“How about we do both, Master?” Seth asked.
“Deal, Slave,” Hermo said, spitting on his palm before shaking Seth’s hand.
Seth immediately wiped his hand on his pants. “Should we head inside?”
“Yes,” Hermo said. “You walk behind. You need slave name. Dirt Face good one.”
“Anything to please Master,” Seth said.
“I can’t stomach this,” Calvin said, his tone conveying legitimate suffering.
“Small price to pay if the info is good,” Seth said. “Help us succeed.”
Seth followed Hermo out into the clearing. He wondered how believable it would be that he was the slave of a stumpy little troll. Hopefully, if he played the role right, he could sell it. As they approached the tavern, Seth wondered if his shadow charming skills could prove useful. He reached out with his senses, trying to perceive any undead, in case he could mine them for information or perhaps gain an ally. None seemed to be in the area.
The road beside the tavern was empty. A squeaky sign swung in the breeze, and several wooden wind chimes clattered. The broad steps out front led to a door so tall Seth would need a ladder to reach the top. He wondered about the size of the trolls inside.
Hermo opened a smaller door to the left of the tall one and entered without a backward glance. Seth crouched to follow his temporary master.
Just inside the door loomed a thick-limbed troll who would have to duck to get through even the tall door. A pair of tusks jutted up from his lower jaw. The troll hunched forward to peer at Seth, making a rumbling sound in his chest like a dog about to attack.
“Him slave,” Hermo said, jerking a thumb at Seth. “Him Dirt Face.”
The hulking troll backed off, though he kept an unwelcoming eye on Seth. Snugly shuttered windows muted the daylight, and a sparse assortment of candles and torches provided uneven luminance while slowly blackening the rafters and ceiling with soot. Many obstacles limited lines of sight in the expansive room, including wooden beams, potted plants, heavy curtains, and booths built around tables. Niches and alcoves laced the edges of the room, with many doorways and halls leading elsewhere. Stairways climbed to murky galleries and lofts, and others curved down to unseen cellars.
Seth tried not to fixate on any of the occupants of the shadowy booths huddled in hushed conversation. The variety of trolls astonished him. Most were reptilian in their scales and features, though some were hairy, a few were porcine, and a couple had feathers. The trolls came in varied sizes and builds, though none stood shorter than Hermo. Seth noted sharp claws, crooked fangs, intimidating tusks, gill slits, webbed fingers and toes, mottled markings, horns, spikes, and warty bumps in endless combinations. The trolls dressed simply, with few sporting more than a vest on their upper bodies, and none wearing footwear. Most carried weapons, and a majority displayed sparse items of jewelry—an earring here, a pendant there, an anklet on another.
Seth noticed many trolls stealing glances at him or slyly following him from the sides of their eyes. Trying not to let his gaze rove, he kept his focus on Hermo and waited for chances to show his devotion as a slave. Thanks to his gift with languages, the murmured conversations around him sounded like English, but he could tell the trolls were actually speaking Duggish.
“Why you here, Dog Breath?” challenged an accuser.
Seth saw another hermit troll waddling their way. He was almost as short and stumpy as Hermo, his head too big for his body, wide nostrils flaring.
“Me visiting,” Hermo shot back. “Why you out of hole, Snot Lick?”
“Me no Snot Lick,” the hermit troll said. “Me Jeff.”
“You no Jeff,” Hermo said. “What real name?”
“Me Fonnar.”
“Me Hermo. You get lost.”
“This my lair.”
Hermo gave a derisive chuckle. “This for many trolls.”
“Me have places here,” Fonnar said.
Hermo cocked his head and looked around. “Maybe.”
“Why bring human?” Fonnar asked.
“Human my slave,” Hermo said. “You get lost or he throw potatoes.”
Fonnar sized up Seth. “He no look slave.”
“He valet,” Hermo said smugly.
Fonnar shooed Hermo away with both hands. “Hermit troll no have valet. No have slave either. No have human.”
Hermo puffed out his chest. “You not know what best hermit troll have.”
“You no best,” Fonnar said.
“I ride in fish,” Hermo said. “I have human.” Hermo glanced around. “Where your slave?”
“Me busy,” Fonnar sputtered, wobbling off. Hermo approached a bar where a stocky gray troll with black stripes filled a mug from a spigot.
“Me want famous rabbit stew,” Hermo said. “And brick of rat tallow for human.”
“How do you intend to pay?” the bartender asked in a gravelly voice.
“Him pay,” Hermo said, jerking a thumb at Seth.
Seth absently patted his pockets and realized the Tiny Hero was no longer in there. Neither was any money.
“How much does the stew cost?” Seth asked.
The bartender leaned forward with a gleam in his eye, his smile revealing rows of teeth made for shredding. “You speak Duggish?”
“I aim to please,” Seth said.
“A slave to this little one, are you?” the bartender asked.
“I strive to serve Master well,” Seth said.
“Master, is it? Well, for you and his excellency, the price of a bowl of soup is merely ten pounds of gold and a basket of diamonds. I’ll throw in the rat tallow for any ruby larger than a hen’s egg.”
“Too much,” Hermo griped.
“Or else, three healthy human children,” the bartender bargained.
“Him no like you,” Hermo told Seth. “You go so I eat stew.”
“Did either of you notice this is Troll Tavern?” the bartender asked through gritted teeth. “We don’t take kindly to humans here, nor any who brings one.”
“He no human,” Hermo said. “He Dirt Face. He slave.”
“Where are his chains?” the bartender asked.
“He trained,” Hermo said.
The bartender chuckled, then raised his voice. “Anybody spy a human in the room?”
“I smelled something awful,” a gruff voice answered, drawing laughs.
“I saw a human,” another troll called. “Thought maybe I had too much to drink.”
“Anybody claim him?” the bartender asked.
“He my slave,” Hermo piped up.
The bartender
