Shadow Dawn

by Chris Claremont

  In this instance, she found herself clambering over a jumbled pile of gigantic stones, ranging in size from a large Daikini to that large Daikini’s equally large house. This reminded her of a construction of building blocks, that might originally have formed a most impressive tower until some malicious devil had yanked loose just the right one to bring the entire edifice crashing down.

  Here was the opposite of the brownie barrow. Instead of a single inviting entrance, she found a score of possibilities formed by the cracks and hollows where stone was piled awkwardly upon stone. The surface of the rock was dangerously smooth, with no easy handholds, and even in direct sunlight it would be difficult to see within to tell which way was safe.

  Elora descended one crevasse by stretching her legs to full extension across the gap and bracing her back against the wall behind her, wishing all the while as she crabbed carefully downward that she wore something more substantial than a linen shift. Her skin burned by the time she reached bottom, though there was no sense of the wetness that would mean she’d drawn blood rather than given herself some nasty scrapes. Regrettably, this seemed the only way out as well, not a route she’d care to take in a hurry, with an angry troll close on her heels.

  Her breath hissed with her first step and she picked a chunk of bone from the ball of her bare foot. Again, thankfully, no blood, but her heart sank with dismay as she beheld the cause of her discomfort. A Daikini, by the size of the skeleton, his bones long since picked clean and broken to bits so the trolls could suck out the marrow. Clothes and armor had been shredded in eagerness to get to the meat, there was nothing left of either that would be any use to her. Off in a corner, however, she caught the merest flash of reflection that led her to what must have been the slain warrior’s primary weapon, a double-headed war ax. Short-handled, for use in close quarters, it actually weighed less than the Nelwyn hammers she was used to and was better balanced. The haft ended in a five-edged spike extending out from between the blades, which allowed the ax to be used as a stabbing weapon as well.

  An empty keening coursed suddenly through the stones; it set Elora’s hair so quickly and stiffly on end she knew at once it was nothing to do with the wind. She’d never heard such a sound from any troll and couldn’t help the pang her heart felt at the disturbingly human quality of the lament.

  Holding the ax before her, she made careful progress along the passage, thankful she had her MageSight to reveal the way as clearly as if she walked in sunlight, and was soon rewarded by a gradual widening of the path. Beyond was the den itself.

  The troll had its back to her, apparently so preoccupied that it wasn’t the slightest bit aware of her approach. Elora had had little practice at this sort of thing, but Torquil spent the better part of two years teaching her to take phenomenally exact measurements solely by eye. Three long strides would take her to where the troll sat and one swing of the ax would finish the job. The deed had to be done at once, before she lost the element of surprise.

  Yet Elora hesitated.

  Something about the noise the troll was making, about the way it sat and rocked back and forth, struck resonances within her that could not be denied. That, and the same sense of primal desolation she felt within the brownie barrow and the glade. A perception of the world rolling upside down, like a boat capsizing, to pitch everything that wasn’t nailed down over the side. A sudden certainty that here sat no true foe for her but one of the lost souls.

  The troll turned its head around and bared its fangs in a perfunctory snarl, and Elora caught sight of the bundle in its arms.

  For the longest moment troll and girl locked eyes. Then, unexpectedly, it was the troll that looked away, putting its back once more to Elora, almost as if it was inviting her fatal blow.

  Every scrap of learning, every piece of societal imprinting, told Elora to take the proffered gift and strike. At the very least she’d be putting the poor creature out of its obvious misery. She’d be doing what it had as much as asked.

  She couldn’t.

  This was no enemy, no threat—though at another time and place she conceded that it might very well be both—but a creature in need. Mercy she could give, but not murder.

  She set aside the ax and crossed around the periphery of the awkwardly circular space, noting her clothes and gear piled haphazardly by a sleeping pallet. The troll had searched the pouches thoroughly—finding them empty, of course, as would any who looked within save for Elora herself—and the pockets of her clothes as well, but it had done no damage.

