XV

ALDERS FOR DINNER

Rom Alder sat in the command tent, staring at the tabletop. Dirk of Alder, blue armored, young, and rangy, paced back and forth on the other side of the tent. “They killed Uncle Brock.” He glanced at Rom after each pronouncement, though Rom did not look his way. ““Who do those people think they are? Do they think there will be no repercussions? No reprisals? I will see them dead. Every Eotrus will hang from their Dor’s walls before I’m done with them.””

“You talk tough for a little man,” said Bald Boddrick from his seat opposite Rom, a large ale mug in his hand. In truth, Dirk was nearly six feet tall and approached two hundred pounds. To Boddrick, however, that was small.

“Let the boy blow off some steam,” said Bithel the Piper from the seat next to Boddrick. Captain Kralan of the Myrdonians, hawk faced and black haired, nodded at Bithel's pronouncement, as did Captain Martrin of the Lomerian Guard.

Rom looked up for a moment. “He's an Alder,” he said to Boddrick before he resumed staring at the table.

“You can't just wipe out an entire noble family in anger,” said Boddrick to Dirk. “You want to talk about repercussions; you'll have them if you do that.””

“They drew first blood, unprovoked, no less,” said Black Grint, whose nickname spoke to his disposition, not his complexion, which was ghostly white, just like his hair. “We'd be in our rights to kill them dead. All of them.”

“Not the women,” said Sentry of Allendale, tall and lean, with a thick mustache. “Not the children. We're not animals. And some might say that the writ provoked them a bit, don’t you think?”

“Do they even have any women?” said Boddrick. “I ask you, have any of you seen an Eotrus woman? Even once, ever?””

“Not I,” said Bithel.

“That's because they keep them hidden away, their ugly and their stench so strong as to turn a man to stone even as he's puking out his guts,” said Boddrick.

“You're wrong,” said Black Grint. “They don't hide their women. They keep them on display for all to see —— in pens in the barnyard.”

There was laughter all around, except for Rom who still stared down, deep in thought.

“They breed with pigs, they do,” said Grint. “Sometimes, when they get truly desperate, they get all cozy with gnomes, I hear. Alas, we'll have no fun with any Eotrus women. Except for Boddrick, for he likes pigs. Oh, and Sentry, for he has a fondness for gnomes.”

More laughter.

“She wasn't a gnome,” said Sentry. “She was just short.”

“I saw a beard,” said Grint.

Sentry shook his head as they all laughed again.

Rom looked up, his expression grim. When he spoke, the others shut up. “Eleanor Eotrus was one of the great beauties of her day. A noble woman, from a proud lineage.”

There was a pause for several moments during which no one said anything, tension in the air.

“She was a Malvegil by birth, was she not?” said Sentry.

“Aye,” said Rom.

“The Malvegils are almost as bad as the stinking northerners,” said Boddrick. “Swamp dwellers, they are, surrounded by flies, fleas, and muck for every moment of their lives. Your Eotrus woman was probably half swamp viper and half stink bug.”

Rom’s cold gaze shifted to Boddrick. “Remind me why I suffer your presence?”

“Because I've killed forty-seven men in the wars, and fifty-two men in the service of House Alder. I've never been defeated in battle. In fact, no man can stand against me and live. That's earned me the right to say whatever I want, whenever I want, to whomever I want. If any don't like it—”

“When you were still pooping your pants, I'd already killed more men than that,” said Rom, his eyes and voice icy cold. “So control your wagging tongue before I cut it out.”

On the face of it, Rom's statement appeared no more than a boast, for he looked only fifteen years Boddrick's senior, twenty at the most.

Boddrick stared back at him. “I answer to Mother Alder, not you, old man, so I'll wag my tongue all I like. If you—”

The table upended. In a flash, Rom was at Boddrick, lifted him up (all four hundred pounds of him) and slammed him on his back to the tent's dirt floor. Boddrick lay stunned, the wind knocked out of him. All the others gaped in surprise. Their hands instinctively moved to their weapons, though no one drew them; they all seemed uncertain of what to do. It was plain to see, Rom could have put his dagger through the big man’s chest or throat, just as easily as he had bodyslammed him.

