Troll Hunter: Chapter One
Gabril Cullen peered down into the wooded valley and gave a grim smile. After two weeks of tracking, he'd finally had caught up to the stinking trolls.
Gabril Cullen peered down into the wooded valley and gave a grim smile. After two weeks of tracking, he and Arden Luck finally had caught up to the stinking trolls. It had been a grueling chase to the Dead Plains and back, but at last, the murderous creatures had gone to ground.
He looked back to see Luck standing in the open like a startled deer. Cullen grimaced and motioned his partner to stay, raising two fingers to indicate the two trolls below. Luck nodded acknowledgment to the signal, retreated to the cover of a stand of pines, and loosed his sword in its scabbard.
Cullen studied the trolls’ position and considered. After a moment, he looked back to Luck and signaled again. Two trolls, no lookout. I’ll circle to the left. You stay here.
Where were the others? The party they’d tracked so far had at least three of the beasts. Was this the same group?
The trolls were camped in a narrow valley beside a stony rivulet. Cullen crept around pines and lichen-covered clumps of granite, careful to avoid twigs and loose stones that might betray his presence. He glanced backward to see Luck camouflaging his position with branches and loose grass.
Quiet, Luck, Cullen pleaded to himself. The big swordsman fought well, but stealth was not in his nature.
He inched forward to get a better view down into the valley. A troll turned a pair of skinned rabbits on a spit over a large greenwood cookfire. Even from this distance, the troll's pale green skin, thick tusks, and turned-up snout were clear. These were probably Blue Mountain trolls and not very smart, unlike their crafty cousins to the far north. Smoke billowed in the hazy dusk. It was damned poor woodcraft to let the fire smoke so. Stupid trolls.
He pondered the scene for a moment, then slowly moved to put the camp between himself and Luck.
The troll at the fire muttered something in its harsh guttural language, then laughed. Where was his companion? Cullen paused to sniff the failing breeze for the scent of other trolls. Nothing. The damned smoke obscured their smell. He craned his neck to see down into the valley. From his vantage point, only part of the encampment was visible, but across the small stream from the cook fire lay a jumble of boulders. The other troll must be there. Then again, he might still be out looking for game. Two rabbits that size might feed a single troll, but not two.
The lone troll uttered another harsh croaking laugh and continued his conversation, looking at someone or something amidst the boulders.
Cullen withdrew from the edge of the valley to try for a better scent. Still nothing. He paused. No, not nothing. He focused, and there it was—the sharp tang of troll stink amid the overpowering resiny pine smoke. On a good day with clear air, his scout’s nose could detect trolls from hundreds of yards away. The nasty creatures stunk of rotting apples overlaid with old cheese. He wished that others had the “gift” of being able to smell the stinking creatures as easily. Even Luck had struggled to find the scent on the open grasslands until they were nearly on top of the troll camp they’d found. Well, that was why he was the scout and Luck was the fighter. Usually he could even identify individuals among the troll party. It was weird; this group of trolls was different. It was as if they were making an effort to mask their passing, and that wasn’t like the trolls he’d hunted before. With the smoke from the fire, it was all he could do to
The woods were silent and gloomy in the fading light. From below came the occasional crackle and sputter of pine boughs being fed into the fire. Cullen moved forward again to peer into the narrow valley. The single troll still sat piling branches onto a fire that now engulfed the rabbits on its spit. In the glare of firelight, the troll smirked and muttered.
He’s burning that meat, and with all that smoke, it’s going to taste like…. Damn! Not even trolls are that foolish. It’s a trap.
Cullen straightened and broke into a sprint, heedless of the noise. He drew his short sword and prayed that Luck’s attempt at camouflage was successful. He cursed the trolls and himself. Lured into an ambush like the simplest child.
He rounded the stand of trees at a dead run to find the second troll standing over Luck’s body. The hunter’s severed head lay at the creature’s feet. The troll licked Luck’s blood from a jagged black knife. Cullen didn’t break stride but charged, driving his sword straight at the creature’s chest. Its leather armor turned the blade, but the force of the attack knocked the troll backward against the trunk of a twisted pine.
The green-skinned brute lashed out with the knife, slashing at his face. Cullen jerked back, but searing pain shot from his jaw to his ear.
He swung again, hoping at least to knock the troll off balance. He was tall, but the ugly creature stood half a head taller and a full two stone heavier. His blade cut deep into the troll’s upper arm. It howled. Cullen backhanded his sword hilt into the thing’s jaw with a satisfying crack. From behind, he heard the troll’s companion crash through the underbrush thirty yards away.
