He lay down, head on a rolled-up blanket, shirt sticking to his chest. He would have taken it off, but weariness weighed him down, and to take off his shirt without hurting his shoulder too much proved a laborious process, delaying further the onset of sleep. He would be lucky if restful sleep ever came back to him. It never did now. He would dream a dark dream, and then he would wake to an aching shoulder. It would take him at least a half hour to get back to sleep, and then the cycle would repeat itself.
He looked to Erik, sleeping next to him. His tiny shivers and sweat-soaked shirt told of a similar experience. He knew his brother had dark dreams, too. Befel laid his head back and stared at the stars overhead, most of which hid behind gray wisps of cloud. The snapping and cracking of wood in the fire served as a lullaby while sleep pulled at his eyelids. Amidst the chorus of popping, and the faint chirping of crickets, he tried to hear his mother’s voice telling him a bedtime story. But then he closed his eyes, and darkness came, and the dead were there to greet him.
Chapter 14
ERIK WAS LISTENING TO ANOTHER story about Drake’s wife when the scratchy, almost hissing voice of Switch chimed in.
“By all the bones beneath the ground,” the thief said. His voice sounded like that of a scolding father, loud enough to gather someone’s attention, but not a shout. “Could we please listen to another bloody story rather than one about your bloody wife?”
His sarcasm was not lost on Drake, and he stopped for a few moments. Vander Bim had slowed them to a crawl and was already turning his horse to face his companions. Erik heard the dwarves behind him speaking in their native tongue and then heard the familiar thump of boots hitting the ground. He saw Nafer tying his horse’s reins to a knee-high shrub growing lonely amongst hard ground. Befel sighed, and Switch grumbled, spitting and cursing about the slow goings and injured men and dead weight.
“If it was his decision, he’d slit Samus’ throat in the middle of the night and be done with him,” Erik said.
“That he would,” Befel said.
“Probably ours too,” Erik added.
“Most certainly ours,” Befel replied. “I’m sure he would slit mine first.”
Befel looked at his shoulder and made arm circles.
“I don’t think so,” Erik said, shaking his head. “He would probably slit Bryon’s first.”
“You’re probably right,” Befel said with a short laugh. “Then mine. Then yours. Then Wrothgard’s. And then . . .maybe even the dwarves.”
“Not the dwarves. They are too smart,” Erik said. “And so is Wrothgard.”
“You don’t even know the guy,” Befel said. Erik could see that exasperated look forming on Befel’s face, the one he wore when he thought Erik was being childish.
“No, I don’t,” Erik said with a shrug, “but I think I like him. He seems like a good fellow. I remember him from The Lady’s Inn. He was kind, helpful. Not like the other mercenaries.”
“Erik, please,” Befel said.
“Stop talking to me like I’m a child,” Erik spat. “You think I’m still some young, ignorant fool on the farm. Two years and some has done a lot, Befel. I can read people. I could have told you from the beginning that Switch is a rat turd. And I could have told you that Vander Bim, as kind as he tries to be, is a lost, hopeful leader who will never amount to that which he wants. And I can tell you that Wrothgard is a good and kind man.”
Befel walked away, shaking his head and muttering to himself while Erik stood by his horse, drinking warm water and watching Turk tend to Samus. He noticed his cousin brushing his horse’s hair, whispering to it like a lover, and Switch, off in the distance spitting and kicking rocks like some little disgruntled kid. The other two dwarves—Nafer and Demik—conversed in their own language, while Wrothgard listened intently to a jovial conversation between Drake and Vander Bim. Erik couldn’t hear much of their conversation, but he did hear the miner say something about his mother-in-law and to that, both the sailor and the soldier threw their heads back and laughed loudly.
Amidst the laughter and Switch’s cursing, Erik heard another sound, something like an odd laugh, loud and piercing. He looked about to see where the sound came from, but it turned to a screech, and then a whimper, and then a gurgling, grotesque sound like bubbling water passing through a narrow spout. Then, at the edge of their makeshift camp, Drake’s horse was flailing about on the ground, its hooves slamming hard against the dirt, kicking up a choking cloud of dust. When it stopped, Erik saw its head, a bloody mess of black mane, a broken jaw lolling to one side, and broken teeth and bits of the rock that had felled it scattered about.
