Solitaire’s POV: Day 9

Shango was mad at me. No, no he wasn’t. He’d been mad at me when I hit him, what he was now, though, had come after that. Disgust.

The smug bastard probably thought he was hiding it, as if I couldn’t smell the revulsion on him. All those furtive little glances, the long, silent ponderings. The guilt and flashed glances at my weapon- glancing for what, exactly? Did he think I’d hurt him? He was a fucking idiot if he did, however often we gave each other licks, but what other reason could he have?

Well, obviously he was scared I’d hurt someone else. Which I would, if they threatened me or my friends. Action is no less inherently forgivable than inaction, intention is nothing compared to results. Killing people by sticking up the road to life-saving medicine left them just as dead as smashing their head in with a hammer. So what I did to that bandit was fine, it was moral. It was the diffusing of a landmine.

But Shango had never seen things that way, nobody had, except me apparently. And I’d known that when I did the guy. I probably would’ve kept him alive, if I hadn’t needed those teeth. Ifs, woulds, coulds.

He was dead now, and my pocket held a nice chunk of silver we’d gotten for selling all his and his friends’ pearly whites- or cheesy yellows as it were- and if the bow slung over my shoulder gave us odds even one percent better, it was worth killing fifty of that bastard.

But Shango had never seen things that way. I resisted the urge to swear as I glanced at him. This wasn’t a rift that would close soon.

But Cádo’s wound hadn’t been one that would heal ever. The choice was clear, and I didn’t regret it.

Which was, of course, why I had to tell myself as much a dozen times. Thank you brain, cunt.

The trees were properly white, now, snow having thickened even more in the week or so since winter started. If we’d put our minds to it, igloo construction would’ve been either a lot easier or a lot harder. I supposed we’d find out which the next time we had cause to stray away from town for a night or more.

It meant something else, too. Tracks were visible as anything in the world, but brief as well. It took maybe half a day for snowfall to cover even a deep footprint, and less for something small and light like a rabbit. Fortunately we were after a troll, which gave us a bit more wiggle room.

What we did not have, though, was a tangible idea of what we were looking for. Oh, we all had a vivid picture of trolls themselves, our publishers had even gotten official art drawn up of the things. We hadn’t spent long describing their feet though, and even I couldn't recall any art depicting them. So we couldn’t guess what their tracks might look like. It’d be just our luck to follow what we thought was a sure trail, only to wander into some dragon’s den.

We trudged on all the same, determined- or, rather, opposed to getting our legs broken by a wizard- enough that the bite of the air didn’t do much at all to slow our progress through the woods. With six eyes peeled, it didn’t take as long as it might have for us to stumble onto something worth following. Big, dinnerplate-wide gouges in the snow left by what looked like big hands.

I’d always pictured and written giant chimps, when it came to troll body types, which made that a fairly promising sign. A giant chimp knuckling the ground as it moved might leave gouges like that, in snow at least. We went after it.

Hm, a very promising sign. More evidence that the blanks in our worldbuilding would be filled in by the agreements we’d reach if we had discussed the missing elements. I had to keep myself from entertaining the thought longer, speculation was a luxury enjoyed by people who weren’t about to fight Prince Kong with less weaponry than the average biker gang.

Another half hour came and went before much of anything at all happened. We almost missed the noise at first, that’s how loud the wind was, but it just barely reached us. A low, snarling grunt cutting over the sound of air bouncing off tree trunks. Instantly we were on edge, ducking low, readying weapons, talking in careful, whispered tones.

Something big was ahead, possibly hungry, and definitely not the sort of enemy we’d enjoy fighting.

But we’d heard it, and it very likely hadn’t heard us. Which meant a fight was optional.

That was good, that was very fucking good.

Our preparation was quickly decided and more quickly still executed. I took the bow, a big long thing almost as tall as this world’s men, and climbed a tree. We had five arrows, all close to a yard from arse to nose, and I could only hope they’d be enough. Because my friends were still on the ground twenty feet below me.

Beam took the front, spear ready, trembling either with the shivers or the fear of fighting a monster. Shango was in back, knives out and stomach about one “boo” away from emptying itself down his leg, and now all that was left for us to let everything kick off.

It did so, with a great big howl.

Olympians are insane, really. Beam had the lung capacity of a whale, and he used all of it in shouting over the wind, screaming hoarse and jagged like a bull being fisted.

A few moments of silence followed, then the sound of something big and angry charging our way. The only warning we’d get.

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The troll wasn’t that big, really. It was only a head taller than a world-class powerlifter, it was only as muscular as a chimpanzee, and it was only coming at us at a leisurely pace of thirty fucking miles per hour. Beam was ready, but I was in range before him, letting an arrow go and resisting the urge to shout a swear after it.

Mum always did like archery, and bow making. In her words it was safer than guns- in that the government would have less grounds to label her a terrorist if she was proven to have created them. I wasn’t gonna win any awards, but I was a decent shot. And the one advantage of big enemies was big targets.

The arrow hit its chest, just above the nipple, and went bouncing off. I swore, carefully fished out another, fired by the time the troll had managed another forty feet. Closer now, much closer, which meant a sharper angle and a faster arrow. This one stuck in, earning a roar of pain and slowing the monster somewhat. It was within a few paces of Beam when the third arrow caught its shoulder.

