Boil swallowed, scanning the skeletons lining the walls. They stared down at the three greenskins with their hollow eyes. Yes, Boil remembered the day Urt told them to quit drinking ale until they reached the surface. That Urt was not the same Urt who just told them the story of the wizards.
"We've got to get out of this mountain," Boil said.
"Soon," Ember whispered, her hand still clutching his.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Gifts for Grump
"I don't understand, Teacher. Why do some plants look so different than others when they're from the same seed?" Grump asked.
He grimaced at the two leaves from the same seed of spinach. One, a dark, rich green. Another, green but spotted chalky white. Long hours he spent carefully tending this garden. Many days passed since those first soft tendrils peeked above the tilled soil.
Knowing Teacher, he planted something wrong, but she held the knowledge back, preferring instead to test the limits of his Hunger like she had with her hard lesson on sunlight. The thought sent a ripple through his blood, but he shoved the Hunger down. Controlling it came easier to him lately. Gardening was good for his blood. Teacher taught well. If for some reason she tricked him to teach him, he would learn this lesson quickly and with a broad smile.
Teacher puckered her mouth and bent over the leaves. Her antler pipe hung in her lips, and smoke poured from her nostrils. While Grump only enjoyed the thimbleweed after their dinner, he noticed her nursing the pipe more and more each evening.
"Looks like you've got a nice vine rot infestation. Rascally thing, that vine rot. Winds can carry it from the East all the way across the Grey Plains and dust Farlain. Untended, vine rot will kill your whole garden. You might get one or two good yields while the plants are infected, but soon enough they'll quit sprouting."
Grump's heart lurched into his throat. "What? But my garden can't die. It's just started growing!"
"You'll need to inspect your garden thoroughly. Check every leaf and stem. You understand?"
"Is my garden going to die?" Hunger reared its head, but he swatted it down. He would not let it get them best of him. Not again.
She arched a brow and glared at him from the corner of her eye. "I asked if you understood me."
"Yes, check everything. I will. Twice."
"Good," she said. "It gives itself away with those white patches."
"But—”
"Goodness me, silly oaf. No, I'm not so cruel as to let your garden die. Vine rot's simple enough to cure if you know the remedy. Find the infection, and we'll cure it together. I’ll show you what to mix and in what proportions."
Grump let out an enormous sigh. The two leaves he held went whirling into the nearby stream. "I'll start checking now then."
"Indeed you should."
He worked late into the night, humming the only song he knew. He never quite knew where he learned it, but its memory came from so long ago he guessed from his mother. He remembered so little of her. A smile. A laugh. A rough hand cupping his cheek. So little time passed before she gave birth to Crush. Father never spoke of her. No one even seemed to think of her except for Grump. It was just one more thing that made him different than them.
Having finished checking the last row of the twelve in his garden, he made careful note of every infection of vine rot. Then, he checked again, just to be sure. Over half the garden sported splotches.
Grump brushed his hands off and headed toward her home. He paused his stroll by Bah's pen and patted her while she bleated and bounced. He blinked, looking up at the cloud-streaked night. How many days had passed since he last thought of the Bulderbag clan? He hated them. They hated him. Yet, a little twinge twisted his heart when he thought of them.
"No," he growled, clamping his teeth. "You don't miss them."
Bah snorted.
"And you don't miss them either. I'm being stupid, aren't I? I'm better alone."
Bah blinked at him, cocking her head.
Grump's jaw relaxed, and he smiled. "You're right. I'm not alone. I have you and Teacher. I'm being silly."
His little goat had gained quite a few pounds since leaving the swamp. Apparently the plants in Farlain agreed with her quite a bit more than anything the blackwoods provided.
He grinned and scratched behind her ears. "I think you might need a friend soon enough," he mused. If he could find a billy for her, then she could have kids of her own one day, and Grump would have a herd. Then, no matter what happened, he would never be alone.
Grump gave Bah a parting rub along her back and continued to Teacher's. The old woman's cooking seasoned the breeze, and his stomach rumbled.
