Troll Mountain

by Matthew Reilly

  Raf turned to see Düm swinging his long sledgehammer again. “Master Raf! Duck!”

  Raf ducked and the big hammer swooshed over his head again and sent another hobgoblin splashing into the sizzling pool.

  It gave Raf the moment he needed and he bolted up the path to join Düm and Ko.

  And that was how it went: a running sword-battle as Raf, Ko, and Düm ascended the path, pursued by the furious hobgoblins.

  They scaled the railless path, clashing swords, parrying blows, always moving, never stopping. They traversed the first drawbridge—the one that was in the open position—but stopped short when they came to the second.

  This drawbridge towered high above the floor of the immense cavern, two hundred dizzying feet above the steaming lake.

  Raf called out the plan: Ko and Düm would hold off the hobgoblins while he dashed inside the two-story guardhouse and lowered the drawbridge.

  Raf hurried inside the little structure and clambered up a wooden ladder to its upper level. He emerged inside a small chamber, where he beheld a large cogwheel around which the drawbridge’s chains were spooled. The chains stretched out through a small rectangular window in the wall.

  A low growl made Raf freeze.

  Raf turned to see a large shape emerging slowly from the darkness …

  It was a mountain wolf.

  Wait. No.

  It was three.

  They stepped out from the shadows of the chamber. They were massive, their shoulders easily four feet off the ground. Their eyes were pitiless, their fangs cruel.

  Raf didn’t stop to stare. He dived for the cogwheel and released its lever, causing the cogwheel to spin furiously and the drawbridge outside to fall and land on the other side of the void with a loud bang!

  Then Raf ran for the window through which the chains exited the chamber—just as a hobgoblin appeared on the ladder poking up through the floor and raised his sword, only to be bowled off his feet by one of the wolves. The wolf proceeded to tear the hobgoblin to shreds as Raf grabbed a chain and slid down it, out of the chamber.

  *

  Ko and Düm stepped backward across the drawbridge, fending off the hobgoblins as Raf came sliding down one of the drawbridge’s chains, overtaking them.

  Düm swiped a hobgoblin off the bridge, sending the creature flying two hundred feet down to the pool, a high-pitched shriek following it all the way down.

  But then the three mountain wolves emerged behind the hobgoblins and the goblins didn’t know what to do—suddenly, they were hemmed in both in front and behind by deadly enemies.

  “Düm!” Raf called as they stepped off the bridge and onto the path again. “Destroy the bridge!”

  Düm held the big hammer aloft and brought it down on the brackets where the chains were attached to the drawbridge. Two blows and the brackets came loose. Three more and the bridge fell from its chains, plummeting down the rock wall, taking three hobgoblins and one mountain wolf with it.

  The remaining hobgoblins were left on the guardhouse-side of the void, with the two remaining wolves. Their fate would not be kind. The wolves pounced on them and the hobgoblins’ death screams filled the air.

  Raf sucked in a deep breath.

  He and the others were safe on their side of the void. With a final look back at the realm of the hobgoblins, he ascended the last few turns of the path and disappeared through the ornate door at its summit.

  *

  Moments later, he, Ko and Düm emerged from the mine onto a small ledge cut into the side of Forbidden Mountain.

  Raf was about to ask Düm how far it was from here to Troll Mountain, when he stopped himself. He didn’t need to. The ledge on which he stood faced to the north-west, and laid out before him was the most spectacular and sinister sight he had ever seen in his life.

  He was looking at Troll Mountain.

  X-RAY FRONT VIEW (AS SEEN FACING NORTH)

  SIDE VIEW (AS SEEN FACING WEST)

  TROLL MOUNTAIN

  Chapter 12

  The sight took Raf’s breath away.

  It was magnificent. It made the realm of the hobgoblins look like an anthill.

  From his position to the south-east of it, Troll Mountain stood before him like a giant, rising boldly out of the middle of a circular canyon, surrounded by lesser peaks. And while all the mountains around it were as black as the night, it was of a different color, a powerful deep gray.

