by Thomas Head
“We’ll need another!” I barked.
The king roared in laughter as I drew long breath.
I drew the bunghole to my lips and started drinking, the weight shifting swiftly down through my core. When I glanced over the barrel, across the table, I noted that King Alberik wore a serious face, visibly impressed by the long bloop bloops of the depleting contents. When the barrel dropped with a hollow thud, he winked in admiration.
“Excellent!” the little man roared.
He scooted himself forward on the bench, which I only just noticed was built to human proportions—an honor for which I would later need to thank him. Then he pulled a long, dangling backstrap from the fried river-weasel and offered the other strip to me.
I belched. I raised the unusual meat like a mug of bear. When King Alberik did likewise, I turned to everyone at the table.
“Here’s to the king of the halflings! Peace and bacon be with us!”
Everyone at a dozen benches around us roared with approval, and soon thereafter the king and I shared pounds of roasted flesh and a near-instant fondness. There was also a growing, mutual awe. I was nothing approaching fat by Dellish standards, but my stomach had a Bee’s Logic, a near supernatural ability to do what seemed impossible. As for King Alberik, I had not ever seen such glorious gluttony. Not from anyone, not even Mighty Kenzo, who was widely regarded as the girthiest, hungriest dwarf in all Yrkland.
An hour passed. Then half of another. The small crowd that had gathered around them doubled. Night had begun to stud itself with a spread of dewy stars in the west.
Finally, King Alberik brushed the yellow egg crumbs from his chest. “Let us talk of your tale, King Fie,” he belched. “I would imagine that whenever one is knocked cold as a warrior and awakens a king, one has any number of questions dancing through their mind.”
“One in particular, sire.”
King Alberik grinned. he rolled his neck and leaned back, crossing his little booted feet on the table. He unpacked a small pair of silver and jade pipes from his trousers. He stuffed them both with a pinch of hemp-in-clove leaf, tossing me one across the bench. He struck a small, flint-tipped matchstick and lit it, drawing deeply, before he tossed be a match. Then he smile. “It is an interesting tale, one that came to me with as much surprise as it did good tidings…”
Chapter 53
“The ears do their labors for free. Use them.”
—Halfling wisdom
Fulko Fallwater, the king said to Dhal and me, is not only the wisest and hardiest of our rangers, he is also the captain of the Troll Guard. He woke, horrified at how wonderful he felt, for Captain Fulko was one for the adage: wake in wonder, bed down in gloom. Wonderful old charge, that Fulko! Perhaps there is a seed of wisdom in old superstition, ya? At any rate, the captain sensed that no good would come of that day. It was only a matter of when.
That was a week ago. The weather was gorgeous. A blue silk sky shone on the springs first white flowers. There was a herd of hind deer and roe deer out in this very meadow, neither of numbers less than a hundred. Everything was like a mural, painted with a merry and patient hand.
Out past the village, beyond meadows and farmsteads, Fulko went on patrol with his Troll Guard and an entourage of rangers into a rare quiet. Out in the wooded reaches, the silence reverberated. Here he tells that the quiet possessed the land, choked it. Even the thunder of a noon storm was subdued as it dropped into the silent woods, and the forest seemed to sigh without noise in response.
For three more hours, there was only their breath, the breath of a hushed and stealthy company, the muffled strike of their booted feet on the moss-carpeted stones.
Then came of flush of chikadees, a bird that does not flock together and yet arrived in a rare multitude of five hundred, at least. Fulko could not see beyond the thick green caps of towering firs. There was only the roll of clouds. As they arrived at the thick brake of oak, the world became suddenly alive with sound. He heard intermittent caws and chirps. But these were not the sounds of birds. Fulko knew well what they were, for these were the communications of Trolls.
The sound grew more plaintiff. Closer. They turned and walked up a steep, sudden hill, and together they formed a sword wall and crouched, moving on a trail that wound through a dank cathedral of trees. They stepped a cautious path, timber reaching over their heads, soaring to the belly of clouds.
Yet they saw nothing.
Then they got off the trail, onto the needle-covered ground. Our rangers walked back downhill, through a ridge torn agape with released of a great burden of towering trees, and they knew the trolls were talking to them through their actions.
Confused and growing weary, they paused at the edge of a great wood. The great, consuming presence of the trolls were all around, and yet they saw nothing off them. Rain had begun to seep in though smoky holes in the canopy and there was smell in the air, a mixture something dead and something musky. It was unusual, and unnerving, for all this was the mark of a frightened troll, and yet they had ventured into our lands as if in the making of war. It seemed the trolls were up to some manner of new trick
They stepped out into the open field before them. The field was vast, ringed at its far edge by a river. And that is from whence they emerged, a family of trolls, carrying two humans and a dwarf. As the beasts crossed the long field, each of them revealed their unpleasant faces and received our rangers warmly. Too warmly. The trolls lay you three down, and then they themselves went to the ground, presenting their bellies as if in submission.
Fulko thought to end them. And I might add, the old hammer thought at first that you three were food that the trolls had brought along as snacks! But he saw more trolls out in the unusually dark stretch of forest, scores of them. They stood in wolfish circles, on all fours, making themselves known without making a great show of themselves.
