Forest Kingdom Trilogy 3 - Down Among the Dead Men

and Flint stared at it in shocked silence. The creature was easily eight feet tall, bent and hunched over in the low-roofed passageway. It was a dirty white in color and horribly thin, so that it looked more like a collection of bones than a living being. Its narrow frame was held together by long, ropy muscles that stirred and writhed like restless worms under the coarse skin. Its arms were almost four feet long, the bony hands dangling well past its knees, and the twig-like fingers ended in long, curving claws. The elongated head ended in a ferociously grinning mouth with dozens of dagger-like teeth. Its eyes were scarlet slits, without pupil or retina. The bony feet clacked loudly on the stone floor as the creature advanced slowly on the two Rangers. Its horrid grin widened slightly as it snorted hungrily.
    “What the hell is that?” whispered the Dancer. “Some kind of demon?”
    “I don’t think so,” said Flint, fighting to regain her composure. “I think it lived at the same time as the Beast. I once saw pictures of something like this in a book that came from the Northern Ice Steppes. They called such creatures trolls. They’re supposed to be extinct.”
    “Then what are they doing here?”
    “The Beast is … remembering them.”
    “It’s got too good a memory for my liking. What do we do, Jessica?”
    “Get ready. On the count of three, I’m going to turn and run for the cellar door. You hold them off until I’ve got the door open, and then get the hell away from those things and join me. Got it?”
    “Got it.”
    “Watch your back, Giles.”
    “Count on it.”
    Flint flashed him a quick grin, counted three under her breath, and then turned and ran down the corridor. The troll started to go after her, and the Dancer moved quickly forward to block its way. The creature lifted its clawed hands to strike him, and the Dancer’s sword flashed through a short, vicious arc. The troll tried to throw itself backward, but couldn’t react quickly enough. The sword slammed into its prominent rib cage, punched through the sternum and out again in a flurry of blood. The troll screamed and sank to its knees, clutching the gaping wound with both hands. Blood ran between its fingers in a steady stream, and collected in a steaming pool on the cold stone floor. More trolls suddenly appeared out of the mists and moved toward the Dancer with murder in their crimson eyes. Behind them, more shadows stirred in the fog, waiting to be born again into the world of men. Smiling, the Dancer swept his sword back and forth before him.
    Flint ran for the door at the end of the corridor. The sounds of battle came clearly from behind her; the roaring and screaming of the trolls, and the flat chopping sound of the Dancer’s sword cutting through flesh. The cellar door loomed up out of the fog before her, and she had to skid to a halt to avoid crashing into it. She slammed her sword into its scabbard, and fumbled at the doorknob with cold-numbed fingers. She could barely feel it. She cursed desperately and held her hand close to the dancing flame of her torch. Feeling slowly returned to her fingers, and she grimaced at the stabbing pain. She tried the doorknob again, and finally succeeded in opening the door. She yelled for the Dancer to join her, and the sounds of battle broke off, replaced by the sound of running feet and the cheated howls of the trolls as they gave chase. The Dancer came flying out of the fog toward her with the trolls close behind. There were too many of them to count, and their rage echoed deafeningly in the narrow corridor. The Dancer shot through the open doorway, and Flint followed him. She spun around, slammed the door shut in the trolls’ grinning faces, and looked frantically for the bolts. There was only one, and she pushed it home. Something slammed into the door on the other side, and Flint and the Dancer fell back a step as the door shuddered in its frame. They leaned against the cold stone wall a moment as they got their breath back, while on the other side of the door the trolls howled and shrieked and pounded on the solid oak.
    “That bolt isn’t going to hold for long,” said Flint. “We’d be better off in the cellar. We can barricade that door.”
    “Right,” said the Dancer.
    “How many of those things are there altogether?”
    “Too many.”
    Flint decided not to think about that for the moment, and hurried down the steps toward the relative safety of the cellar. The