Cullen considered his position for the space of a heartbeat, slashed again at the troll, and ran. Luck was dead, his lifeblood now soaking into the forest floor. Luck. There’s a poor name if there ever was one.
He ran, knowing at least one troll was drawing close behind him. The woods were dark, but he had a reasonable idea where he was. He darted from cover to cover, angling for the top of the ridge. Once on the other side, he’d make better time and lose his pursuers in the steep valleys leading down toward the river.
For all his skills, he’d somehow botched this hunt. The trolls’ almost meandering track to the Dead Plains and back to the forest, across the grasslands, and now this. It made no sense.
Cullen fumbled in his pockets and found his kerchief. He pressed it to his face to staunch the blood now streaming from the knife slash. He grimaced at the pain and at his situation. His head swam, and he fought to clear his mind. An arrow whistled past his ear and thunked into a tree ahead of him. Fifty yards more, and he would be over the ridge crest.
From behind came the guttural, rumbling “Holooo!” of the troll’s hunting call and then the answering call of a troll in front of him. The answer came from the top of the ridge.
This mess just gets deeper and deeper. Damn! The injured troll couldn’t have gotten ahead of him. Another howl sounded from the trees far to his right. He scanned the hillside. A clump of boulders lay between him and the top of the hill, and to the left, a clutter of deadfall trunks and branches.
Cullen sprinted for the boulder pile. Trolls were big and fierce, but they couldn’t match humans for agility. He could lose them. He must lose them.
The low “Holoo!” came again from behind and was answered from the top of the ridge. They were herding him, and he was nearly surrounded. His heart sank within him. What kind of pitiful scout was he?
To hell with that. His face burned, and blood now flowed from his slashed face, soaking his chest. He shook his head to clear it, spraying dark droplets from his slashed cheek. His heart pounded. Sprinting up the ridge wasn’t a wise thing to do, but he was alive for now. His knees grew shaky, and he fought to hang on. He leapt onto a waist-high chunk of granite and turned. That smell returned—rotten apples and old cheese. Troll stink.
“Come to me, trolls!” he shouted with more confidence than he felt. “I’ll kill you here, or I can hunt you down!”
In front of him, the troll from the fire emerged from the woods. It laughed. “Throw your sword to the ground, human!”
“No, troll. Come closer.”
The creature shook its head and drew a bow. “I can kill you now, ugly human. Throw your sword to the ground!”
Cullen wavered, and he shook his head to focus. The beast had spoken in the common tongue. Could they do that?
The troll put two fingers to his mouth and whistled. From below appeared the other troll, the one he’d fought over the corpse of Arden Luck. Its jaw was swollen, and its right arm, drenched with blood, hung limp at its side. From above came two more trolls. How many trolls were there? No, a troll and a human—and the human wore a metal collar. A prisoner?
Cullen shook his head again, and a jet of pain lanced across his face. Blood poured from the slash. He reached up to touch his cheek and felt naked bone. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth. He waved his sword from one troll to another. His knees buckled, and he fell.
* * *
Cullen awoke to a fuzzy light filtering through the trees. His face felt . . . numb. It should throb with pain from a slash like that. How odd. He tried to raise his hand to his face, but his hands were bound with a leather thong. He brought both hands up. A rough cloth bandage covered the side of his face.
“Don’t touch it. Let it heal.”
It was a human voice.
He opened an eye to see who spoke but couldn’t quite focus. What happened? Trolls. There was a battle. Well, a fight anyway. It came back: the troll at the fire, running up the hill, Luck’s body, the human with the trolls. A renegade? No, he had a collar. A slave or prisoner, then.
“What happened to my face? Did you bandage me? Cut me loose, there are trolls about!”
“Quiet. Grimmun will want to leave soon, and you must eat.”
“Grimmun?”
“Take this.”
Something hot and greasy was pressed into his hands. He sniffed it. Rabbit. He bit into it and chewed. The well-seasoned meat settled his sour stomach. This wasn’t the rabbit that the troll burned in the fire last night.
“Grimmun is a warrior scout of the Three Valleys troll clan. I am Wogan. I am a healer, and I cook for the trolls. I belong to Grimmun, and now you do too.”
“What? You’re a human,” Cullen said, almost choking on the rabbit. “Humans don’t ‘belong’ to trolls. That’s nonsense.”
