The vial arcs through the air and easily catches the lumbering mass of flesh squarely on the hunchback. In a brilliant rainbow of glittering shards, the thin glass of the vial shatters, sending red, oily liquid spattering across the troll’s back. The oil — an angry acid I normally use to melt locks that prove too difficult to pick — instantly burns through the sackcloth and into the fat of the beast.
It’s like watching butter melt on a fresh biscuit as the troll’s flesh begins to liquefy and run in rivulets down his back.
The gigantic beast drops to his knees in pain while his hands frantically tear at the disintegrating sackcloth and now bubbling flesh. With the shirt pulled away, I can see the exposed back, the skin birthing blisters that rapidly form and burst only to be replaced by more blisters that form and burst. It’s a question of what will win — will the acid outstrip the regeneration or will the regeneration neutralize the acid?
As this tug-of-war plays out between the two irresistible forces, huge rolls of troll flesh slide from his back, forming a puddle of black, bubbling skin around him.
“Hraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!”
The wail is deafening, reverberating off the mountainsides, the valley and through the pass. I close my eyes at the sudden sound.
“Hraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!”
The knife drops from my grasp, my hands working automatically to cover my ears. I fall back against the keep’s fortifications. For a few moments I hunch there. There is a sudden and complete silence. It dawns on me that maybe it’s quiet because I’ve just lost all hearing.
I open one eye, knowing if I mash the other closed I’ll be safe. Or not.
The plateau in front of the gate is motionless, a tableau of chaos where, for a moment, nothing moves. Carts lay overturned, horses stand slack-jawed, merchants cower behind cover. Across the way I catch sight of Muel lying face down, one guard lying splayed beside him. The sixth and final guard is standing dazed beside my companion, overwhelmed at the blood his fingers have found ebbing from his ears.
The focal point of this tableau is the troll.
A normal, mortal, flesh and bones being would find the notion of tearing huge swathes of muscle and sinew from their body an impossibility. The troll, on the other hand, seems to have no concern. If its first bellow was the pain of the acid, the second bellow was it rending through its own meat, separating the compromised flesh from its bones.
That flesh, several hundred pounds of weight, now lays bubbling and boiling like a witch’s brew, an odorous scum spattered around its feet. I even spot spine before that too collapses into a black soup of blood and calcium. The sheer amount of rendered flesh would be fatal to any other being, but not so for a creature with instant regeneration.
Still, nothing moves on the plateau until the troll lets out a gaseous burp, hocks up what must be its damaged larynx, and smiles.
Normally I wouldn’t think that listening to the belch of a troll was good news, but in this case it confirms I have my hearing back! The bad news is as follows.
With one hand the troll reaches out, pulls a merchant from under a wagon and stuffs it into its vast maw. As the troll jams the majority of the man into its mouth and chews, the sound of the poor fellow’s cracking ribs and his last shriek of breath bounce and echo over the battlefield. There is nothing pretty about this.
“Ahhh, shit.” I wish I had something more elegant to say, but the truth is that when things are moving way too quickly, sometimes only the simplest phrases can come to mind. I watch as the merchant disappears down the troll’s regenerated throat and a near merchant-sized lump of fat and flesh grows back on the troll. Let me say this — sometimes things are worth repeating. “Ahh, shit, shit, shit.” Not only do trolls regenerate like quicksilver, they metabolize food nearly as quickly.
We make eye contact.
I crack a smile of desperation, one that says “Hey, I’m too pretty to die.”
It smiles back, a smile that says, “Hey, you’re about to die.”
I do the only thing reasonable at this time. I run.
Chapter 19
“Alright, little feet,” I think to myself, “now would be the time to move really, really quickly.” And, thankfully, they do.
With awesome acceleration, I boot into the large, indoor bailey that sits at the bottom of the keep. The bailey is a large room that uses two gates, the one I came through and a far one which is in the down position, to control traffic through the mountain path. The room is unsatisfyingly empty of anything that has the words “Works great against trolls of all sizes” printed in bright, bold lettering.
