As they descended into the darkness, Rattick thought about knifing them both then and there. They wouldn’t be expecting it. It would be a quick, certain profit. Perhaps less than he might expect, but there would be no chance of getting killed on Boltac’s foolish quest. No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than Boltac said, “I know what you’re thinking, Rattick: ‘Why don’t I knife these two right now and go through their pockets for loose change?’”

“That’s not exactly what I’m thinking.”

“Yeah, but close enough. And you want to know what I’m thinking about? Other than your inevitable and predictable betrayal?” Rattick was silent. Boltac continued, “I’m thinking, if you’re our guide, you should be going first. Kid, give this slippery bastard the torch.”

“But I’m one of your key suppliers!” protested Rattick.

“He’s going to run off and steal the torch,” said Relan, displaying the first glimmers of wisdom.

“Nah,” said Boltac, “if he steals it from me, he won’t have anybody to sell it back to. But if he makes you nervous, go ahead and poke him with your sword a little bit. Don’t kill him, just make him leak.”

“Shh,” said Rattick.

“‘Shh’ yourself, you crooked bastard,” said Boltac.

“What’s that noise?” asked Relan. In the distance, they could hear a horrible rumbling noise.

As they approached, the noise came and went in waves. It sounded like someone gigantic trying to exhale through a set of lungs filled with gravel. It was a horrible, igneopulmonary rumble.

“That’s the Troll,” said Rattick.

“Doing what?” asked Relan.

Rattick waited until after the sound had rumbled through the corridor again.

“Snoring,” whispered Rattick into the silence. “Which is a good thing for you, stout Merchant. What I suggest is that you keep to the shadows. Advance only while it’s snoring. Then you take your sword and plunge it right in his ear. It’s one of the only vulnerable places on a Troll.”

“I don’t have a sword,” said Boltac.

“You can use mine,” offered Relan.

“That’s nice of you, kid. ‘Cause after all, it’s my sword. But I’m not going to need it.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Rattick.

In the flickering torchlight, Boltac took his heavy wool mittens from his bag. As he put them on he said, “I’m gonna do what I do best. I’m going to make a deal with him.”

Relan searched his memories for any sagas or songs in which the Hero had defeated the monster by making a deal. He came up empty.

Rattick asked the obvious question. “Have you ever seen a Troll?”

* * *

The Troll was asleep next to a mound of phosphorescent lichen. Strictly speaking, the creature didn’t need light to see, but the presence of this slight illumination allowed the Troll to see the terror on his meals’ faces more clearly. There is an old Troll proverb that says “food better frightened” or “scared is good eatin’” or “terror is the best sauce.” It loses pretty much everything in the translation. But in case there’s any confusion on the matter, Trolls aren’t nice.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Something kicked the Troll in the foot. This was a new sensation for the Troll. There really isn’t anything in nature in the habit of kicking Trolls. The Troll opened his large, yellow eyes. In the dim light of the lichen, he could clearly see food, holding a small sack and looking up at him.

“Yoo-hoo, Mister Troooooooll. Have I got a deal for you!” said the food.

Wait, food was talking? This was confusing. Food never talked. Sometimes food screamed. Sometimes food tried to poke the Troll with sharp things. Most of the time food ran away. But it never stood its ground and talked. And certainly never kicked. Since the Troll couldn’t understand what any of the funny, squeaky little sounds coming out of food’s mouth meant, it tried to understand why food wasn’t doing any of the things that it usually did.

Maybe it was poisoned? That thought disturbed the Troll. Since he often ate people without bothering to peel them, his stomach was a cause of constant trouble. He had been eating quite well lately. For some reason, food had been easier to come by–eager even–since he had come to this cave. He didn’t even have to go out and terrorize the countryside just to get lunch. But how had he gotten here? He couldn’t remember that part. Something about a very loud and angry piece of food wearing black. But the memory was blurry and confused.

Thinking made the Troll’s head hurt. He decided that he had thought enough for one day. He drew himself up to his full height and yawned. A Troll yawn is much like a roar, and this one was so loud it rattled chips of rock off the ceiling. The Troll expected food to flee, or curl up in a convenient, bite-sized ball of fear, but food was still there!

“There we go,” said Boltac, “Come get a closer look at the merchandise.”

In the shadows, Relan said, “He’s dead.”

A Rattick-shaped shadow next to him said, “You are not as dumb as you look, kid,”

“Thank–” Relan began.

Rattick pressed a finger to his lips and silenced him. “Shh. Don’t ruin it. I’m going to enjoy this,” said Rattick.

The Troll lowered his head and made two whuffing grunts. This expulsion of air freed his tusks from the ponderous folds of his cheeks and filled the enclosed space with the foul stench of Troll breath. He stepped forward to begin his charge.

“Here,” said Boltac, “Try this.” From within his sack of holding, Boltac produced a glittering silver mace. The head was encrusted with jewels that glittered in the uncertain light of the dungeon. The whole thing was so large that it was more decorative club than mace proper. He held it out to the Troll and said, “Just try it, see how you like the heft.”

The Troll, not being smart enough to fear a shrewd Merchant’s smile–and well-accustomed to not understanding what was going on–took the relatively tiny mace in his absolutely gigantic hand.

“There,” said Boltac, and he released the mace. No sooner had he let go of the bejeweled head of the weapon than the Troll was pressed to the rough stone floor as if he had been smashed there by the hand of an angry god.

Pinned to the floor, the Troll seemed much less fierce. His eyes were wide, and shifted fearfully as he whimpered a little. His foul claw remained tightly wrapped around the ornate mace.

“What is that?” asked Rattick.

“That is a very cursed Mace of Encumbrance,” said Boltac as he removed his mittens.

“Magic,” whispered Relan.

“Yeah, kid, that’s Magic for you, there’s always a catch.”

“Like dealing with you,” Rattick said to Boltac with newfound respect.

“Hey, I didn’t force him to do anything. ‘Here you go Mr. Troll. Here’s a free mace.’ He took it.”

“But the Troll didn’t know…” said Relan.

“That’s there’s no such thing as a free mace? Everyone knows this. That’s how they get you. And that’s especially how they get you with Magic.”

“But what about Wizards? They use Magic,” countered Rattick.

“They always end up doing themselves in. Just ‘cause you get away with something for a while doesn’t make it safe.”

Rattick said, “Awed as I am by your cunning, good Merchant, one question remains: How did you learn about the mace?”

“A guy brought it in a carrying case and refused to take it out. I thought maybe I could get the jewels off, but the enchantment was too powerful. My last apprentice was pinned to the floor of my shop for a week before we figured out how to get him out from under that thing.”

“How did you manage it?” asked Rattick

“Ahhhh,” said Boltac, holding the thick wool mittens up in the air. “Woolen Gauntlets of Magic Negation. Very rare, very powerful, and very handy.”

“They look more like mittens,” said Relan.

“Yeah, basically. But Gauntlets have a better ring. Merchandising. You tellin’ me you’re gonna pay top dollar for Magic mittens? So, let that be a lesson to both of you. Stay outta my bag. No telling what you’ll find in there.”

“No problem,” said Relan.

Problem, thought Rattick. He didn’t know what could possibly be in Boltac’s Magic bag, but now he knew for certain that it was Magic. There was no way a bag that size could contain such a big, heavy mace. It had to be Magic. Why, the bag itself, never mind the contents, had to be worth more than even he could imagine. And that was saying something. Rattick had quite an imagination where riches were concerned.

“C’mon, I don’t want to be all day getting my lady friend back,” said Boltac as he headed into the darkness. “How deep do you think this goes anyway?”

All the way to the bottom, thought Rattick.