Grump wandered through the swamp with no particular idea where he was headed. As long as he shied away from the border with Farlain and kept closer to the coast, the world was calm and quiet and free of both fair folk and other trolls. His kin would never admit it, but they feared the long, rippling table that was the Torn Ocean because it offered no quarter from the sun that was their poison. For that, Grump always loved the great expanse of rippling water and would often steal away to the coast and watch from high cliffs as churning waves reflected the starry sky.
Firstborn Thorn's words gnawed at him. Thorn spoke wisely—Grump should worry more about being a model troll and less about his goat Bah. He should bring pride to the Bulderbag name. After all, Thorn would wear the crown of bones before long—maybe before the next winter if their father never returned from his raid. And once Thorn wore the crown, he would no longer need Grump as a shield.
"Thorn tires of me and knows Crush will try and kill me soon, then come for him." Grump gnawed on his lip, thunking down on a stump swarming with gnats. "He's smart. Thorn will think of a way to be rid of both of us so Hiss can be secondborn. She's no threat to anyone."
He closed his eyes and listened to the swamp. "What should I do?"
"I don't want to fight them," he continued. "I'd leave them if I could, but where do I go? The swamp is safe for us, but the elves would hunt me down in Farlain. Maybe I could slip by them alone, but then what? Cross the Grey Plains and ask humans where a troll might build a home of his own?"
Grump laughed and stood, kicking a rock. It smashed against a nearby cypress and splintered the bark. "The Grey Plains, Grump! Where the skies are like oceans over grass and the cities of men grow like warts on tall hills. I'm sure they'll accept you with open arms, won't they? Maybe their kings and queens will brew you a nice cup of tea while you speak of life in the swamp. Fool."
"There has to be a way," he said with a long sigh. "I've never seen a troll turn to stone before. Maybe the curse is just a story, and we're all afraid to test it. Ogres can see the sun, feel its warmth. They aren't so much different than trolls. Fatter, maybe, but very trollish."
He snorted and rolled his eyes. "But they have no Hunger. Only trolls carry that curse. We traded the warmth of the sun for the rage in our hearts. Walk under the sun to test the curse, and I'm sure Crush and Thorn will thank me for ending their troubles."
Not a small part of him wanted to see the sun and end this torment. How many ancestors had lived and died in the swamp since a troll ventured into daylight? So many generations passed since the war that drove them to the edge of creation, that slim sliver of swamp between an ancient forest and an impassable ocean.
Grump leapt onto a tree, his fingers cracking the bark as he scaled its massive trunk. He passed snakes and spiders and bugs that mimicked both. A heron dove into the canopy and spiraled in lazy circles to the forest floor. Grump paused his climb and tracked it as the bird passed him by. For a brief moment, they watched one another. The moment passed, and the heron turned its attention to the muddy waters below.
The muted air darkened and a distant rumble rolled through Blackwood Swamp. A storm approached. They were a familiar feature of his home, rolling in and out every other day, carried on strong ocean winds. It was just too bad one wouldn't come and wash his siblings away.
He flexed and launched himself from branch to branch, whooshing ever higher in the labyrinth of lanky limbs mixing with the towering trunks. Leaves swatted his arms and cheeks. Twigs prodded his ribs like fingers checking a fresh meal.
Patches of sickly green appeared through the canopy. A drop splattered on his nose. Grump grinned and hurled himself higher, rocketing past the last layer of twig and leaf blocking him from the rumbling sky.
"I don't fear you!" he roared.
Wind hit him with a glorious boom, jerking his head back. Grump laughed and beat his chest, whooping into the storm. Even with the thick, foamy clouds obscuring the sunlight, his flesh stiffened from the diffuse glow of day filtering from the thunderheads.
He spun in the air and took a mighty breath as gravity nipped his toes and pulled him down. He looked over Blackwood Swamp with its mighty cypresses, and in the distance spotted the dark blanket of Farlain with its elves and fae and smattering of wild humans.
Grump blinked, rain spattering his brow. For a brief moment, he glimpsed the horizon and reached for it.
