Trolled (The Trolled Saga Book 1)

by D. K. Bussell

  Clive’s forehead puckered and his jaw hung slack. “What did you say?” This wasn’t computing at all.

  “The portal’s shut. The only way we go home now is if we do the right thing. End of story.”

  Clive’s milk-white complexion turned positively scarlet. “That wasn’t your decision to make!” he screamed. “Who made you the Game Master!”

  “He’s right,” agreed Ashley. “He’s a prick but he’s right.”

  Nat looked to her boyfriend for some support. “Tell them what you told me, Terry. ““Get into it,” you said. “Don’t be a tourist. Commit to the fantasy.””

  Terry remained close-mouthed, leaving Neville to answer on his behalf.

  “This isn’t LARP, Nat. People are dying.”

  “For real,” said Ashley. “I’m down for a ruckus but this shit is rude.”

  Finally, Terry broke his silence. “No, she’s right. We need to stick this out. We have a responsibility here.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Clive. “You said it yourself, this isn’t our fight. Make up your mind!”

  Terry snatched up a quiver of arrows. “I have,” he said, and slung it over his shoulder.

  Chapter Six: Critical Hits

  FOLLOWING A FORMAL welcoming ceremony that involved a drum circle, the offering of beaded necklaces and a lot more nose rubbing than Nat was strictly comfortable with, the gang were directed to their living quarters. They were housed in a spacious wooden lodge built in and around the supporting tree branches.

  “Wow,” said Neville as he rolled into the building in his wheelchair, which the elves had been kind enough to hoist up from the forest floor.

  Inside, through a polished circular door, was a large communal room, in the centre of which stood a brazier of coals to warm the lodge in the winter months. Nooks were sunk into the walls, housing sleeping bunks accessible via ladders made of stout lumber planks. Flower baskets full of overgrown ferns were warmed by puddles of light streaming through silk draped windows. It was a magnificent lodging. Back home it would have been advertised as a five star woodland retreat with a Yelp score to die for. It even came with complimentary dining, boasting a bowl piled high with fragrant-smelling foodstuffs that Ashley wasted no time tearing into.

  “How do you know you’re not chowing down on pot pourri?” asked Neville, as Ashley pushed fistfuls of nuts and berries into his hungry mouth like some death row vegan.

  Though Ashley didn’t reply, his lack of response was answer enough.

  Nev went to bagsy a bunk but one of the castors of his wheelchair slipped between a gap in the floorboards and became wedged. “Lovely furnishings and all,” he said, “but I’m going to have some stern words with their health and safety rep about the disability access.”

  He looked to his friends for some sign of appreciation but received none. Ashley was too fat in the face with food, Terry and Nat had retired to the balcony for some privacy, and Clive was heading for the front door.

  “I’m going to get some air,” he harrumphed. “Might as well breathe it while I still can.”

  Nat and Terry stood on the lodge’s balcony, leaning against its railing and gazing out at the stunning panorama that stretched off in every direction. Far beyond the Whispering Woods lay lakes that shimmered like beaten metal, and beyond them, jagged mountains that chewed into the horizon like rotten teeth. At the peak of one of the fangs stood a brooding fortress; Drensila the Black’s citadel, the beating heart of the Durkon Empire. Nat felt a cloud of dread sweep over her. A bead of sweat rappelled down her spine and went spelunking in the crevice of her backside. What was she thinking? Earlier that day she’d been fretting over a biology paper, now she was ready to do battle with the forces of evil in never-never land?

  “What have I done?” she begged Terry, tears brimming.

  “You did what you had to,” he replied, diplomatically.

  “But what if I’ve gotten us all killed?”

  “Well, then at least there won’t be anyone left to say “I told you so.””

  “I’m serious!” Nat screeched.

  Terry placed his hands either side of her face and let her get a good look in his eyes. “You did the right thing. Nat Lawler for the win.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  He smiled and patted her cheek. “Because, when it comes down to it, you’re basically always right.”