He might’ve died if not for that, the enemy smashing into him like a battering ram, finishing what the bear started. Instead the troll’s sprint turned into a stagger, and his spear found a nice new home in its ribcage. We all laughed at the sight, grinning while eight inches of steel disappeared into the fucker. Then it backhanded him clean off his feet, and we started swearing again.

I can’t imagine what Shango was thinking. A big, grey-skinned animal hunched over on two legs, with mangy flesh covered in scars, four eyes and a jaw shaped halfway between an ape and a dog, slapping an olympian feet back right in front of him, leaving him the only enemy within killing range. Most people would’ve freaked, but not him. He just went calm and rational.

The troll came in like a blur and Shango shifted his grip on one knife, turning it to hold blade-first, cocking an arm back and throwing. His technique was dogshit, luck was absurd, and the tip caught his target right in the stomach. The troll screamed, turning away in shock, giving him just enough time to dive out of the way while it cleared the last ten feet.

That was around the time arrow number four caught its back, and I was dropping down while I readied the last of my ammunition.

Falling twenty feet without injury isn’t easy, but it’s doable. Depending on the circumstances.

Helps if you’re athletic, helps more if you’re used to it, helps a lot more if you’re tall and lithe- because big people have thick bones, and thin ones have less mass.

What really helps is falling through eighteen inches of soft snow before you hit the ground, though. That was what let me keep my balance and shrug the drop off with nothing more than bent knees, and that’s why the final arrow found its mark barely seconds after the one before it. The troll was spinning at me, shrieking, and Shango did the exact right thing as he closed in to slash his remaining blade along its arm.

Again, the troll was turning. Too fucking stupid to realise that every time it did just gave us another opening by slowing its killing momentum. I started sprinting, closed in, flick-knife drawn, teeth grit, panic high as I realised I’d be too slow. Then Beam smashed into it from the side.

It did come as a surprise, even to me.

To clarify, I do know I’m mental, I’d have to be catatonic not to, but there’s different grades of crazy. Mine is good for self preservation, for caution, for contingencies. The blend of insanity I experience, however you want to describe it, is most fucking certainly not the kind that would have me charging dick-first at something ten times stronger than a human.

Well, it was probably only five times stronger than Beam, and he was lucky enough to have been born with that exact mania. He hit it like a cavalry charge, shoulder first and with all his momentum braced perfectly into a last-second jump. It succeeded in sending the troll stumbling, at the cost of knocking him flat again, but this time he was ready. Rolling as he landed, jumping back up to his feet and turning into a fucking round-house kick before any of us could even realize what he was doing.

Shinbone met skull with a fairly satisfying crunch, and the troll looked rather confused as it dropped to one knee. More confused than hurt, sadly, but that was where I came in.

I circled it instead of charging head on, despite the sight of it rising to tear my friend apart. I’m not the charging into danger sort, like I said. I always prefer to think things through, take my time, prepare, consider, then act.

Being honest, it didn’t actually take much considering to decide what I’d do next. I closed in, then jumped just as Beam had, timing my leap to bring my heels against the troll’s back, knees bending to fall into it with the last of my forward momentum, taking the instant between stopping and falling to grab both the arrows still jutting into its back, then kicking off like a springboard.

Arrow removal is difficult, done properly. Lots of careful cutting around the barb, slow easing, gently guiding it out to avoid it ripping anything free on the exit. I didn’t do that as I launched myself away, one shaft gripped in each hand. Probably took about a pound of meat with them, between the two barbed points on each end, and I was halfway through a nice giggle at the sound coming out of Mister Troll when my back hit the snow.

This was the part of my plan I hated most; faith. I wasn’t Beam, I couldn’t dance to my feet and run before the thing was on me. Which left me hanging out to dry, making a really big wish that he did something stupid in time to save me.

And he did.

I heard snarling, screaming, then gagging. Hurried to my feet just in time to witness Beam dragging the troll back into a fucking choke-hold. I took one look at its talons, figured out all on my own the single-digit-seconds that manoeuvre would keep working for, then sprinted forwards. Shango was beside me, suddenly, and we split up again to approach the troll from different angles.

It was bleeding, crimson drizzling from the stomach, oozing from its other three arrow wounds and gushing from the new spots on its back where I’d yanked a pair of meatballs out. The snow around it was sticky and red with what looked like two, even three litres of blood. But the flow was slowing down, now, and a creature this size probably had a dozen still left in it.

What was a category two haemorrhage again? Twenty percent blood loss if I recalled correctly- if, god, I’m so humble- which meant that it would be slowing and weakening. But not as much as I’d like.

So, best to dry it out a bit more then. I went for the neck.

Beam lunged back from a swipe and I leapt in under it, Shango distracted the fucker by hacking at its elbow from one side, and the moment he took its attention was enough for me to close in and go to skewer its carotid.

Except this was a troll, not a human. Its skin was centimetre-thick armour, its flesh made tougher by the same magic that was partially responsible for its inhuman strength. I would’ve opened all the big veins up nice and proper if I’d poked a human, but against this thing they held.

Which turned my killing blow into a pissing off blow. I tried to get out of arm’s reach an instant later, but I was too slow.

The talons came around, and this time they tore deep into my arm as I was launched.