by Ben Hale
Part III
One week and six days until Draeken’s army reaches Azertorn
Chapter 21: The Flesh of War
Taryn’s eyes snapped up as a shadow moved in the predawn light. Curious, he rose to his feet, stretching sore muscles while covertly scanning the surrounding area. For the last several days since they had left Ryazan, they had encountered no one in the endless stretch of dry land north of the Blue Lake. Known as the Deadlands, the blistering desert boasted little life. In every direction scrub brush and small twisted trees dominated the uneven ground, leaving hundreds of places to hide, and forced them to slow their pace to avoid detection. The gnome king had warned them that if they were spotted by orcs, gnomes, or worse, trolls, then they could be attacked.
A movement to his left caught his attention, but by the time he'd looked it had stopped. His quick glance had revealed a small outcropping of stunted trees and other brush—small enough to be unobtrusive, but large enough for someone to hide. Bending down to grab another bite of breakfast he took another look where the movement had been. Within the trees he saw nothing, but kept his peripheral vision attuned to the shadows as he turned away.
They had chosen to camp in a small clearing next to a dry, rocky riverbed. With several bent trees overhanging a section of flat, bare rock, it had appeared as an ideal location to pass the night. Behind the ring of trees the stunted vegetation grew thick. Tumbleweeds and other patches of brown grass somehow found purchase in the barren soil.
Another side look and a dark shape within the shadows began to emerge. A large head above a crouched frame appeared behind one of the larger trees. Judging by the size, the thing would be huge, at least seven feet tall if standing. Taryn calculated the distance. Ten feet of bare ground stretched between him and the shape. He could cover the distance in time, but a distraction would help.
As he shifted his leg to make the leap he called to Trin, “Do you think you can get some breakfast out of—”
In one swift movement he turned and leaped into action, covering the ground in the blink of an eye. His left hand snagged the tree beside the already moving shadow and he used it to slingshot himself around it. Meaning to put his knee into the side of the wraith’s head, he connected lower than intended as the thing straightened. Even in the low light, he could see the huge form reaching for a weapon on its back. As he straightened his body into the light, a towering rock troll came into view. Realizing he was too big to take down with a single blow, Taryn let go of the tree as he drew one of the blades from his back.
Twisting to keep his front towards the intruder he bounced off the ground and arced his sword in for a fast slice. He was faster than the troll, but not by much. Speaking volumes of the troll’s skill, a massive sword was already swinging close to Taryn’s neck when Mazer stopped just short of his opponents’ throat. The troll’s enormous blade came to a halt as the huge troll saw that he would be killed long before he could strike the smaller man.
For several moments they locked eyes with each other, and in that second Taryn noticed several things. The sand-brown troll was large, far bigger than they had heard. Black curving tattoos crisscrossed his upper body, and his skin looked as hard as the stone they stood on. Standing at over eight and a half feet tall, he dwarfed Taryn in every way. Straight black hair hung free, nearly to his shoulders, and framed a wide face that looked down on him with confusion. The small black eyes peering at him were those of an intelligent creature, not the dimness he would have expected.
Taryn sensed the troll didn’t want to kill him, so he eased his katsana from the large neck and sheathed it, but kept his weight on the balls of his feet to dodge just in case. The troll appeared surprised and his monster sword didn’t move—even though it hung a foot from removing Taryn’s head. Behind him he heard a sudden intake of breath, and in his peripheral vision he saw other hulking shapes drift out of the trees around them.
As they rose into view and slipped into a ring around their campsite, he heard weapons from his friends clearing leather. Surrounding their camp in seconds, they congregated around Taryn and his immobile opponent. The standoff remained for several intense moments until one more rock troll rose near Taryn.
Massive muscles rippled under thick tough skin as he ducked a branch and rose to his full stature—at least a foot taller than any of the others. The troll was gigantic, towering at least twice as tall as a human and five feet wide in the shoulders. Gliding in and out of the shadows, he circled the one facing Taryn, blocking out the dawn as he passed the rising sun. When he came to a halt in the light, Taryn swallowed against the urge to retreat.
