The man aimed
his crossbow into the night, waiting for something. He was crouched in the
bushes sixty feet from a small house, beside the dark woods, staring across the
road at the roof of the house.
Come on
out, he thought restlessly. No
blodbak is going to escape my sight.
The moon was nearly full, and the man thought
he might have some werewolf work to do soon enough. But for now it was a simple
enough case of blodbaks.
On the roof was the carcass of a sheep, which
the man had killed by strangulation. It was still full of blood, and so the
blodbaks would be attracted to it. Primitive creatures, they were, that was the
truth.
There were two other crossbows, already loaded
and cocked, laying on the ground beside the man. He had three shots. Hopefully
there wouldn’t be more than three blodbaks. If there were more, then that was
serious. It meant that there was probably a colony nearby that had moved in
recently, and the man would have to destroy it.
The first flutter of movement happened, and his
sharp eyes of course caught on at once. A blodbak had come.
He watched the dark flapping shape flutter
nearer and nearer to the roof, tentatively venturing farther and farther. Its
wings were batlike, and it certainly did resemble a bat, except for the fact
that it had a wingspan of five feet.
Finally it alighted on the edge of the roof and
scurried forward quickly, staying low on the roof. It dislodged a shingle, and
the man heard the clattering.
Don’t get
up, the man thought. Do as I
instructed you. He hoped the family hadn’t heard the noise, the children
especially. If anyone came to see what was the matter they would be attacked by
the blodbak.
The blodbak paused, but then regained its
courage and quickly hopped along the roof, making not a sound. Then, when it
was five feet from the sheep carcass nailed to the roof, it suddenly darted
forward, sinking its teeth into the dead body. The man could nearly hear the
sucking sound as the blodbak greedily drank the sheep’s blood. The blodbak
didn’t care whether its food was alive or dead. Victims had much more pain if
they were alive though, there was no doubt.
Were there any others? None appeared,
certainly. The man took careful aim with his crossbow. His finger tightened on
the trigger.
Another flutter startled him, and he almost
pulled the trigger of the crossbow. Another blodbak!
This one was braver than the other one. It
swooped in immediately, sinking its long fangs into the sheep beside the other
blodbak. They didn’t squabble or fight over the meal; they would both drink
their fill and then attack each other afterwards, trying to consume the other’s
blood. It was rather savage and barbarous, but what should one expect of night
creatures other than brutality and viciousness?
The man aimed again and pulled the trigger. The
first one dropped dead with a small squeal. The other was too busy with the
lamb’s body to notice. The man quickly got another crossbow and aimed again.
The wind started up a little so he aimed a bit to the north. He pulled the
trigger.
The crossbow bolt went flying through the air,
whipping toward the blodbak at high speed. The man scowled and quickly got the
third crossbow as the bolt hit the blodbak’s wing.
It shrieked in fury and pulled its long fangs
from the lamb. The man took instinctive action, swinging the crossbow up and
firing in one fluid motion.
The blodbak gave out a last squeal as it
tumbled down from the roof. The man got up and wiped the sweat from his brow.
He had gotten them both.
He heard the air intensifying, something moving
through it at high speed. He looked to his left but was buffeted to the ground.
He couldn’t see a thing because his face had been slammed into the dirt. He
felt two sharp searing pains in his back, and he grunted in exertion as he got
up. Something was beating against his back, and he knew what it was.
A third blodbak. It had been targeting him, not
the lamb. He hadn’t taken it into account. A possibly fatal mistake.
He reared back, slamming the blodbak into the
ground. He rolled over and over, trying to shake it off.
He got to his feet, already feeling weaker. A normal
blodbak could drain your blood in thirty minutes, and this was no normal
blodbak.
He pulled his knife from his sheath and tried
to reach behind to get at his back, but he couldn’t quite reach the blodbak. “Help!”
he shouted in the direction of the house, and sank to his knees. “Bring a
pitchfork or something!”
