Trolls CAN Lie

Hey everyone!

This time I wanted to share a little short story I wrote back in February. I had submitted this for a writing competition but, alas, I did not win that particular award.

Oh well! Make lemonade out of lemons. Besides, you fine folk now get to be the sole audience for this story I spun. Below, you will find a recollection from a character who inhabits the same world as my high fantasy series, Gods Adrift. This character doesn’t exist in said novels but the places and themes very much do.

So, if you enjoy this particular read. Why not consider giving my books a try? If “Shards of Ember” isn’t quite your cup of tea (it was my debut novel after all), why not start from “The Godstone Decree?” Readers have mentioned that they never felt lost even when starting from the second book.

Whatever you decide, I hope you enjoy this short story: Trolls CAN Lie.

An account from Yorin the Troll Hunter, year 447 of the Augustian calendar. Recorded by Keeper Chalepos.

No one told me that trolls could lie. The hairy brutes, so full of rage and stupidity, didn’t seem like the type, and my parents weren’t ones for scares. A truth that made my already mild bedtime stories woefully underwhelming. So, who could blame me when a troll duped me proper when I was naught but eight?

It was twelve summers ago, and I was a vibrant youth full of spunk and curiosity. A fortunate combination for a child that grew up near The Troll’s Foot. Yes, I see the irony but I didn’t name the place—some old Keeper did, and I don’t blame ‘em. Cut off from the mother mountains of The Spine by the aptly named Spinebreaker river, The Troll’s Foot looks a heck of a lot like an ugly foot when viewed from a map.

A trader once showed me its likeness on a piece of scraped vellum that refused to stay unrolled. She nearly took my hand off when I went to touch the thing! Wasn’t my fault, I ain’t never seen something like it. The whole world just scrawled on dried and treated leather!? ‘Course, it was worth far too many marks for my blood. So, I just kissed her goodbye, and she went on her merry way—disappointed in my ability to profess undying love and at my lack of coin. She had the prettiest eyes … Elena—no, Helen was her name … I think.

As I was saying, it was twelve summers ago, and I had just finished feeding the oxen and flipping my portion of the hay from last week’s harvest. My brother was always a lazy bones, and—as usual—I finished before him. So, much to his complaints, I whistled to Bremon—our faithful family hound—and off we raced into the woods. That was our playground, a land of cedars and pines rich with August sap. A place where we could dream of all the things we wished to be and a place filled with the myriad forms of life.

Bees buzzed, birds squawked, and deer fled at the sound of ol’ Bremon. A hairy hound that loved to bound over pine needles and cones. I never quite knew what he was up to. I mean, after all, I was too busy pretending to be a Warrior of August, a Keeper of the Bastion, or my favorite: a ranger. As you can imagine, it left me little time to mind the dog. Frankly, he was minding me, and now that I think ‘bout it, it’s probably why my parents never fussed too much over my brother and I’s ‘disappearances.’ Bremon was brutally efficient.

His braying and barks were few and far between, and whenever we explored the woods together, he would usually disappear for several minutes. On occasion, he would return with some bone or other such treasure, but I always knew he was there.

So, when my hairs rose, I immediately knew ol’ Bremon had run into trouble. The clack of my stick upon pine bark seemed to echo in the trees, and a forest once teeming with sound reverberated loneliness. I tell ya, my heart began racing, and I gripped the handle of my pretend wooden sword like it might manifest into something real. I turned to and fro, looking for a sign or disturbance, but it was just me and the trees.

“Bremon!” I called out, the timidity apparent as it bounced off trunk and branch.

“Here boy! Come on, Bremon!” I yelled with a little more gusto; real fear beginning to wrap its way ‘round my heart. Still, no response. I stood, rooted in place, listening and waiting to hear the familiar timbre of his pant—the cadence of his bark. Nothing came.

