Me pat belly. Me super no hungry. Me eat big-lots!

“Grug… dere be a lots-thingy-cave dere,” damien speak, pointin.’ “You go help? Or no help? Go?”

It ok. Me help. Me need dey’s help for make bridge be better, an’ dey give flicker-hot-hurty-help, yes?

“Maybe, Grug… or dey’s hurty you.” Jonas-thingy say.

Me hurty now, dey no hurty more? How can hurty more?

“Dey make you die… like when you was over big-shiny-hot? Dey maybe put you dere!”

Why? Me help dem? Dey no hurty me, dey noggin tells dem dat me bad. Me hear it.

Damien-thingy climb over me shoulder an’ go near me eyes so me can see.

“You hear? You understand it?”

Yes. Dey make da weird sharp-mouth-sounds an’ me hear it, small hear it. No understand no-troll-speak, so dey speak troll-speak?

—

JONAS

“What the hell is he talking about? He can understand As’tiki?” asks Jonas, looking to his Father.

Damien’s face is lost in thought. “Perhaps…” he says, then wets his lips and pushes air out of his lips. Grug instantly looks at Damien’s mouth and nods.

“Dat. Dat be it. Me understand little dat.”

“Are you using the subtonal As’tiki?”

Damien nods. “I am. It seems he understands — as he says ’little dat’ — though what that means is…” He stops. “Do you remember what Gaem’a told us; that trolls used to hunt As’tiki, back before they were uprisen?”

“You think its related?”

Damien chews his lip and before he has a chance to speak Grug is off, decidedly slower for all the duskwraith-meat in his belly. It’s almost ludicrous now; how rotund the troll’s stomach has gotten — yet the troll finds more space. Is his appetite unlimited?

It’s hard enough to speak — let alone hold a coherent conversation — when you’re gripping onto a troll’s neck and burgeoning antlers for dear life above an almost-certain-death drop; the only ability to traverse coming from said troll’s ability to carve holes in a wall AND simultaneously grapple onto them.

Yet, as if by instinct, he forms them enough that he can hold — and has yet for one to break. Jonas finds; between the sinking-stomach feelings, a sense of… well, he’s not really quite sure what the emotion is. That he was so afraid of the relatively safe traversal bars yet begins to find this… not relaxing but not as scary.

He looks down at the troll; at the movements. Come to think of it, he’s never been afraid of dropping or crashing whilst Damien drove the vessel — only when he did. Is this… trust? He’s offloading the worry; if Grug drops — that’s it. There was nothing he could have done, realistically.

Damien, surprisingly, does not have the same reaction. His face is full of terror with every swing; every grasp onto another piece of stone, every moment spent in a brief free-fall… until they land. This time, Grug lands well, bending to absorb the shock of the jump.

The troll puts a hand on his stomach. “Ow. Stomach hurty.”

Despite himself, Jonas laughs. “You eat big, too much eat?” he speaks. Even without the book, he finds the words come to him easily. “Me no eat-too-much-troll, me eat-big-lots-troll!”

The area they’ve landed is the same place Jonas had woken up; seemingly a collection of buildings designed for living. A large collection of houses — made from the same thick, strong wood as ever — are collected into rows, though sometimes built upon each other in chaotic fashion. Small holes allow As’tiki to clamber inside.

He spots the guest house — now already reduced to ash. A fire spreads through the place at rapid pace, blazing bright and pluming clouds of black smoke and water-vapour. As’tiki — not yet noticed of Grug’s presence — pour water on it, trying desperately to control the fire.

Jonas might be tempted to think its not working… but they seem to be trying to control its movement, not outright extinguish it. It takes a second; but he sees their plan. A large group of As’tiki pull from a reservoir, then send the buckets up a chain of As’tiki suspended from the ceiling by a silk rope hung directly from a spider. It seems almost completely unbothered by the smoke.

Once a bucket reaches the top, it is thrown atop the fire; specifically the fires closest to the other side of the street — they’re trying to stop the flame from ’jumping’ — for lack of a better word — from housing-block to housing-block. The best part is, it’s working.

