Iron Axe (10 page)

The cows made their familiar lowing. One kicked in its stall, another familiar sound. Smells of straw and manure and thatching surrounded Danr, and he stared down at the pile of blackened stones that had made up his tiny hearth for years. The wide, flat one he kept to one side was perfect for heating a bowl of soup or a cup of beer. It was the first thing he had brought to the stable after his mother died. This place was a stable, where he had been a thrall and where people had made fun of him or shunned him, but it was his life. In a few minutes, he would lose it forever.

The worst was that Aisa hadn't come. She was in hiding somewhere, had to be, until the talk of her supposed witchcraft died down. It wasn't safe for her to come and see him off. He knew that. But the disappointment created by her absence still stung, as though she was saying he wasn't worth the effort, even after he had stood up for her.

Nothing for it but to keep moving, as he always did. No direction to move but forward. He picked up the sack and interrupted Talfi's river of words.

“I need to go now.” His voice sounded thick and heavy in his own throat. “Thank you for . . . for staying with me, Talfi.”

“You saved my life.” Talfi followed him out the stable door into the darkening courtyard. The sun hadn't quite set, but the air was already chilly. “I couldn't—”

Alfgeir Oxbreeder was waiting for them on the stones, his face wooden. “I suppose this is good-bye, Trollboy. You're not an exile yet, so I can give you this.” He handed Danr a loaf of bread. One side was burned. “It's not much, but as the saying goes, ‘Crumbs are still bread.'”

Danr thought about refusing it, then took it anyway. Later, if he became hungry, pride would seem foolish. “Thank you,
Carl
Oxbreeder.”
Thank you for the crumbs.

“You were a hard worker who did the work of three, and sometimes ten,” Alfgeir finished. “But what can you expect when someone like you strikes down the son of an earl?”

It seemed as if the remark should have made Danr angry again, but he was too tired. Instead he stuffed the burned bread into his sack. Alfgeir walked back to his warm house with the air of a man who had turned out a stray dog. In the far distance, hoofbeats galloped up the road. Halli's men, no doubt, coming to look for the exile. Danr glanced around, hoping one more time to see a figure wrapped in rags slip out of the shadows. But he saw nothing.

“Where are you going?” Talfi asked.

“To the mountains.” Danr jerked his head to the northwest. “Maybe I can find my father's family, whoever they are. Maybe . . .”

He trailed off, but Talfi understood. “You think you can find a home with them.”

It wasn't until Talfi said it aloud that Danr realized how much he'd been thinking it, hoping it. With his mother gone and his status as a thrall officially ended, he had no ties here. This place had never been his home; these folk had never been his people. But the trolls . . . they would see him differently. They would accept him for who he was. They would have to.

“I'm glad you were my friend, Talfi,” he said. “Even if it was only for two days.”

Talfi hugged him, the first embrace Danr had experienced since his mother's death. Danr hugged him gingerly in return, and tears pricked the back of his eyes. “We're still friends,” Talfi said. “Always and forever.”

The hoofbeats grew louder. Talfi turned aside and wiped at his eye. “Shit.”

Danr picked up his sack and gave one final glance around. Still no Aisa. With the hoofbeats growing ever louder, he trotted away. The soft half-moon and the two stars that made up Urko's halves gave his troll's eyes more than enough light to see, and he had no need of a hat. He leaped the fence and loped across the far pasture toward the mountains.

T
he fire crackled and snapped like a tiny trapped demon. Danr fed it another stick and scooted his toes a little closer to the heat. Shadows capered across the huge trees around him, twisting around the smell of smoke. Darkness normally held no terrors for Danr, but he was more than an hour away from the village in the foothills of the Iron Mountains—Stane territory. Even the earth was unfamiliar. House-sized boulders thrust upward like the bones of giants, and gullies traced paths through the hills like their veins. Nothing was level, either. Even now, Danr sat on a slant. A few paces away, a creek rushed down the hill with a sound like chattering teeth. He clasped his knees and tried to keep his nerves under control.

