Don't Feed the Trolls

by Jacob Peppers

  The king and his soldiers stopped short of the man standing at the tent, but if the swordsman was bothered by nearly a hundred mounted soldiers, not to mention the trolls, he did not show it. He regarded the mounted men with a smile that somehow conveyed disgust.

  Now that the soldiers’ forward charge had stopped, the undead began to lurch forward, but froze in place when the man held up a hand. “Where is Dannen Ateran?” he bellowed.

  Dannen frowned as the soldiers—and trolls—turned to regard him. Then he sighed, starting forward to stand in front of the mounted men. “I am Dannen Ateran.”

  The swordsman looked him up and down, frowning. “I expected you to be taller. And…skinnier.”

  “Well,” Dannen said, “if it helps, I expected you to be an asshole—so far, you’re right on track.”

  The man gave a small smile at that. “Dannen Ateran,” he said, nodding slowly. “I have heard of you since I was a child. Of your exploits. The greatest swordsman the world has ever seen, it is said.” His smile widened, mockingly. “A warrior, I had heard, to strike fear in any of those who stood against him. I must admit to being somewhat…disappointed.”

  Dannen shrugged. “I wouldn’t worry about it over much. The dead, after all, are never disappointed. Now, what do you want?”

  “What do I want?” the man asked, smiling. “Well, isn’t it obvious? You may find it interesting to know, that you, Dannen Ateran, the Bloody Butcher, are the reason I first took up the sword in the first place. You are the reason I spent hours, dedicated my entire life to training with the blade. Tales of your exploits are what got me through the many bruises and aches and pains that such training inevitably causes. You, Dannen Ateran, are responsible for the man I’ve become.”

  Dannen sighed. “Now I’m the one that’s disappointed.”

  “What I want,” the man said, not smiling now, “is to test my sword against your celebrated skill, to defeat you, kill you, and therefore achieve the title of world’s greatest swordsman. My brother, you see, counseled against this, for he is frightened of you, if you can believe it. But then, he is no warrior, with his spells and his…” he glanced around at the skeletons with undisguised disgust, “soldiers. He knows nothing of the thrill of combat, the taste of victory.”

  Dannen stared at the man, blinking, then finally he gave a snort. “You ask me, lad, the taste of victory is damned bitter. Anyway, if it’s a title you’re after, you can take it—the damned thing’s never done me any good. Besides, what’s to stop us from killing you now, huh?” He glanced around the small opening. “Seems to me that while the undead might not have to be fed, they’re not exactly fast. Certainly not fast enough to stop a bunch of horsemen from riding in and cutting you down.”

  The man shook his head. “I expected more from the Bloody Butcher, a man whose thirst for blood is legendary.”

  “Say I’ve had my fill of blood and then some,” Dannen said. “And being the best—or at least thought the best—is no treat, believe me. All it means is from time to time, I have to deal with fools like you, young bastards with something to prove.”

  “Oh, I am not like those other young bastards, Dannen Ateran,” the man said. “And I mean to prove it to you. But, so that you are aware, should your men or your…” He sneered at the trolls. “Or your creatures, choose to attack, I will give the order and my brother’s minions will destroy you all before destroying the city itself and all the people within it.”

  “Maybe,” Dannen said, “but I’ve got a feelin’ you won’t be around to enjoy it.”

  The man nodded. “Perhaps not. So go then, Dannen. If you are too much of a coward to face me, give the order, and we will see what transpires. Or face me in one-on-one combat. If you win, I promise to leave the city and its people unmolested. My brother’s army and I will leave this place, never to return.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said. “Guess I’m just supposed to take your word on that then?”

  The man held up his hands. “You cannot win this battle—you must know that. So what, then, do you have to lose?”

  There was a time, not so long ago, when Dannen wouldn’t have had an answer for that, or, at least, not a good one. After all, how many ales did a man really need to drink in one life? How many times did he need to wake from a drunken stupor in some tavern he didn’t know the name of until he was satisfied? But things were different now. There was Clare to think on, not to mention Fedder and Mariana and Tesler, so he took a slow, deep breath and met the swordsman’s eyes.