Wogan shrugged but said, “Do not say that, or they’ll hear. They won’t hesitate to kill a slave. Even you.”
“Even me? What does that mean?”
Wogan didn’t reply but, after a moment, said, “Let me check your bandages.”
His eyes cleared a bit. As the man knelt before him, Cullen squinted. He could just make out Wogan, a lean, gray-haired figure dressed in rough skins. The man touched the bandage on his face with deft fingers.
“How does it feel?”
Cullen worked his jaw and tried to decide if it hurt. It didn’t, for some reason. As with his eyes, he found it hard to focus his mind.
“It’s sore, but it should hurt like hell. He split my cheek wide open.”
Wogan pressed the back of his hand to the bandage. “It doesn’t feel warm, so no infection yet. I stitched you up and got some mandragora and licorice root down your throat last night. When that wears off, your vision will clear, but the pain will return. Now be quiet and eat. Grimmun returns soon.”
The healer turned, picked up a skin, and tossed it at Cullen’s feet. “Drink as much of this as you can stand. It’s what passes for wine among the trollim. You won’t like it much, but it will keep you on your feet.”
Cullen picked it up, fumbled to open the skin, and tasted. He shuddered and spat out the vile liquid. “Ounwe’s teeth! What is that, fermented pine sap?”
To Cullen’s surprise, Wogan picked up a thick stick and swung it deftly, catching Cullen on the chin. “Don’t despise the generosity of Grimmun, Gabril Cullen!”
Cullen struggled to stand but tumbled to the ground. He hadn’t noticed the leather thong binding his feet. “Damn your skin, Wogan! Whose side are you on?” He struggled back to his feet. “And how do you know my name?”
Wogan shrugged again. “I told you I belong to Grimmun the troll. I know your name because I sought you out. I led the trolls to you and helped them lure and capture you.”
“Why would you do this?”
“Because, Cullen, the trolls need you. Sit and rest until it is time to leave.”
Cullen snorted and turned away. Wogan was clearly demented. A sane human would never assist trolls in kidnapping another human. His head swam from the exertion and loss of blood. A dull ache returned to his cheek.
“Ounwe’s arse,” he muttered. He closed his eyes and lowered himself to the ground. Maybe rest would help him to think of a way out of this madness.
* * *
Cullen woke. He blinked and rubbed at his eyes, trying to clear his still-foggy vision. At his feet lay the remains of the rabbit and the skin of putrid wine. Wogan was nowhere in sight. He must have gone to tend to the trolls.
He examined the cord binding his hands and feet. It appeared to be supple leather, but the more he worked at it, the tighter it grew. He sat back down and tried to will his muscles to relax. The cords loosened somewhat, but not enough to remove his hands or feet. He looked around for his sword belt. It was gone, of course, along with the knife he’d worn on his right hip and his rucksack. Damn. Focus, Cullen.
He breathed deep. A stream gurgled not far away. He looked around and saw they were back in the narrow valley. Wood smoke hung light in the morning air. With some satisfaction Cullen realized that at least part of his hazy vision came from the smoke. It was a small hardwood fire, not pine. He shook his head, which throbbed like he’d drained a keg on his own. Wogan and the trolls had indeed played him for a fool.
The thin smoke couldn’t obscure the pervading troll stink. He turned his head and closed his eyes. In time, the bitter, musky cloud resolved into distinct scents. There were more trolls here than before. Where had they been? Now he smelled three trolls by the fire, two or more hidden among the boulders, and the fainter, human scent of Wogan. But there was another…one more troll. Where? He turned again, sniffing. It was close by, no more than ten yards away. Cullen stood, balancing against the bonds on his hands and feet. He leaned, hoping to catch a clearer scent on the light breeze. It was there, in that clump of scrub oak.
“I know you’re there, troll.”
“Hur!” A deep laugh came from the knot of vegetation. With a rustling of branches a troll pushed through into the open.
“Very good, sniffer! You find me with nose. Hah! Wogan-thing was right.”
It was the troll he’d fought yesterday, its jaw still swollen and its right arm in a loose sling. The sleeve he’d slashed now bore neat stitches, and the blood had been washed away.
The thing laughed again. It hooked a finger into its mouth and opened it to show a gap in its pointed yellow teeth. “See, you knock two teeth from me! Hur! You good fighter, but we told to not kill you, else Gheen would lop off your tiny head!” The troll made a throat-cutting gesture with a clawed finger.
