“Very good,” Kaitha said. She pushed her grog aside, along with her worries and daydreams of a gardener. “You know, we really should teach you Imperial.”
The Myrewood slipped by in a blur of black and gray, leaving Gorm hopelessly disoriented. His mind raced as he was borne along an unseen path, into the swamp. He hadn’t had long to look at the face of his captor, but he was fairly certain he was dealing with a Troll.
Gorm had never faced a Troll, but the evidence that he was being carried by one was compelling. The stony complexion and rough texture of the hand pressed over Gorm’s mouth. The ragged fur, as clumped and bedraggled as swamp lichen. The unnatural speed and silence with which the beast moved through the wood. He recognized many of the traits from Heroes’ Guild warnings, or from the post-mortem files of lost adventurers.
The histories of the Agekeepers said that Trolls, like all Shadowkin, were descended from the races of men that had been twisted by Stennish magic. Several ages and countless generations ago, the Orcs were once Elves, and Goblins had been Dwarves, and Gnolls, Gremlins, and Slaugh were all lost clans of Gnomes. The Trolls, however, weren’t just twisted by the magic of the traitorous Sten; they were the last descendants of the Sten themselves.
Trolls’ solitary nature and aversion to any sort of community meant they were rare, which was fortunate, because if they weren’t, everything else would be. Legendarily cruel, unbelievably stealthy, and terrifyingly lethal, Trolls were one of only three types of monsters that the guild had no official classification for. Gorm recalled that the Troll entry within the Heroes’ Guild Handbook merely showed a woodcut and read: “Flee and Praye.”
They didn’t go far before the creature propped Gorm against a tree, as though setting up a doll in a diorama. The Troll was like a mountain gorilla, but more mountain than gorilla. The fur covering his stony skin was charcoal with patterns of silver and steel blue and was covered only by a loincloth and a band of small pouches across the creature’s chest. His broad, apish face was reminiscent of a skull, with wide nostrils and small eyes set in deep sockets. An array of twisted, mismatched fangs nearly bisected his face when he bared his teeth.
The Troll crouched down so low that its face was almost level with the Dwarf’s. “I think we should have a talk,” he said in a deep, grating voice, like granite on a grindstone.
It wasn’t much of an opening, but Gorm didn’t expect better. He drew his axe and swung it upward in a sudden strike that connected with the Troll’s throat. He could feel the axe-head dig deep into the beast’s jugular. Thick black blood poured out in spurts that matched the Troll’s choking gasps. Seizing the chance, Gorm abandoned his old weapon and ran, bounding into the darkness as far as his legs would carry him.
Which, as it turned out, wasn’t far at all.
The edge of the clearing was still far from reach when he was grabbed by the leg and hoisted into the air. The Troll’s face swung into view, upside-down and decidedly unhappy. Gorm braced himself for the end.
The Troll reached up and, with pointed slowness, pulled the axe from his neck and offered it to Gorm.
Gorm took the axe. “Aha—yes, well, I was wonderin’ where I’d misplaced that. Careless, really.”
“Indeed,” managed the Troll, his voice cracking as his vocal chords knit themselves back together. The wound in his neck had almost totally closed already. “And now, you and I are going to have a talk.”
“Right,” said Gorm. He launched a storm of axe blows that slashed across the Troll’s face and arm, kicked his way free, and almost made it three steps before he was hauled into the air once more.
“Rrrg! Why do you keep doing that?” the Troll growled, once enough of his face had regrown.
“Pretty foolish of me,” Gorm admitted.
“Can I trust you if I give your weapon back?”
“Aye.”
“Good.” The Troll handed Gorm his axe.
“But ye shouldn’t,” said Gorm, slamming the axe into the Troll’s eye. Theoretically, Gorm reasoned, if he could blind the beast, he might buy enough time to get into the swamp.
It was, like many good theories, completely wrong.
“I suppose an abduction makes a poor start to building a foundation of trust,” said the Troll, a few moments later.
“Probably,” agreed Gorm.
“Then again, sticking an axe in someone’s face doesn’t help the situation much, does it?”
“Nor does pinning someone upside down to a tree,” said Gorm. The blood was rushing to his head.