  There were three babies, small and helpless as any newborn, and she didn’t need any of the enhanced aspects of her senses to see how near death they all were.

  Elora crouched before the troll but the comforting hand she reached out was met by another ritual baring of the fangs, a warning to keep her distance.

  Is it so far gone, she wondered, that it can’t see me for what I am? Daikinis have hunted trolls as long as our race can remember, just as they’ve fed on us. Much the same relationship, she recalled, as Ryn Taksemanyin described between the Wyrrn and their ancient rivals, the sharks. Or is that it just doesn’t care anymore?

  “No problem,” she said aloud, the troll taking no notice of her voice. “Maybe I’m here to care for us both!”

  Not a second thought about the impulse or where it came from. Conception begat execution in the same natural sequence as waking up meant getting out of bed.

  The first requirement was warmth. While summer would remain in the lowlands for another month or more, here on the high meadows night brought with it the first crisp hints of approaching fall. The cave was chill and dank and in their weakened state the trolls’ fur afforded little protection.

  Elora decided against a fire, since that was one of the weapons used to ward off these creatures. Instead she gathered up her traveling pouches and fished out a quartet of smooth, egg-shaped rocks each the size of a clenched fist. She set them in a square on the ground so their ends were touching. She’d cooked them in the forge in anticipation of just such a need and now spread her hands over them, letting her eyes drift out of focus as she cast forth a Call to the powers of the earth below, once more asking their aid.

  Next, she addressed the four stones directly, as Thorn had taught her, crooning a song as ancient as the world itself, gently reminding them of what it had felt like to be flushed full with heat, taking that memory and fanning it brighter just as she would the embers of a faded hearth with her breath. She couldn’t see her own eyes or the expression on her face, how the one sparkled and the other grinned ear to ear with inexpressible delight to feel energy crackle down the surface nerves just beneath her skin and burst out from her splayed fingertips to play with the rising energies of the stones themselves. As she began to glow, so did they, silver casting forth gold, and in a matter of moments the stones were merrily giving off the required amount of heat.

  Elora turned to the troll with a smile, reminding herself as she did so not to bare her teeth because that might be interpreted as a challenge. She wondered if trolls responded to eye blinks the way cats did, as a gesture of peace and friendship, deciding she’d hold off on that for a while, most probably would be pushing her luck a bit too far. The troll was staring at the stones, at her, at the stones, at her, only its eyes moving, back and forth, one to the other, the rest of its body still as a statue. There was a recognizable expression on its face, of utter confusion. Something utterly strange and wholly beyond its comprehension was happening. By rights, it should be terrified, yet it wasn’t. Somewhere in that mind all Daikini assumed was irredeemably bestial was the capacity to accept the event, without fear or question, and marvel at it as well.

  Elora had tied up the hem of her shift on one side to improvise a pocket, into which she’d stuffed the remaining honeysuckle blossoms. She pulled out a handful and sucked a petal dry, then another in demonstration to the troll of what she was doing. She offered it
a blossom of its own. It made a face, as if to say, What, you think I’m stupid or something?—snatched the flower from Elora’s hand, and proceeded to duplicate Elora’s actions with an eager ease that suggested it knew full well how tasty honeysuckle could be.

  Elora left the flowers in reach and returned to her hearthstones. From one pouch came a metal flask, a small pot, and a pair of mugs, from the other a selection of plants and herbs, together with some cubes of dried bouillon. One mug for her, one for the troll, as she quickly mixed what she hoped would prove a hearty broth. Her own preference was for spices, hot enough to provoke tears, but she kept this soup fairly bland, as the smell of the den had so totally overwhelmed her own nose and tongue that neither seemed to work any longer as a sensory organ.

