* * *
One evening after an especially grueling day, Iliff resolved to light a fire. He had been unable to do so since the winds started up.
“There may not be food this night,” he said, “but we are going to enjoy some warmth.”
He led them beyond the meager tree line. The steepness over which they had been struggling for weeks had begun to level off late in the day, and the wind gusted and swirled from every direction. Iliff arranged a few large stones into a circle and set some kindling inside. He sent Troll to gather larger branches for fuel. “But stay in sight,” he called. Troll hobbled into the trees, too weak even to affect irritability.
Iliff searched for matches, then remembered that he had used the last of them some time ago. He dug into his bag and found the tinder pouch that Adramina had given him. The time in her dwelling seemed so distant now, like a dream. Your path must be up, ever up, she had said. For that is where the Sun is seen. It sounded so simple. But with their violent change in fortunes, he wondered if he was any closer now than on that morning. His throat caught. What was he doing wrong! Why were they being starved and pushed back? Was he being tested? Punished?
Or had Euclid been right about this place all along?
No, he could not think about that, could not think about returning there. But he had his companion to consider. Iliff listened to him snapping off branches in the darkness. He had led Troll into this world and was responsible for him. He could not allow him to die out here.
Iliff set out the contents of the tinder pouch on a flat rock. The length of metal felt warm in his bruised hands. He turned it over. He still had his appeals; indeed, he had thought about them much in the last days. He had wanted to hold onto them as long as he could, but now their situation was dire. He looked skyward. He would still have two left.
“Please, Adramina,” he called with the little strength he had. “I am lost. Please… please help me.”
Iliff waited. He was not sure what would follow, but there was nothing. He wiped his eyes and placed a fragment of the tinder fungus beneath the kindling. When he struck the metal against the flint, a white spark leapt out and landed on the fungus. It smoldered and gave off a bit of smoke. Iliff leaned forward to blow on it, but it was already winking out. He was preparing to strike again when Troll returned, bearing two fistfuls of wood. Suddenly, the spark whispered and then whooshed into a white blaze that engulfed the kindling.
“There it is!” Iliff cried.
Troll recoiled and dropped the wood. He threw a hand to his eyes. But shortly he lowered his hand. The white light played over his craggy features.
“Do you see?” Iliff said.
Without taking his gaze from the blaze, Troll felt for a piece of wood and leaned forward to put it over the flames. Iliff leapt to his feet.
“No!” he cried. “You’ll smother it!”
He tried to pull the wood from Troll’s hands, but his companion did not relent. When at last Iliff wrestled the wood away, the kindling collapsed into a heap. Dimness and cold returned to their space.
“Look what you’ve done!” Iliff cried.
He fell to his knees and blew on the puny embers and set fresh kindling over them, but nothing caught. He picked up the metal and flint. “Stay back,” he warned. But he could not produce even the slightest spark. He struck and struck, each collision more feeble than the one before it. Finally, the implements trembled and fell out of his hands. He turned from them, from Troll, and pulled his cloak around him. The chill winds moaned and pushed him over. He closed his eyes where he lay and drew in his starved limbs.
He wished only to sleep now, to forget everything.
* * *
Troll watched Iliff fall. He took a step toward him then stopped. He had seen the anger in his eyes, and more than anger. There had been blame. Blame for the fire going out. Blame for their hunger, for their misfortunes.
And Iliff was probably right to blame him, Troll thought.
He had done nothing to help them since they had arrived out here. He had failed at hunting, failed at keeping watch over the woman. He had done nothing to keep Iliff safe. He was the one being provided for now. The only thing he did was carry the treasures. But so what? Iliff no longer cared about them. There was the sack now, on the edge of the camp, just where it had been dropped.
Troll limped to the nearest tree and squatted on his haunches. He looked at the huddled form of his companion. He did not like Iliff’s control, did not like his plan to lead them to the very high place with the light. Why then, he wondered, did he continue to follow him? To do whatever he bid?