He felt himself begin to grow dizzy as the
creature greedily sucked at his back. He was lucky it hadn’t snapped his spine
with its fangs as it buried them in his back.
A light turned on inside the house, and the man
felt a sense of hope kindle within him, only to be snuffed out as he collapsed
on the ground.
ჶჶჶ
He woke up groggily, feeling a sharp throbbing in his back. He
opened his eyes to blinding sunlight and quickly closed them. He groaned. He
realized he was on a soft bed. The man tentatively opened his eyes again and
found that he was in a small bedroom, with sunlight streaming through the open window.
He was lying on a bed beside a nightstand with an unlit candlestick. He looked
over toward the door and saw a man sitting in a chair, a man he thought he
recognized.
A boy came in with a
basin of water and gave it to the man. “Here you go, Dr. Reed.”
The man remembered who
the one sitting in the chair was. “Felix?” he croaked groggily.
The other man nodded.
“Yes, it is I, Oban.”
“Where am I?”
Felix answered, “You are
in the guest room of the house you were defending from blodbaks. If it were not
for your cries for help you would have died of blood loss.”
“The beast?”
“Dead. Mr. Caner had the
sense to kill it, after he ripped it out of your back with his bare hands. A
strong fellow, he is.”
“Was he hurt?” Oban
asked.
“No, he wasn’t,” Felix
said. “He had a pretty big carving knife with him. His wife scolded him for
ruining it.”
“May I inspect the blodbak
bodies?”
“You can look at the one
on the roof. The other two Mr. Caner burned.”
“Didn’t have the energy
to climb up and get the last one, eh?”
“Seems so.”
Oban tried to sit up in
bed but only felt a sharp pang. He groaned and lay back down.
“Some bad damage,” Felix
said. “I got here three hours ago. Mr. Caner was riding like the wind, and he
made a ten-minute ride only take five. You really must thank him for saving
your life twice.”
“I will,” Oban replied.
“I will need to tend to
your wound now, Mr. Rust. You’ll find that underneath that tunic is a very
large bandage.”
Oban nodded. He could
feel it.
“I’ll need to make sure
there’s no infection and then redress the wound. You’ll need a piece of leather
to bite down on.”
“It’ll be that bad?”
“I am afraid so,” Felix
told him.
“Will I get back into
full working order?”
“If you let the wound
heal. But to do that you’ll have to wait at least six weeks.”
“Six weeks? Felix, is
there any faster way?”
“No, there is not. I am
afraid that you won’t be able to Tainhevik all over the place for about two
months.”
Oban groaned. “Ye gods!”
“Yes, I know you have
your sense of duty, but if you don’t wait you won’t fully heal, and if that
happens then you won’t be able to protect others from the darkness.
“I give in. When do you
need to clean my wounds?”
“Now, preferably.”
“Very well then. Bring
my staff, and I’ll walk to the table.”
Felix went out of the
room and came back a few moments later, carrying a large gnarled oak staff.
“Here it is,” he proclaimed. “Rise and shine.”
“When I rise I will do
anything but shine,” Oban told him. “I’ll probably be groaning and wincing
every step of the way.”
Felix nodded. “Should I
help you up?”
Oban shook his head,
braced himself, and sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He
winced as an excruciating wave of pain hit him. He got up and clutched at the
staff, leaning heavily on it.
Felix supported him as
he staggered out of the room into a small hallway. He painfully stepped all the
way into the living room, where a table had been placed conveniently in the
center of the room.
After a bit of painful
maneuvering, Oban finally managed to get onto the table, taking off his shirt with
Felix’s help and laying on his front. Felix gently unwrapped the bandages. Oban
clenched the leather strip between his teeth to keep from biting his tongue as
Felix probed the wound.
“Bad laceration,” Felix
said, almost to himself, as his gloved fingers moved throughout the wound.
“It’ll need about six weeks at least.”
