As it turned out, it didn't take us that long to find what we were looking for.

The sound of a Troll roaring is a very particular sound, kind of cross between an avalanche and the roar of a....

Ok, this one is tough so I'm going to have to ask you to just go with me on this one.

Picture the scene. You've just been out drinking. As you get up to leave the place someone starts picking a fight with the local gentle giant. Every local pub or inn has one of these. He's a guy, known for being heavily muscled. Often tall as well, does a lot of work involving heavy lifting. Blacksmiths often get this kind of size. They often come across as deceptively stupid although anyone who makes that assumption of someone who knows the intricacies of smelting and forging is massively mistaken. They're often remarkably gentle and courteous, this from a childhood and young adult life of having to be extra careful with the other kids their age for fear of spontaneously and accidentally breaking said peers.

As a result these men tend to develop a kind and gentle disposition which means that it is extremely hard to make them angry.

Now, as I said. Picture the scene. You're out drinking. One of these gentle giants is talking to a pretty girl. They might be in any stage of the courtship process from the teasing to the days before marriage part. But there this person is talking to the girl. The girl is being reasonably amenable to the attention from the giant, after all he is heavily muscled and I'm told that a certain type of girl can really go for that kind of thing and then comes in a third player and his group of friends.

This third player, and you'll know this person as well. This third player is an angry drunk. Can be the nicest person in day to day life but when he's had a tankard or two, he can get downright nasty. For whatever reason, he hasn't figured this out yet, and nor has he figured out that it is a bit of a sport amongst his friends to egg him on. Said third party decides that he wants to prove how tough he is by picking a fight with our Gentle Giant.

So he goes up to the Giant and starts hurling insults at him trying to provoke him. The Giant ignores him, apologises for any real or imagined insults and generally does his best to avoid any kind of confrontation. Giant and girl go to another part of the bar. But Angry man isn't done with them yet so he follows, trying physical attacks now, pushes, crueller jibes and things. Angry's friends start realising that things are going a little too far and start to pull him back but he's properly angry now and ignores them, throwing off restraining arms. By now the locals are expecting a fight and are moving out of the way. Gentle is still trying to avoid it though but realises that Girl might get hurt so puts her behind him and turns to face the threat.

Angry is waving his arms now, pushing the giant who is basically trying to tell Angry to Fuck off, calmly and persistently in the same tone of voice that you might use to get rid of someone trying to sell you something useless. He's beginning to get frustrated though and the barman steps in trying to calm things down while shooing one of the maids out the back to fetch whatever guard or watch person that might be available. The girl might tug on the giants arm trying to remove them both from the situation. Giant is happy with this solution and turns to go.

Events from here differ slightly. The girl might have enjoyed the attention and the drama but whatever they have now realised that things are getting out of hand, it's just the girl, the giant and Angry in a circle. The giant turns and Angry man hits him. With a chair, a tankard, a bottle, a club or whatever.

Giant is now irate and turns to face the threat automatically. Girl tries to pull him away, coming round him to try and divert the giants attention by getting him to look at her instead of Angry. Giant looks down.

But Angry swings again. Maybe at Giant, maybe at the girl, but whatever he was aiming for he hits the girl and the girl goes down.

There is blood.

Giant bellows in rage.

That sound. That sound that he makes is the sound that I'm thinking of. A primal sound of fury that comes from before we had learned about things like civilisation and living together in peace.

That sound and we heard it about an hours ride out from the town. We had been travelling at a steady trot during that time but with a quick glance at each other, our already tired mounts were kicked into a gallop, we left the track and started moving up through the gentle but rocky hills occasionally having to duck out of the way of low hanging tree branches. When I was first trained how to ride, they warn against riding like this for fear of loose stones and rabbit warrens breaking horses legs. In truth it was a miracle that nothing happened to either steeds as we galloped along.

The sounds had gotten worse. Along with the roaring we could hear a regular kind of crashing noise like a huge bundle of sticks being thrown into the ground over and over again. There were human voices as well and horses screaming in distress.

We rode into a small valley formed by a few hills, their crowns covered in loose rocks which had clearly been quarried and turned into stone for the towns houses, as well as several trees. It was sheltered there and would have been rather pleasant during calmer times.

We came round a bend in the valley and came across the sight.

It was a little dell. You entered it from only the direction that we had used and the hills came round into a circle facing us reaching a taller peak directly in front of us. There was some evidence that someone had used fallen trees and loose rocks to build up the crest of those hills to provide more shelter. I remember that there was a large burnt patch in the centre of the ground as well. At the time, a small pavilion had been erected near to where we stood our horses with a blue and white standard nearby that we had seen emblazoned in the town. The ground sloped up to the hills in front of us getting steeper and steeper until it reached what looked like the small opening of a cave although it didn't look as though it went very far back at all.

