Nemesis and the Troll King by Ashley Du Toit

should start looking for Faith’s Courage now, Folgoo?” Yarg asked. “We only have five days left.”
    â€œNo, we’ll start at morning’s first light. You need your rest, and we wouldn’t be able to see much in that mist anyway,” Folgoo replied sensibly. Closing his eyes, he appeared to drift straight off to sleep.
    Yarg sighed. He walked up to the other side of the tree and sat down, but he found sleep harder to embrace. So many questions filled his mind—where did he fit in now? Would he want to stay a troll, or would he go back to being a human? Thoughts drifted and swirled until he finally fell into a restless sleep.

7
    George’s Mountain
    S trange companions, thought George, last of the dodo birds, as he watched the centaur and troll from the safety of a nearby cluster of trees. The centaur snored, and from the way he was lying slumped against the tree, the troll would wake up with a stiff neck. George knew exactly why they were here. They wanted Faith’s Courage. Well, they can try, he thought, well satisfied with himself. And in truth he had every right to be. Countless others had tried to prise it from him, but all had failed.
    George glanced up to level his gaze with the horizon. The sun was starting to creep up. He took one last look at the two, then sprang from the tree. He landed with a thud on the ground and immediately started running up the mountain. Well concealed by vegetation growing on the side of the mountain, George knew they wouldn’t spot him. But even without it, he knew he would not be easy to find. He had a secret weapon that he could call upon. A long time ago, before he’d come to the mountain, Nemesis had given him a magical gift, the gift of the chameleon, which enabled him to change colour according to his need or mood.
    As he ran, he muttered, “Traps, traps … I have to set some traps,” and laughed in anticipation of what awaited his two unsuspecting visitors.
    He was still laughing when he got to his hidey hole—a large cave, its narrow entrance hidden from prying eyes by plants that grew down from an overhead ledge.
    In the centre of the cave was a huge nest. An odd assortment of things was piled in one of its corners, just for moments such as this. He reached past lengths of rope, two different sized nets, and an old rusted pot, its broken handle poking out from beneath a few big sticks, to grasp the cluster of feathers he’d carefully gathered over time.
    â€œSquishy,” he called. “I have something I need you to do.”
    Squishy was a little blobworm about thirty centimetres long and fifteen centimetres wide. George had found it one day while he was out playing on the mountain. He’d been a little eager to pick it up and found that it leaked out a sticky slime. They’d had lots of fun together since, coating random ‘visitors’ with the thick goo.
    George grinned wickedly as he reached for the pot with the broken handle. “Come on Squishy, let’s go set some traps.”

    The sun shone down brightly as Yarg opened his eyes. He moved his head, and groaned at the stiffness in his neck.
    â€œMorning,” Folgoo said.
    Yarg groaned again. He stood up and stretched his arms above his head, rotating his body in an effort to loosen it up. His eyes wandered over to where Folgoo stood at the foot of the mountain. He moved across to join him.
    â€œThere’s a path over there,” Folgoo said.
    Yarg’s eyes moved to follow the path that wound its way up the mountain. It seemed a straightforward enough climb, although a few parts here and there were obscured by plants. Yarg scanned towards the top of the mountain, hoping to spot something to show where they should go.
    â€œI wonder who George is?” he murmured to Folgoo.
    â€œI don’t know,” he said, “but I’m sure we’ll soon find out.”
    â€œI don’t like the feel of this,” he