Troll Bridge

'When I was just starting out in the barbarian hero business,' said Cohen,

'every bridge had a troll under it. And you couldn't go through a forest like

we've just gone through without a dozen goblins trying to chop your head off.'

He sighed, 'I wonder what happened to 'em all?'

'You,' said the horse.

'Well, yes. But I always thought there'd be some more. I always thought there's

be some more edges.'

'How old are you?' said the horse.

'Dunno.'

'Old enough to know better, then.'

'Yeah. Right.' Cohen lit another cigarette and coughed until his eyes watered.

'Gone soft in the head!'

'Yeah.'

'Giving your last dollar to a troll!'

'Yeah.' Cohen wheezed a stream of smoke at the sunset.

'Why?'

Cohen stared at the sky. The red glow was as cold as the slopes of hell. An icy

wind blew across the steppes, whipping at what remained of his hair. 'For the

sake of the way things should be,' he said.

'Hah!'

'For the sake of things that were.'

'Hah!'

Cohen looked down.

He grinned.

'And for three addresses. One day I'm going to die,' he said, 'but not, I

think, today.'

The air blew off the mountains, filling the air with fine ice crystals. It was

too cold to snow. In weather like this wolves came down into villages, trees in

the heart of the forest exploded when they froze. Except there were fewer and

fewer wolves these days, and less and less forest.

In weather like this right-thinking people were indoors, in front of the fire.

Telling stories about heroes.