The doom of dragonback, p.6
The Doom of Dragonback, page 6
Outside she let the blankets drop to the ground and rolled them out with her foot while Skraffi busied himself with his helmet-machine and firebox. Soon a thin dribble of smoke was leaking from the pipe in the helmet.
They picked up a blanket between them and walked over to the closest hives. The two of them lifted the blanket overhead like a roof, and then Skraffi started to let smoke pour from the helmet, dousing the bee colonies with grey fumes.
Haldora fought the urge to close her eyes as bees by the score swarmed from the hives, convinced that their colonies were on fire. Skraffi motioned with his head and they set aside the blanket. Haldora hurried back to the shed to fetch the specially lined crates Skraffi stored there for taking the honeycomb. By the time she had returned he had opened up the first hive and was removing the delicate produce of the bees’ labour.
Careful not to break a corner or spill a drop of honey, Skraffi moved the honeycomb into one of the crates while Haldora went to fetch more. She had just stepped out of the shed with another crate in her hands when she saw Skraffi hurrying towards her, waving her back.
‘What is it?’ she called out, but the scarf muffled everything she said.
Skraffi knocked the crates out of her hands and grabbed her sleeve to drag her into the shed. He carefully closed the door behind them and stood with his back to it. He dragged down his scarf and took a long breath.
‘Troll,’ he whispered.
Haldora’s heart leapt at the word, and she quickly freed her face from the wrapping of smoke-smelling wool.
‘Where?’ She moved to the window and peered out, but could see nothing.
‘In the woods. I don’t know if it saw me.’ It was getting murky inside the shed and Skraffi realised he had the smoke-can in hand. He shut it off and placed it on a shelf beside a collection of broken firebox flints.
‘We’ll have to wait it out.’ Haldora leaned as far forward as she could, until she could just see the end of the row of hives to the right, and beyond that the smear of green and brown that was the trees distorted in the glass. There was nothing else there. ‘How can we tell when it’s gone?’
‘The beardlings…’ Skraffi’s eyes widened with alarm. ‘Down the path on the goat pastures and fields. We have to raise the alarm.’
‘How?’ Haldora looked around the shed. The only weapons were a short-handled shovel and the all-purpose knife that hung at her belt, and a small hand axe at Skraffi’s hip. ‘Neither of us is strong enough to fight a troll.’
Skraffi said nothing, deep in thought. A spluttering cough, deep and close, sounded outside, followed by the crack of splintering wood.
‘It’s breaking into the hives,’ said Skraffi. There was desperation in his eyes. ‘We can’t… We need that honey. The meadery… Your father will make me sell up if I can’t at least keep up the brewing.’
‘Is it worth getting killed over? I’ll talk to pa, make sure he doesn’t close the meadery.’
‘He’s just looking for an excuse, mark my words.’
‘You’re still the oldest in this family, he can’t push you around.’ Haldora dropped her voice as she heard snuffling and snorting growing louder. The sound of grotesque chewing could also be heard, slavering jaws mashing raw honeycomb and wood at the same time.
‘Truth is, Awdhelga was always the one in charge. I’m not much for standing up to folks, never have been. I think that’s why she liked me. “Meek, not weak,” she used to say.’
‘Then I’ll stand up for you too,’ said Haldora.
‘It’s no good,’ said Skraffi, turning around, his hand moving to the door latch.
‘What are you going to do?’ snapped Haldora. ‘Shout at it? It’s a troll. We can’t hurt it. We can’t outrun it. We have to hide until it goes away and then try to raise the alarm.’
Something heavy brushed against the door. Haldora froze, heart hammering, as the pad of heavy feet moved around the shed. Skraffi motioned towards the door with an inquiring glance but Haldora shook her head. If the troll came on them in the open they wouldn’t stand a chance and the trees were too far away.
Both of them flinched as something thudded against the stonework. A long rasping filled the shed as claws were dragged down the roof, in places splitting the wood. Haldora moved to the other side of Skraffi and started looking over the shelves and under the tables, desperate to find something, anything that could help.
‘Oh dear.’
She looked up at Skraffi’s subdued exclamation to see a flat grey face and gigantic eye peering in at the window.