“Have you anything else to say?” said Rom to Boddrick.

Unable to catch his breath, Boddrick shook his head.

Rom looked around. “Who do you answer to?” he said, eyeing the men, each one in turn.

“To you, my Lord,” said Sentry, bowing.

“To you,” said Bithel.

“To you, uncle,” said Dirk.

“On this mission, you, my lord,” said Captain Kralan.

“Aye, you,” said Captain Martrin.

Black Grint stared back at Rom, matching his steely gaze, and not looking the least bit concerned. After a few moments, he nodded his head. That was all the response he'd offer, and Rom accepted it.

“Get out of here, all of you, and go get some sleep,” said Rom. “I’m sending for reinforcements from the city. We’re going to be here a while.”

“You mean to siege them?” said Sentry.

“I mean to see them all dead,” said Rom.

Rom awoke with a start. There was a commotion in the camp. Men yelled. Screamed. The Eotrus! he thought. They've sallied forth to attack. Rom scrambled to his feet. He hadn't expected them to leave the safety of their walls. But he had slept in his armor, just in case. Prudence and caution, as much as strength and skill — it's what keeps a soldier alive. He grabbed his sword and made for the tent flap, listening for horses as he moved. If they had charged into camp on heavy horse, he'd need his spear, but he heard no pounding hooves, so it was sword and shield, his weapons of choice for close combat. He didn't understand the screaming. Just as he reached for the tent flap, he heard the growls of some beast. Something he couldn't identify.

Rom stepped out of the command tent, which, along with the other officers' tents, formed a tight ring around a fire pit. Captain Kralan was there, sword in hand. So was Captain Martrin, and the troop bugler, and several others. Beast-like growls came from all sides and dark shapes leaped amongst the tents and bedrolls throughout the camp. Men screamed and wailed and cried out for help. Not the Eotrus. A pride of mountain lions? A wolf pack? The sounds weren't right. The shapes weren't right. What the hell are they?

An overwhelming animal stench assailed Rom's nostrils. It was so bad that it almost made him gag. Then a troll crashed into Martrin, crushing him face down to the ground, claws flailing. Rom didn't know what the troll was — he had never before seen its like. He hesitated a moment as he processed what he was looking at. But only a moment. Then he stepped forward and with one powerful swipe of his sword cut the top half of the troll's head off. He didn't need to know what it was to kill it. It collapsed on Martrin, who was dead, a huge chunk of flesh torn from the back of his neck.

“Bugler, call for a wedge,” said Rom as he turned around. But the bugler was down, a troll tearing into his face with its claws and teeth. The bugler's sword protruded out the troll's back — he had caught the thing coming in, but in its fury, the mortal blow hadn't stopped it.

Rom dashed over. The troll lifted its head and growled. Rom thrust the tip of his sword deep into the thing's upper chest. Despite the blow, it rose up, still some life left in it. Rom kicked it in the gut as he wrenched his blade free. The thing still stood, blood spurting from its chest. It should have fallen from either of the two mortal wounds it had suffered. But it didn't. If anything, it looked as if it was gathering its strength for another attack. Rom stepped in and bashed it in the face with his shield. He heard the sounds of its bones cracking from the powerful impact. The troll fell back as a cut tree. It howled in agony as the bugler's sword, which still stuck through its torso, did more damage during the fall.

Rom spun around for fear of other trolls that might be behind him.

Men fought with trolls throughout the camp. There were dozens of the beasts, maybe scores. The camp had been caught by surprise and many men were dying for it. How that happened, Rom didn't understand. They'd posted a strong guard around the entire encampment. Then Rom heard a low growl behind him and spun back to see the troll he'd just dropped rising to its feet. Its face and chest wounds didn't appear to be bleeding — at least not the way such wounds were wont to do. The troll came at him fast, despite its injuries.

