Free Thornghost by Tone Almhjell Page A

“I
am
stupid.”
    He had always assumed the jar of acorns he and Lin had found in the loft must have belonged to Grandma Alma, since it was tucked behind her fishing gear. But the arm that had been carved on the casket lid was definitely Erika’s handiwork, and it was definitely a troll. The troll hunt had been her game.
    It seemed he and his mother were more alike than even Grandma Alma had guessed.
    The troll’s claw stuck out between the knuckles, poking up from the lid, and the arm bore another one of the brutal marks, a four-pointed star. There was a finicky latch of moving parts, but the wood had bent and Niklas had to use force to get the lid off. A gust of bitter almonds stung his nose. This casket had not been opened for a long time. He lifted the contents carefully out onto the floor, describing them to Secret. There were carving tools, small pots of paint that had long since dried out, and a metal flask with a label he had seen before.
    â€œTroll’s bane.” He unscrewed the flask and tipped it gently. A fine powder poured out. He grimaced. “Or it used to be. It’s turned to dust.”
    Don’t think about turning to dust,
he reminded himself
. Not here.
He screwed the lid back on. “I guess it’s better than nothing.”
    Next he found a leather-bound notebook. The first page said
Book of Troll Runes.
    Niklas leafed through it with shivering fingers. Nowonder he couldn’t remember inventing magic for the trolls. He hadn’t, and neither had Lin. It was Erika’s doing.
    â€œMy mother didn’t much mind being creepy,” he told Secret. “Listen to this: ‘All troll magic comes from pain. They carve their runes in living things, in skin and bones and teeth.’”
    Each page had an illustration of a troll rune with crude lines and sharp angles, and a title. “I found the one from the oak tree rock.” He held a page with a jagged three-line mark to the lantern light. “It means
burn
. And here’s the divided rectangle with one black and one blank section.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?”
    â€œ
Break
.” Niklas grimaced. “Or destroy. Let’s hope it doesn’t work.”
    The last page did not describe a rune. It was a brief note, almost like a journal entry. The ink strokes were hard.
    I have to stop.
    Two horses dead at Sorrowdeep, both slashed and rune-marked. If not for the troll hunt, none of this would have happened.
    Every night I hear Sebastifer. Sometimes he barks. Other times he howls. Twice I’ve heard him whimper like he is giving up.
    Anders says it’s not real. But the nightmares erase the lines between truth and story, and I can’t see them anymore. I only see the trollwitch and the cage and the black water rising up to drown me.
    Anders says I shouldn’t talk like that. Maybe he’s right. But I also think I’m right that my games are dangerous. I’m dangerous. So I’m going to lock this in the box and I’m going to stop.
    The Knight of Thorns The Ghost of Thorns
    Erika Summerhill
    Niklas closed his eyes. Mr. Molyk had talked about another wave of killings twenty-five years ago. The summer his mother was twelve. Two horses had died at Sorrowdeep that year, and according to this, his mother had been convinced she was to blame. That she was dangerous.
    Maybe Niklas was dangerous, too.
    â€œCub.”
    Niklas’s hair stood on end. Secret had silently come halfway down the ladder, and from the flat edge in her voice, he knew something was very wrong.
    He made himself open his eyes, but he couldn’t believe them.
    The statue was lowering her arms. A moment ago they had been stretched out in front of her, fingers flexed and crooked. But now they were sinking slowly toward the floor, making a faint scraping noise as they came to rest against her thighs.
    Please don’t come back.
    Niklas’s lungs seemed empty of air.