He straightened, folding his arms over his barrel of a chest with a wide smile smacked across his cheeks. A herd of his own? Trolls didn't herd. Still, he could imagine himself strolling through the wide fields growing at Farlain's edge, a flock of goats and their kids prancing around his shins. Mountains gave the distant horizon a jagged edge, their highest peaks crowned by a silvery moon. The air in the open was clean and sweet, and his happy goats and sighing grasses lulled his Hunger to sleep. "One day, Grump. You'll have your garden and your goats."
Like most nights, Teacher cooked over her iron cauldron, the broth within it bubbling with vegetables—and on occasion, rabbit.
Teacher noticed his arrival and smiled, plucking the pipe from her lips and placing it on her three-legged stool. She left her cane in the cauldron and motioned for him to join her as she hobbled toward her home.
Curious, he headed for the cabin but paused at its shadow. "What is it?"
"Stay right here. I've got a surprise for you."
He took a seat and rubbed the arches of his feet while she slipped inside. A few bumps and clacks sounded within before she reappeared with a burlap package bound loosely by a string. "Here you go. I, ah, made a little something for you."
She handed the object to him. He blinked at the burlap and cocked his head. "Thank you? What do I use it for?"
"Silly oaf. Open it. It's a gift. Teachers are allowed to give their students gifts on occasion. You've been doing good work. You know your soils and your seeds. You're keeping your garden clean. You're learning to control your Hunger. You're no master gardener yet, but you're no amateur. Seems only right you should—well, just open the damnable thing and see."
"What is a gift?"
"Trolls don't give gifts?"
"Give? We take we want and we keep what's our own."
"Such a shame. Well, a gift is something someone gives to another without thought of anything in return. You give a gift to show someone you appreciate them, or you care for them, or to celebrate them, or all of those."
"And why do you give me this gift?"
"All of those! And you've earned it. Would you stop questioning me and open the damned thing before I knock you out cold? I swear you're as irritating as an ivy rash sometimes."
He pressed his lips into a line and untied the burlap. It fell apart like a flower blooming, revealing what it held within. "What is this gift?"
"Gods, Grump," she sighed, rolling her eyes. "They're overalls. Perfect for gardening. I figure a shirt's out of the question, what with your arms being big as tree trunks practically. Those legs of yours could do with some decent coverage. Keep them from getting muck all over them while you work."
He'd seen trousers before, brought back by raiding parties after an attack on the fair folk. These looked like trousers but ended higher than the waist. Two straps big enough to hang over his shoulders connected the front to the back, while a large pocket on the chest could hold things like seeds or tools.
It was different than the steel belt and loincloth he typically wore. Heavier. Sturdier.
"I will wear it proudly," he said. "I will keep it always. It's mine. Forever."
She chuckled and swatted the air. "They're tough and easy to clean. They'll do you good, especially after the rains when the mud's at its slickest. Check the pocket."
Grump shook hi
s trousers. Sure enough, something weighed the front pocket. Teacher's grin split wider. He reached within and pulled out an antler pipe much like Teacher's, but larger. Troll-sized.
He put the pipe end up to his eye and stared through the hollowed bone. "You carved this? This came from a large beast. Where did you get it?"
"You pepper me with silly questions. It's a gift, a pipe just for you. Just be happy I made it and don't worry about the details."
"When your teacher has so many secrets, you find yourself always asking silly questions." He eyed her suspiciously. "I still want to know what kind of creature has an antler like this."
She flashed her brows and winked. "Oya is big and old and full of wonders. An ancient woman like me who's lived here long enough knows her fair share of them. Let's leave it at that."
Grump shrugged and ambled behind her cabin. He tossed his loincloth and slipped somewhat awkwardly into his new clothes. The fabric wasn't smooth like hide, but it was tough. He passed his hands over the chest pocket and pinched the material. It would hold well against the long labor of working the earth. "Mine. You're mine forever."
With a light step he spun around the corner and spread his arms. "Do they fit?"