The thing paused for a moment and examined the human. “Cullen. You are Cullen-thing. A silly human name, like Wogan-thing.” He pointed to himself. “I am Gheen, warrior of Three Valleys Clan.”
“Gheen, pakh-hu jha!”
The troll hung his head and took a step backward as a hulking figure of a troll stormed across the stream and up to Cullen. Wogan and another troll followed close behind.
The troll leader unleashed a furious stream of blows at Gheen and what Cullen guessed were curses in the harsh trollish tongue. The fighter stood meekly, receiving the abuse, then withdrew to the edge of the tangle of scrub oak like a whipped dog. Grimmun snarled and turned to stare at Cullen.
Cullen blinked. His eyes cleared, yet the more he saw, the less he understood. Just two days ago, he and Arden Luck had tracked a small party of trolls, creatures he considered fierce but not particularly intelligent. Once or twice a year, they crept from their stinking camps in the Blue Mountains to raid isolated human farms and settlements. They never came in great numbers; sometimes, they slaughtered those they found, and sometimes they carried them away as prisoners. Lately, they’d captured more than they killed. They were barbarians at best.
Now Luck was dead, and he was a captive because he’d underestimated the trolls. But had the trolls themselves crafted the clever trap, or had Wogan done it, as he said? Either way, Wogan would pay. Humans don’t help trolls in their butchery.
Yet Wogan had said the trolls needed him. Well, the hell with that. He turned toward the ugly troll. “You’re Grimmun.”
Wogan shot him an admonishing look and said, “Slaves do not speak to the trollim unless bidden to do so.”
Cullen barked a laugh and glared at the troll.
It stared back at him, not speaking. Was there anything behind those red-rimmed eyes and thick skull? He addressed Grimmun. “Perhaps not, but prisoners—or free men—will. What do you want from me, troll? Say your business or turn me loose.”
The troll leader remained motionless. Then his face broke into a hideous grin, and he laughed, his barrel chest rocking. “Hah! I like this one, this Cullen-thing. He has– What is the human word? Bravery? He has the bravery.”
He wagged a finger at Cullen. “Be careful, Cullen-thing, you’ll scare the other human. If he is frightened, he may not see to your wounds.”
“If you need me, as the other human says, you’ll see he does.”
Grimmun stopped laughing. “You would give me commands?”
He sneered at the troll. “No, but if you need me, you will keep me safe.”
“Do not value yourself over much, human. We captured you; we can kill you and capture another.”
Cullen considered. “You need a scout. Someone to hunt down others for you? That’s why you killed my companion and left me alive. You can train a dog to follow a set of footprints in the mud. My companion Luck could do that much.” He pointed to Gheen. “But few have the gift, as that one says, of being a sniffer. I can track your kind by smell from a distance. But you knew that. Or Wogan did. That’s why I’m here.”
Grimmun chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound. He nodded to Wogan and walked away.
Wogan bowed and threw a bundle at Cullen. He recognized his rucksack. It was heavier than when he last carried it. What had they put in there?
“Prepare to travel. Grimmun graciously provisioned your pack with all that is needed for the journey to the mountains.”
Cullen eyed Wogan, slave of the trolls. “What happened to you, Wogan? Are you no longer human? Why do you do their bidding?”
Wogan lowered his eyes. “Of course, I’m still human. I’m the property of—”
“The property of Grimmun. I know.”
“Make light of me if you will, Cullen, but there is more at stake than you know.”
“And what is that? Why do they need a scout?”
Wogan wrung his hands. “It is not for me to say.”
Cullen sniffed and tugged at the cords on his wrists. “You’re pathetic. I count six trolls here. I can break these cords and head over that ridge and be gone. Maybe I’ll make it, and maybe I won’t, but I’ll not help these things raid our lands and kill our people.”
“Do you think I’m the only human living among the trolls? Hundreds of humans—our people, Cullen—live among them. They’re fighting for their lives, humans and trolls. We are all at risk from—”
“Trolls and their willing servants. Why should that concern me?”
Wogan met his eyes. “I am not privy to the councils of the trollim, but I know that what they fight is a greater evil than any troll raid.”
“What could be worse than trolls?”
Wogan shook his head. “I do not know, and I have said too much. It is for Grimmun-ush to explain. Please, do not resist or try to flee. They—we—are desperate for your help.”
“Maybe so,”Cullen spat, “but you betrayed me into their hands. You helped trolls to capture a human–one of your own kind. Be glad they took my blade because I won’t hesitate to cut your throat.”