Iron Axe (4 page)

One of the other men on horseback snorted at that. Halli glared at him, and the man turned the snort into a cough. The steer at the other end of Danr's rope lowed in counterpoint.

“Of course you were alone,” Halli said. “No one would spend the night with a troll. Except your mother.”

“We'll have to ask your cousin Sigrid what that's like,” the monster snapped before Danr could stop it.

Halli's expression went stiff as a corpse. A ripple went through the few people who were watching the exchange. The men who rode with Halli edged their hands toward their sword hilts.

Danr bit the inside of his cheek. The loathing drained out of him, replaced by the more familiar chill of fear. He had gone too far.

And then White Halli burst into laughter. The harsh sound of it bounced against the houses and was eaten up by the silence on the street. Halli swung a fist and thumped one of his men on the shoulder. The man also laughed, too loudly. The second hurried to join in.

“Empty words from the half-blood,” Halli said. “You may go, Trollboy. But don't go far.” With that, he cantered off, his two companions rushing to follow.

Danr's legs shook like sickened tree trunks beneath him. He wanted desperately to sit down, but there was nowhere to sit. The other people moved about as if nothing had happened, but news of the exchange would fly about Skyford faster than black ravens, and these events would come back to punch Danr later. Why hadn't he just kept his mouth shut?

Feeling more than a little nauseated, he put his hat back on and continued on his way. At the first crossroad he came to, he caught a glimmer of river water through the forest of houses. The house on the corner closest to it—Orvandel's house—was a tidy structure made of stacked logs and surrounded by a neat vegetable garden. Thick thatch covered
the roof, and the Great Tree on the front door was an elaborate painting in bright colors. Pigs and chickens poked about beneath the house's platform, and a goat was tethered to one side. The home of a prosperous craftsman.

The front door stood open, and a gray-haired man sat in the threshold. A bundle of long, pale sticks lay on either side of him. The man ran a long, curved knife over a stick, carefully smoothing away imperfections. Orvandel the fletcher, making arrows. At Danr's approach, he blinked, then set aside his tools and trotted down the short flight of steps that led to ground level.

“I know who you are,” he said. “You're a thrall of Alfgeir Oxbreeder.”

Danr nodded, a little startled that Orvandel didn't seem to notice or care that Danr wasn't human. He stood aside so Orvandel could see the steer. “He told me to deliver this to you because he owes a debt.”

Orvandel looked at the steer, and his face darkened. The change in his expression was abrupt, and Danr stepped back in alarm. Orvandel spat angrily at the ground, and the spittle landed on one of the animal's hooves. The steer chewed a mouthful of cud, uncaring.

“Bastard!” Orvandel growled. “That son of a bitch owes me two bulls or one cow. This scrawny bag of bones doesn't nearly pay off what he owes me.”

Danr remained silent. There was nothing to say. Orvandel's revelation didn't surprise him. In Danr's experience, Alfgeir spent more time counting his herds than caring for them.

“Tether that . . . that
thing
next to the goat,” Orvandel finally said. “And I guess you'd better come inside.”

This
did
surprise Danr, with all the power of a boulder dropping from the sky. He had never been invited into anyone's house before. He stayed in the cattle paddock on the
annual trips to Skyford, and in the village no one ever allowed him to cross a threshold. Danr slowly tied the steer to the goat's tether stake and climbed the wooden steps with great hesitation. Orvandel had already gone inside. Danr paused nervously at the doorway. Everything beyond was dark, though he could hear voices in the gloom, and he realized he had no idea how people behaved inside houses. What should he do? Bow? Offer to shake hands? Stand by the door with his hat off? Maybe he should just tell Orvandel he'd stay outside. But no—that would be rejecting Orvandel's offer of hospitality, an unthinkably rude act. Moving carefully to avoid the pile of half-made arrows, Danr took a deep breath and stepped
inside.

