The Rise and Fall of a Dragonking - By Lynn Abbey Page 0,34

hint of what lay before me.

Trolls were sun-worshipers. Every house I’d explored above Deche had an east-facing door with a rayed disk and an inscription chiseled into the stone lintel above it. I’d determined that before the Troll-Scorcher had come to the Kreegills, trolls had set the skulls of their ancestors atop their homes where the sun would strike them first and fill their hollow eyes with light.

My troll had fallen wrong-way round. Dawn struck his feet while his eyes were still in shadow. It was no desecration—not compared to what the trolls had done in Deche and elsewhere—merely an accident as he fell and died. But I had to prove myself better than the trolls, to justify what I’d done. I wrapped my belt around his ankles and hauled him around so the rays fell on his still-open eyes. In ashes on his chest, I wrote the troll blessings I’d seen on their hearthstones.

Then, when the sun was well risen, I took my knife and hacked off his head.

Bult and the others had begun to rouse from their stupor by the time I returned to our camp with my trophy, banging bloodily into my knee. Looking back, I now recognize another gesture from destiny’s hand, guiding me into a situation I ought not to have survived. I was young—that accounts for most foolishness among men of all races; I suppose it accounts for mine that morning.

Throwing the troll’s head at Bult’s feet, I shouted, “I saved your worthless lives last night,” and, in the inexplicable reasoning of youth, I expected him to thank me. More than that, I expected him to recognize that I was the better man and admit as much before the whole band.

Foolishness. Unmitigated foolishness… and destiny.

Bult had a sword, the only sword in our band. It had a composite blade: bits of broken obsidian wedged into a stave of waterlogged wood that had then been baked hard in a kiln and strengthened with a copper spine. It was useless against a troll, but Bult figured to make short work of me when he drew it out of a bulky scabbard.

“Knew you was trouble from the start,” he said, kicking my trophy aside as he advanced on me. “Should’ve killed you then and there—you with your fancy farm-boy words and your ideas.”

I retreated a pace and tested my grip, finger by finger, against the rawhide braid wrapped around my club. With a dead troll fresh in my memory, I was cautious, but not overawed by my adversary or his weapon. My club needed a bit more room than Bult’s sword; I shook out my shoulder and retreated, cocking my arm for my first swing. Bult smiled and nodded.

I thought our brawl was about to begin, but I hadn’t been paying attention to my back. Hands I hadn’t suspected seized my wrist and elbow. They wrenched my weapon from my hand, clouted me on the flank, and thrust me forward to my doom.

I landed hard on my hands and knees, well in range of Bult’s leather-shod foot. He kicked me solidly under the chin, and I went head over heels in the dust, to the great amusement of my fellows, who had more enthusiasm for the murder of one of their own than they’d shown for a true enemy’s death.

“You think you’re smarter than me, Manu,” Bult told me as he raised his foot to kick me again. I scrabbled backward into an unfriendly wall of legs and feet that ended my retreat. “That’s been your mistake all along. You think ’cause your mamma and papa taught you to talk pretty, you’re cut from a better piece of cloth. Well, your mamma and papa aren’t nothing but troll-meat, Manu, just like you’re gonna be when they find you.”

Bult meant to hamstring me and leave me for the trolls—that was clear from the gleam in his eyes and the angle his wrist made with the sword’s blade when he raised his arm. He could have had his will with me; I was weak with fear and sick with defeat. Sour blood filled my mouth. There was no strength left in me to move my legs out of harm’s way, if he’d taken his cut right then. But Bult lugged his stroke and gut-kicked me instead.

Today I am the Lion of Urik, invulnerable and invincible. In the form Rajaat has given me, the finest steel cannot harm me. With an exercise of whim, I can hide my shape beneath