Don't Feed the Trolls Read online

  “Fine,” Dannen said, “whatever. Just get me out of here, and I’ll go and help her myself.”

  “And in doing so,” Perandius said softly, “you would be unable to save her, would succeed only in making her sacrifice in vain.”

  “So what then?” Dannen demanded. “You expect me to just abandon her?”

  “Of course not, Dannen Ateran,” the god said. “I only mean that four fugitives from justice have no hope of rescuing Lady Clarissa. But should those same four fugitives save the north, should they rescue the king and his kingdom and therefore earn their gratitude, they would be fugitives no longer but heroes. And while four fugitives might have little say, four heroes, ones with a grateful king at their backs, would have considerably more strength in any possible…negotiations.”

  Dannen frowned, thinking it over. The god was right, of course. As much as he would like to think otherwise, Dannen knew that should he return to Talinseh, he could do nothing for Clare but to die with her, not to mention ensuring that the others would die as well. There was no option then, no path he might take except the one which led forward, toward a powerful necromancer, a swordsman of apparently unequaled skill, and, of course, an undead army. “You know, Perandius,” he said, “I’m beginning to think—”

  “Wait,” the god suddenly hissed, spinning to look to the side.

  Dannen followed his gaze but saw nothing, nothing, that was, except the continuing, unchanging expanse of green which he had found so unnerving when he’d first arrived. “What?” Dannen said.

  “Quiet,” the god whispered. “Listen.”

  Dannen thought he’d had just about enough of gods, of their orders and their edicts, and he was preparing to say as much when he heard something. It was faint at first, so faint that he almost thought he imagined it, but in a moment it grew louder, and there could be no doubt. It was the sound of someone humming. An upbeat, joyful sounding tune, and he grinned. “What, Perandius?” he asked. “Are you scared of a little humming, is that it?”

  The god turned to look at him. “Yes, Dannen Ateran, for I know all too well who the hummer is. Now, I will work a veil on us—say nothing more and move no more than you must, as you value your life. Evil, in its purest form, stalks near.”

  And with that, the god waved a hand. There was no visible flash of color or show of magic as Dannen might have expected, but he knew that something had changed nonetheless for one moment, they were standing in the green fields, the wind-blown grass tickling his knees and the next…well, they were still standing in the field, and his knees still begged to be scratched, but everything looked…different. Unclear. It was as if he were looking out at the world through a window, one in desperate need of a good washing. Everything—the grass, the sky—all seemed muted and blurred, and he blinked several times before realizing that the strange sensation was not caused by his eyes but by something the god had done.

  But Dannen had spent enough nights—and enough days, too, if he were being honest with himself—drunk to be accustomed to blurred vision, and as the humming grew louder, he saw the source of it suddenly appear out of nowhere about fifty feet ahead of them in the direction the god had looked. Which was odd.

  Odder still, the figure was dressed in a variety of bright-colored motley that was garish and almost painful to look upon, a sensation which held all the way from his tasseled, multi-colored, pointed slippers with balls on the end, to a jester’s hat from which hung at least a dozen bells, all which tinkled and chimed as he danced in a sort of hunched shimmy, left and right as if performing some elaborate show, but always moving forward, in their direction, and always, continuing the humming.

  The stranger and his sudden appearance surprised Dannen, and that was saying something for a man who had lived a life like he had. But the oddest thing of all was not the figure or his sudden appearance. Instead, it was what he carried. For held aloft over his head as he continued his shuffling, shimmying dance, was a boulder as big as five carriages stacked one atop the other, of a size that even Fedder, the strongest man Dannen had ever met, would have had no hope of lifting.

  And as he took in the incredible size of the boulder the figure carried, Dannen noted what might have been the strangest thing yet. There was something sticking out of the top of it. At first, Dannen couldn’t make out what it was through the sheen of the god’s veil, but as the figure drew closer, coming to within no more than twenty feet of them, he saw that it was a sword. It appeared as if half the blade’s length had been driven into the stone and what remained stuck out, handle first.

