Don't Feed the Trolls

by Jacob Peppers

  Fedder scowled but was apparently too busy panting to offer any retort.

  Mariana grinned. “Anyway, looks like you done for that beastie readily enough.”

  There was a great shifting sound, and Dannen spun to look at the source. He was depressingly unsurprised to see that the creature was not quite finished after all and was even now lifting its body from the rubble it had fallen in.

  In another moment, it brushed the debris covering it away and rose up onto its haunches, looking none the worse for wear after the mage’s blast of flame which, admittedly, would have been difficult since the thing was already dead when the fight had started.

  “Or maybe not,” Mariana muttered.

  Dannen was trying to decide whether he wanted to die charging at the dragon or, instead, sit down and relax and just let it happen, when he felt a tug at his trouser leg. He looked down and was surprised to see Tesler’s squirrel looking up at him, which was odd. What was considerably odder was that it held something in its hands. At first, he had a hard time figuring out what it was, but then it came to him. “Wait a minute,” he said, “is that…” His breath caught in his throat, and he took in the squirrel’s face—that smug expression on it that he’d seen earlier—as it lifted the dark sphere up to him, the sphere which looked as if it was made of glass with what appeared to be storm clouds shifting on its surface.

  Too shocked to believe his luck, Dannen was left speechless as he reached for what could only be the dragon’s Gloaming Stone. But right as his fingers were about to grasp it, the squirrel jerked it away. Dannen frowned, looking at it. Looking smug, still, sure, but looking something else too. If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought it was smiling.

  The squirrel offered the orb again, and Dannen spared a glance for the dragon who was even now rearing onto its haunches once more—there could only be seconds before it killed him and the others—then reached for the orb only to have the animal jerk it away once more.

  “Come on, damn you,” he hissed. “Look, I’m sorry if I disrespected you or…well, whatever, okay? Now please, can I have the stone?”

  The squirrel chittered, a sound that was remarkable in how much it resembled laughter, then it offered the stone to him a third time. Dannen reached for it, thinking that if the little creature decided to continue the joke, it wouldn’t get to appreciate its own cleverness for long. This time, though, the creature did not pull away, and a moment later he was holding it in his hands.

  Gloaming Stones were dark magic, the purview of necromancers and hedge wizards whose ambition outweighed their respect for the dead. Evil things, things by which the dead might be enslaved—not that such stones were always necessary, of course, but when raising a being of the dragon’s power, they surely must have been. Evil, but beautiful, too. Sometimes, a thing could be both. In fact, if Dannen’s experience with women was anything to go by—most of those before Val who he’d been with wanting him dead and more than a few who’d gone so far as to give it a go—men were often tempted by dangerous things. Part of their nature, that was all, just like the fact they were complete fools.

  He stared at the sleek surface of the orb, found his gaze trapped in it, his eyes following the storm clouds that seemed to shift and roil within the everchanging sky contained within. He was still admiring it when it was suddenly jerked out of his hands, and he only managed to utter a cry of surprise before Mariana lifted it above her head in both hands and hurled it downward into the stone floor of the battlements.

  The stone exploded, sending shards of glass in all directions, and the air was filled with the sound of a phantom roar as black smog seemed to drift into the sky before vanishing a moment later. “It…was beautiful,” Dannen managed, slowly coming out of his stupor.

  Mariana rolled her eyes at him. “Men,” she said in disgust.

  That was when Dannen noticed a few things at once. First, Fedder and Tesler were standing beside him, blinking, clearly having been overcome by the magic as he had. He noticed, also, that the squirrel was shaking its head at them, seeming to share the young woman’s disapproval. But neither of these two things are what stuck out to him the most. Instead, that was the undead dragon.

  The undead dragon who arched its back, its wings of bone and tattered flesh jerking out behind it as it lifted its head and let out a silent roar. Then, it began to fall, the life—or pseudo-life—clearly gone out of it. Which was good.

