Dain Undead and the troll of Morgoth
The rutted and dusty road from Talabheim was only traveled by merchantsí caravans, peddlers and gypsies, and the rare company of soldiers.
The village of Morgoth was merely a cluster of buildings that had grown up around a crossroads tavern. This was a dangerous country, inhabited only by the tough lumberjacks who made their living logging the great trees and selling the timber to lumber merchants. It certainly wasnít a place where travelers walked alone.
But one hot summer day, a traveler did just that.
He was ill-dressed for the clime; a thick, dust-stained cloak and hood were draped over a voluminous robe. The original color of these garments was impossible to discern, for theyíd been patched and re-patched so many times there probably wasnít any of the original cloth left; the general color was a dark gray, accented by a few patches of color, and a glint from the pommel of the sword sheathed in a much-used belt over the robe.
Even the travelerís hands were covered; wrapped about with sackcloth up to his fingers, not an inch of his skin was visible.
The black boots kicked up dust as he strode along, ignoring the hot sun that beat down with great force, baking the road to dust, and leaching the brush beside the road of itís color.
He passed a bend in the road and a crossroads appeared, a few buildings clustered about, including a large one, obviously a tavern.
The stranger quickened his pave and was soon walking under the eaves of the tavern. He took a moment to read the sign; it showed a bridge and beneath read ëMorgothí.The traveler chuckled. A dry, though humorous sound, and walked in.
The tavern of the Bridge of Morgoth was dark and cool after the heat and sun of the road. The traveler glanced around, then took a table. and waited.
The tavern was nearly empty; the tavern keeper stood behind the bar(A roughly-finished counter of unpolished wood) and a half-a-dozen fellows, probably lumberjacks, were seated about an elderly man who was sucking down ale like it was life itself and crying quietly.
The tavern keeper put a rag over his arm and came to meet the traveler. ìWhat will it be?î He asked in a tone that indicated a total lack of curiosity.
The traveler ordered a jack of ale, and the tavern keeper quickly brought. Interestingly, the tavern keeper stood by while the traveler drank. ìAre you traveling alone?î He asked.
The traveler silently nodded. He took a pull from his jack of ale before replying. ìYes.î
ìThe roads hereabouts are rather dangerous for a man alone.î The tavern keeper said leadingly.
ìI can take care of myself.î He replied.
ìTough fighter, are you?î The tavern keeper said, a calculating expression upn his face.
The traveler looked up at him. ìYes.î He said flatly.
The tavern keeper turned away and walked to the gathering of lumberjacks at the other side of the common room. He stooped down and whispered urgently into the ear of the elder man.
His eyes leapt to the traveler, still quietly taking down ale, then to the ëkeeper. He whispered back, then stood, followed by the others.
The elder approached the lone travler, the others on his heels. ìHow do you do?î He asked.
ìQuite well, yourself?î The travelerís voice was dry, but with an underlying humor, as if he was highly amused by life.
ìNot very well.î The elder swallowed. ìI hear you are a fighter.î
ìI can fight when I need to.î The traveler allowed, his accent strange, but not unpleasant.
The elder drew a breath. ìMy name is Johan Gerwitz; I am the mayor of Morgoth.î He took a moment to compose himself, then kept on.
ìA little while ago, a troll came out of the forest and made a lair under the bridge of Morgoth, which our men need to cross to bring their timber to the village.î
ìI assume you tried to kill him yourselves.î The stranger interjected.
The mayor nodded. ìYes. But it killed every man who tried; even when all the men of the village attacked it at once, it killed many and the rest fled; when we appealed to the count for help, we found he was gone away to fight against the orcs.î He looked around at his fellows, then continued. ìThe troll demanded a tribute: the sacrifice of a maiden, or else it will kill all who try to cross the bridge.î
ìHave you tried finding another way across the river?î The hooded one asked quizzically.
The elder nodded. ìThere is no ford for miles, but we tried to build another bridge; the troll killed three men and drove the rest away, then destroyed the timber and tools.î
ìSo now you want me to kill your troll for you.î
The mayor nodded nervously.î
The stranger sipped his ale thoughtfully. ìA dangerous troll, yes? That has killed all who have gone against it?î
The elder nodded and licked his lips nervously. ìWe can pay you, not much, but all we have.î
The traveler ignored him. ìA great maw, I suppose, and arms that could rip me limb from limb?î The villagers missed the hint of hope in the travelerís question.
ìWhere is it?î He asked, the grin concealed by the hood was clear in his voice.