H
is eyes took a few moments to adjust, but once they did, Danr stared in awe. Orvandel's house reflected his wealth. A long table ran the length of the main room, and freshly woven straw mats covered the floor. Beyond the table lay a stone-lined fire pit, where coals glowed red in the dim light. Freestanding screens partitioned off pieces of the room for private tasks. Tapestries hung from the walls, and the remaining exposed wood was elaborately carved in stylized leaves and animals, with an enormous tree looming over all. The interior smelled heavily of wood smoke and baking bread. What would it be like to call this place home?

A plump woman with silvering hair was adding wood to the fire. Three young men sat at the table behind piles of feathers. They were sorting them by size and type, a job that couldn't be done outdoors, where a random breeze could undo an hour's work in an instant.

“These are my sons,” Orvandel said, gesturing at the young men. “Karsten and Almer. The one on the end there is my apprentice, Talfi. A foster son. Are you hungry from your trip?”

Danr's mouth went dry. It was hard to form words. No
one had ever formally introduced him to anyone, let alone offered him food. He started to refuse the latter offer, then decided it might be rude.

“A bit hungry,” he stammered, and remembered to snatch off his hat. “Yes.”

“Ruta!” Orvandel boomed. “Food for our guest!”

“You needn't bellow,” Ruta clucked. “I'm standing here, oh mighty fletcher.”

“My wife, Ruta,” Orvandel said unnecessarily. “She's the real one in charge.”

“And right you are to remember it.”

Orvandel gave her a fond smile. “Have a seat, young man. What did you say your name was?”

Danr glanced uneasily around the house, feeling like a cow in a palace. Orvandel and Ruta seemed to accept who . . . or maybe
what
 . . . he was without a qualm, but Karsten and Almer kept uneasy eyes on him as they sorted through their feathers. Talfi, seated by himself at the end of the table, stared unabashedly. Danr finally perched on the edge of the bench that ran the length of the table.

Orvandel was looking at him expectantly, waiting for an answer to his question. Danr swallowed. Back at the village, everyone knew who he was and Danr had never had to introduce himself. For the first time in his life, he had a choice about which name he could use. Except the only person who had ever said Danr's name aloud had been his mother, and he kept that name to himself, hoarding it like a wyrm's treasure. If no one knew what it was, no one would be able to steal it or twist it into something cruel. Unfortunately keeping silent about his true name left him with a single alternative.

“My name is . . . I'm Trollboy,” he said gruffly, forcing himself to say the hated nickname. “From Alfgeir's farm.”

“Alfgeir,” Orvandel spat. “The bastard is a miser, a cheat,
and a scoundrel. Thinks he can get away with giving me a half-grown steer instead of two full-grown cows.”

“What?” Ruta said, spinning to face her husband in outrage. “That . . . that . . .”

“My feelings exactly,” Orvandel said.

Ruta muttered angrily to the wooden platter she was preparing, and Danr found himself ready to run, even though he knew she wasn't angry at him. She snatched a drinking horn from a shelf near the hearth, plunged it into an open barrel of beer to fill it, and came around the fire toward Danr. Talfi jumped to his feet.

“I'll bring it to him, Auntie,” he said, taking platter and horn before she could object. Talfi came around the table, passing Karsten and Almer as he did so. Almer gave Talfi a heavy look and pointedly leaned away from him. Talfi didn't seem to notice. He carefully placed the platter and horn before Danr. The little feet that held the drinking horn upright were made of silver. The platter held three rolls stuffed by meat, half a cold chicken, and a chunk of sweet bread topped with sliced apples. Danr hadn't realized how empty his stomach was until he saw the food. He started in, taking care to eat with small bites. Mother had taught him to eat nicely; at least he could do that.

Talfi, meanwhile, plunked down on the bench beside him. Danr tensed again, wondering what Talfi was up to.

“Your name is Trollboy?” he asked. “Really?”

The question startled him. “No,” he replied, his mouth full. He remembered his manners and swallowed. “That's just what everyone calls me.”

“Because you're a troll?”

“Talfi,” Orvandel said warningly.

“Sorry,” Talfi said, but didn't look it.

“I'm half troll,” Danr said. “My mother was human.”

“Huh,” Talfi said. “You must be pretty strong, then.”

