Troll Bridge by Jane Yolen

about her age with sandy-colored hair hung upside down from the ceiling, a heavy beige rope knotted around his ankles. The far end was tied to an iron hook on the wall. Another rope was wrapped tightly around the boy’s body, keeping his arms against his side. He was moaning.
    â€œStop moaning. The trolls will hear you,” she warned.
    He stopped moaning and turned his head toward the sound of her voice. The left side of his face was already purpling where the troll must have hit him earlier to shut him up. The right eye was a startling blue. Even in the dim candlelight of the larder she could see that.
    â€œTrolls?” he whispered. “They were trolls ? Like in fairy tales—trolls?”
    â€œWhat did you think they were?”
    â€œHuge. But then lots of folk in Minnesota are huge. Viking stock. I thought they were … kidnappers. Wanting ransom.”
    â€œRansom?”
    He sighed. “You know. For giving me back.”
    â€œThey don’t give back people. They eat people.” She said it matter-of-factly.
    â€œCannibals?” He moaned again. “I thought you said they were trolls. Can you get me out of here?” His voice rose. “Now?”
    â€œShhh.” She came closer, stared up at him. He was hanging about a foot and a half above her.
    He stared back. “Are you a troll, too?”
    She laughed, a short sharp bark, like the fox. “Do I look like a troll?”
    He gulped. “You look like a…”
    â€œI’m a musician. And…”
    â€œLet me guess,” he said. “A Dairy Princess.”
    She gawked at him as, all unaccountably, he broke into song. His voice was a pleasant tenor, and he was on key, the more surprising since he was upside down.
    And he was singing:
    What’s better than a butter girl?
    Badder than my better girl.
    Best when I’m not buttered up as well …
    He began coughing so strongly, he bounced up and down on the rope.
    â€œI’m going to try to get you down,” she told him, keeping her voice low and sensible.
    He stopped coughing. Closed his good eye and opened it again. “Ready when you are. Just do it.”
    She spotted six wooden-handled knives hanging from pegs on the whitewashed wall. Each knife looked as large as a sword. Two had serrated edges and one had a hammer-like thing on the bottom of the handle. But they were far too high up for her to reach.
    Then she noticed a honing strap and a seventh knife on a three-legged chopping block by the side of the dining table. The chopping block was also above her head, but she thought she might be able to push it over if she could get a good run at it. Three legs were not as steady as four.
    â€œHold on,” she told the boy.
    â€œIs that a joke?”
    She ignored him and, backing up till she felt the far wall behind her, she pushed off. Hands straight ahead of her, she ran full tilt at the nearest leg of the chopping block. Striking it hard, she got it teetering. Quickly, she gave a half turn and shoved her shoulder into the front legs and the stocky chopping block fell over, clattering onto the floor.
    â€œSo much for being quiet,” he called down to her.
    Her shoulder hurt. “Best I could do,” she muttered, and picked up the knife that was as big as a broadsword. All the while she was thinking, Stupid, ungrateful boy, quickly followed by, Shut up, Moira. Because of course he was scared and saying the first thing that came to mind. At least he’d stopped moaning.
    Foss’ voice came sharply into her head. “What was that unholy racket?”
    â€œHero at work,” she shot back at him. “Why aren’t you in here helping?”
    â€œWho are you talking to?” the boy asked.
    â€œFoss.” As if that told him anything.
    â€œWho is he? Another troll?”
    â€œHe’s … he’s another musician,” she said.
    â€œThat makes three of us,” the boy said.
    But