He looked back, at his own winded warriors. They had marched for a full day without pause across the watershed. Each was adorned with thick but simple straps of studded armor. Most had no shields, and while there were arrows enough for a hunt, there were not nearly so much as might be taken for war. The tallest of his warrior stood in the middle, a line of eight stout halfling to either side of him. The man was holding his bow, waiting. And while he was not yet the wiser that you were not food, he thought twice about a fight.
So Fulko shook his head no. There were trolls aplenty, enough to end our party should they have chosen.
So Fulko stayed his hand, and as this family was subdued and civil in her greeting, he approached in a show of difference to them and called upon the Trollspeaker, Gigg Goodsmoke.
Here, he wore a thin smile, trying to remain calm even as the other trolls watched them.
Fulko told Gigg to ask them what they want.
The trolls tilted their heads as Gigg went to them on all fours, signing in their language. When they had returned the gestures with signs of their own, he turned, and he told Fulko that the trolls wanted peace.
Fulko told him to ask why is it that they wanted peace now.
Peace is good, was the first response. The second answer was that they could return to their old lands now because their new king had killed the devil that took it. They no longer needed to come here to steal apples and pigs. Finally, they added that they wanted peace because their new king is hurt, and they don’t know how to fix him.
Who is their king, he made Gigg ask.
The king is the provider was the response.
Fulko tsked. Who is the provider?
The dwarves tried to eat the provider’s baby.
Fulko cocked an eye in surprise at this. He breathed deeply. He thought for a moment, then told Gigg to ask them what does the king provide.
The old lands.
Oh! For heaven’s sake, he said to Gigg, tell them we can’t bloody well fix their king if we don’t know who he is!
Gigg made a thoughtful face, then brightened. He said something to them that may or may not have been what
Fulko asked, for every halfling is entitled a few secrets—even if they are from his captain!
And when the prostrate trolls had mouthed their irrational noises, shook and growled, and made all their uncanny gestures, the rangers had their answer. The broken Troll-King was human!
You, Fie, were King of the Trolls.
You had killed the devil that took their old lands and for heaven’s sake, you had even escaped the dwarves that tried to eat your baby!
Chapter 54
As the tale drew to a close, so too did the feast, and the night’s fog drew in around us. Preparations for departure rose from the fog. I closed my eyes a moment. The was something in my head that I almost did not want to come out. For the briefest moments, I entertained not telling him. I distracted my own my own mind with trivia, little bits of information, really, like how it now made sense that the river that ran south to the Fell-Riding was called the Trollwater. But the daunting truth that I had to tell would not be tamed with such small morsels. What I had to tell the king rattled around in my mind with the muffle clank of a ghost, howling incessantly for my attention.
“My liege, there is something I must tell you.”
“King Fie, dear fellow, I know what it is you have to tell me. Allow me to say this first: Your thoughts, indeed the thoughts of any honest man, can be counted without hearing them. We know of the child. That is to say, we know what we suspect. What we don’t know is any other man that would have done that for him.”
“Thank you, king. Then you know what he can do?”
“I know of no other man but a mage-guard that would travel so far with a dwarven lad. And to travel with him on the shoulders of trolls, straight from the Troll Wood itself… well, it says volumes, sire! Volumes!”
The king patted my shoulder, and I patted his. History spurns the dwarf to battle, I mused. History and gold. There would be plenty of both made for a warrior that traveled with their king. I breathed, thinking of the great Dwarven Horde, gathering somewhere beyond the beautiful rivers and meadows of this green land.
“Then you know…”
He opened his eyes, widening them in such merry surprise that it made me grin.
“You would ask if we know that the dwarves are coming to kill him?”
I looked off in the distance. Night had obscured the pathetic defense of hedges and hedge-mazes. But I had seen them with the light of that day, and I knew they had been thinned from neglect. Huge tracks had been worn flat by wagons or erosion, or else trampled down by raiding trolls. The hills that faded into the little farm were utterly open, it’s only defense the merry hearts of these halflings.
“Yes, sire, I must ask it. Even if you know my question before I speak it, I must still ask it, liege.”
King Alberik took another large breath, then laughed with such boisterous knee-slapping that I thought at first it was some kind of seizure.
“Know it? King Fie, good man, we are counting on it!”
At that, a roar like horn blast escaped the king’s throat and filled the dark meadow. His men rushed, plunging in from the fog, roaring. As they halted, there was a brief moment of silence.
There was a perfect stillness.
Then hellish bellowing swelled. Bone-splintering thuds rang. Horrendous growls followed the great, clanging song of metal on shields, underpinned with the high and icy sounds of screams and shrieks.
Then they were silent again.
And the perfect stillness returned.
Alberik gathered his guards closer, and traced the bare blade of his closest captain, slowly. He paused at the razor-sharp tip.
“King Fie, indulge me. Have you ever wondered at why halflings so rarely go to war?”
“In truth, sire, I have.”
He gave an exultant shiver, as if relishing some delicious memory.