Until a single As’tiki catches a whiff of something and turns its head. Even Jonas can tell that fear then rakes through its mind, and it starts to chirp warnings. Immediately, the entire beautiful example of cooperation crumbles as primal instinct takes over. As’tiki flee; climb up the spiderweb; go through the housing they were trying to defend; abandon the reservoir.

Within a minute, they’ve all scattered.

“Dey’s… scared. Why? Why dey’s scared of me?”

How does one even begin to explain that his ancestors ate them, and they hold a big, big grudge. So much so that it seems etched into their beings even if they’ve never met a troll. Most of those were younglings or only-just-matures.

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Damien speaks. “Dey noggin speak, an’ it tell dem you want hurty dem. Me sorry, Grug.”

“Oh. Dey’s noggin thinky hard. Dat no good, dey need a noggin-smack.”

“No, Grug, no noggin-smack. Dey no so great as Grug, you hurty dem when noggin-smack.”

“Oh. Me no want hurty. But how dey make noggin think when it not think, an’ make it not think when it think? Noggin-smack do it.”

“Dey… use noggin-big?” Damien says, even unsure himself of what he just said.

“What… what use?”

“Dey use noggin, an’ dey put water on da flicker-hot. Dat make it no-so flicker-hot. Make it small-flick-hot. Dat use-noggin an’ use-water.”

The troll stops…

“Me river make flicker-hot-hurty no-so hurty… an’ me… use dat… so me use water? Dat mean me noggin-big too. Dat mean me smartest troll!”

Damien shakes his head. “Yes, Grug.”

—

Den if me smartest troll, an’ me help da little-thingys… den me use water an’ me put on flicker-hot-hurty?

“Go-go, Grug. Me, Jonas help you. Flicker-hot here,” it say, den it point to da carved-sticks-cave with flicker-hot. “You no want it dere.” It say more, an’ den it point to da no-flicker-hot carved-sticks-cave.

Me understand it. So me go to da water… an’ me get with me hands, an’ me throw it. But it all go! Me throw nothin’!

What wrong… me no pick-up water?

Damien-thingy point. “Use dat… it… it… little-river?”

Me pick it up… it carved-stick… but it round like rock. Dere some water in it… like it cave? Me noggin think… wat dis?

It round-water-thingy. Dat it.

“Okay, grug, round-water-thingy. You use it, pick-up water, an’ den you throw!”

Ok. Me do that. Me put it in water… an’ den me throw it!

It no work. No water?

“Grug, put it in da water, so it go in.”

What? Me no get. In da water?

Me put it in da water, an’ let it go, an’ it go up an’ fall over.

“Grug, pick-up it.”

Ok. Me do that.

“Den touch da water.”

Ok. Me do that.

“Den push it, an’ da water go in.”

Oh. Me get it. Me push it down, an’ da water go in. It work! Me smartest troll!

“Yes, Grug smartest troll.” Jonas say, den make giggle. Dat good, me giggle too! Damien even giggle. It good giggle!

“Throw it, Grug!”

—

The troll hoists the water above it, an’ tosses it out… including the bucket. It lands in the fire, ejecting steam into the air before the fire inevitably catches the wooden bucket and adds fuel to the fire. The flames blow in the wind, sending a wave of heat across the street.

Grug moans in pain, then twists and scoops up water and spreads it along his arms and chest. “Dat better. Water good, make flicker-hot-hurty no-so hurty.”

Damien raises an eyebrow. “Grug, you eat water?”

“Me drink water, silly. But me no thirsty.”

“No, you drink water, den you make water go out?”

The troll doesn’t speak for a second; a rare moment of bliss from the constant rambling. It had become easier and easier to weed out when the troll is actually speaking to them; not just animatedly describing whatever he’s doing or thinking. So to hear him go quiet is a little disconcerting.

“You want me go wee-wee? Dat water make flicker-hot no?”

Damien’s mouth opens, then closes — then his eyes narrow. “I do not think I could survive troll-piss becoming aerosolized. I have smelt it once — and only once — and I never wish the experience on any, not even those would would seek to destroy my entire family.”

“No, Grug, you put in mouth, den you… spit out on flicker-hot?”

“What… spit?”

