by Chris Sharp
Begin Reading
Table of Contents
About the Author
Copyright Page
The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.
Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author's copyright, please notify the publisher at: http://us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.
For Lorna and Alex, and even Goblin
THERE WERE STRANGE PORTENTS the night he was born. He came at the heart of the longest storm the mountain had seen, tearing from his mother’s belly as her wails were swallowed by the roar of the wind. They say that the babe climbed out red claws first, with arms too long and savage for a newborn, and a full beard already grown on the slab of his chin. He didn’t cry, instead producing an odd burst of grunts before a spurt of diarrhea spilled out of him along with a wicked little chuckle that echoed about the cave. His mother bled out while he laughed in her arms, and even his father, chief of the clan, appeared shaken by the ferocity of his son’s arrival. He named the boy Slud—an old trollish word for “bringer of troubles.”
That same night, a hunting party of lowland goblins was found frozen stiff among the scraggly trees that climbed toward the high slopes. The goblins hadn’t eaten for days, so desperate for food that they were foolish enough to trespass into the land controlled by the Blood Claw Clan. The trolls just carried their rigid little bodies higher and thawed them out for dinner. Still, the centers stayed frozen, and they had to crunch the organs like ice. More than one troll broke a tusk; and the stories tell that the cook-fires burned a sickly green and despite the freeze the meat was rancid.
The clan did not sleep well that night either, and by the following dusk, two of the oldest and wisest of the troll-hags were found dead in their earthen beds. None dared suggest it at the time, but all suspected the baby was somehow responsible. And the strange tales that surrounded him only grew from there.
In absence of his mother, a wet nurse was brought in, but she hurried out with a scream moments after her arrival and would not return to the duty again. She claimed to have found little Slud suckling from the full udders of a mountain goat. The sighting was not confirmed, though hooved tracks were found in the snow leading away from the mouth of the cave.
Another time, the lad’s own uncle, Olek, swore he saw a golden eagle regurgitating meat into the babe’s open maw. Olek skewered the eagle with a spear, and brought the feathery carcass back to his cave to hang, spread-winged, over the mantel of his cook fire for “good luck.” Uncle Olek dropped dead from some noxious ailment of his bowels a week later, and still the storm blew on.
It would take a full month before the wind subsided and the snows ceased. By then, the whole mountain was buried. In some places, drifts covered entire stands of hundred-year-old pines. Only on the highest, steepest peak, where the Blood Claws had long made their home, could anyone venture outside. Slud was found perched on a rock ledge, having crawled out from the deep tunnels—surveying the white expanse that stretched below like a ruler over his kingdom. When the chief found him, and reached out to take the babe back to the warmth of the cave, Slud bit off his father’s first finger at the knuckle and swallowed without chewing. His father was called Chief Nine-Claws after that.
By the time the snows melted and the day burned brightly again, something had come over Nine-Claws. Some speculated that it was due to the loss of his troll-hag; others claimed it came from being cooped up too long in the caves with his weird son—but the chief emerged from his den that spring with a bonfire in his belly and the want for blood on his tongue. For the first time since the lost age when giants roamed the land, an entire troll clan marched downslope to ravage and conquer. Within a year, the Blood Claws had established such dominance over the mountain that word of their terror had spread throughout the Goblin Horde and traveled all the way to the high courts of the elves.
Tales of giantlings on the march in the highlands did not sit well with the noble fae who remembered the wars of old. Still, they waited to act, preferring to let the most powerful clan of the lowland goblins do the dirty work. The Moon Blades outnumbered the Blood Claw war party by more than a hundred to one, but no one suspected that Nine-Claws might unite the other dwindling troll clans beneath his red-soaked banner. The Moon Blades broke against the guerilla tactics and sheer ferocity of what waited for them on the higher ground. The few goblins who returned from the battle, wide-eyed and muttering, only spread the legend of the troll army further. This time, the high elves did not ignore the threat.
