The Troll-Demon War
The Troll Wars Trilogy: Book One
Leah R Cutter
Knotted Road Press
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
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About the Author
Also by Leah R Cutter
About Knotted Road Press
Chapter One
Lars Sorgenfreys shivered in the cold depths of the hellish prison that the court had sentenced him to. The cell was purposefully too small—he couldn’t expand his black, bat-like wings fully, the bare bones at the tops of the struts scraping painfully against the rocky ceiling. He was forced to constantly squat on his powerful legs. He could never straighten up and take a full stride. The yellowish scales that covered his chest itched and some had even flaked off, exposing the sensitive, pale-white flesh underneath. He had to be careful now not to burn himself with the black ichor that dripped from his long, forked tongue or to scratch himself with his long claws.
Sometimes, when standing grew to be too much and it felt as though weights had suddenly been attached to his chest and back, he collapsed onto the cold ground. That was just as bad. Though the floor looked like plain dirt, it felt like ice, sinking into his bones with pointed spikes.
At least the air had a nice sulfur smell to it. It was just the monotony of the scent that bothered Lars. He hadn’t thought he’d miss clear skies and clean air as much as he did. Not eating also irked him. The spells that held him, and would keep him imprisoned for a century, also sustained him. He’d just grown used to the human schedule of three meals a day.
The worst part of his imprisonment, however, was the laughter.
Lars didn’t know where his jailors got the laugh track from. Or maybe they continually sampled human audiences at comedy shows and piped in fresh mirth on a regular basis.
All that gaiety, human gaiety, made Lars grind his teeth and slash out at the impervious rock walls holding him.
It was the worst form of torture his jailors could have come up for a demon like Lars, one who was determined to see all of humanity grovel before him and finally be shoved back into their proper place on the food chain, with the demons on top, of course.
During his darkest nights, Lars felt as though the laughter was directed at him, as though all those humans were laughing at him and no one else.
Lars shivered again. He just could never get warm here. Kind of the point for a demon from hell. It was prison. He wasn’t supposed to be comfortable. He’d failed to bring about the start of the Great War, and the one thing that demons hated more than anything else was failure.
This time though, he would succeed.
It had taken four years, but Lars’ family had finally been able to bribe the right guards to get him a temporary reprieve. Once every ten days or so the magic holding Lars in his demon form was removed and he was able to take human form for a short while.
The original deal had been for Lars to stay that way for merely an hour; however, the guards occasionally forgot to recast the restriction spells right away. They’d let him stay in his human form for half a day the longest time.
Lars had gotten a lot accomplished then.
The cell he was imprisoned in was specifically designed to prevent him from using his demonic magic.
What the fools hadn’t realized was that Lars had spent enough time on the human plane, in human form, to be able to pick up some human magical tricks.
Like the one for creating hidden pockets of space. While all magical creatures had some ability to access alternate planes, it had been the humans who’d developed it into an art form with their bags of holding and envelopes of space. Hell, Lars had even met human women who didn’t have any magical abilities whatsoever yet had been able to carry more in their purses than should have been physically possible.
Those same purses made good bludgeons as well, something else Lars had discovered early on, much to his chagrin.
His focus today though, wasn’t on his few failures. He was a big enough demon to admit he’d made some mistakes. Like not killing that damned princess troll Christine when he’d had the chance.
She’d tricked him, something he could almost admire in an enemy. Particularly from a troll, one of the races of the kith and kin who weren’t particularly known for their intelligence.
Then again, Christine had been a changeling, raised as a human. Who were almost as tricky as demons. Lars could acknowledge that.
However, Lars had come up with a plan to use that trickiness against Christine, to force her to make mistakes.
And this time, he’d not only bring about the Great War, but ensure that the demons won.
Four races battled constantly for top rank on the planes of existence: the Host—the angels, the white elves, and the other disgusting do-gooders; the kith and kin—made up of the non-human races like orcs, trolls, were-creatures and shape shifters who should have always sided with their betters like Lars; humans—those stupid soft creatures who really shouldn’t be allowed to rule anything; and demons—the greatest race of all.
Humans had won the last Great War over two thousand years before. The demons still proclaimed that they’d cheated, as the Host had brought in some outside help, claiming he was human but at the same time the son of God.
This time however, the demons would win. And they’d get their old allies, the kith and kin, to help.
Whether they realized it or not.
It had taken Lars another year of preparation—five years total in this hellish cell—to finally be ready to set the wheels into motion.
Wheels within wheels, plans within plans.
Lars never knew when the spell forcing him to stay in demon form would be relaxed. It was roughly once every ten days, but his jailors weren’t precise about, well, anything.
