071 – Highlands
***
The winds grew stronger and colder the further up the mountain we climbed. I had not brought heavier clothing than my traveling cloak, but my inner fire kept me warm. We came to the headwater of the tributary between the base of the two mountains. The cold water burst from a natural spring and dribbled down the rocky defile. The remaining path to the highlands, not eroded into a riverbed, was more like a set of steep and irregular stairs. Our party of monsters lagged behind while Famigrist and I skipped up the rocks like billy goats.
This hike would have been absolute torture for the old Ariman, the bookish technician who rarely left the city.
We did not have to climb all the way to the very peaks of the mountains, just to a flat tableland above the valley. And that elevation did not reach the snow line, where the cold temperatures left a permanent covering of snow on the mountains. Sometimes, during a cold spell, snow would fall on the tablelands, but it was never permanent. It might last for a few days or weeks. I could see my breath hanging in the air.
A full night’s march brought us to the highlands. This region was incredibly flat and featureless, with the ragged tops of mountains defining its borders – although those mountains looked much shorter at this elevation. No trees grew here. Moss and short grasses carpeted the plain a uniform green. It was like stepping onto a cold golf course that stretched on for kilometers. The wind blew unobstructed across the expanse.
“Trolls live up here?” I asked Famigrist. I had to hold my hat on my head to keep it from blowing away. “Where? And how?”
“The troll tribe follows a family of ogres. The ogres follow herds of moss-beasts.”
“What do the beasts follow?”
“Fresh grass. They graze a field and move on. The herds travel widdershins about these highlands.” He pointed to the left. “We will not follow, but meet them head on.”
We did not stop to rest for the day, and began to march without delay. In such a flat environment, we could cover a lot of ground quickly. The Warcreeps hissed and grumbled their displeasure at the nearness of the sun and the unforgiving winds. The trolls were no longer mindless cattle and now complained about everything like real soldiers. The goblins shivered pathetically. There was no reason for the scouts to accompany us on this leg of the journey across wide open terrain. Famigrist had healed from his encounter with the saber-tusked pig, but his fur hadn’t grown back. He had bald patches all up his left side. Even our leader was underdressed for the cold weather.
This would have been a perfect place to have a domesticated horse to ride, but getting a horse through the valley and up the mountain would have been an incredible task.
“You didn’t say anything about ogres before. What’s an ogre?”
“A giant. They use the trolls as hounds when hunting the moss-beasts.”
“Are we going to capture them for Korkso as well?”
“Adult ogres are too willful to subdue. However, if we capture an ogre cub, it will make a powerful addition to the Warcreeps in a few years.”
I knew there had to be a catch. A mission to kidnap a bunch of trolls didn’t need a swordsman along for the ride. The Warcreeps might have been able to do it alone, without Famigrist’s help. Trolls were easy, but a group of bigger monsters obstructed our goal.
***
Famigrist had good reasons not to let the weary troops camp. For one, the highlands had no wood to burn for warmth. For another, it had almost no water. When it snowed or rained, water would gather in shallow pools temporarily and then drain away through the cracked and porous terrain. The highlands were, basically, a giant bowl filled with gravel and covered with a layer of moss. Water drained from the surface down to the aquifer, from whence it leaked out through freshwater springs like the one in the mountain pass. The highlands had no streams or rivers or ponds or lakes, just flat nothingness. The Warcreeps and goblin scouts had to quench their thirst on clumps of snow that hadn’t completely melted away.
The inhospitable environment limited our time to raid.
The next day, a new hazard presented itself. Near sunset, when the shadows stretched long across the green turf, Nimblesto broke silence by shouting, “Duck!” I crouched down just as a great blast of wind struck us from behind and a familiar screeching greeted us from above. One of the trolls, not understanding the human word, did not react in time. A pair of talons grasped him by the torso and lifted him off his feet. The devil-bird carried the helpless troll a few kilometers away and very high into the air before dropping him to the ground. It then glided down to the exploded corpse to pick the meat from the broken bones.
This open region was a favorite hunting ground for the devil-birds. The flat plains gave them room to maneuver and a clear view of any migrating creatures. There was no place to hide. The bird monsters either didn’t recognize us as fellow denizens of the citadel, or didn’t recognize our truce as extending so far from their nesting grounds. Up here, anything on two legs was fair game.
The sooner we completed the mission, the better.
“Trolls, ogres, moss-beasts, devil-birds. Do any other types of monsters live up here that I should know about? I’d like to know before one swoops down on me or bursts out of the ground.”
