Troll Mountain: The Complete Novel (8 page)

For the remainder of that day, Raf sat forlornly in his cage, watching the trolls prepare for the evening’s feast.

Draggers hauled great stone sleds into the hall from a side door on the eastern side. On those sleds were baskets of food, and jugs of water and mead.

While the draggers toiled, the king and his courtiers drank and laughed. By mid-afternoon, some had already passed out on the floor. At one point, the two little hobgoblin jesters drew laughs from the king’s cronies by throwing fruit at Raf.

Shortly after that, Raf saw the bride and her mother enter the hall. The bride’s mother was a big heavy-boned she-troll dressed in the kind of brown sack-cloth that seemed to be worn by most of the troll women. She walked with a purposeful stride and ignored the catcalls from the drunken males up near the throne.

The bride beside her could not have been more different from her mother. She was smaller and walked with a shy hunch, and she wore a sack-cloth that was far whiter than those worn by the other she-trolls. The unruly trolls nudged and elbowed Turv at the sight of her, behaving—it seemed to Raf—like immature boys.

And then it struck Raf: this she-troll was Graia, the she-troll Düm had beseeched the troll prince Turv not to marry.

Having witnessed the way troll society operated, Raf could see now what an outrageous thing Düm’s approach to Turv had been: a lowly dragger questioning a prince.

Outrageous, but also brave. Düm might have been slow-witted, but he must have known such an approach was loaded with peril.

*

Late in the afternoon a commotion arose at the side door to the hall.

A crowd of trolls gathered there started oohing and ahing.

Raf looked that way—

—to see a pair of figures emerge from the throng of trolls and approach the king’s throne.

Raf gripped the bars of his cage as his eyes went wide.

It was Düm and Ko.

And Düm was leading Ko by a rope, as his prisoner.

Düm yanked Ko into the Great Hall like a stubborn dog on a leash. Ko’s beautiful gold rope was tied around the hermit’s throat and the old man’s hands were bound.

Ko tripped as Düm tugged on the rope, dragging him forward.

Düm called loudly: “Trolls! I Düm! Recently, I flee from Troll Mountain after refusing challenge from Prince Turv! Now I come back, humbly seeking audience with king to present this captive as payment for my return to tribe!”

Up on the throne, the king and his rogues all turned, smirking but curious.

The prince named Turv looked down upon Düm with particular disdain.

“Father,” Raf heard Turv whisper, “this is the dragger I told you about.”

The king turned. “The one who opposed your marriage to Graia?”

“The very same.”

Raf was confused. Had Düm turned on Ko? It seemed very unlikely. Or perhaps this was something else—

“Speak, dragger!” the king said imperiously.

Düm swallowed, clearly nervous to be addressing the king.

“Düm find this hermit in Badlands, sire.” Düm pulled up a stone sled behind him. On it were six small green barrels—the same barrels Raf had seen in Ko’s hovel in the swamp: with
written on them and candlewicks sticking out of their lids.

“Düm also find these barrels in old man’s hut: barrels filled with dark salt.”

The crowd murmured. Salt was a greatly prized delicacy in these parts. To have salt on one’s food was a privilege reserved only for the elite and even then, only when it was available—and here was Düm offering the king six barrels of the stuff.

But as Raf knew, those barrels did not contain salt …

And for the briefest of moments, Raf felt a flutter of hope. Düm was carrying out a plan.

Düm said stiffly, “Düm bring barrels to king as extra payment for his crime, in hope that gift will absolve Düm of his insult to Prince Turv. But Düm know his fate rest in king’s hands.”

Düm bowed his head.

The king pondered him for a long moment, his mean eyes calculating.

He said, “To decline a challenge is the gravest crime in our society, dragger. It is not something I forgive lightly. However, I can see, with these gifts, you have gone to some trouble to make amends.” He looked at the crowd. “As it is my son’s wedding day and the insult was made against him, I shall let Prince Turv decide your fate. Turv? Do you seek to enforce your challenge against this dragger or do you accept his payment and release him from his obligation?”

Turv looked long and hard at Düm, then glanced at the watching crowd of trolls.