Only a fool lit a fire at night in the foothills or the mountains. Flames attracted attention from the Stane. The strange thing was that Danr had been following the ghost of a trail through these foothills, and just at the time he decided to rest, he had come across a ring of stones that had clearly encircled a fire, though years ago. Had the Stane made the trail? And did the Stane start fires of their own?

He blew out a breath and scanned the shadows. Perhaps
now the Stane would come. Danr
wanted
them to come. Sort of. If the humans wouldn't take a half troll, perhaps the trolls would take a half human. And perhaps . . . perhaps they would know something about his father.

Danr touched the pouch at his throat. Mother never once talked about Danr's father. Her face grew tight and unhappy whenever he brought the subject up. When he asked who his father was, she only said, “He was a troll who betrayed me.” Once, when he had pressed too much, she had actually slapped him and run out of the stable with her hands over her mouth. He had stopped asking after that, but he hadn't stopped wondering. That she had been raped was a given, he supposed, and it made him feel both sad and guilty to think that he was the result of his mother's fear and pain. Should he be angry at his father about that? Probably, but he didn't even know his father, didn't even have a good mental picture of him. In Danr's mind, his father was a tall, bulky creature with a shadowy face and big arms. He had hurt Mother, and that should make him angry, but if he hadn't hurt her, Danr wouldn't even exist to
be
angry. A part of him got hot and red as a blacksmith's forge when he thought about his mother getting hurt, but another part of him was secretly glad to be alive, and then a third part threaded him with guilt for finding some kind of good in his mother's pain.

If he could go back and stop his father from . . . attacking his mother, would he do it, even if it meant he would never be born? Danr poked at the fire with chilly hands while night's shadows tried to devour the light. It seemed an unfair question to ask, and it hurt him deep in his gut to think his mother might look at him and see pain every day. It was easier just not to think about it.

A footstep rustled in the shadowy trees. Then another, and another. Danr's mouth went dry and he came quietly
alert. He backed away from the fire and looked away from it so his eyes could better see in darkness. A troll. His first time seeing one of his people. Fear and excitement tightened his stomach. Maybe the noise was just an animal. The chances of a troll happening to find his tiny fire were—

Aisa stepped into the circle of firelight. Her ragged clothes and scarf were wrapped tightly around her, and she carried a pack on her back. Danr stared, dumbfounded. Then delight poured through him like soft starlight and he ran forward to snatch her into a hug. She shied away with a small sound, and Danr stopped before he actually touched her. His arms fell limp at his sides. Even now, he remained an oaf who forgot himself.

“Aisa!” he said instead. “What are you doing here?”

“I have been trying to catch up with you.” She set the pack down with wrapped hands. “If you had not lit that fire, I would have lost you forever.”

He suppressed an urge to caper like the shadows on the trees. The sight of her filled him with such gladness, he could hardly speak. “But
why
? When you didn't come to see me off, I thought—”

“That I wanted nothing more to do with the man who stood up for me and had saved my life? Huh!” She leaned toward him and lightly tapped the back of his hand. Her touch burned his skin. “How little you think of me.”

Abashed, Danr sank to the ground. “I'm sorry. I didn't—”

“You! I am joking.” She sat across the fire from him and settled her rags about her. Above the scarf, her eyes were actually merry in the yellow light, and she stretched her arms out to the fire. “The heat feels good. I could not be angry at you, my friend and savior. Never at you. You were exiled because of me, and now I am joining you.”

“Oh.” Danr scratched his head. It had been a long, difficult
day, and he was having a hard time following the conversation. “But you weren't exiled. Or did they did do something after I left?”

“No, silly one. Evil spirits pollute the village, and everyone thinks
witch
when they see me. How could I stay?” Aisa shook the pack, which clinked. “I have silver coins, and I was planning to run to the ocean one day.” Her lovely eyes grew distant. “It appears that day has come.”