He didn’t know. But there was a need, insistent and deep-felt, a need that had begun in the mines during his earliest vigils over Iliff. The need was so great that it rivaled his desire for gold, even. It was the need to be near him.
Troll recalled his final meeting with the Boss.
“Don’t let him get far,” the Boss had told him. “Bring him back to me as soon as you can. Use force if you have to. Your reward will be great. Foods, treasures.”
“Will I still be the one to guard him?”
“Of course. Forever and ever, if you like. But do not fail me.”
And so Troll promised to bring him back.
But that was before they had come out into the world. So many things to see, so many smells. And the woman, the woman who had taken his hand and led him inside the grasses and talked and talked and bid him lie beside her. He recalled her voice, like tumbling water, and the closeness and roundness of her as they slept. And by the next morning, with his body still enfolding hers, Troll could no longer imagine himself in the mines. He could no longer imagine crouching inside those stinking tunnels with his own miserable kind. No, he wanted to stay there with the woman.
But when Iliff confronted him that morning, when he looked like he was ready to go on without him, Troll found out that his need to be near him was greater. He became afraid. He relented. And he had done whatever Iliff had told him since.
But his companion looked so small lying there now, so weak. Troll’s eyes searched around. If only he could grab up something for them to eat.
“But for the rules…” he moaned.
Something caught his attention. He craned his neck and peered through the darkness to the far side of the river. A spark? No, a fire. Troll rose to his feet for a better look. Yes, far off, almost hidden by the trees. A campfire, perhaps? There could be food there, warmth certainly. At the least he could return with some coals and get a fire going here.
He crept to where his companion lay and stooped over him. Sleeping. Troll backed away and then stole from the camp and down to the river. With two steps he was in the middle of the water, his stony calves parting its frigid course. Troll stopped and looked back to their camp. He would soon be out of sight.
So be it.
He left the river and entered the barren forest. He drew a mark on the distant fire until everything else became peripheral. He crept from tree to tree, stepping over anything that might make a sound to announce his presence. The closer he got, the quicker became his heartbeats, the keener his senses. The fire burned in a large clearing. Troll saw no food, alas, just a circle of flaming boughs. He searched for the fire’s maker, but saw no one and nothing. He scanned the darkness beyond the clearing. Whoever had built it had moved on, it seemed.
Troll crept to the verge of the clearing and peered about again. Still nothing. He stepped into the fire’s raw radiance. He trained his sights on a fat branch whose end glowed orange. Yes, that would do. He knelt to grab it and then howled and grasped his leg. Something had pierced the back of his thigh, something long and rough. Troll closed his hand over it.
“Stop there!” a voice commanded. It was husky and forceful. “The next one is aimed at your wretched skull.”
Troll’s leg quivered and gave out and he fell to his side. He heard his attacker rush in, felt his hair being yanked inside a violent fist. Something cold and sharp bit into h
is throat.
“Tell me why I shouldn’t split you wide, you foul thing.”
The man over him was large and darkly bearded. His weather-worn face and severe eyes burned in the firelight. He drew Troll’s hair into a tighter ball, further exposing his neck. He pressed on the blade.
“Please!” Troll gasped. “I—I just wanted to borrow of your fire.”
The man chortled. “I know a predator when I see one. I watched you step from the river, watched the way you stole to my camp. Borrowing of my fire was the last thing on your murderous mind.”
“We have no food,” Troll said. “I thought this was a cooking fire. I didn’t come to hurt anyone.”
“A common dog in search of scraps. Hah! This from a creature whose every quality screams of the kill. Claws for gouging, brawn for wrenching and dismembering, a jaw to crush even the stoutest of windpipes.” The blade skipped from Troll’s throat and forced his lower lip down to his gums. “And what about these dark gnashing things?”
The man returned the blade to Troll’s throat. He set his knee into Troll’s stomach and bore down.