Black tattoos resembling barbed wire spread across his right arm, bare chest, and face. Barefoot, he wore a belt with leather strips hanging to the knees. A wide strap stretched diagonally from shoulder to waist, providing a loop where his weapon hung. Sticking above one shoulder, the hilt to the biggest sword Taryn had ever seen extended. Protruding below his hip, the blade looked to be wider than an outstretched hand. Intelligent brown eyes surveyed Taryn in what he took to be a curious—and cautious—manner.
He stood motionless as he evaluated the small group of travelers, but by his stance he was ready to fight in a heartbeat. Frowning, his eyes flicked to the one facing Taryn and the troll withdrew his weapon. The giant returned his gaze to Taryn and said in the common tongue, “A true warrior does not kill without a reason.” His voice was deep and rumbling, reminding Taryn of rocks tumbling down a hill. “You did not kill Meer when you thought he was alone, even though you had defeated him. You have earned my respect. My name is Tryton, and I am king of the rock trolls.”
Taryn inclined his head towards him, keeping his hands open and away from his weapons. “I am Taryn Elseerian. We travel with the Oracle to defeat a great evil.”
Tryton’s brow furrowed and he straightened out of his ready stance, “You will come with us then, and we will speak more of this great evil.”
At some unspoken cue, the twenty rock trolls moved to positions on all sides of them, leaving no doubt that it had been a command, not an invitation. As Meer led their horses away, Taryn threw a look at his sister, wondering if they should go with them. Catching Siarra’s comfortable expression he managed to quell most of his unease. This was also a chance to speak to another race, and perhaps an opportunity to bring more to the gathering.
Beside him, Taryn heard Jack curse. "I hate getting caught," he muttered, and then raised his voice, "And we didn't even do anything!"
Without responding Tryton turned and began working his way across the terrain. Moving in sync, the barricade of huge trolls circled them, forcing them to follow. As Taryn fell into step with the rest of his group, he couldn’t help but admire the grace and discipline of the large forms. Each of the rock trolls moved in a manner that screamed training, with each step quiet and purposeful. Constantly rotating positions to compensate for changes in terrain or vegetation, they left no opportunity for escape. Like a net of flesh, they worked as a single unit to keep their prisoners inside.
Taryn caught Liri's eyes and saw her uneasy expression. “Not like Sri Rosen huh,” Taryn said in a low voice.
She shrugged, but her worried expression made him think he’d guessed her thoughts. In the entire time they had lived and trained on the island, he’d never seen the supreme discipline being displayed here. Turning his attention back to the intimidating trolls, he began to notice other details.
Without exception, every weapon carried by the warriors appeared different, unique even. Some bore staff weapons, with shafts as thick as a man's arm and blades on one or both ends. Others wielded swords that from edge to spine were as wide as Taryn's head. Notched or curved, each looked distinct—and as he examined them further he realized the weapons mirrored their owners.
Mae slid up next to him, interrupting his examination. “What do you think the tattoos mean?”
Taryn shrugged, and for the first time noticed that the tattoos on each troll were different a
s well. Although the style of the tattoos was the same, the quantity and length of the lines varied significantly from troll to troll. As far he could tell, all of them had at least a few on chest and back—but many had lines spreading over their entire upper torso. On most of their forms, the tattoos stopped cleanly before the shoulder, but a few had them spiking down one or both arms.
Jack sidled up to them, and for once his voice was serious, “Rock trolls are trained from birth for a single purpose, war.” He paused and his voice dropped. “Every tattoo signifies a kill.”
Taryn’s breath caught in his throat as he understood the magnitude of victories being displayed in ink.
“Why do only a few have them on their arms or face?” Trin asked, worry creeping into his tone.