‘Stay still,’ she told him. It was not that bright inside the outhouse and from what she could remember trolls had poor eyesight. The glass was buckled and bubbled enough that perhaps it wouldn’t see them.
The troll turned its head to switch eyes. It was massive, bending almost double to look inside the dwarf shed. She saw shoulders flexing and a hand crashed onto the roof. The troll pushed its head closer, smearing the windows with saliva, snot and honey. The wooden frame creaked and Haldora darted a look of alarm at Skraffi.
‘Fixed the jamb meself,’ he said with a confident nod. ‘It’ll take more than…’
His voice drifted away and Haldora looked back at the window. The frame was buckling, the individual pieces of glass rattling as the monster let out heavy breaths.
‘You go,’ said Skraffi. He stepped away from the door. ‘I’ll keep it occupied here. You make a run to warn the youngsters and get to the tower at Funnock’s Elbow.’
‘No!’ Haldora thrust a hand out to push Skraffi back from the window but it was too late.
The troll gave an intrigued grunt and slapped a hand to the glass. Wood fractured and part of the frame gave way on the right. Thick fingers with broken claws pushed through the gap, scraping at the stone sill.
Haldora couldn’t stand it anymore. She dragged out her knife and lunged forward, burying it to the hilt in the back of the troll’s hand. It greeted the attack with a bemused grunt and pulled its hand free. Haldora clung onto the knife, dragging it out of the troll as the hand withdrew. Brownish blood dripped onto the shelf below the window and seeped down the pages of a tattered book on bee-keeping.
With a roar that almost threw Haldora from her feet in shock and fear, the troll slammed two fists against the window. The frame gave way, showering glass and wood fragments over the two dwarfs within. A hand reached for Haldora – the back of it sporting a freshly healed scar, she noticed as it swept the room, seeking anything to grab.
She ducked under the swiping paw and rolled to the base of the shelf. Skraffi backed as far into the corner as he could, his small axe in hand, teeth bared in a snarl. More glass crashed to the floor as the troll forced in the rest of its arm to the shoulder, broad head wedged in the gap beside it. Haldora couldn’t stop a shriek as a clawed hand waved just in front of her face, yellowed talons scraping at the wood of the shelf, dislodging knick-knacks and cracking pottery dishes and bowls.
She turned onto all fours and scampered rat-like along the floor, heading for a wider gap under the shelves where she had pulled out the honeycomb crates earlier. The troll tried to push even more of itself through the hole left by the broken window. Stone scraped on stone and the lintel above the window shifted.
‘The whole blummin’ lot will come down,’ growled Skraffi. Haldora recognised the wild look in his eye and knew she had to act now before her grandfather did something she would regret for what little remained of her life.
She knew from the tales of Grimnir that trolls didn’t like fire because they couldn’t regenerate wounds inflicted by flame. Spying the smoke-maker on the floor between her and Skraffi she dived for the old helmet. She stood up and for a moment came face to face with the troll. Its eyes were yellow and bloodshot, each as big as her fist. Its nose was almost squashed into its face, the mouth a gash with finger-long fangs and broken stubs. There were dozens of cuts from the glass and streaks of honey across its lips. Bits of tarred leather and wood from the roof were stuck to its shoulder and upper arm.
She smashed the smoke-maker into the troll’s chin with a dull clang and opened the valve to full, letting a plume of thick smoke billow into the troll’s face.
With a hooting bellow, the troll reared back, dragging itself out of the shed, taking the remnants of the window frame with it. Haldora saw it thrashing at the smoke, coughing and retching as it backed away from the cloud emanating from the outhouse.
‘Now run for it, lass!’ said Skraffi. ‘I’ll keep its attention while you head for the path.’
‘No.’ Haldora didn’t shout, or snap, or snarl the word. She simply said it with such conviction that it made Skraffi blink in surprise. ‘Nobody is dying today. Not me, and certainly not you.’
She threw the smoke-maker out onto the pasture, still puffing out fitful clouds. Knowing that although trolls were notoriously stupid it would not be long before the creature realised there was no actual fire, she delved under the junk-laden tables and dragged out a bucket of tar she had seen as she had rolled on the floor earlier.