Standing in the mouth of the cave was another troll. I wouldn't have known she was a she for the looking as it seemed that troll genders look very similar to each other but I'm describing her as “she” as I now can't think of her as anything else given the following events. She was standing guard over that cave entrance like she was a warrior of old defending the breach in a castle using, and I swear that this is true, an uprooted tree as a club.

Her foes, eight full armoured knights who were trying to approach on foot with spears, swords shields. One man was trying with a crossbow but couldn't seem to get a clear shot while there was also a pair of injured men lying, battered and bruised next to the pavilion being tended to by a couple of squires.

It was an almost comical sight. It was plain, even to me, that the knights couldn't use their horses to approach due to the slope and the troll's choice of weapon was fearsome enough that the crossbowman was unable to get a clear shot. They were clearly trying to draw her onto the flat ground so they could get round her or mount some kind of cavalry attack but the poor besieged troll was clearly having none of it, sticking to her post like the most dutiful soldier that you've ever seen and as a result she had the high ground. But that was her problem as well. Eventually she would tire and then it would all be over. No sooner had the amusement hit me than the remorse followed up. I looked away, not wanting to watch anymore.

My companion had similar ideas.

“Whatever happens,” he whispered fiercely over the din. “Back my play and say nothing,” before riding towards the pavilion at a gentle pace as though he didn't have a care in the world.

It is in these moments that the decisions are made which shape our lives. I had been told to trust this man. He hadn't set a foot wrong so far. Hadn't, as far as I knew placed me in any danger that I wasn't aware of before hand but at the same time, his carelessness towards everything in that particular moment struck me as being off. The situation was obviously dire or otherwise we wouldn't be here, indeed we wouldn't have found the place at all. But he was just walking up to the pavilion as though there was nothing going wrong at all, that nothing was out of place and that everything was absolutely fine.

It obviously wasn't.

But the decision was clearly already made for me.

I dismounted, took our horses and lead them both towards the the picket line where all the other horses had been tied.

Having done that I followed Kerrass into the Pavilion, there was an effort by two, faintly disgusted looking guards to prevent my entry but some whispered conversation from within followed with a high and feminine giggle chased out a “Oh do let him in,” and suddenly the way was clear for me.

I entered and in the way that the Witcher had taught me I scanned the room quickly.

For room it was, there was a partitioned off area behind which I guessed was a bed and a place for feminine hygiene. There were several large chests and the place was so filled with blankets and tapestries that I was left wondering where the cart was that had brought all this stuff out here in the first place. Eventually though it evidenced itself to be part of the structure, onto which was placed some food and drink.

There was also a table, sat in front of the table, the chair twisted so that the occupant could see the entirety of the room, sat the Witcher in the most relaxed posture that I had ever seen him in. Leant back, legs outstretched and gesticulating broadly with his sword propeed against the arm of the chair negligently. I briefly thought to myself that if I had placed my weapons as carelessly as that then he would have kicked my ass up and down the pavilion.

Sat on the other side of the table was the largest man I had ever seen. He was also, quite possibly the most beautiful man that I had ever seen. Long blonde hair that fell away from his temples in waves, cut, just short enough so that it would easily fit under a helmet of some kind. Piercing blue eyes glittering from under the longest eyelashes that I had ever seen on a man. Strong and chiseled cheeks and a chin that stuck out with a cleft down the middle. He looked like the hero of a balladeers tales. The kind of man that slays dragons and rescues princesses from towers. He also had this way about him, a slight upturn of the mouth that was always on the edge of turning into an outright sneer but not enough for you to call him on it. I felt that he was judging everyone in the room, including me, and that he was finding us all wanting. Other than the female that was also present of course. Someone he looked possessively over which was when I realised that he wasn't looking down on us, he was checking us to see if he was a threat to his dominance over this woman.

He was also dressed in Full Plate armour. The same kind of armour that only the truly rich can afford. And it shone.

As for the girl...

How do you describe the most beautiful girl you've ever seen?

Even though I find that my personal tastes tend to run towards the more brunette end of the scale, this girl was.... Hard to describe.

She was blonde, not the burnished blonde of the knight but the light, almost white, blonde of sunshine. She was pale with a perfectly clear complexion, defined face and a long neck graced with a golden choker style necklace. She also had blue eyes, which were much more startling than the knights given her pale skin and light colouring and where as his glittered, hers shone, large and white with obvious delight at the world and everything that she saw. She wore simple sapphire earrings and a golden circlet to keep the thick, and admirably luxurient hair back from her face.

She was the kind of girl where her beauty hits you like a hammer to the face when you see her for the first time. The kind of beauty where you find yourself thinking “Have I stared at her too long? Am I staring now? How long was it since I last looked at her? and can I get away with looking at her again now? Oh holy fire is she smiling at me?”