“You… put in mouth, den you make go out mouth lots-fast… me show you.”

Damien drops down from Grug’s back, careful not to land poorly from the large drop. He goes over to the reservoir, ducks a hand in and puts water in his mouth quickly, then makes sure Grug can see and spits it out. Jonas looks up at the building they’re trying to save. Already, the wood blisters in the heat that mercifully passes over them.

“Oh. Me do that, me do that.”

The troll stomps over to the reservoir, then puts a hand in and puts some water in his mouth. He spins, then blasts it out. It shoots quickly — far faster than Damien’s attempt — and slams into some burning wood, sizzling into steam in an instant.

“Me greatest troll!”

“More, Grug.”

The troll jumps back around, then starts to scoop handful after handful into his mouth… then stops. “Use… me use noggin… USE NOGGIN!”

The troll dumps his entire head into the water, opening its maw to the maximum extent and gulping massive gulps of water. He comes out, murmurs something Jonas can’t understand with his mouth full of water, turns and blasts the entire contents of his pillaging of the water supply; coating the entire area in thick spray of water as he fails to get on target.

When he does, however, the effects are devastating — to the fire. Each sprayed droplet is like a another dagger in its back; releasing plumes of steam that hiss and sizzle that anguished, terrified cries.

It flickers back, but the water is cold and unforgiving, baring down upon the flames like a executioner’s sword; and seemingly endless, supported by a seemingly bottomless capacity.

Did the troll drink half of the water in the entire city?

It splutters; then gasps; then dies as water seeps into the wood, forcing the fire to either assail a fortress or give up.

Embers climb to life until they don’t. Then, it’s gone.

Grug falls over, breathing hard; and Jonas has to jump off the Troll to avoid getting crushed.

“Me… tired. Dat… big water. Me… greatest troll!”

Grug… falls asleep. His belly groans, and he smiles.

“Father… that was… we could put out the whole damned city if we—“

Damien is looking ahead. Grug has gathered an audience… the Council from before. Three of the five members stand there; staring blankly at the troll. At Jonas… at Damien.

The Arbiter steps forward, slowly. “I so desperately wish for you to spin us a story that could explain this. One that could extol the virtues of what you have done. I imagine, even if it is from you, that no such story could exist. As such I am left with no other bias; no other explanation — except that you have committed an atrocity beyond scale. Have you, Damien of Volos, decided to betray us so vehemently, that you would burn our home to save this troll? Is it regret, now, that you attempt to put out the flames you have stoked?”

Damien is silent, staring into The Arbiter of the Council’s eyes.

“I have no words for you, Agrekelk, that you will not dismiss. I have no story to explain to you, and there are no virtues to this decision. I am a dying man, desperately hoping to save my son’s newfound friend. I ask only that you listen when I say this: It was not my decision to attempt to help. Nor my sons, for that matter. We planned to escape the on the Salahous and flee the city. To watch it burn until sunset.”

The Arbiter slams his staff into the ground. “Then if not you, then who?”

Damien smiles, a soft smile. “The troll. His name is Grug.” Damien speaks easy, despite the movement of the councilmen who now space out from each other, ready to attack. “He is my son’s friend, and he jumped from the salahous and broke his body simply to rescue a group of Younglings that were cornered. He has eaten enough duskwraiths that I have lost count. I do not know how much you owe to him, but I suspect you wouldn’t want to know. I’ll ask you this; let us go. We’ll leave — and you will never see the troll again. You will never see me, or my son, again. We did not start this fire, nor would we ever. No As’tiki were injured in our escape.”

Something shakes the ground; and an almost deafening whirring comes from behind the councilmen. A massive suit of red metal stomps around the corner, coming to stand behind the councilmen. A visor stares down at Grug, and Jonas can practically feel the malice radiating from inside.

Vaastilimi, Vahum of the As’tiki, does not wait for permission from the Councilmen… and they do not attempt to give him permission. He puts strong, heavy feet of metal one in front of the other — until he stands over Grug. Jonas can’t move. The suit seems to move better than before, seems to be more directed. It holds a presence unlike inside the council chamber… because now it is certain death.

It raises a massive fist; then brings it down toward’s the troll’s chest.