  So good that Dannen and the others began to shout and cheer in celebration and relief—understandable, surely, he’d tell himself later, considering that, moments before, they’d been certain they would all die to an undead dragon—amazed to still be alive. He and Fedder were clapping each other on the shoulder, grinning ear to ear, when, suddenly, a frown came over the mage’s face. “Butcher, you’d better look ou—”

  Dannen never got to hear the rest of the sentence. One moment, he was standing, celebrating like a complete fool who hadn’t seen time and time again the way the world waits until you’re comfortable and fully asleep before it tips your bed over. The next minute, something—later, Palden’s resident healer would confirm that it was a piece of jagged dragon bone, a rib-bone like the one Fedder had used, maybe—flew out of the sky and struck him in the head. And then he wasn’t celebrating, wasn’t scared, either.

  In that moment—and in quite a few moments that followed—he was nothing except unconscious.

  CHAPTER TWO

  There was the dark. And there was nothing but the dark.

  Until there was.

  Dannen didn’t wake so much as he appeared. Or, at least, that was how it felt. One minute, he was unconscious—gods, let it just be that—and the next, he was standing in the middle of a field. He did not need to be told that he had come, once more, to the Land of the Gods, for the sky was that burnished, unearthly gold which he had witnessed when first arriving. The grass of the fields was knee-high, and it blew in a wind, making him feel as if he stood in some great, green ocean, the currents pushing against him.

  The field seemed to stretch on forever, an endless field of green with nothing to use to mark his place, so he began to feel as if he had somehow found himself in the middle of some other world, a world with nothing but green grass that stretched on forever and ever.

  It felt peaceful at first, but as he stood there alone, with no idea of where to go, he felt a slight trill of panic begin to creep into him. Was this death, then? Was a man left to wander through an unbroken landscape of green? Were there other wanderers out there somewhere, forever condemned to an endless walk?

  He told himself it was a ridiculous thought, but the longer he stood there, the less ridiculous it seemed. Finally, there was a sound behind him, and he turned to see that a portal, much like the one that had opened in the closet of the inn what felt like a lifetime ago, had appeared. A moment later, the Messenger God stepped through.

  Dannen grunted. “You bastard. I was just beginning to think I’d died.”

  Perandius glanced around as if to assure himself no one else was around before turning to meet his gaze. “It was a near thing, Dannen Ateran. But no, you are not dead.”

  Dannen frowned. “Thanks. That makes me feel a lot better. Anyway, where are we?”

  The god winced. “Well…I suppose you were not so far wrong in your assumption, for this place was made for the dead at first—”

  “I knew it,” Dannen said. “Damnit, I’m dead.”

  “No, no,” the god said, waving his hand, “this place, the Fields, were created but quickly abandoned. As it turned out, we were surprised to find it did not give mortals the peace we had hoped during their transition.”

  Dannen blinked. “Gods. You bastards really don’t know us at all, do you? If you want us to be at peace, maybe add a tavern. A couple of whores. Anyway…you’re sure I’m not dead?”

  Perandius sighed. “No, Dannen Ateran, you are not dead. You are still very much alive.”

  Dannen looked around himself doubtfully. �
�Okay, let’s say, for the sake of argument, that I believe you. Why am I here?”

  The god blinked. “Well. Because I brought you, of course.”

  Dannen looked around for something to hit the god with—it had just been that kind of day—but there was nothing, nothing, at least, except the endless field of grass, and he doubted that slapping the god in the face with a few weeds would get his point across. So instead, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I figured that much. But why?”

  “I wished to speak with you.”

  “Look, godling,” Dannen managed through gritted teeth, “it’s been a long few days—a long life, if you want to know the truth, and I’m a bit short on patience just now. On top of that, I’m fairly sure I’m going to wake up with a fist-sized knot on my head, so if it’s all the same to you, how about we just get on with it?”

  “Of course,” the god said, nodding. “And do not worry, Dannen Ateran. There is a very good chance you will wake up.”

  Dannen frowned. “I knew it. I’m dead.”

