Troll Mountain: The Complete Novel

Chapter 15

After three hours of strenuous climbing, Raf arrived at the upper reaches of Troll Mountain.

Crawling over the lip, he slid up onto the flat stone floor of the open-air Winter Throne Hall and stood.

Raf’s jaw dropped.

It was an incredible space: wide and magnificent, even in the eerie darkness of the night. The smooth stone floor, polished to a dazzling sheen, reflected the silver glow of the moon. Four thick, colossal pillars held up the hall’s ceiling and, above that, the summit of the mountain.

In the middle of the space, rising on a many-stepped podium, was the king’s winter throne. Two long banners made of thick cloth hung from the roof behind the throne, framing it.

Raf noticed a single stairway that burrowed into the polished floor, leading down into the mountain. But there was no obvious staircase going up, giving access to the mountain’s summit. Perhaps there was a hidden stairway somewhere.

It didn’t matter. He wasn’t planning to use it anyway.

Raf dashed across the wide polished floor and quickly ascended the massive podium until he stood before the king’s winter throne.

(An inscription on it read, in the same ancient language Raf had seen on the monument: THE SEAT OF POWER OF THE NORTHERN GOVERNOR: ALL THAT CAN BE SEEN FROM HERE, HE GOVERNS IN THE NAME OF THE GLORIOUS EMPEROR [UNREADABLE], ALL HAIL HIM, RULER OF THE WORLD.)

Raf was about to grab hold of one of the banners that hung behind the throne and climb up it, when he saw the view from the throne.

It took his breath away.

Beyond the jagged peaks of the nearby lesser mountains, he saw the landscape to the south: the Badlands, his own river valley, and beyond that, the vast southern sea, glimmering in the blue moonlight.

As he gazed out at the magnificent vista, he cursed the cruel trick of geography that allowed the trolls to keep a stranglehold over the valley tribes.

Raf had once asked one of the elders why the Northmen didn’t flee to the north of the mountains and escape the tyranny of the trolls.

The elder had smacked him over the head, hard. “Silly boy! Do you not pay attention when the traditional stories are told? As everyone knows, there are no habitable lands beyond the mountains. There are just more mountains, stretching away to the earth’s end.”

Recalling those words, Raf turned around and faced north, expecting to see an endless range of mount—

Wait a moment.

Raf frowned as he gazed northward.

From this vantage point, he could see beyond the jagged peaks of the mountain range, and what he saw shocked him.

The Black Mountains did not go on forever.

In fact, they ended quite abruptly only a short distance from Troll Mountain. And beyond the mountain peaks, Raf saw broad sweeping plains, rolling hills and grassy vales, stretching away to the north as far as the eye could see.

“There is more land out there …” Raf gasped. “The traditional stories were wrong …”

He wondered how the stories could have gotten it so wrong. Who had created them? And had anyone ever actually checked their accuracy? Or were they accepted simply because they were old and passed on by generations of elders?

Raf shook away these thoughts and returned to the mission at hand — he had to be off the mountain by dawn, before the sun removed the cover of darkness.

He grabbed one of the long banners hanging from the ceiling behind the throne and, moving nimbly hand over hand, scaled the banner and arrived at the rocky uppermost section of the mountain.

Peering upward, Raf spied the thick battlement ringing the summit.

Two guards patrolled it.

He could tell from their postures that they were idle, bored: they clearly didn’t believe any intruder could — or would even dare — get this high up the mountain.

Raf saw them stroll away, chatting, with their backs to him — and so he seized the opportunity and darted from cover, scampering up and over the battlement before quickly scaling the last twenty yards of rocky ground that led to the tower at the absolute summit of Troll Mountain: the Supreme Watchtower.

Of course, the Supreme Watchtower had no external doors on its brick-walled flanks. Access to it was only available from within.

But given it had once been a working watchtower, Raf guessed correctly that it would have a door up on the lookout platform at its peak.

No sentries patrolled that platform, since the watchtower was now only used to keep the wise old troll Vilnar imprisoned.

Raf flung his trusty rope up over the crenellations of the Supreme Watchtower’s parapet and, hanging from it, scaled the lofty tower with the peaks of all the neighboring mountains far below him.

At length, Raf slid over the crenellated platform and beheld a thick wooden door leading into the Supreme Watchtower.

With a final deep breath, Raf opened the door and stepped inside.