Demik shouted something spoken in a harsh, cursing tone in his own language and, in response, a bestial growl echoed from the mountains. Demik pointed, and Erik followed the dwarf ’s finger to a spot in the slopes of the Southern Mountains—and there he saw it. It caught his breath for a moment—something he expected to see and then something he thought he would never see at all. It looked like he thought it might, but then again, much worse.
“Trolls!” Wrothgard yelled.
Two stood there, among a small copse of ironwoods and boulders. One was half-hidden behind a tree while the other stood in the open, clearly defiant as it looked down on the group of men. It’s back hunched over, slouched at the shoulders, and almost leaning on its knuckles. Its arms were as long as its legs and both rippled with muscle that cast shadows along its gray skin every time it moved. Even from a hundred paces away, it looked monstrously large, perhaps six heads taller than Bryon if it stood straight up. Its head of stringy, black hair that spilled over its shoulders like thick, sticky mud, sat atop its shoulders seemingly without a neck. Below its sloping brow of disheveled, bushy, black eyebrows sat two beady eyes, too small for its massive head and set too close. They stared at Erik and, with a malicious grunt, the beast showed a row of sharp, yellowed teeth set in a jaw with a severe under bite.
The troll in plain view gripped a rock in its one hand that would’ve taken Erik all his own strength to lift just a hand’s-width off the ground. With a wolf-like howl, it lifted the rock over its head, snorted from its snot-filled, flat nose, and heaved the missile well past where anyone in the party stood. It shattered in a spray of rubble. Everyone just stared.
The monster snorted in disgust—it had missed its mark. Its comrade grunted and spoke in an ugly language. The first moved down the mountain’s slope, and its saunter was one of indifference as if it really didn’t care that the mercenaries stood there, watching. However, every step it took caused Erik’s heart to beat faster, harder. He could see the thing’s leg muscles flex and move under the torn and stained wool pants it wore, cut at the knees. Still eighty paces away, Erik could smell its putrid stench, that of shit and offal and unwashed flesh.
“What are you fools doing?” Wrothgard cried, retrieving his long sword from its sheath. “Arm yourselves. Get ready. Fight for your lives.”
His voice stung like a switch across the back of Erik’s legs, and his mesmerized trance broke. He looked back to his brother and drew his own sword at the same time. He saw his cousin doing the same, Switch racing after his frightened horse and pulling his bow from behind the saddle when he finally caught it, and the dwarves readying their weapons. He saw Drake, flat on his backside, scooting away from the dead horse he had been grooming and then pushing himself into a crouched position. The troll was only sixty paces away now, with another rock in its hands, this one smaller than the last one. Drake realized he was weaponless and made for his pickaxe, but as he lunged forward, the monster threw its own weapon and the rock crashed against Drake’s right knee with a deafening crunch. The miner’s face hit the ground hard as the rock took his legs out from under him. As soon as he pushed himself up, his face covered in blood and dirt, a scream erupted from his mouth. He tried to stand but collapsed immediately, his leg a twisted, mangled thing underneath his body.
“Help me!” cried Drake. Erik thought he heard the troll laugh. “My
leg! It’s broken!”
“No bloody kidding,” Erik heard Switch say and turned to see the thief taking careful aim with his short bow.
While Vander Bim made his way, sword in hand, towards his friend, Switch loosed two arrows towards the first troll, both missiles striking its meaty chest and doing little more than causing a low growl. It slammed its fists into the ground hard and, using all four of its limbs, raced towards Vander Bim, who now had Drake’s collar in his hand and was dragging the screaming miner away from the fight.
The other troll now started down the mountain slope, and Erik noticed this one carried a spear, the shaft a long, thick pole of crooked ash tipped with a bent bronze dagger. It barked at its comrade, and the first troll replied with crude grunts and howls.
Erik heard the sound of hooves behind him.
“Move aside!” yelled Wrothgard. He galloped hard towards the trolls, digging his heels into the horse’s flanks. As he passed Erik, the young man heard him yell, “For Tedish!”
