Trolled: The Complete Saga (The Trolled Saga)

by D. K. Bussell

  “How long have you and Terry been an item?” asked Eathon, snapping Nat back to reality, or at least a version of it.

  “Um, we’ve been together about a year now,” she replied, cagily. After that it all came flooding out. “I know, I’m not stupid,” she insisted, anticipating Eathon’s response. “It can’t last. I mean, I love the guy to bits, but we’re only seventeen. Who stays with their first boyfriend their whole life? I should have lots of boyfriends before I think about settling down. But then what if I get close to someone new and find out he likes the Chili Peppers?” she shook her head. “It doesn’t bear thinking about.” As ever, Nat’s head was outracing her heart. “Argh, why am I telling you all this?” she wailed, her face turning as red as her hair.

  Eathon chuckled. “Well, he seems very nice to me,” he said.

  “Exactly, and that’s what worries me. I don’t want nice. I want fire. I want passion. I want a love that cripples me.” She sighed and rolled onto her back. “Then again, me and Terry are good together. He’s like a big, comfy bean bag, I always feel relaxed around him. Plus he makes me laugh, and that counts for a lot.” She smiled at a fond recollection. “I used to get all the power cables in my bedroom tangled up, so one day he offered to label the plugs for me. Do you know what he did?” She laughed. “He stuck little tags to them all that just said “plug.””

  It was obvious that Eathon didn’t have the faintest clue what Nat was talking about, but he nodded and let her finish all the same.

  “Dear God in heaven, he’s even a good listener,” she thought. “So what about you?” she asked, turning things around. “Is there another elf in your life?”

  Eathon shrugged. “I’ve always been too busy looking after my tribe for a relationship.”

  “Oh come on, you must have had some bunk-ups along the way.”

  “I had a fleeting romance or two when I was younger.”

  “How young?”

  “This was a long time ago. I can’t have been older than sixty.”

  Nat’s eyes widened. “What? Wait, how old are you?”

  “I just had my three-hundredth birthday.”

  “Are you taking the piss? How can you be three-hundred? You look twenty.”

  “Perhaps in human years.”

  Nat shook her head in disbelief. The guy was ancient. On her world he’d probably have an AOL account and a flip phone. She had so many questions. “What about growing up?” Do you guys go through, like, a fifty year puberty?”

  Eathon laughed. “No, I’m happy to say our infancy lasts about as long as yours does.”

  That explained the lack of kids among the tribe, Nat realised. The window of the elves looking like youngsters was just so small. It’s like they lived in a reverse Neverland, where the eternal children had been replaced by eternal grown-ups (who happened to look like supermodels).

  Nat heard that drumming noise again, closer this time. “Is it just me or is that deathwatcher thingumy getting nearer?” she asked.

  “That’s no deathwatcher,” replied Eathon. “That’s a merewolf.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a mermaid that turns into a blood-thirsty wolf under the light of a full moon.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course,” said Eathon, fighting to keep the corners of his lips from turning upwards.

  Nat squinted at him. “You arsehole.”

  The pair of them burst into peals of laughter.

  The laughter drifted across the woods to another hammock.

  A hammock occupied by Terry.

  Chapter Sixteen: Size Modifier

  Ribbons of golden light flowed over the horizon as the sun dawned on a new day. Nat Lawler opened her eyes to the sight of a dewy cobweb draped between two sprigs, shimmering in the morning glow. It was a gorgeous spectacle. Really, the only thing missing was an inspirational quote.

  Nat turned her head to find her cheek resting on Eathon’s bare chest. Oh dear. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep with the elf—let alone on top of him—but with all she’d been through she must have conked out. The exhaustion card wasn’t going to play with Terry though, he’d always been so insecure and quick to turn green-eyed. This really was a whole mess of bad. The last thing she needed, on top of everything else, was Terry getting it into his head that she was falling for some elf with piercing blue eyes, broad shoulders and perfect V-shaped pelvic muscles pointing to what promised to be a magnum-sized… well, whatever. The whole thing was ridiculous. Nat was a good girl.