"As if they were only ever meant for you, Grump."
"I will treasure them always. No one else can have them."
"You might consider sharing the pipe if you like," she said, smirking. "Thimbleweed is best when enjoyed amongst close friends."
"Humph. I'd never smoke thimbleweed with the other trolls. They're no friends of mine."
Teacher huffed, crossing her arms over her sagging chest. She tapped her fingers on her arm and thought for a moment. Her eyes lit up, and she dug deep into her robe. "I've got an idea. I carved a little flute while I was working on your pipe. Why don't I play it? You can sing, and I'll bring the melody. You've got a voice like an old dragon. Bet we could make the whole of Farlain sway with our song!"
Grump stepped back as his lip pulled into a snarl. "Sing? I don't sing. Trolls don't sing. I don't even know any songs."
"I'm not so deaf that I can't hear you hum that little melody from sunset to sunrise while you work away." She slipped off her stool and whipped out the tiny instrument. "Don't be so embarrassed. You've got a good singing voice on you. In fact, if you tried to sing a little instead of hum through your lips, you might see that you're better than you realize."
Grump locked his arms over his chest and frowned. "Trolls don't sing. We just don't."
"You don't know a lick about what you can and can't do if you never try in the first place. Your people have been rotting in the blackwoods for too long. There was a time when troll voices echoed through mountains and gave the high peaks of the world a voice that rivaled any god in the heavens. Song is in your spirit. It's in the spirit of every living thing with a heart that beats, doubly so if it's got a spirit half as fiery as a troll's."
He clenched his teeth into an unbreakable wall. The other trolls heard him hum his song once, and once was all it took to keep it hidden forevermore. They teased him for months. Thorn gave him a black eye for it. He could still hear Crush snickering.
"You shouldn't fear the song," she continued. "There's a good one in you. Let it out! You might discover a good song can do more for you than you know."
"No. I—we don't sing. Fools sing. It’s a thing for fairer folk."
"Oh, kind of like gardening?" she asked, a brow arching high.
A growl barreled from his lips. He threw the pipe aside and turned around. "It's different. They don't know gardening, but they know singing. We could hear the elves sometimes even in the blackwoods. If the trolls hear me, they'll laugh at me. They'll come for me and take me back to the swamp."
"No, Grump, if they hear you, they will wonder at you." She sighed long and low. "Maybe you don't have the courage for it today, but you'll have it one day."
"And how do you know so much about what trolls used to do? Is it time for more riddles? More hints at a truth you don't want me to know, don't think I deserve to hear?"
"Why are you so afraid? I am not your enemy!"
Grump cracked his knuckles and closed his eyes. Hunger colored his thoughts, but he kept his fists from beating the ground. After a few deep breaths, he turned around. "I am troll. Fear is something we've never known, and singing is something we do not do."
Her deep, hazel eyes locked on to his. There they stood, tangled in the tension, not a word slipping from them for a long and bitter moment.
Teacher blinked and exhaled slowly. Her shoulders slumped, and she smacked the wrinkled curtain of her lips into a smile. "Force a troll to sing? There is no magic in the world powerful enough to compel such a thing. I would never force you to sing, Grump, just like I would never force you to garden. You must make your own choices. I do hope you keep my gift. It's a hard world for you and I. On those rare occasions someone gifts a thing of theirs to you, treasure it always and never let it go."
Grump kneeled, swiping the pipe from his feet. "Of course I will, Teacher," he said, his voice soft as fresh cotton.
"But do you promise me this, my apprentice?"
He looked up from the pipe and nearly recoiled at Teacher's wet eyes. "Teacher—"
"Please. Just promise me when given a gift you will keep it. Guard it jealously. Make it yours."
"Fine. I promise I will keep all my gifts. I will treasure them like you said."
She blinked, and her eyes dried. The pressure burdening the air vanished. Birds sang in the once silent canyon. Teacher smiled. "Thank you."