  Access to the mountain appeared to be from one point only, a long swooping rope-bridge that stretched from a small stair-equipped pinnacle to the mountain.

  The rope-bridge met Troll Mountain at a heavily fortified watchtower that, according to Düm, was known as the Main Gate. As was the trolls’ custom, this watchtower—like all the other ones Raf could see on the mountain—was adorned with curved wooden tusks so that it appeared to have frightening horns.

  A long and very magnificent staircase rose directly from the Main Gate to an arched doorway situated in the exact heart of the mountain. Flanking this arch were a pair of high ornate windows sunken into the stone.

  “Behind arch and windows is Great Hall of the Mountain King,” Düm said solemnly. “Is where Troll King holds court.”

  At the summit of the mountain was a stupendous structure—a wide open-air space dominated by an elevated throne. Four immense pillars sculpted from the actual rock of the mountain supported a roof-like structure that, it seemed to Raf, had once been the original peak of the mountain. Two banners mounted above the open-air throne flapped and fluttered in the gusts of the mountain range.

  “That king’s Winter Throne Hall,” Düm said. “During colder months, Troll King holds court up there. Trolls like cold.”

  “What’s that thing sticking out from the side of it?” Raf asked.

  Jutting out from the eastern edge of this open-air space, high above the flank of the mountain, was a circular wooden platform, constructed so that it was level with the space but separated from it by a gap of about ten feet.

  “Is Fighting Platform,” Düm said quietly. “Is where challenges are settled.” The big troll lowered his eyes, reminded of his shame.

  Raf looked further up the magnificent mountain.

  Above the king’s winter throne, encircling the summit of the mountain like a crown, was a crenellated battlement. The tiny figures of two trolls could be seen patrolling it.

  Higher still above this battlement, at the mountain’s absolute summit, was a final watchtower that looked out over the entire mountain range. It was called the Supreme Watchtower, Düm said. A flag fluttered from its flagpole three thousand feet above the great mount’s base.

  Down at that base, Raf saw a crude dam constructed of hundreds of troll-stacked boulders. A huge body of water had backed up behind the dam but only a thin waterfall poured over it—this was the dam that blocked up the river.

  The dam’s meager waterfall fed a muddy moat that all but encircled the mountain. It appeared to be a bog of gripping mud like the one Raf had seen at the Broken Bridge—only this bog ringed the mountain on three sides. The lake behind the dam protected the fourth side.

  Raf gazed in awe at the stupendous mountain.

  “How could trolls build such a wonder?” he asked.

  Düm said, “Trolls no build Troll Mountain. Trolls find it deserted many years ago. So trolls just move in and make it theirs.”

  Raf threw a questioning glance at Ko.

  The old man shrugged. “The work of the same race of men who dug the mine that became the hobgoblins’ kingdom. They built great watchtowers like this from which they could look out over their vast empire. But then they suddenly retreated south, leaving their watchtowers empty.”

  Atop every watchtower on the mountain—in addition to the horns the trolls had added—were small glowing fires.

  “What are they?” Raf asked.

  “All’s Well fires,” Düm said. “If a watchtower’s fire burns, then all is well at watchtower. If fire goes out, then trolls know something
wrong at that tower.”

  Ko added, “Another creation of the original builders. Those who rule by force soon find that they have many enemies.”

  Raf turned back to face the mountain.

  “Düm,” he said. “I thank you for bringing me here and explaining these things to me. I have just one more question for you and when you answer it you may consider yourself relieved of your debt.”

  “Yes, Master Raf.”

  “Where does your king keep his fabled Elixir?”

  Düm swallowed. “Düm should not tell, but Düm owe Master Raf life debt …” He paused, wrestling with this dilemma, but then said, “Life debt is life debt. Elixir is kept in most secure place in Troll Mountain: in Supreme Watchtower, at summit of mountain, higher even than winter throne. That is where king keep wise old troll Vilnar imprisoned, to work on his potions. King have Vilnar guarded day and night. You see guards up there now.” He nodded at the two tiny figures patrolling the battlement ringing the summit of the mountain.

  Raf gazed intently at the highest watchtower.