Danr shot him a sideways glance. Talfi looked to be a little older than Danr, maybe seventeen, though his beard hadn't begun to grow. His rich brown hair had a slight curl to it, and his features were sharply handsome. His eyes were as wide and blue as the sky. What would it be like to be blessed with such looks?

“I get by,” Danr said.

“What are you going to do about the steer, Father?” Karsten asked. He was blond, wiry, and fully bearded.

Orvandel grimaced. “I'll have to send it back with . . . er, Trollboy here. You know, I wouldn't put it past that thief Alfgeir to have sent Trollboy to intimidate me into accepting that scrawny beast as payment.”

Danr blinked and put down the drinking horn with a click. Sure, that would explain why Alfgeir had chosen Danr for the errand instead of one of his own sons. That made more sense than sending Danr away from the farm to quiet any unrest about the destruction of the Noss Farm.

“I won't have it.” Orvandel's face was set. “Young man, you tell your master that his offer is unacceptable and that I want the two milk cows he promised.”

“Yes, sir,” Danr said.

“In fact,” Orvandel said, stroking his beard, “I think it might be best to send one of my own sons with you. He can bring the cows back, make sure Alfgeir doesn't try to cheat me again.”

“I'll go, Uncle,” Talfi said quickly. “If we leave now, we can get to Alfgeir's by dusk and I can come back first thing in the morning. Is that all right, Trollboy?”

Surprised at being asked, Danr simply nodded.

“No need,” Orvandel said. “Our guest should get a good night's sleep first.”

A pang tightened Danr's stomach. The simple hospitality of a bench and a meal he could handle, but spending the
night? The traps and pitfalls of guest etiquette lay scattered before him like a set of hunting snares. A wrong word, a mistake at the table, a fart at a bad moment, and for all he knew, he could cause a feud that lasted generations. The very idea made Danr's hands shake. His mind raced, looking for a way out, and after a moment, it found one.

“Thank you,
Carl
Orvandel,” Danr said carefully. “But
Carl
Alfgeir's orders were clear. I return tonight.”

“Not surprising,” Orvandel snorted. “The man would squeeze pine chips for the pitch. I can imagine how he treats those who work for him. Talfi, you'd better get ready.”

But Talfi was already pulling a brown cloak over his blue tunic. “I'm ready now.”

“A moment.” Ruta was at the pantry shelves, filling a sack. “I don't trust that man or his thin-titted wife to feed you properly. Take this.”

Talfi fetched the bag. As he passed the table where Almer and Karsten were sorting feathers, Almer leaned over to his brother and muttered something. Karsten snorted, and a puff of feathers floated away from him. Talfi ignored this. Danr, now standing near the door, cocked his head. What in Vik's name was this about?

Talfi joined Danr in the rectangle of sunshine cast by the open doorway. Ashkame, the painted tree, gleamed green and brown. “I'll return tomorrow, Uncle.”

Danr remembered his manners again. “My thanks for the hospitality,
Carl
Orvandel.”

Orvandel waved a hand at this, and Danr exited the house, stepping carefully over the pile of half-finished arrows on the front stairs. In the garden, he untied the young steer and led it out to the street. Talfi fell into step beside him. Overhead the sun continued to burn, and the headache ground back into Danr's skull, despite his hat.

“I've never been to your village,” Talfi said. “What's it like?”

“Small,” Danr replied.

“What's its name?”

“I don't think it has one,” Danr admitted, feeling oddly ashamed. What did he care if the village had a name or not? But for some reason, he felt a need to impress Talfi.

They walked down the muddy, wooden street. The cut logs were rough under Danr's callused feet. People continued to stare, but not as obviously, probably because Danr was with Talfi, and staring at Talfi would be rude. No one cared about being rude to a half-blood.

“Orvandel is your uncle?” Danr asked, more to fill the silence than anything else.

“No,” Talfi said, a little uneasily. “He's just very kind and tells everyone I'm a foster son, so I call him that.”

“How did you come to live with him? Are you really fostering with him or did your parents die, too?” The moment the insensitive words left Danr's mouth, he wished he could snatch them back. Danr was an idiot, and rude besides.