The canopy swallowed him, and the wider world vanished before a veil of leafy branches. Grump snatched a trunk and landed on a springy bough that bowed beneath his great weight. He perched on the limb for a breath, savoring the raindrops dripping onto his lips as others rolled in chill lines down his back.
Grump opened his eyes and stared dully into the murky swamp. After another moment listening to the rhythmic raindrops, he slowly descended the cypress, carefully gripping its damp, spongy bark. His heron friend flapped into the canopy, slimy toad writhing in its pointed beak.
He clasped a vine and tested its strength. It went taut but didn't break. He prepared to swing from one trunk to another, but the low murmur of trollish voices stilled him.
Heavy mists wafted over his shoulders like a wave crashing quietly ashore. Grump dug his fingers into the bark and leaned toward the sounds, cupping a hand to the back of his ear. The hushed murmurs grew louder, but he still couldn't quite hear their words.
Curious, Grump grabbed his vine and swung through the fog. A dark column appeared in the murk … another cypress … he latched softly onto the trunk and descended onto a mossy boulder with as much noise as a mouse's sigh. Trolls might be hulking, brutish creatures compared to the porcelain elves and cunning men of the world, but they could match both races in stealth any day.
Moist fungus squished against his belly as he flattened on the rock. Two silhouettes formed in the cool fog, grumbling and mumbling to one another.
Welt and Crab. He recognized the couple almost immediately. They might as well be Crush's shadow as much as they trailed after the thirdborn and gleefully spread whatever rumors he whispered in their ears.
"When do you think he'll do it?" Welt asked. He was Crab's husband and sported a bulbous nose crooked at its bridge from an old fight. His right eye started turning milky a few winters ago, and some whispered soon it would be completely useless. More than anything, Welt loved sneering at other trolls like he was some chieftain in waiting, and though he mated with Crab long ago, even Grump heard the rumors of his wandering eye and playful hands.
Crab dipped her fingers into the fen and splashed her face. Her wide lips parted in a smile full of the sharp words she saved for everyone save Welt. "Soon. The moron's been more addle-brained than usual, sulking about in the swamp like he's some poor little human girl who lost her mommy and daddy. Can you believe a secondborn like him survived this long?"
Grump's heart twisted. He didn't need to hear his name to know they spoke of him.
Welt snorted as he toyed with one of his tusks. "He won't survive much longer now that Thorn's finally ripped him off his teat. Not even the old chief's firstborn can protect that abomination. I don't blame Thorn for it though. Smart, keeping the freak nearby, propping him up, defending him even when Grump does his weird little things. Couldn't last forever though. A troll's got to be a troll, you know what I mean, my love?"
Crab shook her head and leaned onto the tree. "He's just not natural. He's just not troll."
"He's sick in the head is what he is," Welt said. "Has been since their mother died. Crush says after the elves stuck that spear through her belly, Grump never was the same. It's all about her, if you ask me."
Grump's lip curled in a snarl. The Hunger nibbled at his nerves, but he shoved it down by squeezing his stone perch.
"She probably dropped him on his head," Crab snickered. "She never was too smart. Kind of like her secondborn. At least Crush took after his dad. He'll make a strong chief one day. Not some elven sissy like Grump."
"Hah! I bet she went to Farlain lookin' for a
little elven loving. Bet you that secondborn of hers is a little more elven than he thinks, you know what I mean?"
The Hunger pounded against Grump's temples. How dare they speak of her that way! Spread rumors of him all they like, but her? No one sullied his mother's memory. Grump closed his eyes and steadied his quivering muscles. His Hunger called, and it took all he had to beat it back.
"Maybe we should just ask the others and see what they think." Crab brushed her knuckles down Welt's wide jaw. "I can't wait for the day Crush takes his rightful place as chief."
"And we'll be by his side, more respected than any other family in the blackwoods, my dear Crab."
"They'll fear us and our children. We'll dine on elves and men, seasoned with the bones of fae. We'll scare the sun so bad it stays beneath the land, and the age of trolls will come again, like in the old times."
"You always know just what to say to turn me on." Welt grabbed her hand and smashed his lips against hers in a slobbery kiss.