Rom was quicker. He slashed the creature in an arc from its right shoulder down across its body to its left thigh. It kept coming. Rom took a few quick steps backward and repeated his slash, this time going from the left shoulder down across to the right thigh. Still it came, and the wounds didn't bleed the way they should. He couldn't believe that it still came on. Nothing could take such punishment. Rom sidestepped, backpedaled, and swung his sword high in a powerful arc. The troll put up its forearm to block the blow and simultaneously ducked. Rom's sword severed its arm and lodged two-thirds of the way through its head. The creature dropped, wrenching Rom's sword from his grasp.

Rom turned, his shield held protectively, but no more opponents were close. He brought the shield's edge crashing down on the fallen troll's head, crushing it to pulp and freeing his sword, even as its one remaining arm clawed at him and attempted to pull him down.

Rom turned to see Captain Kralan turn his back on a troll he had just stabbed in the chest, in order to face another troll that leaped toward him. Rom yelled a warning, but it was too late; the first troll raked its claws across Kralan's back and brought the knight to his knees. Unfortunately, Kralan had not had the foresight to keep his armor on during the night. Both trolls pounced on the fallen man and tore him to pieces. There was nothing that Rom could do, so he turned aside.

“Get into formation!” shouted Rom. “To me! To me!” he said, turning around and around to make certain that no troll could pounce on him from behind. Two Myrdonians appeared a moment later, one limping from a gash in his leg, and took their places, back to back with Rom. Then Black Grint showed up, his sword and main gauche both dripping with troll blood. More men came and they expanded their circle, soon two rows deep. Within another ten seconds, Rom had a core of fifteen men around him. The trolls avoided them, instead picking off men that stood alone or in smaller groups. Twenty seconds later, he had forty men with him. Most had a weapon or two, but no armor or other gear.

Dozens of trolls rampaged through the camp to the south of Rom's position. What men still lived in the northern part of the camp stood about Rom in a tight circle two to three rows deep.

“The fighting is thick back by the wagons,” said Black Grint.

“We can't get to them,” said Rom.

“What are they?” asked a Myrdonian.

“Mountain trolls,” said Black Grint. “Down from the north. Bash their heads in or cut their heads off, else they'll just get up again. That and fire is the only way to stop them.”

Two trolls charged from one side. Two more came at them from another direction.

“Stay in formation!” shouted Rom. “Aim for their heads.”

The trolls fought like demons and wouldn’t stay down. In the space of two minutes, Rom lost a half dozen of his men, and only managed to kill two of the trolls. Two more moved away, presumably too hurt to continue, or else in search of easier targets.

Then from the east came eight trolls carrying swords and hammers and shields — some of strange design; others that they had looted from the fallen soldiers. The men nearly panicked when they saw that the trolls were armed, but Rom's powerful commands held them together. The trolls charged Rom's contingent in a single line, shoulder to shoulder. They barreled through, scattering the men. And worst of all, they used their weapons to deadly effect. Their style, crude compared to that of Lomerian knights, but effective all the same. The fighting was close and bloody and more chaotic than almost any battle Rom had seen, and he'd seen many. The trolls' strength and agility was so far beyond a man's, that it was almost impossible to stand against them, even with numbers. They tore apart Rom's line, scooping men up and tossing them, tearing off arms and legs, howling and slavering all the while. The soldiers slashed them, stabbed them, and pounded them with hammers, but they withstood terrible punishment and kept fighting, getting up again and again until some blow finally staved in their skulls. When it was done, ten men only still stood alongside Rom and Black Grint. All the rest were dead or dying along with the trolls. The fighting was still thick by the wagons. Through the scattered firelight, there seemed to be several dozen trolls between Rom's position and the rest of his troop who were making their stand by the wagons.

“We run for the Dor?” said Black Grint.

“Aye,” said Rom. “It's our only chance.”

***

“Dead gods,” said Sarbek as he and Ector ran toward where Indigo stood along the parapet atop the Outer Dor's main gate. “What's going on out there?””

Indigo lowered a spyglass from his eye and passed it to Sarbek.

