by A. Giannetti
After healing the wound on his head as quickly as possible, Elerian stood and ran through the canopy in the same direction taken by the Trolls. Sure footed and clear eyed once again, he soon detected a wide path running through the trees toward the heights to the west. Certain that the Trolls were following this same route, he followed it by running lightly along one great branch after another, slipping silently through the leaves and smaller branches that surrounded him. Far below him, the path he had discovered cleverly kept to the deepest shadows under the ancient trees that grew around it so that it was never exposed to the rays of the sun. After it left the valley and climbed into the heights, boulders and outcroppings of stone appeared among the trees. Elerian marveled more than once at the size of some of the stones that had been moved aside to clear the path that he was following.
Suddenly, the voice of one of the younger Trolls carried to Elerian’s ears from no great distance ahead of him. Slowing his pace, he stole silently along, not a single leaf quivering under his light step, even when he walked over branches not much wider than the palm of his hand. Before long, all four Trolls, still carrying his companions, appeared on the trail below him.
“We should go down to the wars gramps as has lots of the others,” said one of the younger Trolls as Elerian silently followed them over the branches far above their heads. “We'd get our fill of sweet meat then.”
“I’ve been to the wars, and I'm not going back,” replied his grandsire angrily. “Bosses everywhere and a touch of the lash if you’re slow doing what they say and the hardest work and fighting always falling to us. Your father fell at the siege of Ennodius with no mention of wergild to the rest of us for his loss. The others who are still alive will regret going if they haven’t done so already! You wait and see! Things aren't going as well as they might for Torquatus from what I hear.” At the mention of the Goblin King's name, the three younger Trolls looked apprehensively at each other, as if they expected to see Torquatus appear suddenly among them. “The horse boys gave his army a thumping in Tarsius, and now the Dwarves have beat him, too, and escaped up into Iulius,” continued their grandfather.
“You ought not to say such things gramps,” said one of his grandsons uneasily. “Trouble will come of it.”
“I'm not afraid of Torquatus,” replied the old Troll stoutly. “I remember the days when he weren't no king. He was only another servant of the first Dark Lord when he first came east over the Murus to beg for our help in his master’s war against the Elves, Dwarves, and Men of the west. His smooth words and the promise of new meat which we had never eaten before tempted many of us to join his master’s war to our regret, for the Elves and their allies slew his master and destroyed his armies. Torquatus and the few Goblins who survived hid themselves away deep in the mountains of the west to avoid being destroyed. Believe me, he weren’t so high and mighty then, hiding like a rabbit in the deepest burrow that he could find.”
“What happened after the war, gramps?” asked one of the younger Trolls. His voice was respectful, but he smirked at his brothers behind his grandsire’s back as they immediately began to grimace and roll their eyes behind their elder's back while making shushing motions with their hands, for they had heard this tale many times before and had no desire to hear it again.
“I came back over the Murus with the other Trolls who survived the Dark Lord’s war,” rumbled the old Troll. “We had the land east of the mountains to ourselves until one day a great crowd of Dwarves came up through the pass that leads to the Broken Lands. Those of us who had fought in the wars knew them to be tasty meat, so we gathered together and hid in the forest, following them until they entered a long valley to the east. Thinking we had them trapped, we attacked them there. When they retreated into a tunnel that led under the mountains, we followed them. We would have made a great slaughter of them there, but the Gargol suddenly appeared in our midst, slaying one after another of our people, as if our flesh was no harder than that of ordinary creatures. We were forced to retreat before it, those who were still alive. The Dwarves fled east through the passageway into Iulius and never returned. Since that the day, no one who has set foot in that tunnel has ever returned,” concluded the patriarch grimly.
“Do you reckon the Gargol still lives there gramps,” ventured one of his grandsons, rolling his eyes at his brothers as he spoke, for the younger Trolls all believed that the Gargol was a creature made up by their elders to frighten them.
