The Troll Under the Bridge

The troll had been at it again.

Thorn stood ankle-deep in the brook, staring at the mess of branches jammed under the old stone bridge. Water spilled over the road above, turning the path to Maiden's Brook into a mire, while only a trickle seeped through the bottom, murky and choked with leaves. Somewhere in the tangle, a small grey shape was watching him.

He'd done this three times now. The troll built its dam, the road flooded, Thorn tore it apart, and the troll rebuilt. The whole province of Rekrar was infested with the creatures, but they were protected under the old laws, as were all magical beasts that called Dragantwood home. Killing one would bring the temple's wrath down on his head, and Guardian Ank's disappointment was something Thorn preferred to avoid.

"Dax should've caught this," he muttered, though he knew it wasn't fair. The kid had enough to do at the inn, as did he. The fence by the vegetable patch needed mending, the cellar steps were rotting through, and the chimney smoked when the wind came from the east, jobs that had piled up over the past year, each one quietly ignored.

He shoved the thought aside and gripped his stick tighter. Through the curtain of water cascading over the bridge, he could just make out a darker shadow lurking in the culvert's depths.

"I know you're in there."

A sudden torrent of muddy water burst from the culvert, drenching his trousers to the thigh before retreating to its pathetic trickle. Thorn looked down at his soaked clothing and shook his head. Of all the jobs he had today, washing his clothes had been at the bottom of the list.

Nothing for it. He waded into the falls.

The cold stole his breath, soaking through to the skin before he'd taken two steps. He grabbed the nearest branch and pulled. It came free in a spray of mud, but the dam held. He grabbed another, then another, working by feel in the murky darkness, searching for the linchpin, that one twisted branch holding the whole mess together.

His fingers closed around something that wasn't wood.

The branch squirmed in his grip, rough bark twisting against his palm, tendons moving beneath rocklike skin. The troll thrashed, trying to wrench free, but Thorn had dealt with stronger things than this in his decades of soldiering.

"Got you."

He hauled backward. For a moment the troll resisted, its grip impossibly strong for something so small, and then they both tumbled out into the daylight in a great heave of water as the dam gave way. Thorn went down on one knee, still holding the creature's wrist, as debris rushed past and the brook found its proper course again.

The troll wrenched free and scrambled upright. It stood maybe four feet tall, skin the mottled grey-green of wet stone, stocky legs planted among the smooth rocks of the streambed. It didn't run. The rising water flowed around it as if around a boulder, and those surprisingly large eyes fixed on Thorn with an expression he couldn't read.

"Clear off." He grabbed up his stick and thrashed the water between them. The troll didn't flinch. "I know you understand me, you little shit. You go back in there, I'll just have to fish you out again. How many times are we going to do this?"

He waved his stick toward the thick forest looming on either side of the brook, oaks and ash and the silver-barked dagma trees that grew nowhere else in the world, their canopy so dense the forest floor lay in perpetual twilight.

"Plenty of hiding spots. But the bridge is off limits."

The troll's stubby legs shuffled forward, drawn back toward the culvert. Thorn raised his stick. Those dark eyes met his. Not animal eyes. Something older looked out from behind them.

Then its shoulders slumped. It turned and trudged toward the treeline, its footsteps heavy with what looked remar

ably like resignation. At the forest's edge, it paused and glanced back once.

"Why not just kill it?"

Thorn spun. A cluster of pilgrims had gathered on the bridge above, and the one who'd spoken was a middle-aged man in travelling clothes that had been expensive before three days on the road had their way with them. His accent marked him as city folk. Behind the wealthy pilgrim, three small marsh elves stood laden with packs and bags, the pilgrims' belongings piled on their backs in teetering stacks. They said nothing, their faces carefully blank.

"With respect, that's not how we do things here. There are edicts on the treatment of trolls and the magical beasts of Dragantwood."

