The Witchwood Crown
Oh, God save me, Morgan thought. He knows I’m drunk, and he’s forcing me to talk to him on purpose. “I never met the duke before the day he died,” he said. “No, once, I think, when I was a boy. He was big, and he had a loud voice.” Unlike the lie he had told about his father, this was true: Morgan had not accompanied his grandfather on his last trip north, and almost all his knowledge about the Duke of Elvritshalla came from his grandfather’s long and doubtless exaggerated stories.
Binabik’s smile was wider this time. “Loud voice, with certainty! Like a great ram bellowing at his rivals. But there was being more to Isgrimnur. Much more.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Morgan wanted only to escape back into the lamplit dark and the company of ordinary people—and ale. Why did everyone insist on talking to him about dead people today? “Still, I should find . . .”
“My family and I have been walking about the city in this evening, once the duke’s funeral was ended,” said Binabik. “Your grandmother the queen had worry that we would be abused by the people here, because for long years these folk and mine were being each other’s enemies, and still there are many Croohok—Rimmersmen—who are not liking to see trolls. But I like learning always, and seeing and doing is being the best way for that learning. Are you not thinking the same?”
“Huh? I suppose. Yes.” Morgan was a hair’s breadth from turning his back and going inside. “Yes, learning . . . is certainly good.”
“I am glad we have agreeing,” Binabik said, nodding and smiling. “Because here is coming my daughter Qina and Little Snenneq, her nukapik—her ‘betrothed,’ you would be saying. Qina has a weariness of the city now and would return to the place where we sleep, but Snenneq still has a desire to learn more of Rimmersgard ways. It would be a kindness for you to show him something of this place.”
“Show him . . . ?”
“Yes, Prince Morgan, this place where you and your friends are resting and eating would be something he would like, I think. Little Snenneq is loving to join in such pastimes, and is considered very skillful at singing, games, and contests.” Binabik must have seen the expression of horror on Morgan’s face, because he quickly added, “You are not to be fearing. Snenneq has coins of his own.”
“But . . .”
“Ah, and here they are coming to us now.” Binabik turned and waved to a pair of figures approaching through the narrow, night-dark street. Both were dressed in thick hide jackets and both seemed small to Morgan, although one was much smaller than the other—the troll’s daughter, he guessed: he could tell by the curve of her hips and an indefinable something in her round face that the smaller one was female.
Morgan had seen dwarfs in Erchester and occasionally the Hayholt, mostly with troops of traveling players, but trolls seemed to be different. They were stocky and short-legged, but otherwise their proportions were more like that of other folk. The troll’s daughter had a pretty face with almond eyes and smooth tan skin, and she was even shapely, as far as could be told under such heavy garments, but she stood no higher than Morgan’s own little sister Lillia. By contrast, the top of the young male troll’s thatch of black hair reached almost to Morgan’s breastbone.
“Ah, Qina my daughter, you are here!” said Binabik. “Come and greet Prince Morgan. And this fellow is being her friend Little Snenneq.”
“It does pleasure to meet you, Highness Morgan.” Qina crossed her arms before her chest in a gesture Morgan didn’t understand. Was she bowing, or did it mean something else? He was still dizzily full of juniper-scented ale and seemed to have missed his chance to flee, so he gave her a sickly smile and nodded and mumbled the sort of thing he did when he was talking to people he didn’t know but his grandparents were watching.
Little Snenneq did not look particularly awed to be meeting a prince of the High Royal Household, but crossed his arms the same way Qina had, bobbed his head like a quail, and announced, “Ah, of course. This is a momentous meeting.”
Morgan had no idea what that meant either. As Binabik spoke rapidly in the troll tongue to the new arrivals, the prince cast his eyes desperately toward the alehouse door, hoping one of his friends might come out to look for him. He felt a small, cool pressure on his hand and looked down to see that Qina had removed her glove and was squeezing the tips of his fingers. “Hmmmmm . . . ?” he said, rather helplessly.
“I taught to her the handclasp of friendship that you utku— ‘lowlanders’ as we say in Yiqanuc—are using,” Binabik explained.