“The Gargol lives Outside,” replied his grandsire irritably. “It only uses that cursed tunnel to enter and leave our realm.”
“Where is Outside gramps?” asked the same grandson with sudden curiosity. “I never heard of that place before now.”
“That’s because there aren’t many alive today as remember it and fewer still that will talk about it,” replied the patriarch. “The Outside is where the Troll race was born. It is a realm where there is no sun to heat the blood or to blind the eyes. Only the friendly light of the stars and moon light the land, but it’s a barren place with little to eat and many dangers. By the time I was born only a few Trolls were left because of the Gargol and its kin who hunted us endlessly,” replied the old Troll sourly. Far above him, Elerian was alarmed to hear that the Gargol might not be the only one of its kind.
“How did you and the rest of our people get from there to here?” asked another of the grandsons, sounding skeptical.
“I was an adventurous sort in those days,” replied his grandsire. “One day I discovered a curious hole that seemed to hang in the air with no support and which grew and shrank in size. When it suddenly grew large enough to admit me, I gathered up my courage and stepped through it. Instead of the open plain where I had stood a moment before, I now found myself in a passageway deep underground. When I left the passageway, I saw the sun for the first time. Its light forced me back into the shadows, but I soon learned that night followed day in this new realm. Venturing out when the sun hid its face, I explored the new land that I had found, discovering that it was filled with strange, soft-fleshed creatures that proved good to eat. Best of all, I found no sign of the Gargol or his kin. After a time, I went back into the passageway, but I had to wait a long time for the opening to grow large enough to admit me. I returned to the Outside then and led as many Trolls back here as were willing to follow me. After that we lived a good life in the Trofim until the cursed Dwarfs showed up. After the battle under the mountains, the Gargol began to hunt us again, coming out at night to search for new victims to carry off.
“Things were better after Men, Dwarves, and Elves settled in the Broken Lands. It mostly left us alone after that, hunting them instead. I saw it pass through our lands more than once at night, going out to hunt and then returning to the passageway with its prey. I think it returned to the Outside when the hole allowed it, remaining there until the way back was open again. Times were good when it was absent,” mused the ancient Troll. “You could go down to the lowlands for a few weeks and return with a nice mixed bag of tender meat. Then Torquatus came east over the Murus with his crew and mucked things up proper with his wars. Every Elf, Dwarf, and Man in the Broken Lands was slain or driven out,” he concluded sourly.
“What happened to the Gargol?” ventured the inquisitive grandson, uneasily. Of the three brothers, he seemed the one most inclined to believe his grandsire’s fantastic tale.
“No one knows,” replied the patriarch. “It has not been seen now for many years, but it may be Outside even now waiting for the hole to grow large enough to admit it into our realm once more. As I said before, the opening remains small for long periods of time.”
“How convenient,” mouthed one of the two doubting brothers to the other with a roll of his eyes. As a result, he almost bumped into his grandsire’s broad back when the old Troll suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, forcing his grandsons to stop, too. High above the Trolls, Elerian also stopped and looked around, for he had become so interested in the patriarch’s narrative that he ha
d lost track of his surroundings. He saw now that another Troll, younger but quite as large as the patriarch, had appeared on the path and was blocking the way. The newcomer, like the others, was dressed in animal skins, but he carried a black, knotted club in his right hand, so large and heavy that a man might scarcely lift it. An evil light glowed in his green eyes, and an ugly expression twisted his coarse features.
A TERRIFYING ENCOUNTER
“What have you got there Orgo?” rumbled the newcomer.
“What I got is none of your business, Horca,” replied Orgo angrily. “This ain't your side of the mountain. I already warned you once to stop poaching on my territory.” With a terrifying suddenness, the old Troll dropped all three Dwarves on to the ground and rushed forward, roaring and gnashing his yellow fangs. Horca raised his club with both hands but before he could bring it down, Orgo had already closed with him, the two Trolls smacking into each other, chest to chest, with the dull thump of two great boulders colliding.
