by Pete Prown
* * *
It was a lonely morning when the trio set off through the woods.
Another foot of snow had fallen through the night, but it didn’t seem to deter Saoirse or Truckulus—to them, it was a mere dusting, their massive feet stomping through the drifts like they weren’t there.
On foot, Dorro would have been a hindrance, so Saoirse put him into the hanging basket hanging from her neck—it was like his own viewing box, though the Halfling was bounced around quite a bit. But she made sure he was snug in layers of wool and aside from the jostling, he knew it could have been more uncomfortable. More than that, Dorro simply enjoyed an adventure, though it meant almost certain death.
The wind had picked up and bit into their skins, causing even Truckulus to complain.
“Mother, this is intolerable. We should find a cave to ride out the weather.”
“Tish-tosh, son, it’s only a mild inconvenience. Your father also liked the cold winds of the North, the harder and sharper the better—he said it made cuddling at night so much more fun.”
The boy’s face contorted into a look of horror.
“Mother! That’s revolting,” but that only made her chortle louder.
The three tracked through the mountains, pausing only briefly to rest in the snow, sleet and wind. Saoirse gave Dorro bits of bread and cheese to nibble on, but otherwise he bounced around in his little basket through the numbing hours. There wasn’t much to see—despite being in high country, they were too deep within its canyons, ridges, and fissures to glimpse any sublime vistas. To the bookmaster, it was a continuous montage of snow, rock, and scrubby trees fighting to survive.
“I’m bored,” snarled Truckulus impatiently, “We should have never left our house.”
“We’ll be home soon,” said Saoirse. “We have just started up Umbar-Trüach, the last mountain. It will not be easy, but I know the way.”
Truckulus snarled at his mother in the droning, slow language of giants, and the two bickered for some time, as mothers and their older sons sometimes do.
Soon enough, Truckulus would be full grown and ready to leave the embrace of his parent, facing the world on his own—this was Nature’s way of preparing the path.
Finally Saoirse spoke. “I won’t lie to you, friend—my son has brought up a good point, but there’s nothing to be done about it.”
“Are we in trouble, my lady?” Dorro caught Truckulus glaring at his mother.
“Umbar-Trüach is notorious for its unruly denizens. Trolls, actually.”
“Trolls? Oh dear—I didn’t know they were even real! Can’t we go around the mountain?”
Saoirse made a loud, derisive snort. “I’m sorry, Dorro, but there are no other routes. Unlike goblins, who are merely fleas to us, trolls are real adversaries. The only thing giants have to their advantage is a bigger brain, but still, trolls are fast and wily combatants. Fortunately, they usually sleep during the day; if there’s trouble, don’t worry, I’ll make sure you’re safely out of the ….”
Crash!
A boulder exploded over their heads, showering bits of stone and gravel like rain. “Apparently, they’re not asleep, m’lady!”
Dorro peered into the rocky, snow-covered landscape, trying to see who threw the rock. They were on a slowly rising path that tread through a rocky ravine. There were sharp rises and drop-offs at every angle, making their position hard to defend—the enemy could be anywhere.
“There!” shouted Truckulus, pointing up a scree to their right.
What Dorro had perceived as boulders covered with ice and snow were now moving slowly downhill. And worse, they were picking up huge rocks as they went and heaving them.
“We must make haste!” said Saoirse with surprising calmness. “If we don’t find higher ground, we will be in great peril.”
With that, she lurched forward into a run—more like a jog for some a creature of her size, but she stopped short—on the path in front of her was a hulking troll, a great lumpy beast holding a boulder in each hand and preparing to throw them. Carefully, the she-giant removed Dorro’s basket and set it in the branches of a small pine tree, making sure it was secure. She dropped her stance for battle.
“Come on, beastie!” she barked, taking the vanguard ahead of Truckulus. There were other trolls coming up on their flanks, which they ignored for the moment. “Throw your little pebble, friend. I know you can do it.”
The monster seemed to take the bait, winding up to throw a big stone at them, but Saoirse took them moment to rush the troll.