  “Master Raf,” Düm said. “Not even trolls can get into Supreme Watchtower. If you are discovered in Supreme Watchtower stealing Elixir, trolls rip you limb from limb and eat you while you watch.”

  Raf said, “My sister is dying, Düm. So are my people.” His jaw tightened. “I have no choice.”

  Raf then kneeled and extracted some yams from his pack and bit into them hungrily. He figured he should eat now because he’d need energy later.

  “Young Raf,” Ko said, “forgive me, it’s been a long while since I had the flush of youthful confidence, but how exactly do you intend to get across to the mountain undetected?”

  Raf jerked his chin at the rope-bridge, spoke with his mouth full. “I’m going to use the trolls’ very own bridge.”

  Chapter 13

  That night, an hour after midnight, Raf made his move. The evening was bright and clear and the full moon illuminated the landscape.

  Düm had told Raf that trolls usually slept between midnight and dawn, often in a state of substantial inebriation. That was Raf’s window of opportunity.

  Leaving Düm and Ko on the hobgoblin mountain to the east, Raf skulked down to the pinnacle which held up one end of the rope-bridge that gave access to Troll Mountain.

  The All’s Well fire burned brightly atop the watchtower on the pinnacle and Raf saw the shadows of two guard-trolls patrolling the tower’s uppermost level. Beyond the pinnacle, Troll Mountain loomed in the moonlight.

  Using his rope, a hook and his considerable climbing skills, Raf scaled the side of the pinnacle out of the view of the trolls on its watchtower.

  At length, he came to the rope-bridge, approaching it from below. He did indeed intend to use it to get to the mountain, but he wasn’t going to cross it in the usual way. The bridge hung from a pair of sturdy anchor-posts. Raf noticed that each anchor-post was decorated with an impaled human skull. Trolls and hobgoblins, it appeared, used similar methods to instill fear in their visitors.

  Arriving at the rocky shoulder under those anchor-posts, Raf wound up his home-made rope and slung it over his shoulders.

  As he did so, he looked up at the underside of the rope-bridge and, for a brief moment, paused.

  This is it, he thought. My last chance to change my mind. My last chance to turn back.

  “You can do this,” he whispered aloud to himself.

  And so, taking one final deep breath, he jumped up and gripped the first slat of the long swooping rope-bridge; then he swung across to the next slat, gripping it one-handed with his fingertips.

  Thus Raf set out across the rope-bridge, hanging from its underside, swinging from slat to slat, but always moving in a careful, slow way so as not to make the bridge wobble and attract the attention of the guard-trolls on the first watchtower.

  His feet dangled above the rocky gorge and the boggy mud moat hundreds of feet below, and for a brief instant he glanced down and saw the immense drop and his heart began to race.

  He whipped up his eyes and again breathed, “You can do this, Raf. You can do this.”

  After that, he didn’t look down again. With every swing of his arms, he only had eyes for the other end of the bridge.

  *

  Only two watchers observed Raf crossing the bridge in this daring way: Ko and Düm, from a quarter of a mile away.

  Ko held his breath as he watched the tiny figure swing from slat to slat, high above the deadly fall.

  Düm was amazed. “Master Raf clever. Düm would never have thought of crossing bridge like that. Mind you, Düm much heavier.”

  Ko kept watching Raf as he replied, “Yes, he is very clever. I just hope that he will also use some wisdom as his mission progresses into a far more dangerous stage.”

  *

  At length Raf came to the mountain end of the rope-bridge. There he dismounted onto a shoulder of rock underneath the second troll watchtower, the one Düm had called the Main Gate.

  The Main Gate was erected on a small stone outcropping—a mini-pinnacle of sorts—that jutted out from the main body of the mountain, and it too bore a glowing All’s Well fire on its roof.

  Raf climbed down this mini-pinnacle and then crossed a shallow ravine connecting it to the mountain.

  This took extra time—it would have been faster to swing underneath the two strong-looking wooden bridges connecting the Main Gate directly to Troll Mountain—but Raf preferred to take a detour rather than risk being detected by any stray troll eye.

