Roscoe was beside himself.
“Alackaday! So much fine beverage and me with no way to carry it away. It’s heart-breakin’, so it is.”
The casks of uisge were stacked higher than their heads and the stacks extended down the corridor beyond their sight. They had obviously stumbled onto a major stockpile of the Brethren’s illicit inventory. There were also crates and crates of axe heads, spear points, and unhilted sword blades packed in straw—the currency for purchasing still more uisge from the Keltins.
Sarah was troubled by the vast quantity of weapons.
“Roscoe, there must be hundreds of pieces in these boxes. Back when you were a smuggler, how many weapons did you carry over the river?”
His response was a bit wistful.
“Oh, nothin’ like this. Half a dozen swords or maybe a score of spear points. Course, we was just small-time operators in them days. Nothin’ like today with the Brethren controllin’ it all.”
“Still—there’s so much. Almost like somebody is fitting out an army. What could it signify?”
“Nothin’ good, lassie, I’m sure of that.”
Thurmond called their attention to another disconcerting detail.
“Hey—look at this.”
He held a short length of heavy iron chain. One end was fixed to a ring set in the masonry of the wall. The other ended in a broken link. Though the rest of the chain was rusted, the broken place was new and shiny—the metal had been snapped through only recently.
The young Adventurer cast his eyes about the room.
“This place reeks of troll—trust me, I know. He musta been chained here to keep people from stealing the uisge, but he broke loose and escaped.”
This caused everyone to look around in apprehension.
Thurmond tried to calm himself and his friends with a happy thought.
“Don’t worry. I know trolls. If it was still around, it’d be attacking us at this very moment. It’s long gone from here, out looking for something to eat. It wouldn’t stick around once it broke free.”
While the others were examining the chain, Torgul explored farther down the corridor. Beyond the stacks of casks and crates, he found an area that served as living quarters, complete with bunks, stools, storage chests, and a wooden table.
These furnishings had been thoroughly ravaged—the table and stools overturned and smashed, the chests emptied and the foodstuffs within scattered and chewed. The floor was strewn with the shredded remains of clothing and mattress ticking.
Three dead men lay amidst the wreckage. Where their stomachs had been, only gaping cavities remained.
Torgul called the others to come have a look.
“Who do you suppose these men were?”
Roscoe supplied the answer.
“Smugglers. These poor bastards was left here to guard the goods. They met a sorrowful fate, so they did.”
They moved back down the corridor, away from the ghastly, eviscerated bodies. Sarah was uneasy.
“Where’s the troll now?”
Thurmond sought to reassure her.
“It’s gone. It killed these guys, ate their guts, and broke out through that smashed door. It run off, I’m pretty sure.”
Unfortunately, Thurmond’s understanding of troll behavior was not as comprehensive as he believed. Otherwise, he would have known that no troll would willingly abandon deliciously decomposing human remains.
No sooner were his words out of his mouth than he was seized from behind by a pair of scaly arms. The troll had, all this time, been lurking in a niche behind the stacked casks. He now emerged from his hiding place and clamped a mouthful of fangs on the young Adventurer’s shoulder.
Thurmond screamed and attempted to fight free, but the creature’s jaws were immovable. Torgul immediately flew to the attack, his axe streaking red magic as he chopped at the troll’s back. But even Bloodtroll’s enchanted edge was unable to bring the monster down.
Roscoe jumped in, thrusting at the troll’s eyes with his point of his sword. This tactic earned a response. Still holding Thurmond with its teeth, the creature lashed out quick, its claws ripping across the old Adventurer’s mail and sending him sprawling into a stack of casks.
Then, annoyed by the axe blows that were stinging its back, the troll delivered a tremendous buffet to Torgul’s head. The dwarf went down in a heap.
Thurmond was all the while struggling to pull his sword, but his sword arm was pinned by the troll’s fangs. He could only watch as his friends were knocked flat.
Then Sarah unleashed one of her fireballs and a scorching blast of flame exploded against the wall just to the right of the troll’s head. It screeched, confounded as droplets of liquid fire sprayed across its body. Unfamiliar with the sensation of fear, uncertain how to respond, it dropped its quarry and backed away.
A second fireball smashed into its face. The nose, lips, and ears fried and shriveled like pork fat dropped on a red-hot griddle. The eyes melted and ran down its cheeks. The creature gave a mind-numbing scream and began to stumble about the corridor, a flailing maelstrom of blind, maddened claws and fangs.
