by Wil McCarthy
But that creature, Lug—at once frightening and pathetic—had also very clearly been a monster from the storybooks of Harv’s own time. From its fiery red-brown hair to its wicked-witch voice to its large, vaguely pointy ears and skulking manner, it was everything a troll or ogre or goblin was ever said to be. Could that possibly be a coincidence? Harv didn’t see how. And yet, could stories like that persist for thirty thousand years? Was the cultural memory of these encounters that strong, that immutable, that…traumatic?
Or perhaps the quantome memory? Harv was, after all, somehow surfing his own genetic past with the aid of complex technology even he didn’t fully understand. But was that the only way to access the quantome? Humans must have carried it with them for a reason. And of course, in spite of Lug’s crude voicebox and poor command of grammar, he had very clearly been a human being. A strange one, yes, but if you dressed him in khaki pants and a polo shirt and a baseball cap, he could have ridden the subways of New York City without drawing more attention than any other burly, ill-featured man of uncertain intellect. Lug perhaps had more in common with the under-bridge dwellers of Harv’s own time—the homeless and the abandoned—than he did with Argur’s knights, and that was a sobering idea.
These thoughts flickered through Harv’s mind in the time it took the clay ball to drop from Nortlan’s grasp and into Argur’s open hand.
* * *
Argur held up the sling bullet, examined it for a moment. Softer and lighter than stone, it could rarely kill a man outright. He had asked all the knights to pack them for the journey because…Well, because his daughter was down there. Depending how things went, he didn’t want her standing in the middle of a storm of darts or spears.
“No,” he said after a moment’s thought. “It’s not enough of a threat. Darts and spears, people, but let’s not kill anything that’s not trying to kill us. The rabbit’s got a point.”
He looked around at the trees, the path, the sloping hillside, trying to figure out where the trolls would be coming up if they chased Jek. Would he come straight up here, or would he zigzag a little, either to dodge missiles or to put his feet on an easier path? Argur didn’t really have a way to know that.
Finally, he gestured. “Ronk, over there, please. Snar and Gower, there. Perry and Tim, the same distance that way. Nort, you’re here with me. Tom, can you stand behind us, up the hill a ways?”
The men nodded and grumbled and took their stations, waiting. And waiting.
A smorkbird flapped down, settling on a branch.
“Wow!” it said to the men. “Wow! Wow!”
Annoyed, Argur threw a stone at it, hitting it squarely in the chest. Not hard enough to kill—he had no intention of eating stringy smorkbird for dinner!—but enough to drive it away.
“Wow!” it scolded, then flapped off its branch and away. Down toward the troll camp.
“Wow!” they could hear it saying, somewhere down there.
“Bad,” Tom said. “It’ll give us away.”
It wasn’t a crazy worry; smorkbirds would often disrupt a hunt. They were curious creatures, and they knew humans sometimes dropped food scraps, whether intentionally or otherwise. And so they would often settle on a nearby branch and start squawking until every animal in the forest was looking their direction.
After what seemed like a long time, Jek came walking back up the hill. Not running, but just casually walking, with his arms hugged around him. At first Argur thought he must be hurt—perhaps badly hurt, and that brought a splash of fear and guilt. But as Jek approached, Argur didn’t see any blood, and the look on Jek’s face was more confused than anything else.
“Well?” Argur whispered tensely, when Jek was finally close enough.
“They saw me,” Jek said, in a normal speaking voice. “Damn those blue eyes; they looked right at me. All of them. I was quiet, too, but a smorkbird gave away my position.”
“Are they coming?” Tom demanded.
“No,” Jek said, sounding surprised. “I don’t think we have to worry about that. I think we can all just go down there.”
“And what?” Tom further demanded. “Hold hands and drink a bowl of gargo?”
“Did you see Dele?” Argur asked, as patiently as he could.
“I think so. I saw somebody. It’s not just trolls down there.”
Nortlan said, “What do you mean it’s—”
“Just come see,” Jek told them all. The irritation was out of his voice for once, and he seemed genuinely at a loss. “I don’t know how to explain it. Just come see.”