Oban heard footsteps and
craned his neck. The boy from earlier had come to watch.
He was pale-skinned and
lean, with dark curly hair and—peculiarly—purple eyes. He looked about twelve
years old, maybe thirteen.
Oban’s body racked and
he sobbed into the leather as Felix touched the worst part of his wound.
“It’ll be all right,
Oban,” Felix reassured him.
Oban wanted to kill
Felix there and then for saying his name in the presence of this child. It had
been a mistake when he had let the doctor know his name six years ago when they
first met.
“Hello,” said the man. “I’m Felix. And you are Oban, I presume?”
Oban stared up in surprise. “How do you know my
name?”
“After that bloodwitch got you, you had a
restless sleep. You talked to yourself.”
But Oban let it pass. It
was only a child, after all. What harm could he do? But he would prefer to be called
Tainhevik. It was his name, really. The past ten years, only Felix had called
him Oban. Everyone else who knew it had either forgotten or died, like his
master.
“What’s your name?”
“Oban Rust.”
“And you wish to be a Tainhevik?” the Tainhevik
asked.
“After you, sir, yes,” Oban said.
“You’re only fifteen,” the Tainhevik said.
“I’m strong, sir. And I’m not lazy.”
Fifteen years later, it
was hard to remember what had happened after that. But all Oban knew was that
when his master had been killed by the bloodwitch of Glana ten years ago, he
had avenged him fully.
“A Tainhevik is lucky if he lives until he is sixty. He constantly
braves the dark and one small mistake may lead to death.”
Oban was relieved that
Mr. Caner had come to his rescue. Many people would have been too afraid to
come near and would have let him be killed. Sometimes it was a lonely life being
Tainhevik. The Warden of the Night had a solitary post. One man against all
those forces of evil that lurked out there, everywhere. A lone traveller, daily
trudging down the road to face what might be his death. Oban knew his master
had probably been glad to teach him, if only for the company.
Felix told him, “All
right. Pouring the alcohol.”
Oh, shath, Oban thought. He howled into the leather and shook as
Felix, carefully holding him down, administered alcohol to clean the wounds.
Oban ground his teeth
against the strip of leather as the alcohol burned away, cleaning out the
carnage and infection of his wound.
ჶჶჶ
Oban sat down at the table, wincing slightly. Mr. Caner and
his two boys were sitting at the table, and Mrs. Caner was in the kitchen,
preparing the midday meal. The oldest boy was the one Oban had seen earlier,
and the younger boy was about seven years old, with blue eyes and brown hair.
“Daddy,” the smaller one
asked, “can I play with Dribb after lunch?”
“Yes, Morton,” Mr. Caner
replied. Morton’s face lit up, and he almost bounced in his chair.
The older one’s name was
Merlin, and he was very quiet at the table, and kept looking at Oban when he
thought he wasn’t looking.
“Thank you, Tainhevik,”
Mr. Caner said. “You have my deepest thanks, and you may stay here until your
wound heals.”
“Welcome.” Oban suddenly
remembered Felix’s advice to thank Mr. Caner. Felix had left after the cleaning
of the wounds, but he had left some painkilling cream and instructions to stay
rested and drink plenty of water. “Thank you,” Oban said. “You saved my
life...twice.”
“Twice?”
“I’m counting riding as
fast as you could for Felix.”
“Oh. No matter, Tainhevik.
I was obligated to do so.” Oban nodded, and nothing more was said on the matter.
Lunch was good, and
afterwards, Oban hobbled out of the house, leaning on his staff. Mr. Caner went
up to the roof and got the last blodbak body down for Oban to inspect.
Its wings were unfurled,
black and leathery, with a six-foot wingspan. The body had two legs equipped
with giant razor-sharp claws. It was very like a bat, except fatter from its
blood feast. Oban knew the world was better off without it as he looked at the
crossbow bolt embedded in its mottled gray-black lower body. An almost perfect
shot, and it had been done in the darkness, too. Oban almost smiled. He had
developed a keen night vision over the fifteen years since had started his
work, and it helped greatly.