  When the mixture had simmered awhile, Elora hazarded a sip. She’d gotten the heat just right, the broth warm enough to send a glow surging right out through her body but not so blistering that the merest swallow burned the tongue. She mimed the act of drinking from the cup for the troll’s benefit, then held out some soup. There was a good minute of puzzlement as the troll thoroughly examined the mug, carefully gauging its temperature before concluding apparently that comfortable to the touch meant comfortable to taste. Next, it tested the cup itself with lips and teeth to determine it if could be eaten as well. At last, its copy of Elora so picture-perfect the girl had to choke back a laugh, the troll tossed back mug and head and swallowed the whole of its contents.

  The broth was evidently to its liking, for it let forth a low trill—another sound Elora had never heard before from these creatures—and allowed another level of wariness to fall away from its features. Elora refilled the cup, only not so full, and indicated that the troll try to feed its baby. The troll caught on at once but tried to pour the contents down its child’s throat in the same all-encompassing gulp it had used, which left the little thing sputtering and choking and howling its distress at being nearly drowned. Its agitation transferred totally to its parent and came close to undoing all the bridges that Elora had so patiently and laboriously built between them. This was no perfunctory baring of teeth, but a full-fledged snarl with a squalling growl to match.

  Elora held her ground and kept what fear she felt at the sudden turn of events well hidden from her face. Her response to the challenge was to pour herself another mug of soup and savor each and every swallow.

  A duckwalk sidestep took her to the other two babies, tucked snug about with rags and brush and scraps of flower to form a kind of nest. She gathered one close to her breast, in a pose that echoed the troll’s, dipped a finger in the broth, and touched it to the baby’s lips. Immediately, the little creature began to suck, finding strength within itself to cry out demands for more as Elora returned to the cup again and again until she felt secure enough to raise the lip of the mug itself to the baby’s mouth. As the baby fed, Elora was ever conscious of the troll’s eyes observing every move, cause and effect.

  When the one baby burped to announce it was full, she turned her attention to the other.

  She felt a touch on her bare arm, found that the troll had sidled up beside her so silently Elora hadn’t been the slightest bit aware. A last bundle was handed to her by the mother, the troll’s way of acknowledging that Elora could do what it could not.

  There was no sense of time passing. The cave was so well hidden within the rock pile that no outside light penetrated, which meant Elora could only guess what was day and what night. She was kept so busy caring for the trolls that she soon lost track of which was which, or how many had passed. Their condition was as desperate as their need, demanding so total a commitment that she simply stopped thinking about any other obligations. She fed the trolls when they were hungry—which turned out to be quite often, once they set out on the road to recovery—and kept them warm while they slept, which was whenever they weren’t eating. More than once she blessed the time Thorn had spent making her traveling pouches. To the eye, they appeared to be ordinary leather bags, albeit well tanned and tooled, that were slung from loops threaded through a stout leather belt. The magic of them was that the available space within bore absolutely no relationship to their exterior dimensions. Whatever fit through the opening of the bag would fit inside and another aspect of the spell brought immediately to hand whatever Elora required when she reached inside. Food remained fresh and nothing ever spilled. Indeed, since Elora was of the habit of absently depositing items into the pouches, she had no real idea of what they contained.

  “This is no fit place for you,” she told the troll without the slightest hope of being understood. “It may appear safe but the hunting’s gone, can’t you see? When you and the babies are better, you’ve got to move on. There must be other trolls,” she continued, “somewhere. You’ll have to find them, if that’s the way of your kind”—for in truth she had no idea—“just as I have to find my friends.”

  Finally came the day when Elora was woken from her own sleep by the sensations of three rambunctious little terrors using her as an all-purpose play toy, chasing themselves over her with madcap abandon in a game of hide-and-seek that was their way of learning the rudiments of hunting.

  That night, the troll returned with fresh kill and the three babies leaped on the carcass with an eager abandon that told Elora they’d take no more broth. She was offered a bloody haunch but demurred, preferring to finish her soup and record her observations of all that had happened here in her journal. Afterward, when the babies demanded attention, she was invited once more to join the family group. This time, however, it was the troll who offered lessons, in grooming, as it meticulously worked its fingers through the scalp of one baby, picking loose whatever grubs and scabby little bugs she found there and sharing them with the baby, squashing them between its teeth with a satisfying crunch. Elora did the same, only she gave all her bounty to the babies.