The men looked to Argur, who thought about it for a moment and then nodded. They waited while Jek shrugged back into his pants and tunic and armor and then, still in their half-circle formation, they began to pick their way downhill. If they’d been heading into a normal battle, they might be bashing weapons against their shields, and groaning out the low war cry that had been known to frighten opponents into outright surrender before the first stone was hurled. But it appeared to be no ordinary battle they were heading to; everyone except Jek and Nortlan had their shields slung across their backs—a longspear dangling from one hand, and a loaded leverthrow raised in the other. Nort—looking more frightened than Argur had ever seen him—wore his shield on one arm, and a club in the other hand. Hard to mess up with either one of those. Jek himself was walking empty-handed, with all of his gear sheathed and slung. It was a bold statement, but one Argur wasn’t ready to echo. Instead, he carried a longspear in both hands, held at his hip and pointed forward in what he hoped would be a menacing display.
But who knew what frightened a troll? Lug, back at the bridge, had been the lowliest example of the species that Argur had ever seen. Oh, they tended to skulk, to hide in shadows and to avoid a fair fight when they could, but they were also mammoth hunters! Argur had only been on three mammoth hunts in his life, and while nobody had died, very few had escaped without injury, and none at all without moments of terror. It was deadly serious business, and yet trolls wrapped themselves in mammoth fur like it was nothing at all.
As they approached the village, Argur could see canopies made of brightly pigmented animal hide, glistening with morning dew. Probably mammoth fur, yes, turned inside out and rubbed with spirals of red earth and dandelion. There was one large tent, probably twice the size of a Sunset Castle house, and open at the corners to let air flow through. Apparently, even this chilly air was warm to a troll. The second canopy was nearly as large and entirely open, like a spread-out hand hovering parallel to the ground. One end was supported by four interlocked mammoth tusks, twice as high as a human being. Each edge was propped up by a log that had been driven into the ground and lashed through holes in the leather, and the back side of it was attached to the hillside itself, by ten bone stakes driven deep into the soil. As they got closer still—now coming in from the side rather than directly above—Argur could see that this canopy projected from the mouth of a cave or den of some sort. As wide as a boolis is long, and high enough that a man could walk in without hunching over, it seemed to extend back into the hillside at least a another house length. Not a true cave, for its walls were hard-packed dirt, it was the sort of burrow a giant cave bear might dig.
Beneath the canopies, men and women and children lounged, fanning themselves with bits of coarse-woven matting. No, not men: trolls. And women? The males had the fierce build every knight knew well, with long hair and beards ranging in color from flame-yellow to mammoth-brown. Eyes ranging from sky blue to thunderstorm gray to the deep yellow of honey. But there were women here with the same hair, the same eyes. Or were they women? Argur realized, with some surprise, that had never seen a female troll, never really considered what one might look like. Female orr-oxen and rhinoceroses had teats instead of a dong, but otherwise looked basically the same as the males. But these women… Aside from their weirdly pale complexions—some of them as pale as moonlight!—these women looked almost human. Thinner and lighter than their males, they had smaller ears and s
maller noses, and could not properly be described as ugly. Some of them, not ugly at all.
And the children?
These were even stranger, because some of them did have black hair and brown skin, almost like a person. In fact, some of them clearly were people—the nabbed children of human tribes. But the funny thing was, they didn’t look that different from the children who were obviously trolls. Oh, they were a bit less bulky, but they all had basically the same body and facial structure. What a fate! What dark magic had cursed this species, that their children might turn from slender little scoop-eared humans into hulking monsters? It was the same fate the boolises suffered, or perhaps the curse was the other way around: strong parents giving birth to frail, vulnerable children. But wouldn’t that mean human beings were the accursed ones? Never growing big and strong and ugly? Was that what a troll would think?
And then he remembered why he was here, and called out: “Dele! Are you here? Dele!”
And a voice came back: “Father?”
“Dele?”
