help to us."
One of the flanking trolls said, "Bad for us to take the weak. Weaken troll clan."
I reached Vrograth. He towered over me more than twice over. I recall I pointed my finger up at him, as if I had some authority. "I'm not asking you to make him a part of your troll clan ..."
"No!" Vrograth thundered. "I tell you. You will be part of troll clan. Two months. Those who can help. Dying one cannot. He dies."
"NO!"
The massive troll stared down as if I were a child who had just spoken his first lie. "I make rules," he explained carefully.
"I understand. We will come. Part of troll clan for two months. But we'll bring the dying man. You heal. We'll all be part of troll clan."
One of the other trolls, a gray skinned warrior with dark red hair, said, "It is bad to bring in the weak."
"But you could do it if you wanted to."
"I don't want to," said Vrograth.
I grabbed him by the fur on his cape as if I might yank him down to my height. "You will!"
The trolls around him laughed, and the old troll spoke to him in the troll tongue.
Vrograth's features crinkled into deep creases as he stared down at me. "You will contest me? For a dying man?"
"Yes."
He looked me over carefully, then said with a bit of pity. "We will fight until first blood.
What is the combat?"
I must have looked startled, for he said, "You challenge me, we fight. I set victory, you set battle." He looked into my eyes, searching for comprehension. His eyes, I remember clearly, were large and green. As pure green as jungle leaves.
“I don't want to fight you," I said with an idiotic confusion. I spoke the words first from an ethical revulsion. I had learned to fight because the world was a dangerous place, not because I had any particular fondness for it. Then I realized I really didn't want to fight him because he could probably kill me with one awkwardly placed swing of his fist.
The old troll said to me in much better Throalic than his leader, "It is a custom. A custom of combat. Challenge the warlord" he indicated Vrograth—"and you must fight." He thought for a moment, then added, "Or anyone with more ... power." He shook his head.
“Authority," he said carefully, smiling at finding the right word. "Excuse me. It's been a while. I am Krattack. We are the Stoneclaw tribe. Our custom allows us to take in the homeless, but not the weak. If you want your dying companion to come with you, then you will have to defeat Vrograth in a contest to first blood."
The whole process seemed horribly archaic and nonproductive. I asked with a sigh, "But why?"
The trolls looked at one another, each searching the face of another for an answer. None was forthcoming.
"Because we do!" Vrograth exclaimed with frustration.
"Yes, but ...," I began.
The old troll leapt in to try to help me again. "Releana, you are brave. You are capable.
You killed Theran poorchat and drove off trecka. Very good. But this is not something you refuse. Vrograth has given ... hospitality." Again the strange, boyish smile from the ten foot tall troll taking pleasure at his own vocabulary. "But the dying man cannot come.
If you want to win argument, you must fight. You must. You can stay, or can come without dying man. No problem. But to come with the dying man is to ..." He struggled to find the right words, gave up, and finally said, "It is to fight Vrograth." His eyes were old and kind, and he seemed less restless than the rest of the trolls, who continuously shifted and looked around.
It seemed I had a choice. The main reason I wanted to go with the trolls was to get help for J'role. If I refused their hospitality, he would die. If I accepted it without the fight, we would have to leave him behind, and he would die. However, if I fought and failed, I might lose Vrograth's hospitality. My motley crew, having put their faith in me, would join me in being stranded on top of a barren mountain with limited food, supplies, and no means of getting us home.
One of the flanking trolls said, "Bad for us to take the weak. Weaken troll clan."
I reached Vrograth. He towered over me more than twice over. I recall I pointed my finger up at him, as if I had some authority. "I'm not asking you to make him a part of your troll clan ..."
"No!" Vrograth thundered. "I tell you. You will be part of troll clan. Two months. Those who can help. Dying one cannot. He dies."
"NO!"
The massive troll stared down as if I were a child who had just spoken his first lie. "I make rules," he explained carefully.
"I understand. We will come. Part of troll clan for two months. But we'll bring the dying man. You heal. We'll all be part of troll clan."
One of the other trolls, a gray skinned warrior with dark red hair, said, "It is bad to bring in the weak."
"But you could do it if you wanted to."
"I don't want to," said Vrograth.
I grabbed him by the fur on his cape as if I might yank him down to my height. "You will!"
The trolls around him laughed, and the old troll spoke to him in the troll tongue.
Vrograth's features crinkled into deep creases as he stared down at me. "You will contest me? For a dying man?"
"Yes."
He looked me over carefully, then said with a bit of pity. "We will fight until first blood.
What is the combat?"
I must have looked startled, for he said, "You challenge me, we fight. I set victory, you set battle." He looked into my eyes, searching for comprehension. His eyes, I remember clearly, were large and green. As pure green as jungle leaves.
“I don't want to fight you," I said with an idiotic confusion. I spoke the words first from an ethical revulsion. I had learned to fight because the world was a dangerous place, not because I had any particular fondness for it. Then I realized I really didn't want to fight him because he could probably kill me with one awkwardly placed swing of his fist.
The old troll said to me in much better Throalic than his leader, "It is a custom. A custom of combat. Challenge the warlord" he indicated Vrograth—"and you must fight." He thought for a moment, then added, "Or anyone with more ... power." He shook his head.
“Authority," he said carefully, smiling at finding the right word. "Excuse me. It's been a while. I am Krattack. We are the Stoneclaw tribe. Our custom allows us to take in the homeless, but not the weak. If you want your dying companion to come with you, then you will have to defeat Vrograth in a contest to first blood."
The whole process seemed horribly archaic and nonproductive. I asked with a sigh, "But why?"
The trolls looked at one another, each searching the face of another for an answer. None was forthcoming.
"Because we do!" Vrograth exclaimed with frustration.
"Yes, but ...," I began.
The old troll leapt in to try to help me again. "Releana, you are brave. You are capable.
You killed Theran poorchat and drove off trecka. Very good. But this is not something you refuse. Vrograth has given ... hospitality." Again the strange, boyish smile from the ten foot tall troll taking pleasure at his own vocabulary. "But the dying man cannot come.
If you want to win argument, you must fight. You must. You can stay, or can come without dying man. No problem. But to come with the dying man is to ..." He struggled to find the right words, gave up, and finally said, "It is to fight Vrograth." His eyes were old and kind, and he seemed less restless than the rest of the trolls, who continuously shifted and looked around.
It seemed I had a choice. The main reason I wanted to go with the trolls was to get help for J'role. If I refused their hospitality, he would die. If I accepted it without the fight, we would have to leave him behind, and he would die. However, if I fought and failed, I might lose Vrograth's hospitality. My motley crew, having put their faith in me, would join me in being stranded on top of a barren mountain with limited food, supplies, and no means of getting us home.
Similar Books
