Bearers of the Black Staff

by Terry Brooks

  He wondered anew if the Orullians and Phryne Amarantyne had any idea at all what had happened to them, if their friends even knew they were being taken away. A rescue seemed so unlikely given the odds of success that he found he couldn’t give the idea serious consideration. If there was to be any chance of escape, it would have to come from his own efforts; reliance on others was a fool’s game, and he knew it.

  So he worked at his bonds and stared daggers at his captors when he caught them watching. But eventually, even that wasn’t enough to fight off his fatigue, and with Prue’s head still resting in his lap, he slept.

  When he woke again, it was to shouts and cries and a rumble of activity all around him. The caravan was descending a long, rolling slope toward plains in which countless tents spread away in dark hummocks amid a sea of burned grasses, spindly weeds, and scattered clumps of rocks. It was daylight again, if only barely so, the eastern sky above the now very distant mountains silvery behind a thin layer of clouds, the landscape washed of color. No greens were visible from where this new encampment was settled, the whole of the land in all directions barren and empty of life. Only the Trolls—and there were thousands of them—populated the otherwise bleak landscape. They were gathered everywhere about night fires that mostly had burned out by now, leaving spirals of smoke rising into the air like the spirits of the dead. Bent to tasks that Pan could not decipher, to work that lacked recognizable definition or purpose, the Trolls went about their business. Only a few glanced up as the caravan approached, and those only for a quick look before turning away again.

  Prue was awake, as well, hunched close against him. “There are so many of them. What are they doing here?”

  Her words were barely audible above the rumble of their cart and the jumbled sounds of the camp. He shook his head in reply, saying nothing. Whatever the Trolls were about, it wasn’t good. This was an army on the move, not a permanent camp. The Trolls were thousands strong, and there were arms and armor stacked everywhere. He saw beasts of burden that looked like nothing he had ever seen before, some of them vaguely resembling horses, many with horns and spikes jutting out of their heads and necks. Some were so burly that they had the look of battering rams, all covered in leather and metal clips. Some had the look of Kodens.

  He saw a handful of the Skaith Hounds, as well, kenneled off to one side in a wire pen that rose fully eight feet high and was topped with spikes. The beasts pressed up against the wire, tongues lolling out from between rows of teeth. They whined and growled in steady cadence, and the two that had taken the boy and girl raced off to greet them, their master sauntering off in their wake, waving to someone in the distance.

  “We can’t stay here,” Prue whispered. “We are in a lot of danger if we do. You know that, don’t you?”

  He did, of course, but he also knew he didn’t have a way of changing the situation. “Just wait,” he whispered back, not knowing what it was he expected her to wait for, short of a miracle.

  The wagon with its prisoners rolled into the camp and through the tents, and waves of Trolls crowded around and peered in at them, discovering finally that there was something to see. Dozens more came quickly in response to the shouts of those closest. Panterra and Prue pressed together at the center of the wagon bed, trying to elude hands that poked and prodded at them, to evade the odors of sweat and heated breath washing over them. The Trolls laughed and joked with one another, and one or two brought out knives and gestured at the boy and the girl, taunting them.

  Panterra kicked out, trying to drive them back. A powerful hand grabbed his leg and pulled him toward the side of the wagon, away from Prue. “Pan!” he heard her scream as his head banged down on the wooden slats and his head spun anew.

  But a second later the Trolls fell back, the men of the escort forcing them away, and Arik Sarn was lowering the gate and reaching in to loosen their leg bonds and help them down. They could barely stand at first, their legs cramped from the binding. The Troll held them up, stronger than he looked, as the blood returned and twinges of pain shot through their lower limbs. Flanked by the men from the escort, the Troll guided them through the crowds and into a large tent at the center of the camp, into fresh darkness and a muffling of the sounds without.

  “Stay here,” he told them, steering them over to a pole at the center of a section of the tent that was curtained off from the rest.

  As if to make clear that there wasn’t a choice, he sat them down with their backs to the pole and chained them with ankle manacles that kept them in place.

