The Rise and Fall of a Dragonking - By Lynn Abbey Page 0,47

traded. I found Bult’s hidden coin cache and counted those coins, too. Bult had been a wealthy man, for all the good it had done him. Wealth didn’t interest me, not half as much as the torn scraps of vellum Bult had kept in a case made from tanned and supple troll hide.

While the others slept, I examined the scraps and gave thanks to Jikkana, who’d taught me human script. There were maps on some of the scraps: maps of the Kreegills, maps of the whole human heartland. Roads were lines; villages were names beside dots of greater or lesser size. Deche was marked on the Kreegill map, with a big red slash drawn through it. Deche and other villages, more than I cared to count.

Bult had made other marks on his precious maps: blue curls for sweet streams that flowed year around, three black lines with a triangle below them to mark where we’d buried our dead. Those black lines surprised me: I hadn’t thought he’d noticed. The last five years of my life were written on those vellum scraps.

Another scrap held the names of the veterans in his band. I laughed when I read the words he’d written about me: “Bigmouthed farm boy. Talks too much. Thinks too much. Dangerous. Squash him when Jikkana lets him go.” A man who has to write such things down in order to remember them is a fool, but I read his entries carefully, committing them, too, to my memory before I burnt the vellum. After all, he’d been right about me; he just hadn’t moved fast enough.

There were intact sheets of vellum in the case. Each bore the seal of a higher officer. The words were unfamiliar to me, even when I sounded them out. A code, I decided, but aren’t all languages codes, symbols for words, words for things, motions, and ideas? I’d cracked the troll code before I knew that humanity had a code of its own. I had no doubt that I could crack any code Bult had devised.

Of course, Bult hadn’t devised the code. It was Myron of Yoram’s code: the orders he—or someone he trusted—had sent to bands like ours. On each folded sheet, the officers whose paths crossed ours had written their thoughts about us. As we rarely saw the same officer twice running, the sheets were a sort of conversation among our superiors.

Pouring over them, I easily pictured Bult doing the same. The image inspired me. I cracked the Troll-Scorcher’s code three nights later. It was a simple code: one symbol displacing another without variation from one officer to the next. The Troll-Scorcher’s officers weren’t much cleverer than Bult had been, but their secrets had been safe from our yellow-haired leader. He would never have carried those closely written sheets around for all those years if he’d known how Yoram’s officers belittled him.

But there were more than insults coded on those sheets. Word by word, I pieced together the Troll-Scorcher’s strategy. He herded the trolls as if they were no more, no less, than kanks. He culled his bugs and kept them moving, lest they overgraze the pasturage: human farms, human villages, human lives.

We—Bult’s band and the other bands that mustered each year on the plains—weren’t fighting a war; we were shepherds, destined to tend Myron of Yoram’s flocks forever.

I read my translations to my veterans the next night. Honest rage choked my throat as I described the Troll-Scorcher’s intentions; I couldn’t finish. A one-eyed man-one of Bult’s confidants and, I’d assumed, no friend of mine—took up after me. He was a halting reader; my ears ached listening to him, but he held the band’s attention, which gave me the chance to study my men and women unobserved.

They were mostly the children of veterans. They’d been raised in the sprawling camp in the plains where the whole army mustered once a year until they were old enough to join a band. Their lives had been completely shaped by Myron of Yoram’s war against the trolls. When One-Eye finished, they sat mute, staring at the flames with unreadable expressions. For a moment I was flummoxed. Then I realized that their sense of betrayal went deeper than mine. Their very reason for living—the reasons that had sustained their parents and grandparents—was a fraud perpetrated by the very man they called their lord and master: Myron Troll-Scorcher.

It was no longer enough that I lead them from one village to the next, looking for trolls who had—as they