  It was so odd, so unusual, that despite Perandius’s warnings, Dannen couldn’t hold back the grunt of surprise and confusion. A soft sound, one he could barely hear himself, and one that the dancing, humming figure certainly should have stood no chance of hearing, not over the sound of his own joviality. Yet, the figure came to an abrupt halt, and the jester-capped head spun to look directly at where he and the Messenger God stood.

  Finally getting a good look at the figure’s face, Dannen saw that it had been painted white—in the same way that so many court jesters painted their own features—and that a black smile, nearly ear to ear, had been likewise applied. Also, strangely, he saw that a bright, blue tear had been added to the design directly below the figure’s eye. The contrast between the painted tear and painted smile was very strange, as if the figure itself could not decide whether to laugh or cry—or perhaps had taken the expedient of doing both at the same time.

  The figure cocked its head, curiously, studying the space where they stood, and Dannen realized that the veil Perandius had created must have been hiding them from view. He had mocked the god at first for his worry over the humming but now, staring at its strange, unnerving source, Dannen was glad for what protection the Messenger God’s veil offered.

  The figure, though, did not seem prepared to dismiss the sound so easily and instead of resuming its humming and its course, it moved toward them in the same shuffling dance it had done before, and Dannen fought the urge to turn and run—made easier by the death-grip the Messenger God put on his upper arm—as the newcomer came to stand less than a foot away from him.

  Dannen froze, not daring to so much as breathe, as the figure cocked its head again, studying the space he and the Messenger God occupied. This close, Dannen saw that there were cracks in the figure’s makeup, as if it had been worn for far too long, and that pieces had flaked off. For his attire and his hat—not to mention his odd, shuffling dance—the figure should have been amusing, laughable even, but there was something in his eyes, a sort of dark, malicious amusement, that stole any humor from his appearance.

  After a moment, the figure shifted the giant oversized boulder on his back, curling up one arm and holding it as if it weighed nothing. Then it leaned forward, until its face was only inches from Dannen’s own and breathed out a heavy breath.

  Dannen winced, expecting to feel the hot breath on his face, knowing somehow that it would smell, would feel vile, but instead, the breath seemed to be caught no more than an inch in front of his face, and that area fogged up as if the figure had breathed its warm breath onto a window frosted by winter’s touch.

  It was strange, seeing that patch of fog standing in the air in front of Dannen’s face, but it was even more strange when the figure reached up with its now free hand and drew a smiley face with its finger, one that seemed to hang in the air. Then the figure leaned back, its hand on its chin as if it was examining its work. After a moment, it leaned forward again, running its finger down in a line beneath the smiling face’s eye to create a tear. Then the newcomer seemed to look directly at him, to meet his gaze in its own. It gave a wide, unnerving smile, then turned and, resuming its humming, started away in its strange, burdened dance.

  Dannen and the Messenger God stood and watched it, saying nothing, until the figure was out of sight. Only then did Dannen allow himself to let out a ragged, shaky breath. “Who was that?”

  Perandius still stared i
n the direction the figure had gone, looking pale. “It is best not to speak his name, Dannen Ateran, not ever, lest you draw his attention.”

  Dannen grunted. “Friend of yours, I take it?”

  “A relative,” the god admitted with obvious reluctance, “though, like you mortals, such a familial connection does not always—or even often—translate into mutual affection.”

  “Right,” Dannen said, “but who was he?”

  The god finally turned to look at him. “Say only that, if my cousin were a musical note, he would be a deep note.”

  Dannen frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  Perandius scowled. “Truly? What I mean to say, Dannen, is that he would be…a shallow tone?”

  He stared blankly at the god for several seconds and finally the Messenger God sighed. “Do you still not see? He would be…a…a low—”

  “Oh, I get it!” Dannen exclaimed. “You mean that was Lok—”

  “Do not say his name,” Perandius snapped. “Not ever. You have no idea what misery he might cause, should you call upon him.”

