The Fortress of Suffering

by Kyle Alexander Romines

  “Esben.”

  When I wake again, it is raining. The cool droplets feel good against my skin. The sky has grown dark above, and moonlight peeks down through the clouds. It’s hard to see much of anything through the deluge.

  I glance at Grack. He could have killed me while I was unconscious, but he did not. It doesn’t make sense. Goblins are spiteful, deceitful creatures without scruples. Aren’t they?

  He raises a finger to his lips before I can open my mouth. “Hush.” His voice is barely audible over the rain. His expression tells me something’s wrong, and I follow his gaze to the place where two great footprints stare back at me from the mud.

  My father was a hunter and a tracker. Other than a fiery temper and a disdain for the gods’ cruel disregard, it’s one of the few things he passed on to me. Apart from those found in myths and legends, there’s only one monster I know of that leaves prints like those.

  It’s a bloody troll.

  Skeletal remains scattered around the pond in which we lie tell me we’re on his hunting ground.

  The prints tell me it’s big—very big. I tell myself to stay calm. I’m no monster hunter, but trolls, which don’t like the sunlight, are mostly dormant in the summer months. On the other hand, it’s night now, and those tracks are fresh. The battle must’ve stirred this one from his slumber.

  Grack’s pointed nose arches as he sniffs at the wind. When his eyes meet mine, it’s clear we’re thinking the same thing.

  We’re not alone.

  I crane my neck for a better look. A gaping cave looks back at me behind the waterfall from the stream above. We’re not merely on the troll’s hunting ground—we’re just feet from the thing’s lair.

  Grack’s voice is so low I strain to hear it. “He’s close.” He retrieves his knife from the mud. Our fight will have to wait. Trolls eat humans and goblins alike. Judging from the size of this one, he could devour us both and have room left for dessert.

  I fumble for the silver dagger in my boot. Although a close-range weapon is far from my weapon of choice against a troll, it’ll have to do. My movements are slow. I think I cracked a rib. It hurts like hell. The pain is the least of my worries right now. The dagger shimmers in the moonlight. When I was a boy, I used it to cut my father’s throat. I have a lot of regrets, but that’s not one of them. I only wish I’d done it sooner. Maybe my mother would still be alive.

  Ulster is a hard place.

  I flip onto my stomach and push myself up. It’s agony to rise. Grack is a little less banged-up, though not by much. No sooner do I find my feet than the ground starts to shake. The two of us stand there, gaping like frightened children as the trees sway. Something’s moving through them. Something big.

  It’s too late to hide. The troll sees us the moment he emerges from the trees. The bastard must be twenty feet tall at least. Mud covers his hulking frame, and strands of long, wispy hair are matted to his face.

  For a moment, the pitter-patter of pouring rain is the only discernable sound. Then the troll’s brow knots in fury at our having trespassed on his lair, and he storms toward us.

  The silver dagger wavers uselessly in my hand. I’ve killed a troll before. It wasn’t easy, but I managed. There’s no fighting this monstrosity. My heart beats louder than a goblin drum as I break into a sprint. A surge of energy courses through my veins, lessening my fatigue and dulling the pain of my injuries. Grack is visible out of the corner of my eye. Why doesn’t he scurry up a tree? Our fight must’ve taken more out of him than I thought. I can’t worry about him, though—not with the troll at our backs.

  I keep to the maze of dense trees in hopes of using the creature’s size against him. Undeterred, the troll continues his charge, felling trees in his path. My legs burn, and it hurts just to breathe. I don’t look back. It’s difficult to see—without the moonlight it would be impossible—and one false step could mean my death.

  Grack, whose eyes are sharper than any human’s, doesn’t share my impairment. “This way.” He slips into the bushes, leaving me to decide if I’m going to follow.

  I don’t have long to make up my mind. More trees, each with a deafening crash, fall to earth. The troll is closing in on me.

  I swear under my breath and take off after Grack. Of the two of us, only he seems to know where he’s going. I follow him uphill. My strides are longer, but it’s still difficult to keep up with him. For a moment, I lose sight of him in the rain, and a feeling of dread settles in the pit of my gut. The little bastard abandoned me. He’s using me as bait to draw away the troll.