“Therein lies our problem. How can I be sure you won’t run again if I put you down?”
“Don’t know,” said Gorm. He was starting to feel dizzy. “How do I know ye won’t kill me if I don’t run?”
“Master Dwarf, I can assure you that when I want to kill someone, they are well aware of it, though only for a very short period of time.” The Troll twisted his wrist to right Gorm.
“Fair enough. Then what do you want?”
“I think I’ve been perfectly clear,” said the Troll, furrowing his brow. “I want to talk. To parlay. To make a deal. It would also be nice to not get stabbed or hacked in the face while doing so, if that’s not too much trouble.”
“From what I hear, Trolls don’t negotiate.”
“And flying Dwarves don’t burst through walls, but here we are,” said the Troll, setting Gorm on the ground. “All I want is to talk.”
“Ye dragged me from the inn all the way to the middle of the Myrewood just to talk?”
“Look, I’ll acknowledge this wasn’t terribly well thought-out.” The Troll paused, struggling to find words. “It’s just that, if you had screamed, she might have hear—anyone might have heard … I … we … It’s very difficult to explain.”
“I can see that. How about ye take some time to think it over?” said Gorm. A few years would be ideal. “And I’ll just head back to my friends at the inn.”
“No!” shouted the Troll, and the trees shook with the force of his emphasis.
Gorm froze.
“No, I … look, sorry about that. Let’s start over. My name is Thane,” he said, extending a finger.
“Gorm Ingerson.” He shook the Troll’s finger as if it were a hand.
“Excellent. Mr. Ingerson, I noticed earlier that you have a Goblin with you.”
“Aye,” said Gorm slowly. “He’s me squire.”
“Ah. So you must be the same Gorm Ingerson who punched out the Elven Guard at—”
“Bloody bones, has anybody not heard about that?” Gorm was almost starting to regret giving the guard his comeuppance. A hero trying to revitalize his career needed to pay at least a little heed to his reputation, and at the rate things were going, Gorm’s outburst at the embassy would probably be the talk of the Festival of Orchids.
The Troll bared his fangs again, in what Gorm realized was actually a grotesque facsimile of a smile. “So you’re at least somewhat receptive to the idea of working with Shadowkin?”
“Some Shadowkin,” Gorm qualified. “Did ye bring me out here to ask for a job?”
“Technically, I was out there to collect payment,” said the Troll. He reached into one of his pouches and held out a handful of trinkets and beads.
Gorm recognized the purple payment he’d left atop a post behind the stables. “You’re the King in the Wood.”
“Well, it’s a bit much as titles go,” said the Troll, with what could have been a hint of false modesty. It was hard to read the expression on a Troll’s face; mostly, they just looked murderous.
“So ye followed us all the way back from the thugs’ camp?” said Gorm.
“Right.”
“And the swamp beasts stayed away because…”
“Exactly. Everything avoids me,” beamed Thane. “It’s natural instinct. And monsters and threats could avoid all of you, too, if I was traveling as your squire—”
“Slow down, slow down. It ain’t so simple,” said Gorm. “People see Goblins i
n town all the time, but a Troll’s a different thing. There ain’t any Troll NPCs. Imagine what unsuspecting folks would think if they saw ye walking us down the street. To say nothing of what they’d think of the Dwarf walking next to ye.”
If he brought a Troll back, Gorm wouldn’t have to worry about attending the Festival of Orchids anymore; the clan would reinstate him just so they could banish him again.
“I’m well aware of people’s reactions, thank you,” said the Troll, looking annoyed, or perhaps hurt. “But look!” He bounded back into the clearing and crouched low. His muscles and skin tensed and shifted. Some hairs retracted and others shifted into mossy patterns. Earthy patterns flickered over his skin. In less than a second, the Troll was indistinguishable from a mossy pile of granite boulders.
“Burn me,” swore Gorm softly.
“See?” said the Troll, shifting from mineral to monster as he sprang to his feet. “They’ll never see me.”
“Maybe not a passerby, but what will I tell me party?” said Gorm.
“Nothing,” said Thane. “You don’t tell them a thing. It’s our secret.”