"But this is the king's highway." The pilgrim stamped his foot on the bridge as if to demonstrate the solidity of the crown's authority. "Surely we can't allow vermin to—"

"The builder's mark on that keystone is dwarven, not human. The road's older than the kingdom." Thorn climbed the bank, water streaming from his clothes and pooling on the stone. "The troll has more claim to it than any of us."

The pilgrim stepped back, muttering to his companions about backwards country folk.

"Ladies and gentlemen," called a familiar voice, "feast your eyes on the legendary hero of Rekrar."

Vigdis leaned against the bridge railing, grinning like she'd caught him at something. She wore her travelling leathers, the good ones, oiled and supple from years of use, with her pack slung over one shoulder and her short-cropped hair still damp from the mist. A sword hung low at her hip. The pilgrims probably took it for show. Thorn had seen her use it.

"I could do without the snarky commentary, Vig."

"You could do with a bath, from the smell of things." She took in his sodden, mud-splattered state. "I leave you alone for a few days and you go completely feral."

"It's been almost a week."

"Has it? Felt shorter." She pushed off from the railing and dropped down to the road, landing with the easy grace of someone who'd spent half her life climbing things she shouldn't. Up close, the weariness around her eyes was plain. She'd been on the move for days, guarding pilgrim groups up and down the road. "Miss me?"

"Like a rash."

Her laugh startled the pilgrims. "Liar. You've been moping around that cabin of yours, I can tell. Have you even been sleeping?"

"You'd best get your pilgrims moving. They'll want to eat before they tackle the last stretch to the temple."

"Our pilgrims." Vigdis nodded toward a young couple standing apart from the others, a tall, thin man with nervous hands and a shorter woman with kind eyes and a travel-worn smile. They carried heavier packs than the rest, stuffed with personal belongings rather than pilgrim's offerings. "Cass and Amara. Guardian Ank's people. The ones who're taking over the inn."

"They're earlier than I thought."

"Eager, apparently. Couldn't wait to start their new life in the magical forest." The mockery faded from her voice. "They seem decent enough. She cooks, he does the books. Both farans, if that matters."

"Ank mentioned that." Thorn watched the couple, noting the way they stood close together, shoulders touching. He'd stood like that once.

"Sera would've—" Vigdis stopped herself, but not quickly enough.

"Yeah." He turned away and wrung water from his shirt, the fabric cold and heavy in his hands. "She would've."

Neither of them spoke. The pilgrims shuffled and murmured behind them.

"Go on ahead," Thorn said. "I'll catch up. Need to check something downstream."

Vigdis knew he was lying. She also knew when to push and when to let him be. "Don't take too long. We need to talk. Tonight."

"About?"

"Later." She raised her voice for the pilgrims. "Right, you lot. The Ranger's Rest is just up the road, food, drink, and a chance to dry out before the last leg to the temple. Move along."

They obeyed, shuffling past Thorn with curious glances. The young couple hesitated as if wanting to introduce themselves, but Vigdis herded them along with the others.

Thorn watched them go, the line of travel-stained figures winding up the road toward the inn. When the last of them disappeared around the bend, he turned back to the brook.

The culvert ran clear now, and the debris had washed downstream where the villagers could deal with it or leave it for the next flood.

On the far bank, half-hidden between two mossy boulders, the troll watched him. It had crept back while he wasn't looking, though it kept its distance from the bridge.

"I meant what I said." He wasn't sure why he was still talking to it. The forest was empty, and talking to a troll seemed less pathetic than talking to himself. "Find somewhere else. Dark places, wet places. No one to bother you."

The troll blinked. In the dappled light, its mottled skin shifted and changed, blending with the stone behind it until only those dark eyes remained visible.

"Good trick," Thorn murmured. "Better to hide than fight, eh?"

He left it there and walked up the road toward the inn, his boots squelching with every step. The afternoon sun slanted through the trees at a steep angle, painting long shadows across the rutted path, and somewhere in the canopy birds called to each other in that urgent way they had before nightfall. The forest was settling into its evening rhythms, day creatures retreating, night ones stirring.

