Carnella smiled “What’s the matter, daughter. Do you disapprove?”
“Not at all. In fact, I’d rather like to be a part of it.”
Carnella’s lips quirked. “Is that so?” She issued a command to her troll guards, and they pressed the points of their blades to Drensila’s stomach. “Forgive me, but did I not just see you with your arms around the interloper?”
“A ruse and nothing more,” replied Drensila, flinching not an inch. “Do you really think I’d ally myself with that frightful sow?”
Carnella regarded her daughter with basilisk eyes. Perhaps her offspring wasn’t as weak as she’d supposed. She’d always thought of Drensila as a house cat, too domesticated for the wild, and yet since being ousted from her home, she had somehow found a way to survive this hostile land. “What do you propose?” Carnella asked, curious to hear what her daughter had to say.
“That we come together,” Drensila replied, her voice steady with conviction. “You and I. As a family. To rid these lands of our enemies, once and for all.”
The scene fell silent as Carnella considered the proposal. “You betrayed me once when you banished me to The Nether. What promise could you give that you wouldn’t forsake me again?”
“I have this...” Drensila produced something from her pocket and the troll guards instinctively pulled back their blades to strike her dead.
“Stop!” cried Carnella. She squinted to get a look at the object in her daughter’s hand but couldn’t make it out at that distance. “What do you have there?”
“A peace offering,” Drensila replied.
Carnella caught a glint from the oval-shaped object and ordered her guards to step aside.
Drensila walked slowly towards her mother, the offering resting upon her upturned palms like something sacred. Carnella allowed her closer, but not to within striking distance. The moment she arrived at the five yard mark, she cast a spell that caused the ground beneath Drensila to rise up and clamp around her ankles, fixing her there like a pair of stone boots.
“That’s far enough,” she told her. She cast a second spell that brought the air alive, snatching the offering from Drensila’s hands and delivering it to hers.
She turned the object over, examining it closer. It was about the size of a griffin egg and had a similar metallic, green sheen. Unlike an egg though, its finish was lumpy and rock-solid
“What is it?” Carnella asked, tapping it with her knuckle. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Nor was she lying. Drensila had made it herself. Made it using a sprinkling of ingredients acquired at the citadel, along with a trick or two she’d learned from Nat’s world.
“It’s a gift,” Drensila explained.
And it was, although not for Carnella. This was a gift for the godly and the good. This was a gift to every creed and creature oppressed by the Durkon family over the last three hundred years.
“Your finger?” said Carnella, her voice quavering as she saw the conspicuous grin upon her daughter’s face and noticed something on her hand. “What is that?”
It looked like a ring.
Drensila’s expression turned wistful. She had come to realise that she wasn’t the monster of the story after all. Not Clive either. It had always been her mother.
“They call it a pin,” she replied.
Carnella tipped her head to one side, unsure of what was about to happen next, but certain it was bad.
“The old ways aren’t always the best ways, mother,” said Drensila.
Then the bomb went off, killing them both.
Chapter Fifteen: Experience Points
IN A FINAL act of supreme sacrifice, Drensila the Black had put an end to her family’s corrupted bloodline. Despite all that she had done, this would be her legacy, ending the Durkon reign for good, in every sense of the word.
There was nothing left of Drensila’s body, nor of her mother’s, but there were many more departed upon the battlefield. Countless souls had given their lives to stop the menace that gripped The Broken Lands, and putting them to rest called for a ceremony that lasted several days.
The dead villagers were placed in canoes and sent downriver to their final reward, set adrift by the earth elementals that once dwelled within those same waters. Tidbit was let loose too, free to roam the land, free to satisfy his wanderlust. Neville read his eulogy; spoke of his courageous deeds and noble sacrifice. It was sad and inspiring all at once.
The remains of the dead trolls were delivered by horse-drawn carts to the old Durkon mine, where they were pitched inside and entombed by a pit collapse, sealing the cursed cocoon for good.
One body was given a private funeral, away from prying eyes and attended by only a handful of mourners. That body belonged to Clive.
A few miles from the citadel, within a tranquil forest glade, Nat and her companions surrounded the wooden pyre upon which Clive lay. His body was swathed in hessian, his arms folded peacefully across his chest. Eathon lit a paper lantern and let it go, allowing it float off into the night sky. The rite was meant to symbolise the release of a tortured spirit, and the gathered watched as the lantern drifted away, rising higher and higher until it winked out in the darkness.
Crouching by Clive’s funeral pyre with the rest of them, the dragon Mabele turned to Terry and received a nod. Taking his cue, she aimed a jet of fire at the stack of wood beneath Clive’s body, lighting it up with an intense orange glow. The flames licked enthusiastically at the kindling, leaping high and throwing up sparks that danced and guttered in gloom.
Nat hugged Terry. “I’m so sorry,” she said over the sound of crackling wood.
“It’s okay,” he told her, wiping a tear from his eye and forcing a smile. “It had to be this way.” He kissed Nat on the cheek. “I’ll be back in a minute, I just have to talk with someone.”
Nat watched him go.