  “But I’m not, Tel. I’m wrong all the time. Remember that game of Pictionary we had last Christmas? The one I beat you at because I convinced you that “ice” and “icicles” are the same thing? They’re not the same, Tel. I didn’t win, I’m just better at arguing than you.” she pulled herself tight to his chest. “And there’s no way I can argue my way out of this mess.”

  A bell rang, signalling a meeting of the council of elders. The gang were asked to attend and had accepted the summons, all except for Clive, who was still unaccounted for since he wandered off earlier. Terry had fretted over his disappearance, but Nat assured him he wouldn’t have gone far. Clive was too much of a coward to have made a break for it, she said, and Terry knew him well enough to know she was right.

  The council meeting took place on a round treetop platform, stripped bare and unadorned but for a totem pole in its centre. The attendees huddled around it in a circle facing one another, sitting cross-legged on the floor. The humans took their place among the elders, and the elves shuffled aside to make way for their stockier frames. Nat looked around the gathered and was surprised by what she saw. When she received word that she’d been invited to a council of elders, she’d expected to be greeted by wizened old men with long beards and musty-smelling robes. These elders were nothing of the sort. Even the oldest of them was still a picture of youth. Come to think of it, Nat hadn’t seen a single villager who looked north of thirty. No children either. As a community, Nat was at a loss to explain them, but it was obvious from their diminished numbers that they weren’t flourishing. Clearly, the outcome of this meeting would prove critical to their survival.

  “The council is in session,” announced Eathon, calling the meeting to order. “We have assembled to discuss a course of action in light of the threat that marches upon us.”

  “Yeah, about that,” said Neville, shooting up a hand, “shouldn’t we, you know, get marching ourselves?”

  “I agree with the coward,” said one of the elves, directly if tactlessly. “To stay here is suicide, the trolls will murder us all.”

  “I also vouch that we flee,” agreed another of the elves. “Drensila was only probing our defences before and we have already taken a casualty.”

  “To fight now would be foolish,” said another. “We must make a tactical retreat and face the trolls when we are on surer ground.”

  Ashley snorted. “Whatevs, Brave Sir Robin...”

  “Ashley!” admonished Nat, then went on to address the elf’s comment. “He’s right though. Surely retreat is just a polite way of saying run away?”

  Galanthre got to her feet, which Nat recognised couldn’t have been easy for someone who’d only recently been dealt a near-fatal wound. “And what is your solution, human?”

  As a sportswoman, Nat understood the drawbacks of being the away team. “We stay,” she replied. “We fortify the village and we fight. All of us. We might not be able to hide but we still have the home advantage. We’ll never have a better chance than we do right now.”

  She turned to Terry to measure his reaction. He looked impressed. Scared witless, but impressed.

  There was a commotion among the council members as they debated Nat’s proposal. The discussion went on for some time, with the village elders weighing the merits of fighting on familiar ground versus beating a hasty withdrawal. It soon became apparent that the vast majority favoured the latter.

  Galanthre was merely one of many who remained unconvinced by Nat’s logic. “With all due respect, of which I have very little, you are a puny sawbones from another world. Who are you to come
here and dictate military strategy?”

  This was Nat’s moment. She’d made a strong choice and now was the time to lean into it. She took to her feet and grabbed the proverbial conch. “Who am I?” she replied. “I’m the girl with the magic sword and the mystical prophecy on her side, that’s who I am.”

  “She’s right,” said Eathon. “The sacred tree has said as much.”

  Still, Galanthre objected. “So far we only have her word on that. I say you are too trusting, brother.”

  “All I see is a little girl with a sword that doesn’t belong to her,” said one of the elders.

  “How do we know for sure that she’s The Chosen One?” said another.

  “Has anyone seen her actually wield the enchanted blade?” yelled one more.

  “Enough,” said Nat, and drew Cleaver from his scabbard. With one effortless swish, she lashed out at the totem pole in the centre of the platform and sliced it in twain. Its top half toppled, then came crashing down like a felled oak.

  The crowd went quiet after that.