“I’d say this one is
fully mature,” Oban told Mr. Caner. “Were the others this big?”
“The other one you
killed was half this size,” replied Mr. Caner, “but the one that attacked you
was twice as big as this one!”
“Twice as big?”
“Aye, peculiar.”
“Nerevian blodbak, then.
Dangerous. I’m lucky to have survived.”
ჶჶჶ
A month later, Oban was lying in bed, grimly thinking of all
the night creatures running amok while he lay in bed. His wound had healed
considerably. There was still a good deal of pain, but not nearly as much as at
first. Oban had already formulated a plan. It was time for him to go.
He waited in bed until
it was nice and dark and then got up, careful not to hurt himself too badly. He
grabbed his staff, hat, and cloak from beside his bed and moved stealthily out
of the room.
He walked down the hall
quietly and carefully and he crept to the front door. He cautiously pulled it
open and stepped out into the night air.
There was a town only an
hour of walking from there. He could buy some provisions to get back to his
home in the Hithnaen Mountains. Oban set off down the road, walking as fast as
he could without aggravating his back muscles too much.
It began to rain. Oban
groaned. Now he would be soaked through by the time he reached the town.
He looked back at the
house. Should he attempt again the next night?
No, he decided. He had
been through worse than a little rain. He kept walking down the road.
Oban decided to get off
the road after about a minute of being buffeted by the increasing storm. The
winds picked up as he ducked into the pine trees for shelter. He knew the
direction of the town and he could get to it through the woods without getting
as soaked as he would be going on the road.
Oban quickly hiked
through the woods, wanting to get as much distance between him and the Caners’
house as possible.
He walked as quickly as
possible, not pausing for anything. He felt the cloak brush against branches as
he made his way through the trees.
He felt a sudden feeling
that he was being watched, and he turned his head discreetly. Nothing.
“Never trust your eyes, apprentice. They often lie. Listen to your
instincts.” Oban remembered his master’s words, so often repeated to him
during his training. He turned his head back and continued walking, but he was
listening for any sign of a follower.
Oban leaned on his staff
as if taking a rest, and suddenly turned his head. Nothing.
Oban kept on walking for
a full thirty minutes, trying to make any pursuer comfortable and lazy in
following him. But he couldn’t hear a thing, so he was beginning to think that
he was just paranoid.
A twig snapped under
someone’s boot; Oban whipped round and stared.
The boy. Merlin Caner
had been following him all this time.
The purple eyes flashed
in the darkness. The boy stared at Oban defiantly. “I know your name,” Merlin
said quietly.
“Ha! You cannot hope to defeat me! I know your name, and I knew your
master’s, too!”
He looked desperately around; he couldn’t see
the bloodwitch, and he knew he was alone with the dark. Then, suddenly, two
red, gleaming eyes flared in the darkness; the bloodwitch.
“Oban Rust!”
He got out his dagger, his silver-handled
dagger, once his master’s. “I outcast you, bloodwitch!” He drew it slowly
across his hand and then in a swift motion he rammed the dagger into the
ground. “I execrate you by my very blood and drive you from all lands! You
shall never return to this kingdom again!”
Oban drew his dagger instantly.
“Get back, fell warlock!” he shouted.
“I mean you no harm!”
Merlin shouted frantically. “Please, sir! I wish to be Tainhevik.”
Oban raised an eyebrow.
“Come here, boy,” he commanded. Merlin quickly rushed forward. When he got
there, Oban contemplated boxing his ears and sending him home, but then he saw
the determination in this boy’s eyes. Merlin would get his wish.
“Why do you want to be Tainhevik?”
he asked.
“Why did you?”
Oban was taken aback by
this response. He knew the answer of course. But he had not expected this boy
to ask him that. But Oban didn’t let his surprise show. “That’s none of your
business,” he said gruffly. “But you need to get back to your family. They’ll
grieve that you are gone.”