  Lightning strikes, and Grack waves me forward from twenty feet ahead.

  I hurry to him. “This had better not be a trick…”

  “Quiet.” He pulls me down into the brush, and his nose wrinkles in disgust.

  “What is it?” The answer hits me almost as soon as the question leaves my lips. He’s led us closer to our fallen. The scent of carnage, too faint for me to detect at this distance, will mask our scent from the troll.

  The earth quakes nearby, and I spot the troll’s lumbering frame through the rain. He doesn’t see us. Beside me, Grack has gone as still as a statue. Neither of us says a word. After what feels like an eternity, the troll moves on. We remain hidden. The troll is still out there, searching for us. With any luck, he will grow bored and give up. Otherwise, our best bet is to wait for morning, when the sunlight will drive the monster back to his lair.

  Time passes. Eventually, the troll’s heavy footsteps subside. I watch with fascination as Grack retrieves some dried herbs from a pack on his belt, chews them in his mouth, and applies them to his cuts, wincing as he does so. While I’m still wary of him, I worry about the troll a lot more.

  Grack notices me staring at him and holds my gaze. “Where will you go when this is all over?”

  “Home.” I say it as if the act will make it real. “My daughter is waiting for me. I should be able to afford a gift for her from my wages.” Maybe it’s the fatigue setting in, but I feel a million miles away. “It won’t be long before summer ends. Soon it’ll be time for the planting season, when the days are cool, but the ground is warm. When the harvest comes, we’ll journey into the village for the autumn festival.”

  “When the fighting ends, I will take my family far from here. I hear the men of the southern kingdoms are friendly to my kin. Perhaps I can apprentice myself to a blacksmith in one of your cities.” We both know that if the goblin stronghold has fallen, his family is more than likely dead, but he still almost smiles as he finishes. I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed a goblin smile.

  I’ve befriended giants before. I know not all nonhumans are monsters, and yet this is the first time I’ve felt a sense of kinship with a goblin. Grack just wants to go back to his family, same as me.

  We wait in our hideaway most of the night as the storm rages around us. When we finally emerge, it is nearly morning. The rains have stopped. Grack and I make our way back to the fallen. The sounds of fighting have gone silent beyond the forest. One way or the other, the battle’s outcome has been determined. There is nothing either of us can do about it now. Nothing but survive its aftermath.

  The sky begins to lighten. As we wander among the dead, Grack’s gaze fixes on the trees at the forest’s edge. He does not know what we will find there. Neither do I.

  We regard each other for a long interval. Finally, Grack offers a curt nod. “Farewell, human.”

  I start to speak, but a hair-raising roar stops me in my tracks.

  A monstrous form looms in the distance. The troll waited for us. Somehow, he knew we would return. Grack takes off running and disappears, seemingly leaving me to my fate. This close to the forest’s border, there’s nowhere to hide. The trees are less dense here; the brush is almost nonexistent. I can’t run either. The troll would close the distance between us before I made it to safety.

  I do not show fear. I fought a bear at fifteen and lived. I dragged a giantess across the frozen Lake of Eyes. I cut down
the goblin champion at Fool’s Pass when all thought the battle lost.

  A soldier’s broken spear lays at my feet. I snatch it from the mud and stand my ground in defiance. The spear is heavy—much heavier than a goblin spear. Good. It needs to be for me to have a chance. At the last moment, I let the spear fly. It pierces the monster’s stonelike skin just below his left clavicle but doesn’t slow him down. I dive out of his path and pull the silver dagger from my boot as he spins around to face me. “Come on, you bastard. What are you waiting for?”

  The troll forms a fist nearly as big as a boulder. Before he can strike, a black arrow sails from the trees and hits the monster’s neck. Then a second. Human arrows often have difficulty piercing larger trolls’ thick hides. The sharper goblin arrows jutting out from the troll’s neck are a testament to their craftsmanship.