“The only other monsters are the ones you travel with.”
“Our trusty trolls and goblins. And what type are you?”
“I’m not a type. I’m Famigrist.”
That statement implied he was not born to a momma and poppa Famigrist, which would put him in the other category: a monster created through daemonic possession. He had not been born to his current state.
“Were you uh… Were you human once?”
“I am very old. Older than you. Older than all living humans but one. I am older than the nation of Sandgrave by a century,” he replied. “I’ve forgotten the brief years of my infancy. And if I could recall them, those memories wouldn’t matter.”
He was very mistaken about being older than me. I had him beat by at least an order of magnitude. I would have liked to asked him about his long life, since he must have experienced a great many things in that span of time, but Famigrist was a taciturn and grumpy monster. I didn’t want to annoy him with too many questions.
“And do you have a daemonic spirit too?”
The giant monster snarled at me and bore his teeth. He raised his hackles and dug his claws into the ground as if getting ready to pounce. I skipped backwards and grasped my staff defensively. The sudden ferocity of his reaction startled the goblins and Warcreeps, who also shied away in fear.
If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
“Never mind. None of my business.” That was one question too many. I should have quit while I was ahead. “Uh. Forget I asked anything…”
I kept my distance from the moody monster as we continued the overland trek.
***
Evolution could not fully explain the weird monsters roaming the continent. The monsters were like things that should only exist in dreams, where the mind, unmoored from reality, can freely mix disparate elements and distort familiar objects into bizarre new shapes, where both truth and possibility are forgotten. Daemons, when possessing living creatures, dreamt them into new forms. The whimsical spirits especially loved to take the parts of one animal and transplant them onto another. Famigrist had the horns of a ram, the mane of a lion, the head of a wolf. But on occasion the possessing daemons were even more avant garde with their art.
We came to the moss-beasts grazing on the highlands. From a distance they appeared as mossy boulders or shrubs. As we came closer, they changed into large herbivores with shaggy coats of green fur. Moss grew on their hair, giving them camouflage, and small plants sprouted from their backs. These beasts were so strange, I couldn’t tell what animal they had originally been.
The moss-beasts carried their hefty bodies on six legs – an unusual trait for a vertebrate. They slid from place to place with ease, leaving deep ruts in the turf. Their front two sets of legs terminated in small wheels, while the back set of legs kicked off the ground for propulsion. In this way, they rolled around the open plain like living wagons. While slow to get rolling, due to size and inertia, the lethargic moss-beasts could reach surprising top speeds.
“What is this madness?” I howled.
“Moss-beasts. Stay alert. The enemy will be near.”
“This is the weirdest one yet.”
The monster herd wouldn’t let me get close enough to examine them. As far as I could see, their wheels were modified hoofs cut free to spin in place and held by truly alien feet unlike those of any other animal.
“Forget the trolls,” I said. “We should capture these beasts and take them back to the citadel to start a monster ranch.”
Unfortunately, that would be impossible for us. Not only did we have no way to get them down the mountain and down the river, the wheel footed beasts wouldn’t enjoy the bumpy, muddy terrain near the citadel. The moss-beasts were well adapted—or well designed, rather—for their current environment.
A tribe of humans with domestic horses could have hunted the monsters quite easily, or maybe even domesticated them into rolling cattle. But the trolls and ogres did not have an easy time hunting prey that could see to the horizon and skate away from any approaching danger.
“The trolls will surround the herd from all sides but one. Their attack will push the beasts toward the safe exit. That’s where the ogres will spring an ambush. Afterwards, the ogres will feast and the trolls will scavenge the scraps as their reward.”
“What point will we attack?”
“At the end when the whole tribe has gathered at the feet of the ogre family.” Famigrist inhaled the breeze and pointed to plumes of smoke in the distance. “The trolls are setting dung fires to frighten the herd. We can see the open route. The ogres are there, laying in wait.”
We marched the Warcreeps away from the enclosing circle of troll hunters. Acting too early might spoil the hunt and scatter the trolls across the highlands. Several kilometers away from the main event, Famigrist gave the troops permission to sleep. They needed to rest before the fight. And, by laying low to the ground, we kept out of sight. With no fires to ward off the chill, the goblins huddled together in a shivering clump. Only Famigrist stayed alert through the night, watching the movement of the ant-sized figures on the horizon.
***
“It’s time to move,” our leader announced.
