The Troll, The Cat, and The King

 

         Gilead Silvermane, High King of Dunraw, rode out on a black horse to inspect his territories. Well, that was what he had led the royal council to belief, but those closest to his mind knew better. For twenty years, just before the spring time festival, he would seek a troll, a certain troll whose image was etched in his memory and the desire to slay it was branded onto his heart. Sadly, the king could not escape the power of vengeance, nor did he want to.

         A southern route, off the beaten path and into the wide lands, slipping quietly through Dagan Forest and along the Inman River the king traveled.  His journey then turned west, abruptly ending at the Eagle Mountains and then north along the foothills until he reached the ancient ruins of a forgotten people, and there he would spend several weeks contemplating his next move.

         Perched atop a grassy hill in the cool hour of the dawn Gilead gazed down on the ruins. He stroked the neck of his horse. The horse snorted. The king smiled, leaned back in the saddle, and flicked the reins, urging the horse down the steep slope.

         The ruins were surrounded by a rich landscape populated by white buffalo and wild horses grazing on a vast sea of green grass. Over-head, a flock of red birds soared through a clear sky and in the distance the roar of the great long-tooth cat could be heard.

         Through a wide archway, the only reminder of an outer wall, the king entered into the ruins like a returning hero, fresh from victory.  Gilead was broad, sturdy, tall, clad in wrought-iron armor that had the look of silver in the rays of the morning sun.  Coal-black hair streaked with frosty white, pleated in a long braid, streamed down his back from under a sleek helm which curved around his cheeks and across his nose, hiding most of his face except for two golden-brown eyes.  Across his back he strapped his broad sword of damask steel and from his hip hung a long dirk, but those who knew the cunning king knew he possessed many more weapons, concealed, but easily retrieved if needed.  He was old enough to be counted among the wise, but young enough to be foolish.

         Gently he urged his horse toward the only structure still standing, a great ziggurat that had been constructed with thick stones that had been smoothed with centuries of rain and wind until only a faint hint of cuneiform remained.  The base of it was clad in ivy of the flowering kind and soon it would be decorated with purple and amber blossoms. Gilead felt a kind of fellowship with the ziggurat for, like him, it had stood mighty in the land of Dunraw, and like him it had been strengthened rather than weakened by time.  And no matter how many times he had looked upon it, the ziggurat always held the king in awe of its magnificence.

         Darkness came quickly and Gilead settled down for the night beside a small fire.  A crescent moon hung lonely in a starry sky and the air was still, cool, permeated with the savory smell of rabbit roasting slowly over crackling flames. The sounds of the night filled the air. In the west the howl of mountain wolves was answered by the bellow of the bulls that roamed around the ruins. In the black sky came the screech of an owl and below was the squeal of its prey.

         Intently Gilead stared into the flames until the orange glow filled his vision. His thoughts moved rapidly from the past to the present and back into the past.  His deeds had rightfully earned him the title of Gilead the Great, but there was no flavor in any of his accomplishments. His senses had been dulled by the echoing words of his dying brother. “Avenge me!” he had cried before the troll whom he had spent a life time searching for, ripped him apart.  A tear fell from his eye and his hands trembled as his mind became frozen in that moment of time, fueling his rage and need for vengeance.

         The morning arrived late and Gilead slept passed dawn and into mid-morning. He sat slumped over, rubbed the fog from his eyes, stretched and yawned. Suddenly the ground began to tremble. He was not unduly perturbed by this; he assumed the herd was on the move.  He lifted his head slowly and a rush of excitement filled him to the point of giddiness. It was the morning hours and perhaps the great long-tooth was on the move and on the hunt as well.

         With long strides he made his way to the bottom step of ziggurat, pausing briefly to place his helm on his head.  He looked into the east and coming over the horizon, like a raging mist was the herd of white buffalo. A mighty bull led the stampede straight for the ruins.

         Without hesitation Gilead quickly began his ascension up the steep steps, using both his legs and arms.  Twice he turned to witness the herd smash its way into the ruins.  And as quickly as the roar of hooves crushing the ground beneath them rose up, it faded into the distance. The camp was trampled and scattered and there was no sign of his horse, but he thought little of it, for he was more interested in the coming of the cat.

         After reaching the top stepped he turned and waited patiently for the cat. Silently he cursed himself for not bring his bow and his sword appeared to be crushed by the hooves of the buffalo. The same sword his brother had fought valiantly against the troll. The same sword he had planned to thrust into the heart of that same troll.

         As he waited he counted the years since he last hunted the long-tooth and between him and his father they had almost hunted the beast into extinction. The king raised his hand to his forehead and shaded his eyes.  A flash of white caught his sight moving swiftly through the grass. He squatted as the cat entered into the camp site down below.  It was white as snow with fading black stripes. Two long, curved fangs with rounded tips was a sign of old age. Gilead smiled feverishly.  The cat roared. A shiver coursed the length of Gilead’s spine and the hair on his arms and neck stood on ends.  The cat lowered its huge head and sniffed the ground.  Gilead held his breath as he slipped his hand to the hilt of his dirk. Suddenly the cat’s ears perked up and it raised its nose high in the air. After shattering the silence with a roar, it turned, and fled. Gilead found its behavior to be odd since the herd was moving in a different direction.

         No sooner had Gilead began his climb down when his keen hearing caught the high pitch whinnies of frightened horses. The sky filled with all sorts of birds swooping and diving, making there way into west. Small creatures filled the ruins, scurrying in all directions. The king only knew of two things that could drive the life of the wild from their homes. He sniffed the air, but smoke was not on it.

         “Troll!” he growled, grinding the word between his teeth.

