The trees were enormous! The Kings of the Forest had not been boasting. They really were taller than a castle.
She strode toward the grove of giant redwoods. I’m here.
We know.
Welcome.
She rested a hand against the trunk of one. You’re amazing. I never knew something as wondrous as you existed.
We know.
We have decided to help you with your quest. But you must do something for us.
What? Gwennore asked.
You must tell the barbarians who we are.
We have been here longer than they have.
Storms cannot hurt us. Earthquakes cannot uproot us. Fire can only scorch us.
Then you are indestructible? Gwennore asked.
The barbarians can kill us with their axes and saws.
They know not what they do.
They must stop.
I will tell them, Gwennore promised. I’ll tell General Dravenko. He already knows about you. What can you—She paused when she heard a cry in the distance. What is that?
One of the wild barbarians has fallen into the stream.
Just north of the lake.
Gwennore strode toward the northern end of the lake, where a stream fed into it. Another howl of pain sounded in the distance.
“I’m on my way!” she called out in Norveshki as she hurried along the eastern bank of the stream. On this side, the ground was level with the water, but on the opposite side, a high ridge bordered the stream. Perhaps the man had fallen off the ridge and onto the rocks in the stream.
She spotted him, hunched up on a flat boulder in the middle of the stream, holding his leg. Blood seeped from a gash to color the boulder red.
“I’m coming!” she yelled, but he ducked his head down and looked away. He seemed short. Only a boy.
“It will be all right.” She waded into the shallow stream, wincing at how frigid the water was. “I’m a healer. My name is Gwennore. And your name?”
He shook his head, his thick mane of hair concealing his face.
Poor child, Gwennore thought, as she noted the dirty clothes he was wearing. His hair was unkempt and matted.
She climbed up onto the boulder. “Let me see your leg.”
He flinched when she pulled his ragged breeches up to his knee. The gash on his shin was bleeding so much, it was hard to see how big it was.
“I need to wash this off a bit.” She set her canvas bag on a dry section of the boulder, then scooped up some water in her hands to rinse off his leg.
With a groan, he shuddered.
“It’s not that bad,” she assured him. How lucky that she had some of the verna plant with her. The leaves would keep the wound from getting infected.
She pulled out some of the leaves then, using a small rock, ground them on the boulder and added some water till she had a green paste. She smeared it onto the wound, then used her shears to cut a strip of white linen from the hem of her shift. She wrapped it around the treated wound and tied off the ends.
“There.” She patted the boy on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine. Do you live close to here? Do you need help getting home?”
A series of shouts drew her attention, and she glanced up at the ridge. There were a dozen men there, yelling at her and shaking their spears.
More shouts came from the other bank, and she gasped when she saw a dozen more men.
No, not men. They were close enough that she could get a good look at them. They were short, dressed in dirty clothes, with long hair and beards. The language they were yelling was not Norveshki. And they all had spears pointed at her.
The boy she had just treated yelled back at them, his voice deep and guttural.
With a gasp, Gwennore jumped back, falling off the boulder and landing knee-deep in the frigid water.
He wasn’t a boy. With his face now visible, she saw he had the beginnings of a beard. His nose was large and bulbous.
Her blood ran cold.
Mountain trolls were real. And these were ready to attack.
Chapter Sixteen
Gwennore stumbled back, her gaze darting from one side of the stream to the other. Goddesses help her! The trolls looked every bit as frightening as the illustrations in Torushki’s Bedtime Tales of a Mountain Troll. But this wasn’t a nightmare. She was awake, and they were real. Their spears were definitely real.
The injured troll on the boulder was telling the others something and motioning to his leg.
“Yes! I’m a healer,” Gwennore called out in Norveshki, hoping they could understand. “I mean you no harm.”
The trolls started jabbering to one another, but she couldn’t tell if they were excited or angry. She backed away slowly, ignoring how much her feet were burning from the icy water.
One of them on the ridge noticed her sneaking away, and with a shout, he pointed his spear at her. Another one on the opposite bank lunged toward her.
Goddesses protect me! Gwennore lifted her skirts and ran, splashing through the stream toward the lake.
There is no need to fear, one of the Kings of the Forest said softly.
She scoffed. Easy for the Kings to say. They were practically indestructible. The water grew deeper, up to her thighs, then her hips. In desperation, she ripped away any remaining shield around her mind and envisioned herself mentally screaming. Puff! Can you hear me? I’m in trouble!
A spear shot past her, bouncing off a boulder. Puff! They’re attacking me! Help me!
Where are you? His voice sifted into her mind, and she almost wept from relief.
He’d heard her! Puff was there for her. I’m north of the castle, close to the lake.
The stream’s current knocked her off her feet, and with a squeal, she plunged into icy water that was up to her shoulders. As the current swept her along, it took all her concentration to keep her head above water and avoid being slammed into any boulders. Before she knew it,
