Trolled: The Complete Saga (The Trolled Saga) Page 2

  Terry folded his arms defensively. “Look, are you coming out or what? Because you know I’m just going to stand here talking until you say yes.”

  Nat placed her forehead on the desk. She knew Terry wasn’t going to leave until he got the answer he wanted. It was just as she was lamenting this sorry fact that something caught in her nostrils. “Is that… urgh, did you track dog mess in here?”

  Terry lifted a calf-length leather boot, peered at the sole and winced. “See, now there’s another good reason to get out of the house.”

  ACROSS THE CHASM from the Citadel of Durkon were the fossilised remains of a forest. Perched atop the blackened skeleton of one of its trees, creaking in the night breeze, squatted a slender figure. His owlish gaze landed on a structure a short way ahead: the ground-level departure point of Drensila’s gondola system. A cable threaded through its pulley and led all the way across the chasm to the citadel’s highest battlement. It climbed at an impossibly steep incline, reaching almost into the cloudline. No man could scale an obstacle so treacherous. No man could keep his head at such dizzying heights, or stay his footing among the chasm’s screaming winds. And yet Gilon Redsky was no man.

  Gilon the elf had arrived by cover of night with one purpose in mind: to single-handedly infiltrate the Citadel of Durkon, kill Drensila the Black, and end her cursed bloodline for good. Though her army had yet to locate the elven domain—disguised as it was by a powerful cloak of enchantment—her incursions into the Whispering Woods had drawn ever closer these last few years. Elven huntsmen had been ambushed by troll scouts, and acres of woodland had been desecrated in search of their prey. Hiding was no longer an option. The elves had to fight back.

  From his position in the treetop, Gilon spied on a half dozen elite soldiers standing guard of the ground-level gondola station. The elf’s perfect stillness made him invisible to Drensila’s men, though his superb eyesight was able to make them out in the smallest detail. Their armour, built from the bones of fallen enemies, the barbed jewellery that pierced their unfeeling black flesh, their eyes small and yellow, like marbles of frozen piss.

  The trolls talked to one another, communicating in a tongue that sounded like two rough stones being ground together.

  “...Most of all I miss action,” said the larger of the creatures, who had the stripes of a group sergeant carved into his shoulder. “Back on patrol you’d see some things, I tell you.” He smirked at a recollection. “Did I ever tell you boys about the time I found that elf girl in the Whispering Woods?”

  The other trolls leaned in, eager to hear their superior’s story.

  “Found her alone and with her ankle caught in one of our snares, I did. Bit to the bone.” He snapped his clawed hands together like the jaws of a mantrap and laughed, coughing up a spray of grey spittle.

  One of his lackeys scratched the top of his skull and dislodged a scab. “What did you do with her?” he growled.

  The sergeant grinned, exposing a row of fangs set within a mouth like an infected wound. “I told the bitch, “tell me where your village is or I’m gonna eat you alive.””

  “So?” begged a lackey, licking his lips. “What did you do?”

  “I followed through is what I did. Started on her fingertips and worked my way up from there. Ate her hand, her wrist, her whole bloody arm.”

  The rest of the trolls were salivating by this point, silvery drool streaming down their jaws. “And did she talk?” one of them asked.

  “Nah,” said the sergeant, slapping his knee. “She gave me the cold shoulder.” He roared with laughter. “Geddit? The cold shoulder?”

  They all laughed then, a cruel, braying cackle that drifted up to Gilon and caused his hand to tighten on the hilt of his blade. The sword pulsed in its scabbard, purring at his touch like a stroked kitten. Gilon had intended to dismount his perch and dispatch the trolls quickly. That was before. After hearing their heinous tale, he was going to make their deaths something altogether different. Something loud. Something agonising.

  Gilon dropped from the tree and set down behind the trolls as softly as a butterfly with sore feet. The stealthy landing hadn’t been performed for any covert purpose though, simply as a matter of habit, for Gilon had no intention of keeping his presence a secret. He pursed his lips and whistled a tune as he sauntered towards the trolls, causing them to whirl about in his direction.

  “You’re a long ways from home, elf,” remarked the sergeant, drawing a scimitar from his back.