  “And if you defeat me?”

  The man smiled, shrugging. “Well then, at least you will not have to mull over your failure while the city burns. After all, as I believe you said, the dead feel no disappointment.”

  Dannen watched the man for several seconds, thinking. Then finally, he nodded. “Fine. I accept.”

  “Dannen,” Mariana hissed, “you can’t be serious.”

  “I am, Mariana,” he said, “stay out of this.”

  “But, Dannen, he’s lying. Even if you win, the undead will just kill us anyway.”

  “Of course he’s lying,” Dannen said, turning to her. “Gods, Mariana, I’m fat, not a fool. Or…well, not a complete fool anyway.”

  “But…” She paused, glancing him up and down with an appraising look, one which, by the frown on her face, didn’t exactly inspire confidence. “Do you think you can beat him? I…that is, you aren’t in the best shape and…”

  “I’m fine,” he growled, trying to suck in his gut and then, a moment later, giving it up as a bad job. “Anyway…no,” he said quietly, “no, I don’t think I can beat him. But then,” he went on, glancing in the distance at the other tent. “I don’t have to.”

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t need to win,” he said in a whisper, meeting her eyes. “I just need to survive long enough for Fedder and the others to reach the necromancer.”

  “And if he cuts you down in a few seconds?”

  “Well,” Dannen said, “then all this becomes somebody else’s problem, doesn’t it? Anyway, lass,” he went on, pulling up his trousers and trying once again to pull his stomach in, “I wouldn’t worry. I’ve done this once or twice.” Which was true—he’d long since lost count of the number of duels he’d participated in as young swordsmen challenged him in an effort to make their names. What he left out, though, was the fact that that had been a long time ago, back when his piss was consistent, coming when called like a good dog instead of a perpetually angry cat that did what it wanted. Back when—when taking a piss—he could see what he was doing instead of just sort of having to go by touch and hope it all worked out.

  He glanced back at the swordsman standing before the tent, his arms folded across his chest, smiling as if he was already victorious. One of the best swordsmen the world had ever seen, Perandius had said, thin and muscular and dangerous. Dannen glanced down at himself, at least that much of himself as he could see before his gut cut off the rest of the view, and wasn’t much impressed. He didn’t figure there was anybody in the world that would have expected him to come out on top, and him least of all.

  He turned back to King Ufrith and his men sitting on their mounts, watching him. “King,” he said, “I have a favor to ask.” He glanced at Mariana. “When he bests me, can you take Mariana and go there, to the other tent?” He nodded covertly in the direction he meant. “My friends there will be fighting the necromancer, and we think that, should he die, then his army will as well. It’s your best chance.”

  “Our best chance,” Mariana snapped.

  “Right,” Dannen said. “Our.”

  The king looked at him grimly and gave a nod. “We will do as you ask, of course, Dannen Ateran. And…good luck.” The king reached out his hand, and Dannen took it. It had been a while since he’d shaken hands with a king—he’d done it from time to time, back in his youth. Though, to be fair, about an equal amount had tried to have him killed, sometimes with assassins and others with the m
ore direct approach of their soldiers.

  “Good luck,” Dannen said. A thought struck him then and he glanced back to Mariana, still watching him. “Mariana, if…” He paused, wincing. “If you make it out of this, I was wondering…”

  “I’ll save her, if I can,” she said, meeting his eyes and, for once, her gaze was not challenging or angry but full of compassion, and somehow that was worst of all. “But, in case you haven’t heard, assassins make poor storybook heroes. Best you just make sure that you’re alive to save her yourself.”

  Dannen gave a small smile, nodding. “I’ll do my best.” He turned, shifting his shoulders to work some of the tension out of them then nodded to the swordsman brother. “Alright. Let’s get this done.”

  He took a slow, deep breath, then moved to stand in front of the tent. The swordsman stepped a few paces away and in a moment, they were standing roughly ten feet apart, eyeing each other. “What’s your name, anyway?” Dannen asked.

  The swordsman gave a humorless smile. “Why? Let me guess—so you can write it on my tombstone?”