As I entered she was laughing at something that the Witcher had said. The laughter was like rain in a desert and even worse, I could tell as the three of them were looking at me, the jest was at my expense.

I felt myself redden as I bowed and moved to stand at the back of the pavilion to stand with the other servants of which there were three. Two maidservants and a man whose slightly richer clothing suggested that he was some kind of seneschal or chancellor.

But in truth I wasn't really looking at them. My eyes were too full of the glory of the woman sat, enthroned at the other end of the room next to the table.

“I'm so sorry Master Witcher,” she said, her voice warm and soft. “But what was it you said your name was? Your jest has just driven it from my mind,” she giggled again.

That giggle. It was like a peek behind the curtain at the theatre. A glimpse beneath the mask. I suddenly remembered the tear tracks on old Tom's face.

“It is purely my mistake Milady. I may even have forgotten to mention it, as captivated as I was by your beauty.” The Witcher's voice was astonishing in it's change. I had heard him change his accent before to be able to talk to villagers and feel like “one of them”. He sounded cultured, educated and refined. I'm a noble and I don't talk like that. It was like how people would like to think their Kings and Queens talk.

“My name is Kerrass of Maecht. Master Witcher, at your service.” He quickly got up and sketched a bow with a smile. I saw the smile hit home with the girl, but more so with the knight who scowled, sensing competition maybe?

“Oh how wonderful. I've never met a Witcher before. What's it like?”

“Being a Witcher? We are the line that stands between the darkness and the Light madam. When you hear the animal noises in the depths of the night. When you hear the howls of the damned or the calls of creatures in pain, there I must tread. In haunted caves, crumbling ruins and remote mountain tops. There I wander, hunting out evil so that good people like yourself can sleep in peace.”

“I like that, 'In haunted caves and crumbling ruins. I shall have to commission a poem about it.”

“You do me too much honour Milady. In truth it is a task, a necessary thing that must be done by someone. If not Witchers then who else? A woefully unqualified soldier or guard who leaves behind a wife and child?”

“A trained knight is more than capable of seeing off any monster.” Commented the knight. He was trying to get back into the conversation somehow. Obviously unhappy with the direction things had gone.

“Like the trained knights outside, failing to kill a lone troll?” The Witcher's voice positively dripped with scorn. “The simple truth is, that to kill a monster, you need a professional. How many of those men have silver weapons?”

He was met with silence.

“Hmmm, I thought as much.”

“Is that why you carry two swords?” The girl asked curiously. “Silver for monsters and steel for men?”

“Hmmph. Just a common killer.” Said the knight.

The girl fluttered her hand. I will admit that she did so prettily.

“You'll have to forgive Sir William. He recently killed another troll you see and is struggling to see why you would be needed.”

She was setting the two men against each other. There was little doubt in my mind as to which she preferred but it was also quite clear that she wanted to keep him on his toes.

The Witcher sneered a little.

“It's quite easy to kill a troll when you have flat terrain and a good run up with a lance that keeps you quite out of reach of the trolls swings. It takes a lot more courage to step in range of those arms, with or without armour. I notice that Sir William is in here while others attempt to bring the beast down.”

The knight reddened in anger. He was also not looking as handsome as he had a moment before.

“Yes well. He sees the problem and is thinking of the solution rather than wasting his time and effort.” The girl defended the knight, re-exerting ownership and bringing him to heel with one sentence.

“The, truth of the matter madam is that both swords are for monsters.” The Witcher continued. There are beasts in the wider world who are naturally occurring and others who are magically occurring. The silver sword is for magical creatures and the steel is for more natural occurrences. But both types of sword are for monsters. I will admit to needing the steel sword for the occasional act of self-defence as sometimes my travels take me into.... less civilised areas.”

The girl nodded her sympathy.

“Anyway my lady. You obviously have a troll problem. I am a Witcher and therefore I am your solution. Allow me to get rid of the problem for you.”

“But my knights?”

“Oh I've no doubt your knights will bring down the beast eventually.” He waved his hand negligently, “But at what cost? Mens lives. Men who have connections that might prove problematic should they be injured, or even killed?”

I was reminded again that the Witcher would have made an excellent sales man.

One of the servants. The more richly dressed servant stood forward and cleared his throat.

“That is a valid concern Milady. Your father would...”

“Oh poo my Father.” Venom dripped from her words.

“If I may milady.” said the Witcher. “It may even be more fiscally responsible in the long run as well,”

The girl subsided and started thinking.

My father had done a certain amount to see to the education of his children. One of the things we were all taught was to keep our thoughts hidden from others in case an opponent could read our intentions. I was taught the same by the Witcher and my Fencing masters about facing a man in a fight.