The Ranger's Rest sat just beyond the bridge, its timber frame and stone foundation newer than most buildings in Maiden's Brook. Smoke curled from the chimney, which meant Dax had the fire going, and the glass windows caught the afternoon light. The sign above the door swung gently in the breeze, a ranger's cloak draped over a chair, a cup of wine waiting beside it. Carved by a woodworker in Rekrar, painted by Sera.

Outside, the marsh elf servants were helping each other unload, setting down bags and bundles with quiet efficiency while their charges had already gone inside. One of them, a young female with the distinctive pointed ears and copper-brown skin of her kind, caught Thorn's eye and gave a small nod before turning back to her work.

He paused at the door, one hand on the worn wooden frame. The grain was smooth under his palm, polished by a year of similar hesitations. A year since he'd found her in the kitchen, the floorboards slick with blood, the money chest broken open. Seventeen silver marks and a handful of coppers. That's what they'd taken. They'd left his wife dead on the floor with a knife in her chest. The crown reeve from Rekrar had declared it a robbery gone wrong. Travellers, probably. These things happened on the pilgrim road. They'd asked their questions, written their notes, and ridden away. No one had been caught.

Thorn pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The common room was filling with Vigdis's pilgrims, settling into chairs and calling for food. The fire crackled in the hearth, and the familiar smells of woodsmoke and bread and brewing tea hit him as he crossed the threshold. A pair of pilgrims stood near the wall, admiring one of Sera's paintings, a forest scene showing the dagma trees with their silver bark, and between them, ethereal figures dancing. The Sa'cura, she'd called them. Forest nymphs, fae folk. She'd painted a dozen of them over the year, covering the walls with her vision of Dragantwood's hidden magic, delicate beings with flowing hair and graceful limbs, barely more substantial than moonlight.

"Quite lovely," one of the pilgrims was saying. "Is the artist local?"

Her companion pointed to the signature in the corner. "S. Thorn. Must be the warden's wife. I heard she passed last year. Tragic."

Thorn looked away. Dax moved between the tables with a tray, wearing trousers and a loose shirt with her hair pulled back in a practical knot. The kid had that particular scowl that meant customers were being difficult, and a few of the pilgrims gave Dax odd looks, city folk unused to the casual way country people approached such matters, but Dax ignored them with practised indifference.

At the bar, a familiar figure sat nursing a cup of wine.

Lucet Linder was young, barely into his twenties, with the kind of easy smile that made people want to trust him. His clothes were well-made but not ostentatious, and he wore them with the unconscious grace of someone who'd grown up expecting better. He worked for Duke Rav up at the manor, handling the parties and gatherings the Duke used to court favour with wealthy visitors, and when he wasn't doing that, he seemed to spend most of his time at the Ranger's Rest.

"There he is!" Lucet raised his cup, unbothered by the mud Thorn was tracking across the floor, his eyes following Thorn's movement across the room. "I heard there was some excitement at the bridge. Troll trouble again?"

"Something like that." Thorn stopped at the bar, letting the heat from the fire warm his back.

"Persistent little bastards, aren't they?" Lucet took a sip of his wine, his gaze drifting to follow Dax as she passed with her tray. "We've got one that keeps getting into the manor cellars. Cook's beside herself. Duke wants me to hire someone to deal with it, but I keep telling him, kill a troll in Dragantwood and you'll have Guardian Ank to answer to."

"Smart man."

"I try." Lucet's smile widened. "I was just telling Dax here, she should come work at the manor. Better pay, more excitement. But she won't hear of it." "I said I'd think about it," Dax muttered, not slowing down as she deposited empty cups on the bar.

"She's been saying that for months." Lucet's tone was light, teasing, but he turned his cup a slow half-circle on the bar. "Can't blame a fellow for trying. It gets dull up there, you know. All those nobles and their endless complaints. Could use a friendly face around the place."

Dax deposited her tray on the bar with more force than necessary. "I'm not friendly."