  By the end of the meeting the elves had elected to accept Nat’s counsel and hold down the fort. Preparations for the trolls’ arrival began immediately. Ashley watched elves down on the forest floor laying traps for the encroaching horde, while up in the treetops men and women prayed to their holy tree for its blessing. Any elf able to take up arms stood in line for the village quartermaster, and Ashley, who’d been itching for another chance to prove himself since almost getting turned into plant food during his last fight, was quick to join them. Eventually, he arrived at the front of the queue for the armoury and leaned across the counter to address the woman on the other side.

  “Is this where I get tooled up?” he asked.

  The woman turned around. It was Galanthre, who apparently functioned as the village quartermaster.

  She cocked an imperious eyebrow at the unlikely volunteer. “You wish me to supply you with a weapon?”

  “Yes, please,” he answered, like an orphan begging for a second bowl of gruel.

  The elf groaned and turned to her assistant. “Cover me while I teach this human how to extend his life for a few seconds, will you?”

  She exited the armoury and led Ashley along a catwalk to another circular platform. This one was made up like a fighting arena, with benches set around the perimeter and sand on the ground to soak up blood. This was Ashley’s first hint that he might have gotten a bit ahead of himself. The second was the sight of the elves sparring around him, honing their skills in rehearsal of the upcoming fight. They fought beautifully, one move rolling seamlessly into the next, whirling about in a blur, leaping heroically and sidestepping blows with ease. Ashley watched, mesmerised by their prowess. “They got mad flow,” he noted.

  “And what of you?” asked Galanthre. “Have you seen combat?”

  “No doubt,” he replied. He neglected to mention that the only combat he’d actually seen was LARP combat; the air guitar of battle.

  Galanthre ran her eyes over this physique. “You have a fit body at least.”

  “Cheers,” he replied. “You’re pretty tidy yourself.” He wasn't fooling. He'd take that girl to Pizza Express and buy her all the dough balls.

  “Take off your top,” the elf ordered.

  Ash didn’t need asking twice. If Galanthre wanted to do the “Show me your Earth-man love” thing, who was he to argue? He stripped to the waist and puffed out his chest, doing his best to look hench. Galanthre circled him, examining his body with the intensity of a driver scrutinising a rental car she hadn’t paid the excess on. Daunted by her gaze, Ashley experienced a sudden appreciation for his rugby coach, who’d long ago impressed upon him the importance of a stringent kettlebell regimen.

  “Your skin is black all over,” Galanthre noted offhandedly. “Like a troll’s skin.”

  “Izzit?” said Ashley. “And what do trolls look like ‘xactly?”

  “Trolls are hideous beasts. Loathsome, stinking horrors.”

  Ashley’s face folded into a frown. “I reckon your chat-up game could use some work.”

  Galanthre didn’t dignify his comment with a response. Instead she plucked a rapier from a rack of swords and placed it in his hand. As she passed the weapon over, Ashley noticed her wince. It was obvious she was still suffering from her arrow wound.

  Realising she’d failed to disguise her discomfort, Galanthre pressed on before Ash could offer any consolation. “Spar with me,” she said, and adopted an en garde pose.

  Ashley smiled. He wasn’t exactly an amateur when it came to swordplay. Not only was he one of the strongest fighters on the LARP circuit—BarbarianCon tournament champion two years in a row, thank you very much—he’d taken fencing classes at school and won his share of sabre medals.

  Galanthre put up her blade and Ashley scraped his steel along the length of it. There was an authority to its resistance that told him the elf’s respect wouldn’t come easy.

  “Show me how you move,” Galanthre ordered.

  Ashley did his best to impress. He started off with some basic footwork, advancing and retreating, mindful of keeping his body loose and springy. As his confidence grew, he became more courageous, bringing his weapon into play with practiced control. Though Galanthre deflected his every attack, it was clear she was exerting some effort in doing so. Ashley was styling it out great he thought. He was Muhammad Ali, floating like a butterfly and stinging like a bee. He dotted in some flourishes to demonstrate technique, a spin here and a feint there, smooth as silk. Wrapping it up, he finished off his display by making a terrific lunge and burying his sword in one of the wooden spectator benches. He stood upright, dusted some imaginary dandruff from his shoulder and turned to the elf, altogether pleased with himself.

