by Robert Evert
Too late!
Go back. See if there’s a second entrance to this place!
No, you’ll get trapped. Get out of here and run. Run!
Do something!
Edmund let the book slide from his grip and propped it up against the wall.
Put it back! He’ll know—
Leave it. You’ve got to get away!
Blowing out the lantern, Edmund stalked along the ridge away from the advancing troll.
The troll started lumbering up the hill’s eastern slope. “Imp! Curse the bugger. I’ll get him.”
Down the northern slope, Edmund began his careful descent.
“Where was he heading? He was heading upriver. Him and that miserable dog. Where was he going? Where?”
Edmund crept further away. Through the trees to his right, the troll stormed up the hill.
“He didn’t have a horse,” the troll went on. “Would have smelled it. Just that damned dog!”
Carefully, Edmund inched his way further down the rain-soaked hill. His feet started to slide. He lost his balance. His arms flailed. As he grabbed an outstretched tree limb for support, the unlit lantern slipped from his fingers. It bounced down the hill, hitting stones and crashing into tree trunks with ringing clanks. When it finally came to rest at the bottom of the hill, all was quiet. Clinging to the tree branch, Edmund listened, terrified.
“Maybe to the old mines?” the troll grumbled, his tone unchanged. “The old human settlement? Maybe the tower. He was alone. Maybe he’s lost . . . ”
Half sliding, half running, Edmund raced down the hill to where the lantern lay. Affixing it to his backpack, he turned northward and stopped.
Through the gap between two hills, he could see a broad, waterlogged glen. On the other side, a lopsided mountain stood. On its summit, stabbing at the underbelly of the early evening sky like a deadly spear, stood the silhouette of a tower. Staring at it, Edmund muttered its name in awe. “Tol Helen.”
Behind him, something moved. Spinning around, he drew his sword, ready to fight.
Out from underneath a buckthorn bush wiggled Thorax, her mud-covered tail wagging behind her.
“Hey!” Edmund whispered, his hands outstretched.
Running to him, she leapt into his arms. He hugged her.
“You look a wreck. Are you okay, girl?”
She licked him.
Never mind this. Come on!
“Listen, we, we, we have to get out of here,” he said, setting her on the ground.
Thorax began heading north along the river.
“No,” Edmund whispered. “This way! Follow me. I know where the tower is. See it? There through the hills? We’re almost—”
A great shout shook the hillside. “Imp!”
Chapter Seven
Somewhere in the night, crossing the marshy valley behind Edmund and Thorax, the troll bellowed again. “Imp! I’m going to crush your miserable skull! I’m going to bash your brains into jelly! Do you hear me? Jelly!”
His boots and trousers dripping with mud, Edmund collapsed on top of a pile of grassy rubble that had once formed a parapet protecting the now-destroyed city. Thorax thrust her nose under his arm, urging him forward, but Edmund swatted her away.
“I, I can’t.” He panted. “I can’t.”
She grabbed his sleeve in her teeth and tugged.
“No.” He groaned. “No. Hon-honestly. I can’t . . . I can’t move anymore. I need . . . I need to rest.”
Maybe a mile away, the troll roared. “You can’t hide from me!”
He was getting closer.
Thorax pulled harder, her eyes flitting to the crumbling road switching back and forth up the mountainside to the tower directly above them.
Maybe I can get up there and drop rocks down on him—like what the Hillmen used to do to invaders.
You’re never going to make it up there in time. It’s at least another three or four miles to the top of the mountain. Besides, any rock that you can lift will just bounce off him.
There has to be another way . . .
“Listen . . . listen to me,” Edmund told Thorax, trying to catch his breath. “You need to save us, girl. You need to . . . to save us.”
Letting go of his sleeve, Thorax cocked her head.
