Troll Mountain: The Complete Novel

Chapter 1

Once upon a time in a river valley far to the north, there lived a tribe whose members suddenly started dying from a mysterious illness.

It was a singularly horrible way to die. Pus-filled sores would appear on the victim’s skin, then their gums would begin to bleed. Soon, unable to move, covered in boils and with their teeth falling out, the victim would fall asleep, never to wake.

Then, as if to compound the tribe’s misery, the river that flowed into their valley from the north dried up.

Even though the tribe had sent forth its annual tribute to the trolls, the trolls had decided to cut the flow of water from their dam upstream. This was something the trolls did from time to time, for no other reason, it seemed, than to remind those who lived in the valley of the trolls’ cruel dominance over them.

In a few short months the lands in and around the valley became dry and barren. The soil crumbled. Game became scarce. It was said that even the hobgoblins — who with their wiry little bodies could survive for longer in tougher conditions than just about any other creature — had abandoned their lair in the low mountains in search of more plentiful lands.

For the Northmen tribe, things became parlous. The harvest was so poor that food was rationed. And it soon became apparent that the lack of both food and water was aiding the spread of the illness. Tribe members fell ill in greater numbers.

Prayers were offered to the gods. They did no good.

Sacred essences were burned. That also did no good.

More members of the tribe were struck down by the disease.

Something had to be done.

Two elders were dispatched to begin talks with the trolls, to beseech them to release more water. They departed wearing their best robes and the distinctive wooden necklaces worn only by elders.

Those elders never returned.

Then came worse news.

It became known that the trolls themselves were also suffering from the terrible illness but that they had chanced upon a cure for it, an elixir of some sort. It was further said that upon payment of a “special tribute” the trolls promised to cure any tribe’s victims of the disease.

Some leaders of the smaller tribes in the valley had gone to Troll Mountain with their sick to enter into this pact with the Troll King and, at the same time, to beg him to release more water.

A week later, the sick returned to the river valley, miraculously cured of the disease, with tales of drinking the fabled Elixir — a stinging yellow liquid.

Unfortunately, they reported that the Troll King had flatly refused to release any extra water from his dam, keeping the tribes of the river valley firmly under his thumb.

More ominously, the tribal leaders who had conveyed their sick to Troll Mountain did not return.

The cured had no knowledge of what had happened to their leaders in the Mountain King’s halls, but deep in their hearts they all had the same suspicions.

Such was the life of the people of the Northmen tribe.

After a time, however, it was noticed by some that while the river dried up and the crops failed and the Northmen fell ill in greater numbers, the head family continued to eat well.

For generations, the chieftain’s family had been taller than the other members of the tribe, sturdier, stronger, and so they designated themselves the tribe’s warriors. And since it was imperative that they remain healthy so they could defend their people from the other major tribe in the valley, the Southmen, the head family got first rights to the already limited supply of food — and only then, of course, after tribute had been sent to the trolls.

“They are only the warriors because they keep the art of wielding weapons within their own family,” Raf grumbled to his sister, Kira, as they left the chief’s elongated hut one day, having just delivered to the head family an extra share of their meager harvest.

“Quiet, Raf,” Kira whispered. “You’ll get into trouble again.”

“And the more they eat, the stronger they remain, so they perpetuate their high status—”

“Shh!”

“What can they do to me?” Raf said.

“They can banish you.”

“The way things are, banishment is hardly much of a punishment. What difference is it to anyone if I starve here or elsewhere?”

“It would make a difference to me,” Kira said softly, touching his arm. Their parents had died when they were young. Kira shrugged. “It is how things are, and how they have always been. The big have their way. The small, like us, survive.”

Raf frowned. “I don’t like the way things are. They could be better.”

But the truth was, Raf was small and had always been so. Even though he had just reached his seventeenth year, he was boyish in appearance, thin and gangly, with a mop of unruly sandy hair.

However, what he lacked in strength, he made up for in speed: he was nimble and fast, which in his younger days had helped him avoid a thrashing or two at the hands of bigger boys. And he was an exceptional climber — of trees and high rocks — which had also helped him dodge a few beatings.

It should also be mentioned that Raf was inventive. He spent all his spare moments designing new farming implements, cooking utensils and sometimes — in defiance of the tribe’s rules — weapons.

The invention that Raf looked upon with particular pride was his rope: an ultra-long spool that he himself had braided together over many months. Fully extended, it was perhaps fifty feet long. And it was strong. It had to be, since Raf used it to scale the cliffs at the rim of the valley, hundreds of feet above a sheer drop.

His mother had actively encouraged his inventiveness. Serene and calm, she would examine each of Raf’s new inventions and ask him pointed questions, sometimes causing him to dash off to make amendments to his original designs. But when the item was finished, she would always use it, which made the young Raf especially proud.

Sadly, encouragement of this kind was not common in Raf’s tribe.

Once, as a boy, Raf had offered to help the chief build weapons for the tribe’s warriors. He’d even made a special sample to show the chief: a double-bladed axe. Till then, the tribe had only used axes with a single blade.

The fat chief had roared with laughter, saying in a booming voice, “What fool would use a double-bladed axe in battle? I only need one blade to bring down my enemies! Leave the fighting to us, boy!”

The other members of the head family had guffawed, especially Bader, the chief’s third son who, although the same age as Raf and once his childhood playmate, now stood a foot taller than Raf and ordered Raf around as if he were an elder.

Raf had left the chief’s hut embarrassed and humiliated.