Troll Bridge by Jane Yolen Page A

if he’s a musician, too, Moira wondered, why doesn’t he hear Foss?
    The fox didn’t answer, nor did she expect him to. He was very good at giving orders and being tricky. But when it came to the actual hard work, he was never around.
    Lugging the heavy knife back to the hanging boy, Moira swung it with all her might at the rope attached to the iron hook.
    The knife bounced off, making no impression on the rope. None at all.
    â€œWell,” Moira said, huffing with effort, “that was fun.” Her arms ached from the blow.
    â€œSaw…” the boy said to her, his voice a raspy whisper. “Use it like a saw.”
    He was right, and she immediately began sawing at the rope, the heavy knife held high over her head. It was a very uncomfortable position but, she supposed, comfort was hardly something heroes ever worried about. “This is a very tough rope,” she told him, “so I’ll have to do it strand by strand.”
    She sawed until she thought her arms would fall off her shoulder. Back and forth, back and forth. Suddenly the strand parted with a loud pop !
    â€œThere … that’s the first one. Now for the second.” The rope was braided, which made it extra strong. Good for hanging up dinner. Bad for cutting through. It took some time.
    â€œA third…”
    â€œJust let me know when it’s all gone through,” he interrupted, “so I’ll be expecting the fall.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œI need to be prepared. I was a Boy Scout, you know. Not for very long. Hated the uniform.”
    He was babbling now. Just as well, Moira thought. It will keep his mind off the trolls. She sawed through a fourth strand, without answering him back. Then a fifth.
    â€œChild of man, the trolls…” came Foss’s voice.
    â€œAnd woman,” Moira whispered, as the last strand began to part.
    â€œLast one,” she said, to alert the boy, before placing the knife on the floor so as to be ready to help him.
    But this strand didn’t burst apart as the others had. Rather it unraveled, slow enough that she had time to catch him as he fell. They both went over backward, though she managed to cradle him against her body. It turned out he couldn’t stand up on his own.
    She scrambled out from under him and pulled him to his feet.
    â€œCut them. Cut the ropes.…”
    â€œHow about saying thanks?” she asked huffily.
    â€œHurry, child of…” Foss began.
    â€œOh shut up,” Moira cut him off. “We’re almost out of here!”
    â€œI don’t want to shut up,” the boy said.
    â€œNot you—Foss.” But explaining would take too much time. “Trolls coming,” she said. “Not going to cut the rest of the ropes here.” She grabbed up the heavy knife and pushed the boy out the back door ahead of her.
    He didn’t argue, just stumbled out soundlessly.

14
    Jakob
    Jakob raced headlong into the gloom, the thunderous footsteps of the pursuing trolls spurring him on.
    â€œDoom!” Aenmarr laughed as if it were all just a game. “Why be you running? It only toughens the meat.”
    Desperately, Jakob ran on.
    There was no moon in Trollholm, but Jakob’s eyes were now fully adjusted to the dark. To his left, patches of luminescent moss clung to pale, sketchy birches. On his right, an odiferous fog rose, green and glowing from a nearby swamp. Will-o’-the-wisps, like demented, oversized fireflies, darted all around.
    Jakob kept sprinting over the uneven ground.
    â€œDoom, Doom, Doom,” Aenmarr chanted in time with his footsteps. A big bass drum of a voice.
    He sounds closer, Jakob thought, pushing himself to go faster. His breath came out in rasping, wheezing gasps. But he was already running as fast as he could. The trolls’ huge legs carried them along with much greater speed. He thought: What can I do? Put on a sudden growth spurt?
    â€œDoom, Doom, Doom,