But Talfi didn't seem to notice. “I, uh . . . I don't actually know what happened to my parents.”

“You don't?” Danr said, his surprise clear. Then he kicked himself again. A monster asking monstrous questions, that was all he was.

Talfi, however, didn't seem to notice. “Nope,” was all he said. They reached the edge of the village and went through the crowded gate, still garnering stares. “I mean, I'm almost certain my parents
are
dead. Otherwise I'd be living with them. The rest is . . . strange.”

“You're walking down a road with a troll and a cow,” Danr said, “and you worry about strange?”

That got a laugh from Talfi. Talfi's laugh was a bright, clear sound, and Danr abruptly realized that this was one of the few times he had heard laughter that wasn't directed at him. It made him want to laugh himself, though he didn't.

“You're right,” Talfi said, grinning. “So I'll tell you—one strange person to another.” He paused, his gaze sliding into the distance. Red-brown cows grazed in a meadow near the road, and the breeze carried the scent of manure. Danr waited expectantly.

Talfi took a deep breath. “The strange part is, I don't remember.”

Danr raised thick eyebrows. “You don't remember what?”

“Anything.” Talfi sighed and bunched his hands underneath his brown cloak. “I have no memories at all.”

“None?”

“My earliest memory is of looking at the Skyford gate. I was wearing a ragged tunic and only one shoe and I was hungry.” Talfi was twisting the cloak now. “That was three years ago. I still have no idea who I am or where I came from.”

“Huh.” Danr tried to imagine this, but the idea of not having any memories failed him. “Do you know how to do . . . things?”

“Yeah. I can ride a horse. I can read. I can even make arrows. Someone must have taught me, but I don't remember learning any of it.” He paused, and a raven coasted overhead with a low croak. “My skill as a fletcher was how I persuaded Uncle Orvandel to take me in, but I told him that I was an orphan with no master.”

“Huh,” Danr said again. “Have you tried to find your memory again?”

Talfi spread his hands beneath his brown cloak. “A little. One time Uncle Orvandel sent me to Meltown to buy feathers, so I was able to ask after myself—that was a strange business—but no one knew me there, either.”

The sun continued to shine overhead, but the hard rays were blunted by the kindly shade cast by the trees that lined the road, and Danr scarcely needed his hat. The steer followed placidly, and Danr wondered if it was mystified about
their trip to Skyford and back. Probably not. Cows leaned toward bland and idiotic. As long as they had enough to eat and other cows to moo at, they were happy. Sometimes Danr envied them that.

“It doesn't seem to bother you very much,” Danr said. “Living without memories.”

“What should I do, mope? I'll figure something eventually.” Talfi dug around in the sack Ruta had given him and came up with a chicken leg. “Have something to eat.”

Danr accepted it. “Thank you. It feels like I'm always hungry.”

Talfi grinned. “I'll bet you eat like a . . . like a . . .”

“Troll?”

“I was going to say
giant.
” Talfi sniffed.

“Sure you were,” Danr said, and realized he was grinning, too.

“Anyway, I don't talk about my memory problems.” Talfi took out a chicken leg for himself. “Not even with Uncle Orvandel. People would think it odd.”

“That I understand.” A cold idea stole over Danr as he finished off the chicken leg. He narrowed his eyes. “If you don't talk much about your memory, then why are you talking about it with me?”

Talfi cocked his head. “I don't know. In your way, you're as strange as I am, so that makes you easy to talk to. It feels good to say it aloud.” He raised the half-eaten chicken leg to the sky like a tiny sword and shouted, “My name is Talfi and I have no memories! Fuck to the Nine! Fuck to the entire damn world!”

Now Danr halted. Behind him, the steer halted as well. “You aren't trying to play me for a fool, are you?”

Talfi brought the chicken leg down. “No. It's truth.”

“Because sometimes people think a stupid troll will believe anything,” Danr continued. “That he's as stupid as he looks.”

“Oh.” Talfi gnawed the meat with a thoughtful expression. “Do people think you're a monster?”

“Don't you?” Danr countered, and braced himself for the answer. But in response, Talfi only shrugged.