Merlin smiled and handed
Oban a letter. Oban broke the seal and read it. I, David Caner, do consent that Merlin should follow the Tainhevik, and
if the Tainhevik be so willing, be trained in the art of the Tainhevik, to
become a hunter of the dark and a soldier of the night. “This means
nothing,” Oban said. “I can still refuse you.”
“You won’t,” Merlin told
him.
“Two weeks. Keep up.”
The Tainhevik handed the boy the letter and began walking. He knew Merlin was
smiling triumphantly, and he really wanted to wipe the smile off that smug
little boy’s face. Two weeks. The Tainhevik hoped he got some really good
business, maybe a witch. That should scare the boy off well enough. Or possibly
a soul eater. That would frighten him.
The clouds kept raining,
and the Tainhevik kept walking. Merlin walked behind him.
ჶჶჶ
Three days later, the Tainhevik had gotten back to his home in
the Hithnaen Mountains. Merlin had tagged along the whole time, never
complaining about the distance or turning to go home. The Tainhevik had fed him
every night on the salted meat he had in his pack, and Merlin had never
complained. The Tainhevik had slept without a fire, and Merlin had lain down
without one as well. The Tainhevik did not speak to the people in the towns they
passed; neither did Merlin.
The Tainhevik got out
his keys and unlocked the stone door. He swung it open and stepped inside,
boots clacking on the stone tiled floor.
As he stepped in he saw
three letters on the floor, which had been pushed through the mail slot in the
door. The Tainhevik picked them up off the floor and came into his house.
The living room was
sparsely furnished and spartan, and the whole thing was made of stone. There
was a fireplace and a rug, but there was no other furniture, besides candles on
the walls.
The Tainhevik walked
through the living room, straight into the dining room. He set down his things
on the table, and so did Merlin. The Tainhevik nodded to Merlin and gestured
out the window. “That’s the backyard.”
Outside was the
mountain, gently sloping, and heavily wooded. The trees surrounded the house
like watchful guardians. The sun broke out above the mountaintop; it was late morning,
and its shining rays pierced into the dining room.
The Tainhevik led him
into another room. This one had shelves upon shelves of books and scrolls. “The
library, obviously. You are allowed to read everything, and even encouraged to
do so, except the things beyond the fifth shelf.”
The Tainhevik walked
five shelves into the library, and then he stopped. “Beyond here are the texts
you may only read if I allow it.”
The Tainhevik turned to
the side and opened a door at the side of the library. He came into a small
unfurnished room with two doors, one on each side.
“The one on the right is
my bedroom,” said the Tainhevik as Merlin entered the room. “The one on the
left is yours, as long as you stay. It’s up to you to decide whether to stay
today. If you leave, you can never come back. If you stay you can never leave
until you’re fully trained.”
Merlin nodded, and the Tainhevik
went back into the library, through the dining room, and into the living room
once more. He opened a door and stepped outside, smelling the fresh air of the
mountain breeze. “This is the backyard, Merlin.”
Merlin took a good look,
and then the Tainhevik shut the door. “I’ve got work to catch up on. Wouldn’t
be surprised if one of the people who sent me a letter was dead, killed while I
was gone.”
“But, sir, your back
needs to heal.”
“Duty comes first. I’ve
given it enough time,” said the Tainhevik. “It can heal up on the job.”
Merlin nodded, and the Tainhevik
led him back to the dining room. He picked up one of the letters. “Go ahead and
set your things in your room, Merlin, all right?”
Merlin nodded. “Okay,
sir.” He picked up his bags and left the room.
The Tainhevik ripped
open the letter and read it. A case of trolls, it looked like...it was at least
worth his time. Then he grabbed the second one and opened it. It was rubbish;
the writer thought his neighbor was a witch, just because he’d seen her
laughing as she cooked some soup. The last letter was about an infestation of
rats—why had the person written to him?
