Keith Baker - The fading dream

She was finishing her work on the last bond as the captain’s axe fell. The troll’s cry of pain echoed across the room. As the Vadalis savant studied the wound, Thorn felt the familiar tingle of magic fading away-her cloak of invisibility finally running its course. She’d done her best to position herself so the others wouldn’t see her, but there were too many people in the room, and they were moving around; she saw a halfling nurse’s eyes widen as he caught sight of her. There was no more time.

“Now!” she whispered into the troll’s ear.

The troll burst from its bonds before the halfling had a chance to cry out. It moved with astonishing speed for a creature that seemed so large and ungainly, and its hand was wrapped around the captain’s head in the blink of an eye. A moment later and it had torn the man’s head from his shoulders.

What are you-? was all Steel managed to say as she drew him and threw him, one smooth motion burying him in the back of a mercenary’s knee. If the man was smart, he’d stay down; the trolls might ignore a fallen foe. The savants fled for the door, but the troll was more cunning that Thorn could have hoped; it grabbed a heavy table and flung it across the room as if it were a toy. Thorn wasn’t worried about a few healers, but she didn’t want anyone to get out of the room. The remnants of the table blocked the door, and the spell of silence intended to mute the sounds of torture would mask the noise of the battle.

The three surviving soldiers had surrounded the troll and were harrying it from all sides. It was an impressive display of skill; as soon as the beast turned its attention to one of the three, the other two would redouble their efforts, causing enough pain to let their companion back out of the troll’s reach. Impressive, yes, but futile; the troll’s power of regeneration healed the minor wounds mere seconds after they were made. And sooner or later, the troll would catch one of the men and crush him. Thorn was watching the savants.

Two broke from the panicked mob. The Vadalis woman drew a wand, leveling it at the raging troll. Unfortunately for her, Thorn also had a wand-the weapon she’d taken from the Orien guard. A thought sent the savant tumbling to the ground, every muscle frozen. Still, that gave an opening for an unlikely champion to dart forward-the old Jorasco healer. The gray-haired halfling laid his hand on the troll’s leg, and blue light burned along his palm, the radiance of a dragonmark. The Jorasco bloodlines carried the Mark of Healing, but his touch did anything but help. The effect on the troll was immediate and shocking. The beast dropped to the ground, its howls of rage fading to pitiful whimpers. It tried to push itself up, but it seemed to have lost all strength. Emboldened, the soldiers darted forward, thrusting with their blades. Before, the wounds from their weapons healed mere seconds after they were made, but black pus oozed from the new injuries, which seemed to spread instead of sealing, as if the troll’s regenerative powers were being turned against it.

If not for Thorn, the fight would have surely ended there. Thorn almost felt guilty; the halfling was barely the size of the troll’s head, and she had to admire the courage of an old man willing to grapple with the beast. But she had a mission to accomplish and no time for mercy. Steel flashed through the air, tearing through the little man’s flesh. Thorn had pierced a lung-not instantly lethal but certainly enough to take the fight out of an old halfling. Or so she thought. The little healer staggered, but he kept his grip tight on the troll’s leg. When Thorn pulled Steel back to her, the halfling reached back with his free hand and laid his palm across the bloody wound. There was another pulse of blue light.

He’s healing himself, she thought.

Thorn was amazed. A normal man would have been in shock within seconds, but the little healer wouldn’t fall. The troll still writhed beneath his grasp, barely able to move. One of the soldiers snatched the captain’s axe and raised it above his head. The runes began to glow, power building for a decapitating strike.

Axes it is, then. Replacing Steel in her glove, Thorn charged forward, calling out the long myrnaxe. She swung the axe as she ran, smashing the flat of the blade into the side of the halfling’s head. She wasn’t sure if it would kill him, but the sheer force of the blow knocked him away from the troll and left him crumpled on the floor. Reversing the weapon, she leaped over the troll, jabbing at the axeman with the silver spearhead. He jerked back but not fast enough; the point of her spear sank into his arm, and he dropped his weapon. Before he could recover, Thorn drove the haft of the spear into his throat, and he collapsed to the floor.

The troll rose to its feet, mottled flesh already healing. The surviving guards turned to flee, but the door was blocked, and the troll was upon them before they could shift the blocking rubble. Thorn looked away, walking to the next troll and working on its bonds. She did her best to ignore the brief screams, but it wasn’t easy. Her experience with the Son of Khyber might have left her with a deep distrust of the dragonmarked, especially those with secret facilities hidden far from the eyes of the Thronehold monarchs. And it seemed that she was in a place where torture was an everyday occurrence. Nonetheless, it was difficult to hear a halfling being torn apart by a hungry troll, knowing as little as she did.

She drew Steel back to her hand. He was silent.

“Don’t think at me that way,” she muttered. “We’re trying to stop the Mourning, aren’t we?”

I just hope you know what you’re doing.

“So do I,” she murmured. “So do I.” She tucked Steel into his sheath and gathered her thoughts. She’d woven a magical disguise before the cloak of invisibility had faded, and that was all that was keeping the trolls at bay. She’d seen a number of changelings at the court of the Daughters of Sora Kell in Droaam, and when the troll invoked the “vengeful daughters” the idea had come to her. She wore the face of a changeling, with pale skin and snow white hair. The triune symbol of the Daughters was traced over her breast in gray thread.

“Children of the Shadow!” she called to the trolls. The two that were free turned to look at her. “The glorious Daughters have heard your cries echoing across the land to the Great Crag itself, and they sent me to release you from this bondage. Transport awaits you beyond the walls of this place, and you will feast for a dozen days on your return!”

She knew nothing about troll customs, but she’d never heard a story that spoke of the great intelligence of a troll, and those four seemed to be no exception. They roared their approval, praising the Daughters of Sora Kell.

“Yet no gift comes without a price!” she roared. “Sora Maenya respects only strength. If you would prove yourselves worthy of her trust, you must show that strength still remains in your limbs!”

“Tell us, changer,” the first troll snarled. He held the body of the old halfling in his hand; the healer was missing an arm, and he would not be rising again. “What must we do?”

She glanced at the others. “You must make your way out yourselves. Earn your release with tooth and claw.” She drew them close with a gesture. “I have a mission of my own on behalf of Sora Katra, and I will need you to leave me be as I do what must be done. This is the face I will be wearing. Study it well.” She released the spell of disguise, restoring her natural appearance as if she were a changeling shifting faces.

The trolls grunted, sniffing at her. “We remember, changer.”

“You two. Release your brothers. Gather your strength. Once I leave this room, remain here for the time it takes to shatter every piece of furniture here, to break every bottle and chain. Then emerge and show your captors what fear truly is.”