It was clear that the girl had not received this advice and you could see the war of ideas wrinking her pretty brow.

“Very well Mr Witcher. How much would you charge to remove this troll from my fathers lands.”

“200 hundred crowns Milady,” The Witcher answered promptly.

Sir William scoffed. “200 crowns. For what? An hours work.”

“For doing something you and your fellows can't seem to do,” The Witcher declared. More scorn. He was making the knight angry for some reason that I couldn't see.

I saw the girl look at the Chancellor again, who nodded.

“Very Well Master Witcher, 200 crowns for the removal of the troll.”

The Witcher nodded and rose to his feet.

“A quick word with my man and I will set about it.”

He beckoned me out of the tent and leant in. “Have your spear ready and beware treachery, especially from the crossbowman.” he whispered quietly.

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I nodded as we walked towards the horses.

I unstrapped my spear and took the cover from the blade while the Witcher took his silver sword from the box and I helped him strap it along side his steel one.

“Steel one coming off?” I asked, but he shook his head. Eyes glittering strangely.

He took a small flask from the small black box and oiled his silver blade appropriately as we moved back to join the Lady and her knight who had come out of the Pavilion.

The Witcher laughed at something, silver sword hanging easily in his hand.

“Oh My lady.” He said chuckling. I was startled. Although I had heard him offer wry chuckles before now, this was the first time that I remembered him actually guffawing out loud as well as grinning from ear to ear in a way that suggested amusement rather than imminent murder. It was strange and looked uncomfortable on his face. Like a shirt that is only just a little bit too small for the person wearing it.

“Oh My Lady,” He said laughing. “Call those fools back before they hurt themselves.” He laughed again before raising his voice.

“Call it off lads, call it off. Come and take your rest.” He waved his sword in the air as he did so.

I'm sure he was completely ignorant of how that made it glitter in the sunlight.

Someone sounded a horn call and the knights, still failing to attack the troll on the hillside started to stumble back towards us.

“Right lads gather round,” The Witcher crouched in the middle of them and I shivered. There was a fey feeling in the air. Something was happening that I did not understand.

“Now then boys. I'm a Witcher, notice the two swords and the strange eyes. I'm a professional and I'm here to give you all a lesson on how things are done alright?”

One of the knights spat in disgust.

“What's your name?” He asked the knight.

“Sir Phillipe of Cruss.” said the man. I thought the accent was from Toussaint originally but I couldn't be certain.

The Witcher's eyes narrowed a little.

“I will remember. Now first of all. Do any of you have a silver sword? Do you Sir Phillipe?”

The knights armour clattered as he shook his head.

“I thought not. If you are going to slay monsters then you need silver weapons, or for the monster to stand still long enough for you to batter it to death. Now do any of you know about the behaviour of Stone Trolls. Sir Phillipe?”

The clatter came again.

“How about trolls in general? Phillipe? No? Well let me tell you. Just because they sound stupid and don't have as much of a working knowledge of what 'we' call the common tongue doesn't mean they actually are stupid. You try speaking without any lips.”

“Trolls, intelligent? You degenerates are all alike.” Sir Phillipe, who was clearly not as clever as he wanted to believe spoke with a voice that made me think of fingernails on blackboards. I did notice however that Sir William was getting redder and redder standing next to the Lady Josefina possessively.

“What I was going to say before a certain ill-mannered lout decided to interrupt was that trolls are cleverer than you think they are. Remember that cave trolls are often sought after for masonry work as they have a basic and innate instinct as to how stone fits together to a level that even Dwarves don't understand. Also notice at how she...”

“She?” Sir Phillipe again.

“Yes, 'she' you ignorant fool. You would know this had you studied anything to do with the subject. She, which should tell you something else about her behaviour. Also, if you interrupt me again, I'm gonna knock you on your arse you incompetent fool. Now,”

Somehow he managed to exclude Phillipe who was spluttering.

“Can anyone tell me what family of monsters Trolls belong to?”

“Err ogroids.” Came a timid voice. The smallest of the knights who was looking a little pale.

“Well done,” said the Witcher, “What's your name?”

“Sir Thomas of Anelren sir.”

The Witcher nodded.

“I will remember it. What are Ogroids allergic to Sir Thomas?”

“I don't know sir,”

A couple of the other knights tittered.

“Quiet,” Thundered the Witcher. “Lack of knowledge is not a fault. Failure to follow up on that lack, is.” I struggled to keep my face straight as I wondered how many other roles the Witcher could take up. I had seen killer, mercenary, instructor, courtier and now I was seeing Class Professor.

“Ogroids are allergic to a particular mix of herbs that can poison them. It can make even the slightest wound become serious, even fatal to a troll.”