Jack let out his breath. “A mark on their left arm or shoulder means defeating someone considered weak, but a line on their right side means someone very strong, like a hero. A tattoo on the face or neck signals that a leader fell to their weapon.”
Taryn remembered Tryton’s right arm, neck, and face had been carpeted with black tattoos, but not a single one had marred his left arm or shoulder. Oddly, his back and chest boasted fewer lines than many of the other trolls. He assumed the demonstration of such prowess was meant to intimidate foes—a conclusion easy to come to as it was already having the desired effect.
Welcoming the distraction, Taryn reached the top of a small rise and got his first good look at their destination. For the last hour the trolls had been heading towards a solitary rock formation that towered over the landscape. Although it matched the terrain in color, the sandstone monolith seemed out of place in the desert.
Turning onto a curving path through the scrub trees, they soon arrived at its base. Tryton strode to a section of smooth rock and lifted a curtain painted to blend into the stone around it. Feeling a sense of mounting dread, Taryn followed him inside to a large winding corridor that sloped upward into the rock. With smooth stone underfoot, the walls had been left rough to maintain the flowing essence of the earth.
While other tunnels or rooms branched off the main path, Tryton led them straight up the curving corridor until they turned and entered a massive bowl on top of the formation. Open to the sky, training equipment dominated the space.
Taryn estimated they stood a hundred feet off the ground, but it was difficult to tell since the top of the stone had been hollowed out to leave natural battlements. The oval of flat stone in the middle stretched a hundred and fifty feet at the longest point, and a hundred feet wide. As they entered the bowl, many rock trolls were either practicing with their weapons, or manning the battlements.
Silence resounded the moment Taryn and his friends came into view, and he felt like a bug that had gone into the wrong kitchen. One of the rock trolls, almost as large as king Tryton, began striding towards him. A double bladed staff hung on his back that was so long it almost went to his knees. Black ink blanketed every available spot on his chest and arms, more than any other troll in sight. Although his face carried only a few tattoos, the darkening cloud of anger brought a white scar into view. Running from his left temple, it curved down the side of his face and twisted the black lines on his chest. Another set of four evenly spaced scars marred his right shoulder all the way to the elbow. Thick and ugly, they bent and pulled at the host of tattoos, causing them to look even more fearsome.
“You brought them into Astaroth!” the troll exclaimed, his voice more like a deep raspy growl than anything else.
“Calm yourself Kaber,” Tryton said in his gravelly voice, folding his arms. “We should welcome the Oracle with her friends, and hear them out.” He looked sideways at one of the trolls that had been sparring. “Kell, find Kythira and bring her here. She will want to hear this.”
Bowing, the troll raced down a corridor and disappeared from view. While they waited, one of the other trolls separated himself from those on the battlements and moved to speak in an undertone to Tryton. Similar to Kaber, he stood almost as tall as the king, and had just as many tattoos as Kaber except for his left arm. Only three black lines curved just above his bicep, fewer than any other except the king. A wicked spiked greatsword hung on his back.
After a moment Tryton shook his head and answered, “No Solus, there is no need for that.”
Another moment passed in silence and Taryn wondered why Trin, or Jack, had not said anything. He spared a glance, but it only augmented his tension. Their expressions were stiff and they stood riveted, waiting. Taryn’s stomach clenched as he saw the heightened awareness painted on their features, and wondered if he looked the same.
Another minute passed until Kell returned with a shorter rock troll in tow, this time a female with long black hair hanging freely in the still air of the bowl. Shorter than the males, she stood well over eight feet tall and wore a one shouldered dress belted at the waist. Made from a single piece of rich, brown material, it covered her bosom and hung to her knees with no adornments. As she strode into the arena, even more graceful than the male trolls, she exhibited a fierce beauty that resembled a wild lion. The deference the other trolls paid her revealed the position of respect she commanded.
Stopping next to Tryton she asked in a light tone, “Which one of you is the oracle?”
Siarra detached herself from their group and moved to the forefront. “I am Siarra Elseerian.”