“I’d have to tell them,” said Gorm.
“No,” said the Troll. “That’s the deal. I protect you, and you can’t … you don’t tell her about me. That’s all I want.”
“Who?”
“Her name is Kaitha,” said the Troll.
“Why would ye—oh, no.” There was no mistaking the enamored glint in the Troll’s beady eyes.
“She came into my garden,” said the Troll, looking wistfully into the distance. “She spoke to me.”
“No. Nope,” said Gorm, staring at his feet. Dwarves are reticent about almost any matters of the heart, but Gorm imagined most non-Dwarves would be equally uncomfortable at the thought of a Troll besotted with an Elf. “This ain’t my business.”
“We talked of life and dreams, of what we were and are and could be. And she sang to me, Mr. Ingerson.”
“Ye don’t have to tell me about it.” Images were springing up in Gorm’s mind, and he couldn’t stamp them out fast enough.
“She sang a song so sweet that animals came into my garden. They weren’t even scared!”
“It’s just that it ain’t proper to speak of such things.”
“And her song—like the voice of a goddess. It’s like I’ve lived my whole life just to hear that voice.”
“So go and tell her that,” said Gorm. “Or don’t. So long as ye leave me out of it.”
“Tell her?” Thane looked at Gorm incredulously.
“Aye. Ye talked, right? Just say hello. Or whatever it is ye tall folk do when you’re … fond of each other.”
“Well, yes. But to her, I was a spirit of the forest, a force of nature. If I just go and talk to her, I’d just be … this.” The Troll gestured helplessly at himself. “This is what makes people who see me run screaming, or try to put an axe through my face. What if she did that?” He shuddered visibly at the thought. “I couldn’t endure it. Not from her.”
“Sorry,” said Gorm. “But I’ve a job to do, and I don’t need some tragic, unrequited love interferin’ with it.”
While the Heroes’ Guild Handbook couldn’t forbid anything, it recommended against any sort of romantic involvement on the job. To a professional hero, any sort of distraction could be deadly—for the lovers and others—so the guild frowned on budding romances, passionate interludes, or even unseen pining. While the guild wasn’t specific on fraternizing with Trolls or other monsters, Gorm was confident it would be universally frowned upon. The only thing more distracting than an inter-species relationship among the party would be the inevitable torch-waving mobs that came to end the abomination.
“I’m not asking you to get involved,” pleaded the Troll. “I’m asking for the exact opposite. Keep my secret. Let me stay by her side as she’d prefer me, as the faceless king.”
Gorm shook his head. “It’s just … ye don’t keep a secret this big from your party.”
Thane seemed to wither like a flower in frost. “I see,” he said. “I suppose it’s for the best. If I can’t sway the Dwarf who defended a Goblin, what hope could I have with her?”
Gorm let out a long, weary sigh and tried to convince himself that fame and fortune and the Festival of Orchids were all overrated.
“You won’t regret this,” said Thane.
“I regretted it the moment I agreed to it,” said Gorm, allowing the Troll to gently set him down a few yards behind the tavern.
“You won’t regret this any more than you already do.”
“I’ve said as much about a lot recently, and I’m always wrong.” An autumn evening was falling on the Red Sow, and Gorm could see concerned figures peering through the glowing amber windows. Soon, the heroes would send out searches. “Now, if ye’ll excuse me, I’ve got to run to the stables.”
“The stables?”
“Aye. A piece of straw or two in me beard and some muck on me boots, and everyone will think I spent too long groomin’ the horses.”
Bidding farewell to Thane was more involved than he expected, as the Troll required several reassurances that his secret was safe. After several grumbled promises, Gorm managed to extricate himself and start for the stables. He glanced back over his shoulder when he had crossed half the distance. The ruins of Ebenmyre were empty, save for a pile of boulders that briefly flashed him a thumbs-up.
Gorm’s explanation of his prolonged absence, which included his encounter with Flinn and Brunt and his trip to the stables but omitted any reference to the Troll encounter, was to everyone’s satisfaction, save the innkeeper and Niln. The innkeeper was unhappy about the hole in his stables. Niln was unhappy that he had to pay for it.
