne room without delay, and went straight to Gregor, offering only a perfunctory bow. The two advisors the king had been consulting with backed off a few steps, knowing the king would want to hear what news Dentris brought from Longvale without delay.

  “Welcome home, my friend,” the king managed to say, though he wore a puzzled expression. He had never seen the washed out look his ambassador now wore, even when the man had fallen gravely ill a few years back. “You have news.”

  “Yes, my king,” Dentris said, his words right, but his tone hollow and empty. He leaned forward as if to whisper something in Gregor’s ear.

  Gregor leaned as well, curious as to what had gotten into the man. Surely Dentris knew he could speak in front of the trusted men in the room.

  “It is a new day in Corterra,” Dentris whispered. “The weak will give way, and the strong will rule.” In one swift motion he reached inside his vest, pulled out a knife, and slipped it under Gregor’s ribs and into his heart.

  The king looked at Dentris in wide-eyed amazement as his life’s blood spilled out over his assassin’s hand. He tried to utter a word, but only a sigh of air came out. He slumped forward and Dentris backed away, letting him fall to the ground.

  As the advisors ran from the room screaming for help, Dentris went to one of the great windows in the room and stepped onto the sill. He punched the glass out with one hard blow, shattering it and shredding his hand. He did not feel the pain. He heard the clatter of the soldiers racing into the room, the shouts for him to stop. He looked down at the city below, a sight both exhilarating and dizzying from the high perch upon which he stood. As calmly as a man stepping through his own front door, Dentris stepped into the open air.

  Chapter 5: Into the Endless Hills

  The weather had turned so bad since they had left Glaze’s lair that the dragon now seemed only a distant memory from long ago. There were several days where the sky was crystal clear, but its sparkling blue color was mostly hidden from those trekking below because of the ferocious wind. It scoured the tundra, removing most of the previous accumulation of snow and driving it in swirling eddies all about the travelers. They had to fight to see, and to keep the feeling in their limbs as the wind stole their body heat. Night-time fires were out of the question. They shuffled numbly onward, shivering through three miserable days that made them almost wistful for the protection and relative warmth of Glaze’s icy home.

  The wind finally died down, but only after blowing the next winter storm toward them. The snow dropped thick and heavy, piling up quickly. They came to be grateful for the cleansing done by the wind earlier, else the now knee-deep snow would have come to their waists. Mile followed mile, each a struggle to conquer, and their goal felt far away.

  They stayed close together as they marched, had even considered using the short rope they had to link themselves in case one of them might wander off, but had decided against it. It would have been far too easy to become tangled if the tundra provided another surprise that required a quick response. They settled for walking in a two-wide formation instead of single file, with each group responsible for maintaining eye contact with the group before them. The hard work of trailblazing was shared in equal increments by each of the teams.

  “I’ve never seen it snow this hard for this long,” Darius commented. “Tell me this isn’t normal.”

  “Normal, no,” Xanar said, “but not that unusual. Happens at least every second or third year.”

  “How can you stand it?”

  “Normally we stay inside.”

  Darius laughed through his chattering teeth, then took a sideways glance at Xanar, avoiding turning his head so his hood could remain tight over his head. He laughed again.

  “What?” Xanar asked, flashing a smile despite the weather and the possibility that he was the source of his friend’s amusement.

  “Just wondering when my skin will be as blue as yours.”

  “I think your lips are there. Won’t be long now.” Suddenly he pulled up, seeing Uesra and Barlow had stopped and were drawing their weapons.

  “What is it?” Silas asked.

  “Shapes in the snow ahead, closing on us,” Uesra called back without turning. “Can’t make out who or what they are yet.”

  There was something eerie about the way the figures appeared through the heavy snow, like apparitions taking form and slowly solidifying. In the same way their numbers seemed to expand, first only a few, then dozens, with shadows behind hinting at many, many more.

  “Hill trolls,” Uesra hissed.

  The companions formed a defensive arc, which soon evolved into a circle. The trolls, by luck or plan, had used the cover of the snowstorm to encircle the party, and now pressed in. The trolls had no weapons, did not need them, and did not fear those wielded by their intended victims. They were tall and lean, but with a physical strength far beyond what their appearance would suggest. Repulsive to behold, with a mottled green-and-grey skin that hinted at di
sease, they also smelled as if in a state of decay. As evidenced by the small amount of clothing they wore, the cold weather did not bother them.