Teacher ambled toward her cauldron. She paused, smiling at the sky. "I still think one day you'll sing for me."
"It's about as likely as me surviving sunrise."
"Stranger things have happened," she said with a shrug.
"And quit spying on me while I work!"
"Why, I'd never spy on you!"
"Just because I'm a troll doesn't make me a fool. You limp around the canyon, but I know you step as soft as a feather if you want. I've got my eye on you, old woman."
Teacher grinned, her tongue pressing against a gap in her teeth. "You're a sly devil."
"I've got a good teacher."
"Hah!" She shook her head, the wind toying with the silvery wisps of her hair. "Dinner should be ready soon. You hungry?"
"There's meat in it this time. I smell it. Hare?"
"I trapped a nice fat one for you." She stopped at her stool and lit her pipe, taking a long draw. Smoke washed from her nostrils as she exhaled and rubbed the small of her back.
For some reason, she looked older, more tired than he remembered. He didn't know if it was the starlight playing tricks, but he didn't like it. Grump strolled toward the creek, pausing at a hill just far enough from her cooking fire to hide from her eyes. "I'll go get some tomatoes. I think they'll go well with hare."
He watched her wince and sit heavily on the stool, her hand clasping her chest as she took one deep breath after another. Grump turned away and stared at his upturned palms.
A fiery rage welled within him. All he wanted to do was shatter the pipe and shred his overalls. But he loved her gifts. Why destroy them? Grump wrung the straps of his clothes and huffed. "Calm down, you fool. Calm down!"
One breath. Two. Three. The Hunger subsided. "Tomorrow, she'll be better," he whispered.
He nodded and wiped his sweaty palms against his chest. "Yes, tomorrow."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Ash and Ember
"Where is she, Urt?" Boil asked. He rocked on the balls of his feet, anxiously staring at the opening leading into the tunnel.
Hours passed since torch fall without so much a hint of Ember. She should have shown by now. The journey from her hovel wasn't nearly as difficult as the one from Boil's. She always beat him to their hideout. Always.
Urt mumbled something under his breath. Like most nights since Boil relinquished the book to the old greenskin, Urt spent his monotonous hours studying the shimmering pag
es. They never spoke of that night Urt told stories of mojo and the waters beneath the world. Boil didn't even like thinking about it, and it only distracted from their escape, so to keep things going smoothly, they pretended it never happened.
"Urt, pay attention," he snapped.
"Eh?" Urt looked up, blinking. "She should be here now. Maybe she's dead. If one of the mine masters caught her—"
"Don't say that! How could you say that?"
He shrugged and flashed his brows. "Death's not so bad I think. The skeletons look fine, don't they?"
"They don't have lips to frown. Everything's a smile when teeth's all you've got to show. Maybe one of the other greenskins in her hovel tried sneaking out and a mine master caught them. Or maybe there was a fight and she couldn't slip away. There're a thousand reasons why she's not down here."
"Yeah, and one of 'em's that she's dead."
"She's your friend. Don't talk about her like that. Don't even think it."
Urt sighed and closed the book. He broke the leg off a dead scarab and munched on the appendage. "Maybe you should go look for her then. You keep talking about how good you are at sneaking around the under mountain, hiding in the shadows and slipping unnoticed by the mine masters. She could use a good hero right about now."
Boil rubbed his knuckles and turned to the tunnel. "No, she'd never get caught. Ember is too smart for that."
"You thought you were too smart. Look what happened." Urt tapped his chin and stared into the ceiling. "In fact, if I recall, you nearly died from it. I wonder if the mine master who caught her'll be so generous. Any of her bosses have a crush on you?"
"No." Boil took a deep breath and shook his head. "You know, you don't have to be this way."
"I'm the only way I know how to be."
"Selfish? Angry? Ever since that day we saved you, you've been nothing but centipede stings to me and Ember. It must make you feel so good, always spitting your little poisoned words our way, always trying to hurt our feelings when we're the ones risking our skins while you're down here getting fat on stolen food and reading my mojo book."
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