Behind me, the lumbering thud of one huge foot following another large foot is picking up steam. “This might not be good.”
Alright then. The three steps to escape. First, identify your assailant. Troll. Second, identify your surroundings. This is the place I’m about to die in. Okay, that’s not quite fair to me. This is the place I’m going to fight valiantly, cower miserably, and then die in. Much better. Finally, identify any way out. None.
That’s not right. It can’t be none. I mean, I’m on the main floor of the keep. There’s got to be an actual way into the upper floors. What did I miss, what did I miss? Ahhhh, that!
I’m looking through the open gate I just ran through to gauge how quick death will be upon me and there, tucked in to the right of the entry, an open doorway with a pair of reinforced oak doors left wide open. A stairwell beyond the doors leads up. The only problem is death is bearing down on me pretty quickly.
I launch myself to the left, tucking my knees into my chest, and the troll misses me by the width of its body odor and not much more. In my haste though, I don’t land properly, coming down on my ass and one hand. The wrist makes an audible popping sound as it helps break my landing.
“Damn the gods!” I collapse on that arm. With the wrist unable to hold me up, I use momentum to throw me forward into a roll, like I was supposed to fall that way. I come up on my feet, watching the troll make every effort to stop before he reaches the other side of the room. It is a valiant attempt.
As the troll moves past me, a giant smear of blood and nail erupt along its path as it literally digs in with its feet. I hear its gnarled toenails repeatedly ripping off and regenerating as they cut into the stone floor. Even carving huge furrows into the stonework, the creature’s impressive momentum keeps it going until it hits, still at speed, the gate on the far side.
The gate holds, buckles out, and bends to reform with an imprint of troll. The mortar around the edge of the gate powders in the force and, for a moment, everything at the far end is enveloped in a fine, white cloud.
The impromptu indoor snowstorm settles and the troll lies unmoving for all of three more seconds before I see the fingers on its right hand twitch. Well, so much for the “It knocked itself out. Pinty, that was a great plan of yours” speech. I turn, boot it through the archway leading to the stairs, spin, and heave both doors closed with my good hand.
“Sweet! There’s a panic bar!” I pull the pin to the side of the door and a 40-pound squared beam falls across the doors into two iron brackets. “Success!” Though, honestly, I don’t seem to have much luck when I claim success. So I hold my breath and wait.
It’s a minute or so and then I hear the ponderous footsteps of the troll approaching the other side. I forget how to breathe, so I forcibly exhale, take another breath and hold it, waiting.
The doors move a bit as I imagine two large hands giving them a slight push. The bar holds without difficulty. Then a couple of rougher pushes. No problem. Still good. Exhale. Now breathe back in.
Now the troll really starts in. The doors take a pounding, first with massive blows of its fists and then rapid yanking on the iron handles. But, for all the shaking and pushing and pulling, the doors hold and the bar keeps the doorway secure as the brackets remain strong. After a few dozen blows, everything stops and becomes quiet once again. And exhale.
The second step of the stairs looks like a
good place to collapse and I take full advantage of it. With a moment of respite, I lift my wrist to my face. It’s rapidly turning an ugly deep purple, with a bonus helping of bumpy swelling. I close my eyes, place my hand between my knees and clamp them together. “One . . . two . . .” and, on three, I pull my shoulder back and pop my dislocated wrist back into place. “Cat’s piss and gods! Faaaaaaaaaaaa!” But it’s done. The wrist is set back in place.
I want to go to sleep, but it’s not the right time for a catnap. I stand, search for my knife and realize I dropped the good one outside with the merchants. I fish out my spare. It’s not nearly as well forged, nor guaranteed in battle, but it will do. I take a moment to familiarize myself with its weight in my right hand and I’m good to go.
With my first step up, I hear the sound of metal scraping against stone. I turn.