“Are you going to tell us the formulae Sir Witcher.”

The Witcher grinned at Thomas.

“Of course not Tom. Trade Secret.”

“See, just a tradesman after all.” blurted Phillipe angrily.

The Witcher, who still held the sword in his hand, simply flicked his wrist. It was lightening fast and Phillipe fell backwards on the grass.

“You cut me,”

“Yes,” said the Witcher standing and moving forwards.

“With that poison on the blade too. You've poisoned me you honour-less fuck.”

“Language in front of the lady,” admonished the Witcher.

“I don't care about that, you've poisoned me.”

“Are you a troll?”

Phillipe floundered, his hand on his face where a small cut on the cheek was welling a slight amount of blood. The kind of scratch you might get from being slapped in the face by a branch.

“No, of course not you simple....”

“Them I shouldn't think you have much to worry about then,” said the Witcher moving forwards again. “Also...” He hauled off and booted the fallen knight in the face.

The other knights sniggered but I was watching Sir William and his lady. She had enjoyed the display but Sir William was now watching the Witcher with a kind of hunger. I hadn't seen that kind of hunger before that day but I have seen it since. It is the face of a warrior wanting to test himself against another. It is the face of someone getting ready for a fight.

“Watch carefully boys.” The Witcher said to the other knights. “You might learn something.”

Another one of those iconic moments happened then. The Witcher walking towards the troll, sword out and held away from his body at his side. The others stood with me were not unaware of this. There was a connective feeling of held breath as the Witcher came to a halt, well outside the range of the hill.

The troll, who had very sensibly used the opportunity to sit down and have a rest, heaved herself up to her feet using the tree as leverage and swung her arms around a little. For all the world she looked like an athlete doing some warm-up exercises.

“Hello up there,” The Witcher called.

The Troll looked at him and growled.

“Now there's no need for that,” The Witcher continued. “I just want to talk.”

The Troll roared. Hearing it in the distance was nothing compared to the real thing, up close and personal. It wasn't really a noise that you heard, it was more something that you felt in your gut and in your chest.

“Also,” The Witcher went on conversationally. “I'm not in the least bit intimidated by loud noises.”

The Troll stopped and leant forward to peer at my companion. Then she lumbered forwards a few steps holding her tree in the same way as a washerwoman holds a frying pan when she suspects the presence of a mouse.

“You, two swords need?” Her voice was so deep that it was hard to think of her as feminine.

“Sometimes.”

She scuttled backwards a few steps with remarkable agility for something her size.

“You Wisher man,” She yelled and brandished her club at him.

The Witcher didn't move. “I am, yes.”

“You here Kill Kill? Truth Tell.” She demanded.

The Witcher slowly and calmly sheathed his sword on his back. The other knights around me started whispering to each other about strategy, tactics and psychology.

“If I have to kill kill. I will.” The Witcher was speaking clearly. Making sure he was saying each word distinctly. The troll raised her club...

“But I hope I won't have to,”

The club was lowered again. She looked at him with an exaggerated look of suspicion. She sniffed him.

“You smell truth.”

She shook her head and bellowed.

“But Wisher men Kill Troll, Kill.”

“Sometimes Troll kill men kill.” The Witcher said reasonably. “Men can't kill Troll. Call Witcher. Help.”

“You Help?”

“When I can.”

The Troll considered this. I was fascinated. As far as I know there are relatively few examples of scholarly discourse with Trolls. People have obviously spoken with them many times but no scholar had ever really made a study of them. It was amazing and I found myself being drawn into it. The troll obviously had a problem speaking common. It would be wrong to call it a speech impediment because she wasn't human and her teeth were on the outside of her mouth, taking the place of lips. She sounded stupid because her language was stunted and that made sense. It wasn't her first language so of course she came across as slow, or easily confused. She was having to convert the Witchers words into her own language, reason them out, come up with a response and then translate that response into common.

Like everyone I had heard of Rabid trolls. But then again I have heard about rabid and crazy humans as well. I felt a perception twist and shatter inside me. The trolls were intelligent and reasoning creatures. Maybe they weren't as clever as we are, maybe they don't 'work' in the same way that we do but I found myself wondering at all the reported troll attacks. How many of them were down to one side or the other not talking and not 'thinking'.

The troll was pacing, her brow furrowed in concentration. Her emotions were easy to read, her huge face contorted into remarkably similar expressions to human faces. I wanted to spend a week talking to her and making notes.

Someone's armour clattered as they shifted their weight and I was brought back to the very real threat of imminent violence.

“You help?” The troll asked again.

The Witcher nodded. “Yes. I help. If I can.”

I wondered if the troll noticed his emphasis on the word 'If'.