         Gilead whirled around and gnashed his teeth and in the wake of the herd and great cat a dark figure moved swiftly across the grassy plain. The heat of rage surged through the king. Instinctively he reached for his sword, but his mind caught up with his reflexes and he sighed bitterly, remembering that his sword was in the midst of the mangled camp with a broken blade.

         With only the dirk at his hip he knew that one man with such a small weapon was no match for a troll, no matter how great that man was.  Trolls were the kindred of the Jaette whose very name meant Bringer of Violence. They were huge, powerful brutes with thick skin and sharp tusk.

         Boldly the troll entered into the camp, its fat feet making only the slightest noise as it padded across the ground. The stench of it twisted Gilead’s face and he gagged. He studied the troll carefully as it rummaged through what was left of his things, sniffing, and tossing items to the side as if it was searching for something in particular. The troll was enormous, the biggest Gilead had ever seen and by the white strains of hair that lay lank on its head he judged that the troll was very old.  It had one good eye and the other was a grotesque layer of scared tissue.  Thick saliva dripped from its jutting jaw and its naked body bulged with huge, corded muscles.

         The troll pressed its face to the ground and sniffed the soil. On its hands and knees it followed its large curved nose to the base of the ziggurat. The sound of its breath whiffing struck panic in the king and he fought to maintain his stillness and silence; he knew the troll was on his scent. Suddenly the troll snapped its head up and its sight fell on the king.  Instantly all sound was dwarfed by a deep throated roar. Even the roar of the great long-tooth cat was only a whisper in comparison.

         Stunned, but not by the savage rage of the troll, Gilead thought for a moment, he heard his name in the midst of its bellow. The troll smashed its fist into the bottom step and the ziggurat trembled beneath Gilead’s feet. Again it roared the name of the king.

         “You can speak,” Gilead said, not intending to pose a question.

         “Of course I can speak!” growled the troll, its speech slow and its voice deep.

         At first, Gilead was taken aback by the words that rolled so easily off the troll’s tongue. Then a wave of curiosity flowed through him and different stance of caution took hold.  He was not ignorant in the ways of wizards and their black magic and he distasted the lot of them and for that he had made countless enemies in the world of magic, so he eyed the troll with much suspicion.

         “Why do you come before the Lord of Dunraw, cloaked as a foul creature, wizard?” asked Gilead. “Face me as you truly are or is your power to weak,” Gilead added, trying to lure what he perceived as a wizard into shifting back into its true form.

         “I am no wizard, wicked man! I am Og! Servant of the Order of Ytel, Lord of the Mountain Clan, and I have sought after you for many season and know that you are in my sight, I shall have my vengeance!” declared Og.

         “Vengeance you say!” the king shouted. “A lord you say! My eyes only see an old dotard, weak as a babe.” 

         Gilead’s mocking triggered a blustery rage that swept Og into the air and clearing the height of the steps and with a thud of doom he landed in front the king. The ziggurat shook violently. Gilead fell to his knees, but before he could regain his stance Og back-handed him across the face. His helm flew from his head and he was sent crashing into the parapet.

         Motionless Gilead lay on his back.  His face was numb and there was an endless ringing in his ears. His mouth filled with the brackish taste of his own blood.  Slowly he sat up. Desperately he tried to will himself to his feet, but his body would not obey the commands of his mind. His chin rested on his chest and twice he spat, coloring the front of his armor crimson.

         “All my kindred know the name of Gilead Silvermane, for your stench still lingers on the bones of my brothers,”  Og said as he snatched the king up by his arm, and pulled he him close to his face.  Gilead could not feel the stone beneath his feet and his face wrenched in pain. The grip of the troll was like having his arm caught in a vice. “I shall pick your flesh from my teeth with your bones, lowly king of an insignificant race.”

         Gilead’s eyes flickered open and in that moment the haunting memories of the past overlapped the present. “You!” he growled, baring his blood streaked teeth.  Rage filled the king and with his free hand he drew his dirk.

         Og began to laugh. “What shall you do with that little thing?” Men and their swords are no match for the mighty Og!”

         The king smiled and quickly plunged the blade deep into Og’s eye, burying it to the hilt. Og cried out and let loose his hold on Gilead. He stumbled backward trying desperately to pull the blade from his eye. Blood coursed down the troll’s face and onto his huge chest. He tittered on the edge of the step, crying out in pain and fright.

         Gilead pulled himself up, spat another mouth full of blood, drew in a deep breath through his nostrils and a terrible scowl filled his face.  He sprang forward and slammed his shoulder in the abdomen of the troll. Og, already fighting for balance, fell backward. In the midst of the deep thuds of the troll tumbling down the steps the sickening sound of its neck snapping resonated through the air.

         Sweat stung the king’s eyes, his breath was heavy and the pounding of his heart flowed through his veins.  He stared with tremendous satisfaction at the twisted corpse of the troll. As he began his descent down the ziggurat he congratulated himself. He had lost none of his guile and his vengeance had been sated. But as his foot left the bottom step his victory became short lived.

         After a week overdue from his trip the king’s son Prince Tiras Silvermane set out with a company of knights from Dilmun, in search of his father. He traveled the same path as his father until he reached the ruins. There beside the troll, he found the dead king with his throat ripped out.

         In the midst of the young prince’s thunderous grief he perceived that his father’s death was not by the hands of the troll. His death was from the strong jaws and razor sharp teeth of the great long-tooth cat.

         Tiras ordered the knights to return the king’s body to his mother the queen. Then he gathered his ivory bow and a quiver of arrows and began to follow the tracks of the cat. When he was asked where is was going and what he was going to do by his faithful friend Niburu Hammerhelm, he replied. “To the ends of the land and beyond, for the murder of my father must be avenged.”

         Thus began the bane of the House of Silvermane.