  Dannen raised an eyebrow. “Unless I miss my guess, that seems to come from personal experience.”

  The god gave a shudder. “He is the worker of mischief, the maker of misfortune, and you cannot fathom the depths of his commitment to his trade.”

  “An example might help.”

  Perandius frowned. “Excuse me?”

  “An example,” Dannen repeated, “you know, so I get some idea of the…what was it? The depths of his commitment to his trade?”

  The god shook his head grimly. “There are no barriers my cousin will not cross, no crime he will not commit in the pursuit of his…mission.”

  Dannen only continued to stare at him, and finally Perandius sighed. “Very well, you would like an example, so that you might have some inkling of his…resolve. Well, once, I held a small dinner party at my house—only a few dozen friends, no more. My father’s idea. Anyway, I may have…neglected to invite my cousin. Yet—”

  “He showed up anyway?”

  “He did not just show up, Dannen Ateran. He did far, far worse than that.”

  “What? Did he kill someone? I didn’t even know that gods could be—”

  “What? No, of course not, he killed no one. No, my cousin’s evil is…of a different kind. No, what he did was…” He paused, shaking his head. “Forgive me, it is painful even now, millennia later, to remember it. But…he…reordered my scroll collection.”

  Dannen blinked. “And…then he did something really bad? Like killed someone?”

  Perandius frowned. “What is it with you and killing? No, he didn’t kill anyone. What he did was in many ways worse.”

  “Worse,” Dannen said, shaking his head. “That’s a damn—”

  “He rearranged my scroll collection,” Perandius said again in a tone of accusation usually reserved for the world’s worst crimes.

  “…shame,” Dannen finished. “Wait, did you just say that messing up your scroll collection is worse than killing someone?”

  The god winced. “You must understand, Dannen Ateran, that I am the Messenger God. And as such, I have thousands upon thousands of scrolls and parchments, books and tomes, for all are messages, from their authors to others, sometimes the world itself. Works which have at one point or another changed the course of history, works which have saved civilizations, others which have doomed them. And my cousin, that, that, miscreant rearranged them. Do you have any idea how long it took me to fix what it took him but moments to do?

  “I’m sure I have no idea—”

  “Guess,” Perandius said, more insistent than he’d been since Dannen had met him.

  “Maybe…I guess a day or two?”

  “Try a year or two,” the god answered. “It is always far easier to destroy than to create, Dannen Ateran, and that goes doubly so for an organizational construct based first on age, then on region of production, then on general level of importance.”

  The god was staring at him as if he expected him to be impressed, but Dannen had felt his eyes begin to glaze over somewhere around the word “region” so he only grunted, deciding it was time to change the subject before Perandius kept talking and he decided he would have preferred being eaten by an undead dragon after all. “Anyway, what was he carrying?”

  “The sheer amount of organizational expertise required to—” The god paused, and it was clear he’d expected Dannen to say something else. He frowned, shaking his head. “Just another of his little mischiefs, a trick my cousin likes to play.”

  “By lugging around a huge boulder and seeing if he can keep it from crushing him?”

  Perandius looked at him as if he were a fool. “He is a god, Dannen Ateran. An annoying, selfish, childish god, to be sure, but a god nonetheless. He will not be destroyed by something so simple as a boulder.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Anyway, it’s not the boulder that concerns him. Or, at least, not only that. It’s the sword, you see. No sooner does he stick it in a stone and toss it down into the world than some fool finds it and begins trying to pull it out, as if he couldn’t find a dozen blades just like it within far easier reach at the local smith’s.”

  “I see…” Dannen said slowly, although the truth was he didn’t, not at all. But then, he rarely understood why men did the things they did and figured he had no chance of working out the motivations of gods. “So…is it a nice sword? That he puts in the stone, I mean?”