  She carefully peeled herself from the sleeping elf’s naked torso, rolled out of the hammock and began her vertical walk of shame. She was tiptoeing from branch to branch, halfway down the tree, and things were looking good. Another few feet and she’d be home free. She snorted. All that worry for nothing. In a moment’s time she’d hurry to her boyfriend, give him a cuddle and tell him she’d accidentally drifted off last night in a bed of her own. What Terry didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. Except that he did know.

  Lo and behold, Nat arrived at the foot of the tree to find him waiting there with a face like thunder.

  “Morning,” he grumbled. “Good bunk up, was it?” He cast a glance at Eathon, asleep in the upper boughs.

  Nat became flustered. “It wasn’t like that, Terry. Seriously.”

  “Don’t even bother. You two do what you like. Climb a moonbeam and go live in the stars for all I care, I don’t give a shit.” He marched off, crushing the dewy morning grass under his big, flat feet.

  Nat gave chase, catching him up and hitching a hand on his shoulder. “Terry!”

  “What do you want?” he grunted.

  Nat found herself with nothing to say. What she wanted was to make everything right again, but she just didn’t have the words.

  After a few tense seconds, Terry shrugged her off. “That’s the end of it, Nat. You and me are done.” He strode away, leaving her stood there, alone and shaking.

  Nat’s sense of helplessness quickly turned to anger. Anger that rose in her like the thermometer on a televised pledge drive. Screaming with frustration, she whipped Cleaver from his scabbard and did battle with the nearest tree, carving great clefts into its trunk.

  Hack. Hack. Hack.

  “Easy, tiger,” exclaimed the sword.

  Nat lifted Cleaver one more time but couldn’t bring herself to take another swing. Instead, she hammered him into the ground like a tent peg, collapsed onto a bed of fallen leaves and began to cry. She laid on her back for a while like that, sobbing for all she was worth. The girl was a wreck.

  Eventually, Cleaver intervened. “Don’t worry about that one, Red,” he told her, soothingly. “He’ll be back if he knows what’s good for him.”

  Nat sniffed, bursting a bubble of snot that clung to her nostril. “D’you think so?”

  “Tidy bit of fluff like you? I know so.”

  Nat laughed and wiped her eyes. “Did you just compliment me? You did, didn’t you? You just complimented me!”

  “Leave it out, you silly sod,” replied Cleaver with a derisive snort.

  Nat cracked a smile. “You act all mean, but you’re a big softie really.”

  “Pfft. Give it a rest, will you?”

  It may just have been the pink morning light catching his blade, but Nat could have sworn she saw the sword blushing. “My very own Jiminy Cricket, that’s what you are.”

  Cleaver rolled his eyes. “Tell you what, how about you, stick us back in me scabbard, eh?”

  Nat was feeling better already. Enough with the self-pity, there were bigger things at stake than a spot of handbags with her boyfriend. She went to get up, and as she did so her palm landed on a flat, grey stone. She picked it up and ran a thumb over its gritty surface.

  “Well, would you look at that?” she said, grinning. “I think my little cheerleader earned himself a treat.”

  At first Cleaver protested, but the moment Nat ran the sharpening stone over the edge of his blade he went quiet and made a face
like a dog getting a belly rub.

  The weather turned foul after that. As the caravan of refugees rode towards Bludoch Dungeon, the sky went from clear blue to flint grey. Later, a wind brought a mizzling rain that turned into a pummelling downpour, and lightning crackled and flashed overhead. The weather was so brutal that Eathon was forced—for the first time since the humans arrived—to put a top on, covering his torso with a doublet that clung to his taut frame like a second skin.

  Tired of getting rained on, Nat stabbed Cleaver through a giant plant frond and held it above her head like an umbrella.

  “Do you want to get under this with me?” she asked Terry, but he ignored her and trotted ahead.

  Cleaver broke the tension. “You might wanna rethink holding a lump of metal in the air during a lightning storm, love. Unless you wanna end up brown bread.”

  Nat looked to Neville, who nodded in agreement. “He’s not wrong.”

  She let the frond go and replaced Cleaver in his scabbard. Better to get soaked than to get lit up by lightning. “How long is this going to last?” she asked Galanthre. “The weather I mean.”