  His five accomplices did likewise. Gilon said nothing, just continued to advance towards the trolls, slow and steady.

  “I take it you heard my little story back there,” said the sergeant, showing those fangs again. “I wonder if you’ll be as brave when you’re slipping down my gullet morsel by morsel.”

  With his weapon still in its scabbard, Gilon froze. The trolls stared at him quizzically.

  “What’s the matter, elf, did I say something to upset you?” teased the sergeant. “Go ahead and cry if you want to, I like my meat salty.”

  He hawked a gobbet of phlegm at Gilon’s feet, but before it could strike the ground, the elf’s sword sprang into his hand and struck out like a reaper’s scythe. There was a savage stench of ammonia as the head of one of the group sergeant’s lackeys tipped back suddenly, revealing a gaping neck wound that vented a cloud of pungent spores. A second troll went to retaliate but his semi-decapitated brother—head draped over his back like a hunchback’s hump—hadn’t cottoned to the fact he was dead and came out swinging also, accidentally sinking a rusty blade into his would-be avenger’s gut. Gilon killed him too, and he didn’t stop there. Gilon kept killing until there was only one troll left, the one who’d eaten his kin.

  “Please,” the troll pleaded, salting his face with hot, wet tears. “Let me go, I’m begging you.”

  Gilon killed him too.

  NAT SAT ON the steps of her porch next to what was—according to the dictionary at least—a man. Currently this man was wearing yellow ochre tights, a quiver of corked arrows and latex Spock ears. The dictionary had a lot to answer for, Nat thought. Still, Terry gave her plenty to be thankful for. Though he wasn’t exactly “man candy” in the Tom Hiddleston sense, he was good for her. Less “man candy” than “man broccoli” really. Certainly not as tasty, but altogether wholesome.

  “The guys should be here any minute,” he said, tapping his pocket watch. Of course he had a pocket watch.

  “Who’s driving?” asked Nat.

  “Clive is.”

  Nat made a face. Most of Terry’s friends she got on with fine—even if they did spend their spare time charging around the woods with rubber swords—but Clive Snyder had always given her the creeps. Clive was a querulous edgelord so charisma deficient that he wasn’t even welcome behind the counter of a Games Workshop.

  “I think maybe I’ve changed my mind—” Nat started.

  “—No!” pleaded Terry. He’d taken to whining now. A whiny elf. “Come on, Nat, you’re always moaning about how you work too hard. Here’s your chance to get away from it and have a bit of fun.”

  He had her there. In the future she would be more careful with her words, if such a thing were even possible.

  To pass the time, Nat took a makeup kit from her pocket and gave her cheeks some colour.

  “What are you getting all dolled up for?” asked Terry. “Are you making yourself pretty for your boyfriend?” He made a kissy kissy face.

  “No,” she replied, pushing him away. “I just don't want to look crappy in front of the other girls.”

  “Girls?” said Terry.

  Nat narrowed her eyes “Please tell me there are going to be other girls there.”

  Terry laughed. “Ha, good one,” he said. “Girls!”

  He laughed some more.

  GILON WIPED A stain of ink-black troll spores from his blade and the weapon reciprocated with a gentle hum of appreciation. The elf saw the Citadel of Durkon looming in the distance high above, and the
keep rising atop it, higher still. He saw the razor-thin ridge that crossed the gulf separating him from his quarry and remembered a half-century ago when he’d ordered soldiers across that same causeway. It was his biggest regret—a rash uprising that had led his people to endure defeat and exile—and yet here he was, ready to mount another perilous attack.

  The causeway bridged the chasm and climbed towards a single entry point, a giant, reinforced door surmounted by the banner of the House of Durkon, a spider embroidered in silver silk onto a background of midnight blue. Even if Gilon were to make it to those doors and pass beneath the sigil, he’d surely alert a spotter and find himself showered with boiling oil or pincushioned by crossbowmen. He’d learned the hard way that the ridge simply wasn’t a viable point of attack. Thankfully, he had other plans.