Fixing her eyes on the troll she searched with her spare hand until her fingers fell upon the firebox. The monster was approaching again, a darker shadow in the smoke, pulled up to its full height. Placing the firebox on the sill in front of her, still working by touch alone, Haldora shovelled handfuls of dried leaves into the tar.
‘Get its attention, Grammi,’ she said, gripping the pail with both hands.
‘Aye, Haldi,’ he replied, moving up beside her. He cupped hands to his mouth and shouted. ‘You hairless excuse for a monster! I’ve seen elves with bigger muscles! You are so ugly you–‘
With a slobbering yowl, the troll lurched into the shed, a fist battering through the roof, head and shoulders ramming through the window, lifting the lintel.
Haldora threw the pitch and leaves and the bucket into the troll’s face as a clawed hand closed on Skraffi’s shoulder. Snatching up the firebox, she struck the flint and thrust the tiny flame into the creature’s left eye.
The tar lit up like a feast-day lantern. Haldora snatched her hand away, as did the troll. Skraffi stumbled back while the troll tried to straighten, unleashing a deafening howl. As it pulled itself upright the troll smashed its head into the remains of the roof, its nobbled back and shoulders finally bringing down the lintel. A few stones fell inside but the bulk of the wall collapsed onto the troll as it retreated. Head burning like a Karag Dron candle, the monster stumbled left and right, slapping at its face and pawing dirt from the ground in an attempt to quench the flame.
‘Haldora. It’s Haldora.’
‘Right you are, my lass,’ said Skraffi. Tiny wisps of smoke lifted from his singed beard. ‘I think we should run now.’
She looked at the troll, which was still wandering in circles, yelping and moaning, and knew that though hurt it would not die so easily. A party would have to be sent out to hunt it down and they still needed to make sure the youngsters in the fields and pastures were safe.
‘Yes, now we run.’
They set off towards the path at a brisk trot, glancing over their shoulders. The troll rammed its head repeatedly into the remains of the shed, as if this would somehow alleviate the burning. Haldora was grateful to feel the crunch of gravel under her boots as they reached the track, though there was still a long way to go until she would consider them safe.
‘A troll… in the high pastures… in summer,’ said Skraffi between puffing breaths. ‘Goblin ambushes and… now this. That’s not a good… omen at all. Not one bit.’
Chapter Five
‘At first the Angboks and their allies set up farms in the wildlands to the south, and dug a few open pits where they found small quantities of ore. It was nowhere near as grand a life as in Karak Eight Peaks, but they were folk easily pleased with their own space and time, and the Rinkeldraz thanes didn’t boss anybody around or get ideas above themselves.
Barley was sown and harvested, among other crops, and beer was brewed and a few watermills were built along Blind River to make flour. The wildlands back then were called that because of all the flowers and grasses, not because of orcs and goblins. That would come later. For the time the colony fared well if not exceptionally, and news went back to Karak Eight Peaks of this with the wagons of beer.
It was perhaps at this time that the Angboks and the others started getting a reputation, living on the plains and farming rather than mining, but they didn’t care. And there were other clans that thought this seemed a good idea. This was back before the war with the elves, of course, and the plains dwarfs had much dealing with the folk of Ulthuan, before the Great Betrayal.
More folk grew the colony over the years, and they all bided the rules of the Rinkeldraz and other clans that had come before and it was a nice time for all. But things can’t stay like that forever, not with more folk trying to grow the same thing and build their own mills and brew their own beer, and soon the Angboks realised that they hadn’t gotten away from anything. They spoke to the Rinkeldraz thanes and a few others and it was decided to keep heading west again, all the way to the mountains this time, leaving the newcomers to enjoy the fruits of the plains.’
Skraffi’s warnings, that the appearance of a troll signified far worse events to come, fell on deaf ears. Such occurrences were rare, especially at such a bountiful time of year when most trolls could find plenty to eat without daring dwarf lands, but they were not without precedent. Gabbik, at the urging of Haldora, persuaded the council of thanes to send a few patrols into the woods, though nobody found the troll. There were even a few whispers that Skraffi had made up the story to generate interest in his mead, though nobody ever said this to his face, nor mentioned why Haldora would support such an outlandish tale. After that, everybody hoped their lives could return to normal.