“Father! What are you doing here?”
And then she was there, emerging from the cave in a torn-and-mended blue tunic. Blinking at the sunlight, holding a hand up over her eyes.
Argur wanted to rush to her. He wanted her to rush to him, but she was surrounded by monsters, and half-monstrous women, and stayed where she was.
“What are you doing here?” she asked again.
“We’re here to rescue you,” Argur said, as though it were obvious. Wasn’t it? Shouldn’t it be?
Dele had a large, scuffed bruise on her arm, and a small one on her cheek, but otherwise looked basically intact. Two other young women came out and stood beside her: Timlin’s daughter Maga, and a girl named Val whom Argur had never really gotten to know. Neither of them appeared especially damaged, either. None of them looked afraid, and none looked especially overjoyed at the sight of their rescuers.
What was going on here? He looked around again, more carefully now. The first thing he noticed—what he should have noticed right away—was that there were wolves nearby. A whole pack of them, sitting nervously off in the trees, as if unsure what to do. Argur could even smell them, now that he was paying attention! But the trolls were paying no attention to the wolves—no fear, no anything. Why not?
The second thing Argur noticed was that there were a lot more females and children here than adult male trolls. Taking a breath, he actually counted the males, and came up with a total of seven. All of their faces were pink and peeling, as if they’d been burned in a fire, and all seven had been lying down, as if exhausted. The sight of armed and armored humans, marching on their camp with loaded leverthrows, had persuaded them to grab weapons and stand, but they looked…well, neither afraid nor angry nor guilty nor particularly surprised. Just…resigned. Their faces were calm and a little bit grim, like they’d been expecting this, and were up to the challenge, but were really very much hoping to get out of it without a fight.
“Is this their whole village?” Nortlan asked Argur, as if he would know. “Did they send every single man down into Nog La?”
It appeared so. Now that Argur studied them, it also appeared that the eldest two trolls were afflicted with some kind of illness—their pale faces broken out in black, angry-looking welts. Some of the female trolls appeared to be afflicted as well. This band of creatures did not appear to be having good luck.
“Did they send sick men on a girl-nabbing expedition?” Nortlan asked, again as though Argur might know something he didn’t.
“Will you close your lips?” Jek said to him.
Unable to bear it any longer, Argur barked at his daughter: “Dele! Explain yourself! What the nameless spirits is going on here?”
Dele sighed, in a manner that suggested she couldn’t easily answer that. “Father, will you put down those weapons? Before you hurt somebody?”
“These are trolls,” Timlin said to his own daughter. “You were nabbed, by trolls. Get over here now.”
“Father, you’re scaring me,” Maga said.
“This is complicated,” added the third girl, Val. “It’s true we were nabbed, but we’ve come to see these men and women are not true enemies. You need to put those weapons down. Please. All of us are in danger if you don’t calm down.”
For a moment, Argur had to admire the poise and confidence of these young women. Of all young women; where did they find it in themselves, to lecture men who were much older and much stronger than they were? When exactly did they become so certain they knew better? Did they know better? These girls certainly seemed to have more information than the Knights of Ell.
He paused for a long moment and then finally said to his men, “Unload darts.”
Behind him, Tom stirred at that. “No, Argur, no. We don’t know what’s going on here.”
“No, but they seem to. Unload darts, please. One at a time, and slowly. You can each hang onto a spear. Or club,” he added, thinking of Nort.
Slowly, reluctantly, the knights did as he asked. Now what?
“Explain yourself,” Argur said again to Dele.
“All right. Firstly, I know what you’re thinking, but no one has touched us. Not that way.”
Argur let out a huge sigh of relief.
“Nextly, these people have tried to talk to you. More than once.”
“People?” sneered one of the men behind Argur.
“They can talk?” said someone else.
Dele glared at that, saying nothing.
“Something has touched somebody,” Jek said, pointing to a trio of what appeared to be red-haired human toddlers.
“Not without permission,” said another woman. A human woman, a year or two older than Dele. “I’m Moti, a woman of the High Vale. What is that thing on your head?”