  “A storm like this?” the elf replied. “Could be the better part of a month.”

  “Wonderful,” said Nat.

  If this day had a face, she'd punch it in the balls.

  Terry felt the rain upon his head, heavy and cold. It didn’t come easy to him, giving Nat the cold shoulder. He was a nice guy, and amiability was his default setting. He’d never been the type to hold a grudge, but the way Nat had been carrying on with Eathon deserved some kind of response, and sulking was the only arrow in his quiver. He knew he couldn’t carry the act on for much longer though. The longer he froze Nat out, the surer he was that he’d drive her deeper into the elf’s arms. He had to come up with some way of winning her back before it was too late, but how? Terry knew he couldn’t compete with the elf looks-wise, and it’s not as though he was a gifted lover, like Sting with his tantrum sex or whatever. Terry sighed. What did that leave him with? What else did he have going for him except for his dumb old personality?

  THE STALKING TROLL army came to a halt at the ruins of a smouldering campfire. Skullcap poked at the wet ash with the tip of his sword and unearthed husks of thick carapace, roasted and shucked of meat. Alongside the fire was a pile of foul-smelling offal that had been deemed unfit for consumption. Skullcap recognised the remains at once.

  “That bitch has some bite,” he growled. He stood up and called back to his men. “I’m thirsty. Where is my waterboy?”

  Immediately one of Skullcap’s men peeled off from his company and came running in the warlord’s direction toting a suede water skin. Head bowed, he presented it to his master like a sacred offering. Skullcap batted the container away.

  “You are not my waterboy,” he said.

  “Sir?” the troll whimpered, quite off balance.

  Skullcap surveyed the line of soldiers until he found the man he was looking for. “You,” he barked, aiming a claw at Thrungle. “You are my waterboy.”

  The surrounding soldiers pulled away from Thrungle as though he were a drop of bleach in a bucket of slime. Knowing better than to disobey another command, Thrungle approached his superior, fighting the sneer that threatened to turn down the corners of his lips. He took the water skin from the flunky and handed it to Skullcap.

  “Well?” said the warlord. “Open it.”

  Thrungle attempted to open the container, but was thwarted by his missing arm. He tried to unplug it with his fangs but accidentally bit the top off the cork. He spat the mangled stopper to the ground and his fellow trolls began to snicker, gratified to see their former chief taken down a peg. Frustrated, Thrungle pinned the water skin under his armpit and applied pressure, which only caused the remains of the cork to pop free, along with a fountain of grog that hit him square in the face. The trolls guffawed at Thrungle’s misfortune, delighted by his clownish antics.

  “Pathetic,” mocked Skullcap, snatching the water skin from his disgraced inferior.

  The warlord ordered his soldiers to continue their march, and Thrungle’s countrymen shouldered by him, leaving him still against the flow, a lone rock in a stream. Thrungle bowed his head as the trolls passed him by, and as he stared at the ground he noticed something interesting. Something among the pile of scorpion offal that could turn his fortunes around.

  THE REFUGEES HAD no choice but to continue braving the storm, too afraid of being caught by the trolls to seek shelter any longer than they absolutely had to. They rode for four more days, whipped by the squall, their skin rasped raw by the elements. Though Nat tried to make peace with Terry along the way he stubbornly refused to engage her, stonewalling her for miles at a time. Sensing Nat’s unhappiness, Eathon did what he could to comfort her, though Nat kept him at a distance so as not to upset Terry further. Instead, she drew comfort from her unicorn, Goldie, who turned out to be the perfect sounding board for her troubles (what with him being mute and all). Eventually, Nat became so preoccupied with unloading her woes on the steed that she almost didn’t notice when their caravan arrived at its destination.

  Within a foggy grove stood a pair of titanic bronze doors with peculiar symbols carved upon them. The doors were flanked by a pair of stone statues, their features worn smooth by time. This was the entrance to Bludoch Dungeon; grim and foreboding.

  The travellers began to dismount and gather their things for the journey ahead. Nat climbed down from her steed and ran a hand through his golden mane.

  “What about the unicorns?” she asked. “Where do we hitch them?”