  Then he turned without a word and disappeared back the way they had come.

  THEY REMAINED WHERE THEY WERE for several hours, and at one point both fell asleep again. The sounds outside their place of confinement provided a steady thrum of noise, and no one came or went from their tent. Pan gave up on trying to free himself from his bonds, the ankle chain a new twist on their imprisonment that he had no way of overcoming. Their best hope now, he decided, was in awaiting the return of Arik Sarn.

  When the Troll finally did reappear, he came bearing a tray of dried meat, hard bread, and a pitcher of ale with cups. He set down everything he had brought, knelt beside them, and released them from the bonds that secured their hands, but left the ankle chain in place. He worked for a long time rubbing Prue’s wrists, restoring her circulation, and then he produced a container of thick salve from his tunic and rubbed it into her abrasions and cuts. He let Panterra take care of himself, glancing over every now and then, his face impassive as he worked, his eyes giving nothing away of his feelings. He took a long time with Prue, curiously tender in his ministrations, then he pointed to the tray and motioned for them to eat. He sat watching silently as they did so, and when Pan started to speak, the Troll shook his head and gestured anew at the food and drink. First things first, he seemed to be saying, and Pan left it at that.

  But as soon as they pushed back their plates and drained their cups, he was all business. “When your eating is done, Taureq Siq comes to question you. As Maturen of the Drouj, he will decide your fate. I ask the questions because I speak your tongue and can translate answers. But beware. You must answer fully and accurately. My oath as hostage and guest is part of the exchange of eldest sons. I am forbidden from hiding truth, even a little. Honor does not allow for it. Do you understand what I say?”

  Panterra understood perfectly. “We should say nothing we would not want you to repeat.”

  Sarn nodded. “Yes. Grosha looks to feed you to his hounds. He considers you property that has been taken away from him, and he is angry about it. He blames me, but his father has first claim and Grosha knows this. Even so, I may not be able to do anything more for you. Taureq dotes on Grosha and mostly gives him what he wants. He has little reason here to deny Grosha. I will do what I can to help. But remember about giving answers to questions. Be careful how you speak and of what.”

  “Why are you helping us?” Pan asked impulsively. “You owe us nothing. You barely know who we are.”

  The Troll gave him an unreadable look. “Would it be better if I didn’t help you?”

  There was a sudden flurry of activity from just outside the chamber’s closed flap, and Arik Sarn stood quickly and turned. A moment later a Troll’s flat-featured face poked through, and the Troll spoke quickly to Sarn in their by-now-familiar guttural language. The latter nodded and gestured the messenger away. “They come for you. Stand up and meet them as equals. Show no fear; do as I told you.”

  Panterra had no idea how they were supposed to avoid showing fear when they were captives in a camp of thousands of Trolls, any of whom might choose to kill them with not much more than a momentary thought. But he took Prue’s hand in his own and stood with her, facing the tent flap, holding himself erect. Sarn gave them a quick glance and then stepped to one side, distancing himself by doing so. It seemed an ominous sign.

  “Watch me closely,” Arik Sarn said quickly.

  The sounds of footfalls and voices entering the outer po
rtion of the tent froze them in place. Seconds later the tent flap was thrown back, and a clutch of armored black bodies strode through the opening and came to a halt. Panterra knew at once which of them was Taureq Siq just from the obvious deference paid him by all but one of the other Trolls who accompanied him. It was in their body language and their silence, but mostly it was in the way he dominated the room. Trolls were large to begin with, but Taureq Siq was a giant, standing fully eight feet tall and weighing well over three hundred pounds, all of it looking to Pan as if it were muscle and bone. Only Grosha, dark-browed and cold-eyed, standing at his father’s right hand, showed no hesitation at crowding forward and then launching into a diatribe that was accompanied by angry gestures toward Panterra and Prue and his cousin. His father let him go on for a moment before backing him away with one massive arm and a single sharp command that turned the furious boy silent.

