by Terry Brooks
There was more than one species of Troll living in the Northland, but by far the most numerous of the tribes were Rock Trolls. Physically larger and historically more warlike than the other tribes, they were found principally in the Charnals and the Kensrowe, preferring mountainous terrain with caves and tunnels rather than open encampments as safeholds. The Forest and River Trolls were smaller in size and numbers, and they were not nomadic in the way of Rock Trolls. The differences went on from there, but Pen couldn’t remember them all. What he mostly remembered was that Rock Trolls reputedly made the finest weapons and armor in the Four Lands, and they knew how to use both when provoked.
“Someone’s noticed us now,” Khyber announced, nodding toward a handful of Troll warriors walking out to meet them.
Pen let the airship settle to the earth in an open space at one end of the plateau, well away from the village and its fortifications. Whatever happened, he did not want to give an impression of hostility. He shut down the thrusters, closed off the parse tubes, walked to the railing, tossed out the rope ladder, and climbed down to set the anchors. The others followed, with Tagwen in the lead, looking bluff and officious.
The Trolls came up to them, huge and forbidding giants, their barklike skin looking like armor beneath their clothing, their strange, flat-featured faces devoid of expression, but their eyes sharp and watchful.
One of them spoke to Tagwen in deep, guttural tones, a query of some sort, Pen thought. The Dwarf stared at the speaker blankly, then glanced hurriedly at Pen. The boy shook his head. “You’re the one who says he speaks the language. Say something back to him.”
Tagwen gave it a valiant try, but it came out sounding a little as if his last meal hadn’t quite agreed with him. The Trolls looked at one another in confusion.
“Just use whatever Troll-speak you possess and ask him if Kermadec is here,” snapped Khyber, impatient with the whole business. “Ask if this is Taupo Rough.”
The Dwarf did so, or at least appeared to do so. Pen caught the words Kermadec and Taupo Rough amid all the garble, and the reception committee seemed to do the same. One of them nodded, beckoned for them to follow, and turned back toward the village. The other three fell into place about them like a stockade.
“I hope we haven’t made another mistake,” Khyber muttered to Pen as she glanced about uneasily.
Pen took Cinnaminson’s hand and held it firmly in his own. The Rover girl did not pull away, but moved closer to him. “It doesn’t look it, but this village is heavily defended,” she whispered to him. “We can’t see most of it. Most of it is hidden inside the mountains. I can feel the heat of furnaces and forges. I can feel movement in the earth radiating out from the rock.”
The boy exhaled sharply. “Are these Trolls enemies?” he asked. “Are we in danger?”
She shook her head. “I can’t tell. But they are prepared to do battle with something, and whatever it is, they mean to see it destroyed if it tries to attack them.”
Pen nodded. “If we have to flee, I will stay right beside you.”
She said nothing in reply, but squeezed his hand tightly.
They moved through the heavy stone walls that formed the outer fortifications into the village itself. Trolls turned to look at them, Trolls of all sizes and shapes, but their gazes were brief and didn’t linger. A few young Trolls, barely five feet tall yet—though big when compared to Tagwen, who was not much more than that himself—fell into step beside them, casting interested glances at the outlanders. No one tried to speak to them, and no one did anything threatening. Pen studied the buildings as he walked, comparing them with those of Southland villages. The biggest difference was in the construction, which was almost entirely of rock and suggested that every building provided its own defense. Each unit had heavy ironbound wooden doors and shutters, and weapons ports had been cut into the walls for use by the defenders. It had taken a lot of work to build the homes, and it seemed in direct contradiction to the nomadic tradition of the people who occupied them.
“We didn’t do anything to protect the airship,” Khyber whispered to him suddenly, a frown crossing her dark features.
Pen nodded. “I know. But what could we have done?”
“Sent Tagwen on ahead alone until we knew what to expect,” she replied. “We aren’t being very smart about this.”
Pen didn’t respond. “I don’t sense any hostility,” Cinnaminson said quietly. “We aren’t threatened.”
Khyber rolled her eyes as if to suggest that a blind Rover girl might not be the best judge but didn’t pursue the matter.
They had just rounded the corner of a massive building that looked to be a storehouse rather than a home when a huge Rock Troll appeared in front of them, arms outstretched and voice booming out in familiar Dwarfish.
“Bristle Beard, you’ve found your way!” the Troll shouted, reaching down to pick up Tagwen and hold him out at arm’s length as if he were no more than a toy. “It’s good to see you safe and sound, little man!”
Tagwen was incensed. “Put me down at once, Kermadec. What are you thinking? A little decorum would be appreciated!”
The big Troll set him down at once, drawing back. “Oh, well then, sorry to have distressed you. I was only expressing my great joy at finding you in good health. It hasn’t been a good time at Paranor, Tagwen.”
“This does not come as news to me!” the Dwarf snapped. He cleared his throat officiously. “Here, let me introduce the others.”