Torgul found his feet and closed in from behind. His axe rose and fell, rose and fell, spattering floor and walls with bits of troll flesh. Roscoe pulled himself upright but held back a bit, wary of the sightless creature’s slashing talons. He took his time, found his opening, and then with a single blow almost cut through its neck. With the supporting muscles severed, the troll’s head fell limp against its chest.
Released at last, Thurmond—now in his own blind rage—tore his sword from its scabbard and belabored the troll’s head and face with all his might. Then it was over. The troll sank to the ground and moved no more.
As Thurmond began to calm down, his bitten shoulder began to ache. He was very fortunate, for the troll had disliked the sharp electric sensation that comes from biting on metal and had not clamped down with the full force of its terrible jaws. Still, his shoulder would bear a large mail-patterned bruise where the iron rings were driven into his skin.
He stared at the battered and roasted remains of the troll.
“We’ve got to destroy this thing completely. Trolls heal themselves. If we don’t chop it into little pieces, its face and neck will grow back, and it’ll come back to life.”
This was true. Just as some lizards can drop their tails and grow new ones, trolls could regenerate severed body parts and recover from seemingly lethal injuries.
Roscoe rubbed his jaw as if puzzled.
“I dunno, laddie. I’ve heard tell of such things with trolls, but this bugger seems deader than hell. But we’d best be safe. What should we do first—cut off its head completely?”
Torgul had an idea.
“Let’s soak it in uisge and burn it. Remember that oversized slug?”
On a previous adventure, they had been called upon to dispatch a gigantic gastropod. A good dousing with uisge had rendered it into a puddle of goo.
Roscoe was wistful.
“That would a terrible waste of fine beverage—but I suppose we must.”
He prodded the troll with the point of his sword, then continued.
“We can’t have this fella standin’ up and lookin’ for another go at us.”
Roscoe knocked the bung from one of the casks while Torgul searched through the slain smugglers’ scattered possessions. He came up with a dented brass tankard, which he presented to the others with a flourish.
“Makes no sense lettin’ all this wonderful drink go to waste. We can at least have us a good snort.”
The old Adventurer beamed in approval and filled the vessel to the brim. He drank deep and handed the cup to Sarah. She did her best to follow his example, but the fiery drink was just too strong. It took her breath and made her gasp for air. She passed the tankard on to Thurmond, who also strove to demonstrate his prowess as a drinker. Alas—he fared no better than Sarah. Roscoe’s skill with a cup was unsurpassed.
Torgul drank next, then proffered the cup to Cob. The response was entirely unexpected. Instead of expressing gratitude, the archer erupted in a moral outrage.
“Nay—I’ll not drink from your cup of sin! Do not try to tempt me with your demon brew.”
The Adventurers all turned in surprise. Cob strode angrily to Roscoe and planted himself squarely before him, hands on hips. His head barely reached the big man’s shoulder, yet the depth of his conviction made him fearless.
“It’s bad enough that you pollute yourself by associatin’ with dwarves. But then you drag us down here to the very gates of Hell and thrust us into the jaws of this unholy doorkeeper.”
He pointed an accusing finger at the dead troll.
“As if that warn’t enow …”
His paused, his face growing red, his voice beginning to sputter as he worked himself into a righteous rage.
“… but now this stunted, soul-less thing …”
He indicated Torgul.
“… tries to lure us into corruption with ardent spirits. I’ll not stand for it! I won’t! Not for a moment!”
He glared defiantly at the old Adventurer, clearly looking for a fight. Thurmond shot a glance at the other archers. He disliked them intensely, Cob especially, and would not be sorry if they came to blows. Yet that was not to be.
The shortest, thinnest archer, Tuck, stood impassively with arms folded, eyes turned away, as if disinterested in the impending conflict. Wat, the smartest of the trio, caught Thurmond’s glance and returned a slight shrug and sheepish grin as if abashed by his companion’s antics.
Roscoe replied to the vociferous Cob in a calm soothing voice, though his words made his position very clear.
“Friend Cob, I comprehend your ethical misgivings, so I do. Indeed, sharin’ a drop of uisge with Torgul and killin’ trolls ain’t doin’ God’s work near so well as shootin’ some nobleman full of arrows so your preacher friend can poach his stags.”
Cob opened his mouth to protest, but Roscoe silenced him with a gesture and continued.