I’m not sure how long I stood there, but when I finally forced my legs forward, I felt stiff. I headed through a stand of cedar, my body recognizing through instinct alone that this was where I last heard my dog. Thick thimble berry rustled and complained at my tread, and I was sure that I would be heard for miles around. I remember glancing at the dull red of the berries, thinking how much their color resembled a fresh scar, and how little I desired to get a new one myself. Fears of the mind. But for good reason, because when I broke through the brush and made my way round one particularly large cedar, I realized what had caused all the fuss.

A humanoid figure, ‘bout seven feet tall with bare, knobby feet, brown patchy fur, and one ugly, boil-ridden face, stood there with my dog held firmly in an oversized hand. A muffled whimper escaped, which is what foolishly forced me to call out to the … thing. Not like they wouldn’t’ve noticed me, but now that I think back on it, calling out to this brute with demands probably wasn’t the smartest idea.

“Hey! Let him go!”

The hideous figure turned to me, and with a crude form of intelligence recognition dawned. “You … dawwwg man? Small, teeeeeny tiny, tiny, tiny for mannnn.” With its free hand it held up a thumb and index finger as if to measure me in the gap between. Satisfied with their earlier assumption, they continued, “Yea! Too small for mannnn … mussst be child. Hmmmm.”

“I’m not small!” I yelled back; my voice quavering with unsteady defiance.

The brute laughed: a gross, gurgling sound that made me think of my old grandpa. Only my grandpa would eventually clear his throat.

“You small man. Meeee troll.”

I’ll never forget the raw adrenaline that coursed through me at that word. It was like ice that lanced its way through my body, turning my bowels to water, my heart to fire, and my brain too mush. This was one of the monsters mother had warned me about; this was one of the beasts travelers whispered about; this was a legend come to life! How could I have not seen it? All the features were there—from head to foot, and it just hadn’t registered, but when it did, my heart nearly beat free of my chest. ‘Specially since I became painfully aware of my size relative to the troll. An irony seeing how defiant I had been just moments ago.

“All mannn small to me, but you teeeeeeny tiny small.” He laughed again, thoroughly amused by his own jest. The troll stood, holding Bremon—who mind you was at least a sixty-pound dog—by the nape of his neck.

Bremon whimpered, but not in pain. It was just utter fear. The beast at least knew how to hold Bremon in a way that wasn’t accidentally lethal. Though, I doubt it was comfortable.

“This your dawwwg?” The troll asked. The beady black eyes widening a fraction in question.

Under the glare of the monster who now towered over me, I could only nod sheepishly in response.

“Youuu tell me ‘bout home. ‘Bout village. I give you dawwg back,” they said as they held Bremon ever so slightly closer to me. Almost as if they were going to hand him over to my care. When I steeled the courage to look back at the troll, it yanked Bremon back. “Firrrst you tell. Tell all. Where people go. When people go. Then dawwg back.”

“Why?” I heard myself ask before I realized. I shudder to think of the moment that came next, even to this day.

Yellowed fangs and sharpened teeth meant for meat and meat alone peaked out from behind crusty gums. Those beady, coal-black eyes narrowed a fraction in concentration. The smile, one that made my skin crawl, grew deeper. I thought they were just gonna sit there smiling at me all day. “I like mannn. Me want to know ‘bout them. Tell me story ‘bout mannn life. Maybe I visit.” The troll chuckled as if he had made some jest.

Ah, the naivety of youth…

Maybe it was the petrified look on ol’ Bremon’s face. Or maybe it was the desire to please the terrifying fiend before me. Or maybe I truly believed that this troll wanted to be more like us … more human. So, I filled ‘em in on all the details I knew of our little village. And once I started talking it poured out. Faster and faster. Only the smallest of grunts and prods were given by my exceptionally attentive audience, and when I had finished, the troll’s smile was still there—just as creepy as it ever was. The eyes though, they had taken on a new sheen. One that spoke of something brighter than the dull-witted nature of before.