“As best as I can tell,” said Indigo, “the trolls are having the Alders for dinner.”

“They attacked a full brigade?” said Ector.

Indigo nodded. “By the time I got up here, the fighting had spread throughout the camp. The trolls must have come at them from at least two sides, probably three at once. And they must have come in quiet, because it looks as if they took the Alders unawares, most still in their bedrolls and tents.”

“How many trolls do you think?” said Sarbek. “I can barely see anything. It's too dark out there.””

“I couldn't tell,” said Indigo, “but to scatter a full brigade like that — there must be at least fifty. Probably a hundred or more. It looks like at least several squadrons, maybe a full company fled to the south. I didn't see any large mass of trolls going after them, so they may have gotten clear. The main fighting is in the southeast corner of the camp by the wagon train. Another major battle was at the northern edge of the camp, where they have their command tent — that battle looks to be over, but I can't tell who won.”

“They're still going at it by the wagons,” said Sarbek. A see a thick ring of men and the trolls keep charging them, pounding away. What's this? A squad is headed this way, running for their lives.”

“How many?” said Ector.

“My guess is thirty, maybe thirty-five,” said Sarbek, “but there are trolls after them, picking off the stragglers.””

“Are we letting them in?” said Indigo.

“We can't stand here and watch them get eaten while pounding on our gate, now can we?” said Sarbek.

“Why not?” said Indigo.

“Son, sometimes, you scare me,” said Sarbek.

“The feeling is mutual,” said Indigo.

“Now,” shouted Sarbek. The gatemen pulled open the Outer Dor's main gate. The ragged contingent of soldiers ran in, several trolls on their heels. One troll leaped forward and pounced on the legs of the man farthest back, taking him down less than ten feet outside the gate.

The moment the soldiers were in, Eotrus crossbowmen fired from atop the wall and from the barbican area. Dozens of bolts skewered the trolls as they reached the gates. Two went down at the threshold, one staggered in. Within seconds, swordsmen cut it down, and staved in its head.

The troll that had taken the straggler bounded forward through the gate, howling, then stopped, for a huge mass of soldiers faced it. Before it got its bearings, Indigo charged toward it, pike in hand, and caught it in the upper abdomen. His momentum carried him forward and he slammed the troll against the wooden scaffolding beside the gates. The pike's blade cut through the troll's body and embedded in the wood beyond, pinning the troll to the wall, its feet dangling just above the ground.

“Do we finish it?” said Indigo to Sarbek as more pikemen pressed their blades close to the troll.

Sarbek paused to consider that for a moment. “Sverdes may have some use for it. Bind it with ropes, lots of ropes. Put a muzzle on it before you pull it down. Then hog-tie it. Keep ten men on it and throw it in a cell under constant guard. Ten men on guard — no fewer. Keep it tied up even within the cell. We've seen what these things can do; I'll take no chances with it.”

One of the trolls felled by the crossbowmen was dead, for two shafts had penetrated its skull. The other stirred despite a dozen bolts sticking from it. As it tried to sit up, Rom Alder stepped forward and lopped its head off with his sword. Rom looked toward his encampment. No other men ran toward the Dor, but here and there along the path that they had run, trolls hunched over bodies, feasting on men, tearing them apart.

“Close the gate,” said Rom.

“Stand down,” said Sarbek approaching him, a dozen crossbowmen supporting the castellan. Most of Rom’s men collapsed to the ground as soon as they knew they had escaped the trolls. The Eotrus quickly disarmed them. Black Grint and two Myrdonian Knights stood back to back, weapons ready, as Eotrus crossbowmen and swordsmen surrounded them. “I'll not tell you again,” said Sarbek. ““Drop your weapons now, or we will kill you where you stand. You've seen me do that before, so you know it's no idle threat.”

Rom's eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. He let the sword fall from his grasp.

“Who are you?” said Sarbek.

“I am Rom of House Alder.”

