A Blink of the Screen

to work this out.
    ‘Oh, wow,’ it breathed. ‘On my bridge! Wow!’
    ‘What?’ said Cohen.
    The troll ducked out of his grip and waved its hands frantically. ‘It’s all right! It’s all right!’ it shouted, as Cohen advanced. ‘You’ve got me! You’ve got me! I’m not arguing! I just want to call the family up, all right? Otherwise no one’ll ever believe me. Cohen the Barbarian! On my bridge!’
    Its huge stony chest swelled further. ‘My bloody brother-in-law’s always swanking about his huge bloody wooden bridge, that’s all my wife ever talks about. Hah! I’d like to see the look on his face … oh, no! What can you think of me?’
    ‘Good question,’ said Cohen.
    The troll dropped its club and seized one of Cohen’s hands.
    ‘Mica’s the name,’ it said. ‘You don’t know what an honour this is!’
    He leaned over the parapet. ‘Beryl! Get up here! Bring the kids!’
    He turned back to Cohen, his face glowing with happiness and pride.
    ‘Beryl’s always sayin’ we ought to move out, get something better, but I tell her, this bridge has been in our family for generations, there’s always been a troll under Death Bridge. It’s tradition.’
    A huge female troll carrying two babies shuffled up the bank, followed by a tail of smaller trolls. They lined up behind their father, watching Cohen owlishly.
    ‘This is Beryl,’ said the troll. His wife glowered at Cohen. ‘And this –’ he propelled forward a scowling smaller edition of himself, clutching a junior version of his club – ‘is my lad Scree. A real chip off the old block. Going to take on the bridge when I’m gone, ain’t you, Scree. Look, lad, this is Cohen the Barbarian! What d’you think o’ that, eh? On our bridge! We don’t just have rich fat soft ole merchants like your uncle Pyrites gets,’ said the troll, still talking to his son but smirking past him to his wife, ‘we ’ave proper heroes like they used to in the old days.’
    The troll’s wife looked Cohen up and down.
    ‘Rich, is he?’ she said.
    ‘Rich has got nothing to do with it,’ said the troll.
    ‘Are you going to kill our dad?’ said Scree suspiciously.
    ‘Course he is,’ said Mica severely. ‘It’s his job. An’ then I’ll get famed in song an’ story. This is Cohen the Barbarian, right, not some bugger from the village with a pitchfork. ’E’s a famous hero come all this way to see us, so just you show ’im some respect.
    ‘Sorry about that, sir,’ he said to Cohen. ‘Kids today. You know how it is.’
    The horse started to snigger.
    ‘Now look—’ Cohen began.
    ‘I remember my dad tellin’ me about you when I was a pebble,’ said Mica. ‘’E bestrides the world like a clossus, he said.’
    There was silence. Cohen wondered what a clossus was, and felt Beryl’s stony gaze fixed upon him.
    ‘He’s just a little old man,’ she said. ‘He don’t look very heroic to me. If he’s so good, why ain’t he rich?’
    ‘Now you listen to me—’ Mica began.
    ‘This is what we’ve been waiting for, is it?’ said his wife. ‘Sitting under a leaky bridge the whole time? Waiting for people that never come? Waiting for little old bandy-legged old men? I should have listened to my mother! You want me to let our son sit under a bridge waiting for some little old man to kill him? That’s what being a troll is all about? Well, it ain’t happening!’
    ‘Now you just—’
    ‘Hah! Pyrites doesn’t get little old men! He gets big fat merchants! He’s someone. You should have gone in with him when you had the chance!’
    ‘I’d rather eat worms!’
    ‘Worms? Hah! Since when could we afford to eat worms?’
    ‘Can we have a word?’ said Cohen.
    He strolled towards the far end of the bridge, swinging his sword from one hand. The troll padded after him.
    Cohen fumbled for his tobacco pouch. He looked up at the troll, and held out the bag.
    ‘Smoke?’ he said.
    ‘That stuff can kill you,’ said the troll.
    ‘Yes. But not today.’
    ‘Don’t you hang about talking to your no-good friends!’ bellowed Beryl, from her end of the bridge. ‘Today’s your day for going down to the sawmill! You know Chert said he couldn’t go on holding the job open if you weren’t taking it seriously!’
    Mica gave Cohen a sorrowful little smirk.
    ‘She’s very supportive,’ he said.
    ‘I’m not climbing all the way down to the river to pull you out again!’ Beryl roared. ‘You tell him about the billy goats, Mr Big