Some people were very strange, the Tainhevik thought.
Very well then. Trolls it was.
ჶჶჶ
The
Tainhevik walked down the road, wearing his leather cloak and broad-brimmed hat
and carrying a sack of gold pieces as he walked, leaning on his staff for
support. His back still wasn’t fully healed, so it ached a little every step he
took. He was glad to have the staff.
Dalshire was a nice place, and the Tainhevik
had only been there once before. The beautiful land was a breathtaking sight at
places; this land, nestled in the Western Mountains as it was, was a wonderful
place.
Trolls, eh? The Tainhevik knew how to deal with
trolls.
Merlin tagged along behind him, wearing a thick
tunic and breeches, with good quality boots on his feet. The Tainhevik wouldn’t
get him a cloak, hat, and staff until the boy was fully grown; things like that
were expensive, and he didn’t want to have to buy bigger ones each year. He knew
that when he had been with his master he had never been allowed those things,
which signified the trade of the Tainhevik.
The Tainhevik kept walking, sniffing at the air
as he went. They were in a shallow valley, entering the mountain range.
According to his map there was a town a few miles away. He would get there and
ask for directions to this John Grand’s house.
The Tainhevik stopped and looked back at
Merlin, who was trudging along doggedly, carrying a pack on his back and also
leading the pony, Bristle. A Tainhevik always needed a pony, to carry his
things as he traveled. But a Tainhevik never rode. If he needed to get
somewhere faster he hitched a ride with a local person. It was a bit costly on
certain rush jobs, but it was tradition. “Tradition
governs the Tainhevik. A Tainhevik must stay true to it.” The Tainhevik
remembered his master’s words.
The Tainhevik sniffed the air and looked at
Merlin. “Smell that?”
Merlin sniffed. “I don’t smell anything.”
“That’s because you’re inexperienced. Do you
have that book in your pack?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Good. Read the rest tonight.” The Tainhevik
had noticed that Merlin had been staying up to read it, but he wasn’t finished,
and the Tainhevik would like him to be before they began work. It was a book
about trolls, the best copy around. It was the best copy because the Tainhevik
had written it himself. Of course he wouldn’t let Merlin know that the
leather-bound tome was actually his master’s work.
The Tainhevik kept walking, and Merlin pulled
Bristle along as they kept walking down the road.
When they reached the town that evening the Tainhevik
did not book inn rooms. He would wait and see if the client had any place for
them to stay. It was tradition to do that. Of course if the client needed him
not to be staying with him, then it was all right to stay at an inn.
The Tainhevik walked into the single tavern of
the town, Merlin following him. A few people out of the many crowded into that
room looked up and nodded respectfully; they knew he was the Tainhevik, judging
by his clothes.
The Tainhevik reached into the folds of his
cloak, pulling a few gold pieces out of the satchel of money. He told Merlin,
“Go look after Bristle, will you?”
Merlin nodded and went out of the tavern to
check on the pony. The Tainhevik clenched gold in his hand and walked up to the
bar.
“Tainhevik,” he said to the bartender, laying
down the gold pieces on the counter. “Where does John Grand live?”
“Oh, sir! Hello. Thank you,” the bartender said
as he gathered the money up and put it in his pocket. “John Grand? Aye, he’s
here right now. Sort of a tall gentleman, with pitch black hair and tanned
skin. Kind of a hooked nose, too, and he has a black beard. Right o’er there.”
“Thank you,” said the Tainhevik. He slipped
into the crowd. It was a busy night at the tavern, and as the door opened and
three people carrying instrument cases entered, the Tainhevik figured out the
reason.
The Tainhevik saw Grand a few paces away. He
slid between people until he came to him. He tapped Grand on the shoulder.
Grand turned and saw him. He looked surprised.
“You came faster than I expected,” he said. “Let’s talk. Where would you like
to go?”