  The travelers knew the trolls, at least from stories, were able to grow back severed limbs, and that only by burning their bodies completely could one truly destroy them. But only Adrianna had the capability, and that a limited one, to attack in such a fashion, and with the horde pressing in, the others struck at the nearest trolls, unwilling to succumb without a fight. For a few seconds hope survived, the nearest trolls falling, at least temporarily, and a fireball from Adrianna setting two ablaze and causing a brief hesitation from the trolls close to those caught by her spell. But the trolls continued to apply pressure, taking advantage of their superior numbers, and they grabbed at the encircled party, eventually managing to hold their weapon arms in vise-like grips. Soon each of the companions was held by two or more trolls, and the fight ended only seconds after it began.

  Like the others, Darius fought against the powerful hands that held him, fought against thinking of what the trolls were rumored to do to their victims. His arms were forced behind his back, and his wrist was twisted until he dropped his sword against his will. From somewhere in the crush of foul-smelling bodies ropes were produced, and he was bound hand and foot, then lashed to a pole. As he was hoisted easily by a pair of trolls, a third bent, picked up Darius’ sword, and much to Darius’ surprise, replaced it in its sheath. As his captors started to march off with their prize, he saw his friends had been bound in the same way, and Adrianna gagged as well. Any fleeting idea that these trolls were strong but dumb brutes quickly fled Darius’ mind upon seeing that precaution.

  One of the trolls gave a few short commands in a harsh, guttural tongue, and the prisoners were hauled away. As Darius looked back, he could see the trolls they had struck down rising, some without arms, one hopping on one leg, and one without a head. These appeared to be falling into the line of march with the other trolls when the driven snow mercifully interceded and, at least for Darius, these wretches were blessedly out of sight.

  The journey to the troll camp was a long and painful one. It took several hours to reach the edge of the tundra, where an ascent into the Endless Hills began. After that there was little flat land to speak of, and they seemed at all times to be going either up or down a hill. The trolls were tireless and took no breaks, and they ignored the occasional pained moans from their prisoners, who could do nothing to ease the growing pain in their arms, legs, and backs. What little movement the prisoners could accomplish was limited to pivoting their heads, which they did frequently to try to keep off the snow that wanted to accumulate on their upturned faces.

  Darius managed an uncomfortable doze as they continued on through the night, his sleep never restful or deep due to the awkward position of his body and the constant jostling of the march. He tried once to speak to Xanar, but was slapped by a nearby troll for his trouble. The strike was not a hard one—Darius was sure the troll had put little of its strength behind the blow—but the warning scowl the troll shot him gained his silence for the rest of the journey.

  They entered the troll camp in mid-afternoon, the snow continuing to fall from a leaden sky. They were paraded into the camp, and the trolls moved out from the small caves they inhabited to inspect the new arrivals, letting out grunts that could have been approval or hunger. The scouting party made one circuit of the camp, then stopped in front of one of the larger cave entrances.

  A troll that was a head larger than the others came to the cave entrance. He carried a club of bone, and looked over the scene with a cool confidence. He came out and paced slowly about, looking over the prisoners, clearly relishing taking his time. Once he completed his initial inspection, he grunted, pounded his chest with a fist, and gave a short command to the troll that led the scouting party.

  The prisoners were cut loose and hustled to their feet, each held by two trolls—one on each arm. There was intent to restrain the prisoners, but for now it was only through the strength of these guards that the captives could stand at all.

  The great troll stood directly in front of Uesra, easily towering a foot-and-a-half over her. Despite her sore, trembling muscles, she did her best to stand erect, and she returned his stare without flinching.

  “You travel in mixed company, Ice Elf,” the troll said in passable common speech. When Uesra did not reply, he added, “You may speak.”

  “What would you have me say?” Uesra said evenly.

  “Why do you enter our lands?”

  “We travel east, and we stayed clear of the Hills, at least until we were brought here by force. I was not aware the tundra had been claimed by your people.”

  “What area we hunt, we claim.”

  “Then I beg your forgiveness for trespassing.”

  “Too late for that.” The head troll nodded at another who stood behind Uesra. This one pulled her weapons free and presented them to the leader “Nice blades,” he commented, before tossing them dismissively over her head.

  The troll stepped on to face Silas. “You are far from home, human.”