“I'm not going to the ocean,” Danr protested, even as an inner voice told him to shut up. “I'm looking for the Stane.”

“Huh. I appear to have run in the wrong direction. Whatever will I do?”

“Er . . . you could . . . oh.” He shook his head, feeling stupid. “That was another joke.”

“He can learn. That delights me no end.” She met his eyes for a long moment over the flames, and tiny fireflies fluttered in Danr's chest. “I must thank you, deeply, for what you did. You gave up everything for me, and I can never repay that.”

Danr flushed. “I . . . you're . . . that is . . .”

“‘You're welcome' will probably suffice.”

“Uh . . . you're welcome.” This was idiotic—Aisa was his friend, and he was braying like a startled donkey around her. The
draugr
had surprised him less. Gathering his wits, he asked, “How did you get away?”

“Simple enough. I have kept this pack hidden for a long time. Your trial distracted everyone, so I snatched it and hid near your farm until I saw you leave. I thought you would go down the road, which is why I was so far behind you.”

“You'll be marked for death if you return. Runaway slaves are—”

“I will
die
before I return there!” Aisa spat the words like a wounded snake. “That man will never touch me again.”

Her response startled Danr. He didn't want her to get
angry and leave. He retreated and spread his hands placatingly. “Of course, of course.”

“As long as we understand that,” Aisa growled behind her scarf. There was a long, awkward pause. The creek behind them clattered its toothy chatter. Then Aisa sighed. “I am sorry. You are the last person who should see my anger.”

Danr let out a silent, relieved breath. She was going to stay, and that single thought thrilled him to the marrow. He said, “You don't have to explain anger to me, Aisa. Anger is my oldest friend.”

“Thank you for that.” Aisa sighed again and looked at him. “I would like to ask you a question.”

“Anything.” The shadows didn't seem so threatening now; the fire had become warm and friendly.

“What is that pouch at your throat? I have never seen you without it.”

Danr's fingers automatically went up to it. “This? It was my mother's. She said it contained the truth, though actually it has two wooden splinters inside. I never understood what she meant by that.”

“Hmm.” Aisa looked thoughtfully at him. “When my mas—when Farek first brought me to the village, I met his mother. She was kind to me, and when she saw I knew something of healing, she showed me more of the local plants, ones I did not yet know. Frida resented that, and she resented the way Farek . . . came to me at night.”

“I'm sorry,” Danr said, and meant it. The thought of Farek touching Aisa, hurting her, made him angry all over again, but he also wanted to hold Aisa and tell her it wouldn't happen anymore.

“Farek's mother told me some stories of your people. Trolls, she said, work with stone and are born with stone splinters in their eyes. This is why trolls have weak eyesight and why they cannot see truth.”

“Truth.” Danr touched his own eye. “How much truth can we live with?”

“People rarely wish to know the truth,” Aisa agreed, and she reminded Danr of his mother right then. For a bad moment, he missed his mother with an ache that went all the way down to his toenails, and he would have chopped off his left foot to talk to her again, just for a moment.

“Speaking of truth,” Aisa said, “I will take my three guesses now.”

Danr blinked at her. “Guesses?”

“Your name. Is it Torbert?”

It seemed strange to be playing this game under these circumstances, in a forest so far away from home and both of them exiles, but the old ritual was comforting. Danr smiled, feeling the anger retreat. Aisa could do that, and it gave him a warm feeling. “No,” he said.

“Is it Jan?”

“Sorry.”

“Is it—”

A huge figure emerged silently from the trees behind Aisa. It was a troll, two heads taller than Danr, heavily muscled. Its—his—skin was as swarthy as Danr's, but his ears were larger and more pointed. His lower jaw jutted forward, and his lower fangs were as long and thick as fingers. His nose was little more than a button in the center of a craggy face, and shaggy black hair topped his head. More black wiry hair covered his arms and legs. He wore a leather tunic and trousers, and his feet were bare. At his belt was sheathed a stone knife, and over his shoulder he carried an enormous club with spikes in it.