  “We don’t,” replied Eathon. “We let them go.”

  “We can’t just leave them out here after all they’re done for us.”

  “What’s the alternative?” said Clive, whose opinion Nat could certainly have done without. “We can’t take your magic nags in there, and if we tie them up outside, the trolls will hack them to pieces.”

  “He’s right,” said Galanthre. “It is the only way.”

  Nat placed a hand on Goldie’s caramel-coloured pelt and felt herself welling up

  “Your steed did well to bring us here,” said Eathon, “but his part in this quest is fulfilled.”

  Much as it pained Nat to admit it, the elves were right. In order for their journey to continue, the refugees and the unicorns would have to part ways.

  “Let the herd run wild,” said Eathon, placing a hand on Nat’s back.

  Nat stared into Goldie’s soulful violet eyes. How she wished she could have gone with him—frolicking in some blissful meadow instead of slinking into a dank pit—but she’d made her choice. She gave the stallion one last stroke of his kitten-soft mane.

  “Goodbye, friend,” she said, a fat tear rolling down her cheek.

  Nat patted Goldie’s muscled flank. He lingered a while, then turned and bid her goodbye with a flick of his tail. The stallion cantered away, leading the rest of the unicorns from the grove. Nat choked back a hot sob as the herd melted into the fog.

  DRENSILA’S FACE SPLIT into a gruesome smile as she watched the sorry scene play out upon the surface of her scrying pool.

  “This pathetic little rebellion is almost at an end,” she remarked. “If the dwarves don’t do my job for me, my trolls will batter their way into that dungeon and kill them all.”

  She turned to Carnella, who she caught eyeing the rod of power tucked into her sash, regarding it as a whore surveils a customer’s purse. “Something catch your eye, mother?” she enquired.

  “Oh nothing,” replied Carnella, a picture of innocence, “just reminiscing. Life outside that crystal prison is all so new.”

  Drensila narrowed her eyes and tightened the knot of her sash.

  “So, what will you do next?” asked Carnella, changing the subject.

  “As soon as I’m done with this trifling matter, I plan to turn my attention to more important things.”

  “Oh yes? And what things would those be?”

  �
��Why, incredible things,” Drensila replied, caustically. “With the elven uprising finally squashed I can take the knowledge I’ve acquired from the otherworlders and loose it upon the rest of these Broken Lands.”

  “And which knowledge is this?”

  “I speak of a knowledge far beyond your antiquated reckoning, mother. I speak of crossing the Sligh Sea upon vessels powered by steam. Of conquering the people of the Ushanti Isles using swords bristling with mechanised teeth. Of decimating my enemies with cannonry that can put daylight through a man’s guts from a league away. Dear mama, I speak of nothing less than world domination.”

  Chapter Seventeen: Dungeon Crawl

  GALANTHRE APPROACHED THE bronze doors of the dwarven dungeon and examined the glyphs etched upon them. She placed her hand upon the metal and traced a slender finger along its contours with the practiced concentration of a safecracker. Satisfied, she took a step back and folded her arms. The glyphs glowed like liquid gold, then, just like that, the doors gave way. The entrance cracked open with a sound like a shovel smoothing gravel, revealing a flight of stone steps leading into the depths.

  “How did you pull that off?” asked Neville.

  “We and the dwarves speak a common language,” she replied.

  “How come?”

  Galanthre hesitated, uncertain how to respond.

  In the end, Eathon answered on her behalf. He spoke gravely, choosing his words with the utmost care. “Millennia ago, we and the dwarves were one race. That was until certain members of our society became greedy and transgressed against their fellow men. They stole. They murdered. They plotted against their elders. The traitors had to be cast out, so our ancestors exiled them from the woods and sentenced them to imprisonment underground. The traitors were banished to the depths to live like mole rats, the worst punishment imaginable to our kind. They’ve languished there for thousands of years now, evolving—devolving—into a race of their own. It is said that the creatures shrank from years of stooping in tight passageways, that they became sallow of skin for spending generations without sunshine, their faces thick of beard to shield them from splinters of rock as they burrowed deeper into the earth’s crust.”