Without warning a massive blast of wind flew from Kythira straight at Siarra. Strong enough to crush all of them into the wall behind them, it closed the distance in half a second—but Siarra lifted her hand and the tunnel of furious air bounced skyward to dissipate above them.
Kythira smiled and said, “Impressive, Oracle, but I had to be sure. I am Kythira, high wind cleric of the Soulstone Clan. Be grateful for your lives, for few are permitted into this place alive.”
Siarra bowed low. “Thank you, Kythira, for your hospitality.”
Tryton nodded, getting right to the point. “What is the great evil that you spoke of?”
Beginning at the start of their tale, Siarra detailed the fight and slaying of the assassin known as Death, and then continued on to explain the revelations about Draeken. She then told of the elven war council and the decision to gather the races. As she went on to tell of the beginnings of the gathering, not a single troll moved an inch. Each waited, stone faced, until she finished.
After a moment of stunned silence, Tryton unfolded his arms and asked, “What is it you want from us?”
“Join the gathering,” Siarra said, “and bring every warrior you can, as well as those of your people not trained in battle.”
“Rock trolls are all trained for battle,” Kaber sneered.
“But some of the lesser clans of trolls are not,” Solus said in response, and Kaber growled but didn't dispute the statement.
Kythira chewed on her lip, her brow crinkled in thought. “If we were to do this, it would mean gathering the clans, which has never been done before, and leave our homeland defenseless in order to help protect people who mean nothing to us.”
Siarra shook her head and said, “You don’t understand. The people you have never met will be protecting you, not the other way around.”
Furious, Kaber threw his arms out. “Rock trolls need no protection from anyone, least of all humans and elves!”
Solus jumped in, sweeping his large hand towards them. “If what she says is true, then it wouldn’t matter how much we have trained. We would be overrun.”
Kaber growled and stomped a few steps away before he whirled with a triumphant expression. “Then we must know if what they speak is the truth. If it is, we gather the clans and leave. If it is not, then they will be thrown in the pit.”
His statement sparked a wide variety of reactions. Most of the rock trolls seemed angry, or at least irritated. Solus and Kythira appeared furious, with both launching into a stream of the guttural troll language. The lone exception of all the large warriors was Tryton, whose expression conveyed . . . sorrow.
> After a heated exchange between Kaber, Kythira, and Solus, Tryton stopped them with a single look. “Kaber speaks the truth. It is the law.”
Kythira opened her mouth to protest but Tryton’s deep voice rose in volume, “Bring the hourglass.”
As Kell again slipped out of the bowl, Solus moved next to Tryton and began speaking in his ear with his back to them. His intense emotions overrode his attempt to keep his voice low, so Taryn managed to catch snatches of his argument with his sharp ears.
“—must be crazy! By Skorn’s blade they don’t stand a . . . and if you fight one of . . . just kill them. Then they . . . all die in the pit. It will be a slaughter . . . you know it. Please . . . some other way—”
Tryton shook his huge head and replied in a normal tone, “I’m sorry Solus, but our laws maintain our peace.”
Taryn didn’t get a chance to listen to the rest of the conversation as rock trolls began materializing from every opening. In moments their hulking forms lined the battlements three deep with the trolls that had been in the bowl backing against the walls. An uneasy feeling settled into the pit of Taryn’s stomach as the host of people looked down on Taryn and his friends, watching . . . and waiting.
Looking around at his friends Taryn saw them shifting and swallowing, eyes darting in every direction—even Jack. Taryn caught Siarra’s eye and saw her worried frown as she shook her head slightly. This is not good, he thought. Even Siarra and Jack are rattled.
Kell burst into the bowl carrying a large sand hourglass and moved to stand next to Tryton. The troll king nodded when he saw him and looked back at Siarra. “Choose your finest warrior to be tested in single combat. Doubt is erased if he is the victor, or alive, when the last sand hits the bottom. Defeat will mean you have lied, and will cost the warrior his life.”