Free Troll Mountain: The Complete Novel by Matthew Reilly Page B

jesters made a throat-slitting gesture.
    The king said simply, “Kill him, Grondo.”
    Grondo’s hammer came down on the head of the fallen troll and made a sickening noise.
    The crowd roared, the jesters danced, the king smiled, and as the trolls gathered around the victor, Grondo, a pair of worker-trolls dragged the dead body of the vanquished one away.
    Grondo was escorted up to the king’s throne. He dropped to one knee before the king and bowed his head.
    The king stood. “You are a worthy champion, Grondo. I thank you for this fine gift of death you have given me on my son’s wedding day.”
    “It is my honor and privilege, lord,” the champion said.
    “Please stay here by my throne today,” the king said, and the crowd gasped for this was clearly an honor. Grondo took his place among the row of courtiers and troll princes standing behind the king, his head held high.
    Gripped by his guards, Raf was brought across the floor of the chamber and made to stand directly in front of the king’s mighty throne. The huge crowd of trolls stood closely around him, grunting, whispering, and glaring.
    Standing in their midst, Raf looked small, frail, and alone and he felt like that, too. He barely reached their shoulders.
    “My lord!” called the senior guard. “I bring you the thief caught on the mountain during the night!”
    The king leaned forward, eyeing Raf closely. The crowd of trolls encircling Raf fell silent.
    Raf was assessing the Troll King, too. Like all the bigger trolls, the king had a long snout and a pair of tusks jutting up from his protruding lower jaw. Draggers like Düm had flatter faces and no tusks, while field trolls were just small.
    As he looked at the king more closely, Raf noticed that he further distinguished himself from the other trolls by wearing foul decorations on his body: a necklace made of human fingerbones, a cloak made of a mountain-wolf pelt, and worst of all, a weapons belt featuring two daggers and a longer blade made of a sharpened human leg bone.
    The Troll King spoke.
    “I was told about this thief. He was discovered in the Supreme Watchtower, trying to steal the Elixir. No thief has ever made it so far. He must be … slippery.”
    No one spoke.
    The king grinned meanly. “But not slippery enough.”
    The assembled trolls sniggered.
    One of the hobgoblin jesters was glaring right at Raf, cruel and hard.
    “You are not the first human to attempt to penetrate our stronghold and steal our Elixir, young thief,” the king said. “Here is another.”
    The king held up the meat-covered bone on which he had been gnawing. Raf’s blood froze.
    “Nothing tastes sweeter than the marrow of an enemy,” the king said. “And since today is a special day, I think I shall—”
    “My tribe is dying,” Raf blurted, and the entire crowd gasped at the sheer gall of someone interrupting the king.
    The king looked as if he had been slapped in the face.
    “You cut off our water,” Raf said, “so our crops grow poorly and we Northmen become weaker and more susceptible to the illness. I came here only to—”
    “ Silence! ” the king boomed, his voice ringing through the enormous hall. The assembled trolls quailed. The jesters literally cowered.
    But Raf stood his ground.
    The king’s eyes bulged. “Impudent thief! How dare you address me so! I have a good mind to snap one of your arms off right now and eat your bones in front of you! Northmen! Northmen! I know this tribe. A dirty rabble. They sent elders to bargain with me months ago. I received those old men on my winter throne. They, er, fell before me.”
    The trolls near Raf sniggered.
    The king boomed, “Then these same Northmen sent a delegation of three young princes several weeks ago, princes who arrived with three porters. The lead prince, Bader was his name, offered me his porters in return for a small bottle of the Elixir.”
    Raf’s eyes widened in surprise.
    The king saw it.
    “Yes. Your prince offered his own