How could they be? They were demons. Demons didn’t specialize in precise, not like humans and angels.
The onslaught of laughter seemed particularly raucous that day. Lars shivered in his cell. How dare they? His jailors didn’t understand how humiliating that laughter was. How torturous it seemed, as though each and every note of joy flayed more scales from Lars’ back.
He had to get out of there. Soon. He’d always prided himself on holding his emotions in check, on being able to reply to any threat with a clever quip, never with fear or anger.
Not today. Today he wanted to tear the throat out of each and every human being he’d ever met or ever would meet.
The coldness of the dirt floor pressed in against the talons of his clawed feet, making them feel brittle, as though they’d shatter on the body of the first enemy he struck. His wings ached, as though they’d been infected with age and arthritis. Even his stomach roiled, disgusted by the constant rotten egg stench.
Lars howled in agony, fearing that it wouldn’t stop, would never stop, that he’d be tortured here for all eternity. His ears hurt from the ringing sound, and his front claws tore usel
essly at the rock walls of his cell.
When Lars found himself shrinking down, he continued his howls. They weren’t going to kill him, were they? Crush his body like they’d been crushing his spirit?
It took him a few moments before he realized that he was transforming into his human form.
The change was painful, as it always was down here. On the human plane, the transformation was merely uncomfortable.
Here though, his wings felt as though they were being broken into smaller pieces and shoved down into his back. Scales flaked off his chest as it compacted, each leaving behind a burning spot that he could never cool. His jaw ached as his great fangs retracted. The sour taste of poison made him want to gag. Pain shot through his knees, feeling like nails were being hammered through them as his joints reversed, changing from that of a bird or a horse to that of a human.
Finally, the process was finished. Lars stood in the center of his cell, panting and naked. Sweat covered his pale torso. His blond hair fell over his eyes, which he assumed were still an icy blue. He’d always been called a handsome boy and had been able to flirt his way out of most trouble.
Now, his jaw felt stronger, more manly. His chest also seemed broader. Muscles lined his arms and his thighs looked powerful. All of the races obeyed the conservation of mass—a bigger creature usually looked like an overweight human—but demons did so less than the others. Or else Lars would have had to be seven feet tall and obese.
Lars didn’t bother with human niceties like conjuring clothing. That would just waste his time. Besides, he had nothing to be ashamed of, or so he’d been assured by more than one of the ladies.
Quickly, Lars opened up the tiny pocket that held the spell components that he’d been slowly accumulating. It had been difficult but he’d managed, opening up tiny portals into the other planes and picking up ingredients. Never a handful—that would have been noticed. Instead, just a few grains here and there, always something light enough to pick up with a petite breeze spell.
All demon summoning spells were strictly human. Demons didn’t summon each other. If they were well enough connected, they just had their underlings have a chat with the other demon’s minions.
Chalk dust had been easy enough to bring over, along with a small bag to hold it in. Lars had been able to collect ashes the same way. The crystal had been more difficult, until he’d visited a toy shop and gotten one of those packets human children used to grow their own crystals from a powdered solution. He’d taken weeks boiling water then filtering off the excess until he had his own glowing purple crystal, imbued with magic.
The obnoxious herbs—like the damned wild oregano and rowan wood—were primarily for human protection against any demon they summoned. Lars hadn’t liked handling the stuff, so there probably was something to those idiotic human myths. He’d considered discarding those parts of the incantation all together. However, Lars adamantly didn’t want to fail again. Messing with an unfamiliar human spell seemed like a good way to do just that.
He’d also discovered that he had to be careful with the foxglove and stinging nettles. In his demon form, he might ingest them without even noticing. This damned human body was just too weak.
All the ingredients for his spell were now assembled. Carefully, Lars poured the chalk dust and ashes onto the cold dirt floor of his cell in the form of a pentacle. He placed his crystal in the space nearest him and the other ingredients in the other points of the star. Then he started his incantation.
He wasn’t worried about his jailors hearing him, not when he was using his human voice, and not too loudly at that. In addition, that stupid laugh track was still playing in the background.
We’ll see who gets the last laugh now.
At least human spells weren’t all about endurance, unlike some of the stupid angel spells seemed to be, all that chanting that had to go on for days and days. No, humans were all about quick, fast, and efficient.
Convenient.
After about fifteen minutes of chanting, sickly yellow mist sprang up in the center of the pentagram. Lars had forgotten how badly his human body reacted to the stench of rotting flesh and nearly puked, but he made himself continue his spell.