  There was a curious formality to the troll’s behavior, a solemnity of stance and manner that told Elora they were nearing the end of their time together. No troll had ever accepted a Daikini into its den, no Daikini had ever faced a troll he hadn’t tried his level best to kill. Circumstance had sent the pair of them skating far out on a sheet of glistening ice, without a clue to where it was safe, and offered a way back that could only be traveled together.

  Old patterns, Elora mused, would have doomed at least one of us. So maybe all this change isn’t such a bad thing after all.

  The problem was, she wasn’t sure she believed a word of it.

  The next morning, when she awoke, Elora was alone in the cave.

  With a wild war whoop she hoped would be heard all the way to the summit of the Stairs to Heaven, Elora Danan leaped from the top of the rock pile.

  Her original notion was to enter the pool in a nice dive, but she changed her mind the instant she kicked off into the air, folding her body into as tight a ball as she could manage, knees tucked under chin and arms wrapped around legs to hold them in place. She struck the water like a thunderstone shot from a catapult and was rewarded by an appropriately spectacular splash.

  She broke the surface in time to see her poor shift float gently after her to settle on the water with far more propriety. Her clothes, evidently, had more of a sense of dignity than the Sacred Princess who wore them.

  She dove again, twisting and rolling through the pond as though born to it, in her best imitation of Ryn. The sun was near zenith, on the morning side of noon, and she was thankful that the warmest part of the day lay ahead. Plenty of time to scrub her clothes clean as well as her body. Both were in desperate need.

  To wash, she planted herself beneath the waterfall and for the first few minutes simply let the spray pummel her silly. It was mountain water, just the liquid side of ice, and after the initial shock left her gasping, she stoked the inner fires of her body to counteract the cold. She had soap aplenty, but decided in a moment of madness that her hair would have to go.

  It�
��ll be easier to take care of short, she told herself quite sensibly. Then, in an unexpected but sensible coda: and easier to disguise. Everything else seems to be changing, why not me, too?

  So, with awkward but enthusiastic swipes of her knife, she reduced her childhood pride and joy to a very serviceable cut barely the length of her pinkie. Her polished metal mirror revealed the result, a shorter fringe than many boys her age wore and not attractive to her eyes in the slightest.

  Of course, the sight of her newly shorn scalp turned all her determination to dust and she very nearly burst into tears, wondering if there was some spell or power she might call upon to restore the lot.

  That was when she decided to launch herself off the top of the rock pile.

  She thought of throwing away the shift, despairing of ever removing the taint left by the troll’s den even if she managed to scrub it outwardly clean. But the very thought seemed churlish to her, after the yeoman service the garment had performed. In addition, she wanted the shift as a reminder of what she’d done here, of how the hand of friendship had been accepted between two species who’d never offered each other anything but hatred and terror in the past.

  Elora treated herself to a final swim, working the last of the kinks from her muscles with a set of fast laps across the width of the pond, and when she once more reached the shore where she’d stashed her clothes, she gladly took the towel Rool held out to her.

  She was so wrapped up in herself, the moment didn’t properly register. When it did, she let out a screech that easily topped her previous outcry as startlement kicked her desperately away from the bank and toward deep water.

  The towel flew up into the air as she toppled, but unlike her it never struck the water. A pair of claws descended from a set of golden wings whose span matched Elora’s height with the better part of a foot to spare and snatched it up before it began to fall. She had that barest sight of an eagle, a moment to recognize it as Bastian, the sound of his bubbling laughter in her mind, before her body slapped itself noisily beneath the surface. Shock drove all sense from her head, and she forgot to close her mouth and nose. When she pitched herself back into the air, broaching with a forceful leap that would have done Ryn proud, the physical glory of the moment was immediately undercut by her collapse to hands and knees with a succession of watery sneezes and choking coughs that appeared to stumble all over each other in their eagerness to get out.