“Your house, preferably,” the Tainhevik told
him.
“I can do that. Let’s go.”
ჶჶჶ
The
Tainhevik knocked on the door. Merlin’s voice called out, “Come in.”
The Tainhevik opened the door and came in.
“Ready?”
“Yeah,” Merlin replied.
“Good. Let’s get going.”
They went out of the house and hiked into the
nearby pines at the foot of the mountain. They had to find evidence of trolls:
dung, tracks, and things like that. If they could find tracks then they would
follow them and try to find the lair.
“So how do we get the troll?” Merlin asked as
they passed through a little clearing.
“Well,” the Tainhevik said, “trolls can’t be in
the sunlight. They turn to stone at the light of day. If we could find the lair
in the day, it would be easy to build a bonfire in front of the cave mouth and
kill the troll. If it came out, it would turn to stone. If it stayed inside the
smoke would kill it.
“If we can’t find its home, though, then we
will have to set out some bait and wait for it to come. A few animal carcasses
would do the trick. Then we would have to keep it eating as long as possible.
The easiest way would be to get a few of them out a bit of a distance from the
mountain. Hide upwind, and when it comes to the first carcass we trace its
tracks back to its lair and set up a bonfire. Trolls are afraid of any light
other than the moon and stars, and even though fire isn’t lethal to them like
the sun, they are deathly afraid of it. The troll will hightail it into the
woods, afraid of our fire. When the sun comes up, it turns to stone, and we’re
done.”
“What’s that?” asked Merlin excitedly, pointing
up ahead, in the direction the wind was blowing.
The dark pile was unmistakably one thing: troll
dung. The Tainhevik hadn’t smelled it because the wind wasn’t blowing the smell
to them.
The Tainhevik rushed forward, eager to find any
clues of the troll’s whereabouts.
He wrinkled his nose as a wave of stench hit
him. He pulled his cloak up over the bottom half of his face to cover it from
the reek. He tried not to look at the pile of dung.
The Tainhevik looked at the ground, but it was
hard around this area; no chance of tracks. He had discovered the troll, but as
for its lair, he didn’t know. Well, it was plan B, then.
ჶჶჶ
The
Tainhevik and Merlin lurked upwind of the first sheep carcass. Mr. Grand had
been a little miffed to have had to give them four sheep, but as long as it
kept a troll from eating his livestock again, he was willing to make the long
term decision. In the end, with a troll running loose on the mountain, four
sheep would be much less than what the troll would take.
They had set them leading away from the
mountain, so that on the return trip the troll would take as long as possible,
and they’d have plenty of time to make a fire. The Tainhevik had brought some
highly combustible mixtures to help speed the fire along.
Merlin was nervous, the Tainhevik could tell.
He was fidgety on his first job, almost unable to contain his excitement. The
Tainhevik remembered his first job with his master; he had felt this way too.
There was a rumbling sound, the roar that
marked the troll’s arrival. The Tainhevik had been expecting that.
Merlin’s eyes went wide in the darkness as the
troll crashed into the clearing. It was over ten feet tall, a burly, muscular
creature with a blunt face and huge, sniffing nostrils. The troll’s black glinting
eyes were small by comparison. Its mouth was stretched wide in a leering grin
as it reached greedily down and wrenched the sheep carcass off the ground,
snorting heavily. Its stocky legs were as large as tree trunks, and its
gargantuan arms could easily rip a cow in half. The Tainhevik knew from
experience.
As it started to gorge itself, noisily
crunching with giant yellowed teeth, the Tainhevik motioned to Merlin. They got
up as quietly as possible while the troll was preoccupied, and the Tainhevik
lightly stepped to where the troll had come to the clearing. Merlin anxiously
followed him.
The Tainhevik was an expert at tracking, even
in the night. He quickly found the trail of the troll, pretty easily too, since
it had just barged straight through, smelling the fresh blood of the sheep.