“Friendship and thank you,” she said, still holding the end of his hand in her small, solid grip. “For showing to Little Snenneq more of this place. Because of my wearying now, it is kindness and you are showing to be a true primp.”
“Prince,” said Binabik gently.
“Prince,” said Qina, blushing a little and finally letting go of his hand. “You are a true prince.”
Escape impossible and all other resistance now thoroughly dismantled, Morgan could only wait as the young troll woman rubbed cheeks with her betrothed, then followed her father back down the long street in the direction of Elvritshalla Castle, the massive white wolf pacing beside them. Loiterers who might otherwise have been calling abuse at the trolls took one look at Vaqana and slipped away.
Morgan was not entirely certain what had just happened, but he was already wishing it hadn’t.
“And so we will entertain ourselves like true Rimmersgarders now, eh?” announced his new companion, his grin so wide it seemed to squeeze his eyes shut. “The prince and Little Snenneq! Bring out ale and stinking fish!” Then, as they made their way back inside, the troll suddenly said, “My someday father-in-law is a very good man.”
The prince did not reply. Most of the alehouse denizens had looked up when they pushed open the squeaking door, and many of them looked displeased by his new companion.
“Because I told him it was needed for you and I to meet,” the troll went on. “I am going to help you, you see.”
“Help me?” By the love of all the saints, Morgan wondered, how far back into this poxy place were his friends sitting? Surely he hadn’t traveled such a distance on the way out. “How are you going to help me?”
“As I told my father-in-law to-be, the Singing Man Binabik, I will help you to find your destiny, just as he was doing for your illustrious grandsire, the king Seoman.”
The prince made a firm decision to ignore everything this little moon-mad creature said from that point onward. Also, his grandfather’s tiny friend Binnywick had deliberately picked Morgan out for this suffering, and he would neither forget nor forgive.
Olveris was right—little people can’t be trusted.
“And who is your new companion?” asked Porto when Morgan finally discovered the table in the opposite dark corner from the one in which he’d been searching. The old knight squinted. “He has not the look of the Rimmersgarders I’ve seen. One of their country cousins from up north?”
“This is . . .” Morgan couldn’t precisely remember. “Snow-Neck. Or is it No-Neck . . .?”
“Snenneq,” the troll said. “Little Snenneq, they are calling me, because it was also the name of my father and grandfather.”
Astrian was plainly delighted to meet someone shorter than he was. “No-Neck it is! And what will you have to drink, Sir No-Neck? Some milk, perhaps? With a bit of bread dipped in it to suck upon?”
Snenneq smiled a polite, yellow-toothed smile. “Not a child. I am Qanuc.”
“No-Neck the Ka-Neck!” Astrian crowed. “You must join our merry band!”
Even Olveris grinned at that. But not everyone in the dim alehouse was as happy. Morgan could hear more than a few angry words from the surrounding tables about the troll’s presence.
“They think they can go anywhere,” someone complained.
Why am I lumbered with this little goblin? Morgan wondered. Probably get me beaten half to death by
these bearded ice-bears. He couldn’t completely remember what other wrongs had been done to him today, but he felt certain that this was only the most recent of many. “Give him something to drink, Porto, and for God’s sake be quick.”
The old knight poured a bowl for the new arrival, but stared at Little Snenneq so intently that he spilled more than he poured. Sir Olveris watched mournfully as it puddled on the splintered table. “I’ve seen your kind,” Porto said at last as he pushed the ale toward Snenneq. “Trolls. Your folk met us on the road back from Nakkiga.”
It was obvious many people in the ale-house were listening, because a fresh round of whispers began at this word, although not so obviously hostile this time.
Snenneq nodded. “True. Our Herder and Huntress had sent them to help the fighting against the Hikeda’ya, but they came after the siege was ending.”
“Hikadikadik. Says No-Neck from Ee-Ka-Neck,” said Astrian, a bit too loudly. He was unusually drunk. “And why would they send such as you to fight the Norns?”