Edmund lifted a hand and pointed vaguely at the remains of the settlement in front of them. “Some, somewhere, somewhere on the southwest face of this mountain . . . up, up from these ruins . . . somewhere . . . is a cave . . . a tunnel. It’s small. Just, just big enough for a young boy to crawl through. You need to find . . . ”
Thorax darted off into the darkness before he could finish.
You better hope Isa wasn’t lying about how he escaped the tower.
The troll splashed as he waded through the nearby swamp.
Edmund noted the gibbous moon shining silver in the blackness overhead.
It’s after midnight. Maybe he’ll—
What? Turn back at dawn? The troll will be here in ten minutes. It’ll be all over then.
Scared out of the reeds by the approaching troll, a flock of marsh wrens scattered into the night sky.
Maybe we can find someplace to hide.
Where? There is nothing but rubble left. It doesn’t matter. He’d sniff us out eventually.
Maybe try the road . . .
You can’t outrun a troll. Isa’s route is the only option, if it exists. If it doesn’t—
Thorax began barking.
“Imp!” the troll shouted. “I’m going to rip off your stinking arms and beat your damn dog with them!”
Edmund clambered over the fallen wall, his legs quivering with fatigue and fear.
Thorax ran up to him.
“Did you find it? Did you find it, girl?”
She grabbed his hand in her mouth and pulled.
“Where?”
Letting go of him, she shot off into the darkness.
Edmund stumbled after her, tripping on the wreckage of ancient buildings.
Thorax barked again, but Edmund couldn’t make his legs move any faster.
“Steal my things, will you?” the troll hollered. “I’ll show you what I do to thieves!”
Edmund lumbered up a flagstone street that wound its way through the ruins to the mountain’s southwest face. Behind him, the huge troll climbed over the crumpled parapet upon which Edmund had just rested.
Thorax reappeared.
“Thorax,” Edmund said. “We don’t have much time. If we don’t make it . . . run. Just run, okay? Head . . . head, head back to Rood. Head home. All right?”
Shooting off the road, she crawled under a thicket of overgrown scrub bushes. Edmund attempted to follow, but was repelled by the mass of branches. He tried again, but couldn’t get more than a few feet into the entanglement.
Use your sword. Cut them down!
I don’t have the strength to—
Just do it! You don’t have time. He’s coming this way!
Edmund drew his short sword out of its mud-caked scabbard.
On the desolate street below, the troll pounded toward them.
It’s going to take an hour to cut all of this—
Hurry! He’s coming! Hack them down, get to the tunnel.
Bringing the blade back, Edmund swung feebly at the first bush. Half of it teetered and then fell at his feet. He examined the inch thick branch that his sword sliced through like water.
Incredible!
The troll stormed up the road. “You can’t hide from me, imp!”
Hacking at the bushes with renewed vigor, a previously unfelt power welled up in Edmund’s sword arm. He swung again and again, the dense foliage falling before him like grain ready to be harvested. Cleaving a path through the growth, he came to Thorax standing by the side of the mountain next to a moss-covered boulder.
“Where is it?” Edmund asked. “The tunnel. Where is it, girl?”
She put her paw on the boulder.
“I don’t understand. Where . . . ?
”
Behind the massive rock was a narrow opening, barely big enough for a thin man to crawl into.
It’s blocked!
Somebody laughed.
Edmund turned.
Standing among the collapsed buildings at the bottom of the slope stood the troll, sneering up at him.
“Nowhere to run,” he said as he began climbing.
Thorax clawed Edmund’s short sword.
“Fight? He’ll embed that spear in me before I—”
Thorax barked as she dug frantically at the back of the boulder.
She means use the sword to pry it away! Hurry!
Slipping the sword’s smoke-colored blade between the boulder and the mountain, Edmund pulled. “This metal better be as strong as my father used to say!”
The boulder rocked forward and then rolled back into place.
“Do you know what I’m going to do to you and your damn dog?” the troll asked, striding up the slope.
Edmund put his foot against the face of the mountain and heaved the hilt again. The opening of a tunnel appeared. He threw his considerable weight backward and pushed with his foot. The boulder teetered and then toppled forward, gaining speed as it crashed down the mountainside.