As the future king, Raf realized, the decision Turv made here was important. He could be seen as capricious and hard, or benevolent when the occasion called for it. That Düm had also brought the “salt” barrels as an extra gift was clever—it made it very hard for Turv to turn him down.

In fact, Raf thought, it was actually
too
clever for Düm, and it made Raf wonder if this had not been Düm’s plan at all …

“I accept both gifts and allow Düm back into the tribe,” Turv said in a loud voice.

The crowd of trolls nodded and clapped approvingly.

But then another voice cut the air.

Ko’s voice.

“Your most wise and excellent majesty. May I speak?” the old man said in his polite way.

The king leaned back on his throne. “Amuse me, human.”

“I have heard it said by trolls who wander in the Badlands that before you were
king
, you embraced the
challenge
of battles on the
Fighting Platform
.”

Raf frowned. Ko was putting unusual emphasis on certain words:
king, challenge, Fighting Platform
.

The king sat higher on his throne. “You hear correctly. I was the previous king’s champion, undefeated on the Fighting Platform.”

“Will there be any fights
during this wedding feast
?”

There it was again, Raf thought. The odd emphasis on certain words. The trolls didn’t seem to notice it, but he did.

The king said, “I imagine there will be, old man, especially if the mead is flowing. Why? Do you want to challenge somebody?”

The assembled trolls laughed loudly. The king enjoyed his own joke.

Ko smiled. “Oh, no, no, your majesty. I only ask that
when you are done with your activities tonight, you release me
.”

Ko never looked at Raf as he spoke—not even a glance—but Raf now knew that Ko was addressing him and not the king.

Raf furrowed his brow, trying to figure out the meaning behind Ko’s cryptic words:
king, challenge, Fighting Platform, during the wedding feast,
and
when you are done with your activities tonight, you release me.

No 
… he thought.

It couldn’t be …

Was Ko suggesting …

But that was madness.

Ignorant of the secret messages being passed, the king just laughed at Ko’s words. “Ha! Release you! My generosity only goes so far, old man. When this night is over, I will be sucking the marrow from your bones!”

Ko’s eyes widened in surprise. “Oh, dear …”

Turv stepped in. “Guards. Take the old man to the cells on the western wall.” He turned to Düm: “And you, dragger, take those salt barrels and ready them, we shall make use of them tonight. The whole tribe shall enjoy your gift. Then return to your duties: after all, we have a feast to prepare!”

Ko was taken away to the cells. Düm dragged his stone sled toward the kitchen area on the eastern side of the hall.

Raf was watching them both—still thinking about Ko’s message—when, from his position in his suspended cage, he heard Turv say in a low voice to his lackeys: “Later tonight, after I am wed, bring Düm to the Fighting Platform, unarmed. There I shall take my hammer to his knees until he begs me to end his life.”

The prince’s cronies cackled.

Raf could only watch Düm dragging his sled toward the kitchen area, head bent, shoulders hunched, unaware that he had just been sentenced to die.

As the sun crept lower in the western sky and storm clouds moved in for the night, the trolls of Troll Mountain gathered in the Great Hall for the wedding of Prince Turv to the she-troll, Graia.

Throughout the afternoon, none of the trolls noticed Düm going about his labors—dragging sleds of food and positioning his prized barrels of salt around the hall. He placed them thus: one up on the king’s podium, solely for the king’s personal use; and three at the bases of three of the mighty columns of the hall (the fourth column, the north-eastern one, stood within the kitchen area and so didn’t require one).

Raf, however, observed him every step of the way, and at one point, Düm risked a furtive glance up at Raf.

Then Düm went upstairs to the windswept Winter Throne Hall with the last two barrels and there—standing alone up on the magnificent open-air platform—he placed one barrel beside the king’s winter throne. The sixth and final barrel he placed beside the north-western column of the Winter Throne Hall, for all the trolls to use. He also did one other thing.

Then, as the storm clouds took over the sky completely, night came, and the troll wedding began.

*

The Great Hall was abuzz with celebration.

Mead flowed, trolls danced, and the Troll King looked out over his minions and smiled. He threw back a goblet of frothing mead and belched loudly.