Dropping his club, Horca immediately began battling his attacker, the two of them biting, clawing, and pummeling each other, all the while emitting a perfect storm of howls, screams, and roars that seemed to shake the very leaves of the surrounding trees. The stony hides of the Trolls were evidently not proof against their own teeth and claws, for soon both combatants were bleeding freely, their black blood hissing and steaming when it struck the ground. In all his life, Elerian had never seen or heard such a fearful display of ferocity and viciousness. On the ground, Triarus, already light headed at being hung upside down for so long, fainted dead away at the noise. Cyricus and Cordus closed their eyes and wished they could clap their hands over their ears. Ascilius and Dacien both turned pale, but remained alert for some chance of escape, for they both hoped that Elerian was nearby waiting to attempt a rescue.
Tearing his eyes away from the battle, Elerian looked to the younger Trolls who were huddled fearfully together on the path. None of them seemed inclined to help his grandsire. To the contrary, Elerian thought that they looked ready to bolt at the first indication that their champion and protector was losing his clash with Horca. The brother carrying the sack had already discarded it, taking up the three Dwarves onto his shoulders instead. If they were forced to flee, the brothers evidently meant to take their prisoners with them.
“If the old Troll loses, I may never discover where they have gone in time to rescue my friends, especially if the young ones run in separate directions,” thought Elerian anxiously to himself as he turned back to the battle between Orgo and Horca. His concerns for the patriarch seemed unnecessary, however, for despite his youth, Horca appeared to have suffered the most damage from the fight. Battered and bleeding heavily, he suddenly thrust himself away from Orgo, pushing with both hands against the older Troll’s massive chest.
Orgo remained firmly rooted in place despite the powerful thrust, causing Horca to stagger back. Before he could recover his balance, Orgo dealt him a tremendous buffet on the left side of his head with his massive right fist. The blow, which would have felled a small tree, sent Horca over onto his right side. At once, Orgo began to rain vicious blows and kicks upon his dazed, prone enemy with the obvious intent of finishing him off. With a last desperate effort, Horca suddenly rolled away, gaining just enough time to leap to his feet. Without a backward look, he fled up the path, disappearing into the forest in an instant.
Chest heaving, streaming black blood from a dozen wounds, Orgo raised his massive arms into the air and let out a tremendous roar which rolled through the forest like thunder. When he turned toward his grandsons, his features were still hideously distorted, and his eyes glowed with a feral green light. The brothers watched him apprehensively as did Elerian high above in the trees, for in that moment Orgo looked capable of slaying any living thing that came near him, kin or no. Several tense moments passed before the madness left the old Troll's coarse featured face, replaced by a self-satisfied expression.
“That'll learn that thieving Horca,” he rumbled. “He’ll remember that beating for years.”
“You thumped him proper gramps,” said one of the younger Trolls. His brothers loudly agreed with him, lavishly praising their grandsire’s fighting ability. Although they seemed less fearful now, Elerian noticed that, out of an abundance of caution, they still maintained their distance from their fearsome grandsire.
The compliments further mollified the old Troll. With his good humor restored, he took up the sack lying on the ground, and with his grandsons in tow, resumed following the path again, unaware that he was being shadowed by Elerian through the canopy above his bald head. The track Orgo was following finally ended high up the mountain before a heap of great boulders piled haphazardly against a sheer cliff of gray granite that reared up out of the forest. Leafy branches brushed up against its face, forming an impenetrable green roof that prevented even a single ray of sunlight from reaching the stones beneath them. One after another, Elerian watched the Trolls disappear into a gap between two boulders which leaned against each other.
“I will either disrupt their dinner or become a part of it,” thought Elerian wryly to himself as he climbed swiftly and noiselessly down the trunk of a rough barked chestnut. Relying on his invisibility ring to conceal him, he, too, slipped through the entrance to the Trolls’ cave. When he emerged from the entryway, he found himself in a dark, awful smelling chamber that extended into the side of the cliff. He jumped aside just in time when the patriarch rolled an enormous boulder in front of the entrance, sealing it tight.