Relief rose off the mayor in waves. ìWeíll lead you there, but we must hurry! theyíve gone to sacrifice a maiden.î
They all hurried out of the tavern and ran through the empty village onto the road leading into the woods.
ìIf we can only get there in time.î Gerwitz prayed.
Except for the tavern keeper, Johan Gerwitz, and his cronies, the entire village had turned out for the sacrifice.
The maiden, chosen by common lot, was the mayorís granddaughter, which explained his absence. She was tied to a pole, atop a cart pulled by a draft horse and guided by a lumberjack, crying silently. She cried and pleaded, begged them to release her, and none could meet her gaze.
The procession proceeded slowly from the village, the short parade of the villagers following the cart, many were crying as they walked.
By the time they reached the bridge, the maiden had cried herself hoarse, and cried silently as the cart wheeled ever closer to the bridge.
Suddenly the troll appeared, jumping out from under the bridge: the villagers stopped in fear.
The driver swallowed his fear, and whipped the horse forward.
The troll stepped forward as they neared and began to drool; it was a disgusing creature, lumpen and misshaped; despite itís bandy legs it towered at twelve feet tall, and itís enormous arms hung down to the ground, ending in misshapen hands as large as boulders.
ìNo. . .No.î She whispered, and cried as the driver turned the cart to present her to the troll.
ìIím sorry.î He said, looking away.
The troll shambled closer, and she sobbed as it reached for her. . .
ìStop!î
The mayor came to a halt and stood, his hands on kness and shoulders heaving from having run all the way from the village.
The traveler didnít stop, instead he ran faster, straight at the troll.
The troll turned to face him and roared.
The stranger raced at the troll, then jumped at the last moment and caught the troll in the head with both boots.
The troll fell and the traveler landed atop him, then they rolled down the slope into the riverbed.
The driver of the cart drew a knife and loosed the maid, then whipped the horse to a run and away from the bridge.
A middle-aged man, streaks of silver in his brown hair, rounded on the mayor: ìWhat are you doing?! We agreed-î
ìWe agreed because we canít kill the monster, Hans Horowitz!î The mayor snapped back. ìWell perhaps he can!î
ìYouíre only doing this because itís your daughter!î He accused
ìAnd if it were your daughter, youíd do the same thing!î The mayor roared. ìBesides, heís holding his own!î
The troll lifted the traveler by his leg and swung him headfirst into the foundation pier of the bridge. Something cracked! and the stone was stained red. The troll threw him away to land in a broken heap by the water, but he was up again and cut the troll across the back.
The troll roared in pain, then moving faster than seemed possible, it grabbed the man by his neck and ducked him under the water.
The man struggled against the inexorable pressure choking out his life, and cut the trollís wrist badly, with a wild slash of his sword, but the troll ripped his arm off. His struggles grew weaker and weaker, and then finally ceased.
The troll kept hold of him until it was sure he was dead. Then, grunting in pleasure, it turned away and walked back to itís interrupted meal.
He roared in frustration on finding it gone; the lumberjacks had taken the opportunity to get their axes and spears. When it reappeared, they slowly backed away: theyíd fought the beast before, at great cost, but they didnít flee, and kept their arms ready.
ìSee what youíve done?î Horowitz groaned, his heavy blunderbus steady in his callused hands.
ìShut up, weíll talk when this is over.î The mayor snapped at him.
ìWhen this is over, weíll be dead!î Horowitz snapped back.
The troll snapped and growled at the men as they spread out to either side of it, but they kept on, darting in close then dodging away.
The traveler climbed back up from the riverbed, sword held in his left hand, since he lacked the other. He darted up behind the troll and swung his sword in two neat chops, hamstringing it.
The troll screamed in pain, a surprisingly shrill sound, then fell forward, itís legs unable to support the weight.
The lumberjacks closed in, and though the troll fought wildly, and even threw up itís acidic stomach juices that burned all it touched, it couldnít stop the enraged men who hacked it to pieces, then burnt the flesh with torches.
After cutting the trollís tendons, the traveler fell down on his back and lay there while they completed their grisly task.
While the ëjacks were finishing it, the mayor came over to look to the traveler, followed by Horowitz and a few others.
The waterlogged travler lay unmoving; even the blod had stopped leaking from the stump of his right arm.
ìHeís dead.î One of the men muttered. The mayor nodded, and knelt down and threw back the travelerís hood, then gasped in horror.