She sniffed hugely and turned away from the Witcher for a moment, rubbing her face with the back of one stony wrist.

“They Killed my man,” she wailed suddenly dropping her club and covering her face with her hands as she sobbed openly and with more raw honesty than many humans would. “He worked for them for years and they killed him.”

My heart wrenched and I felt close to tears as I felt the trolls anguish like a punch to the gut. Nor was I the only one as I heard Sir Thomas sob and one of the maidservants had to turn away.

“He bridge fixed. He Money collect. He angry not get, when at him they laugh.” She was sobbing and sniffing between words. It was horrible. She looked like a toddler who had had a favourite toy stolen, or a faithful dog who was wondering why it had been kicked by a beloved master.

“He Good Troll. He hurt no-one.” She was getting angry again now and I found I didn't blame her.

“I know it. I know they did.” The Witcher said. “I'm so sorry.”

The troll peered at him suspiciously, her distress momentarily forgotten.

“What you sorry for? You there not.”

“No. I suppose I'm sorry on behalf of my race.” Said the Witcher.

“Tanks. Sorry bring not him back though.”

“I know it.”

The troll abruptly sat down and just wept. There's no other words for it. The Witcher cautiously approached and gently place a hand on her shoulder.

I am not ashamed to say that I felt tears on my face at that image. I thought it was beautiful and impossibly sad. I am no poet to immortalise something in words that can bring tears from listeners, nor am I an artist who can render a moment, frozen in time. I have always been at peace with this lack in myself.

But every so often... Every so often I feel it's lack.

Time stood still as we all watched a Witcher console a grieving woman. At that point it didn't matter what race they both were, but one of us, at least had not forgotten what we were all doing there that day.

“They here kill me?”

I also noticed, in the scholarly part of my brain that I found myself hating at that point, that her common was getting better the more she used it.

The Witcher just nodded.

“I fight.” The Troll told him.

“I know that too. Why you not run?” I also noticed that the Witcher's common had got worse.

The Troll shrugged as she looked at him. Huge amber eyes staring into the cats eyes of the Witcher.

“Baby sick,” she said simply.

“Oh fuck off,” I heard myself whisper in despair.

“I'm not staying here any more,” one of the knights who we hadn't met yet said to his friends. “I no longer want a part of this. Come on.”

Two of the knights left the group and rode away.

Sir William said nothing, frowning in concentration.

“Witcher,” screamed the girl. “I demand you perform your duty.”

The Witcher took a few steps away from the troll.

“Be silent woman.” He snarled.

“But....”

I saw the Witchers hand twitch.

“I said be silent.” He thundered. “I am working here. Interfere again and I wash my hands of this affair and will act according to my conscience”

He turned back and spoke to the troll before turning back and he looked at me.

“Franklin,” he waved me up.

I ran over, the Witcher watched the remaining knights who were getting less and less comfortable with every passing second.

“There's a baby,” he said without looking at me. He looked like a man dangling over a cliff by one hand and could feel that hand getting slippery. “You know medicine?”

“A little, mostly wounds and stuff. Not sure I know much about Troll babies though.”

The Witcher pinched the bridge of his nose. “Well she won't move until the baby's better. Can't say I blame her, but that's the obstacle. Can you have a look for me?”

It was a surreal experience. I had used my training on injured men before and cleaned up the odd busted child who had hurt themselves kicking a ball. The difference this time was that the “baby” was the size of a fully grown dwarf and the anxious parent was, well, a Troll whose spade sized hands made a noise that was quite literally stones scraping over each other.

“Well,” I said emerging from the small cave that was surprisingly neat if foul smelling and filthy. I didn't want to presume though, for all I knew that was a Troll's version of spick and span.

“Well. He?” the mother nodded.

“He's hot to the touch and doesn't like the light. Do you mind if I touch your forehead madam?” I

asked

“Wha'?” she looked bewildered.

“Him face touch?” The Witcher put in. “Simple words, normal tone and pace,” he said to me.

“Oh,” she bent down and I could feel her forehead which was unsurprisingly cool.

“Well,” I suddenly felt very tired. “This is a bit out of my league but if he was human I would say to wrap him up warm and get some water into him.”

I saw the Trolls bewildered face.

“Him, water drink?” I tried.

She shook her head. “Him mouth close,” The troll responded.

“Little water. Drip drip.” I said. “Him bad meat eaten?” A thought had occurred to me.

“Meat old.” she nodded.

I nodded as well and went to the Witcher who was watching the knights. His hand was on his sword strap.

“The baby needs wrapping up warm, blankets or skins. Then drip feed him as much water as you can get into him.”

“What's wrong with him?”

I shook my head. “I don't know,” I almost sighed the words. “Maybe he's eaten something bad given the family disruption or it might just be Troll snuffles. She said old meat. This is above my head.”