“This is not good,” thought Elerian to himself. “Even if I manage to overcome all four of these fellows, we will remain trapped here. I doubt that they entire company pushing together could move that stone. I think that trickery will serve me better than violence in this situation.”
Retreating as far from the Trolls as the cave allowed, Elerian began to think furiously, trying to craft some plan which would free his companions and allow them all to escape. His greatest concern now was that the Trolls would scent him before he could act, but the powerful, rank smell which filled the cave gave him some protection, and the preoccupation of the Trolls with their dinner preparations further distracted them. With his night-wise eyes, Elerian saw that all four of them were now gathered around a large fire pit in the center of the cave. To the left of the fire pit, his five companions now hung upside down, like spoils of the hunt, on wooden pegs driven into one of the walls, a position that Elerian was all too familiar with. One of the younger Trolls knelt and began blowing on coals buried in the ashes left over from a previous fire. Fine white dust and blue smoke rose into the air as he puffed loudly, exiting the cave through gaps between the cliff wall and the stones which formed the entrance to the chamber.
When the coals turned cherry red another of the younger Trolls piled kindling on them. There was no doubt in Elerian’s mind that once they had a good fire going, they meant to cook and eat at least some of his companions immediately.
“Roast a Dwarf first,” suggested Orgo to his grandsons. “I ain’t et Dwarf in years.”
“You can have all three of them,” replied one of his grandsons who had taken up several long iron skewers from a stone shelf. He eyed Dacien and Triarus hungrily. “I’ll take tender man’s flesh over Dwarf any day.” At this frightening pronouncement, Triarus began to shake so hard that his teeth rattled, but Dacien kept his face impassive, refusing to show any fear. Orgo now began to pinch Ascilius and his cousins as he tried to decide whom he would eat first.
“If ever I get loose from here, you'll regret this day,” shouted Ascilius angrily as Orgo painfully squeezed his right thigh with black taloned fingers as hard as stone.
“You ain't got to worry about escaping,” laughed Orgo. “You'll not leave this cave again unless I carry you out in my belly.”
Ascilius continued to threaten Orgo, but it is difficult to look dangerous when you are tied up and hung upside down by your ankles. As a result, Orgo pinched and poked even harder,
vastly enjoying Ascilius’s impotent fit of temper.
While their grandsire was occupied with Ascilius, the younger Trolls took Triarus over to the fire, crowding around him as he struggled uselessly in their stony grips. Laughing uproariously, two of them held the little man in the air after ripping off his clothes. The third prepared to skewer him with the long iron rod that he held so that Triarus could be suspended and roasted over the now roaring fire.
“Make sure you pop his head off first,” ordered Orgo, leaving off his play with Ascilius for a moment. “The fire will spoil it and cost us some of our reward.”
“I’ll mind it gramps,” replied the Troll with the skewer. “I want to hear him squeal a bit from the heat first before we kill him.”
“I must do something now or it will be too late,” thought Elerian desperately to himself at this point. He still had not come up with any plan and was at the point of drawing his knives and attacking the younger Trolls, when he had a sudden inspiration. Disguising his voice with an illusion spell, he suddenly spoke loudly and harshly, mimicking the voice of one of the younger Trolls.
“Mind what gramps said and take off his head!”
An instant later, hoping desperately that none of the Troll’s possessed mage sight, Elerian drew on the power stored in his silver ring of power. Casting his new, untried portal spell, he watched anxiously with his magical third eye as a small golden orb flew from the fingertips of his right hand, for if he had misjudged the power needed to complete the spell, the resultant backlash might easily destroy everyone in the cave. Elerian breathed a sigh of relief when the sphere took up a position about two feet in front of his face before expanding suddenly into a small portal twice the size of his fist. Closing his third eye, Elerian saw, as if looking through a small round window, the broad backside of the Troll with the skewer.