"You're friendlier than most of that lot." Lucet nodded toward the pilgrims, then his expression shifted. "But honestly, Dax, I keep telling you, it's no place for you. Trust me on that."

"Then why do you keep asking me to come work there?"

"Because I'm an idiot who can't help trying to save people from boredom." He said it lightly. Thorn glanced over anyway. "All those nobles with their wandering hands, servants who'd stab you in the back for a chance at promotion. You're better off here, even if the tips are worse."

"The tips are terrible," Dax said.

"See? You'd hate it even more up there." Lucet drained his cup and set it down with the careful precision of someone who'd been drinking steadily for a while. "Another, when you've got a moment. No rush."

Thorn moved past them toward the kitchen. Lucet was harmless enough. Everyone said so. The Duke trusted him, the nobles liked him, even Dax tolerated him. But the relentless cheerfulness sat wrong, too much effort behind too much smile.

The kitchen was warm, the fire burning low in the big iron stove. A loaf of fresh bread, slightly singed, sat cooling on the counter, and something bubbled in a pot near the hearth, Dax's attempt at vegetable stew, thick with barley and too many herbs. It still smelled like Sera's cooking in here, the herbs she'd hung above the stove releasing their fragrance even after a year.

He stripped off his wet shirt and hung it on the hook by the fire. In front of the stove, the floorboards were scrubbed white. He'd cleaned that spot a hundred times. Some nights he woke with the brush in his hand and his knees aching, no memory of leaving his bed.

Voices drifted in from the common room, Vigdis's gruff tones mixing with softer, more hesitant ones. Cass and Amara, meeting Dax.

Thorn pulled on a dry shirt from the kitchen cupboard and went out to face them.

They were younger than he'd expected, thirty at most, with the scrubbed-clean look of people who'd spent their whole lives trying to do right. Cass's hands never settled, adjusting pack straps, smoothing his hair, touching the wooden pendant at his throat. Amara stood with her shoulder against his, steady as a fence post.

"You must be Thorn." Amara stepped forward, her hand extended, and her grip was firm and warm. "Guardian Ank told us so much about you."

"Did he."

"He said you were..." She searched for the word. "Steadfast. That you'd keep us right while we learned the way of things." Her smile turned apologetic. "We're city folk, from Rekrar. This is all rather new to us."

"I'll help where I can. But the inn's yours now. Sera always said it needed someone with more patience than me."

At the mention of Sera, Amara's expression softened. "I'm so sorry for your loss. Cass and I, we want you to know, we're not here to replace what you and your wife built. We're here to continue it."

He settled for a nod.

Cass cleared his throat, his fingers worrying at his pendant, a wooden circle carved with the arlen's spiral. "The guardian said you've been running things on your own this past year. That must have been..."

"Quiet." Thorn cut him off before he could find the word. "Dax knows the routines better than I do. She manages the cooking, does a passable job of it. Work with her, not around her, she's got her own way of doing things."

"Of course." Amara glanced toward the bar, where Dax was pointedly ignoring the newcomers while refilling Lucet's cup. "She seems... capable."

"She is. Give her time. She doesn't warm to people quickly."

"Neither do you, as I recall." Vigdis appeared at his shoulder, arms crossed, looking the newcomers up and down like she was evaluating raw recruits. "Don't let the gruff exterior fool you. He's soft as butter underneath."

"I'm standing right here, Vig."

"I know. That's what makes it funny."

Cass and Amara exchanged uncertain looks. Thorn took pity on them.

"The rooms are upstairs. The one at the end was mine, take whichever you prefer from the others. Dax can show you where everything is, linens, supplies, where we keep the good wine for difficult pilgrims." He turned toward the door. "I need to check the grounds before dark."

"You're leaving?" Amara's smile faltered. "We were hoping to talk more, learn about the area—"

"The best way to learn is by doing." Thorn nodded to the pilgrims settling into their seats, some removing cloaks while others drank greedily from the water jugs Dax was hurriedly delivering. "See to your customers, and listen to Dax."

