Free Iron Axe by Steven Harper Page B

pointed. “Look.”
    Every eye in the crowd went to Danr’s feet. Danr wanted to clench his toes in embarrassment, but forced himself to remain still. His feet were large and the toes splayed outward, but they were indeed human. Danr realized he himself had no idea what troll feet looked like. Several men in the crowd began to mutter and the small crowd shifted about, losing cohesion.
    â€œTrollboy killed a giant wyrm on the road to Skyford today,” Alfgeir continued. “Go see the burn marks for yourself. Perhaps many creatures are coming down from themountains. Only Olar knows why, but it has nothing to do with my farm or my thralls.”
    â€œTrollboy consorts with witches. His mother and that slave girl. Now he’s bringing the monsters down on us,” Halli said, though his words lacked conviction. Danr still flinched at the word
witch.
“The Stane are coming down here because he is one of them.”
    â€œStrange they should wait sixteen years to come visit,” Alfgeir drawled.
    â€œWho knows why the Stane do anything?” Halli retorted, though it was clear he had lost the support of the crowd.
    â€œMy slave girl is a good healer,” added Farek, belying his wife’s angry words. “I wouldn’t count her a witch, exactly. Your Lordship. She cost a pretty penny.”
    â€œShe knows things,” Halli said darkly. “Foreign things. Mark me, Farek—she’ll bring darkness on us.”
    â€œAnd what’s that to do with Trollboy?” Alfgeir put in.
    Rudin looked up at his father, confused. “When are you going to kill the monster, Papa?” he piped up.
    â€œGisla!” Alfgeir shouted. The door opened, and Alfgeir’s wife appeared. Like Alfgeir, she was middle-aged and running toward plump. Her dark brown braids hung loose behind her, down for the night. “It’s a chill night. Have the boys roll out a barrel of ale for our guests. As the saying goes, ‘Ale is proof the Nine want us to love life!’”
    A little cheer went up from the men, and they gathered around the door. Danr stepped backward until he was out of the circle of torchlight. As Gisla served up brimming horns of ale in the dooryard, he turned to head back to the stable. Alfgeir caught him up.
    â€œAre you all right?” he demanded.
    â€œYes,
Carl
Oxbreeder,” Danr said. “Thank you for . . . for supporting me.”
    â€œIf I were you, I’d avoid that slave girl Aisa. You know what people say about her, for all that she brings healing. As the saying goes, ‘A bad friend hurts more than a good enemy.’”
    Danr remained silent. Nothing he could say would change Alfgeir’s opinion, so he didn’t waste words.
    â€œYou still have six years and four months left on your bond, Trollboy,” Alfgeir said. “If they killed you, I’d be out all that labor. And speaking of which, I’m adding seven months to your bond—six for saving your life, and one for that barrel of ale.”
    â€œA barrel of ale isn’t worth a month’s labor,” Danr protested, forgetting himself. “It’s three days at most.”
    Alfgeir gave him an icy stare. “Do you want to challenge it before the earl, Trollboy?”
    â€œI . . .” For a moment, Danr wanted to say he would. Alfgeir was unashamedly breaking any number of laws. The earl would have to listen.
    To a troll. To a monster.
    Danr—Trollboy—hung his head. “I don’t,” he said.
    Alfgeir snorted and strode back to the impromptu party. Danr watched him go, hatred mingling with despair. He would never be free of his bonding. He would never be free of his monstrous stigma. He would never be free.
    Danr trudged back to the stables. When he pushed open the door, he found Talfi and Aisa waiting for him.
    â€œThey didn’t hurt me,” he said heavily.
    â€œWe heard,” Talfi said flatly.