“And I understand, so I do, that you’re accustomed to fightin’ out in the clean, wholesome air, killin’ human folk, instead of facin’ off with—what did you call the troll? An unholy doorkeeper, I think it was. Aye—that it was.”
“So maybe that explains why you three hung back and didn’t pitch in with the rest of us.”
This was true. The three archers had slunk back and let the others do the fighting. Cob closed his mouth and said nothing, which was wise because Roscoe was determined to have his say.
“So, here’s my proposal, friend Cob. I gave you some coin at the beginnin’ of our adventure with the promise of more if you gave good service. Well, I’m findin’ your service a bit wantin’.”
For the first time, his voice rose.
“So be off with you now! Take your two friends and the gold I gave you—which you ain’t properly earned—and find your own way out. I wish you no ill, but I’ll not put up with more of your foolishness. On your way.”
These words brought Cob’s complaints to a quick end. Fear gave his voice a slight quaver.
“You don’t really mean ….”
Roscoe cut him off.
“I mean exactly what I say, so I do. I left markins all along the tunnel with a piece of charcoal—they’ll lead you back the way we come in.”
Then another voice—one hitherto silent—spoke up.
“I’ll drink with the dwarf! Give me the cup! I’ll drink to his health and yours!”
It was Wat. He extended his hand toward Torgul, who obligingly passed him the requested vessel. Then Tuck, as if awakening from a dream, added his agreement.
“Aye, and I as well. Pass the cup, Wat, so I can toast to Lord Torgul’s good health.”
This put Cob in an awkward position. He was badly frightened by the prospect of negotiating the underground with his two comrades. Doing so alone was unthinkable. Understanding the man’s hopeless situation, Roscoe softened a little.
“What about it, Cob? Will you be drinkin’ to Lord Torgul’s health like your companions?”
The archer hesitated for only a moment before taking the cup. He mumbled something indistinguishable as he lifted it to the dwarf and raised it to his lips. He took only the smallest sip, but it was sufficient to bring tears to his eyes.
In other circumstances, the event might have been a cause for merriment, but their present situation was too precarious for humor. Roscoe looked Cob dead in the eye.
“You’ve shared a cup with us, and now we’re bound together for a day and a night or until the end of the adventure. It’s custom, plain and simple, and mighty bad fortune comes to a man who breaks such a bond.”
Roscoe was making this up to intimidate the archer. The sharing of a cup carried no such specific obligation.
“I’m givin’ you one more chance to live up to your word and give good service. Any more complaints and you’ll be left behind for a fact. Do you take my meanin’?”
Cob said nothing, only nodded.
Roscoe and Thurmond were soaking the troll with uisge while Cob sat silent, alone, and glum. Wat hooked Thurmond’s arm and drew him to one side.
“You know, Cob ain’t really a bad bloke. I mean, he takes good care of Tuck and me—looks after us like we was his little brothers or somethin’. It’s just that he wasn’t brought up proper, so he don’t know how to act with people.”
Thurmond was intrigued.
“What do you mean?”
“He was raised by the White Friars. His folks left him in a basket by the church door, and the friars took him in. He don’t know nothin’ else but what they taught him. It makes it hard for him to get along with normal folks.”
Thurmond began to comprehend. The White Friars were the third most powerful denomination in the Charonite religion. Neither as politically connected as the Blues or as wealthy as the Blacks, they maintained a huge following comprised primarily of the lowest social orders. Since there was always a great many poor people, the Whites were never wanting for loyal followers.
Dissatisfied with their third-place ranking, the Whites were far less concerned with spiritual mysteries or ethical teachings than with expanding their powerbase. They therefore kept their dogma very basic. They required little more than total obedience to the church hierarchy, an intense hatred of foreigners and non-humans, and an abhorrence of fornication and strong drink.
These simple dictates could be easily understood and appreciated by the average thick-brained peasant. Fortunately, most of the true believers were redeemed by a healthy dose of wholesome hypocrisy, especially in regard to illicit couplings and excessive swilling.
Cob was different. The White Friar’s teachings had been so beaten into him that he could no longer interact with people in a normal fashion. Thurmond understood this because, growing up poor in a small rural village, he had had plenty of contact with White Friars and their devoted followers. He had witnessed what early exposure to such vitriol could do to a person.
The conversation with Wat was interrupted when Sarah hooked him by the other arm and pulled him off to the other side of the corridor. She gave him a hard look.
“Want to come clean?”
“What?”