Leaping effortlessly over the boulder, the troll jeered.
“Nice try.” He laughed again. “Do you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to take your tiny head and—”
Edmund pointed at the hole. “Quick Thorax, go!”
She dashed into the darkness.
Seeing the tunnel, the troll shouted, “No!” He sprinted toward them.
Dropping to his knees, Edmund dove forward, but was immediately thrown back. He couldn’t fit through the opening.
Your backpack!
The rocky ground shook under the weight of the charging troll. “No!”
Edmund slipped off one shoulder strap.
Eighty feet away, the troll raised his spear.
Slipping the second strap off, Edmund cowered behind his pack, using it as a makeshift shield.
The troll threw.
The spear shattered against the mountainside inches from Edmund’s left shoulder, splinters of wood and chips of stone spewing everywhere.
The troll roared. “No!”
Pushing his backpack in front of him, Edmund scrambled into the dark passage, his head scraping against the unseen ceiling.
The troll reached his long arm into the tunnel. It swatted just behind Edmund’s scurrying feet. “You miserable thief. You like holes? You like holes?” He hollered into small opening. “Enjoy!”
The troll disappeared from the entrance. But he didn’t go far.
“Enjoy your grave, imp!” he shouted.
There was a sound of smashing stone as the tunnel suddenly went completely black.
PART TWO
Chapter Eight
In the blackness of the crawlway, Edmund laid flat, his shaking hands covering his head, fragments of rock showering him from behind. Then a heavy silence settled in from the surrounding stone.
Oh god, what have I done? I should never have left Rood.
For many minutes, he lay trembling in the darkness, afraid of going further and finding that he was in his own coffin.
Something licked his face.
Extending his fingers, he found Thorax’s furry neck. “Thanks, girl. You . . . you saved us.”
She licked him again.
“I-I . . . I suppose,” Edmund said, weakly, “I suppose we better see if the old stories were true.”
If they aren’t, you’re going to slowly suffocate in here. Or worse . . .
He swept his hands in all directions. The passage seemed natural. Its walls were rough, its low ceiling irregular, its floor covered with sand and jagged stones. From up ahead, he thought he could hear the faint plink . . . plink . . . plink of water hitting rock, but his heart was pounding too hard for him to be certain. Thorax sniffed.
“Pray that Isa wasn’t prone to exaggerate,” Edmund said, his voice echoing around him.
They crawled blindly, Thorax leading the way, Edmund pushing his backpack in front of him. Gradually, the steady sound of dripping became unmistakable. Then the walls of the tunnel widened and the ground before them disappeared completely. Drops of water pelted their heads. Somewhere in the blackness, a waterfall roared.
“Well. At least we haven’t run into a dead end. That’s something.”
Fumbling in the dark, he unhooked his battered lantern.
“Fyre av nå.”
He turned up the flame.
They were at a top of a deep grotto. Drops of water plummeted around them, falling like thousands of shooting stars into a shimmering pool below. To their left, a waterfall cascaded over a rock outcropping and sent sheets of white water pounding against polished stone. To their right, a small stream burbled out another narrow passage. Above, reflections from Edmund’s red lantern light danced among the countless cream-colored stalactites.
It’s beautiful!
Edmund’s heart quickened, his fear replaced by hope and joy.
This certainly seems to be what Isa described.
Then there should be a way out through the tower.
“Remember, the boy I told you about—Isa?”
Thorax shook her head, a drop of water having pelted her brow.
“He, he . . . he was the boy who brought Iliandor’s diary to the Hansen’s ranch just outside of Rood. Anyway, this must’ve been how he escaped from the bandits. He climbed right up to this shelf and crept out the tunnel that we just crawled through.”
Edmund surveyed the grotto in wonder.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it? It’s like walking into the history books. You know what I’m saying? Why, we’re probably the only beings to have ever been here since Isa fled.” He sighed.