They came twenty thousand strong: wizards, heavy infantry, expert bowmen, and a cavalry corps. The drums and horns of the elves carried across the land and shook the trees. They did not come to win a battle, but to wage a campaign for the extinction of what little remained of the troll race. Nine-Claws, and those who had rallied around him, fought fiercely and exacted a brutal toll, but they never stood a chance. The few that fled or didn’t fight were hunted down and slaughtered in their bogs, dens, and caves, before the bodies were burned with elf fire. Neither babies nor the infirm were spared. Nine-Claws’ severed, signature hand, and the monstrous, burning blade it had wielded, were the only things to escape the flame. They were taken back by the High King and put on display in the golden halls of the Sidhe.
Though it was not known at the time, two trolls eluded the elf hunting parties. An ancient troll-hag who lived alone in a forgotten vale within the Iron Wood had climbed the mountain that last night. She had carried many names over the ages, though none who still lived knew what to call her. She found Slud in the back of his cave with an odd smile on his face—as if he’d been waiting for her all along. Even as the elves followed at her heels, the gray, withered witch plucked the boy from his bed and carried him deep into the mountain through forgotten tunnels. The story of Slud was lost for a time, and the elves wouldn’t know for many years that they had failed to complete their task . . .
But that would prove to be just the beginning of the legend of Slud Blood Claw.
ONE: Witch of the Iron Wood
HEAVY FOG CLUNG to wet earth beneath the trees. Thick-trunked conifers climbed high, and the dense canopy of needles and branches blocked the light even on the rare day when it broke through the clouds. It was a forest of gloom and chill, never fully dry, and the dappled light never held sway for long against the lurk of the shadows. Aside from the prevalent centipedes, spiders, and snakes, even the animals tended to give this section of the forest a wide berth. The ponderous creaking of the trees was at most times the only sound to be heard, punctuated occasionally with the squawk of a passing raven or the far-off howl of wolves.
Slud’s feet sank into muck with every step, following the same worn trail from the woods, through the bog, to the river, and back every day for almost two decades. For more than half those years, fetching the water had taken him a full afternoon of heaving and cursing his way back up the hill to the hut. He’d grown large and strong since then—able now to carry the burden with relative ease.
He stopped at the root-strewn bank and swung the pine beam off his shoulder before lowering the oak barrel that dangled from a chain at the far end into the water. It filled, and he braced his legs to counter the heavy pull of the current. As always, he looked downstream and imagined where the river might take him were he to follow its path. As always, he was brought back to the moment when the fullness of the barrel threatened to carr
y him in.
His knees went to the mud, and the beam returned to his shoulder. With a grunt, he braced the wood against the thick pad of scar tissue in the crevice of his nape, and stood with only his long arms outstretched across the beam to counter the weight. A spill of water soaked the bank as the beam bent. He breathed in the pain, just as Aunt Agnes had taught—the discomfort gave him strength now.
His dark gray-green skin was a crowded tapestry of scars. There were burns and lashings from when he had failed in his lessons and countless “battle wounds” from the ceaseless weapons drills she had put him through, but many others were self-inflicted. His palms were dotted with raised circles from willful jabs with a sharp stick, and the fine white razor cuts down his arms were so numerous that they’d become a work of art.
The wet thud of his heavy footfalls sounded again through the woods, and for a moment even the creaking of the trees hushed before his approach. Sometimes, it seemed like the land itself was waiting for him to do something; the feeling that eyes were upon him never fully went away. He broke his focus from the exquisite pain to scan the fog, but of course no one was there. No one ever came to this forgotten crease of the mountain, and he knew that his aunt was back in the hut, preparing for his return.
Agnes had been growing angrier. Every day her temper seemed to flare a bit hotter, and her once ponderous movements now carried an erratic edge. That morning, she’d lashed out with a claw and raked his cheek when he’d accidentally dropped a bowl of swamp onions in the fire. Just to spite her, he’d plucked the smoldering bulbs from the coals and eaten them, one after the other, before belching up ash. Agnes had laughed then, but she’d carried a hint of menace throughout the day. It would soon be time for Slud to go, though he did not know where.
