The Scions of Shannara

Morgan Leah had never seen a Troll. He had heard stories about them, of course; everyone told stories about the Trolls. Once, long before Morgan was born, Trolls had come down out of the Northland, their traditional home, to trade with the members of the other Races. For a time, some of them had even lived among the men of Callahorn. But all that ended with the coming of the Federation and its crusade for Southland domination. Trolls were no longer welcome below the Streleheim, and the few who had come south quickly went north again. Reclusive by nature, it took very little to send them back to their mountain strongholds. Now, they never came out—or at least no one Morgan knew had ever heard of them coming out. To find a band this far south was very unusual.

Morgan tried not to stare at the visitors, but it was hard. The Trolls were heavily muscled, almost grotesque, their bodies tall and wide, their skin nut-brown and rough like bark. Their faces were flat and nearly featureless. Morgan couldn’t find any ears at all. They wore leather and heavy armor, and great cloaks lay scattered about their fire like discarded shadows.

“I’m Baron Creel, Leader of the Movement.” Padishar’s voice boomed out.

The Troll facing him rumbled something incomprehensible. Morgan caught only the name Axhind. The two gripped hands briefly, then Axhind beckoned Padishar to sit with him at their fire. The Trolls stepped aside as the outlaw chief and his companions moved into the light to seat themselves. Morgan glanced about uneasily as the massive creatures closed about. He had never felt so unprotected. Chandos seemed unconcerned, positioning himself behind Padishar and a few feet back. Morgan eased down next to him.

The talk began in earnest then, but the Highlander didn’t understand any of it. It was all done in the guttural language of the Trolls, a language of which Morgan knew nothing. Padishar seemed comfortable with it, however, pausing only infrequently to consider what he was saying. There was a great deal of what sounded like grunting, some heavy slurs, and much of what was said was emphasized by sharp gestures.

“How does Padishar speak their language?” Morgan whispered early on to Chandos.

The other never even glanced at him. “We see a bit more of life in Callahorn than you Highlanders,” he said.

Morgan’s hunger was threatening to consume him, but he forced it from his mind, holding himself erect against encroaching weariness, keeping himself deliberately still. The talk went on. Padishar seemed pleased with its direction.

“They want to join us,” Chandos whispered after a time, apparently deciding that Morgan should be rewarded for his patience. He listened some more. “Not just these few—an entire twenty-one tribes!” He grew excited. “Five thousand men! They want to make an alliance!”

Morgan grew excited himself. “With us? Why?”

Chandos didn’t answer right away, motioning for Morgan to wait. Then he said, “The Movement has approached them before, asked them to help. But they always believed it too divided, too undependable. They’ve changed their minds of late.” He glanced over briefly. “They say Padishar has pulled the separate factions together sufficiently to reconsider. They’re looking for a way to slow the Federation advance on their homelands.” His rough voice was filled with satisfaction. “Shades, what a stroke of good fortune this might turn out to be!”

Axhind was passing out cups now and filling them with something from a great jar. Morgan took the cup he was offered and glanced down. The liquid it contained was as black as pitch. He waited until both the Troll leader and Padishar saluted, then drank. It was all he could do to keep from retching. Whatever he had been given tasted like bile.

Chandos caught the look on his face. “Troll milk,” he said and smiled.

They drained the offering, even Morgan who found that it curbed his appetite instantly. Then they rose, Axhind and Padishar shook hands once more, and the Southlanders moved away.

“Did you hear?” Padishar asked quietly as they disappeared into the shadows. Stars were beginning to wink into view overhead, and the last of the daylight had faded away. “Did you hear it all, the whole of it?”

“Every last word,” Chandos replied, and Morgan nodded wordlessly.

“Five thousand men! Shades! We could challenge the best that the Federation had to offer if we had a force like that!” Padishar was ecstatic. “There might be two thousand and some that the Movement could call upon, and more than that from the Dwarves! Shades!”

He slammed his fist into his open palm, then reached over and clapped both Chandos and Morgan heartily on the back. “It’s about time something went our way, wouldn’t you agree, lads?”

Morgan had dinner after that, sitting alone at a table near the cooking fire, his appetite restored by the smells that emanated from the stew kettles. Padishar and Chandos had gone off to confer on what had been happening during the former’s absence, and Morgan saw no need to be part of that. He looked about for Steff and Teel, but there was no sign of either, and it wasn’t until he was almost finished eating that Steff appeared out of the darkness and slumped down beside him.