He did so, giving a quick explanation of who his companions were without yet getting into why they had all come together. Kermadec nodded to each at the mention of their names, his flat features somehow reflecting the pleasure he took in meeting them. There was an exuberance and expansiveness to the big man that transcended what Pen had heard of the Troll character, and he found himself liking their host right away.
“Penderrin,” Kermadec said, taking the boy’s hand in his own. It was like shaking hands with a rough piece of wood. “Your aunt and I are great friends, friends from as far back as the coming together of the Druid order, and I regret what has happened deeply. Your presence indicates that you intend to join me in doing something about it. You are most welcome.”
He turned to Tagwen. “Now you must tell me all about what has happened since our parting at Paranor, and I will do the same. Come with me to my home, and we will have something to eat and drink while we talk. Is that an airship you flew in on, Bristle Beard? I thought you hated airships!”
Dismissing the Trolls who had guided them in from the Skatelow, Kermadec led them on through the village until they were almost to the cliff face against which it was backed. At that distance, Pen could see clearly the sophisticated network of walkways and ladders connecting the village to the caves and tunnels that riddled the cliff. He could also hear, for the first time, the sounds of hammers striking anvils and smell the fires of the furnaces that serviced them.
What was odd was that he couldn’t see any smoke or ash.
He asked Kermadec about that, and the Troll pointed skyward. “The residue of the furnace fires goes into a vent system that carries it out the other side of the near peaks. It helps keep the air we breathe out here in the village clean. It also helps disguise what we do. You can’t be sure where we keep the furnaces until you get this close. The furnaces are our lifeblood. Without the furnaces, we can’t make the weapons and metal tools we trade to the other Races for the goods we need. Without the furnaces, we would revert to what we once were—raiders and worse. If anything happens to them, we are left without a way to make a living.”
“What do you do with the furnaces when you move to another site?” the boy pressed. “You don’t take them with you, do you?”
Kermadec laughed. “That would be a neat trick, young Penderrin. The furnaces are built right into the rock of the mountain. No, we shut them down, cool them off, and conceal them. We close off the entrances that lead to them, as well. And we set traps to discourage the uninvited. As lon
g as I can remember, no one has ever bothered our furnaces.”
“And there are those who would, I can promise you,” Tagwen declared grimly.
Kermadec clapped him on the shoulder so hard he almost knocked him off his feet. “If they could, Bristle Beard. If they could.”
“So you have other furnaces in other places?” Pen pressed.
“Half a dozen that have been constructed over the years, more if you count the ones we have abandoned as unsafe. We are a mobile people, but our villages are well established. We simply move back and forth among them, choosing the one that seems most advantageous with each migration. Just now, we are concerned about uninvited guests and so have chosen this village, with its superior defensive positioning.”
Khyber glanced about. “You don’t look all that ready to go to ground if you are attacked. No guards, no sign of anything out of the ordinary. We just sailed right in on the Skatelow.”
“Only because we saw you coming from five miles off and identified your sloop as harmless.” The dark eyes swept back to her and away again. “Don’t mistake what you see, Khyber Elessedil. We keep close watch in all directions. We won’t be easily surprised. If we are threatened, we can disappear into the caves behind the village in a matter of minutes, much quicker than an enemy can reach them. Once inside, we can survive for months on the provisions stored. Or we can escape through any number of back doors. And there are extensive fortifications inside the caves as well, in case an attack is pressed. Believe me, things are not entirely as they seem.”
Which was in keeping with most of what they had encountered on their journey to reach Taupo Rough, so his guests decided to take him at his word.
A few minutes later, they were settled inside the big Troll’s home, a sprawling affair occupied by his brothers, sisters, parents, and grandparents, as well as a child or two somehow connected with the rest. Kermadec explained, on completing introductions, that Trolls tended to house together in families, often living that way the whole of their lives. The house his family occupied had once belonged to another family, but that family had lost enough members over the years that they no longer needed anything quite so large. Since Kermadec’s family had grown, they were offered the other family’s home in exchange for their smaller one.
It was an odd approach to determining living conditions, but one that the Trolls seemed quite used to. Homes didn’t seem to belong to any one person or family, but to the entire community. Pen thought that perhaps because Rock Trolls moved so often, they weren’t quite so attached to their possessions, homes included, and were therefore able to share more freely.
Still, he was curious about all those people living together under one roof, and after being served a cold drink of black tea and herbs, he asked what determined if any member of the family moved away. Or didn’t they? This produced an even odder and more complicated explanation of the Troll lifestyle. Trolls, Kermadec offered, did not maintain family units in the same way as the other Races. Trolls started out life as children in one family, but often ended up as children or even adults in another. When sickness or death rendered parents unable to raise their children, other parents stepped in. When a child or adult grew dissatisfied with a family situation, he or she could petition to move elsewhere, and frequently the move was allowed. It was thought better to accommodate that individual and try to ease the source of dissatisfaction than to allow the problem to fester. The move didn’t happen until a thorough effort had been made to resolve the conflict.
