The man whose arm Thorolf had severed stopped to recover his sword with his remaining arm. Thorolf split his skull, whereupon the cultist slumped at last while two others pushed forward and tried to step over the body to get at Thorolf. While swinging swords with one hand, each of them reached out with the other to clutch at Thorolf. He hewed off both clutching hands, one at the wrist and the other at the elbow. Thereupon the two attackers dropped their swords and thrust their remaining hands toward Thorolf.
"They're trying to take us alive!" Thorolf cried, hacking two-handed at his maimed antagonists with chopping woodcutter's strokes. No matter how fiercely he and his allies fought, he thought, they were doomed by weight of numbers. As he thrust another through, the attacker seized the sergeant's sword with his free hand, ignoring the deep wound the blade made in his hand. Another aimed a blow at Thorolf's head, splitting his hat but not his scalp.
Another sound broke upon Thorolf's ears. From nowhere a horde of yellow trolls erupted and charged, waving iron-headed spears, axes, and clubs. Yelling, they rushed upon the Sophonomists from behind. Of some they spattered the brains with mighty blows; others they hewed asunder or picked up and threw into the Rissel.
In a few minutes it was over. Zigram, Thorolf, Wilchar, and Odo stood panting and sweating amid a ring of bodies, most of them dismembered like beeves in a butcher shop. Blood spattered the garments of the survivors as if it had been thrown at them by bucketsful. Nor was all the blood that of the Sophonomists; Thorolf had taken a slit in his skin along the ribs; his father had a wounded arm. The mailed bodyguards had fared better, but Wilchar's cheek bled copiously from a cut.
Looking up from tying bandages, Thorolf said in Trollish: "Hail, Gak! How come here?"
"Wok say, lowlanders play trick. Kill Thorolf. Thorolf good troll in lowlander body. Go watch. If see trick, help Thorolf!"
"Good!" said Thorolf. "This Consul. Troll friend. My father."
Gak ducked his head, grinned, and slapped Zigram on the shoulder, sending him staggering. "Ah! Good. Help us; we help you."
"Now both mine arms are lamed," grumbled the Consul, moving the bruised member. "What saith the troll?"
Thorolf translated. Zigram said: "Tell him I will do my best to get my bill anent trolls through the Senate. I owe it to his folk."
When Thorolf translated, and the trolls roared approval, Zigram added with a smile: "Pray, no more friendly slaps! That last all but dislocated my shoulder. "
"Now," said Thorolf, "surely you have all the evidence you need to command an attack on Castle Zurshnitt!"
"Think ye so? Gunthram's convinced that so many of our men are secret Sophonomists that when so commanded, theyd turn on their own officers instead. Think not but that we've considered the problem. Moreover, Orlandus could use your Yvette as a hostage.
"I'll tell you! Proceed with this secret plan of yours. If by the time the election be over, Orlandus' flag still flies high, I'll see what I can do."
As Zigram and his bodyguards painfully prepared to mount and amble off, Thorolf said: "Father, how shall we communicate? We need something more regular than an occasional trading party."
Zigram shrugged. "I know not, son."
"Let's say you develop a burning thirst for trollish beer and have arranged to receive a keg thereof each week. We can have our missives exchanged with each load."
"That horrible stuff!"
"You could give it to your cat when no witnesses be nigh."
"And poison the poor beast? Anyway, she'd have better sense than to drink it."
"Well, send me some more paper, pray. I am almost bereft!"
Thorolf waved to the departing Consul and folded the garments that the invisible Sophonomist had worn. At least, Orlandus had not been so prescient as to realize that a naked spy in this cool, wet weather was likely to betray his presence by sneezing. He gathered his bundle and turned back toward the village of the Sharmatt trolls.
VIII – Dubious Deliverance
Looking at Wok across the fire as they gnawed goat's meat, Thorolf said: "O Chief, I shall need help to overthrow the Sophonomists."
Wok took his time. "Get your father to declare us people, and we will help. Otherwise, not."
"Ah—a fine idea, but I know not how to bring it about ..."
"That is my final word, Thorolf. Any such venture were perilous to us trolls. Why lust ye after this? Hast not a good life here?"
"It's not that you treat me badly. I told you I had an eye on a lowland woman in Zurshnitt. She is a prisoner of Orlandus."
"What's wrong with Bza? Be ye not futtered enough?"
"Nay; that's not it. This one I loved ere I ever met Bza."
"So what think ye? To snatch this woman out of Orlandus' grasp and fetch her hither?" Wok gave a rumbling chuckle. "We cavil not at a man's having more than one mate. Forsooth, it takes a real man—" Wok thumped his furry chest with the sound of a bass drum "—to ride more than one at a time. I know. If they quarrel, he must needs make peace amongst them. If they act in concert, they nag him, one after another, until he gives in to their desire. If ye fetch your lowland sweetling hither, it will be a sight for the ancestral spirits how ye fare betwixt the twain."
Thinking, Thorolf gnawed. "Not sure am I yet what stratagems would further my sire's bill to benefit the trolls." The horrid idea that had been lurking at the back of his mind could no longer be denied. Taking a deep breath, he said: "Could some troll guide me through the tunnel under Zurshnitt, so that I shall discover whither it leads and where it gives access to the world above?"
After a gulp and a belch, Wok replied: "Very well. I shall send Gak."
Not only to guide me, thought Thorolf, but also to watch lest I turn against the trolls.
Ahead of the hillock on which stood Thorolf and Gak, the Venner Valley sprawled, in the misty midst of which lay Zurshnitt. Beyond the city rose the snow summits of the Dorblentz Range. Thorolf could just make out the dark protuberance in the middle of Zurshnitt that was Castle Hill and its fortlet.
"Go back down," grunted Gak, pointing down the slope away from the city. He stepped off the crest and skidded down the steep incline, checking his slide with the butt of his spear.
Thorolf, wearing the yellow robe he had taken from the dead Sophonomist spy, scrambled after. Gak halted at the base of a mossy outcrop of stone, forming a small cliff. The face of the outcrop was masked by a screen of creepers dangling from the bank above.
Gak's sky-blue eyes peered out from under his shaggy, overhanging brows. "Be sure nobody see," he growled.
He pushed the creepers aside, laid a hairy hand against the stone, and pushed. Groaning, a section of stone revolved about its vertical axis until the slab stood perpendicular to the face of the outcrop, half in and half out of the tunnel entrance.
Gak took a last look about and entered the hidden door. "Come!" he said in a stage whisper.
Thorolf took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and fought his rising panic. He told himself: Come on, weren't you just as frightened when the howling mob of Tzenrican revolutionaries rushed upon you?
"What matter?" said Gak from within the tunnel. "Fear?"
At least, thought Thorolf, he could not let this backward aboriginal see that he was afraid. He forced himself to step boldly into the tunnel, ignoring the painful pounding of his heart.
"Dark!" he muttered.