  The gondola cable. A single length of wire no more than three inches thick that rose from the base of the transport system at a sharp, forty-five degree angle and terminated beyond the citadel’s battlements. To the casual observer, it offered nothing by way of approach. Even the strongest of men, holding tight to the cable with their arms and legs, would face an impossible climb, yet somehow Gilon Redsky had arrived with an altogether less likely method. Stood proud, he placed his bare feet upon the cable and began to place one in front of the other, beginning a diagonal tightrope-walk of nearly four-hundred feet. He did this without even breaking a sweat, as though instead of scaling a mountain he were merely taking a leisurely Sunday stroll. Truly his strength was legendary. His balance preternatural. His will indomitable. Unforgiving winds lashed at his body, the cold turned his breath to gun smoke. But despite it all he continued to climb, his jaw set with grim determination.

  Chapter Two: Knock Down

  NAT SAT IN the back of a trundling van, as black on the inside as it was without. This wasn’t some cool, A-Team battle bus though. Clive’s mode of transportation was less 1980s pop culture icon than serial strangler’s murder wagon.

  “This is gonna be great,” Terry shouted over the thrash metal that blared from the van’s single, tinny speaker.

  A blue fug of weed smoke—which billowed from a pipe Nat had just said no to—filled the van’s cramped cabin from grubby floor to yellowed ceiling. “Great” was not the word that sprung to mind when Nat took stock of the situation she’d found herself in.

  Sharing the polluted vehicle were three of Terry’s fellow anoraks; all boys. A Fellowship of the Wang if you will. Nat recognised their faces from the campus common room, a place she only visited sporadically because she’d read somewhere that being a teenager was supposed to be fun. What it was that made dossing about playing ping pong and eating bad food “fun” was a mystery, but she felt compelled to show her face there from time to time, if only because that’s where Terry spent most of his hours. His whole crew spent more time there dissecting the Monday morning torrent of Game of Thrones than they ever did on their studies.

  After a while the terrain shifted from tarmac to dirt and the van began to bounce about, juggling its passengers to and fro. The sound of traffic gave way to the scraping of wood against metal as tree branches tickled the van’s exterior walls. Eventually, the vehicle came to a halt and Nat blasted through its rear doors like a bullet from a pistol, escaping the smoky confines to suck on her asthma inhaler. She got a look of her surroundings. Apparently she’d been shanghaied to a dirt car park buried in a scrubby woodland clearing. What had Terry talked her into? She shot him daggers, but all she got back was a pinched smile.

  One by one, the rest of the intrepid adventurers spilled from the shabby van. First came Clive, the driver, who had the appearance of an albino stick insect. His wiry frame and sharp shoulders made him look as though he’d put on his shirt without taking the time to remove the hanger first. His anaemic skin was pitted and clammy like a feta cheese, and his facial features—while perfectly symmetrical—were all bad. Though Nat prided herself on not judging others by their appearance, it was hard to find the positives with this specimen. She watched as he cleared his throat and gobbed a bilious green nugget onto the dirt. Ugh. It wasn’t just Clive’s looks that made him ugly, he was ugly on an empirical level.

  Ashley was next out of the van, grinning as his Size 14 shoes thumped onto the car park. Ash was very much the anomaly of the group, not to mention the roleplay set in general. A six and a half foot black guy with an athletic physique and a manicured beard, Ashley stood out like a sore thumb next to his milksop companions.

  “This is gonna be off the hook, fam,” he declared.

  Despite living in rural Essex, Ashley spoke with a distinct “street” patois. To many of his contemporaries this came across as somewhat affected, especially given that the “street” he lived on was named Honeysuckle Lane. That said, few had the guts to accuse this giant youth of being a phony. Indeed, Ashley’s physical maturity was such that on campus he was sometimes mistaken for a lecturer, though more often a cleaner, much to his annoyance. Perhaps it was Ashley’s genes that propelled him to early manhood, or maybe it was the sheer volume of calories he consumed. Even now, with lunchtime hours away, he was gobbling up a doorstop-thick egg and mayo sandwich like Pac-Man on his cheat day.

