He couldn’t believe it!
The gate was unattended.
Maybe, he reflected as he opened the rickety wooden gate and stepped through the portal, the Trolls felt secure in Fox, exactly as the Family believed they were safe in the Home before the Trolls showed them the error of their ways. Possibly no one had ever attacked Fox.
Blade paused, studying the decayed structures, listening. He knew Fox was crawling with Trolls; he’d seen them earlier when he was spying, waiting for his opportunity to nab a bearskin. So where were they at now?
In the distance, from the east, came a great shout and the sound of cheering.
“What in the world?”
Blade turned, making for the uproar. The streets were completely deserted. He could scarcely credit his good fortune. Whatever was distracting the Trolls was a godsend. Thank the Spirit!
One of the buildings drew his attention.
Blade walked to the front door, puzzled. Unlike the others, this edifice displayed signs of modest repair efforts. The door was intact, the windows covered with crude curtains. A hole in the wall was boarded over. Why?
Why this one building only?
Fox was still devoid of life.
Blade opened the door and entered, carefully waiting for his eyes to adapt to the subdued light before he closed the door and stepped across the room, startled to discover a desk and two chairs neatly arranged against the far wall. Someone, evidently, was utilizing this office on a regular basis. But who? And for what purpose?
On the oaken desk, meticulously stacked in separate piles, were several books and papers.
Blade picked up the papers and moved closer to one of the windows.
These papers were written by someone named Aaron, random notes about a facility he operated and criminals he was rehabilitating. Several entries were fascinating: one concerning the evacuation and the failure of their transportation to arrive, and another detailing the prospects of survival for Aaron’s charges if they could not relocate or find women. One item, in particular, stood out like the proverbial sore thumb: “If we are left on our own, must find women. None left in town. Must find women! ”
Blade leaned against the wall, insight flooding his mind. Now, at least, he understood the origin of the Trolls and comprehended their motivation for stealing women. One detail still eluded him, however. Why were they called Trolls? He walked to the desk and set the papers in their original position.
Outside, all was quiet.
Blade sorted through the books, seven in all. The majority dealt with psychology: Abnormal Psychology, Experimental Psychology, Psychological Testing, Current Psychotherapies, Counseling, Adjustment and Mental Health, and something titled My Nympho Aunt. Four drawers fronted the desk. He crouched, opening each drawer, discovering more papers, pencil stubs, and dusty paper clips. In the lower right drawer, hidden in the back under a pile of papers, was another book.
There was a candle on the desk, unlit, and he wasn’t about to light it even if he could. Too risky. He stood and returned to the nearest window, holding the thin book aloft to catch the available light.
There was the subdued sound of a commotion to the east, slowly drawing closer.
Blade grinned, amused by his latest find. It was a child’s book, the cover torn, the pages ragged, entitled The Three Billy Goats Gruff. He couldn’t recall this one being in the Family library. The book was cutely illustrated, and he flipped the pages, reading the simple print. When he came to the first mention of the troll, he paused, astonished. “It can’t be,” he inadvertently muttered.
But it was.
The plot was straightforward enough. Three billy goats wanted to cross a bridge. Under this bridge lived a nasty troll. The troll was not inclined to allow anyone across his bridge. The first two billy goats tricked the troll into permitting them to pass. But the third goat, the biggest and the strongest, confronted the troll and defeated him, strolling across the bridge. On the page where the goat beat the troll, scribbled in childlike print, faint, almost indistinguishable, were some personal comments added by a reader long, long ago: “Stupid book. The troll should have won. It was his bridge!”
Blade lowered the book, musing. Was it possible? Was this kid’s book the key to the Trolls’ identity? His imagination rambled. Had one of the early occupants of the state facility liked this book, and for whatever bizarre reason identified with the troll? Had this person prevailed upon his fellows to call themselves the Trolls? Possibly, after Aaron’s demise, this criminal assumed the mantle of leadership.
“We’ll just never know for sure,” Blade said to himself.
An abrupt clamor came from the surrounding streets.
Blade tossed the book onto the desk and quickly crossed to the door.
What was going on? He eased the door open several inches and peered out.
A great mass of Trolls was moving down one of the streets, talking and laughing.
Blade’s curiosity was aroused. He saw them enter a large building and disappear. Were the Trolls holding a meeting? This, required further investigation. He slipped outside, shut the door, and walked toward a building with two swinging doors, each twenty feet high and half as wide.
Why so big? he wondered. Probably, before the war, machinery and vehicles had utilized it as an entry and exit point.
Somewhere, a bird was chirping.
Blade reached the swinging doors, glanced both ways, and entered the structure. He memorized the layout, his tactical training ingrained, noting the packed bleachers, the central pen, and four gaping squares high up on each wall, busted windows, the edges lined with spikes of pointed glass.
Most of the Trolls were already seated.
Blade hefted the cloak, covering his head as many of the Trolls did, hoping his hair, visible above his forehead, wouldn’t give him away. He took a deep breath and climbed into the bleachers, bearing left.
The Trolls were obviously excited, concentrating on the pen and jabbering happily.
Blade caught snatches of conversation as he ascended the bleachers: “…watch them crack the bones…” “…Wolvie will make mincemeat out of her…” “…a waste of good flesh…”
An expanse of vacant bleacher arrested his attention, and he sat down, glad the Trolls were ignoring him. He studied the crowd, sweeping the arena, his gray eyes widening in alarm when he spotted the Family women and the giant Troll. Instinctively, his left hand crept toward the Bowie on his left hip, his mind racing. What was transpiring? Were the women in danger?
The colossal Troll was talking to the women, the words too faint for Blade to gather their meaning.
He didn’t like this! He didn’t like this one bit!
The Trolls were whispering and fidgeting.
Why?
Blade stood, his blood rushing, forcing himself to casually move down the bleachers in the direction of the women. If something did happen, he wanted to be as close as possible. The Trolls might be superior numerically, but before he would allow harm to befall the women, he would give a good accounting.
To the delight of the Trolls, and to Blade’s consternation, ominous growls emanated from behind a gate in the north wall of the pen.
Blade experienced a sinking feeling, certain he wouldn’t reach the women before something terrible happened.
He was right.
Twelve rows still separated him from them when the huge Troll raised his head and yelled: “Life to the strong and death to the weak!”
The Trolls, galvanized by the phrase, followed his lead: “Life to the strong and death to the weak!”
Blade surged ahead, bowling Trolls from his path, prompting angry outbursts and curses.
The giant suddenly gripped Angela and threw her into the pen.