Little Snenneq looked at him and smiled again, although it vanished more quickly this time.
“Never doubt them,” said Porto, the fumes of reminiscence beginning to rise from him. “The little troll-men fought fiercely in Erkynland. I saw them there, in battle.”
Olveris rolled his eyes, but Astrian sat forward. “Truly?” he asked. “Did they run among the White Foxes, kicking their shins? Or perhaps hid in the Norns’ saddlebags and then sprang out to attack?”
“I made that joke about you, Astrian,” Morgan complained. “About kicking the shins of your enemies. That’s mine.”
“Ah, but about me it is merely comic exaggeration,” the knight said. “My question to this fellow is an honest one.”
“There were times that the winds blew so hard and the snows fell so thickly on the Hayholt from the Storm King’s magic that we could see nothing,” Porto said, ignoring Astrian and warming to his tale. “But those little fellows—well, they could find their way through anything . . .”
“Then why can’t they find their way back to the place they came from?” brayed a very large, bearded Rimmersman at a nearby table. His friends laughed loudly, toasting him with their slopping bowls. “We have no need of them here.”
Little Snenneq smiled again, but there was something quite different in it this time, a certain hardness to his eyes that Morgan recognized. Astrian got that look sometimes when he was in his cups and angry. Morgan’s grandfather Simon wore it sometimes as well, usually when someone spoke about the strong taking cruel advantage of the weak.
Morgan was suddenly wondering whether it might be time for their little party to move on.
The big, bearded man was sitting down. Little Snenneq waited patiently at the man’s elbow until he was noticed.
“What do you want?” the red-faced man demanded. He put down his bowl, his fingers already curling into fists.
“I am hoping that you now will play a game,” said Snenneq mildly. “With me.”
The man goggled at this small, black-haired interloper. “Game? What does that mean?”
“Are you wrestling with just arms and hands here?” asked the troll. “So I think.”
Morgan did not remember everything his grandfather had told him about the troll-folk, but he thought he would remember if they had been gifted with superhuman strength, or if they could grow back an arm once it was ripped off, as a lizard could grew a new tail. “Sno . . . I mean, Snenneq,” he called. “Why don’t you come back to the table—?”
“Arm wrestling?” The big Rimmersman laughed loudly and mimed with his bent arm. “Like this? There’s not a man here who could best me, including any of that puny lot of yours.” His gaze slid from Astrian to Porto and lingered on Sir Olveris, who was not quite as tall as old Sir Porto but far more well-muscled, then he spat on the straw covering the floor. “I am Lomskur the Smith. I broke a bullock’s neck with my hands when I was but a boy. I won’t waste my time on any of your friends.” He scowled at Morgan, who edged back a bit farther on the bench. “I don’t want the duke’s men to put me in chains for troubling that cream-faced boy. So go back to your foul mountain, ice-goblin, before I throw you there.”
Several of the others laughed and cheered, but one warned, “‘Ware, Lomskur! That’s the High King’s heir.”
The big man snorted. “I’m not troubling His Very Highness, am I? It’s his lapdog that’s troubling me.”
“Qanuc are not dogs for anyone.” Little Snenneq wasn’t smiling any more. “Is this meaning that Lomskur is feared to hand-wrestle with me?”
“You?” The bearded man was genuinely astonished, but it seemed to make him even angrier. “Look at you! I could use you to pick my teeth.”
“No. Just hand-wrestle.” The troll vaulted onto the bench beside Lomskur with surprising nimbleness and extended his arm. “Here. Now.”
Lomskur’s friends and acquaintances in the alehouse were all shouting, most in favor of crushing the troll on the spot, but the bearded man stared at Little Snenneq’s outstretched hand. “For true?” He frowned. “No tricks? I don’t want to get a troll knife in my gorge when I only came in here to pass the time.”
“No tricks. On the honor of the prince.” Snenneq kept his arm out.
Morgan started to rise but Astrian reached out and grabbed his tunic, holding him back. “Let it be, Highness,” he said softly. “Do not spoil the joke—whatever it may turn out to be.”