  He took a step forward so that he stood at the forefront of the little assembly and close to the boy and the girl. His huge body was layered with scales as thick and rough as bark looming over them like a tree trunk, and his flat, empty face was ridged with scars. He studied them, letting the silence build for a moment before he shifted his gaze to his nephew and asked a quick question. Sarn answered briefly, and then there was a further exchange.

  “Taureq says to tell him where you come from,” he said quietly.

  Panterra took a deep breath. “We come from deep in the mountains east of these plains. Those mountains are our home.”

  Another quick exchange among the Trolls followed. “Taureq says to tell him if you are a nation of Men only or of others, too.”

  “We are a nation of mixed Races. Men, Elves, Trolls”—he was quick to remember that the word Lizards was not to be used—“and Spiders.”

  Another exchange followed this translation. “How many?”

  “Hundreds of thousands,” Panterra lied.

  There was a pause after his answer was given, then a flurry of words from the Maturen. “Taureq never heard of you. Why not, if your people are so many? Why live in the mountains and not in the grasslands south?”

  Again, Panterra answered, embellishing the truth where it was needed. They had not come out of the mountains until now because they did not know if it was safe to do so or if the rest of the world had been destroyed. They were happy isolating themselves. They had found a home that could sustain them and that they could protect. He went on from there. He made it sound as if they were self-sufficient and well fortified against intruders, a united community of friends and neighbors deeply entrenched inside mountain passes only they knew how to navigate. He had no idea if he was saying the right thing; he only knew he needed to give the impression that an intrusion or attack of any sort would be a mistake.

  Then, abruptly, the questions stopped. Taureq Siq stood quietly, looking at Panterra. He seemed to be considering. Pan waited, keeping his face expressionless, trying to convey a sense of calm. But as the seconds passed, he sensed in the spaces between their soft, slow fading that he had made a mistake.

  As if in response to his fears, Taureq Siq made a quick, dismissive comment, and Arik Sarn turned to Pan and said, “He says you are lying. He wants to know why.”

  Panterra felt his throat tighten as he struggled to find the right response. “I don’t lie. But I am worried that he intends to use his army to invade us and want to make clear that we are a poor choice for an attack.”

  A further exchange between Trolls followed. “He says no harm will come to your people, but you should not lie to him because if you do he will take his army into the mountains and find your people and kill them, but first he will kill you and the girl.”

  Sarn’s words died away into silence. So he means us no harm, but he’s willing to kill us all if he decides he’s being lied to? Pan gave a mental shake of his head. He could trust nothing of what this man was saying, which was pretty much what Sarn had suggested in advising him to reveal nothing he did not wish repeated. Grosha was smiling, standing next to his father, hands clasped almost gleefully. He sensed he was about to have his way with them, that they would soon be entertainment for his Skaith Hounds.

  “I have answered truthfully,” Pan said, trying to deflect both Taureq Siq’s threat and his own fear. “I don’t know what more I can do. What else do you want to know?”

  Beside him, he felt Prue inch closer.

  Another long pause as Taureq Siq considered. Beside him, Grosha was growing more agitated, restless enough that he was trying to push forward again. His father, almost absently, shoved him back, and then spoke anew to Arik Sarn.

  “He says you must take him to meet your leaders,” the latter advised Pan. “Tomorrow.”

  Pan hesitated. Now what am I supposed to do? His mind raced, searching for an answer that wouldn’t come. “I’m not allowed to do that,” he said finally. “I don’t have permission to take anyone into the mountains. But I could bring our leaders somewhere close to where your son captured us. I could arrange a meeting. I just need a little time.”

  He said all this without having the faintest idea if he could arrange a meeting or even with whom he might try to do so. Those in the valley didn’t have any unity of the sort he had described, and there was no one who could speak for all of the various peoples. But it didn’t matter. He would tell the Maturen anything to keep him at bay. Whatever happened, he must not take these Trolls into the passes or he would forfeit whatever measure of security those living in the valley might still enjoy now that the protective barriers were down.