  With a final jump, Raf landed for the first time on the surface of Troll Mountain.

  He looked up.

  The great rocky behemoth rose above him, soaring into the star-filled sky, the Supreme Watchtower at its summit silhouetted against the glorious full moon.

  Raf swallowed as he eyed the glowing All’s Well fire on it.

  Then he bent his head and commenced the long climb upward.

  Chapter 14

  Carefully and silently, Raf scaled Troll Mountain.

  He moved with tremendous caution, making sure not to dislodge any loose stones or rocks—in the eerie silence of the night, a bouncing stone would ring out like a bell.

  He scaled the mountain in a zigzagging fashion. At first, this motion took him westward, but for some unknown reason, the western flank of the mountain became sheer and vertical very quickly, so he traversed to the eastern side. It turned out to be far more climbable and had the added bonus of offering more concealment within its crags.

  A short way up the eastern flank, Raf came to a paved stone path, worn smooth from constant use. It stretched from the Main Gate up to a side doorway halfway up the mountain.

  According to Düm, this path (and another that led from the Main Gate down to the trolls’ dam) was used for dragging stone sleds filled with food from the lowlands and water from the dam to the Mountain King’s halls.

  This was Düm’s job as a dragger—the lowest of the low in troll society. All day, every day, he and the other draggers pulled the heavy sleds up the paved path to a kitchen area adjoining the Great Hall.

  Düm had also said that low-born trolls, when returning to the mountain, were only allowed to walk up these paths. High-born trolls—the king’s family and the families he favored—could use the more direct route to the Great Hall: the magnificent staircase that rose in a dead-straight line from the Main Gate to the hall’s arched doorway on the front face of the mountain.

  Raf didn’t dare step out onto the path. Rather, he kept within the crags on its upper side and ascended the mountain parallel to it.

  *

  Further up the dragging path, Raf beheld one last watchtower, this one perched two-thirds of the way up the mountain, on its rear corner, facing north-east.

  To avoid being spotted by its guards, he bent back around toward the front face of the mountain, climbing close to the corner spine of the great peak, roughly equidistant from the Main Gate and this watchtower, moving carefully, using the fold
s of the rocky slope to conceal his progress.

  At one point in his journey up the front face, he came within twenty yards of one of the high stone windows that opened out from the Great Hall.

  Raf wanted to peek inside it, but he didn’t dare. He could hear deep snoring sounds within, even from this distance. It was the sound of many trolls sleeping. With their great noses, it seemed trolls were loud snorers.

  He climbed ever higher.

  A short way up from the window, he came across a small shelf cut into the mountainside, within which was a curious object.

  It was a pedestal of some kind.

  A monument.

  It was cut from beautiful black stone and inscribed on it were words in an ancient language that Raf did not know. Had he been able to comprehend them, he would have read:

  THIS STONE COMMEMORATES THE COMPLETION OF THE GREAT WATCHTOWER OF THE NORTH, SEAT OF POWER FOR THE GOVERNOR OF THESE LANDS.

  LOOK UPON IT, ENEMIES OF OUR GLORIOUS EMPIRE, AND TREMBLE.

  WE SHALL RULE THESE LANDS AND THE PEOPLE IN THEM FOR A THOUSAND YEARS.

  The pedestal had the same look to it as the rock-cut doorways in the hobgoblin kingdom—it had been made by that same civilization of clever men.

  A deep crack, however, presumably the result of a blow from a troll hammer, split the monument down the middle. Troll graffiti covered it.

  Raf moved on.

  Further up, about a hundred feet below the flat floor of the king’s open-air Winter Throne Hall, Raf peeped over a rocky crag to discover a most sickening sight.

  He saw a set of sharp wooden stakes, a forest of the things, on which were impaled the bloody corpses of trolls and people. All of the dead bodies were in advanced states of decay—the vultures of the mountains had fed on them.

  Raf looked upward and saw, directly above the grisly collection of stakes, the southern edge of the Winter Throne Hall.

  These poor souls—humans and trolls alike—had been thrown down here …