Danr didn't remember leaping the fire. One moment Aisa was guessing his name; the next Danr was standing between her and the troll. Aisa's final guess died in her throat and she made a strangled sound.

“Who are you?” Danr demanded in his gruff voice. “What do you want?”

The troll's voice was equally gruff. “You trespass on troll land. I have a right to kill you.”

He swung the club with startling speed. Danr shoved Aisa one way even as he dodged another. The club smashed the ground. Danr felt the shock through his bones, and the flames danced.

“Wait!” Danr put up his hands in fear and supplication. “I'm troll!”

“Liar!” The club rushed at Danr's head. He ducked under it and stumbled backward. His foot came down in cold water—the creek. Behind the troll, Aisa pulled a burning brand from the fire.

“It's true!” Danr shouted. “My mother was human, but—”

Anger twisted the troll's face, and he swung again. Danr tripped and fell sideways into the freezing water. The club hit the creek. Water exploded in all directions.

“My father was troll!” Danr sputtered on his back in the creek. Stones dug into his skin. He felt exposed and vulnerable. Danr was used to being the strong one, but compared to the troll, he was small and weak, and the troll intended to see him dead. He raised his club again.

Aisa hit the troll in the side with the flaming brand. He whirled, plucked it from her with a hand the size of a cow's head, and flicked it into the water, where it extinguished with a hiss. The troll turned back to the creek. Danr tried to get to his feet, but the rocks in the creek bed slipped under him. The club rushed down at Danr's head, but he caught the troll's wrist in both his hands and pushed back. The troll's muscles bulged, and a terrible weight came down on Danr's arms. Two spikes on the club edged toward Danr's face.

“I'm troll!” Danr panted. “Stane!”

“Does he look like me?” Aisa shouted behind them.

“Hmf.” The troll's face poked into Danr's line of sight. The club quivered a moment longer. The troll's eyes narrowed over his jutting jaw, and the weight left Danr. “I see something of the troll in your face, little one. Under all that human.”

Danr sat up and rubbed his burning wrists. “My thanks.”

“Your girl, however,” the troll continued, “she is—”

“Leave her alone!” Danr scrambled partway to his feet. “She's a . . . powerful witch.”

“That is correct,” Aisa said evenly. “But I will not use my magic on you if you guide us to the other trolls.”

“Hmf,” snorted the troll again, and Danr couldn't tell if he believed her or not. However, he offered a hand and hauled Danr dripping from the creek with easy strength. Danr swallowed. The troll had given in fairly easily, considering that he was winning and that Aisa had offered no proof she was a witch of any stripe. Was there more going on here than he knew?

Danr shook himself out over the fire. Aisa stared defiantly up at the troll, who was nearly twice as tall as she was. Danr admired her courage. His own heart pounded fair to break his ribs, and his knees were weak as bread dough. Still, he forced himself to stand straight.

“My name is Kech,” the troll said, pronouncing the name with a guttural
ch
at the end. “Yours?”

“I'm . . .” Danr glanced at Aisa. “I'm called Trollboy. Can you take me under the mountain?” He hurried to add before Kech could comment, “I want to meet my people.”

“Your people?” Kech leaned on his club, looking incredulous. “What right have you to call us your people, little one?”

Now Danr felt a spark of anger. He blew on it and made it bigger. Anger was better than fear, yes, it was. “My father was a troll. The Nine have declared I have family right. Or are the Stane as godless as the Kin claim they are?”

Kech met Danr's eyes for a long moment. They were
large and brown, like Danr's. Danr made himself stand straight and let his anger show, even if he had to look up to do it. And then, to Danr's surprise, Kech looked away. What was going on?