Still, his trail sense nagged him, warning him to stay on guard.
His second afternoon out of Hillhome was damp and cold. Flint stopped to rest at the crest of a rocky ridge, and to eat the last of the cold meat sandwiches, rock cheese, and dried apples Bertina had slipped into his hands as he'd left the family house. Shoulders of bare granite loomed around him, and several caves dotted the side of this steep slope. He had discovered a makeshift trail in the base of a narrow ra vine and veered off the Passroad to lose his pursuer. Now, at the crest, he looked behind and saw for the second time the stalwart figure on his trail.
There was just a flash of movement before his pursuer dis appeared into a wide belt of pines fringing the base of the ridge. But the glimpse had been enough to convince the crusty dwarf that his suspicions had been well-founded.
Flint resolved to wait for whomever followed him, forcing a confrontation on his own terms.
Flint crept back into the narrow ravine, retracing his steps for a dozen yards down the side of the ridge. He wiped his sleeve across his sweaty brow as he found a sheltered ledge with a fine view of the ravine below. There he sprawled.
Withdrawing his axe from his belt, he laid the weapon be side him on the rock.
His elevation, coupled with the steepness of the ridge, gave him a significant vantage. He gathered an assortment of rocks, some as big as his head, so that he could lob them using both hands, and some fist-sized stones that he could easily pitch with one hand. Finally, he settled down to wait.
Long minutes passed with no sign of movement from be low, but this did not surprise the dwarf. The belt of forest below the ridge was wide and tangled, and it would take even the fastest of pursuers the better part of an hour to climb the slope.
Suddenly he tensed, seeing movement below, and very close to him. He grasped his axe, then swallowed a gasp.
There was neither human nor dwarf below him, but some thing ten times worse, for, creeping into the ravine was a mottled-green, wart-covered, large-as-an-ogre troll. He had never fought one before, never even seen one, but he recog nized it nonetheless. And he knew their malevolent, raven ous reputation.
He was momentarily relieved but surprised to see that the troll's attention was not directed up at him. Indeed, the monster as well, seemed to be staring down the ravine, from a position one hundred feet below Flint. The creature moved its long limbs in a deliberately rigid gait that re minded Flint of a crab — a giant, vicious crab, to be sure.
The wind, soaring up the ravine, brought the pungent, vaguely fishlike odor of the beast clearly to Flint's nose. The troll's wicked claws, on hands and feet alike, grasped out crops of rock as it held itself against an expanse of cliff, leer ing outward with those black, emotionless eyes.
Then Flint almost laughed out loud as he realized the crea ture's intent. It was laying an ambush for something that crept up the ravine below them — perhaps the same pursuer that Flint had intended to confront!
Now that's what I call fair, he thought to himself. Some one follows me through the hills for a few days, and then gets eaten by a troll. -
Still, the nearness of the monster gave Flint some cause for alarm. He resolved to wait, quietly and patiently, for the little drama below to run its course. Then, when the troll was absorbed with its victim, Flint would make a fast and easy escape.
A clatter of rocks abruptly drew the dwarf's attention far ther down the steep ravine. He could see no movement, but something was obviously charging upward. Whoever's fol lowing me moves with no mind for caution, Flint mused as his pursuer scrambled and scratched up the ridge.
Another clatter told the dwarf — and the troll, too, no doubt — that the chaser had climbed higher still. Perhaps whomever it was had already come into sight of the troll, for Flint watched the beast grow taut in its rocky niche, pre paring to spring. Indeed, he saw movement in the ravine fi nally and determined that it was a short human or dwarf who was climbing so steadily.
A brown hood covered the fellow's head, so Flint could not see his face. He could, in fact, tell little about him. Flint's pursuer stopped to catch his breath; he peered upward along the ravine that stretched to the top of the ridge, mea suring the distance. At last, even in the gathering darkness,
Flint got a good look at his young, red-bearded face.