  Silas nodded.

  “How do I know you aren’t here as a spy? Here to help these elves wage war upon us?”

  “You have only my word. That I will give, though I doubt you will value it highly.”

  The troll sneered, trying to decipher if he had been insulted or if Silas simply spoke the truth. At his signal he received Silas’ staff, gave it a cursory look, and tossed it aside.

  Darius was next. “Tell me the truth and I’ll spare you,” the troll offered.

  “I have no other truth then what the others have said.”

  After the troll had looked at Darius’ sword, he confronted Xanar. “You have the look of a spy, more so than the other elf. A weakness of mine for females, perhaps.” At this some of the trolls let out grunts that could have been laughs, but they quickly stilled themselves.

  “I am no spy,” Xanar said.

  “A pity, really,” the troll said. “Not much meat on your bones. I was hoping you’d be more interesting.”

  After the troll was handed Xanar’s bow, he studied it for a moment, then motioned for the trolls holding Xanar to turn him about. After the elf had turned a full circle, the troll demanded, “Where are the arrows?”

  “All out,” Xanar said with a shrug.

  The troll smiled in a way that reminded Darius of Glaze, a hungry leer full of threatening teeth. He held the bow inches in front of Xanar’s face, then lightly fingered the string. “Should I pull it back and then let go? A test shot with your arrowless and therefore harmless weapon?”

  Xanar cleared his throat. “I’d prefer if you didn’t.”

  The troll eyed him a few more seconds, then turned to the side and pulled back the string, causing an ice arrow to appear. He sent the arrow sailing off into the falling snow. “A magic bow,” he announced. He tossed it toward his cave, then slapped Xanar hard across the face.

  The blow drained what little strength Xanar had recovered since their journey to the troll camp ended. If not for the trolls holding him he would have fallen to the ground.

  “Be thankful you did not directly lie to me,” the troll told him, while standing so close Xanar thought the smell might knock him out.

  When the troll came to Barlow he laughed. “And I thought the elf had little meat on him. Apparently humans eat less as they grow old.”

  Barlow said nothing, but the comment stoked a fire inside him, a fire visible in his eyes for any that wanted to see.

  At a signal from the leader, a troll grabbed Gabriel’s hilt, intending to draw the weapon and present it. As its hands closed on the sword, it felt a burning sensation, and its eyes flew open wide. With a howl of pain, it pulled back its hand.

  The smile was gone from the head troll’s face. “Now I see. Another magic weapon. Perhaps forged to slay trolls.”

  “To slay evil,” Barlow said, although this was not altogether true. He had been surprise
d that the troll was burned touching Gabriel, had thought the sword only had special properties concerning denizens of the pit. While trolls were cruel and sometimes evil, there was nothing otherworldly about them. Perhaps there was more to learn about his sword, Barlow thought, though he feared he would not get such an opportunity. “Whether the sword would hunger for you or not would be up to you.”

  With a surprisingly quick move, the troll grabbed Gabriel and drew it. He eyed the blade, but Barlow could see that his focus was elsewhere. Despite the cold, sweat immediately started to bead on the troll’s great forehead, as if he was struggling to keep the pain he was feeling from showing on his face. The troll let his gaze drift past the sword, his eyes locking with Barlow’s for a moment, a silent test of wills. Finally the troll grunted and tossed the sword behind him so that it fell near Xanar’s bow. “Time enough to learn how to wield it after you’re gone,” the troll said with one last nasty sneer.

  “Best bury it with me,” Barlow said, not backing down from the implied threat, “else it will seek out your heart and destroy you.”

  The troll had taken a step toward Adrianna after he had last spoken, assuming, as always, that he would have the last word. He slowly turned back and grinned at Barlow. “There won’t be enough of you left to bury.”

  The troll motioned for the gag to be removed from Adrianna as he addressed her. “Try to speak a spell and I’ll make sure your death is cruel beyond reason.”

  One of the trolls in the scouting party slid up behind the leader and spoke a few words in the troll tongue. The leader nodded his understanding as the scout backed away.

  “You killed two trolls,” the leader stated.

  “I was defending myself.”

  The leader smirked. “So are we,” he said, his voice dripping with meaning. He backed away, held his hands aloft and cried, “We feast!”

  The camp exploded in roars of approval, and the hands gripping the prisoners became more numerous and forceful.