“The witch mother's brother?” said Sarbek. “Well, well, quite a prize indeed.” Sarbek shouted to his men. “Bind their hands and put them in the dungeon.” After they'd bound Rom's hands before him, Sarbek said, “You will join us on the wall.”

Atop the wall gathered Sarbek, Ector, several Eotrus knights, and Rom Alder. They studied the battle through spyglasses, one of the knights holding one up to Rom's eye.

“There's still a wedge of men fighting by the wagons,” said Ector who had the best vision of the group. “Eighty or ninety of them in a ring. They're holding the trolls at bay.”

“They've got torches, and several of the wagons are ablaze,” said Sarbek.

“There are too many trolls,” said Rom. “They'll all die out there.”

“That they will,” said Sarbek.

“You have cavalry,” said Rom. “Use them.”

“I do, but I'll not lose half our horse for a chance, and it's only a chance, to save a handful of your men,” said Sarbek. “Their fates are in Odin's hands now.”

Ector eyed Sarbek but did not contradict him.

“My grandnephew is out there,” said Rom. “Save him and you will be rewarded. You have my word on that.””

“I will not sacrifice Eotrus men to save an Alder,” said Sarbek. “I don't expect if you were in my position, you'd do any different.””

Rom didn't respond.

They watched through the spyglasses for several minutes as the trolls made charge after charge against the Alders, trying to scatter the men, but they held together in a tight core.

“That cadre of knights fight like devils,” said Sarbek. “Is that Boddrick amongst them?”

“Aye,” said Rom. “No one else is that big. And Bithel the Piper will be beside him, if he still lives. The man in the blue armor is Dirk, my nephew.””

“I see several men in Myrdonian green amongst them,” said Ector.

“An entire brigade,” said Rom. “Not since the wars have we had such losses.”

“That's because the south is soft; life is easy there,” said Sarbek. “It's we here on the borderlands that do all the fighting. It's we that suffer all the losses to keep you people safe in your beds, in your fine houses and fancy clothes, and parties aplenty. You see that out there,” he said pointing toward the battle, “that's just one little piece of the wild that we've been holding back for hundreds of years. Them and a hundred threats like them. Maybe after today, you'll have a bit of appreciation for that.”

“You knew they were out there?” said Rom. “The trolls?”

Sarbek didn't immediately answer.

“Did you set them on us?” said Rom. “Are they your allies?”

“Don't be a fool,” said Sarbek.

“Even so,” said Rom, “You should have warned us.”

“You'd never have believed us,” said Sarbek.

“I'd have taken precautions,” said Rom. “For one, my nephew would have been at my side — not out there. He's going to die because of your treachery. You'll pay for that. Every one of you will.”

Sarbek turned and faced him. “You stinking Alders are all the same. You came here to arrest or to kill the entire Eotrus family on fabricated charges, and to take all their holdings for your own, and you accuse us of treachery?” Sarbek's hand lashed out. He punched Rom squarely in the jaw. Rom's head turned and he reeled back; but just as quickly, he turned back to Sarbek, his eyes focused, a scowl on his face. Sarbek punched him again. He threw all his strength into the blow. Rom responded just as he had before, though this time his scowl was stronger and blood trickled from his mouth.

“You're a weak, little man,” said Rom. “In House Alder, we'd have you scrubbing the water closets.””

“Get this bastard from my sight,” said Sarbek. “Throw him in the deepest darkest cell you can find. Then throw away the key.””

The knights took Rom away just as Indigo joined the others on the wall.

“How do they fare?” said Sarbek to Ector. Ector raised his spyglass back to his eye and studied the battleground. “It's over,”” he said.

“Darned tough men they were,” said Sarbek. “I wish that we could have saved them.”

“What we do now?” said Ector

“We hope that them trolls got their fill of fighting and head back whence they came,” said Sarbek. “Failing that, we hope them that we saw out there tonight was all of them. If there are a lot more coming, we're headed for the deep stuff, right quick.”

“Sir Gabriel always said, hope is not a strategy,” said Ector.

“It ain't, but sometimes, it's all you got.”