At the top of the door, between stone and oak, a flat metal lever has been crudely fashioned out of what appears to be the metal rim of a wagon wheel. As I watch, it slowly rotates, splintering the weaker ends of the oak planks. The lever withdraws and, in the smallest of space it has created, a single yellow eye looks through. “Hah! You are still there!” The words could only come from the throat of that overly dedicated troll. A grubby, bulbous finger pokes through the hole and starts working at it. A few more splinters work free. And then a few more.
I take a few steps backwards up the stairs. A few more splinters of oak are worked free. My movement turns into an all-out flight as I turn and race up the stairs two at a time. Hey, I’m not that tall. Two at a time is impressive!
Chapter 20
Okay, so Tavos’ daughter Amber, the one I have a personal history with, is held prisoner somewhere in this keep. The natural place for prisoners would be in the dungeon. Dungeons, by definition, are in the basement and that would mean the way to Amber would be to go back down these stairs and pass by the troll.
It’s decided, then. Amber is not in the dungeon. She simply cannot be and I won’t take any objection to that. And if she’s not in some mildew-filled, vermin-friendly cell, then I know exactly where she will be — where any high-maintenance woman would want to be confined. I go up.
The stairs exit into a large room dominated by six huge hardwood dining tables and their appropriate number of benches. Adjoining this room is an open kitchen and doors that I assume lead to stores and provisions for the keep. In times of attack, if the lower level was breached the remaining guards would make a stand here, flinging over the tables for protection and turning the top of the stairs into a suicidal bottleneck for anyone silly enough to come up. In such a situation, even a half-score of men could hold off ten times that amount with this tactical advantage.
With the keep abandoned, I have no such worry. At the far wall is another flight of stairs up. Again I take them two at a time.
Floor three is mostly barracks, officers’ quarters and an audience room. To protect this floor, the stairs narrow into a thin corridor that makes it difficult for two men to pass in different directions. Where the floor below allowed a handful of defenders to hold a large space, security on this floor is designed on the premise that a thin corridor limits attackers to one or two at a time. I boot it through the passageway and find the next stairwell up at the far side of the keep.
Another. Flight. Of. Stairs. I let out a great wheeze, draw in a new breath, and head up. This time, though, I run the steps one at a time. I may be the definition of awesome, but even awesome needs a break if equipped with short legs.
The next floor is the jackpot. It holds the staff suites and the castellan’s bedroom. Where else would Amber reside but in the master bedroom — it’s nothing but style for that girl!
“Halt!”
“Uh, okay.” I halt.
The two guards hanging out in front of the master bedroom pull themselves up and hold out their swords. “Halt! And identify yourself.”
“Well, I’ve already halted. You can call me Pinty. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Uh.” The guard speaking looks at the other and shrugs. “I guess not?”
“Alright then. Good to meet you.” I step forward. “Now, I would like you to make sure nobody interrupts me.” I step forward again and the guards get more uncomfortable the more I shorten the distance between us.
“Wait! Stop moving! None shall be let into the bedroom. Sorry, sir, uh, Pinty, but no passage.” He looks quite adamant.
“Really.”
“Absolutely.”
“You realize that for me to get here, I would have needed to kill everything between the gate and here.”
“If you say so.” The guard looks a little confused, not sure where I’m going with this.
“Like everything. Ever-re-thing.” A wide smile spreads across my face. I raise my free hand slowly, palm down, till it’s high above my head. “You know, the troll?”
“The troll is dead?” Apprehension replaces the confusion.
“Well, I did hurt my arm.” I turn my hand and show off the massive bruising around my wrist. “So it did take some effort, but I should be okay. Can I pass now?”
The first guard looks a little pale. The second guard jumps in. “There’s no way you could have killed it. Nobody kills a troll.”
“But here I am. Seeking Amber.” A moment passes as I let that sink in. “So, here’s a shortkin standing in front of you, having slain a troll and suffered all of a sprained wrist. And you’re going to stop me?” With the last word I leap forward. “Boo!”