“Gooood,” they nodded, and with more gentleness than I thought a troll could have, it placed Bremon on the ground and patted him on the back.

Immediately, my dog bolted over to me with his tail tucked between his legs, cowered, and let out the tiniest growl of defiance.

“Bye bye small mannn.” The troll waved a knobby hand and trudged off into the woods, leaving me and my dog stunned.

As the birds and squirrels began their incessant chatter once more, my blood came back to life. The realization of just how lucky I had been and how awesome a story it would make building in tandem. I remember thinking how jealous Gilneas and Matthias would be as I made my way back down the hill towards home.

Here … now, so many years after that day, I look down in dismay. A troll’s oversized femur and the broken remnants of a few ribs lay scattered about the cave floor. An aroma of rancid fat and urine at the periphery of sense. A common enough aroma for a troll cave but there is no troll. And, as I look into the hollow eye sockets of the previous denizen’s skull, I realize that there hasn’t been one for a year or more.

I missed my chance…

For years, I had prepared for this day—this chance. I had even racked up three troll kills before I even made the attempt, learning the ways of my enemy and gathering the tools to dispatch them effectively. Now, as I investigate what is surely the primary source of my vengeance, whose obviously dead and gone, I am thrown back into the memory of that far off day.

It hadn’t been the first night. No, he waited until the next, and my fear had prevented me from using the only opportunity I had to prevent a slaughter. I had kept my encounter in the woods a secret. The fear of getting into trouble outweighing common sense.

Gods forgive me…

That silence killed my father, six other men, two women, and one dog. No one could stop the brute. And when everyone was cowering in fear, the troll took a roasted goat, a keg of beer, and a barrel of salted pork, a rusted hoop of which I see now on the cave floor, before fleeing back into the darkness of the mountain. Us surviving villagers counted our lucky stars that we survived. But I knew … I knew why the troll left. I told them how far of a trip it was for the hunters; their biggest threat. The fastest I had ever seen the hunters respond to the bells. I had told that troll EXACTLY how long it had.

Ah, the regrets of the past…

They linger so cruelly, and because of my folly my mother was never quite the same. My brother—if you can believe it—fell hard into work. Labor was his escape, and he must have thought he could ‘make up’ for my dad being gone by just working harder. To be fair, it did make my mom smile, but it was never that warm, loving smile from before.

I, on the other hand, was left with the shame and the regret. For years I retreated inside myself, hating what I had done. Slowly that hate grew into something more, a realization of what caused my failure. Ya see, it hadn’t been me; I was just a stupid little boy who was ignorant of the world. No, it was a lying, GOOD-FOR-NOTHING TROLL!

A beast that had taken my father away. That had taken my dog away. Yea, that’s right, the bastard even killed my ‘dawwwg.’ He couldn’t even tell the truth about that. So, after years of self-pity, I made a vow. A vow that I would not forget.

Yes, the shame will never fully go away. The thoughts won’t ever leave: My dad as he fell to the ground from a monstrous blow to his head; poor ol’ Bremon as his back snapped over the trunk of a tree; the screams of the women as they watched their loved ones suffer…

I hope their deaths were painless. I hope they found peace. I hope they found consolation from the bones of that ol brute that murdered them. I doubt it though. After all, it looks like the troll has been dead for a long time now. Long before I had a chance to get ‘em … to show them the loss they had shown me.

I’ll make up for it though…

As I look into the hollow eyes of the troll’s skull, imagining the face that had deceived me so long ago, I recite the vow I made years ago. “This I swear, I will never forget what trolls are truly capable of. They aren’t just dumb brutes. They aren’t just murderers and raiders. They are also deceivers and liars. Yes, trolls can lie, and I vow I will make them pay for it.”

Thank you all for reading!

I hope that you enjoyed this little foray into the fantasy world I created: Gods Adrift. And I hope that you are interested in reading more. If so, check out the links below. Until the next time!