Finally, a truly ugly demon squatted in front of Lars. It had three eyes spread across its face, all bleary and red. Its huge misshapen nose constantly dripped yellow streams of snot. Large jagged teeth filled a mouth that was too big for the rest of the face. It had three arms to match the three eyes, one disturbingly coming out of the center of its chest. All were tipped with deadly black talons meant to rip out an enemy’s heart. It squatted like a toad, its bare claws digging into the dirt of the floor. When it stood up straight, it would be barely as tall as Lars in human form, though at least twice as wide.
“What’s up?” the demon said. Or croaked. It had a deep bass voice that echoed in its broad chest. “Why did you summon me here?” It looked around curiously.
Lars rolled his eyes. He’d thought he’d been summoning a warrior demon. Not this scrawny thing.
He wasn’t about to give up and start over, though. He could make this work.
“You’re here to help me escape,” Lars said honestly.
The demon looked unimpressed. “And why would I do that?” it asked reasonably enough. “There’s nothing here to hold me permanently. I can just slip away.”
First, Lars reached over and deliberately slapped the demon across the face, just to make it angry. Then he slid his foot forward, rubbing out the line there and breaking the pentagram.
“Why’d you do that?” the demon asked, perplexed. “Now I can just kill you for bothering me.”
“That’s the plan,” Lars said. Then he threw back his head and howled, using his full demon voice.
“Help! I’m being attacked!”
It took less time than Lars expected for the guards to respond. He’d only had to slap around the frog demon about five minutes. Fortunately for him, the cell wouldn’t allow either of them to cast any demon magic.
Unfortunately, Lars’ human form really was more fragile than his demon form. He had to avoid most of the clawed attacks. Damned thing could jump like a frog, and his tongue spat poison which burned Lars’ human skin.
The guards did respond eventually. The door to his cell flung open and Petyr and Marty, two of the huge horse-headed guards, came striding in.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Petyr bellowed. He was the taller of the two, with red skin and broad muscles. His favorite weapon was a double-headed ax that he generally wore slung to his back. His head just about brushed the ceiling, making him between seven to eight feet tall.
Marty had his whip already in his hands and lashed out at the frog demon. He wasn’t as tall or as muscled as his partner, so he tended to be a “strike first and let the gods sort out the dead souls” type of demon.
“It just appeared in my cell!” Lars exclaimed. “I think it was sent here to kill me!”
The frog-like demon stopped mid-claw to stare at Lars.
“I did not!” it bellowed. “This human conjured me here!” Then it looked for the pentagram. As they’d been fighting, Lars had carefully removed all the evidence of his spell.
“Why would I do that?” Lars asked as he edged his way closer to the door. “Why would I call a deadly demon into the room where I was trapped?”
As no one appeared to have a good answer for that, Marty lunged at the frog demon again, making it leap to the left. Petyr pivoted at the same time and slapped down the frog demon as it was sailing through the air.
“I told you that you were going to help me escape,” Lars said to the dazed demon. “Because I’m not really a human.”
Lars slipped backwards over the threshold for his cell, out of his prison and into the hallway. Instantly, his true demon form took over. It felt unbelievably good to be able to stretch his wings up to their full height! His tail lashed of its own accord. He couldn’t belch smoke or fire, but he still worked up a good mouthful o
f poison and spat it at the trapped guards as he slammed the door shut in their surprised faces.
It only took Lars a few moments for him to call up a portal and get out of there, to one of the pocket worlds. He knew he didn’t have much time. He’d have to make several hops to confuse the trail, so that a professional demon hunter, like Ty Brooks, wouldn’t be able to track Lars’ leaps.
The door to the prison that had once held Lars burst open, as he’d expected. He slashed at the guards with one hand, turning as he did so, then kicked out with one of his powerful legs. He caught the frog demon in the neck, purposefully killing it.
It wouldn’t do for the frog demon to be able to testify against Lars.
Then Lars stepped through the waiting portal, into his well-deserved freedom, step one of his master plan complete.
Chapter Two
Slash. Slash. Pivot. Deflect. Leg swipe.
Step by step, Christine made her way through the fighting form she’d been taught by Ozlandia, the head of the king’s guards.
It was kind of like human Tai Chi. Except in its troll form, it was performed with a huge double-headed ax. And a lot of growling.
Christine swung the ax over her head easily, then swept out with it, decapitating three or four imaginary attackers. She didn’t really sweat as a troll. She liked to think her green-brown skin kind of glowed with the effort. The handle of the ax was big enough that Christine didn’t have to worry about the claws at the ends of her fingers digging into her palm as she swung the ax around. Sharp talons also grew from the tips of her toes. It had taken some practice to learn how to walk with them and not scratch up her floors.
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