  “What?” Dannen asked. “No. No, I’ll be dumpin’ you in an unmarked grave.” He shrugged. “Just figured I’d ask is all.”

  The man glanced past Dannen at where the king and his troops waited some distance away, then back to Dannen, puffing his chest out proudly. “You may call me Blade.”

  Dannen blinked at the man for several seconds. Then he laughed. He couldn’t help it. It had a been a pretty shitty few weeks and now it appeared he was going to get skewered by a man that thought it was cool to call himself “Blade.” As if every swordsman in the damn world hadn’t thought of that already.

  The man—Blade—growled. “What is so damned funny?”

  Dannen shrugged. “Just…well, it’s not very original, is it?”

  “And ‘the Bloody Butcher’ is?” he countered.

  Dannen grunted. “Fair. Difference is, I didn’t come up with that fool of a name, and I’m thinkin’ you did. Might as well call yourself Stabby Stabberson.”

  The swordsman snarled. “Enough!” Then he took a slow, deep breath. “Very well, I will tell you my real name, if only because you will soon be dead, and it will make no difference.”

  “Can’t fault your logic. So? What is it? Or, wait, let me guess—is it Sword? What about Cutter?”

  “Addison.”

  “Uh…what’s that?”

  “You heard me,” the swordsman growled. “Now, what have you got to say?”

  Dannen gave his head a slow shake. “I just always figured that was a girl’s name. Anyhow, I see why you went with Blade. Hard to be scared of a guy named Addison.”

  “Give it time!” the swordsman growled, and then he was moving forward. Flying forward, really, with shocking speed, and it was only because of instincts honed over years of nearly-but-not-quite-dying that Dannen managed to get his blade up in time to parry his opponent’s liquid smooth lunge, one aimed directly at his heart.

  And then they were in the thick of it, the man coming at him again and again, his sword moving with lightning speed, and Dannen doing his best not to die.

  ***

  With Tesler and his pet squirrel—not exactly a squirrel now, but some great, rampaging beast—leading the way, they cut a swath through the undead ranks and soon reached the enemy tent. But despite the devastation the pair had wrought, there were still thousands of undead soldiers pushing in on them from all directions.

  Tesler and the squirrel paused in front of the tent, turning to Fedder. He considered for a moment then gave a nod. “Keep them back,” he growled. “I’ll check the tent.”

  The two said nothing, but made their agreement known by charging at those skeletons nearest them and continuing to reap a terrible harvest. Still, he knew he had to hurry—as strong as they were, sooner or later they would be brought down beneath the weight of undead heaving themselves at them, so he wasted no time, stepping through the opening.

  It was surprisingly large inside the tent, big enough that it could have easily served as an army’s command post, which, he supposed, it did. But it was dark, too, with no light to see by save that which leaked through the tent flap.

  He glanced around, thinking that the tent was empty, until a voice spoke. “Ah, so you have finally arrived, as they told me you would. Welcome then, Fedder the Firemaker, to my humble home.” A shadow separated itself from the back of the tent, stepping forward. “Welcome to your death.”

  The figure moved into the cone of light coming through the tent flap, and Fedder grunted. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, facing the world’s most powerful necromancer, but this wasn’t it. The man was short and slightly overweight with a pudgy face and receding hairline. He didn’t look like the lord of an undead army. What he looked like, more than anything, was a clerk.

  “Huh,” Fedder said. “Thought you’d be bigger.”

  The man frowned at that, looking like a clerk who’d just discovered that some of the numbers didn’t add up. “Things are not always as they seem, Fedder Firemaker.”

  Fedder grunted. “I don’t know. I’d say you look like a prick.”

  The man bared his teeth in a humorless smile. “You were wrong to come here. You and your companions. You will die, all of you, and then you will join the ranks of my army as so many others before you.”

  Fedder sighed. “If it’s all the same to you, how about we skip the long speeches? I’m gettin’ bored.”

  “Oh, you will not be bored for long. As I said, you should not have come.” Fedder frowned. Something strange was happening. The temperature in the tent seemed to have dropped at least ten degrees while the man spoke, and it was continuing to drop. In fact, he noted with surprise that frost was beginning to form on the ground, on the inside of the tent, even on his own clothes.

