Story Time: Troll Hunter

Troll Hunter

By Mark Ivan Cole

I don’t hate them. I do find them ugly. They’re big, mostly, and inconvenient. Dangerous? That depends.

I hunt trolls because I can. I have to.

Grandma used to say I was the strongest milkmaid in town. I probably was. The Great Famine took everyone in the village but Pa and me. When Pa died, I strapped on his sword and ax and started walking.

I walked a long way before I found a town untouched by famine. They had a different problem. A troll blocked the pass. No one could get through. The mayor offered a sack of coins to anyone who would rid them of the scourge. I was hungry, so I went. When I came back with the severed head, the bounty was mine. I ate my fill, drank my fill, found a room and slept like a queen.

The money lasted three months, but when it was gone no one wanted a milkmaid who could kill trolls. I had become a troll hunter.

Another town, another bounty. A troll had taken over the bridge. The span had been built at great expense, and not being able to use it meant traveling days out of the way. Trade was suffering. Wealthy tempers were short. Every local braggart claimed he would win the prize. I slept on the streets and bided my time. When the braggarts failed, the bounty was doubled. I delivered the head and earned enough for six months’ lodging and victuals. When that was gone, I was back on the road.

This is how I’ve lived in the years since: like a hero or like a dog, well-fed and comfortable or alone in the cold. The difference depends on finding quarry. Trolls are not common; I must always search for trouble. When I find it and fix it, the money flows, but once the flow stops, no one wants me around.

Which brings me to last week.

I heard rumors of a particularly bothersome nuisance near the main road. Much property and not a few lives had been lost. My own purse was nearly empty and I did not want to spend another winter in a cave.

“How much to clear the road?” I asked the pumpkin-faced nobleman in the velvet chair.

He scratched his double chin. “We are a poor people,” he mumbled.

“Not all of you,” I said, eyeing his rings; “and I suspect it’s worth more than what’s on the table to get the trade going again. When was the last time a wagon load of salt from your precious mines was delivered safely and paid for? How much longer before your store shelves go empty? No goods, no buyers.”

He winced. “What makes you think you can do it?” he challenged, collecting himself. “I’ve half a mind to reduce the reward if a woman thinks she can claim it.”

“A bounty is a bounty,” I said; “no matter who collects it. I need no one’s faith. The task is the same, whether or not you believe.” I leaned forward and spread my hands on the table. “A decent offer might make it worth my trouble.”

He pursed his lips and shrugged.

“I can wait,” I said. I left the door open behind me.

Two days later, the last local hero failed to return, and the offer became more reasonable. I secured a small advance, filled my belly and got a good night’s sleep before heading into the hills.

Which brings us to tonight.

I’ve spent several days just watching. This troll is not that big but it’s wary. Skittish. Easily spooked. Sniffs the air all the time. For now, the wind is in my favor, but a storm is coming. Yet I delay.

I know my line of attack. I know the troll’s pattern, weakness and blind spot. That’s not my problem.

My problem is that this troll is not a “he.” And she’s not alone. I’ve seen the tousled top of the young one’s head.

Delaying this kill has nothing to do with any motherliness on my part.

My dilemma is twofold. First, the bounty pays for one dead troll. Just one. If I kill the offspring as well, the rich bastard in town gets a sweet deal he did not negotiate. There will be no bargaining with him after the fact. If I kill the mother first and then say there’s a young one, I will have earned the bounty but not solved the problem. That will not be taken kindly.

Second, trolls are rare enough as it is. If I kill the young one now, it cannot grow up to be the sort of menace that I can kill later for a better price.

I’m the best troll hunter this side of the Western Divide. It’s a hard-won reputation. I make a good living. I eat well because I collect a bounty, and I collect a bounty because I kill trolls. Every dry bed I ever slept on cost some dumb being its life.

I need this troll. I need the next troll, too. I am killing the very thing I need.

The rain has started. Water drips from the boughs over my perch. Every day that goes by without a kill means another night in the cold. In a month it will be snowing. In a moment, the troll will come out, looking for food. I have a decision to make.

Here she comes. Lightning flashes and thunder rolls. She fears it, but she’s hungry, and so is her little one. She must hunt. She heads downhill, as always.

I ready myself. The thunderstorm is my friend. The troll is distracted by Thor’s hammer-falls.

As always, she turns the corner here and hesitates. I am on her in an instant. My ax finds its mark, splitting the seam of her skull, burying itself in her brain. Whatever thoughts she once had are gone. Her body reacts, mindlessly defending itself, arms and torso jerking wildly. If I just stay out of the way, this thrashing will fizzle out in a few minutes.

I leap from her shoulders and slip down the muddy hillside. It’s wet now, and steeper than I realized. I almost slide into the ravine, but I catch myself before I go over. Ignoring the mayhem going on uphill, I claw my way back to solid footing. I stand up only to see the dead troll tumbling toward me. I scramble sideways. As the carcass rumbles past, its flailing arm knocks me off my feet and over the edge.

Face up, eyes open, I feel nothing. I hear nothing. I lie as still as the stones beneath me. High above, lightning silhouettes a tousled head peering down into the ravine.

Go on, little one. A dry bed is no use to me now.