Argur reached up, and touched the bearskin hairpiece he’d been wearing for days.
“It’s hair,” he explained. “Now what are you talking about?”
“That’s complicated,” Moti said. “I was delivered here against my will, yes, traded for promises of safety. But these people have treated me well, and eventually it was my choice to bear the children of Nak, a man of this tribe.”
Several of the Knights of Ell made sounds of unfeigned disgust.
“Ah, you think you’re better?” Moti sneered. “Better than a ‘troll’? Nak, call the wolves.”
One of the trolls—apparently the one named “Nak”—responded with a very human look of annoyance at being told what to do. And yet, he placed two fingers in his mouth and emitted a piercing whistle. Then he began to, well, sing. His trollish voice was high and rough, but he made it work—the wordless notes rising and falling in his throat, formed into sounds by his circled lips, widening and narrowing. Oh-Weh-oh-Weh-ohhhh! Oh-Weh-oh-Weh-ahhhh! Truthfully, he had a better singing voice than a lot of humans Argur could name.
The ten wolves responded immediately; they had been sitting, on their butts, but now they rose to their feet, wagging their tails and whining slightly. They moved forward, slowly, out of the trees and into the midst of the trolls and women and children, who seemed unafraid.
Unafraid, of wolves.
* * *
The Knights of Ell didn’t know what to make of that. Tensing, raising spears, stepping back a meter or two, they watched this display the way a cop might watch a drunken suspect, or a group of construction workers might look at a group of armed dancers frolicking in the street. Harv surfaced for long enough to understand, and appreciate, what it meant to make history, to be the first person to see or hear or smell a thing that had never happened before. And have no fucking idea what to do.
* * *
“You see?” Moti demanded.
“See what?” Tom flung back. “Animals living among animals?”
“Close your lips,” Argur told him. “I need…a moment to think. Dele, come over here.”
“No,” Dele said. “Not until you make promises.”
“Promises!” snorted Jek.<
br />
“You’re strangers here,” Moti said. “Extremely rude strangers. These men are magicians, not animals, and you’ve given them only this awful valley to call their home, where vegetables rarely grow. Where the sun burns their skin in half a morning. And now you invade here as well? How dare you.”
“How dare we?” someone asked.
And then Nak spoke: “Talk! No fight.”
That sent a stirring among the Knights. It was one thing for a miserable creature like Lug, cringing under his bridge, to request conversation rather than violence. But this troll named Nak appeared eerily calm; there was a sense of controlled violence about him, and something that was closer to disappointment than fear; yes, I might get killed today. What a shame. He was clearly more than capable of defending himself, of defending his tribe. Spirit’s sake, he had wolves at his command!
Argur looked around at his men, and wondered if they could even win this fight. Maybe, if the troll women didn’t participate. Were troll women fighters? He didn’t know. But he didn’t like the numbers in any case. “Maybe” was not a good way to begin.
“Pull back,” he said to his men.
“What?” Tom hissed.
“Pull back. We need to think about this.” To Nak and Moti he said, “Nobody touches those girls, or it’s going to get ugly here. We’re going to go speak among ourselves for a short while.”
“Yes,” Moti said, a bit haughtily. “You do that.”
“Argur,” said the protesting voices of ten Knights.
“Pull back,” he insisted. “Downhill, down there. That clearing.”
He pointed with a spear. It wasn’t exactly a clearing; the hills surrounding this valley were covered in patches of forest, but the valley itself was mostly bare grass, and the spot Argur was pointing to was right at the edge—stalks of barleygrass rippling in the morning breeze, beside the hillside’s whispering pines. It was a valley-sized clearing, all right, but he wanted to get away quickly, saying as little as possible within earshot of trolls and women. He wanted time to think, and to speak with his advisors, and to get over the idea that Dele—his own precious daughter—would rather stay with monsters at this moment than come away with her own father. What had they done to her? Or, alternatively, what did she know that he didn’t?