Their grotesque smacking separated with a slurp. Crab rubbed her hands together, rolling her tongue across her lips. "But before all that comes to pass, that little blood blister of a troll needs to die."
"Have the other Bulderbags found him yet?" Welt asked.
Crab shook her head. "If he's good at anything, it's hiding."
Grump bared his teeth. Swamp be damned, Crab was right, and he wanted to snap her neck for it, hidden as he was on the rock like some nimble elf. For some reason, he just couldn't bring himself to vault from the boulder and rage against the couple. No matter what he did, in the end, they won. They always won.
"Don't worry about it." Welt grabbed Crab's hand and pulled her toward the hamlet. He played with her hair and flashed a smile. "I've got a feeling our feast tonight will smoke the rat out. Are you hungry, my love?"
"Famished! Tonight, we feast. Feast like the chiefs of old. Goat is good meat. Better than elves even."
Grump blew out a series of short breaths. Scarlet edged his vision. The Hunger gnawed on his heart as his eyes filled with wild tears.
"Elves are so skinny," Welt agreed. "But are goats better than men, Crab?"
"By half. We'll feast on Grump's little pet. Then, Crush'll kill the secondborn and throw his bones to the swamp, and who will remember or care about the sorry Bulderbag named Grump, son of the elf-lover and wet-nurse of goats?"
Wind whistled through Grump's ears as he vaulted from the rock. His shadow passed over the couple. They looked up and grinned, casually pausing their stroll. Crab wagged her fingers, and Welt winked. Grump snarled and snatched a vine, racing through the trees on his way home.
He never should have kept Bah. He never should have nursed her back to health after finding her caught in that hunter's rusty trap. He never should have given her a name.
But Grump did all those things, and now his chest ached thinking of what Crush would do to her, how he would kill her slowly with a wide smile on his face.
Trees blurred as Grump leapt from vine to vine. Both the storm and night thickened as he arrived at the blackwood hamlet. Orange glows illuminated the troll hollows dug into the mightiest of cypresses. Long boardwalks zigzagged over the bog, dotted by lanterns filled with fireflies. Laughter, song, drumbeats—the rhythm of a trollish night filled the air, and with it his terror compounded.
Grump swirled around a tree and back flipped, landing in a spray before his lonely hollow at the hamlet's edge. His wooden door hung ajar. Grump ripped it from its hinges and hurled it against a tree. He bounded around the cypress and skidded to a stop before Bah's little pen. Splintered wood gashed one side. The pen lay open to the swamp.
He snatched a piece of wood from the ground and chomped it, shattering the post in two. Spitting splinters, he turned to the hamlet and roared. The air vibrated. A dull flash lit the night and brought booming thunder with it.
Thorn raced into view, brandishing a rust-spotted broadsword as tall as a human. He halted before Grump and cocked his head, leaning forward. "Brother?"
"I will kill him!"
Thorn recoiled, stumbling back. His face paled, but he quickly blinked away the shock. "Your Hunger, it's not like—"
"Where is Crush?" Grump snarled. "Where? Tell me!"
"I saw him head toward Farlain, but—"
"She's my goat. Mine! Did you at least try to stop him, Brother?"
Thorn's eyes darkened. "I've always done my best to defend you, despite your ... freakish ways. I'll only go so far. I am firstborn, and I have my honor to watch as well as yours."
Grump charged past Thorn, throwing the firstborn flat on his back. He sprang onto a tree and launched himself to another cypress. He bounded over rooftops and boardwalks, heedless of the startled trolls gawking below.
Crush meant to trap Grump in Farlain, to lead him astray and either slit his throat or let the sunlight take him. "I'm coming for you, Crush, but I swear if this is my death, I'll make it yours, too."
CHAPTER FOUR
Grubs for Greenskins
Snores and burps and muffled grumbles filled the sleep hovel. Body after body squirmed in a tangle of hot goblins curled atop wolf furs rife with the stench of piss and vomit collecting in the unwashed pelts. While those other diggers slept and dreamt of digging, Boil sighed and stared at the ceiling.
Very little torchlight remained. What flames did persist washed the walls with their tawny light while the darkness toyed with killing it.