Eathon saw Terry coming and poured him a cup of mead from his waterskin.
“My condolences,” he said, planting the drink in his hand.
The two of them stood in silence for a while, drinking from their cups, reflecting on the fire.
Eventually, Terry found it in him to say what he was thinking. “I came to say sorry,” he told Eathon, “for the way I acted around you. I was just jealous, that’s all. I mean look at you, all muscles and symmetry—an actual frigging elf!” He calmed himself down. “I just saw the way Nat looks at you and I got scared. I thought I’d lost her.”
Eathon nodded and put a friendly hand on Terry’s shoulder. Looking out towards the pyre, he saw the firelight glinting from a metal band on Nat’s finger. It was the engagement ring Terry had given her. “She chose you,” he told Terry. “That’s all that matters.”
Terry returned the gesture, placing a hand on the elf’s shoulder. “Yeah, but it didn’t have to be that way. I ran off and I left you to look after her. You could have stolen her out from under me but you didn’t.”
“I would never have done that.”
Terry believed him. “Cheers,” he said, and the two clashed cups.
Eathon held a smile for as long as he could.
Ashley and Galanthre watched the column of smoke rising from the pyramid of roaring tinder.
Galanthre hugged him and Ashley squeezed her tight.
“I know this ain’t exactly the moment,” he said, “but I gotta know… is you and me gonna be a ting?”
Galanthre sighed. “I don’t see how it could work, Ash. We’re too different, you and me. In fifty years I’ll be a little wiser, but you’ll be an old man.”
“We’d better make them years count then, innit?” he said, leaning in close to put his forehead against hers. Their lips brushed and then—
“—We can’t,” she said.
“Why not?”
“Think about what you’re asking—”
“—I have. You and me. Living the good life, here, in our own castle.”
“A life among stones is not for me. I would return t
o the Whispering Woods, to my homeland.”
“Then we’ll live in the trees, innit?” said Ashley, exasperated. “It’s all good in the hood.”
Galanthre shook her head. “Leaving your world behind is a big decision, Ashley. One not to be taken lightly.”
“What are you saying?”
She reached into the neck of her blouse and pulled out a silver locket. “Take this, she told him,” placing it in his hand.
Ashley popped the locket’s clasp and found a single seed inside.
“Go home,” Galanthre went on. “Stay there, for a year or more. If, after that, you wish to return, plant Elderwood’s seed in a patch of fresh soil.”
“I don’t—” Ashley started, but his words were swallowed as Galanthre placed her lips over his.
Neville sat alone, away from the vivid bloom of the fire, watching as the others paired off around him. Since the war had ended he’d been feeling increasingly lonely. Everyone had someone it seemed, but not him. He had no one. Not since Tidbit died.
He leaned back in his wheelchair and took a puff on his pipe, feeling sorry for himself. As if sensing his solitude, the tree behind him began to shake and a familiar face appeared in a knot upon its side.
“Hello,” said a voice not unlike the actor, Sir Anthony Hopkins. It was Elderwood, returned once more. “How are you faring?”
Neville looked to the ground. “He left his home and he died for it,” he said, remembering his fallen friend. “How can that be right?”
Elderwood placed a branch around Nev’s shoulder. “Tidbit died fighting for what he believed in. In the end, that’s all any of us can hope for.”
Neville bobbed his head. Maybe one day he’d be able to appreciate the sentiment, but for now he’d live in his grief.
The two of them continued to watch the pyre.
“Well,” said Nev, “looks like you were right anyway. Good defeated evil. The prophecy came to pass.”
Elderwood’s face creaked as he smiled. “There was no prophecy.”
“Come again?”
“I invented the whole thing,” he replied. “Keep it under your hat, will you?”
Neville bolted up in his chair. “What are you saying? That Nat isn’t the Chosen One?”
“A hero isn’t born, my friend. A hero is made.”
Neville was furious. “What made you see a bunch of LARPers hitting each other with Styrofoam swords and think, “These are my guys.”?”
Elderwood shrugged, showering them in acorns. He reached down and picked one up between a couple of twig fingers. “From the tiniest acorn, grows the mighty oak.”
“Nat, you mean?”
“I mean all of you! She couldn’t have done it alone, you must know that? Each of you is The Chosen One.”
Neville grinned. What else could he do? A laugh came from him like a newly sprung leak, rolling out of him in waves until he had to bite down on his lip to stop it. He was at a funeral and he was laughing and what was the harm in that? He was done with grief. Done feeling sorry for himself. There was nothing to be sorry for. The rabbit hole Elderwood had sent them down had shown him who he really was. The victor of a great war, not some pitiable disabled kid, dragging his corpse around in a wheelchair, his sad little life set at crotch-level.
Neville thought of home. Things were going to change when he got back there, that was for sure. He wasn’t going to be treated like an invalid anymore, not by anyone. No one was going to hold him back. He was going to do what he liked, when he liked it, and his parents were just going to have to accept that as a fact. He’d tell them as much, the first chance he got. Just as soon as he was done begging for forgiveness.