Gabbik, like any sensible dwarf, was never really ready to believe anything until he had seen it with his own eyes or heard it with his own ears, or at least spoken with another dwarf who had first-hand experience. News of turmoil in the old mountains to the north seemed a distant concern, especially with new seams opening every day and the trading season with Karak Eight Peaks, Barak Varr, Karak Izril and Karak Azul about to reach its peak period. He was a voice of reason, warning everybody against over-reaction, urging them to keep to their work at the gold seam.
Concerns for other parts of the dwarf realm were brought back into sharp focus when proof of the disaster at Karak Varn arrived with the first survivors. They were guided to Ekrund by goat herders, traders, troll hunters and rangers, a few at first but growing in number as spring became summer. The Ekrundfolk had a reputation for being insular, but the king ordered that the chambers and halls of the Dragonbacks were opened to any that needed respite and refuge.
Friedra, in her role as matron of Valaya for the Angboks, volunteered to be amongst those standing ready to provide comfort and assistance to the arriving refugees, and Haldora pledged herself to help her mother. They received word one evening, not long before sunset, that a group of Karak Varn exiles would be arriving at the East Gate shortly, and that some were in a particularly bad way. Mother and daughter hurried to the gate hall attended by a coterie of younger nieces and nephews with blankets filled with more blankets, ale, bread and small comforts like beard combs and jellied mushrooms.
Haldora left her mother to supervise the unloading of these wares and made her way up the winding staircase to the watchtower overlooking the eastern approach. The sky was clear, sprayed with stars, the white moon low on the horizon and now the rising of the red moon. In the starlight the road glittered like a river, winding back and forth down the eastern flank of Mount Bloodhorn. In the last dying purple light of the day Haldora could see a broken column of figures moving up the road, several dozen dwarfs led by a pair of rangers carrying gleaming blue lanterns.
Much further out, beyond the light of the lamps, she could see the dim glow of flames in the far distance – campfires out in the wildlands of those still on their way. In places they looked like ruddy reflections of the constellations above.
‘How many is that?’ Haldora asked, turning her attention to the gatekeeper standing guard in the niche beside her. His beard reached his waist with broad streaks of grey – a veteran of several centuries.
‘Two hundred, maybe a few more,’ the dwarf replied. He set his axe on the rampart in front of them and stroked his hand down his beard. ‘Word is there are at least as many again still out in the wildlands.’
‘Four hundred folk. Little ones too,’ Haldora added, seeing children amongst the refugees, a few of them so young they were being carried by mothers or fathers. They were less than a stone’s throw from the gate now, and Haldora could see some of the new arrivals were hurt, limping or with arms in slings, heads bandaged. A few dwarfs were coming out of the gate, bearing cups and kettles of mulled ale. Steam curled from the pots and a babble of grateful voices rose to meet them. ‘I best go back down. See what we can do.’
‘Patch them up and send them on, I reckon,’ said the guard. Haldora subjected him to a scowl but he was unrepentant. ‘Troublemakers, mark my words. I have cousins still in Karak Eight Peaks. Said that when them that was escaping Karak Ungor came there was anarchy – not enough beds, beer, fuel.‘
‘There are enough beds here, and as much fuel and beer as is needed,’ said Haldora, heading back down the steps.
The first refugees had crossed the threshold by the time Haldora had descended to the gate hall. A few gatekeepers looked on, hammers at the ready, watching for any trouble, but most of the dwarfs were there to welcome the exiles with hot drinks and food. Such gifts were gratefully accepted.
Haldora broke stonebread into manageable chunks and handed them out while one of her cousins ladled soup into wooden bowls. An aging female dwarf wrapped in a thick red shawl approached holding the hands of two youngsters who could not have been more than nine or ten years old apiece. There was a look in the grandmother’s eyes that Haldora had never seen before, a blankness as though completely devoid of emotion. The children’s expressions were easier to read: fear.
