Reckoning

by David Adams

  “Wait!” Uesra shouted, finding it difficult to be heard over the din. But she called directly at the leader, and her voice managed to get through to him.

  He turned. “A final request?”

  “We would barter for our lives.”

  “Your possessions are already mine. Do you have information of use to me?”

  Uesra hesitated, only for an instant, trying to think of something to continue to delay the proceedings.

  The troll leader, having heard many beg for their lives over the years, knew it always ended the same way, and he didn’t feel in the mood for further banter on this day. He was hungry, and his gods had provided a meal. “I thought not,” he said. “No more talk! Morg has spoken!”

  Again the camp erupted in cheering, and the prisoners were buried in the press of trolls.

  Darius had to yell so loudly that he thought his voice would give out. Through the surrounding trolls he saw Morg turn away and head back toward his cave, and could tell the leader could not hear him above the shouts of his tribe. Darius tried talking to those trolls nearest him, but they were unable or unwilling to understand him. He struggled to break free, but the trolls held him firmly and his physical resistance did not even amount to a nuisance to the powerful creatures. Darius collected himself as he was pulled further away, decided he couldn’t try to explain, couldn’t even blurt out a short sentence that could be heard and comprehended. He settled for screaming a single word. “Morg!”

  Morg was nearly to his cave, and did not flinch as Darius called to him, the sound still lost in the cacophony of sound. But some of the trolls, surprised by the outsider’s willingness to call their leader by name, quieted.

  “Morg!” he screamed again.

  More trolls grew still. Morg paused.

  “Morg!”

  Now a silence fell, and Morg turned to face Darius. “You must wish to die first,” the troll said.

  “I have a gift for you,” Darius replied, a bit more calmly, now that he could be heard.

  Morg smirked and said, “That’s one I’ve never heard before.” The grunt-like laugh of the trolls showed their appreciation for their leader’s sarcastic wit. “If you have anything of value, I’ll have it soon enough.”

  Seeing Morg turning away, Darius shouted, “The gift is from Glaze!”

  Morg turned about slowly, his eyes narrowed in a dangerous expression. “You have seen the dragon?”

  “I have. I have spoken to him.”

  “And yet you live. Why is that?”

  “The dragon saw fit to allow us to continue our journey, and he gave me something he bade me give to you as a gift, should we ever meet.”

  “And why did you withhold this gift until now?”

  “I was not aware that you were the great Morg until you spoke your own name just now.”

  Morg took a few steps toward Darius. “So, where is this gift?”

  “In my pocket. If you’ll allow me…” He glanced pointedly at one of the trolls restraining him.

  Morg nodded his approval, and the troll allowed him to fish in his pocket until he withdrew the blue gem. He held it in his palm, while a mutter of conversation passed through the assembled trolls.

  “Very pretty,” Morg said. “Can I eat it?”

  The question threw Darius off to the point that he could not muster a response.

  “Was this to be used to barter for your lives?”

  Darius forced a shrug. “It is a gift I was asked to give you”

  “Of great worth, no doubt. Next time I’m in one of your towns, perhaps I can exchange it for a meal and a bed.” Morg laughed at his own comment, an ugly bark. The trolls, prodded by his lead, responded in kind.

  Morg walked up to Darius and gently took the gem from him. “Far be it for me to turn down such a mighty gift,” he said, but even through the sarcasm Darius could see the greed in Morg’s eyes. Whether he could do anything with the gem or not, Morg clearly wanted it. He just didn’t want to let the prisoners, and likely his own tribe, know it.

  Darius was in no position to bargain, and yielded the gem without resistance. He felt his stomach sink as Morg walked away and hope faded.

  Still studying the gem and with his back turned, Morg gave a dismissive wave of a hand. “Continue on with the feast!”

  Another explosion of cheers. Darius didn’t have the strength to voice a complaint.