The clatter of their swords is awesome. “Shit! Don’t do that! Seriously! It’s okay. No problem.” The guard addressing me picks up his sword and sheaths it. “I cordially invite you to visit the prisoner.” It would be difficult for him to move further into the wall to give me space to pass.
“Appreciated. Now do stand up and do your job. Make sure no one interrupts me.” And through the door I stroll. I turn and close it, leaving the guards outside.
Before I can even turn around, she speaks. “So, you have come to save me. It’s nice that you have. It’s been a long time.”
Her voice is as beautiful as it ever has been. I turn around.
Chapter 21
Amber is still ravishing, enough so that I have to remember not to let my jaw drop.
Just under six feet, she commands the room. Jet black hair with dyed red highlights, dark mysterious eyes and skin so soft as to make silkworms envious. It’s been a few years since I last saw her and I can honestly say she’s grown more radiant with the passing of time.
“Amber, long time no see. You look amazing.” I include a huge, completely genuine smile in that statement. Indeed, I cannot help but smile. “I am, as you suggest, here to rescue you. I am your knight in, well, oiled leather armor.”
She raises a quizzical eyebrow and my heart skips a beat. “Well, a knave or squire, maybe. We have yet to see about providing the services of a full knight. I assume that, if you do indeed remove me from this predicament, you’ll ask for something in return?”
“How base do you think me! Unless, of course, it’s something you want?”
That brings some laughter to her lips and she smiles. “What I want and what you want have always seemed to differ a bit. If I remember, that’s why it didn’t work out between us. What you wanted was me to be another heavenly planet that circled around the amazing Mr. Lightbottom, and what I wanted was something more meaningful and on equal ground.”
“That might be a fair description.” Apparently, she hasn’t let her memories of our previous relationship mellow over time. “But, it’s been some years and I’ve most likely changed.”
“Most likely, but not for certain. Let’s see exactly how much you have changed.” She pulls up the hem of her full-length gown, revealing an ankle manacle chained to a post behind her. “Perhaps you can assist me with this then. I seem to have been stripped of all my tools. The guards were most thorough. Even my emergency pick was removed before I was shackled. It was somewhat
embarrassing.”
“No problem!” I sheath the knife, pull out my picks and go to her. The shackle is old but serviceable. “I should have this unlocked in a few moments. So how is it that you were captured, anyway? You were always a dangerous opponent. I couldn’t imagine this happened easily.” I find it hard to focus on the lock when her ankle is so easily distracting.
“Easier than you imagine. A question first — how did you come to look for me, Pinty?”
“Your dad sent me a message, asked me to drop by. Thought I was behind a guild war, raising hell on his members. You know, intrigue, murder, mayhem. Anyways, long story short, I volunteered to free up his revenge by recovering his precious daughter.” I look up into those eyes. They are so beautiful. “But, had I known otherwise of the danger you are in, I would have come anyways.”
“Volunteer? That would be a change in you, Pinty. I’m going to assume by volunteered you mean ‘accepted a fee’, and what exactly did he offer for my rescue?”
I smile that she knows me this well. “Not much.” I answer. Behind her I notice that, while there isn’t any draft in the room, the hanging oil lamp begins to swing on its chain.
“Pinty.”
“Well, to forget that I slept with you, to stop trying to kill me for that, let bygones be bygones. That kind of stuff. Seemed reasonable. I bring you back, he stops trying to kill me.”
“And this guild war? What did he say about that?”
“Well, not much. I’ve put most of this together myself. There’s another guild in town. They’re massacring your people and making a mess of his leadership. They captured you, and have ransomed you back for control of the city. Tavos declined the demand, which surprises me based on just how much he loves you. Hired me instead to get you back.”
“How many are dead now? It’s been a few weeks since I’ve been detained.”
“Just under twenty.”
A dull thudding sound begins to echo through the room, and the stuff that fills it — a chair, the wardrobe, some water glasses — shift and tremble a bit.
“Twenty. And when he hired you, did he compliment you?”