The Witcher nodded a little crestfallen.

“I'm heading back to town.” I said.

The Witcher looked up, confused and I saw that I wasn't the only one feeling the strain.

“There's bound to be an old woman, or healer of some kind who has forgotten more herb and local lore than you or I ever knew.”

I felt so much better when the Witcher nodded, relief at a plan being formed written large on his face.

“Ride fast Franklin. Otherwise I might have to kill a knight or two and I don't fancy I could take them all.”

I nodded and clapped him on the shoulder before catching up my spear and running to my horse.

Stereotypes are interesting things. Everyone, including me has an image of the local village herbalist, or Witch. Think about that image now for a moment. Firstly They tend to be either ancient or young, never middle aged. They're either a crone or a promiscuous lady of the night type wearing either too revealing clothes or covering themselves from top to bottom. They always live alone and without company.

This was the image of what I was looking for and I couldn't have been more wrong.

I eventually found Mother Raeburn working on the small patch of ground next to her house. She was weeding her plants, all grim determination and scowl of concentration with a clay pipe clamped firmly between her teeth which generated enough smoke to make the insides of my lungs itch. She was, maybe mid to late forties. No spring chicken to be sure and older than many of the old women in those areas that had been ravaged by the more recent war but she was still a lot younger looking than I was expecting.

She was tall, grey haired that was pulled back into a pony tail and other than that she looked like any woman who was beginning to feel as though she “wasn't really that old was she?” I will admit that she was attractive in an earthy kind of way. She clearly worked herself hard and spent most of her time outdoors and things. She had the bloom of health about her, unsurprising given her profession and when I explained the problem she drove her trowel deep into the earth and started bellowing instructions at the numerous children who were hanging round the house. All along the lines of, “Make sure this is done, hang these, brush those, wash the other things. Not too much smoke or it all goes to pot” and so on.

As it turns out she had married relatively young and had seen no reason why she couldn't be the local herb-woman as well as enjoying life at whatever damn pace she liked. By her own admission she drank, she tried various herbs of mind altering capabilities and still enjoyed the odd roll in the grass, hay or bed whenever she could convince her husband of the need and spent the rest of her days running him, the children and the grand-children ragged.

All this I learned while frantically trying to suggest that time was precious.

She collected several bunches of things and a couple of bottles of strange coloured liquids. One of which contained a small lump which I was sure was a wasp. Apparently it added to the texture.

We also made a stop at the local butcher who was in the process of slaughtering and butchering a couple of sheep where she spent some time arguing with the man about something that I couldn't quite catch and he ended up handing her a large wineskin of something. I was still on the horse as she handed it up to me.

“Hold this,” she instructed in the tones of someone who is used to being obeyed.

“What is it?” I asked all innocent.

“Pigs blood.” She was rooting through her satchel for something.

“What?” I recoiled.

“Would you rather I use your blood. Pass it over.” She poured the contents of a small paper packet into the mouth of the skin and gave it a shake. “That'll have to do.”

“Pigs blood,”

“Yeah,” she said climbing up behind me, ignoring the offered hand. “Makes it easier for the troll to swallow. Fresh pigs blood is like Mothers milk to 'em. Off we go.”

On the ride back I learned more about her history and the history of every family in the local area.

“Are you a Witch?” I asked at one point.

“Are you a Witch hunter? Come to take me off to a pyre?”

“No ma'am, just a curious and exhausted scholar.”

“In that case. I would say I know a thing or two that they didn't teach those youngsters up in Aretuza or wherever it is they teach young magic people nowadays. But I wouldn't say I'm a Witch or Wizard or Sorceress or anything. Just an increasingly old woman who knows a thing or two. Also, don't call me Ma'am. Makes me feel old. Greta is fine.”

I also heard the full history of the “thing with Tom,” filled with many stories of Tom's quiet mischief and the towns equally quiet affection for the troll who had worked with the townsfolk to make their lives a bit better. She told me that, “he was a good man that, despite being a troll. He gave the impression that there was more going on behind those eyes than most would give credit for.”

There were all these little stories about that time that Tom had gone out to find a lost sheep, or had walked a little girl home, or played a prank on an uptight merchant.

If I hadn't before, I was becoming increasingly certain that I would have liked Old Tom.

It was just beginning to get dark as we got back to that little clearing. It was that stage of things where the light was just beginning to turn red. I didn't bother with niceties and just rode up to the foot of the hills and helped the lady down who ran towards her patient. The Witcher was still stood in the same spot. To all intents and purposes he hadn't moved.

As I went to stand with him I could look around the place. Sir William hadn't moved either and he and the Witcher were staring at each other, something building between them. The girl could be heard yelling at someone, presumably taking out some frustration on some poor maidservant.

