Troll Mountain: The Complete Novel

Chapter 29

And so Raf returned to his raft and sailed down the reborn river.

As he did so, he drifted into a reverie. Images from his adventure flashed across his mind: fighting his way through the kingdom of the hobgoblins; swinging hand over hand across the rope-bridge to get to Troll Mountain; battling Grondo on the Fighting Platform.

He also remembered some comments he had heard over the course of his quest. The first was from Vilnar in the Supreme Watchtower:

“Young man, pay attention! The illness, it is not a curse or an omen or black magic. It comes from a lack of nutrients — nutrients peculiar to lemons, oranges, and limes. That is all. Which means the Elixir is not magical either, it is merely a juice made from those same fruits.”

And Ko: “When you go in search of elixirs, be sure you know exactly what an elixir is.”

As his raft meandered down the river, Raf thought about these comments a lot.

At length, he came to the top of his valley and there he parted ways with the Southmen.

Before the Southmen took their leave of him, however, Raf gave them one final gift. He told them how to cure the disease. They could do this, he said, simply by drinking the juices of lemons, oranges, or limes.

The Southmen thanked him profusely for this knowledge and promised that his name would long be remembered by them. Then they continued their journey on foot, returning to their own lands via a path that went around the domain of the Northmen. While they respected Raf, they felt that the other Northmen might not take kindly to Southmen sailing right through the middle of their lands.

And so Raf traveled the rest of the way alone.

After a time, he arrived back in the territory of the Northmen and stepped ashore. He gathered some lemons from a nearby grove and headed for the village.

Emerging from the woods, he stopped short.

Night had fallen and he saw the glow of many fires up ahead, coming from the center of the village. He heard the sounds of fast-paced drums and joyful singing.

Putting that out of his mind for the moment, he hurried to his hovel and there he found Kira, alone in her straw bed, sweating and in a tormented sleep. He woke her gently and, squeezing his newfound lemons, fed her their juice. She became a little calmer, rejoiced briefly at his safe return, and then resumed her sleep. Raf didn’t expect the juice — the Elixir — to work immediately, but he sensed even then that her healing had begun.

Only then did he turn his mind to the sounds of drums and singing. Leaving his weapons — his knife and his crossbow — in the hovel, he headed off in the direction of the central square.

Dirty, bloody, bruised, and bedraggled, Raf stepped out into the firelight and beheld a scene of great celebration and happiness.

The tribe was dancing and singing around a blazing fire.

Seated on a wooden throne at the head of the celebrations — not unlike the Troll King in his hall — was the chief of the tribe, and beside him, Bader, looking exceptionally proud, with his three bottles of the prized Elixir dangling from a strap around his neck.

The king’s daughter, Lilibala, sat with them, occasionally reaching over to take a privileged sip of Elixir from one of the bottles hanging from her brother’s neck. The wide-eyed boy named Timbuk served Bader with awestruck deference.

Every few moments, one of the girls of the tribe would rush up to Bader and steal a kiss on his cheek. He would smile indulgently: he was the hero who had returned with the precious medicine and he could have his pick of them.

And that was all Raf could bear.

“Quiet!” he called over the din. “Quiet! All of you!”

The drums fell silent. The dancing stopped. All eyes turned to him.

The fat chief said, “Why, if it isn’t—”

“Be silent, you,” Raf commanded and the townsfolk gasped.

The chief’s eyes went wide with anger. No one in the tribe had ever spoken to him so impudently.

Bader was less shocked. He eyed Raf coolly.

“Raf. I am so pleased you have returned from your journey. I do not know where you went, but much has happened in your absence. I confronted the trolls, destroyed their kingdom, and returned with their Elixir. Our tribe is saved and I am their hero. The Northmen are free of the tyranny of the trolls and the disease that has so terribly afflicted us. Oh, and as the heir to our illustrious chief’s throne, I will cut out your tongue if you speak to my father in such a tone again.”

“Bader, you could no more cut out my tongue than fly over the mountains,” Raf said, and the assembled tribesfolk gasped again. “We were both at the kingdom of the trolls and it was I who attained the Elixir. You stole it from me and fled ahead of me.”

Bader laughed. “Honestly, Raf. Do you expect anyone here to believe that? I am a warrior. You are a runt. Do you think anyone here cannot recall our wrestling match at last year’s harvest games? Who do you think is more likely to better the trolls, you or me?”

“How is the Elixir made, Bader?” Raf asked suddenly. “Do you know that?”

Bader frowned, surprised, unsure how to respond.

“What will you do when those bottles of Elixir run dry?” Raf pressed. “I, however, know what the Elixir is made of. I can make more of it.”

At this, the assembled crowd began to swap glances and murmur.

Bader noticed this and regathered himself. He raised his voice, more for the crowd than for Raf. “Enough of this nonsense! We are celebrating!” He turned to his fellow warriors. “My brothers, take this troublesome boy away from my sight. His tall tales are casting a cloud over our celebra—”

A great roar cut Bader off as a nearby hovel shattered to splinters and the troll prince Turv burst out through it!

Raf spun, his body tensing.

The troll prince gripped a great hammer in one fist. His fingerbone necklace hung askew around his neck, he was foaming at the mouth, and his eyes bore the fire of madness. Amid the chaos of the destruction of Troll Mountain, the troll prince had gone insane.