Flint's pursuer was not a derro spy, or a human. The dwarf below him, in imminent danger of being attacked by a hungry troll, was none other that Flint's nephew Basalt.
'Reorx thump you!' hissed Flint, astonished. He didn't know what the silly pup was doing here, but the dwarf probed his mind desperately for a way to warn his nephew about the deadly ambush.
Flint seized one of his smaller rocks and pitched it down the ravine at the monster, watching with satisfaction as it whacked the troll squarely in the back of its grotesque head.
'Basalt, look out!' Flint cried, springing to his feet.
Moaning piteously and rubbing its head, the troll spun to look upward, its jaws widespread in a malicious grimace.
Even in the dim light, Flint could see the creature's long, pointed teeth.
The troll leaped upward, astonishing Flint with its prodi gious bounds. The dwarf sent a large boulder skittering down the chute, but the rock ricochetted past the troll's head, narrowly missing Basalt, who had begun to scramble up the ravine behind the speedily climbing troll.
Flint hefted another of his large rocks, holding it over his head as the troll closed in. The creature's wide, black eye sockets stared at him in a way that was all the more terrify ing for their complete lack of expression. Aiming carefully, the dwarf pitched the boulder when the troll was some thirty feet below him. The heavy rock, its momentum aided by the muscles of Flint's broad shoulders, struck the troll a crushing blow on its left leg.
'Take that, you ugly, green-bellied goblin-eater!' A taunt worthy of Tasslehoff, Flint thought with satisfaction. He hooted with joy as the monster's leg snapped from the force of the blow. The troll uttered a sound — a low, cold hiss of dull pain — and tumbled backward. Its leg twisted and flopped.
Now, for the kill, Flint hoped. Grabbing his axe, the hill dwarf bounded down from his ledge. He raised the blade over his head and closed on the troll as the beast fell between two rocks. Its leg hung to the side, useless.
But before Flint could reach the brute, the charging hill dwarf halted in astonishment. The monster's leg twitched slightly, and Flint heard a strange, grating sound, like two jagged rocks scraping together. The troll took its lower leg in both huge, warty hands and arranged it into a proper alignment. Horrified yet fascinated, Flint unconsciously moved closer to watch; the troll looked up through red veined eyes and hissed at him, slashing out with a jagged claw. Flint drew back only slightly, but the troll returned its attention to its wounded leg.
Amid the gruesome scraping sound, bubbles and bulges could be seen forming under the troll's thick, green warty skin. Slowly, the bulges flattened out, and the spine-chilling sound ceased. Before Flint could comprehend the meaning of the macabre scene, the troll became aware of him again.
Its eyes locked onto Flint as it leaped to its feet. Dropping to a fighting crouch, the creature danced toward Flint on two good legs! The limb, crushed to bonemeal a moment before, had somehow grown firm and again supported the beast's weight.
'Holy gods of old — you can regenerate!' Flint cried, flab bergasted. The troll slashed with its viciously clawed hand again, but Flint came out of his stupor long enough to knock the digits away with his axe. Striking quickly, he lopped the troll's hand off. It made a sickening spraying sound, thick green blood spurting in a steady stream. Flint cast an anx ious eye down the slope for Basalt. His nephew was vaulting upward as quickly as he could, panting with exertion, short sword extended. But he was still some distance below.
The monster seemed more stunned than tortured at the loss of its hand. Flint pressed the advantage, hacking with his axe, driving the monster back. Although the beast was more than twice Flint's height, the dwarf stood above him in the steep ravine. Flint had the initiative, striking, dodging, and striking again.
Once more his advantage proved illusory. The troll dodged away from him while it held the oozing stump of its hand. Not the squeamish type, even Flint was repulsed as three tiny claws sprouted from the bloody wound with a loud popping sound. He heard the green skin stretch, and the claws grew impossibly fast, revealing fingers and then, in moments, a completely new taloned hand. Fully re grown, the creature made a gurgling-regurgitating sound in the back of its throat — Flint swore it was snickering — and then the troll crept toward the hill
