trolls to the muster. He'd truss them up and scorch them good, right in
front of us. Flames would leap out of troll eyes and ears, out of their mouths when they screamed. Our
champion would do the same with any poor human sod who'd earned his wrath—usually by killing a troll
without permission.
We were impressed by what Myron of Yoram did to the trolls, but it was what he could
do—would do—to us that had kept the army in line for generation after human generation.
Things were beginning to change around the time that Jikkana died. Windreaver had measured
his enemy well and divided the trolls into bands that took ruthless advantage of the orders Myron of
Yoram had given us. Some human bands were deserting and more were fighting back, which meant that
the loyal bands—and Bult was nothing if not loyal to his pay—hunted humans more often than they
hunted trolls.
Everyone had to be careful. Everyone had to post guards at night and sleep with a weapon or
two beneath the blankets. Bult's band was no exception, and I pulled my share of nights on the picket
before Jikkana died. Afterward, I took the picket by choice, one night in four—as often as a man could
stay awake all night and still keep the pace. I wanted to be alone. Jikkana's death had raised the specter
of Deche and Dorean in my dreams. I didn't want to close my eyes or sleep. Hunting trolls—following
their bands and hoping the Troll-Scorcher would do us the honor of killing them— wasn't enough. I
wanted my own vengeance.
I wanted to kill trolls with my own weapons, my own hands.
I didn't have long to wait.
It was Nadir-Night of Priest's Fury, another year half-gone to memory, and the troll-hunters of
Bult's band celebrated the holiday as they celebrated everything: they drank until they couldn't stand, then
lay on their bellies and drank some more, until they'd all passed out around the fire. I thought about
leaving. Bult and the rest were the dregs of humanity, and they were the only folk who knew my name. In
those days, with trolls and deserters both prowling, a solitary man's life wasn't worth much. I took a
picket brand from the fire, wrapped the smoldering tip in oilcloth, and, with my blanket and club tucked
under my arm, climbed a nearby hill to keep watch.
The trolls knew our human holidays and our human habits; we'd all lived together peacefully until
the wars started. If I'd been a troll, I'd've taken advantage of Nadir-Night, so I was expecting trouble
and was ready for it when I heard straw crunching beneath big, heavy feet. Our picket drill was simple,
and I knew it well: at the first sound I was supposed to tear the cloth off my brand, then wave it in the air.
The flames would alert our band and blind the trolls, whose night vision was better than ours, but
vulnerable to sudden flashes of bright light. Once I'd waved my picket brand, though, my orders were to
run like wind-whipped fire. The whole band would be running, too—More orders from Myron of
Yoram.
I obeyed the first part of my orders, slashing the air to blind whatever was coming up my hill, but
Bult and the others weren't going to run anywhere this Nadir-Night. And neither was I. Switching the
torch to my off-weapon hand, I picked up a flint-headed club with a short, sharpened hook on one side
of the flint and a chiseled knob on the other. I shouted, "Here I am!" and made the guttural sounds I'd
been told were insults in the troll language.
The heavy-footed tread got louder, and a big chunk of sky grew darker as the troll hove into
view. Like me, he was armed with a stone club, though its haft was thicker than my wrist, and the stone
lashed to its tip was as large as my head. He shouted something I didn't understand while he brandished
that club over me. I shouted something I can't remember. Then his arm drew back for a killing strike.
I'd get one chance, one swing. To make the most of it, I tossed the torch aside and put both
hands on the
front of us. Flames would leap out of troll eyes and ears, out of their mouths when they screamed. Our
champion would do the same with any poor human sod who'd earned his wrath—usually by killing a troll
without permission.
We were impressed by what Myron of Yoram did to the trolls, but it was what he could
do—would do—to us that had kept the army in line for generation after human generation.
Things were beginning to change around the time that Jikkana died. Windreaver had measured
his enemy well and divided the trolls into bands that took ruthless advantage of the orders Myron of
Yoram had given us. Some human bands were deserting and more were fighting back, which meant that
the loyal bands—and Bult was nothing if not loyal to his pay—hunted humans more often than they
hunted trolls.
Everyone had to be careful. Everyone had to post guards at night and sleep with a weapon or
two beneath the blankets. Bult's band was no exception, and I pulled my share of nights on the picket
before Jikkana died. Afterward, I took the picket by choice, one night in four—as often as a man could
stay awake all night and still keep the pace. I wanted to be alone. Jikkana's death had raised the specter
of Deche and Dorean in my dreams. I didn't want to close my eyes or sleep. Hunting trolls—following
their bands and hoping the Troll-Scorcher would do us the honor of killing them— wasn't enough. I
wanted my own vengeance.
I wanted to kill trolls with my own weapons, my own hands.
I didn't have long to wait.
It was Nadir-Night of Priest's Fury, another year half-gone to memory, and the troll-hunters of
Bult's band celebrated the holiday as they celebrated everything: they drank until they couldn't stand, then
lay on their bellies and drank some more, until they'd all passed out around the fire. I thought about
leaving. Bult and the rest were the dregs of humanity, and they were the only folk who knew my name. In
those days, with trolls and deserters both prowling, a solitary man's life wasn't worth much. I took a
picket brand from the fire, wrapped the smoldering tip in oilcloth, and, with my blanket and club tucked
under my arm, climbed a nearby hill to keep watch.
The trolls knew our human holidays and our human habits; we'd all lived together peacefully until
the wars started. If I'd been a troll, I'd've taken advantage of Nadir-Night, so I was expecting trouble
and was ready for it when I heard straw crunching beneath big, heavy feet. Our picket drill was simple,
and I knew it well: at the first sound I was supposed to tear the cloth off my brand, then wave it in the air.
The flames would alert our band and blind the trolls, whose night vision was better than ours, but
vulnerable to sudden flashes of bright light. Once I'd waved my picket brand, though, my orders were to
run like wind-whipped fire. The whole band would be running, too—More orders from Myron of
Yoram.
I obeyed the first part of my orders, slashing the air to blind whatever was coming up my hill, but
Bult and the others weren't going to run anywhere this Nadir-Night. And neither was I. Switching the
torch to my off-weapon hand, I picked up a flint-headed club with a short, sharpened hook on one side
of the flint and a chiseled knob on the other. I shouted, "Here I am!" and made the guttural sounds I'd
been told were insults in the troll language.
The heavy-footed tread got louder, and a big chunk of sky grew darker as the troll hove into
view. Like me, he was armed with a stone club, though its haft was thicker than my wrist, and the stone
lashed to its tip was as large as my head. He shouted something I didn't understand while he brandished
that club over me. I shouted something I can't remember. Then his arm drew back for a killing strike.
I'd get one chance, one swing. To make the most of it, I tossed the torch aside and put both
hands on the
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