The ache in his shoulder and the burn in his thighs brought him back to the climb. Each step out of the bog was a test of exertion, and he was just reaching the steepest stretch of trail. His leg pounded into rock as he lifted himself past the tumble of a little stream. The barrel bounced cruelly behind him, and another spill leapt out to join the tiny waterfall. He inhaled deeply through his crooked nose and let the pain settle before huffing it back out between jutting tusks. He stepped again, and rose to the next shelf.
The bog viper that had coiled there unraveled in an instant. Its jaws unhinged and attached to the top of his foot before retracting and striking once more. Slud looked down at the startled beast as its long black body skittered back and hovered to deliver another dose. He breathed in the new sting and raised the damaged foot high. The snake got in one last bite to his heel before he crushed it into the earth with enough force to launch its skull out of its snout.
Yellow liquid dribbled from the four bloody holes in the top of Slud’s foot. He gritted his teeth and exhaled slowly—stooping to peel his attacker from the rock. The foot was already starting to go numb, but he breathed in again, unhurried and unworried. With a grunt he rose tall once more, slung the viper across his unoccupied shoulder, and kept climbing.
AUNT AGNES PICKED Slud’s dead skin from beneath her nails from when she’d clawed him that morning and dropped the scrapings into the iron pot that rested in the fire. The little gray flecks vanished into the muddy brew, and an unmelodious hum hung in her throat as she pondered what else to add. In an unlikely burst of movement, her bent and withered form crossed the room to dig through the cluttered shelves with a rough clanking of pottery and glass. Her hand emerged clutching a half-drunk bottle of spoiled pine-ale. She swiveled to dump the leftovers into the pot, and hummed again.
The hum stopped short. From outside, she heard the stomping of the troll lad. Back so soon? He’s grown strong. She cocked her ear as he mounted the steps to the door with a hitch in his gait. But is he ready?
He swept back the drapery of old wolf furs that served as a door and ducked to carry the sloshing barrel over the threshold with a final grunt. Still clutching the water, he stood to the high ceiling as his spine gave a loud crack. His beard and hair were slick with sweat, but his breath remained steady. From beneath the heavy brow, he set his dark gaze upon Agnes with the same challenge that she’d seen in him as a babe. It was like the mountain itself was looking at her—untamed, uncaring, and immovable. All of her work and teaching had been in service of bringing that to the surface; molding him into the force he was born to be.
“Why do you limp? Is the water so heavy that bones break?” she asked, trying to sound stern, though her tired voice betrayed her. She was ashamed in that moment of the weakness that had gripped her form. “Give a splash to the pot, and stir.”
Slud leaned toward the fire and poured some water into the pot with a loud hiss and a plume of steam. But rather than putting the barrel down in the corner as he’d been taught, he brought his maw to the rim and gulped loudly.
“I did not tell you to drink!” she snapped. “Do you wish the lash again?”
He ignored her for a last few gulps, and then dropped the barrel at his feet. “Slud’s tongue was dry.” His voice was a low grumble, like boulders grinding together.
It was only then that she noticed the mature bog viper that was strung over his shoulder, leaking blood across his back. She’d seen a bite from such a snake down a cave bear in minutes. “Are you bit?”
“Yeah, but Slud bit back.”
She stepped closer and dropped her eyes to the fresh punctures in his foot. “Two bites?”
“Tree.” He smiled. “Slud’s heel’s da last ting it saw er tasted.”
“Sit down before you fall, boy,” Aunt Agnes suggested with gentle hands coming to his aid. A swell of mother’s love returned.
“Slud’s good,” he said, shaking her off. He dipped a finger into the boiling brew and stirred with a slow inhale through his nose, just like she’d shown him. The clawed digit came back out steaming with brown sludge. He licked it off with a frown. “Tastes like shit.”