  The man smiled. “Ah, you thought you came to fight a necromancer, but I am much more than that. You see, Fedder the Firemaker, I am not a man who dabbles in death—I am its master.”

  The temperature dropped again, drastically, and the next thing Fedder knew, he was on his knees, his rasping breaths pluming in front of him. “And death,” the man went on, “is cold.”

  Fedder growled, trying to rise, but it felt as if his muscles, as if his entire body, had been frozen stiff by the extreme cold, while the man seemed unaffected. “Come,” the necromancer went on, grinning widely, “I will show you.”

  ***

  Dannen was forced to parry frantically as the swordsman came on like a steel whirlwind, grinning all the while, evidently confident of his own inevitable victory, a conclusion which Dannen, after the first few seconds of the fight, was forced to agree with. Still, he fought on, buying what time he could, and after a vicious exchange which he barely escaped with his life, the swordsman stepped away.

  “I must admit,” the swordsman said, “I expected more from the great Dannen Ateran.”

  Dannen did his best to hide a wince caused by the dozens of aches and pains he felt—and to look as if he weren’t struggling to catch his breath. Which he was. As it turned out, spending years drinking yourself into a stupor wasn’t the best way to prepare for a duel to the death. Not that he would have minded being drunk just then. “I’m just…getting warmed up,” he managed.

  The man grinned, saying nothing, slowly circling, feinting a lunge only to back away again, making a game of it. Dannen watched him stoically, slowly turning to keep the swordsman at his front, his sword held up between them. If he got lucky, maybe the man would wear himself out with all his dancing, hopping from foot to foot. Problem was, the man didn’t look tired, certainly not as tired as Dannen felt.

  “Tell me, Dannen Ateran, for I am curious. What does it feel like—to lose?”

  Dannen had never been much on talking during a fight, never understood it. To his way of thinking, fighting was what happened when talking failed. Still, he wasn’t much on dying either, so if the man wanted to talk he wasn’t keen on arguing. “My experience,
it feels much the same as winning—painful. Anyway, I’ve got a question too.”

  The swordsman gave a soft laugh. “You’d best ask it then—I doubt you’ll have another chance.”

  “Why?” Dannen asked simply.

  The man frowned, pausing a moment in his circling. “Why what?”

  “All this,” Dannen said, waving a free hand at the undead army, “all this death and destruction. What’s it all for? I mean, did you just wake up one day and decide to be an asshole or were you born that way? Or maybe your mother and father didn’t hug you enough or whip you enough—why?”

  The man shrugged, giving him a sly smile. “Because I can—we can, my brother and I. We are the chosen.”

  Dannen frowned at that. Didn’t much like the sound of it, though he supposed when a man was listening to the voice of his soon-to-be killer he probably wouldn’t much like the sound of anything he had to say. “Chosen? By whom?”

  The man shook his head. “No, that small bit I believe I will keep to myself. A new age is coming, Dannen Ateran, a new world, and in that world my brother and I will sit as kings. Sadly, you will not be there to see.”

  “Yeah,” Dannen said. “I’d hate to miss it.”

  “Enough talk. Time to die.”

  With that, he lunged forward, and Dannen was forced on the defensive again, parrying blow after blow, but he was not fast enough to block or evade all of them, and soon his arms sported half a dozen small cuts.

  The man swung again, an angled arc, and Dannen caught the blade on his own, the two swords locking together. “You will die first,” the man hissed as they struggled against each other, “but do not worry—I will make sure you have company. Your friends, Fedder, Mariana, Tesler…” He grinned. “Oh yes, I know their names. They will meet you in the land of the dead—I will see to it myself.”

  Dannen felt it coming on, his anger. Felt it and was helpless before its coming, the same way a man standing on the shore might spot a hundred-foot tidal wave rushing toward him and know, just as Dannen knew, that he could not escape it. And this time, unlike so many other times in his life, he didn’t want to. Instead, he charged forward into the tidal wave of his anger, embracing it, it embracing him, and he roared as he knocked the man’s blade wide.