Then the wedding ceremony began and Turv and Graia stood on the steps of the king’s podium, facing each other, Turv in his most princely attire and Graia dressed all in white, with wildflowers in her hair—an oddly sweet and delicate touch, Raf noticed, among such an indelicate race of creatures.

The she-troll looked miserable. Standing off to the side, so did Düm.

The king presided over the wedding ceremony.

“If any here should object to this union, let them say it now!” he called.

Silence answered him. No one—

“I have an objection!”

The crowd of trolls spun, searching for the objector. Their eyes rose as one.

It was Raf who had spoken.

King, challenge, Fighting Platform, during the wedding feast.

Raf swallowed deeply. He hoped he had interpreted Ko’s cryptic message correctly.

“I object to being the celebratory meal for this foul occasion. King of the Trolls, I challenge
you
to combat on the Fighting Platform!”

*

The stir that followed Raf’s words was unprecedented in troll history.

A human challenging a troll? Even more astounding, he was challenging the king! And as every troll knew, the king had a special privilege when it came to challenges—

“What did you say!” the king roared.

“I said, I challenge you, King of Fools, King of
Nothing
!” Raf said defiantly, although on the inside his heart was pounding. This was what Ko had meant for him to do, wasn’t it? “Or do you
refuse
my challenge?”

The king’s huge gray face reddened with rage. His tusks ground against each other.

“You challenge me?
You
challenge
me 
…!”

Then the king’s furious anger transformed into cool menace.

He nodded at his champion, the huge troll Grondo, as he spoke to Raf: “You are not as clever as you think, thief. For while no troll may refuse a challenge, the king alone is accorded a singular privilege: if he be challenged, he can send his champion to fight on his behalf. We can’t go having fools challenging the king anytime they want, now can we?”

Grondo stood to his full imposing height and the crowd started chanting, “Grondo … Grondo …”

Even Turv, halfway through his own wedding ceremony, had a look of bloodlust in his eyes and he joined in the chant.

The king grinned nastily. “Be careful what you wish for, thief. You want a fight, I’ll give you a fight. Take him down! Let us all repair to the Winter Throne Hall and the Fighting Platform! After this thief is vanquished, we shall finish this ceremony and devour his flesh! To the Fighting Platform!”

The trolls poured up and out of the lone tunnel that granted access to the Winter Throne Hall, fanning out as they did so, rushing eagerly to the eastern side of the great open space so as to get the best view of the Fighting Platform.

Storm clouds rumbled overhead. Rain was coming.

The king and his entourage mounted the winter throne while Raf and Grondo marched across the open-air hall, through the ranks of trolls, to a plank-bridge leading to the Fighting Platform.

As Raf strode past all the trolls, they mocked him, spat at him, declared their eagerness to see his blood.

But then, fleetingly, Raf noticed two things: first, he snatched a glimpse of one of Ko’s distinctive little green barrels over by the north-western column. And second, he saw Düm.

The gentle troll was lingering at the very back of the crowd of trolls, over by the single entrance cut into the floor of the Winter Throne Hall, unnoticed by any of the others.

Before he could see any more of Düm, Raf was shoved across the plank-bridge onto the Fighting Platform. Grondo followed behind him.

The two hobgoblin jesters were already on the wooden stage, pantomiming a death match. One stabbed the other with an imaginary sword and the second one fell, clutching his chest in mock agony. The two jesters scampered off the platform as Raf and Grondo stepped onto it.

The plank was removed and Raf suddenly found himself standing alone with the troll champion out on the round wooden stage, high above the eastern slope of the mountain. The stage was perfectly circular, perhaps twenty feet across, and made of thick wooden planks.

By the gods, Raf thought, now he
really
hoped he had interpreted Ko correctly.

The sight of the barrel made him think that perhaps he had, but then again, he might have gotten it all terribly, terribly wrong—

“Choose your weapons!” a troll who appeared to be some kind of referee called.

“My war hammer!” called Grondo.

The crowd cheered.

“And you, thief? Choose your weapon, for what it will be worth!”

The trolls laughed.