A drop of water hit the top of the lantern, causing the flame to hiss.
Thorax sniffed the damp air again. Another drop of water struck her head. She shook herself.
“I still can’t believe it,” Edmund said after a few moments. “I honestly feel like crying, in both a good and bad way, you know? I mean, here we are, which is wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. It’s heaven! Yet . . . yet, it’s sad. I mean, I . . . I wasted so much of my life, so much of my life sitting in that horseshit of a town, dreaming and waiting . . . when I should have been out here exploring and doing something of consequence. Who knows what I could have done in my younger days. What things I could have found or discovered. Who knows . . . ?” His voice trailed off, but haunting echoes lingered.
The lantern sputtered again.
Turning down the flame, Edmund got to his feet.
“Speaking of doing something of consequence!” He said, hoisting his backpack onto his shoulders.
Thorax appeared puzzled.
“Our mission, remember? The Star is probably somewhere right above us and all we have to do is walk up and get it!”
And my first adventure will almost be over! I wonder what I should do next. Perhaps the King has other tasks he’d like me to perform.
Thorax examined the ceiling, a droplet striking her right between the eyes. Annoyed, she rubbed her face with her front paws.
Edmund flicked his chin across the grotto. “See that waterfall? That’s where we’re headed. Behind it actually.”
He began picking his way carefully down from the ledge onto a slender stone lip that encircled the pool.
“You know,” he said, “it seems that in every story I have ever read, important things are always hidden behind waterfalls. I don’t know why. It’s kind of like how every barkeeper is portly, bald, and absentminded. It’s just how things are, I suppose.”
Picking Thorax up, he set her on the ledge behind him.
“It’s kind of like how big battles are never fought during cheerful spring days,” Edmund went on. “You know? They’re always fought during a storm or at night or something dramatic. The black clouds roll in, everybody fights, then the clo
uds part, sending a shaft of bright light down upon the victor. And they always fight in grim places like the Battle of Bloody Hills or the Battle of Deadly Dike. I’ve never heard of a battle fought in a field of fragrant wild flowers. But I suppose people wouldn’t write about ‘the Battle of Daisy Meadow.’”
He inched along the edge of the pool. Thorax followed, staying close to his heels.
“And another thing. Ever notice how princesses and queens are always beautiful? I mean, what happens to the ugly ones? Or even the plain ones? Why don’t they end up in stories? I don’t know, I suppose it’s all in the telling. The eye of the behold—”
Startled, he stopped, staring at the cavern wall a few feet ahead of them.
“Take a look at this,” he said, lifting his lantern, its ruddy light shining off the bluish grey stone.
Words were scrawled across the wet rock—not just written with charcoal or paint, but actually slashed into the smooth surface as if somebody had taken a sharp knife to soft wood.
“It’s written in Dunael,” Edmund said, feeling the deep gashes of the foot-tall letters. “Fortunately for you, I know it fl, fl, fluently.”
He waited for the echoes of his voice to recede.
“Loosely translated, it says: ‘The salvation of humanity can be found in buildings of wise men, doubly so in optimism of the learned, and in knowledge that is written on a daily basis.’”
“It’s true enough, I suppose,” he said as Thorax shook off the water that had accumulated on her muddy fur. “Strange thing to write way down here, don’t you think? And why didn’t they use a proper chisel when carving it?”
Edmund felt the jagged indentations of the letters again.
“Whoever wrote it must have been a novice. He incorrectly capitalized ‘knowledge,’ ‘buildings,’ and ‘optimism,’ and several articles are missing. For example, it should be ‘the optimism of the learned.’ Then again, that doesn’t sound very good. The whole thing is a bit off. Good writing should flow effortlessly from the t-t-tongue.”
Edmund snapped his fingers.
“Maybe Isa wrote it! He was merely a boy at the time he fled the tower.”
He shook his head as more drops of water pelted his damp hair.