  Perandius gave an awkward laugh. “Of course not. At the very worst, you’re dying, but—”

  “Wait a minute,” Dannen blurted, “you mean I’m dying? Gods, I can’t believe—”

  “No, no, no,” the god interrupted, holding his hands up. “There has been some misunderstanding, Dannen Ateran. You are not dying.”

  “Oh,” Dannen said, breathing a heavy sigh of relief, “well thank goodness for—”

  “I’m nearly certain of it.”

  That caused him to pause, frowning again. “What are you telling me, Perandius? Am I dying or not?”

  “Honestly,” the god said, trying a laugh that was obviously forced, “I don’t know what’s given you—”

  “Perandius.”

  “No,” the god blurted. “At least…probably.”

  “Probably.”

  “Well,” he went on defensively, “you were hit rather hard, weren’t you? And nobody to blame but yourself—after all, while I don’t have much experience with undead dragons, even I would know enough to get out from under them when they are falling down.”

  Dannen decided then that he was either dead or dying, or he was not, but that either way, he could think of no worse way to squander his life—or afterlife—than to continue the fruitless conversation with the Messenger God. So instead, he chose to let it—and the very real urge to kick the god in the balls and see if that made his feelings clear—go.

  “Why did you bring me here?”

  “Oh. Right. Well, it has come to my attention that King Ufrith summoned all his soldiers and met the undead army on the field only last night.”

  Dannen studied the god’s face. “I see. And I’m guessing you didn’t summon me here to tell me that the necromancer and his sword-wielding brother have been vanquished and we can all go home.”

  The god winced. “Not…quite. I’m afraid that Ufrith’s army was overrun, and the king—and what few hundred soldiers remain to him—has been forced to retreat to the capital city of Urkenvald.”

  “Perfect,” Dannen said. “And you’re here to tell me that while conquering undead dragons might—in another situation—seem pretty impressive, it really doesn’t matter, and we’re supposed to hurry so that we four can somehow defeat an army of the undead that has put an entire kingdom to flight?”

  “Dragon.”

  “What’s that?”

  The god shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I mean, it was only the one dragon, wasn’t it?”

  Dannen bit the inside of his mouth and tasted the coppery tang of blood as he struggled with his flagging patience. After all, he had enough problems without pissing off a god. He couldn’t imagine what sort of form the wrath of the Messenger God might take—though much more news like this would be pretty bad in itself—but considering what he was up against, he thought it best not to find out. “I see. But you are expecting us to defeat this undead army.”

  Perandius blinked. “Well. You are the Champions of the Gods.”

  “Uh huh. With all the perks that entails—a seemingly inevitable violent death chief among them. And I don’t suppose you have any thought on how we might get this impossible task done?”

  The Messenger God cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t presume to try to dictate your course, not for a hero as…experienced as yourself.”

  “Meaning you have no damned idea.”

  “Well…yes.”

  “You know, Perandius,” Dannen said, beginning to feel his anger stir, “I’m starting to think this ‘Champion of the Gods’ thing is a bit of a shit show.”

  “I…I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “What I mean,” Dannen growled, “is that, so far as I can tell, there’s no upside.”

  “But…should you be successful, you will all be recognized for it, of course, and the gratitude of the north, of the entire world—”

  “You live a life like I have, Perandius,” Dannen interrupted, “and it’s usually better if you’re not recognized. As for gratitude, well, it’s all well and good, I suppose, but a man can only bed so many grateful damsels before the whole thing goes sort of sour and gratitude, in my experience, makes for a pretty damned flimsy shield. And so far that gratitude and recognition you speak of doesn’t seem to have done anything to bring those poor fools you recruited before me back from the dead.”

  “Ah…you’re right, of course. Sadly, in great endeavors, sacrifices must sometimes be made.”

  “What a nice little saying that is. Maybe you ought to get that embroidered onto a towel, go into business. My point is, gratitude or not, Perandius, the dead stay dead, and I suspect that, if given the choice, they’d pick breath over thanks any time.”