  * * *

  The troll camp had been a flurry of activity for the last thirty minutes. Large vats had been set up in the center of the camp, and the weather hadn’t prevented the trolls from getting a roaring blaze going beneath each of them. The prisoners had been bound tightly and placed near the vats, and there was a certain irony to the fact that they were now as warm as they had been in weeks. It wasn’t just the fires; the Hills provided a good deal of protection from the vicious winds they had come to know far too well. The companions, of course, found little comfort in the warmth, knowing things would soon get much hotter, literally and figuratively. To make matters worse, the vats weren’t large enough for any of them to fit into easily, a fact acknowledged by the gruesome collection of knives, cleavers, and other sharp instruments several of the trolls had laid out near them.

  Each of the prisoners silently worked at their bonds. Earlier they had tried to speak to one another, to use the general commotion to mask their attempt to plan an escape. But they were never close to being ignored, and their efforts to communicate had resulted only in kicks and slaps from the nearest trolls. Darius was having no luck at all loosening the ropes that held him, could feel the bindings digging deeper into his skin as he worked against them. He looked to Xanar with a raised brow. The elf answered the silent question with a forlorn shake of his head.

  Uesra had quickly given up on freeing herself from the bindings, and had been inching toward a large knife. She hoped to get close enough to reach it with a foot and pull it toward her, though in all reality she knew the move was unlikely to go unnoticed. Still, she had to try. She managed another small shuffle, Barlow doing the same, the paladin understanding what she was doing and trying to keep the spacing between the prisoners balanced so Uesra did not seem to be moving off on her own. Silas was deep in prayer, his eyes closed and an expression of pure calm on his face. Adrianna worked against her restraints as well, more so the gag that choked off her ability to properly utter the words to cast a spell. She had found herself unable to conjure anything with the use of her tongue and her hands denied to her.

  There was some sense of organization to the seeming madness of the troll camp, a feeling that all knew their role in preparing the feast and that each would do what was required even in the midst of what appeared to be chaos. Because of this, the prisoners knew immediately and instinctively that something had changed, that the bustle of the camp and the grunts and troll-words being exchanged now took on another meaning. As they glanced up, trying to understand what was happening—what was different—a shadow fell upon them, and they looked skyward.

  Glaze crashed down upon the camp like an avalanche. He flung aside trolls both right and left, but his focus was directly on Morg’s cave. There was no indication that he had taken note of, or was in any way concerned with, the prisoners.

  “Morg!” the great dragon bellowed. “Come out to die, little troll!”

  Morg, wisely, did not rise to this challenge, and none of the other trolls was inclined to come to the defense of their leader or their homes. Perhaps in another situation they might have organized a defense, tried to overwhelm the dragon with the sheer weight of their numbers, but today none wanted to be his first victim. They had come to understand the dragon’s belly was not a place from which they could expect to return, regardless of their regenerative abilities.

  Getting no answer from Morg, Glaze lunged at the nearest fleeing trolls, pinning one and lifting another into the air. He tore the troll in half and swallowed both parts, then did the same to the second. Hardly pausing to enjoy his meal, he put his snout
at the entrance of Morg’s cave and said with a taunting lilt, “I’m still here. And I’m still hungry!”

  The companions hadn’t wasted much time watching Glaze, though they were as surprised as the trolls to see him. They made for the knives as quickly as their bonds allowed, and began to work in teams to try to free themselves.

  Glaze put a cautious eye to the cave Morg occupied, but the troll had extinguished the lamp that provided light inside, and Glaze’s own shadow kept him from being able to spot the troll. He inhaled deeply and smiled, sure his quarry was still inside. He slid to the side and reached in with a mighty claw, able to knock a few items around but unable to latch onto the troll leader.

  “Well, I guess you’ll keep.” Glaze took a step back, and if Morg could see the dragon from inside the cave he might have thought he was getting an opening that might lead to his escape. But Glaze was only gathering himself. His head shot forward, and he spewed a stream of icy liquid into the cave. Hearing it splatter against the back wall, he gave a contented smile, and repeated to himself, “You’ll keep.”