Without time to release his weapon, the creature was taken off balance. Saoirse hit him (or at least, Dorro assumed it was a him) square in in the chest, knocking him on his backside. The bookmaster was horrified at what transpired next, as the giantess grabbed one of the boulders and smashed it down upon the troll’s head. Dorro had briefly seen the battle-frenzy giants were capable of and it terrified him.
Within moments, more trolls attacked, viciously grappling the mother and son. For all his sullen behavior, Truckulus was competent in battle, Dorro noticed, punching and jabbing with his short sword. But there were too many trolls for just the two, and the tide of the battle was turning against them.
Two mountain trolls grabbed the boy and held him in fierce arm lock, while Saoirse battled to save her son, yet she too was beset by monsters, dim-looking creatures with more brawn than brains and an abiding hatred of her kind. Dorro cowered in his basket, knowing there was nothing he could do but watch the giantess and her son get killed.
Thud!
A large rock came sailing down the scree and struck a troll directly in the head, rendering it unconscious or, more likely, dead. Another stone flew, striking the trolls and making them roar in anger.
Dorro was baffled by the blind attack, but wondered who would dare confront trolls. It didn’t take long for him to figure out, as massive shadows emerged from the rocks and behind pine trees to pound on the beasts.
These, the Halfling knew, were giants!
They furiously wrenched Saoirse and Truckulus free and began pummeling the trolls bloody with rocks, clubs, and maces. A few of the monsters escaped down a ravine, but most died, no match for the brawn and superior intellect of giants. It was a short, violent battle that left the snow sprayed with flecks of red.
Saoirse was quick to regain her wits and make sure her son was alive. Seeing him sitting on an icy boulder with more bumps than real injuries, she pushed the other giants out of the way and came for Dorro.
“Are you okay, my small friend?” she asked breathlessly.
“Me? Of course, Saoirse, I’m well—but how can I thank you and Truckulus? You surely saved my life.”
“Bah, it was nothing,” she said, “Trolls are a way of life for our kind. As long as you’re….”
“Saoirse!” A loud voice bellowed from behind her. “You should not have returned. This is regrettable.”
She turned slowly, still on her guard.
“Broog. I thought you’d be happy to see us.”
“Now is not the time for your strange sense of humor, Saoirse,” snarled a huge, muscle-laden giant with black hair and rough, scrubby beard. Dorro did not like the look of this one. “You were exiled, forever! You made a mistake in returning. We will have to bring you before the Elders for their decree.”
“Ah Broog, still grumpy after all these years,” said Saoirse. “You might at least pretend you’re happy to see me—brother.”
Like lightning, Dorro realized this was the giant who had killed her husband. Her very own sibling.
The Letters
Another dawn broke over Thimble Down, a fine, brisk early morning that marked the first day of March.
Mrs. Tunbridge made the children scrambled eggs and buttered toast for breakfast before heading out to deliver her latest handiworks and mending. She was the finest seamstress in the village and at this time of year, busy making and patching coats, scarves, gloves, and hats.
Cheeryup’s mother
worked especially hard these days, as she was the primary wage earner in her burrow now, since the Mayor had so cruelly closed the library, cutting off what tuppences her daughter earned.
With her mother gone, the younglings poured cups of black tea and set out the folio of letters they’d snatched the night before.
“Here, Wyll, take this pile and I’ll take the other one. I know the answer is in here—I know it!”
They started reading, trying to read the faint ink handwriting. They worked for quite a long while before the girl reached over and grabbed her friend’s hand tightly.
“Listen to this—it’s about the heartwood.”
“Can you read it?” asked Wyll. “Looks like gibberish to me.”
“Havling isn’t all that difficult really. It uses a few letter substitutions, but I replace them in my head as I read. Simple!”
The boy marveled at Cheeryup’s intelligence; he had long suspected she was the smartest girl in all Thimble Down, if not beyond.
Now he knew for sure, but quieted down to listen to her read.
