I peek through the open door and spot a troll covered in furs sitting on the floor. He wears a mask that covers his eyes and a bright array of feathers stick out from it, making him look like some demonic bird. Dark dreadlocks with white tips hang across his back and shoulders. Both hands rest on his knees. He’s smaller than I am, leaner, with painted white stripes running down his arms. He chants softly, and I swear there is a faint blue aura around him. When I focus on him, all it tells me is that he is level twelve.
A hand grasps my shoulder and I turn to see Chief Rizza. I was so focused I didn’t even notice her approaching.
“Do not disturb the shaman while he is meditating,” she says. Her eyes are like a golden wheat field.
“A shaman? What is he doing?” I ask.
He must be the only troll here with magic.
“Communing with his totem. The phoenix grants him great power and wisdom. Like I said, it is very rare for a troll to have natural magic. May we go for a walk?”
“Lead the way.”
I follow the chief through the village, passing several other huts and a clearing where a half-dozen young trolls are training with wooden clubs. One of the children takes a club to the head and starts crying, throwing his own club to the ground and running to the instructor for comfort. The instructor gives the boy a stern talking to and sends him back out to battle.
There is no coddling around here.
“You have a very cute child,” I say, remembering the baby that suckled at her breast earlier.
“He is not mine. Tormara is his mother, but we raise the children together here. If one is hungry, I will feed it like it is my own.”
“That’s…interesting.” I can’t imagine anyone whipping out a tit and just giving it to another child back in the real world. Maybe in some cultures but definitely not the US.
“We are raised to care for one another. That is the only way we will survive. When the rest of the world wants to destroy us, we only have one another to rely on.”
“Do you have any children yourself?”
She smiles. “Not yet. In a way, the entire village is my child. While we are fighting for our very survival, I must focus on the task at hand.”
The fact that she can feed the child, despite not having any of her own, is pretty incredible. The chief leads me through a dense patch of bushes to a bubbling stream and motions for me to take a seat on a large boulder on the bank.
“My grandmother used to tell me stories of the great heroes of the past. Long before our time, they would appear throughout the lands. They would go on quests, battle great monsters, and defeat powerful threats.” Chief Rizza tugs at the tip of her braid and stares down into the stream. Minnows dart back and forth beneath the water. For a moment, she doesn’t look like the stoic chief, but a young girl dwelling on old memories.
“I know that those times are returning. I can feel it in my bones. Great battles will come. Portals will reopen making it possible to travel to other continents in minutes, not days. Kingdoms will rise and fall with great heroes on all sides. It is my job to make sure that the forest trolls are still around when that time comes. To do that, we need your help.”
She looks at me, all hints of the childhood stories gone. Rizza is a good leader. The leader I never have been on my own teams. She would do anything for her people.
“What makes you think I am the one who can help you do that? Gord is stronger than me. I mean, you have a shaman, for fuck’s sake. I’m probably the least qualified person to take this mission.” We sit in silence for a moment. The only sounds are the bubbling stream and the birds in the trees. Day one in Isle of Mythos and I’m already offered a grand quest. I just wanted to be able to stretch my legs for a bit before I took on the hard stuff. Just to make sure I don’t screw anything up.
This is a once in a lifetime opportunity, though. I’d be a fool to turn down this chance.
Deep down, I know that I’m the man for the job. Solving problems is something I’m pretty good at. With the penalty trolls take just for being themselves, I know not many new players will choose that race even after the beta phase has ended. I may very well be the only shot they have at survival.
“I’ll do it.”
Chief Rizza wraps her arms around me in a firm embrace. She smells of spice, nothing like what I would imagine her to. I get the feeling that it is not very chiefly for her to hug me, but I don’t fight it. She squeezes tight. I don’t know if I have ever been hugged so hard in my life. Growing up, I was never hugged. Mom and Dad provided for me, they gave me everything I could possibly want, but were hesitant with affection. Whenever the newest video game system came out, I always had it first. When there were games that sold out day one, they could get me a copy. I drowned myself in my games, because the better I did in them, the more people followed me. They would comment on my streams, logging in simply for the entertainment of watching me. And the more trash I talked, the more they loved me.
When Taryn joined my stream, he didn’t talk much, but damn was he good. It was a nice dynamic we had. He was the embodiment of the strong, silent type. No one would ever mistake him for a gamer, yet he was. And a damned good one. My viewers soared because not only did we entertain, we also won. His family didn’t have a lot of money, so I always made sure I had an extra copy of any new game coming out.
“You will leave at dawn. Anything that we can provide for you on your journey, do not hesitate to ask. Tonight, we will celebrate finding our first hero in many generations!”
I’m not gonna lie, the prospect of a troll party has me excited.
“How will I know where to go?”
She raises her hand and places it against my temple. A tiny spark of energy flutters near my head and the next thing I know, the map in the corner of my vision has another layer over it. It looks like tiny cracks running along the map.
“What is that?”
“Those are magical currents. Ley lines. They travel underground. At certain locations, there are magical springs where raw magic filters into the air. These are usually the sites for temples and other magical buildings.”