  He watched Taureq Siq’s face as Sarn translated his words, but could read nothing in the Troll’s impassive expression. The Maturen said something in reply, and then the two went back and forth for a few minutes in what appeared to be either an argument or an attempt to clarify. Whichever it was, Pan didn’t like the feel of it.

  Arik Sarn turned back to him. “Taureq Siq will think on your suggestion and give you his answer before the day ends. He says you must think some more on the answers you have given him. Maybe you will want to change some of them. He orders me to stay with you until you do.”

  Pan exhaled softly. “Tell him I am grateful,” he said, not knowing exactly why he was grateful for anything that was happening, but thinking he needed to say something encouraging. “I will do as he says.”

  The Maturen gave him a short nod, one that managed to convey both approval and menace, and then he beckoned the others after him and departed the way he had come without a glance back. Grosha, however, gave Panterra a long, hard look that promised that as far as he was concerned, nothing was settled.

  Panterra felt Prue clasp his arm. “Maybe he’ll let us go,” she whispered. “Maybe he’ll agree to your suggestion.”

  Pan didn’t think so. He didn’t know what would happen, but it wasn’t that. He suspected that Taureq Siq had already made up his mind about what he was going to do, but had decided to wait to let Panterra’s imagination take hold.

  He started to say as much to Arik Sarn, but the Troll held up his hand in warning. They stood in silence for a long time, listening. Then Sarn walked to the tent flap and peered out.

  “Spies stay behind sometimes. Hide and listen and then tell him things. Maybe not this time because they don’t speak your language. Talk freely, but softly. Be quick. He will come back soon.”

  “You think he has decided, don’t you?” Pan pressed.

  “Yes.”

  “He won’t let us go, will he?”

  “No.” The Troll glanced back over his shoulder, and then moved away from the tent flap to stand close. “He won’t let you go until he has the answers he wants. Maybe not then, either. He wants to know how to get into your valley so he can decide for himself if he will occupy it. This is what he is not telling you. He moves the Drouj from its traditional homelands, which have sickened. The Drouj avoided this for a long time after the Great Wars, but no longer. Things have changed. Taureq looks for a new homeland; that is what he is doing out h
ere.”

  “But where are the women and children?” Prue interrupted. “Have they left them behind?”

  “Doesn’t matter what he’s done with his women and children. Do you understand what I am telling you? Do you see the purpose of Taureq’s questions? He seeks your home in the mountains. If he likes it, he will take it from you.”

  “And you don’t approve?” Pan asked.

  “It doesn’t matter if I approve.”

  Panterra shook his head. “But I don’t understand. Why are you telling us all this? Why are you helping us at all? Aren’t you putting yourself in danger by doing so? If the Drouj find out what you are doing, won’t they be angry?”

  Arik Sarn nodded. “Very angry. Taureq Siq would kill me instantly, forget any agreement with my father and their shared blood. He would do it even if it meant sacrificing his eldest, in turn.”

  “Then I’ll ask it again. Why are you helping us? With so much risk, so much at stake, why?”

  The Troll’s smile formed a small break in his impassive features. “It is complicated.”

  “Yes,” Prue said at once. “But explain it anyway.”

  The Troll shrugged. “We have only a little time, so I have to hurry.” He paused. “Wait.”

  He walked back over to the flap entry and peered out once more. “I thought I heard something,” he said. “Maybe. Maybe not.” He shook his head, walked back to them, and motioned for them to sit. “I think we are family,” he said very softly. “Your people and ours.”

  “Family?” Panterra repeated in disbelief. “How?”

  The other leaned close, and his words were barely audible. “Once,” he said, “hundreds of years ago, at the finish of the Great Wars, our ancestors both were seeking a place to survive what would come after. Two of mine were street children led by a boy named Hawk. He gave to his family—to those children who followed him—a name. It was the same name my ancestors gave their own tribe when they formed it later.”