“Get to your horse,” Befel said, pulling himself into the saddle of his own mount.
Then he heard Vander Bim plead to him, “Help me. Help us.”
He looked to the sailor. He cried as his friend flailed about like his dead horse did only moments before. Erik could see bloody bone sticking from the miner’s pants. His foot twisted behind him. Vander Bim stopped pulling him and cradled his head, trying to hush him as if Drake was a child just awoken by a nightmare.
“I’m no good to them,” Erik muttered.
“Here,” Befel cried. Erik turned to see his brother holding the reins of his horse. “Mount up. Hurry.”
“I can’t fight from horseback.” Erik took the reins. He looked into the eyes of his horse. Fear. It stamped its hoof hard and neighed, jerking its head so hard, it almost pulled the bridle from Erik’s hands.
“You had better try,” Befel replied.
Erik looked to the troll. Even on all fours, it stood several heads taller than he did. Erik mounted, and as he turned his horse to face the monster, he saw Wrothgard race past the beast. His sword sliced across its shoulder. Thick, darkened blood erupted like a fountain and poured over the troll’s gray-skinned arm, but it didn’t seem to notice, even as two more arrows thudded into the opposite shoulder. Then, as Wrothgard raced towards the second troll, a throwing axe bit deep into the creature’s thigh.
“Turk,” Erik muttered. The dwarf ran to the troll, shield at the ready, another throwing axe in his hands.
“Let’s go,” Befel said, and spurred his horse towards the oncoming troll.
Erik saw Vander Bim dragging Drake again, pulling him as quickly as he could away from the monster and making almost no ground. Turk rushed to their aid, battle-axe now in hand. Erik saw Bryon ride up next to Befel. He saw a beast with an open mouth of blackened teeth, sharp as daggers, salivating as it closed in on the sailor. Two more arrows thudded into its ribs, but the troll ignored them as one might ignore a gnat. Instead, it lifted its arm, a massive hand curled into a fist which it shook as it roared.
Bryon passed Befel, passed Turk, rode hard to the troll, and raked his sword across its underarm. It stopped and swatted at Bryon, missing. When it turned back around, Vander Bim had made his way to the beast. He plunged his sword into its side, a finger’s-length deep. The troll brought the thick back of its hand across the sailor’s face with a deafening thud. The sailor flew backwards, heels over his head, his sword still stuck in the troll’s flesh. The troll pulled the blade from its side and threw it away like an annoying splinter. Erik could see its gaze turn to Drake.
“No!” he yelled.
As Bryon turned his horse around to attack again and Turk raced towards the troll, the beast continued to make its way to Drake, who pushed himself backwards as fast as he could, screaming in agony with each jerk of his body, but spurred on by the adrenaline. As the monster hovered over him and reached for his neck, the miner pulled a dagger from his belt and plunged it into the troll’s hand. The iron blade ripped through the beast’s hand, poking through the back. The troll howled like a demon wolf. It brought its face close to Drake’s and yelled, covering the man’s face with sticky saliva. The miner still gripped his dagger, so the troll grabbed his wrist, and with a simple shake, Erik heard the snapping of bone. The miner cried, but the beast slammed its sloping forehead into the miner’s face and an explosion of blood silenced Drake’s shrieks. The troll gripped the man’s throat and lifted him off the ground. It shook him like a straw-stuffed doll and then threw the miner to the ground, his body limp.
The troll stood over the miner’s body, lifting its hands in the air, ready to slam its fists into Drake’s chest. The beast merely flinched when Bryon’s sword sliced a red line across its back but roared when Turk’s half-moon axe blade thumped deep into its flesh. For the first time, Erik saw the troll falter as it bent to one knee, but it popped up again, swinging at the dwarf twice, Turk easily ducking out of the way. Both Bryon’s and Turk’s blades cut the troll again, another arrow thunking into its chest.
“Erik, don’t just sit there,” he heard Befel yell. He turned to see his brother riding after Wrothgard toward the booted troll.
He had been sitting and watching, doing nothing.
“Do something, you fool,” Erik hissed, cursing himself. “You coward.”