Troll groaned and became faint. He felt as if all the hunger, all the exertion of the last weeks were taking their toll at once. He could do nothing, could not even struggle for his expiring air. His body crumpled. He watched the man’s image mottle over into shadow, punishing but featureless, watched it diffuse further into the darkness that was his failing awareness.
Troll’s final thought was a strange one. What the man had said about his claws, his brawn, his teeth—he had never considered those things about himself.
And then total darkness.
Chapter 20
The wind was dark and constant. It howled through the trees and blasted fallen leaves and debris across the ground in icy gusts. A freezing rain began to fall, hard and stinging. Iliff remained inside his cloak, withdrawn from the elements, withdrawn from the world. At dawn, when the rains had passed and the winds relented but still pushed and sighed over him, he stirred.
He refused to open his eyes. Refused to look on the bleak landscape. They would turn around that day. There was nothing else to do. He had followed the river, followed it upward, and now they were cold and starving. The only thing they would find ahead was death.
The Sun did not want him. He had decided this while fading into sleep the night before. Perhaps it was because he had strayed too far and too long from the path, had embraced the darkness of the mines. Or maybe it was because he had emerged in the company of a troll. The reasons no longer mattered. He could only imagine that Salvatore had exercised better judgment on his own journey. His strength and commitment had likely been unbending, far beyond Iliff’s own capacities, certainly.
His only hope now was that the Sun would be benevolent enough to provide for them on their journey back. Otherwise, they would not make it.
He opened his eyes. He had to get them moving. When he sat up and turned, a blast of smoke chafed his eyes. He squinted and lowered his head until the winds shifted and carried the smoke over the river.
“Troll?” he croaked.
A large fire burned in their camp, in the circle of stones where he had failed to start his own blaze. And Troll. He could just make out his squatting form beyond the smoke. The smells of cooking meat and fat mingled in the tossing winds and made his stomach quiver.
Troll rose to his full height and waved him over. Iliff went on uncertain legs and sat on the log that Troll set before him. He felt vague, insubstantial, like a specter in a foggy dreamscape, unable to understand, much less engage, the scene around him. But the fire was strong and began to work on him immediately, easing his numbness and soreness, clearing his mind a bit.
Troll handed him a spit through the smoke. Iliff looked at the charred meat, unable to recall the last time he had eaten anything substantial. He tore off a mouthful and bolted it down, and then another. He took more time with the second spit, relishing the hardiness of the meat. The third was the best of all. He could feel his strength swimming back, as if from the bottom of some deep, dismal pool. Those dreaded thoughts of returning to the mines diminished, then disappeared.
Iliff wiped his mouth and set the final spit on his log beside the others. He looked to Troll who was finishing up as well. Half-a-dozen of the blackened sticks lay scattered around his feet.
“Thank you,” Iliff said and then laughed. “You did well, Troll. Really well.”
Troll lifted his head with what appeared satisfaction. He ran his final spit between his gray lips and wiped his hands on the front of his trousers. Iliff noticed the blood and hair on his pant legs.
“Hunting.” Iliff knitted his brow. “Nothing large, I hope.”
“Don’t worry,” Troll said. “It’s small game. Hare, I think they’re called. The hoppy ones. I found a nest of ’em across the river. They’re easy to catch. As easy as reaching inside a hole.”
“How did you get a fire going?”
“I found the tiniest ember in the ash.” He showed his pinched thumb and forefinger. “I was able to feed it. I built it up and up until it was big enough to warm us and cook over. It took a good part of the night.”
Iliff had watched every ember burn out. He remembered his anguish. There had been nothing left in the ash. Nothing at all.
“Well, things are certainly looking up…” Iliff fell silent for a moment and frowned. “If we were to continue, do you think you’d be able to catch more small game? Enough to keep us going?”
“I don’t know. It’s getting colder. The ice that fell last night is probably going to get heavier. I don’t think we should go on for now. Too dangerous.”
Iliff was silent.
“We can build a shelter here and keep the fire going,” Troll added. “I know where I can find more hare, and there’s a pool where big fish swim. What we don’t eat, we can smoke and save for when it’s good to travel again.”