He was outside before anyone could argue. The door swung shut behind him and he stood on the threshold, breathing hard, the sun lower now and the forest darkening on all sides.

He should go back inside. Cass and Amara had come a long way to help with a burden he'd been carrying alone, and the least he could do was be civil. Instead, he started down the slope behind the inn, following the narrow path that led to his cabin. The inn sat on higher ground, solid and permanent, while his half-finished cabin occupied a small clearing where the stream bent and widened into a pool. Through the branches he could still see the inn's upper windows catching the last light and hear the muffled voices from above. Close enough to be part of things. Far enough to pretend he wasn't.

The ground softened as he descended, ferns carpeting the earth and moss covering the rocks along the streambank in thick green velvet. The air was cooler here, damper, smelling of water and growing things, and through gaps in the canopy he could make out the cottages of Maiden's Brook downstream, smoke rising from their chimneys.

The cabin was no closer to being finished than it had been six months ago. The tent beside it was a temporary measure that had become permanent through sheer inertia. He'd started the cabin when the inn grew too heavy, but every time he picked up a hammer he'd imagine Sera handing him nails, or laughing at his measurements. So he'd stopped.

He settled on a fallen log near the water's edge. The spring fed the pool from below, keeping the water clear and cold even in summer. Small fish darted in the shallows and insects hummed in the undergrowth.

Movement at the edge of his vision.

His hand drifted to the knife at his belt. Something was moving through the trees on the far side of the pool, something large, picking its way through the undergrowth with a strange hitching gait. Not a predator's smooth prowl. Something wounded.

A deer emerged from the shadows.

Its coat caught the dying light and held it, shimmering like burnished gold. Each hair seemed to glow with its own inner fire, casting warm reflections on the still water. It was larger than any deer Thorn had ever seen, easily the size of a warhorse, its body powerful and graceful in equal measure. Its antlers spiralled upward in impossible curves, branching and re-branching until they looked less like bone and more like the dagma trees themselves, with silver threads catching the last of the light.

Then it turned, and he saw the wounds.

Four deep gashes raked across its hindquarters, the flesh torn and ragged, blood dried to a dark crust against the golden fur. But even as he watched, the edges were knitting together, new flesh forming with a speed that shouldn't have been possible.

Whatever had done this had claws the size of daggers.

The deer bent its neck to drink, its muzzle touching the water and sending ripples across the surface. The small fish scattered.

Thorn held his breath. In twenty years of soldiering and two years in these woods, he'd never seen anything like it. The magical beasts of Dragantwood were strange and wonderful, the trolls, the arlens at the temple with their healing touch, the silver fish in the sacred pools. But this was something else entirely, the kind of creature the temple keepers spoke of in hushed voices. The deer raised its head.

Their eyes met across the water. Gold, true gold, like molten metal, without pupil or iris, and what looked out of them was older still. Older than the troll under the bridge. Older than the dwarven keystone.

The look went through him. His hand fell away from the knife without his telling it to, and he sat very still on the log, the way he'd once stood in temple as a boy, certain of being measured.

Then the deer broke and ran, gold pouring between the dark trunks, and was gone. Disturbed undergrowth, the knock of hooves fading uphill, nothing more. He sat there for a long time after it was gone.

The claw marks had been deep and vicious, too wide for a wolf, too savage for a bear. Four parallel gouges, perfectly spaced. Something that hunted with intelligence and purpose.

Something was in his forest.

He should tell the Duke, warn the villagers, set watches. Instead he sat and watched the water darken as the last light left the sky.

From up the slope came voices from the inn, laughter, the clatter of plates.

Eventually he stood, legs stiff, clothes still damp. At the edge of the clearing he paused and looked back at the pool, at the dagma trees gleaming faintly in the starlight, at the half-finished cabin.

His tent waited in the darkness, the canvas breathing in and out with the wind.