Moreover, Troll parents did not regard their children as the exclusive property of the family and were not possessive of the responsibility for raising them. The care, nurturing, teaching, and disciplining of children was the responsibility of the entire village, and everyone was involved in the rearing process. Successes and failures were always shared; decisions and pronouncements were never left to one person. A Troll child started out life as the result of the union of two people, but reached adulthood as the result of the efforts of many.
“Well, that’s enough for now about the social structure of Rock Trolls, young Penderrin,” Kermadec declared, seating himself across from the boy and the others. “Tell me everything that’s happened. Bristle Beard, you begin. Right from the time I left you at Paranor. Tell it all.”
So they did, each of them speaking in turn, each of them adding a piece to the larger puzzle. Tagwen told of coming to find Pen’s parents at Patch Run and finding only Pen. The boy related the details of their escape from Terek Molt, the subsequent encounter with the King of the Silver River, and the task he had been given—to travel to the ruins of the ancient city of Stridegate and the forest island of the tanequil. Tagwen then picked up the story once more to tell of their decision to seek help at Emberen from Ahren Elessedil. Much of it was difficult, especially Khyber’s recitation of the events surrounding her uncle’s death in the Slags. When it came Cinnaminson’s turn to speak of the creature that had killed her father and her cousins aboard the Skatelow, she was forced to stop and compose herself several times. But both Elf and Rover made it through their tales, through the dark and terrible hurt they had experienced, to emerge, Pen thought, a little stronger than when they had started out.
Kermadec listened carefully and, when they had finished, shook his head in a mix of disgust and disbelief. “I knew our Grianne had placed too much faith in her ability to keep those Druid sorceresses from reverting to kind, Tagwen. Even an Ard Rhys can do only so much with black hearts and foul schemes.”
He sighed. “But losing Ahren Elessedil? I never thought I would live to see that. I never thought anything could happen to him, as much as he had survived already. He was the best of them, Khyber, your uncle. The best of them all.”
She nodded in acknowledgment of the kindness of his words. “I appreciate hearing that.”
“And Cinnaminson.” He turned to the Rover girl. “I am sorry for the death of your father, whatever the circumstances that brought it about. Your father is an irreplaceable loss. You have shown great courage and presence of mind in surviving the madness that consumed him. I will send my Trolls to see that he and his cousins are given burial.”
He leaned forward. “Now, then. You have told me your tale; let me tell you mine. Maybe we can make some sense of this business once I do.”
After leaving Tagwen at the Druid’s Keep, Kermadec had traveled north on foot out of Paranor and across the Streleheim to the ruins of the kingdom of the Warlock Lord. He did not want to do this, but he had no better idea of where to begin his search for Grianne Ohmsford. Days earlier, he had accompanied the Ard Rhys to investigate rumors of apparitions and strange fires within those ruins and had encountered an impossibly dark and evil presence. The Maturen felt certain that there was a connection between that presence and the disappearance of the Ard Rhys, and he was hopeful that by taking a closer look at the site where the presence had revealed itself, he might discover something useful.
It was a long shot at best, and as Kermadec had made clear to Tagwen, the Troll people did not go into the Skull Kingdom for any but the best of reasons. Kermadec was brave, and there were few dangers that could turn him aside, but that was one of them. Rock Trolls had an inbred fear and distrust of the land where the Warlock Lord had ruled and been destroyed. Rock Trolls, in that time and place, had served the Warlock Lord, slaves and soldiers to help in the conquest and subjugation of the Four Lands. It had taken many years for the Trolls to recover from those monstrous times, years for them to be accepted again by the other Races. Grianne Ohmsford had done much to make that possible. If a journey to the forbidden land was what it would take to help her in turn, then so be it.
Nevertheless, he had determined that he would not go back there alone.
So he traveled first to a Gnome village situated below the River Lethe on the western borders of the Knife Edge, seeking a man he believed would know better how to protect against the danger he expected to encounter in the ruins. The man’s name was Achen Wuhl, and he wa
s a Gnome shaman of some repute in the tribe to which he belonged. He was old, perhaps ninety, and he had been a shaman the whole of his life, living with the Warst, a tribe that migrated across the Streleheim between the Kensrowe and the Charnals.
Kermadec had met Achen Wuhl twenty years before on an outing that had brought a company of his Trolls in contact with the Warst while the latter were under attack from Mutens. In most circumstances, Rock Trolls would have nothing to do with Gnomes because the two Races were traditionally at odds over territorial rights and migratory routes. But the Trolls hated Mutens worse than anything. Voiceless, soulless remnants of the Warlock Lord’s dark magic, the Mutens survived in the Knife Edge in much the same way as the Werebeasts did within Olden Moor—by preying on the Gnomes who worshiped them as sacred spirits.
So Kermadec had broken the unwritten rule that forbids Trolls from interfering with the lives of Gnomes, and his company had come to the aid of those unfortunates who were being butchered by the Mutens because they had ventured too close to the monsters in a misguided effort to appease them. Among those rescued were women and children and the shaman, Achen Wuhl, who accepted the gift of his life from the Trolls with a promise that some day he would repay the favor. Kermadec had not claimed that promise before. He chose to claim it now.