Looking at the ley lines around where my own location is marked, it’s almost like looking at the central nervous system of the human body. Hundreds of veins branch out and break off, splitting from the main line that runs through the forest. I search the map and nowhere else on the island has such a concentration of ley lines. This place must have been something when they were active.
“Can I ask you something, Chief?”
“Of course.”
“Why are there no male trolls inside the village?” It’s been bothering me since I entered their lands.
“When our magic failed, we had to find ways to protect our way of life. The troll women have always held positions of power in our culture. We do not possess the ability to go into a rage like our male counterparts. We were blessed with something else, though: insight. For thousands of years, women would stay and raise the children and pass laws while the men were at war or off hunting. We each play to our strengths. For as long as our magical barriers have been down, our men have stood sentry at the perimeter, only coming back when it is absolutely necessary.”
“That sounds terrible.” I can’t imagine being forced to guard a place indefinitely.
“We have all had to sacrifice, but tonight, we will toast to a new era. Perhaps even some of our brethren will join us.”
* * *
I’m not quite prepared for what happens at the troll party. Before it begins, I spend most of the day roaming the forest and fighting what monsters I can find. The male trolls don’t bother me this time. I guess word got out that I would be staying the night. They sit still as I pass by, statuesque guardians of the forest. When they are using Camouflage, I can still see them, perhaps because I am a troll as well, but they take on a translucent tone. Almost like looking at a ghost. When they move, their coloring returns. It’s pretty wild to watch.
Slaying jackals an
d the occasional warthog, I manage to squeeze out a level before dusk hits and I have to return to the village center. My muscles seem to increase slightly due to the bonus points to Strength and Constitution I get each level for being a troll. I wonder if I will look like Gord by the time I reach level ten?
Only one more level until I am level five and can unlock Berserker Rage. I’d like to grind it out tonight, but I am so looking forward to watching these trolls get down. I’ve never been to a real party, only press events and launch parties, unless you count a Saturday with energy drinks and snack food with Taryn a party, which I’m sure most people don’t.
I pass Gord on the way back to the village and he watches me out of the corner of his eye. I don’t know what his problem is, but I don’t stay to find out.
The village is lively by the time I return. I am greeted with a wooden mug filled with a frothy liquid. The gray-haired troll from the council smiles as she hands me the drink.
“I am Guilda. My son is the one who brought you here. He and his brother have been great protectors of our people for a long time. You are also our protector now. You have the support of the council, even Tormara, though she may not admit it.”
I don’t know what to say so I chug the frothy liquid. It is sweet, yet it also burns like the fires of hell. The burning sensation starts at my throat and creeps along my body all the way to my hands and feet. My extremities tingle, like tiny strikes of lightning igniting inside my body.
“Wow!” is all I can say.
“Sweetwater. It’s a gift of the gods.” She clinks her mug against mine and disappears into the crowd.
The female trolls dance and drink, while giant drums echo through the air, reverberating against my chest. Children play amongst the chaos, chasing small horned animals that I assume are pets. The wary glances I experienced earlier are gone, replaced by welcoming smiles. Just like that, these people have embraced me as their own. Now that I have their support, I can’t let them down.
Chief Rizza spots me and comes over.
“Aren’t you worried about people hearing you?” I ask.
“Humans do not travel into the forest at night. Without night vision, they are fearful of what hides in its depths. Make yourself at home and enjoy yourself, there is no doubt your journey will be fraught with peril.” She touches her mug to mine and we both take a drink. The sweetness washes over me, followed by the burn and tingling, but this time, it burns a little less. My head buzzes slightly, and I can’t seem to fight the smile that tugs at my face.
I’ve never drank alcohol before, but I love the taste of sweetwater. The burn isn’t so bad, either.
The chief returns to the crowd, dancing and singing and taking drink after drink. Trolls definitely know how to hold their alcohol. Even Guilda is chugging it down like frat boy on Saturday night. I make my way through the crowd and can’t help but let the rhythm flow through me. The beating drums remind me of a ceremonial performance we once watched in school about Native American tribes.
Darkness descends, and several pyres are set up throughout the village center. The flames flicker and dance, making the festivities seem even more alive. Massive bugs the size of birds flutter through the air, their abdomens glowing and flashing like Christmas lights.
I find the shaman sitting on the steps of the same building where I saw him earlier. He watches the tribe intently, but doesn’t seem to be having too much fun himself.
“Hi, I’m Chod. I saw you earlier, but you were meditating.”
He looks up and our eyes meet. His pupils are a vibrant red and it’s very unsettling to stare at them for long.
“I’m Jira. You witnessed me communing with my totem.” He looks out into the crowd, watching their dancing bodies flutter through the night. “The closer I am to my totem, the more of its power I can channel.”
“Why don’t you go and restore the magic line then?” I ask.
He shrugs, his white-tipped dreads shuffling as he does. “What good would a ley line be if my people perished while I was away? Besides, magic does not clear an obstruction. Only brute force can do that.”
“Then why not send Gord or any of the other male trolls?”
“Because we simply do not have the resources to spare. Our lives are hanging on by a thread as it is.”