  The companions freed themselves and were torn between the desire to flee from the great beast and the trolls, and the need to recover their packs and weapons. The least conflicted was Darius, who didn’t fully trust the dragon, but in the present circumstance felt an appreciation for his timely arrival more keenly than the others. For this reason, right after he grabbed his own sword he went for the magic weapons Morg had taken, feeling that if interaction with the dragon was required, it was best done by him.

  Glaze had been inspecting the surrounding area, weighing whether to go first for the caves or for the trolls streaming into the Hills. The movement of the travelers in the otherwise abandoned camp finally registered, and the dragon shook himself, as if just remembering something.

  “I see you are well,” he said to Darius.

  “Thanks to you. Another few minutes and…” He motioned at the vats, the contents of which had now reached a full boil.

  “No need to thank me. It was not for your sake that I have come.”

  Darius tilted his head and shot the dragon a puzzled look.

  “Morg had long been able to avoid my gaze, and my claws. I have taken patrols, but was unable to find the main camp.”

  “The gem,” Darius said.

  Glaze nodded. “Just a bauble, really, of little worth. But with a spell upon it, something much more. Once it fell into Morg’s hands, it led me right to him.”

  “You used us.”

  “Let’s say rather that I created a mutually beneficial resolution to a problem I thought you might face. Your capture by the trolls was not of my doing. If you had made it safely past them, I would have lost little, and you would have gone on with your quest. As it turned out, we both benefited from my actions.”

  Darius wasn’t happy, still felt like Glaze had put his life and those of his friends at risk for his own benefit. But at the same time, the dragon had spared them a gruesome death, and his logic was hard to argue with. He decided pursuing the subject further would be a pointless exercise. “So what now?”

  “Now you can continue on your way, and I can hunt troll.”

  Darius pointed at Morg’s cave. “Some of our weapons are in there.”

  “You’re free to retrieve them. I doubt Morg is in any condition to resist, but you should take some help, just in case.”

  The companions quickly sorted out that Silas and Uesra, who were now fully armed, would go along with Darius. Barlow, Adrianna, and Xanar finished collecting their packs and waited behind, and although they were glad the dragon’s presence was keeping the trolls at bay, they still remained a wary distance away from the beast.

  Silas led the way into the cave, brandishing a flaming tree limb he had pulled from the piles set around the vats. The cave opened swiftly past the narrow entrance that held Glaze at bay, but it was small enough that the cooking fires cast a glow on all its walls. The dragon’s claw had made a wreck of the place, and his breath had covered much of the contents in an icy shell. Most prominent among these ice-covered objects was Morg, who was pinned to the far wall, all but his left hand and the lower portion of his left leg encased. None of them knew how long a troll could survive without breathing, but what little of Morg was uncovered was not moving.

  They found Gabriel quickly, and not long after Xanar’s bow, which they had to chip free of the ice. Once it was loose Darius eyed the uneven remains of Glaze’s breath upon it, and wondered when it would ever melt, given the cold of the northern winter. He shrugged, knowing the problem would be Xanar’s to solve. He gave one last look at Morg as Silas led the way out, the light fading as if to symbolize the burying of the troll in a tomb.

  Glaze watched Silas and Uesra shuffle by, then addressed Darius. “Morg?”

  “Plastered to the back wall. How do you intend to get him out? Or don’t you?”

  “I’ll have some of the trolls free him and bring him to me.”

  “You think they’ll turn on him?”

  Glaze showed his teeth. “Oh, they will if I give them a choice between doing so and dying.”

  “Not a bargain most would decline.”

  “Too bad the end result for the trolls will be no different. Of course, they won’t know that until after I have Morg.”

  Darius wasn’t sure how to respond to this bit of treachery, so he wisely kept quiet.

  “Leave the camp quickly,” Glaze told him. “Go northeast from here. It is the speediest way out of the Hills.” The dragon pointed with his head, since directions could be difficult to deduce with so much cloud cover. “I’ll be hunting in the area for several days, so I’d think the trolls will leave you alone, preferring to stay hidden. But still, move swiftly.”