Lomskur turned and straddled the bench to face the troll. It took a while—each one of the bearded man’s legs looked as wide as a normal man’s waist. Finished positioning himself, he thumped his elbow down on the table, making the crockery jump. The troll did not sit down, but knelt on the bench opposite Lomskur so that he could rest his elbow and still reach the other’s hand. The difference in their sizes was so great that the Rimmersman had to grasp the small man’s hand at an angle, with his arm low to the table; the troll’s hand almost disappeared inside the Rimmersman’s grasp.
The bearded man suddenly began laughing. “You are no coward, I see. If you live, little snow-beetle, I will buy you a pitcher all for yourself, to wash away the pain.”
Snenneq nodded, still not smiling. “And the same I will be doing for you. If you live.”
Everybody in the place seemed to be watching now. Even the ostler had come out from the back room, and stood, worriedly wiping his hands over and over on a dirty cloth.
“Start!” yelled one of Lomskur’s cronies.
It should have been over in an instant, and nearly was. With a scowl on his red face, Lomskur bent Little Snenneq’s arm until the back of the troll’s hand quivered just a finger’s breadth above the table. Most of the Rimmersmen in the alehouse were so certain of the outcome that they dared not turn away to take a drink, certain they would miss the ending, and instead fumbled blindly for their bowls. But Snenneq did not collapse. He made what looked to Morgan like a few small adjustments of his knees and back and shoulders, and although Lomskur leaned far to his left to keep the pressure on, somehow the very small man withstood it. Snenneq shifted again and pushed his elbow closer to Lomskur’s, and for some reason the tiny change of angle brought an expression of discomfort and surprise to the big man’s face.
Moments became longer moments. The faces of Lomskur and Little Snenneq settled into fixed masks of effort. Every time it seemed the much bigger man must finally overcome the resistance of the smaller, the troll moved again—never more than a little, but always enough to keep the giant on the other side from being able to force his hand down against the table.
The spectators were beginning to worry now, not so much at the incredible spectacle of a troll holding off a man almost three times his size, but over the notion that a trick must be involved. Some shouted to look under the table, that the little man was bracing himself in some way, or being otherwise helped to cheat, but of c
ourse Morgan and the rest hadn’t moved from their own table, and Snenneq’s legs were still curved beneath him on the bench. The whole thing seemed a sort of magic, and more than a few of the drinkers looked around with superstitious alarm, as though the sequel might be a Norn raiding party or a dragon or some other legendary menace crashing through the door.
At last, and to the complete astonishment of everyone, Morgan and his friends most definitely included, Lomskur began to tire. Sweat coursed down his face and dripped from his beard, and his face turned the color of a baked Aedonmansa ham. Little Snenneq began to lean back, slowly pulling Lomskur’s hand toward him, increasing the angle of their mutual grasp until the big man’s entire arm was stretched only inches above the tabletop.
Then, with almost no warning, the troll twisted his wrist sharply to one side and Lomskur let out a bellow of pain; a split-instant later the back of the Rimmersman’s hand was pressed against the tabletop.
For a moment the room went silent. Lomskur was clutching his wrist, in too much pain to say anything; Morgan and his fellows were too startled even to cheer.
“By all that’s holy,” said Astrian wonderingly, “why did I neglect to wager on this?” As Lomskur squeezed and chafed his aching wrist, Little Snenneq dropped down from the bench and walked to an ale cask that stood beside the ostler. A couple of large stone tankards had just been filled for someone else and then left on the cask until their foamy exuberance subsided. The troll pulled a coin out of his hide jacket and dropped it on the barrel top, then took a tankard in each hand and walked back to Lomskur’s table. He held one out to the big man, who looked up at him with reddened eyes and an expression of utter bewilderment.
“I was promising to buy for you an ale,” said Little Snenneq.
Lomskur goggled at him for a moment, then his already red face became even more enflamed, as if he were a baby about to howl, and he lashed out, knocking both the ale tankards out of Snenneq’s hands. “Cheat!” he roared. “Little devil! I don’t know what trick you played, but . . .”