David Robbins - The Fox Run

To insure success, he wanted to be at least a mile from Fox when he jumped the Trolls. If there were a struggle, if the Troll with the rifle managed to bring his weapon into play, anyone in Fox might assume the hunting party had bagged a deer.

He hoped.

The sun was already high and hot, sweat coating his body.

Blade was surprised when the forest abruptly ended. A hill, covered with boulders, rose in his path. He spotted a well-worn trail weaving up the hill to his right and he swerved, running at his maximum speed, alert for any sounds behind him, aware the Trolls couldn’t be far behind. A third of the way up the slope he found the location he sought, and he ducked behind a massive slab of stone.

None too soon.

Moments later, the three Trolls emerged from the trees. They were using the trail, engaged in animated conversation.

“—miss the testing! It isn’t fair!” The Troll with the Ruger was speaking.

“It’s your fault,” the tallest of the Trolls reminded him.

“Yeah,” agreed the other. “You’re the one who made Saxon angry. You knew he wanted the blonde.”

“What an idiot!” the tall Troll snapped.

“How was I supposed to know Saxon was standing behind me when I said it?” protested Ruger. “I don’t have eyes in the back of my head, you know.”

“You don’t have brains in your head either,” grumped the third Troll.

“Saying you wanted the blonde first!” The tall Troll laughed. “Dumb! Dumb! Dumb!”

“Because of you,” the third Troll said, pressing his compliant, “we’ll miss the testing and the feeding. Just because we were talking to you!”

“So Saxon sends us after game!” The tall Troll was obviously disgusted with the state of affairs. “Some day Saxon will go too far!”

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Ruger advised.

“I hate hunting,” the tall Troll, walking behind Ruger and their companion as they climbed the hill, groused. “It’s so damn boring!”

Blade, perched on top of the slab of stone, grinned and launched himself into the air, catching the Trolls off guard, slamming into the first Troll and bowling him over, knocking him against the two following on his heels. All three Trolls tumbled to the hard ground.

“Look out!” one of the Trolls shouted as he fell.

Blade had calculated his leap, landing on his right shoulder on a patch of grass, rolling and coming to his feet with his Bowie knives drawn and ready.

The first Troll was nearest, on his hands and knees, pushing erect, his bow lying out of reach.

Blade buried his left Bowie in the Troll’s throat, crimson gushing over his arm. He released the knife, the terrified Troll frantically clutching at his destroyed neck.

Ruger was already on his feet, the rifle in his hands, hurriedly drawing the bolt back, chambering the next round.

Blade reached him in one bound, kicking his right leg up and out, battering the rifle aside. He swung the right Bowie in a wide arc, again going for the neck, feeling the keen edge bite deep as it severed the windpipe.

The tall Troll was coming at Blade, a knife held low in his left hand. “You bastard!” he screamed. “I’ll gut you!”

Blade gauged the distance, performing a feat he’d practiced countless times, sweeping his right arm all the way back, then forward, putting his entire body into the throw, the Bowie covering the three feet between them and imbedding in the Troll’s chest, penetrating the heart.

The Troll, stunned, stopped, staring in amazement at the hilt of the knife. He glanced at Blade, grinning weakly. “Neat trick,” he commented, before falling on his face.

Blade surveyed his handiwork. The tall Troll was still, but Ruger and the other were flopping and jerking spasmodically.

His plan was coming together nicely.

Blade bent over the tall Troll and removed his tunic and cloak, his nose balking at the rank odor from the Troll’s body. Didn’t the Trolls believe in bathing? He retrieved his Bowies, wiped the blades on the green grass, replaced them in their sheaths, removed his belt, and placed the big knives on the ground. Now came the hard part. Holding his breath, he pulled the tunic on over his broad shoulders, squirming as much from the tight fit as the stench. He adjusted the bear hide as best he could, rolling his pants up his legs until the jeans were obscured by the tunic. Next, he donned the cloak, fixing the Vega holsters so the guns were over the tunic but under the cloak. He strapped the Bowies around his waist, then removed the dagger from his calf and the one from his wrist and tucked them under his belt, out of sight. He was ready.

The trail the Trolls were following was apparently one used frequently by other Trolls over the years. It was clearly defined, enabling Blade to easily return along it to Fox. He reached an open area between the woods and the north fence and hesitated, hoping his disguise would hold up under close scrutiny. Lowering his head, he walked across the field, keeping his eyes on the fence, heading for the gate in the center of the barricade. What if there was a password? he wondered. What would he do then?

The sun was scorching the earth, rising in the morning sky.

Blade stopped at the gate, looking both ways, expecting to be challenged by guards.

He couldn’t believe it!

The gate was unattended.

Maybe, he reflected as he opened the rickety wooden gate and stepped through the portal, the Trolls felt secure in Fox, exactly as the Family believed they were safe in the Home before the Trolls showed them the error of their ways. Possibly no one had ever attacked Fox.

Blade paused, studying the decayed structures, listening. He knew Fox was crawling with Trolls; he’d seen them earlier when he was spying, waiting for his opportunity to nab a bearskin. So where were they at now?

In the distance, from the east, came a great shout and the sound of cheering.

“What in the world?”

Blade turned, making for the uproar. The streets were completely deserted. He could scarcely credit his good fortune. Whatever was distracting the Trolls was a godsend. Thank the Spirit!

One of the buildings drew his attention.

Blade walked to the front door, puzzled. Unlike the others, this edifice displayed signs of modest repair efforts. The door was intact, the windows covered with crude curtains. A hole in the wall was boarded over. Why?

Why this one building only?

Fox was still devoid of life.

Blade opened the door and entered, carefully waiting for his eyes to adapt to the subdued light before he closed the door and stepped across the room, startled to discover a desk and two chairs neatly arranged against the far wall. Someone, evidently, was utilizing this office on a regular basis. But who? And for what purpose?

On the oaken desk, meticulously stacked in separate piles, were several books and papers.

Blade picked up the papers and moved closer to one of the windows.

These papers were written by someone named Aaron, random notes about a facility he operated and criminals he was rehabilitating. Several entries were fascinating: one concerning the evacuation and the failure of their transportation to arrive, and another detailing the prospects of survival for Aaron’s charges if they could not relocate or find women. One item, in particular, stood out like the proverbial sore thumb: “If we are left on our own, must find women. None left in town. Must find women! ”

Blade leaned against the wall, insight flooding his mind. Now, at least, he understood the origin of the Trolls and comprehended their motivation for stealing women. One detail still eluded him, however. Why were they called Trolls? He walked to the desk and set the papers in their original position.