  The troll roars again and searches for the arrows’ source. So do I. My eye falls on Grack, perched with a bow on a branch. Why didn’t he run? He looses more arrows as the troll charges him. I expect him to leap to the next tree, but he’s waiting for a better shot. The arrow finds its mark—the troll’s throat—seconds before the troll smashes into the tree. The tree goes down, taking Grack along with it. The rasping troll clutches at his throat and grabs Grack, who fails to crawl away. I’m already running toward them when the troll crushes the goblin and slams him against the overturned tree. The troll notices me too late, and I put the silver dagger through the monster’s eye with a growl. The troll lets out a final shriek and falls back.

  My shadow looms over Grack’s mangled form. Broken limbs twitch uselessly at his side. I crouch beside him. His breathing is rapid and shallow. He’s not long for this world.

  “Why?” I don’t understand why he helped me. He could have run. I would have run.

  “Go home, Esben. Go to your youngling.” He seems to want to say more, but he falls still before he gets the chance.

  I close his eyes after a time and limp away.

  The battle is over. It doesn’t feel like victory. Thousands of dead rot in the sweltering heat. Our losses exceed the goblins’ by more than five-to-one. Lads barely old enough to fight smile and clap each other on the back as I hobble through camp. I was like them once. I remember the pride I felt after my first goblin war—the sense of making our land safer. Now I only feel tired.

  A camp physician does his best to patch me up. He tells me it’s a miracle I’m not dead. Few of ours have returned from the forest slaughter. I’m roughed up but not seriously injured. As I greedily gulp down water from a canteen, horns outside the tent drown out screams and moans from others under the physician’s care. He tells me I should rest, but I shrug off his advice and wander toward the sound’s source to see what’s happening. The physician is too busy tending to the wounded to protest.

  Bright light pours inside the tent when I open the white door flap, stained red and brown from blood and mud. I shield myself with a hand and wait for my sight to readjust to the sunlight before venturing once more into the heat. The horns blast again, louder this time. In the distance a procession is forming. I’m used to drawing glances wherever I go on account of my appearance, but now I largely go unnoticed.

  Riders gallop through camp. “Fall in, you lot! Form ranks!”

  Men hurry to organize themselves. Someone near me exclaims the goblins are about to surrender. It means the end of the war. This I must see for myself. Everyone else wants to see it too, and not just the soldiers. A half-dressed cook nearly trips over himself in a mad dash to join the others. He’s welcomed with open arms when he produces a breadbasket. My stomach growls at the sight, and I force my way to him. A glance from me is enough to silence all but the hardest of veterans, and I hastily stuff a handful of bread into my mouth.

  “Berengar! Over here, lad!”

  I turn around to find myself looking at a familiar face.

  “Old Ben.” My face breaks into a true smile for the first time in ages.

  Ben grins as well. “You tough bastard. I knew you’d make it.” He’s from Kells, same as me. When I lay at death’s door, recovering from the bear attack, Ben would sit at my bedside and tell me stories. He was taller than me then. How times have changed. We clasp hands, and though he’s well over a foot shorter than me, he still wraps me in a hug. There’s a twinkle in his eyes that four goblin wars couldn’t put out. “I’ve been looking all over camp for our boys. You’re the first I’ve seen.” He means the others from our village. Most were in my regiment. I can still see their faces.

  I shake my head. “They’re dead, Ben. All of them.”

  He takes the words like a blow. Even in Kells, I’ve always been an outsider, but these men were more than Ben’s friends—they were his brothers. “What about Tate?”

  I picture Tate spread out, his body littered with arrows. “I’m sorry, Ben. He didn’t make it.”

  “Poor lad. His father won’t take the news well.” Ben tries and fails to muster a smile. There’s little to smile about at a time like this, even with the end of the war. When we return home, I expect we’ll get roaring drunk and honor our fallen as best we can.

  Ben motions for me to take the spot next to him in the ranks. His hatchet is still stained with blood. He may be old—his beard is mostly gray, and time weathers his face—but he’s a fighter. We northerners are a hardy people, and the common folk even more so. When Laird McGrath called on the men of Kells to fight, Ben was among the first to step forward.