  “Just a sword, like any other,” Perandius said gruffly. “Except…well, there was one time…but never mind. It doesn’t matter. What does is that Lo—my cousin is a nuisance at best, and we are far better off without his company.”

  “But why is he here?” Dannen asked. “Did he come because he knew we were here or…?”

  Perandius waved a hand. “No, no, of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. No, as I told you these Fields were made to serve as a land of the dead—and the god who oversees that ultimately went in another direction. Yet, in such places as this, by necessity, the veil between the mortal world and that of the gods is…thinner. It is intended to make the passage of those mortals into it easier and less…fraught. A remarkable portal which turns a normally incredibly difficult and perilous journeying of a soul far, far easier and allows for far fewer losses than—”

  “Wait, losses?”

  The god cleared his throat. “The point, Dannen Ateran, is that it is a marvelous feat of engineering, a truly remarkable construct, a bridge—or perhaps a ladder—to separate the gap between my own world and yours. An incredible achievement, one to inspire, to awe. And my cousin chucks boulders through it.”

  Dannen blinked. “The nerve.”

  “Exactly.”

  They stood in silence for several seconds then, the god making a visible effort of gathering himself. Then, finally, he turned to Dannen. “But none of that matters. All that does, Dannen Ateran, is the reason why I have called you here, doing so even though it goes against my father’s edict. I have called you here to warn you—events proceed rapidly, and King Ufrith has suffered great losses. If you do not come to his aid soon, there will be no point in coming at all.”

  “Right,” Dannen said, “well, can you send me back then? I imagine I’ve got a headache I need to be getting back to, and I’d hate not to be there when the duke and his men execute me. Wouldn’t be right, them putting all that work in for nothing.”

  “Very well,” Perandius said. “I wish you success in your endeavors, Dannen, and I want you to know that I believe you and your champions will be successful,” he finished, then waved his hand and a golden portal appeared beside them.

  Dannen grunted. “That makes one of us anyway.” He frowned at the portal, leaning close to peer inside, but he could see nothing except a golden, shimmering haze.

  “This will lead you back to your body, though I warn you, Dannen Ateran, that you and your companions are in danger.”

  “Don’t worry, Perandius,” Dannen said, sighing
, “I already knew that.”

  “Oh? But…how did you know?”

  “Well. We’re still breathing, aren’t we? That’s the thing about being mortal, Perandius. It’s only the dead who are safe.”

  “I see. Well, here, I must agree with you, for you and the others are definitely not safe.”

  “Thanks, Perandius,” Dannen grunted. “And if we get in more trouble than we can handle, I’m sure we can count on you to help out, right?”

  The god shifted, embarrassed. “Forgive me, Dannen Ateran, but I had thought I’d made it clear—my father’s edict—”

  “Relax, godling,” Dannen said. “It was just a joke.”

  “Ah, right. Hilarious.”

  “Well,” Dannen said with a shrug as he looked back from the portal, “it isn’t as hysterical as rearranging someone’s scroll collection, but what can I say? I’m just a poor, lowly mortal. Oh,” he said, then paused. “There’s one other thing I wanted to run by you.”

  The god was frowning, but he nodded. “Very well.”

  “I find it a bit…strange that no sooner do we show up in town than an undead dragon comes barreling down our throats, don’t you?”

  Perandius considered that. “Yes, most strange. An…unfortunate coincidence perhaps?”

  Dannen grunted. “I’ve been in a few life-or-death situations in my time, godling, and I’ve long since lost track of the people and creatures who have sought to kill me, many coming a damned sight closer than I’d like. And in all that time, those people and creatures have always had their reasons.”

  Perandius frowned. “But, surely, it is no surprise that such a monster as an undead dragon would seek to kill, to destroy.”

  “No,” Dannen agreed, “it’s not. What I do find a bit surprising though is that it could have ignored the four of us and eaten half the town before we did anything about it, if that’s all it was after. Instead, it focused on us and only us.” He watched the god carefully, searching for any sign of recognition or understanding. “A bit strange, don’t you think?”