“Fie, when a man goes to war, and he sees the dim line of the enemy approaching. He will by then have seen many a warrior readying themselves for battle. And they will have prepared themselves in many ways—in as many ways, in fact, as there are those who would fight. To the learned eye, however, there are but three means. Primary among them is bluster and drink. Be it the drink of the word, the vine, or the hop, discount these men as worthless. They are as gusts against stone. Real warriors needn’t suppress the will to preserve life. Nor again do they need to build upon that primal part of themselves that seeks to end it. Those who seek blindness for what they are about to do will be the first to die. There is another, rarer sort. These are the warriors whose lips are muted with rage. But these men are not yet the deadliest, for these men only seek the memories that haunt them. They busy their minds with a list of wrongs done unto them, and they seek a vengeance they cannot win. So many of these warriors will be ghosts all the same, and their muted roars will crash against the stones. And now we come to those who are rarer yet. These are the warriors who smile, those who seek serenity. There are certain warriors who go about the fields with a small knife and a bit of leather. They pursue the wild flowers of the valley, to cut and bind some artful way. Others of their deadly ilk seek parchment, to craftily fold in the likeness of some beast of the wood. Or they seek ink and quill, to put letters to their thoughts. This, my liege, is the way of the halfling. Of all halflings. We go to war so rarely, sire, for one reason and one reason alone—because are so terribly, terribly good at it.”
Chapter 55
I nodded, and King Alberik nodded, and he began telling me one more secret thing. This was a secret in my heart. It was a thing I had not even dream to hope was true, and I had held it deeply, and in secret from even myself.
He told me: “No, we will not be using the boy to aide us. He and Dhal will be hidden away, quite safe, I assure you.”
A fat tear welled up, and I could not stop it from dropping as I bent down and hugged the mighty little king before me.
Chapter 56
Night.
The moon shining over the army below.
In the darkness, Fulko Fallwater gathered his sealskin cape around him and joined me atop the highest parapet of Brickelby Castle. We nodded to each other, then watched as a fresh swarm of the Dwarven army approached.
They were coming now, slowly, making a great show of their noise. As they wound up the sheep-cropped orchard, the lines of dwarves halted, crimping here and there like a great wyrm of old, swollen with vengeance. It had torches for breath. Armor flashed like scales. And the beast had choked off every retreat.
Fulko Fallwater spit beer in what sounded like a laugh.
“Well,” he said. “I supposes we could shit ourselves in worry of over it.”
I grinned in understanding. “Perhaps they would kill us more kindly.”
He laughed. “Such mercy! Ya! But I suppose dead is dead, King Fie. And whether it is swift or slow, tomorrow or one of the tomorrows after, our tombs will patiently await our arrival all the same.
I grunted and looked around at two thousand armed halflings. It was a strangely nightmarish scene, but only in that it was all so strangely pleasant. All around, their little forms were lined atop the walls with carts that were laden with sheaves of arrows no longer than darts. Some held pikes at their side, weapons that could do little more than stoke a fire. Some held a sword the size of a long dirk, and the rounded shields could have anyone of the platters we’d feasted on just a week before.
Fulko Fallwater pointed. I turned and saw a low, sideways roll of ships that listed and plunged in the distant ocean.
Dwarven reinforcements. It was like another great serpent, writhing in the sea.
And suddenly, random shouts began to rise from the dwarves below us. A long, low barking of orders rose, course as a beast’s grunts. The sounds rolled atop the great tumult of a march that had begun far across the mountains and managed its way through the Troll Wood, only to end in a castle that boiled beeswax into scented candles.
All of it, the great machined madness of it, was forming ranks on the shores below.
As
the last of the army poured from the longboat barges, I cocked an eye to the rear gateway of the castle. A gateway is any hold’s weakest point, and therefore if a man has wits enough, it is its strongpoint.
But the Dwarf-King’s troops were too veteran and swarthy for that. They were coming now with ladders.
Breathy moments stretched as I looked beyond them. Just out of bow-shot, a figure emerged from a sheltron of knights. It was King Bhiers in full armor and a black thistle crown. Beside him, on either side, were dwarves so wide with muscle the seemed to be carved from granite. They wore horns at their waist, barking orders.
At length, the horns were raised, and their war-shrieking echoed over the ocean.
In the next instant, the shuffle and clank of war roared from below and the dwarves charged. Soon, the ladders began to rise.
The line of halflings to each side of me began yelping unusual war cries, which sounded like horns blowing. The horde below answered and blistered the air with a noise to cower a banshee.
Fulko Fallwater was bellowing, shaking his penis at them.
I whirled a war bow overhead that was twice as long as Fulko, and the line of halfings nocked diminutive arrows onto their weapons.
“Hooold,” Fulko bellowed.
I breathed, peering down the ash shaft. In all the commotion and thunder, I focused, and the loud quaking of it all seemed to hush. I became conscious of the strain of the halflings holding their fire, aware of the ladders plunking against the walls.
“Hold.”
The horde was yelping like dogs, and there was growling and roaring to either side of me.
“Hooold.”
Thundering, crazed bits of dwarven death-hymns surged upward like an insane buzzing—until a ladder split. Dwarves were screaming as they spilled down on top of each other.
Fulko Fallwater must have taken it as a sign.