“Don’t what me—time to come clean. How do you know so much about trolls? You’ve never told me anything about meeting a troll before.”
This was true. Thurmond had kept the story of his troll encounter entirely to himself. Not even Sarah, his closest friend—and maybe something far more than that—had been told this secret. But now, he knew, he would have to tell all.
“Look, Sarah … it’s really embarrassing … that’s why I never told you. But …”
He paused, not wanting to continue. She awarded him with an impatient scowl.
“Well?”
“Well … remember that guy Jasper, the one with the troll hand?”
Jasper had been a solider they encountered in the course of their first adventure. His left hand had been lost in a barroom fracas and a troll hand magically grafted in its place.
Sarah wrinkled her nose.
“Of course I remember him. How could I forget something as disgusting as that?”
“I was the one who brought that hand into the city. Just before I met you, I was sent to find this old guy who raises trolls and fetch a hand for Jasper.”
The young Adventuress just shook her head.
“Raises trolls? Don’t be ridiculous—nobody would do such a thing.”
“Nay, you’re mistaken—there’s a weird old coot who lives out in the woods. He calls himself Trollkeeper.”
Sarah was now confused.
“But why?”
Thurmond dreaded telling this next part of the story.
“For wizards or priests—I don’t know—to use in their spells. Troll parts grow back, so I guess they’re something special. I didn’t know why they wanted it, but as soon as we met Jasper, I knew they had stuck it on him.”
Sarah’s mouth dropped open in horror.
“Oh … I dunno … Thurmond … that’s horrible. How could you involve yourself in something so nasty?”
Sarah’s reaction was not unexpected. Trolls, along with ogres, kobolds, goblins, and a few others, were the fell creatures—bestial sub-human species that possessed an instinctive hatred for mankind and sought, whenever opportunity arose, to inflict as much misery as possible on their natural enemy.
The fell creatures routinely slaughtered solitary shepherds or small bands of wayfarers unlucky enough to venture near their lairs. At times they grew bolder and raided small caravans and isolated farmsteads. Larger groups might attack a village or sack a remote castle.
Humans returned this animosity measure for measure. There was something about these creatures that was just inherently wrong, that inspired an immediate impulse either to flee for one’s life or to attack without mercy. It was simply impossible for people to abide the presence of fell creatures.
The very idea of grafting a troll’s hand to a human body was utterly repellent to all right-minded humans. It was also a capital crime and a mortal sin, so Thurmond’s involvement had endangered both his life and his soul. But that was still not the worst.
“There’s something else, Sarah, something worse.”
“It’s hard to imagine anything worse.”
“After Jasper got killed, the troll hand kept flopping around on the end of his arm. It scared me, so I cut it off and threw it into the river. I thought it’d be gone forever, but that has to be the hand that crawled ashore two Yuletides past. It has to be. That’s the hand Asmodeus sent us to find.”
Sarah could scarcely believe what she was hearing.
“So, it was your troll hand that Bishop Boniface claimed was the hand of Saint Aphazia.”
“Aye, it has to be. If the church ever finds out that I know the truth about their prize relic … well … that’ll be the end of me. Prithee, don’t tell the others. I’m not ready to face them yet.”
“It’s a little late for that, Thurmond. Look behind you.”
Roscoe, Torgul, Wat, and Tuck stood directly at his back. They had overheard every word. Only Cob still sat apart, sulking. Dismayed, Thurmond turned guiltily to Roscoe.
“Do you think Cob heard?”
The question had been directed to the old Adventurer, but Wat answered.
“He’s got keen ears, he does. Aye—I ‘spect he heard.”
Roscoe clamped a heavy hand on Wat’s shoulder.
“Of course, you know what must happen if any of you three should breathe the edge of a word about any of this. Do you follow my train of thought here, boyo?”
Wat cringed under the big man’s grip.
“Aye—I do. But you gotta understand Cob. He don’t see things same as the rest of us. None of this is gonna set well with him.”
Roscoe’s reply was menacing.
“None of us exactly like it, laddie. Question is—what to do about it?”
Wat replied in low tones.
“Let me and Tuck talk to Cob. Maybe we can make him see good sense.”
“You better make sure you do.”
Meanwhile, Torgul brought a flint and steel from his pouch and began to strike sparks over the uisge-drenched troll. This was not easy, but thin blue flames finally took hold. Sarah took out the silver hand and held it by its chain. It wavered at first, as if confused, then pointed down the corridor.