  “Well?” he said. “What d’you reckon?”

  Galanthre stroked her chin. “Awful,” she reported. “You move like you have a stick up your backside and you swing like a rusty gate.”

  Feeling like a plucked peacock, Ashley threw back his shoulders and attempted to deflect the prang to his manhood. “Whatevs, girl, you know I got skills. My fencing coach told me I was the best in my class, and I took gold at the end of year friendly.”

  Galanthre didn’t argue, at least not with words. Instead, she performed a couple of lightning-quick strides in less time than it took Ashley to blink. Before he knew it, she’d bridged the distance to him, removed the sword from his hand and put its blade to his throat.

  “There is no friendly here,” she told him.

  Terry dangled his legs over the edge of a treetop catwalk as he sat stringing his new bow, the soon-to-be-minted Widowmaker II. It was a delicate process requiring all of his focus, but hard as he tried to concentrate on it, his brooding mind would only stay half on the job.

  “Was Nat eyeing up that elf blacksmith?” asked a nagging voice.

  “She’s probably got a thing for him,” suggested a second.

  “Of course she has,” declared another, “The guy’s got a body that would send Adonis running for the treadmill.”

  Terry had always been suspicious of good-looking guys. Back in school he’d managed to win a girl over only to learn that she’d run off with a handsome French exchange student during the summer break. Adele Atkins her name was, like the singer (almost). Terry came back to school for Year Eleven to discover that, while he’d been spending his evenings slaying kobolds, his co-called girlfriend had been sharing Gauloises cigarettes in a bathtub like in some art house movie. At least that’s the way it went down in his head.

  Needless to say, the last thing Terry wanted was another handsome nemesis, and this blacksmith really took the cake. Eathon, like the rest of his pals, had one of those Hitler Youth faces that girls just swooned over for some reason. On top of that, he didn’t have a trace of flab on him. Zero body fat. What was his secret? Did he steal his metabolism from a humming bird? Was he carving bits from his love handles and burying them around the woods in secret? And why did he have to b
e so charming on top of it? Christ, the guy was basically perfect. He could probably swallow a Rubik’s cube and crap it out solved. Okay, sure, he was missing some leg parts, but Terry understood Nat well enough to know she’d never hold that against him. That’s how cool she was. Cool and adorable. Damn it, why did he have to bat so far outside of his league? Why couldn’t he have settled for your average, garden-variety girlfriend? The frizzy-haired, buck-toothed, plain Jane who didn’t draw the eye of every horny dude she ran into. Maybe then he wouldn’t have to sit by and watch the love of his life get carried off into the sunset by Mister Pardon-My-Six-Pack.

  Terry looped the bowstring around each of the weapon’s limbs and drew it tight. As he did, he saw Nat across the way, striding along a separate catwalk and making a beeline for one of the treetop huts. He was about to call out to her, but instead chose to watch in silence as she rapped a knuckle on a hut’s door and waited for an answer. Terry continued to spy as the door opened to reveal the dwelling’s host. It was Eathon. Nat stole a quick glance over her shoulder—failing to notice Terry watching her—before disappearing inside the elf’s hut and closing the door behind her.

  Stretched to breaking point, the bowstring in Terry’s hands snapped in two.

  Neville, who had spent the last four hours toiling at Eathon’s forge, emerged into the daylight soot-faced and blinking. He wheeled out of the hut and raced along a catwalk, puffing on his pipe and trailing a fog of weed smoke. Stopping a passing villager, he made enquiries as to Eathon’s whereabouts and was directed to the elf’s home. There he found the elven leader, and quite unexpectedly, Nat. The two of them had been discussing war strategies she told him. Terry was nowhere to be seen. Whatever. Neville wasn’t her chaperon, and he had no desire to get involved in any Twilight-love-triangle nonsense.

  “Here,” he said, and presented Eathon with a gift; a heavy package wrapped in a disc of animal hide.