They followed the trail quite far, and then
they came to a cave opening in the side of the mountain. The Tainhevik almost
missed it, since it was concealed by a huge rock in front of it.
“We don’t have much time,” the Tainhevik said.
“Hurry!”
He and Merlin plunged into the brush, ignoring
the stink of troll that hung about the area. They gathered anything that could
burn easily. The Tainhevik got out an ax and chopped a few limbs off some trees
while Merlin got mostly twigs and things.
They finally got a decent pile of things to
kindle. The Tainhevik reached into the folds of his cloak and pulled out a
canteen. He unstoppered it and poured the rank-smelling liquid onto the pile,
drizzling it everywhere. “There,” he said, and got out his tinderbox.
Merlin warned him, “We better get this going fast,
Tainhevik. I think the troll is coming.”
The Tainhevik got a fire going and placed a
torch on top of the pile. “Let’s get out of—”
A blasting, ear-splitting roar shattered the
quiet of the night. The Tainhevik swore. “Merlin, run!” he said. “I’ll distract
it.”
“No, you’ll die,” Merlin said with nervous
energy.
The Tainhevik growled, “Get going now!” He
looked over at the building fire. It had gotten underway enough by now not to
need the torch; as it built it crackled, and the Tainhevik could feel the
rising heat in front of the cave.
He ran up to the fire and quickly grabbed the
torch from the swarming flames, drawing a dagger from within his cloak. Dagger
in right hand, torch in left, he quickly approached the spot where he knew the
troll would come. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Merlin dash into the
darkness of the trees.
The troll broke through the pines and roared,
charging him. The Tainhevik hefted the torch in his hand; he had one shot at
this.
The troll dove for him, and the Tainhevik at
the last second hurled the torch and leapt out of the way of the charging
monster. He felt the ground shake as the troll landed a few feet away from him.
It roared in pain.
The Tainhevik got to his feet, brandishing a
second dagger now. His plan had worked! The troll’s moonlit face was blackened
by fire. The Tainhevik wagered that it was developing a stonelike quality.
The troll jumped to its feet and growled, a low
menacing sound. The Tainhevik yelled and sprinted into the pines, going the
complete opposite direction than the one he had seen Merlin going.
The troll charged into the trees, giving chase.
The Tainhevik had to make it lose the scent. There was a stream near here, he
vaguely recalled. Yes, of course. He had seen it while looking for a good place
to put a sheep for the trap.
He felt the adrenaline of the chase building
up, and he hoped he could get there before the troll found him.
There it was! The Tainhevik didn’t hesitate for
a moment; he jumped right in, throwing his hat back behind him so the troll
would get confused. He immersed his whole body, holding his breath. Then he got
up and bolted across to the other side. The troll wouldn’t be smart enough to
follow him, having lost the scent.
Oban Rust had shaken off the troll. He had made
sure the bonfire built. And he noticed his back hadn’t hurt the whole night
long. He switched directions and went back toward John Grand’s house.
ჶჶჶ
Merlin
looked up at Oban. “So we’re going back?”
“Yes. Now, it’s up to you. Are you staying?
It’s a dangerous job; you can’t take this lightly.”
“Save me the warning,” Merlin told him. “I’m
sticking with you.”
“All right. Go get Bristle, and we’ll leave.”
Merlin exited the room to go get the pony,
which was out in the stables of John Grand’s property.
John Grand came into the room. “Thank you, Tainhevik.”
Oban shook hands with him. “Here’s your money,” Grand said, handing over a bag.
Oban pocketed it and nodded.
John turned to leave, but then turned back. “If
there’s anything I can do in the future, just send a letter. I’ll do my best.”
Oban nodded and watched as the man walked out
the door.
A Tainhevik had rough nights and rough battles,
but if he was good enough, careful enough, he lived to see the next day. And he
enjoyed the day, unlike the creatures he hunted.
The Warden of the Night was always watching.