Raf thought for a moment. “My axe.”

A massive hammer was thrown onto the platform. A troll was sent below to the cell area where Raf’s axe had been sequestered.

As he waited for its delivery, Raf’s eyes scanned the Fighting Platform desperately. He was sure Ko had been directing him to challenge the king, knowing that such a challenge could not be refused, and thus bring himself
here
—although perhaps Ko hadn’t known about the king’s special privilege. And Raf had seen the barrel up here, and Düm …

But
why
? What was Ko’s plan? The Fighting Platform was completely bare. There was absolutely nothing here that Raf could use.

He looked up and saw that, owing to the way the platform extended out from the Winter Throne Hall, he could see the crenellated battlement ringing the summit of Troll Mountain, complete with its troll-added horns.

If he could fling a rope over those horns, he supposed, his current position offered a viable route up to the Supreme Watchtower, but such a throw was well beyond his range and right now, with the imposing figure of Grondo looming before him, finding a rope and throwing it was the last thing he could do.

At that moment, Raf’s axe was tossed onto the Fighting Platform and the scene was set.

The massed trolls leaned forward, leering, salivating. The Troll King grinned nastily. His son, Turv, did the same; his wedding day would be remembered for a long, long time.

Raf’s heart sank.

He’d clearly got Ko’s plan wrong, and now he would have to face the trolls’ best fighter in mortal combat.

Grondo towered over him, impossibly huge, his tusks rising from hairy tufts on his jaws, one of his great gray fists gripping his enormous hammer.

Raf just stood there, puny and thin, holding his home-made double-bladed axe. The axe hardly looked capable of nicking Grondo’s thick hide.

Then it started raining. Thick pelting drops. The trolls didn’t even notice. Rain didn’t bother trolls.

“We don’t have to do this, you know,” Raf said to the champion. “We don’t have to fight.”

Grondo smirked. “Fool. You do not realize. This fight has already begun.”

*

Grondo lunged.

Raf dived. And the hammer came down on the stage with a resounding boom. So powerful was the blow, splinters flew up from the slats.

Grondo swung again, chasing after Raf, but Raf dived clear again.

Boom, boom, boom!

Duck, roll, dive.

The rain kept pouring. Lightning flashed.

The crowd cheered at every swing.

*

As the trolls roared at the action on the Fighting Platform, at the very back of the crowd, Düm came alongside the she-troll, Graia.

“Graia,” he whispered. “If you want to leave Troll Mountain forever, come with me now.”

Without a word, Graia took Düm’s hand and followed him down the stairs, away from the Winter Throne Hall.

A short way down, in a tight bottleneck of a tunnel, with the echoes of the crowd far above them, Düm did a strange thing: he closed the thick stone door—the only point of entry or exit to the Winter Throne Hall—and then he reinforced it with a pair of heavy stone sleds parked nearby.

Almost the whole troll community was up on the winter hall watching the fight … and he had just trapped them all up there.

*

Somehow, Raf was still alive, dodging and evading Grondo’s mighty swipes, slipping and sliding in the rain.

The rain didn’t help Grondo’s footwork and at one point, Raf managed to run under one of the big troll’s lusty blows and swing at him with his little lightweight axe—and he drew blood from the troll!

The axe cut Grondo’s skin under the armpit, in one of the few places where a troll’s skin was soft and sensitive.

Grondo froze.

The crowd gasped.

The big champion touched the nick, and saw his own blood on his fingertip. He glared balefully at Raf.

He wasn’t hurt. He was
angry
.

Grondo roared, a great bellow, and, raising his hammer above his head, came charging at Raf.

Hammer blows rained down around the darting figure of Raf and had any one of them hit, he would have been knocked senseless and done for.

Grondo’s charge was fast and furious and relentless and it afforded Raf no chance of reply. Indeed, it took all his nimbleness to evade the flurry of blows—until suddenly, Grondo anticipated one of his moves and trapped him at the edge of the stage.

Grondo had him.

Raf had nowhere to go. He stood there exposed, soaked by the rain and lit by the lightning storm.

The big troll swung the final blow of this match and Raf went flailing off the edge of the platform.