There was just one piece of unfinished business left for the evening.
Gorm held off until after he’d laid the case for going to Bloodroot, after Niln and the others had reluctantly agreed, after the food had been served and eaten and complained about, and after the other heroes had grown weary, one by one, and headed upstairs to bed. It wasn’t until he and Kaitha were the only two left at the table that he started the conversation they’d both been dreading.
“Ye split the party, Kaitha.”
The Elf wilted a little. “I know.”
“Ye never split the party.”
“I know.”
“Ye had me chewin’ my whiskers with worry. If ye’d fallen out there, or gotten lost, what could we do? Ye might have died. Ye might not have been the only one.”
“I know.”
It hadn’t been the only time she’d slipped, Gorm told her, but she knew that as well. Her late-night drinking binges were making them depart late and compromising combat readiness. She knew that, too. People were starting to think she was in the midst of another of her famous meltdowns, and to worry they would soon be at the center of another story for the more salacious town criers. Kaitha was well aware. The unspoken issue sitting between them wasn’t that Kaitha didn’t know she was in another spiral, but that she didn’t know any way out, except the spot at the bottom.
Gorm sighed. “So why did ye split the party?”
“I … I needed a drink,” said the Elf reluctantly.
“Right in the middle of the swamp?”
“I think we’ve made it clear that I have a problem.”
“So how do we fix it?” said Gorm.
“Here.” Kaitha pushed her grog away. She rummaged through her rucksack, produced a silver flask, and dropped it on the table. “I’ll have no more drink. Not another drop.”
“Ye think it’s that simple?”
Kaitha shook her head. “Gorm, when I was in the wood, I felt like … like something followed me, keeping me safe. A protector. And when it was there, I wasn’t so … thirsty.”
She looked out the window wistfully, and Gorm felt a chill run up his spine. The ranger was looking directly at the spot where he had left Thane.
“And I know he likely isn’t there, that this King
in the Wood is probably a superstition wrapped in a marketing ploy, but thinking he is there, that he might really be watching over me, it helps, you know? I don’t want to … drink as much. I’m more myself. The me I used to be, when I was the Jade Wind.”
She turned back to Gorm. “It’s a useful lie, so I believe it. It’s better than reality. Like telling yourself there’s justice in the world, or that we can make a difference. They’re probably not true, but we’ll be better people if we pretend they are.
“I don’t know if I can fix everything about myself by giving up drinking and handing you the flask, or even fix anything. But I’ll come closer if I trust it will work, so what choice do I have but to believe? We need the lie.”
Gorm looked out the window and saw the silhouette of a pile of boulders that was not a pile of boulders. “Aye,” was all he could say.
Kaitha followed his gaze. “I still dream that the King in the Wood is more than a spirit, and perhaps even a man, an Elf. And that he made the garden I found in the Myrewood, and I could join him there again someday, after all of this.”
“It’s possible,” Gorm lied. His heart was heavy as he bade her goodnight.
Chapter 13
“And so we can see that loot yields have dropped another thirteen percent.” Poldo pointed to a chart that looked like a crimson ski slope. “It’s starting to have an adverse effect on some of our other holdings. Adventure Capital is down four percent. Vorpal Corp. dropped six.”
“Indeed,” said Baggs, without looking up from his ledger. Neither he nor Goldson seemed particularly interested in Poldo’s report, despite the extra red ink and very large print Poldo had used to try to attract their attention. Poldo had tried many things to get his superiors to notice his findings, from big graphs to long reports to props and visual aids. He’d even hired a painter to do an emotive rendition of the recent profit reports, but the resulting work was too horrible to display. He’d had the thing burned. He still had nightmares about it.
Yet Mr. Goldson and Mr. Baggs seemed wholly unconcerned by the dismal figures. If anything, they were more boisterous than normal, and they were definitely becoming more aggressive in their stock purchases. The whole world screamed that financial calamity was almost upon them, and yet Goldson and Baggs acted as if it were the golden era of the empire. As a general rule, Poldo always assumed they knew something he didn’t, but he’d be burned for a Sten if he wasn’t really bloody curious what it was this time.
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