A young troll is running through the village and bumps into me, colliding with my leg and knocking herself to the ground. She giggles at me before standing up and running off into the night.
“Go and enjoy yourself, for I am old and need my rest.”
He disappears into the hut, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
Several of the male trolls have returned from scouting. The women clear a space in the center and five of the males gather in a circle, Gord the largest among them. They let out a roar and the drum beats stop. Gord beats on his chest and a moment later, the other four do the same. They fall in line behind him, one beside the other. They bend their knees, slowly descending into a half-squat, their massive thighs displayed in all their glory. What happens next is a sight I will never forget.
In perfect unison, they all smack their legs at once, the sound echoing through the village. Then they smack the other leg, followed by a thunderous stomp and a deafening roar. They repeat this movement over and over, changing the sequence of stomps and slaps and roars. They roar like lions, and I see admiration in all who watch. The rhythm continues, musical madness composed of flesh and bone. It reminds me of a haka, the traditional war dance of the Maori people. I remember seeing it before a rugby game once on the television. But those players didn’t have the same power as these trolls. As they dance, something in me resonates with it, wanting to join in.
With a final roar, the dance is over and there is clapping and cheering all around. The men are rewarded with sweetwater and slabs of warthog ribs.
Everyone is so excited by the performance that no one takes notice of the troll who stumbles through the crowd, blood dripping down his neck and shoulders, and collapses on the ground. He’s covered in gashes and several arrows stick out of his back. One of his arms is charred up to the elbow.
I push through the crowd, making my way to the injured troll. Several others finally notice him and bend down to help him up. Somehow, I’m the one he makes eye contact with. My head buzzes as I try to process his words.
“We’re under attack,” he says, as a flaming arrow soars across the reflection in his eyes.
10. Blood and Stone
A barrage of flaming arrows filters through the trees and shrubbery, igniting the night. The revelry is extinguished almost as quickly as it began, and nothing but sober faces surround me now. The panicked yells of women and children intermingle with the war cries of the few male trolls. Trees snap as trolls arm themselves with whatever weapons they can find.
In the depths of night, I hear the crack of branches and trees and wonder what chaos awaits.
“This is your fault,” Gord roars at me. Caked earth falls from the tree trunk he holds.
“It can’t be,” argues Chief Rizza. Her eyes are wide with shock, taking in everything around us. “There is no way the ranger could have made it back in time for this to happen. This had to have already been planned. Regardless, there is no time to argue about it now. We must defend our homes. Guilda, gather the children. Everyone else, prepare for battle.”
“Come on then, hero. Make yourself useful,” Gord goads me.
I seriously don’t understand what his problem is, but now is not the time.
I uproot a tree and take off into the battle behind him. Away from the pyres and burning huts, my night vision kicks into gear. In the depths of the forest, everything has a green hue to it. The occasional flaming arrow bursts through in a white blur. One hits me in the shoulder, and it burns like hell. Either it’s coated with poison or I take extra damage from fire, because it hurts way more than the arrow that hit me earlier. I yank the arrow from my arm and toss it to the ground, leaving a wound which continues to st
ing long afterwards.
Battle rages all around me. Screams and grunts, along with the crunch of blunt force attacks, fill the air. I’m used to the clang of metal, not this. This is somehow worse. More brutal.
Whoever these men are, they came to wreak havoc. Most of them wear boiled leather armor, studded about the shoulders and chest. They carry bronze weapons, and most use wooden shields. Clearly, they are an organized militia, but more likely from a small town rather than a large keep. Dozens of torches glitter in the distance as they make their way forward. Many of the arrows have lodged high in the canopy of the surrounding trees, setting them ablaze and filling the night with the scent and crackling of the burning waxy leaves.
Gord rushes into the fight, not waiting a second to analyze the situation or formulate a game plan.
I survey the battlefield, seeing where I can be most useful. Dozens of mini skirmishes unfold all around me, one troll for every three or four humans. However you want to slice it, we’re outnumbered. The trolls seem to be doing a good job of holding their own, even against such unfavorable odds.
The archers are peppering them with damage, though. There is the constant thwip of arrows sailing by and the occasional grunt when they make impact. Without shields, we only have our own tough skins for protection. Against normal arrows, we would be fine, but the fiery arrows are inflicting actual damage.
I need to find a way to get past the warriors and into the back lines. If I can somehow take out the archers, we might actually have a shot at saving the village.
I look for an opening to either side, but there’s no way I can manage to sneak around with things as chaotic as they are. The rogue class is looking awfully good right about now.
Several men armed with spears and torches surround a troll to my right. An arrow shaft sticks out of his left bicep and he swings a club savagely at the spears closing in on him, brushing them aside. The spears offer the men a safe distance from the long reach of the troll. They scream words I can’t understand and jab blazing torches more for effect than actual damage. Another arrow lodges in the troll’s chest, and he shouts in pain. One of the spearmen jabs low, piercing the troll’s calf and causing him to buckle at the knees. He tries to stand but can’t put any weight on the leg.
Sentenced to Troll Page 6