Scholar of Magic (Art of the Adept #3) - Michael G. Manning Page 0,134

and funnier. By the way, Clegg is quite intelligent. He understands I’m in the ring now.”

“I see that,” said Will, then he dipped his head respectfully toward the troll. “If you taught Arrogan your language, who taught you ours?”

“Old wizard, long ago. He was Lanthel, first troll friend. ‘Gan is last troll friend.”

‘Gan, that must be short for Arrogan. “How long ago was this?” asked Will.

Clegg scratched his head. “Very long.”

“Lanthel wasn’t in favor of the scorched-earth policy back when they were driving back the troll hordes,” Arrogan informed him. “He made contact with Clegg and managed to convince the last tribe in our world to relocate voluntarily. Since then, the council maintained contact with them for diplomatic reasons. I was the last ambassador appointed before the Terabinian War for Independence.”

“You knew Lanthel?”

“No, that was over a thousand years before I was born. I just happened to be the last wizard who handled our contact with Muskeglun before—well, before everything went to hell,” explained the ring.

Will nodded, swallowing as he tried to comprehend what he was hearing. “So Clegg is somewhere around two thousand years old?”

“Who knows?” admitted Arrogan. “He was old before Lanthel first met him, supposedly, but whether that was fifty years or five thousand years, no one can say.”

Clegg smiled, showing a multitude of dark, stained teeth. “We don’t count many. The years mean little.” Lrmeg leaned in, making an odd series of sounds. The chieftain translated for Will, “Enough talk. Time for drink.”

Will produced the first butt of ale, causing it to appear atop the heavy wooden trunk section. The trolls didn’t bother tapping it the usual way. Lrmeg moved up beside the massive barrel and with one heavy fist knocked the top end into the keg, then pulled it out. Trolls began disappearing into their homes and emerging with large wooden bowls, which they dipped into the keg before pouring the contents into their mouths.

There was a tap on his shoulder, and Will looked over to see Clegg holding a small bowl by troll standards. “Drink,” ordered the troll chief.

Will did as he was told. He was so relieved to not be facing the loss of an arm or leg that he would have done almost anything just then. The bowl held something close to what a large human tankard might contain, so he drank it as speedily as he could. Clegg took the bowl, filled it, and gave it back to him a moment later.

“The drinking has started?” asked Arrogan.

Will swallowed another mouthful of the ale, which was quite good. “Yeah.”

“Good luck,” said the ring. “Enjoy the dancing and don’t worry too much about the food. You can take a blood-cleanse potion later.”

“Food?”

“They’ll want you to eat with them.”

“How bad is it?”

“They’re afraid of fire. You can guess what I mean,” said Arrogan. “Just be sure you don’t eat any troll. The stuff they hunt won’t kill you, but sometimes they get excited and someone rips off his own arm or a leg. If you eat troll flesh, you’ll wind up with more than an upset stomach.”

Will wrinkled his nose. “That’s revolting.” He didn’t say more, though, because one of the trolls let out a loud ‘whoop’ and snatched him up to sit on the massive creature’s shoulder. The crowd seemed to be cheering, so Will held his bowl up in the air and yelled with them.

Then he drank.

He didn’t have very much experience drinking, aside from a few minor occasions while he was in the army and one or two formal events in Cerria. During most of those times, he had been more concerned with keeping a clear head or babysitting one of his squad mates. This time he had only himself, and the trolls insisted that he drink as much as his stomach would hold.

When he got too full and belched up a large mouthful of foam, they laughed and cheered. Things got considerably more chaotic after that.

Drums were brought out, and the trolls began to dance. The music was strangely compelling, particularly since it was different