Another couple of knights had made a retreat as well.

“You were quick,” said the Witcher quietly.

“Quick?” I answered. I was breathing hard and my poor horse was shaking. “She was fussing over every detail and it took me ages to find her. I wanted to apologise for being late.”

The Witcher sniffed. “Such women want to exert control on the grounds that they need everyone to listen to them and do what they're told. They need the obedience of everyone from the highest King to the lowest peasant. It's a knack that they seem to teach each other in an ancient and sacred code. To be honest I'm surprised she didn't make you wait till morning.”

“I think she was fond of the Troll.”

The Witcher nodded. “Well, lets see how it's going.”

Prominently and obviously he turned his back on Sir William the Ram and moved over to where the Herb-woman was making cooing noises over the infant troll while the mother troll looked on, hands

wringing nervously.

“How's the patient?” the Witcher asked.

“He'll be fine.” said the Herb-woman. The infant troll was now in his mothers arms drinking greedily from the wineskin we had picked up earlier. The Troll was visibly shaking with relief.

“He essentially got the Troll equivalent of the snuffles but with the added stress, poor food and his mother not being able to nurse him properly for obvious reasons.” She glared down the valley to where the pavilion stood and Sir William was practising his death stare on us.

“Can the child be moved?” The Witcher asked.

The woman sighed and rubbed her eyes, looking much older than I judged her years. “Yeah, so long as he keeps guzzling that stuff down, which he will, and then drinks the water and eats and nurses properly then he'll be fine.”

“What wisher man say?” The troll could move surprisingly quietly for someone of her bulk.

“You need to leave,” My companion told her brutally. “Wrap up your child and head that way,” he waved over the lip of the crest, away from the pavilion and the entrance to the little vale. “Stick to the high places where the horses can't reach you and you should be fine. I will deal with these fine folks and any other pursuit will already be too far behind you.”

“Us not go. Home this.” She stamped her foot and there was a sullen rage in the trolls voice that I found I couldn't blame her for.

My companion got help from a surprising source though.

“He's right Annie,” said the Herb-woman.

“Who's Annie?” I asked.

“Annie I.” The troll said stamping her foot. A trolls stamp can make the earth shake.

“Don't mind him.” said the Herb-woman. “But the Witcher is right. You have to go or those men will come back for you. Give it a year and the Lord will come back and sort this all out and things will have calmed down again. You'll see.”

The troll stared at the infant unhappily.

“Dis our home,” she said again.

“I'm sorry Annie,” said Greta. I was surprised at the emotion in the old woman's voice, but then I suppose I shouldn't have been as there was a lump in my own throat.

The troll wiped her eyes.

“No you fault.” She said. She stomped over to the cave and pulled out a large animal skin that she quickly fashioned into a crude sling and put the infant inside who was still guzzling from the wine skin.

“Tank Greta,” she said,

“I'll see you soon Annie,” said the older woman.

“Tank Wisher man friend.”

I stood dumbfounded.

“That's you,” Kerrasss said to me. He was smiling sadly.

“Oh,” I said, jumping a little. “You are quite welcome Annie. Thank you.”

The trolls face creased in confusion. “For what?”

“never mind.” I whispered.

The troll nodded.

“Tank Wisher man.” The Troll paused “You not Wisher man.” she decided after a while.

“I'm not?”

I nearly crowed with delight at the Witchers face as his mouth hung open in astonishment.

“No, You kind,”

Without further preamble she glared at the Pavilion and very deliberately picked up her club and swung it over her shoulder before climbing up and over the lip of the dell with surprising agility.

The Witcher stared at his feet for a moment before he looked back up at the place where the troll had disappeared.

“No Annie.” he muttered. “You're wrong. I'm not kind at all.”

He turned and looked at me. “Silver off,” he said. There was a fire in his eyes as he said it.

“Thank you for the help Greta,” he carried on as I quickly unstrapped the more ornate of the two swords. “But there is about to be some violence here and you may not wish to see, or there may be repercussions.”

“I can stomach justice when I see it Witcher and my status offers me protection aplenty. I supply her father's ointment for his knees.” she cackled evilly, “Also there are bits of this countryside that even that Sergeant has forgotten about.”

The Witcher nodded, rolled his shoulders and looked back at me. “Stay out of it. Protect yourself and Greta here if it should come to that.”

I nodded. I was disappointed but there was still enough of my brain that was cool enough that I could understand that he needed space to work.

The Witcher took a deep breath and closed his eyes. When he opened them again there was absolutely no trace of emotion there. Not thought or feeling. Again, it felt as though I was looking at a mask rather than looking at a human being, even a mutant. He turned and walked down the hill towards the Pavilion.