  “We will,” Darius said, and before he could add anything else, Glaze launched himself skyward. The dragon gave a piercing shriek of a roar as he began to hunt, a sound that made Darius shiver even though it wasn’t directed at him. He almost pitied the trolls.

  Chapter 6: Hell’s Horde

  “Open the gate, and your deaths will be quick and painless!”

  Hundreds of men lined the walls of the Dalusian capital city of Pembroke, and hundreds more waited below with the best weapons and shields their craftsmen could make. Visible outside, through the first snow flurries of approaching winter, no more than thirty warriors stood, ready to lay siege to the city. But despite the overwhelming odds in their favor, none of the defenders laughed at the request, none dared voice a taunting reply. Some even considered giving in to the demand and throwing open the gate. Such was the power of the tales that had preceded the final remnant of the army of Longvale. And such was the legend of Orgoth, who had issued the offer.

  The fearsome warrior stood patiently, his hands resting easily on the hilts of his great black sword, which he had planted tip-down in the ground before speaking, as if claiming the city with a flag. He stood a head taller than the others in his band, and that fact as well as the shiny black armor he wore made him an easy target. Any of the skilled bowmen on the wall could have reached him with an arrow, but, at least for the moment, none had the heart to try.

  There had been rumors that the war was over, that the Westphalians and Longvalers had called their armies home. And surely the small group outside Pembroke could not be called an army. But the cities of Dalusia had fallen, one after another, and even as the size of the attacking force decreased, the tales of the Longvalers had grown. It was said that most of the Longvalers had left on their own, sickened by the atrocities of their fellows, that only the most bloodthirsty and cruel remained. But no matter what their reputation, the Dalusians would not have feared the small group looking up hungrily at the walls of their city had it not been for the legend of the monster in black, the mighty Orgoth. And so it was as he called a final warning, those on the walls and in the streets of the city below trembled with fear. But they would man their posts to defend their homes, their capital, and their queen. They knew that if
they fell, what they knew as Dalusia would cease to exist.

  The strain grew and finally proved too much for one man, who was beaten by the demons in his fevered mind before the first blow fell. He ran for the gate, screaming that it must be opened, screaming that they had to do as ordered or meet a fate beyond belief. His fellows held him back, struggling to pull him away, such was the strength his madness gave him.

  The commotion drew the attention of all that could hear it, even Orgoth. A slight turn of his helmet indicated he had noticed the trouble at the gate. One of the archers on the wall, so intent on Orgoth that he hadn’t turned away at the madman’s ravings, saw the movement and thought he saw an opportunity. He was no marksman, but as he eyed Orgoth along the shaft of the arrow he had placed in his bow, it seemed as if his aim was true, and that the arrow might find the seam between Orgoth’s helmet and breastplate, near the neck. He let the arrow fly.

  The arrow struck Orgoth on the breastplate, not a bad shot considering the distance and how little training the man on the wall had received, but useless nonetheless. The arrow could not penetrate the armor and simply fell away, broken in two. Orgoth’s head snapped up so he could look to the wall, and he pointed with a gauntleted hand. “I claim you for my own,” he called. “Your death will be one of exquisite agony.”

  With Orgoth’s eyes hidden in the shadows of his helmet, he could have simply been pointing in the general area the shot had come from, but the man to whom his words were directed felt in his soul that it was otherwise. He shrunk back, his heart hammering while his mind conjured up foul images of what Orgoth might do to him. He threw down his bow and leapt back from the wall, aiming for the stone courtyard below. He made sure he landed head-first, and made no attempt to cushion his fall, wanting to cheat Orgoth of his promise by choosing the manner of his own death. In this, his final act, he succeeded.

  There were several new arrivals to Orgoth’s band, dark priests who had joined him after he had been given the freedom to wage war in any fashion he chose. At a nod from Orgoth they went to work, marking the ground with staffs or knives while chanting softly. When they had finished there were seven large circles, each filled with shapes, symbols, and runes, and into the center of each of these the priests spilled their own blood, slicing open their forearms with ceremonial knives. This complete, they stepped back, knelt down, and continued chanting softly.