He roused the Warcreeps from their brief slumber. The trolls armed themselves with their shields and spears. Each one also carried a wooden club for subduing the prisoners. Iron chains and manacles clinked at their waists as they assembled into formation. The trolls were no longer an unruly mob of savages or a mindless group of slaves; their brutal training and renewed fighting had combined to make them a disciplined unit of warriors.
The formation marched at double time, forward to glory, while the goblins trailed nervously behind. Nothing could alter the cowardly nature of those little sneaks.
At the spot where the herd had grazed, wheel tracks impressed upon the grass and moss. We could see how the herd had rolled together and then fled from the hunters. All the ruts in the ground curved to the north and combined into one long highway.
The hunt and the skating herd of moss-beasts took up the tribe’s attention. Few of the monsters noticed our approach, and those who did couldn’t communicate that fact to their fellows over the din of lowing beasts and howling trolls. We moved unopposed on their rear flank.
These highland trolls were of a different breed than our Warcreeps. Life in this desolate region had shaped them into primitive scavengers, almost animals. They were shorter, thinner, hairier, and uglier. Their longer arms and legs let them run faster over the open plains. The tribe employed no tools except sharpened bones of the moss-beasts and thrown rocks. Our trolls from the citadel were highly civilized in comparison, because they had stolen tools and clothing from human settlers and lived inside an Ancient ruins. Perhaps their former diet of goblin and human flesh had a positive effect on their brain size as well. I would not have guessed that these two groups belonged to the same species.
The tribe ran screaming after the moss-beasts, funneling the herd toward their masters.
The ogres had concealed themselves in shaggy green pelts and laying flat on the ground. From a distance, they looked like mounds of dirt, closer up they could be mistaken for a group of moss-beasts. Only when very near did they reveal themselves as giants. The ogres threw themselves on the bunched up herd of herbivores.
The moss-beasts had an absurd means of locomotion that could only have come from a daemonic possession. But I, as a human being, had little room to criticize them. My own species had one of weirdest forms of bipedalism ever produced by evolution. We stood straight up like reeds with our giant skulls at the very top, giving us a high center of gravity. We moved upright by wiggling our limbs across ground. Only the kangaroos could compete with us in strangeness, and they came in a distant second because at least they kept their balance with thick tails. The ogres had reached the practical size limit for this awkward, human shape. They stood at about four meters tall, supported by very thick legs and stout bones.
The giant ogres lacked the intelligence for any advanced methods of hunting. They used no tools and simply tackled the passing moss-beasts. With their fists, the ogres bashed their prey into submission and then choked them to death. Every hunt ended in a wrestling match.
As the ogres did the real work, the troll tribe thronged about howling in excitement, impatient to collect the cast off scraps. Occasionally an overeager troll would get too close and receive a smack instead, sending it flying.
This was our best moment to raid the monsters, at the climax of a successful hunt. The trolls would not abandon their share of the kills. And because they all gathered in one spot, their greater numbers would give them extra confidence. They wouldn’t flee in all directions when faced with an enemy.
Famigrist stood in the middle of the formation of Warcreeps, shouting orders. The soldiers marched into the horde of savages. They didn’t hold back with their spears at first, wounding many of the highland trolls and killing some. Famigrist was willing to accept some losses among the future slaves. First he would break their ranks to ensure victory, and then he’d switch to beating and capturing the survivors.
This battle gave me a chance to use my staff, since mass murder was not the goal. I moved through the crowd rapidly so as not to get surrounded while lashing out to the left and right. My weapon spun in my hands. I kicked a troll off its feet, levitated it into the air, and dropped it on its comrades. As long as I had mana to burn, this fight was a mere training exercise for me.
“Befuddling Fist!”
I tested my abortive technique on the trolls. It was no good against swordsmen, but it could beat common monsters. Fire burst from my fist into their chests and skulls. The technique didn’t always score a one hit knockout, as trolls were hardy creatures inured to pain, but two or three punches would render one unconscious. A line of collapsed monsters marked my path around the battlefield.
“Strythe. Deal with those ogres,” Famigrist shouted at me.
I turned around to see where he pointed. Our assault finally got the attention of the ogre family. They rose from the mangled carcasses of the moss-beasts and lumbered toward the fray. These huge monsters threatened to smash through the Warcreeps’ shield wall and break apart their tightly packed formation. Scattering our troops would nullify their superior fighting tactics and leave them vulnerable to the highland trolls’ greater numbers.
Leading the troops occupied all of Famigrist’s attention. The success of our slave raid depended on me. I had to single handedly defeat five angry giants who stood over twice my height.