Iliff looked around. He did not much like the idea of staying put, but it did seem the most sensible plan for the time being.
“Yes, all right,” he said at last. “We can build here. It’s clear and mostly flat.”
Troll shook his head. “No, farther back. We’re too close to the river, too out in the open. We need some trees to break up the wind. Maybe over there.” He indicated the forest.
Though Troll’s tone did not challenge, Iliff tensed as if it had. What did he think he was doing? thought Iliff. Troll had already broken his first two rules, had lied to him about the fire. And now he presumed to make decisions for them?
He saved your life, he reminded himself.
Iliff conceded. He nodded his assent to Troll’s plan and watched as his companion stood and ambled toward the forest. He was only looking out for them, Iliff thought, only acting on his instinct for survival. Certainly there was nothing wrong with that. Not under the circumstances.
“You’re limping,” Iliff called.
“Hmm?” Troll reached around and felt the mat of dried blood on his trousers. “Must’ve gotten stuck by a branch last night.”
“Come here, let’s have a look.”
Troll waved him away. “No, no. It looks worse than it feels. We’re bad to bleed, trolls. It’s stopped bleeding anyway. Nothing to bother over.”
* * *
Troll had lain beneath the man’s weight, his breath, his awareness, his very will forced from him. He had submitted and been smothered under darkness. But he did not die. The pressure sparked something in the pit of his stomach, some combustible vitality, like fire, that swelled his chest and lungs and stormed up his throat to emerge as a blasting roar.
Troll heaved the man aside and sprang to his feet. He gnashed his teeth and lunged for him. The man rolled aside and put the fire between them. He crouched low and held out his stone blade, the thick tawny skins that draped him skirting the ground. The two circled the flames. Each matched the other step for step until after a time it could no longer be told who was pursuing and who was retreating.
The man pressed the back of his hand to his bleeding mouth. “What is it you really want?” His voice was low and cautious. “Why do you stalk my camp?”
“I told you,” Troll growled. “I came for food and fire. I didn’t know you were here.” He winced as he reached for the shaft in his leg.
“Don’t pull it,” the man said. “That kind of arrow is made to plunge deep and remain embedded. Here, let me help you.” The man sheathed his knife at his rawhide belt and stepped around the fire. “Go on, lower your hand. I’m not going to harm you.”
Troll eyed the man. There was something in his manner that made Troll want to trust him. He was so sturdy, so assured. Troll grunted and let his arm fall. He turned to expose the injury and fought the urge to flinch as the man knelt and touched the arrow.
“Yes, it will have to be withdrawn in a perfect line along its shaft. It will tear the flesh otherwise. Now hold still a moment.” Troll felt the man’s bracing grip just above the inside of his knee. And then, without warning, came a red burst of pain followed by a rust-colored seething. “There!” the man said. “It’s out.”
Troll reached back. Blood warmed his fingers and spilled the length of his leg. The man took something from the pouch at his waist, something brown and fibrous. He bit off a piece and began to chew. He removed it shortly, inspected the moist cud he had made, and pressed it deep inside the wound. Troll’s open flesh clamored for a moment, then quieted.
“That will staunch the bleeding,” the man said. “And help you to heal.”
Troll grunted.
“So it’s food and fire you want.” The man gathered his bow and quiver. “All right, but what have you been doing for food until now? For warmth?”
Troll told him that they had emerged into the world only a few months before and that there had been plenty of food in the forest until their recent change in fortunes. “And now we’re freezing and starving,” he said. “And I’m to blame, I’m afraid.”
“You?” The man laughed and squatted by the fire. He shoved in several branches. “Your only fault, you and your companion, is your ignorance. You don’t know about the seasons. There’s a cycle to this place. Plants are plentiful in the summer, but not in the winter. Now you must hunt. Your survival depends on it.”
Escape (The Prisoner and the Sun #1) Page 12