  Next out of the van was Neville. Nev was a peculiar looking young man with a round, flat face that looked as though it had been made of pink plasticine and pushed forcibly into a wall. It was a wonder he had enough of a profile to hang his glasses on even, his features were so bald. As well as having very little in the way of a nose, Nev had absolutely nothing in the way of legs. This made his exit from the van rather more complicated than for his companions, who did their best to lower him into his wheelchair despite exhibiting the coordination of The Three Stooges after a three day bender. On ice.

  “Gently,” begged Neville.

  Though he looked fragile in that moment, the effect wasn’t to last. Not once he’d been set into his custom-built wheelchair, which he’d personally tricked out to look like a one-man war chariot. All told, it was less a piece of mobility furniture than it was a siege weapon. The chassis had been fitted with a curved metal surround that supported a fierce battering ram, the all-terrain wheels looked like they could tackle the Matterhorn, and the axles had been extended with a pair of deadly scythe blades. Well, deadly rubber scythe blades.

  Nev blinked at the sunlight with bloodshot eyes, a haze of weed smoke hanging over him like Pig-Pen's dirt cloud. “Nice,” he wheezed, and took another drag on his pipe.

  GILON REDSKY ARRIVED at the summit of his arduous climb. Stepping from the gondola cable, he circumvented its winch mechanism and dug his fingertips between the cracks of the citadel keep’s black, stone wall. The thump of his heartbeat rang loud in his ears, so he meditated a moment until it beat as calm and steady as a metronome. His acute hearing uninterrupted, he picked out a patrol of guards and timed his final ascent to slip between their scouting pattern. Hugging the shadows as he circled the outside of the turret, he found his way to an arrow slit window. He attempted to squeeze through the ingress but the opening was too small, even for his lean frame. Wide enough to fit a head through and not much more. In order to make it to the other side, Gilon would need to make some adjustments.

  Butting his arm up against the keep’s outside wall, he applied pressure until he heard a pop and felt his shoulder dislocate from its socket. He neither hesitated nor flinched at this, even as he repeated the excruciating process with his other arm. Squeezing his compacted body through the slit, Gilon arrived on the other side and carefully set his arms back in place, then onwards he crept to the keep’s minaret, softly as the approaching dawn.

  He climbed a spiral staircase and pushed open a wrought iron door to find himself in a bedchamber furnished for a queen. Shafts of wan light from the moon outside cast pastel colours through a circular stained glass window. Presenting its back to him was a wingback chair, and within this chair—her arm dangling over one side—was Drensila the Black, her fingers idly twirling a jewelled rod. Gilon took
a breath. He’d travelled many miles to get to this place. Risked his life many times over to make it into the inner sanctum of the evil queen’s domain. Bypassed an army to cut the head from the snake and end the House of Durkon’s regime once and for all.

  He recognised the object the sorceress held in her hand. It was the Durkon rod of power, an ancestral artifact that granted her dominion over the troll horde. It would be of no use to her now though. Gilon would snatch Drensila’s life away before she could so much as draw a breath. The soles of his bare feet padded soundlessly against the chamber’s flagstone floor as he drew his weapon and swiftly ate up the distance to the sorceress. Such was his thirst for revenge that he ignored the dull tingle that itched at the corner of his senses. The tingle warning him that Drensila had been watching his reflection in the stained glass window from the moment he’d entered her chamber.

  NAT LOOKED ON in morbid fascination as the gang of misfits she’d thrown in with suited up in their roleplay gear. It hadn’t escaped her attention that her boyfriend Terry was the only one among them who’d gone to the trouble of getting dressed at home. Even Clive, an outsider through and through, had more self-respect than to go out in public dressed like an extra from The Hobbit (and one of the padding-out-the-background, barely-inside-the-frame extras at that).

  Ashley strapped himself into a suit of plate armour. It was really rather impressive looking, Nat thought, at least so long as you were squinting. A keen eye would note that the armour wasn’t made of metal, as is traditional with such things, but constructed from cut-up grey carpet tiles. This dampened its majesty somewhat, and the woollen jersey he wore underneath—the one spray-painted silver in a vain attempt to make it look like chainmail—didn’t exactly seal the deal either. As a knight, Ashley commanded about as much respect as Sir Alan Sugar.