Nat was watching the funeral pyre, mesmerised by the flames, when she felt a rattle against her leg. Her scabbard was throbbing. Sensing Cleaver’s call, she removed him from his sheath and planted him in the ground by her side.
The sword watched as Clive’s body disappeared behind a veil of fire, and Nat noticed a look of dismay in his eyes.
“How does it happen?” he lamented. “Something so awful done by something so simple. One quick swipe and it’s over. A life’s finished.”
“You didn’t have a choice,” Nat told him. “None of us did.”
Cleaver offered a strangled laugh. “I never killed anyone before, Nat. Not one person, not in my whole life. I’m all mouth and no trousers.”
“I never did it either,” Nat replied, a lump in her throat. “Sucks, doesn’t it?”
Cleaver cast his eyes to the ground. “They say revenge is a dish, but it you ask me, it’s a gruel-thin soup and it tastes like shite.” He looked back to Nat. “My soul feels dirty.”
“I didn’t even know you had a soul.”
“Me neither.”
“That's something then, isn’t it?”
Cleaver considered the idea for a moment before becoming downcast again. “So what? I was built to destroy evil, and now the evil’s gone. What do I do now? I always figured I’d get hung over some mantelpiece after I was done. “Well done, son, treat yourself to a nice kip.” Except I don’t wanna sleep. I don’t even know if could sleep, not after what I’ve seen. After what I’ve done.”
Nat sat down beside him so they were eye to eye. “I know what you mean. I feel lost too. I’ve been feeling this sort of… depression, since it all ended. I mean, where now? I think of me and Terry living a normal life and I get excited, but then I remember how things are back in Ongar and…” she trailed off. “I guess a part of me just wants to stay here.”
Cleaver smiled. “With Eathon you mean?”
“No,” she protested, twisting the engagement ring on her finger. “No,” she said again, less convincingly this time.
“So, what are you gonna do?” asked the sword.
“I suppose that's a question for the both of us,” Nat answered. “I do know one thing though.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m getting rid of these bloody Ugg boots.”
She kicked the offending footwear into the funeral pyre and watched them go up in flames. After that she went into her satchel and came out with a whetstone. Gripping it tight, she stropped its gritty surface along the edge of Cleaver’s steel, honing a burr from his blade.
His jaw fell slack and his metal tongue lolled from his mouth. “Oh yeah, that’s the stuff. Just like that.”
Nat narrowed her eyes at him. “This isn't a sex thing for you, is it?”
Cleaver grinned back devilishly. “Just pipe down and finish the job, will ya?”
The End.
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About the Author
D.K. Bussell lives in East Sussex, England with her three pugs; Livingstone, Jackson and Gygax. She enjoys puzzles, baking and first person shooters.
You can find out more about the author by visiting BussellBooks
www.bussellbooks.com
Dedications
To reality: a fantastic place.
Thank you also to Adriana Marques, Alex Musson, Leo McGuinness and Matthew Stott for their encouragement and advice.
Special thanks to the original “party” animals, James Kennett, Andrew Rowe, James Sudlow and Luke Foster. Never forget: left is death.
And a hearty “Well met!” to Tim Smith, Jonathan Savage and Jonathan Milburn, who truly know their way around a dungeon.
Table of Contents
Book One: Trolled
Chapter One: Time In
Chapter Two: Knock Down
Chapter Three: Variant Rules
Chapter Four: Non Player Characters
Chapter Five: Hit Points
Chapter Six: Treasure Haul
Chapter Seven: Fum
ble
Chapter Eight: Magic Potion
Chapter Nine: Critical Hits
Chapter Ten: Weapon Skill
Chapter Eleven: Players and Slayers
Chapter Twelve: Luck Bonus
Chapter Thirteen: Improved Evasion
Chapter Fourteen: Bug Hunt
Chapter Fifteen: Cocked Die
Chapter Sixteen: Size Modifier
Chapter Seventeen: Dungeon Crawl
Chapter Eighteen: Disarmed
Chapter Nineteen: Swift Action
Chapter Twenty: Rogue
Chapter Twenty-One: Hack & Slash
Chapter Twenty-Two: Improvised Weapon
Chapter Twenty-Three: Time Out
Book Two: Power Playing
Chapter One: Saving Throw
Chapter Two: House Rule
Chapter Three: Player Vs Player
Chapter Four: Trappings
Chapter Five: Insanity Roll
Chapter Six: Dungeons & Drequons
Chapter Seven: Attack of Opportunity
Chapter Eight: Monster Camp
Chapter Nine: Party Crashers
Chapter Ten: Bleed Out
Chapter Eleven: Fate Points
Book Three: Killing the Fantasy
Chapter One: Wandering Monster
Chapter Two: Regeneration
Chapter Three: Chaotic Evil
Chapter Four: Grimdark
Chapter Five: Random Encounters
Chapter Six: Splitting the Party
Chapter Seven: Out of Character
Chapter Eight: Difficulty Check
Chapter Nine: Power Creep
Chapter Ten: Breath Weapon
Chapter Eleven: Meat Grinder
Trolled: The Complete Saga (The Trolled Saga) Page 41