As he rode to the aid of his cousin and Turk, he could hear Bryon’s curses as he dodged attacks from the troll and tried to jab and cut with his own weapon. He saw the other two dwarves from the corner of his eye, rushing over to help, Samus close behind them, hobbling with his sword and shield in tow. Blood seeped from dozens of the troll’s wounds, but it still fought, and hard. A kick to the chest sent Turk rolling backwards. Another backhand to the face knocked Vander Bim, who had gathered himself and taken position over the body of Drake, off his feet. Bryon’s horse reared, and the troll rushed in and punched the steed in the chest. It looked as if the creature would roll backwards, over Bryon, but it came down resiliently on its hooves, Bryon barely hanging in his saddle.
Erik rushed in, swinging three times. He felt the tip of his sword bite the troll once. His heart raced, and goose pimples rose along his arms. He raised his sword above his head, ready to bring it down hard on the troll’s shoulder, but an errant arm from the troll caught the young man across the face and chest. He flew from his saddle, over the flank of his horse. The ground came up fast and hit Erik. He couldn’t breathe. His face felt hot. He looked up to the sky overhead, clouded by dust. The clouds seemed to run away, growing smaller and smaller. Erik’s vision narrowed, black crowding in on all sides until the blue sky became a tiny pinpoint that finally disappeared into nothing.
Chapter 15
WROTHGARD COULDN’T HEAR ANYTHING. HE knew a hard fight raged behind him. He didn’t care. He couldn’t care. There was only it. The second troll. The murderer. White scars mottled its chest. Its spear, bronze tip bent, stained with old blood.
“Tedish!” Wrothgard screamed, releasing the tension in his body. A wild, madman’s scream. His air ran out, he coughed, breathed, and screamed again. And his foe simply stood its ground, a hideous grimace its version of a smile.
“I will kill you!” yelled Wrothgard as he dug his heels into his horse’s ribs.
The troll understood his promise, and it shook its head ever so slightly as it gripped its spear with both hands.
Forty paces, thirty paces, twenty paces, ten, lift the sword and . . .
Wrothgard leaned away from the bronze tip of the troll’s spear and brought his sword down, hard. Not a solid strike. Not as solid as he would have liked. It cut deep into the creature’s shoulder, however. His steel pulled away a chunk of flesh. He could hear his enemy scream behind him, and he turned to attack again.
“What man is a match for a mountain troll?” Wrothgard asked himself. “I am.”
The shaft of the troll’s spear met him when he turned, the thick wood smacking him across the face and sending him backwards over t
he flank of his horse. He fell to his stomach, his face buried in the dirt. His vision blurred for a moment.
He could feel the troll’s hot breath pour over him and knew he only had a few seconds. He pushed himself up and rolled to his right. The bronze blade of the spear drove deep into the ground where Wrothgard had been lying. He looked up to see the troll staring at him. It screamed, retrieved its spear, and thrust it into the shoulder of Wrothgard’s horse. The creature cried and shrieked as it bucked. The troll then grabbed the horse by the head and twisted, straining the animal’s thick, muscled neck, its eyes wild and scared. Wrothgard finally heard the loud snapping—like a thunderclap—of a horse’s neck breaking, and the beast fell limp to the ground. Fifty men wouldn’t have been able to do such a thing.
Wrothgard picked up his sword and drew his other one, the broken one. His head pounded, throbbing from the base of his neck to the back of his eyeballs. The mountain troll standing in front of him blurred, turning into two monsters for a moment. Wrothgard tasted blood in his mouth but refused to spit it out, refused to show signs of hurt or weakness. Wrothgard thought the troll would charge; it would have been the easiest thing for it to do, after all. But it didn’t. It seemed to study him, perhaps even overestimate him. It jabbed its bronze-tipped spear at the man a few times, Wrothgard easily dodging. These weren’t meant to kill, wound even. It was playing with him.
Wrothgard could hear the sounds of battle behind him—the cries of men, the screaming of horses, the howl of the other troll. He ignored them. Another spear jab, this one more serious. Wrothgard stepped to the side. The soldier spit at the beast and lunged forward, the tip of his good sword barely scratching the troll’s skin.
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