  The god stared at him in disbelief. “But surely, Dannen Ateran, you, more than anyone, must understand the importance of such selfless sacrifice, for despite how you might act, you have done it yourself, many times, to the benefit of hundreds of others. Why, you have even received such benefits yourself, for instance, from the woman, Clarissa—”

  “Not another word,” Dannen growled, his fists clenching at his sides.

  The god recoiled as if slapped. “Forgive me, Dannen Ateran, I only meant that, without her selfless sacrifice—”

  “Enough,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. “I’m well aware of what Clare did for us—for me. And where were you during all of that, I wonder? Sitting back with your feet kicked up, reading a good book, maybe?”

  “I assure you, Dannen, I do not so callously watch the suffering of mortals as you seem to think. None of the gods do. Or…at least, very few.”

  “Oh no, not you,” Dannen said, his anger building. “No, of course you wouldn’t just sit back and callously watch while the person who saved your champions suffered for it. How did you do it then, Perandius? How did you watch as they dragged Clare to the executioner’s block—assuming they even made use of it instead of just knifing her and tossing her body away in some dark alley? You didn’t watch callously, okay. So did you watch mournfully, maybe? Did you watch sadly?”

  Before he knew it, he had lunged forward, taken the front of the god’s immaculate tunic in his hands and was shaking him. Maybe he wasn’t really here, was only dreaming, and he had no idea if a dream could kick another dream’s ass, but he thought maybe he’d find out.

  “She’s not dead!” the god blurted.

  Dannen paused in his shaking, frowning. “What?”

  “C-Clarrisa Yalden is still alive.”

  Dannen frowned. “How can you know?”

  “It is as you say, Dannen Ateran. I have watched. And how ever callous you might think us, we gods do care about the suffering of mortals.”

  “Well how is she, damn you?” Dannen said. “What’s happened to her?”

  Perandius winced. “She is…currently being held prisoner. To be tried in two weeks’ time for her crimes against the city.”

  The brief moment of relief Dannen felt quickly faded at that. “Tried,” he re
peated. “You mean there’s to be a trial?”

  “Yes.”

  “One in which she can only be found guilty considering that she helped several fugitives escape the city’s justice, not to mention orchestrating the assassination of one of its Tribunes, never mind the fact that the Tribune in question was a monster.”

  “Yes, I suspect so.”

  “Damnit, you’ve got to help her,” Dannen growled. “After all, without her, this quest would have come to an end long before now, and we never would have even made it out of Talinseh. You’ve got to do something, to get her out, or, or—”

  “I cannot,” the god said sadly. “You know that I cannot. Already, in meeting you here and telling you what I have, I have gone against my father’s edict. Should I intercede on her behalf, there would be no hiding it, and the punishment would be…severe.”

  “So what?” Dannen asked. “You get sent to bed early? Maybe get some of your scrolls taken away for a millennia or two? Gods, don’t you get it? She could die.”

  “The punishment, Dannen Ateran,” Perandius said, “would be, as I’ve said, severe. And, I fear, it would not be reserved only for myself. My cousin, Evendrian, God of Sophistication, would tell you as much…were he able.”

  Dannen frowned. “God of Sophistication. I’ve never heard of him.”

  “No…” Perandius said, turning pale even as Dannen watched. “No, you wouldn’t have.”

  Dannen grunted. “So you mean to tell me that, what, he did something to go against this edict of your father’s and got his title stripped from him?”

  Perandius looked practically green at this point. “Far more than his title was…stripped from him, I’m afraid.” He paused a moment, as if to gather himself, then finally gave a shake of his head. “We need not bother ourselves with the details. It is enough to say that Evendrian took it in mind to interact directly with his followers to show them what he called ‘class.’ Relatively harmless, it seemed—if more than a little pretentious, even for one of my kind who are often known for such things—but my father did not see it so. It is enough for you to know that, should my father have any idea that I was helping you—even so much as I am—the consequences would be…final.”