The travelerís face was a mass of scars; heíd been burned once, horribly. Leaving his face stained a dark blue; his nose was gone, leaving only two holes to breathe through. His hair was a ragged mass of black shot through with silver, his remaining skin stretched tought across the bones of his face.
ìHeís breathing!î Horowitz cried.
The eyelids fluttered and opened slowly; one was clear, the other stained a poisonous yellow. He took a breath through his ruined nostrils. ìIím in too much pain to be dead.î He observed. ìDamn.î
ìYou want to be dead?î Horowitz asked jokingly.
The traveler glanced at him. ìYes.î He replied.
He started to pull himself to a sitting position, then remembered he had no right arm. ìCould someone fetch my arm for me?î He asked.
A fellow was dispatched to fetch the wayward limb, while the mayor and Horowitz helped the traveler reach a sitting position. He reached back with his one arm and pulled his hood back over his face.
Presently, his arm was brought to him, and he clambered to his feet. ìWell, I think itís time I was going.î
ìOh no!î The mayor cried in shock. ìWe must repay you for your services and-î He stopped, staring. ì-And exactly how _did_ you survive, and how can you have more arm than you did before?î
The others looked at his stump and saw it was true: part of the arm had grown back. A few swore, and others groped for weapons; the people of the country are(rightly) wary of anything unnatural that comess in their midst.
The traveler sighed. ìWell, I didnít think Iíd get away without an explanation.î He took his arm and pressed it against the stump. After a moment, he let go and it stayed.
They gasped, and more than a few readied their weapons, and set themselves as he moved the arm experimentally. He looked around at them and sighed. ìWhy donít we all sit down, and Iíll explain it.î He said, suiting action to word.
After a moment, the mayor followed suit, and the rest did likewise. The rest of the villagers came and joined them, and a few gasped or exclaimed as their fellows told them what had happened. All quieted as the traveler began his tale:
ìA long time ago, many thousands of years, there was in the north, far bayond the land of Kislev, a great nation of men. Who lived, fairly peacefully, under the rule of their kings, and worshipped their god, whoís name was not spoken.
ìThey ruled a wide and fair land until one day, long before your grandfathersí granfathers were born, a great army descended on them, intent on destruction.
ìRavening beasts and foul warriors, twisted fiends and terrible Daemons, they came from the land now called the chaos wastes wishing nothing but blood and death.
ìThe nation of men rallied for war, and many terrible battles were fought; entire cities were laid waste in the blink of an eye, and while the war was fought, the fields and towns were burned, and the people slaughtered.
ìFinally, after much terrible war, their young king Dain rallied the last of his warriors, and rode forth to do battle with the fiendish foe; he fought the enemyís general beneath a full moon, while his warriors died to a man holding the army at bay. After hours of combat, the god blessed Dain, and guided his weapon, and the young king slew the foul warrior, and destroyed him.
ìBut the sun rose, and looking about, Dain saw the desolation of his land, and the destruction of his people, and he cried hot tears and begged the god to grant him the power to exact vengeance on his enemies.
ìThe god heard, and granted him the power of everlife; that he should never die until the god willed it so. Then Dain took his sword and laid about him with it, and crushed the beasts; and they fled before him in fear, and cried to their wicked gods to save them.
Their gods saw the destruction he was wreaking upon their armies, and came themselves to stop him, but his god protected him, and though he weakened, the god let the young king finish his slaughter. But when the last fiend was slain, the last warrior cut down, his god appeared before him.
ìThe god was dying; such was the burden the god had borne, that his strength was gone, and before the sun was high, he faded away and was gone.î
The traveler, Dain, looked about at the villagers, who watched him silently. ìEver since then, I have wandered this world, seeking out the servants of the wicked gods and searching for something, anything to ease the passing of the years. For, with the death of my god, the gift of everlife became a curse, and the pleasure of death remains always just beyond my grasp.î
He stood and looked down at them. ìSo when your lives are troubled, or hard, please take what pleasures you may and meditaate on this: I envy you.î
Without another word, he started back toward the road, and they moved aside, and let him pass.
When he reached the road, the sun was beginning to fall towards the western horizon, though the day was still hot. Sheathing his sword, he started walking again. After a while, he began humming, then broke out in song: his dry, cheerful voice rose over the cloud of dust raised by his boots.
In the summer of our love,
Lies the
heart of winter's cold,
As I journey to my love far away;
With
a yo-he-ho to my lover I shall go,
And forever by her side I shall
stay.