“Tell me what you feel of the venom?” she pressed, unable to mask her worry.
“Slud’s foot tingled ’n’ den stopped. Slud was t’irsty, ’n’ den he drank. Now, Slud’s hungry.” He looked back at the gurgling pot. “But dis, he don’t wanna eat.”
Aunt Agnes clapped her gnarled hands together with glee. “Unfazed by the strongest poison, yes, yes!” She appraised him with pride—he’d been molded well, twice the height of the tallest horse and made of dense muscle, thick bone, and sinew. Even among the trolls of the ancient world, she’d rarely seen his physical match. But it was what he contained within that made him truly special.
She grabbed the snake’s tail and pulled. “Now we shall see how you fare against charms, yes? All your strength will be useless if a few whispers from the elves make you their puppet.” She squeezed the viper’s mangled head as its blood spilled into the brew before hanging it on the meat rack for later. Just about done. Then we see how strong you really are.
Agnes moved quickly again, crossing the room to retrieve the final ingredient she’d gathered on her far walk that morning. She was giddy for the fast-approaching chance to unveil her true form after it had been hidden away for so long. She’d forgotten how it felt. More clanking at another shelf, and she came away with an earthen jar covered in tight-wrapped leather. She gave it a shake and heard a displeased screech within as she returned fireside.
With a finger-blade, she sliced the leather covering and buried her hand inside the jar—coming back out with a terrified little pixie in her grip.
“Where’d ya get dat?” asked Slud, smacking his lip against a tusk.
“It’s no matter, boy. Pay attention.”
The pixie shouted an angry hex at Agnes, but she chuckled as she flicked it in the head and flipped it over to pluck the papery little dragonfly wings out of its back. She handed one to Slud. “Chew it up and spit into the pot.” She jammed the other into her own mouth and started chewing as the pixie screamed in her hand.
Agnes had eaten pixies before, but the wings were far from the best part. She spit
the mashed pulp into the brew and motioned for her adopted son to do the same. Afterward, his eyes lingered on the writhing little figure.
To test his speed, she flung the squirming morsel rag-dolling toward him. His long arm shot out like the viper he’d just killed, and the claws of his thumb and forefinger pierced the pixie. He held it up and examined it closely as it cursed and shook. It looked like a tiny naked elf, dirty and skinny, with a crop of mosslike hair. He opened his mouth wide and tossed it between his tusks. A smile bloomed across his wide face as he chewed with a sharp pop and a crunch.
Agnes stirred the brew with a wooden ladle and raised a full steaming spoonful toward him. “Now this, yes?”
The smile faded, but he took the ladle as directed.
“Swallow it down. And then another scoop after.” She clapped her hands with an eager grin and backed toward the cramped little room where she slept. Her nest of pine needles and sticks jutted from the opening. As always, no light escaped from within.
SLUD HAD NEVER been past the doorjamb. He wasn’t sure if it was a lingering effect of the poison, but it seemed like Aunt Agnes was going weird on him again. He hadn’t seen those rotten teeth break into a genuine smile in years. Seeing her withered old body bound around the room with such enthusiasm looked wrong. She clapped her hands again and martialed her best attempt at a laugh, but it came out sounding more like a hiss.
“Eat up now,” she reminded him before slipping into the darkness of her hole.
Slud didn’t like it. He was already snake-bit and exhausted, and had no patience for one of her tests right now, but he took a meaty slurp from the ladle anyway. The day’s potion was thick with root and mushroom, and Slud hated the flavor of both. He ground it up in fist-sized molars and choked it down. She dosed him with mushrooms in every draft of tea and soup he ate, and the crazy it brought out in him had become as normal as sanity. The roots were much stronger. She usually only made him drink that tea once a year on his supposed “birthday,” but he’d always been strapped down for those unpleasant trips. He took another slurp, finishing the ladle. As he dipped it back in the pot for more, a long, low wail sounded from within her room.