The tribesfolk scattered, fleeing into the shadows, hiding behind the hovels ringing the central square.

The chief, Bader, and their warrior kin all scurried fearfully behind the wooden throne.

Only one member of the tribe stood his ground.

Raf remained rooted to the spot in the center of the village, beside the blazing fire, standing deathly still, eyeing the troll.

Turv bellowed with rage. “I am here to wreak my vengeance on the one who stole our Elixir and destroyed our mountain! That kingdom was to be mine! Mine! Now it is nothing!”

At those words, Timbuk emerged timidly from his hiding place and called, “The hero is here, dirty troll. He goes by the name of Bader!” Timbuk pointed at Bader. “There he is and he will get the better of you again!”

The troll prince glanced at Bader and snorted derisively. “When last I saw that one, he was skulking away from the fray like a sniveling toad.”

The troll feinted at Bader and Bader spun in fright to flee, only to trip on a rock, and he fell forward and the bottles of Elixir were smashed between his body and the ground. They shattered, sending the yellow fluid pooling in the dirt.

“No,” Turv said, turning slowly. “The one I seek is …”

His eyes found Raf.

“… him. He is the one who destroyed my kingdom.”

Surprised murmurs rippled through the tribesfolk watching from the shadows.

Then the troll sprang at Raf and there in the center of the village, surrounded by the members of the Northmen tribe, they fought.

It was a fast and terrible battle. The crazed troll swung his hammer wildly while Raf — weaponless — ducked and dived, using his speed to his advantage. No one in the tribe, not the warriors or anyone else, stepped forward to help him.

Then Turv lunged, overreaching, and Raf hurried past him, as he did so snatching something from the troll’s weapons belt: his sharpened blade made of a human leg bone. Raf then quickly hurled himself sideways, diving through the fire, and rolled nimbly to his feet on the other side. Turv stomped around the fire in pursuit, his every footfall booming.

The big troll rounded the fire and suddenly Raf was in his face, driving forward with an outstretched hand, gripped in which was Turv’s own bone-sword.

Raf drove the sharpened length of bone deep into the troll’s left eye, thrusting it into his brain.

Turv froze in mid-stride. His hammer fell from his grip.

Then he dropped to his knees and froze for another moment … before he toppled forward and hit the ground face-first, forcing the bone-sword up through his head, its tip emerging from the back of his skull with a gruesome spurt of blood.

Then the troll prince lay still, dead, with Raf standing over him.

The village was silent.

The tribesfolk began to emerge from their hiding places, stepping out into the light, staring at Raf, at what he had just done.

Then they turned to gaze at Bader and the ruling family, still hiding behind the throne. Bader was staring at the shattered vials hanging from his neck strap, the precious yellow fluid now just a puddle in the dirt.

“Bader lied …” someone called. “He lied to us!”

“Where is your courage now, Bader?” another spat.

Even Timbuk looked disbelievingly at Bader. “It was all Raf’s doing, not yours …” he said.

Raf just stared defiantly at the ruling family.

Then he addressed the tribesfolk in a tone he did not know he was capable of.

“I am leaving this valley and this tribe. Contrary to what we have been told, there are fertile plains beyond the mountains to the north and I plan to start a new tribe in those lands. I take with me knowledge of the disease: its cause and its cure. If you wish to stay with these ‘warriors,’ do so. I leave you in their care. But if you wish to join me, you may. I will leave at dawn and I will wait for no one.”

With those words, he turned and left the firelit area without so much as a backward glance, leaving the tribesfolk astounded, the head family mortified, and the corpse of the troll lying beside the crackling fire.

The following morning, nearly the whole tribe joined Raf as he left the valley forever. Among them was Timbuk. Only a handful of blood relations stayed behind with the former ruling family.

Raf’s new tribe headed north, stopping briefly at the lemon grove near the river.

Raf ordered his followers to pick as many lemons as they could and to grind them into juice. That juice was then given to those affected by the disease, including Kira, and within days they showed signs of improvement. Their skin cleared and color began to return to their gums.

On their way to their new home, Raf made one other stop: in the Badlands.

Leaving his new tribe, he ventured alone to Ko’s shack in the swamp. It lay abandoned.

Raf left Ko a note:

Raf left the shack and, with his new tribe following him, headed north.

He did not know that the whole time he had been at the shack, he had been watched from afar: by Ko and the wise troll, Vilnar.

Ko smiled as Raf left. He smiled even more broadly when he read the note.

He was never seen or heard from in those parts again. Where he and Vilnar went, no one knew.

Düm and Graia lived out their days in peace and tranquility in a far corner of the Black Mountains.

The remnants of the Northmen tribe, which was really just the remainder of Bader’s clan, all soon succumbed to the dreadful disease, dying out one by one, until none of them remained.

Raf and Kira found a new life in the plains to the north of the Black Mountains.

There Raf’s tribe flourished under his leadership. He would lead them for many years, always urging the children to seek out new knowledge, to aspire to wisdom, and to question the old tales; well, all the tales except for one, the one which Raf himself told every year at harvest time, the story of his incredible adventure at Troll Mountain.