Boil slid onto his elbows. He peered just above the backs of his neighbors and scanned the hushed horde. No one stirred. No greenskin eyes cracked open and focused on the odd digger sitting up. Satisfied, he pulled the tome wedged cleverly beneath his bed furs.
Pages yellowed like old teeth behind the cracked black leather cover. Strange runes plastered every inch of each parchment. Drawings and diagrams that tingled when touched or shimmered when blown on added an exotic flair to the nonsensical scribbling on the pages.
The meaning of those symbols and odd pictures eluded Boil, a lowly digger not deserving of the letters high clans used to carry messages and record histories. But every so often, he would come across a picture in the book his mind could comprehend. In this volume, he first saw the sun. On those pages, he gazed upon stars unknown to all other diggers. This book sprouted a seed of hope deep in Boil's soul, a world of possibility waiting beyond the desolate tunnels of the under mountain.
Even the things he did understand never should have been fathomed by a digger. Yet somehow, the pictures spoke their meaning to him, like they begged to impart knowledge even if it was forbidden. They teased him with the world beyond the mountain and urged him to find a road leading to it.
He ran his hand over a rugged landscape capped by a sky full of stars. He grinned at the picture, patting the page. Soon, he would see those stars for himself. He closed his secret treasure and tucked it into the furs. As the last of the fire died and torch fall settled on the under mountain, he hopped to his feet.
Luckily for him, all greenskins drank, and typically they did it until they could no longer stand. And because fur blanketed the sleep hovel’s stony floor, no steps of his made a sound as he tiptoed over the drooling diggers and made his way to the rusted gates.
The right side hung at an odd angle. Over the years, its corner had carved an arc into the ground, and its ruddy hinges squealed like a tortured limestone newt if moved even an inch.
So Boil grabbed the left gate and licked his lips. Beyond the iron barrier, his high clan overlords slept on soft beds and clean furs.
He tapped the metal. It parted with the barest squeak. He winced, clenching his jaw and staring into the room beyond. One of the mine masters turned but didn't wake. The others didn't so much as move beyond the normal unconscious swat at the air or low, meaningless grumble.
"Careful now, Boil," he whispered. He slipped through the open gate and tried ignoring the ball of terror swirling in his stomach. Gathering all the courage he could muster, he darted through the room.
<
br /> Skar slept nearest the mine entrance. Boil paused at the mine master's bed and half-considered shoving a piece of fur so far in the greenskin's stupid mouth he'd choke. While the thought spread a smile, Boil knew better.
And so instead of murder he snuck away. Boil darted into the mine, sprinting as fast as he could through the sloping tunnel. Diggers might not enjoy the luxuries of the other clans, and they might not grow as tall or muscular as other greenskins, but no one knew the dark better than them. If a digger went somewhere or left on an adventure, then returned to the tunnels twenty years later, he would find his way again like he never left.
It didn't take long to spot the tunnel Boil sought. He paused at its entrance. Not even his keen vision illuminated the wall of black leading deeper into the belly. If luck favored him, he would find Urt alive. If luck favored the scarabs, he'd find an old greenskin's bones.
"You want to see the sun?" he asked himself. "You gotta be more than a scaredy-digger. Pull yourself together, Boil!"
Boil took a deep breath and marched into the passage. At least without the torches lit, the cavern air cooled to something less than a smoldering oven. He pressed his hand along the wall, the ridges and teeth marks giving the tunnel its own sort of character. So many teeth bit into this rock. So many wasted days spent tasting for glittering gold and stones the ones who found it would never enjoy.
Eventually the passage spilled into a chamber of many tunnel entrances. Boil paused just where the cavern opened.
"Urt?" His voice echoed in sighs. He wrung his shirt and edged into the room. "Urt, I've come to help you."
When no reply came the second time, Boil’s heart sunk. "I'm too late. Shouldn't have looked at the book tonight. I knew I shouldn't have!"
He fumbled for a torch until his fingers finally found one. Smart diggers kept flint in their pocket just in case they found themselves needing the extra light, and if Boil was anything, he was a smart digger. He plucked his flint stone out and struck it over the torch until a dancing tongue soaked the room with light.
Grump & Rose Page 3