  The horns blare a third and final time, and the procession begins. Although I can’t see them, the lords and nobles, accompanied by their standard-bearers, are in front. Queen Scathach’s black banners hang listlessly in the absence of a breeze. The sight of the queen’s sigil—a red crow perched on a crown—is enough to cause the boldest enemy to tremble. Save Laird McGrath’s banners, I don’t recognize the others—not that I need to. Nobles and their affairs are beyond my concern.

  The cavalry advances behind. The archers follow the horses, and the footsoldiers—including Ben and I—fall in behind them. Drummers and trumpeters, their instruments resounding loudly, march alongside us. The giants who fought with us are accorded a place of honor in the procession. The rest of camp, eager to observe such a momentous occasion, follows at a distance. Finally, we stop short of where the goblin army’s remnant waits.

  The two sides regard each other for a prolonged interval. Some of our number grumble about the miserable heat, and for good reason. The drums and trumpets fall silent, and all is quiet as a tattooed man in green robes emerges from our ranks.

  “That’s Elidor,” Ben whispers. “The Ice Queen’s druid.”

  The druid beckons to his disciples, who produce a goat, which he slaughters after a loud invocation. Clouds cover the sky—clear only moments ago—as shade blankets the earth below. The black banners stir with new life under a cool northern wind.

  The goblin king approaches alone on foot, his head bowed in a sign of humility. I don’t know his name. Then again, I don’t know the names of half the Ice Queen’s handful of children. When Eberdon spurs his horse forward, our soldiers erupt into cheers. The men around me pump their fists in the air and join their voices to the deafening chorus.

  My eye lingers on a group of giants and nonhumans standing apart from the giant clans who fought with us. “Who’re they?”

  Ben points out a giantess who wears no armor and carries no weapon. She is out of place among the northern giants, a warlike race if there ever was one. Instead, she wears a simple dress, and a crown of flowers lies upon her head. “That’s Harmony. Some call her the Giant Queen.”

  Giant names are long and notoriously difficult to pronounce. Most prefer to use simpler names when among other races. Unlike their given names, bestowed at birth, giants choose these names themselves.

  “She doesn’t look like a queen.” Although she’s too far for me to get a decent look, Harmony is clearly shorter than the other giants, and yet those around the giantess regard her with a quiet re
verence. It’s odd. The northern giants usually follow the strongest.

  Ben only shrugs. “She preaches peace between the races or some nonsense. From what I hear, she’s gained quite a following among nonhumans. She and Elidor helped mediate the goblin king’s surrender.”

  Long ago, the giants ruled the north. Even leaderless and divided into warring clans, their strength still makes them useful allies—or dangerous enemies.

  “Why is Eberdon allowing them to surrender at all?” We have the goblins at our mercy. Based on his reputation for cruelty, which rivals that of his mother, I expected him to wipe them out.

  “It was Elidor’s doing, I’m certain. Even kings listen when a druid speaks. Besides…” He pauses. There’s something more.

  “What is it?” What has he heard?

  “There are rumors Queen Scathach is preparing to invade Connacht.”

  While not surprising, the news still catches me off guard. Ulster is a warrior kingdom. Over the centuries, several of our monarchs have attempted to bring Fál under their sway. Queen Scathach is no exception. Even a peasant like me knows she has desired to possess Connacht since King Áed’s fall, and the Ice Queen has the will and means to do it. Until now she’s had to deal with trouble on several fronts, including the goblins in the interior and the Danes raiding the coasts. With the goblin threat ended, she’s finally free to concentrate on Connacht.

  “Anyone ever tell you that you know too much for a cobbler from Kells, old man?”

  Ben is a storyteller by nature. Were he from Munster, he might have been a bard. “It’s called being friendly. You might try it once and a while.” The remark is good-humored.

  “I’ll leave that sort of thing to you.” Unlike Ben, I don’t make friends easily. It’s my own fault. I can be a hard person to get along with. My faults are many, particularly hardheadedness and a tendency to lose my temper.

  The cheering fades as Prince Eberdon and the goblin king meet in the middle of the grassy field. Old Ben is misty-eyed when the goblin king drops his scepter-like mace and casts his crown to the ground. Then, with all looking on, the vanquished king kneels before Eberdon and presses his face against the earth in supplication.