Astrian was plainly delighted to meet someone shorter than he was. “No-Neck it is! And what will you have to drink, Sir No-Neck? Some milk, perhaps? With a bit of bread dipped in it to suck upon?”
Snenneq smiled a polite, yellow-toothed smile. “Not a child. I am Qanuc.”
“No-Neck the Ka-Neck!” Astrian crowed. “You must join our merry band!”
Even Olveris grinned at that. But not everyone in the dim alehouse was as happy. Morgan could hear more than a few angry words from the surrounding tables about the troll’s presence.
“They think they can go anywhere,” someone complained.
Why am I lumbered with this little goblin? Morgan wondered. Probably get me beaten half to death by these bearded ice-bears. He couldn’t completely remember what other wrongs had been done to him today, but he felt certain that this was only the most recent of many. “Give him something to drink, Porto, and for God’s sake be quick.”
The old knight poured a bowl for the new arrival, but stared at Little Snenneq so intently that he spilled more than he poured. Sir Olveris watched mournfully as it puddled on the splintered table. “I’ve seen your kind,” Porto said at last as he pushed the ale toward Snenneq. “Trolls. Your folk met us on the road back from Nakkiga.”
It was obvious many people in the alehouse were listening, because a fresh round of whispers began at this word, although not so obviously hostile this time.
Snenneq nodded. “True. Our Herder and Huntress had sent them to help the fighting against the Hikeda’ya, but they came after the siege was ending.”
“Hikadikadik. Says No-Neck from Ee-Ka-Neck,” said Astrian, a bit too loudly. He was unusually drunk. “And why would they send such as you to fight the Norns?”
Little Snenneq looked at him and smiled again, although it vanished more quickly this time.
“Never doubt them,” said Porto, the fumes of reminiscence beginning to rise from him. “The little troll-men fought fiercely in Erkynland. I saw them there, in battle.”
Olveris rolled his eyes, but Astrian sat forward. “Truly?” he asked. “Did they run among the White Foxes, kicking their shins? Or perhaps hid in the Norns’ saddlebags and then sprang out to attack?”
“I made that joke about you, Astrian,” Morgan complained. “About kicking the shins of your enemies. That’s mine.”
“Ah, but about me it is merely comic exaggeration,” the knight said. “My question to this fellow is an honest one.”
“There were times that the winds blew so hard and the snows fell so thickly on the Hayholt from the Storm King’s magic that we could see nothing,” Porto said, ignoring Astrian and warming to his tale. “But those little fellows—well, they could find their way through anything . . .”
“Then why can’t they find their way back to the place they came from?” brayed a very large, bearded Rimmersman at a nearby table. His friends laughed loudly, toasting him with their slopping bowls. “We have no need of them here.”
Little Snenneq smiled again, but there was something quite different in it this time, a certain hardness to his eyes that Morgan recognized. Astrian got that look sometimes when he was in his cups and angry. Morgan’s grandfather Simon wore it sometimes as well, usually when someone spoke about the strong taking cruel advantage of the weak.
Morgan was suddenly wondering whether it might be time for their little party to move on.
The big, bearded man was sitting down. Little Snenneq waited patiently at the man’s elbow until he was noticed.
“What do you want?” the red-faced man demanded. He put down his bowl, his fingers already curling into fists.
“I am hoping that you now will play a game,” said Snenneq mildly. “With me.”
The man goggled at this small, black-haired interloper. “Game? What does that mean?”
“Are you wrestling with just arms and hands here?” asked the troll. “So I think.”
Morgan did not remember everything his grandfather had told him about the troll-folk, but he thought he would remember if they had been gifted with superhuman strength, or if they could grow back an arm once it was ripped off, as a lizard could grew a new tail. “Sno . . . I mean, Snenneq,” he called. “Why don’t you come back to the table—?”
“Arm wrestling?” The big Rimmersman laughed loudly and mimed with his bent arm. “Like this? There’s not a man here who could best me, including any of that puny lot of yours.” His gaze slid from Astrian to Porto and lingered on Sir Olveris, who was not quite as tall as old Sir Porto but far more well-muscled, then he spat on the straw covering the floor. “I am Lomskur the Smith. I broke a bullock’s neck with my hands when I was but a boy. I won’t waste my time on any of your friends.” He scowled at Morgan, who edged back a bit farther on the bench. “I don’t want the duke’s men to put me in chains for troubling that cream-faced boy. So go back to your foul mountain, ice-goblin, before I throw you there.”
Several of the others laughed and cheered, but one warned, “‘Ware, Lomskur! That’s the High King’s heir.”
The big man snorted. “I’m not troubling His Very Highness, am I? It’s his lapdog that’s troubling me.”
“Qanuc are not dogs for anyone.” Little Snenneq wasn’t smiling any more. “Is this meaning that Lomskur is feared to hand-wrestle with me?”
“You?” The bearded man was genuinely astonished, but it seemed to make him even angrier. “Look at you! I could use you to pick my teeth.”
“No. Just hand-wrestle.” The troll vaulted onto the bench beside Lomskur with surprising nimbleness and extended his arm. “Here. Now.”
Lomskur’s friends and acquaintances in the alehouse were all shouting, most in favor of crushing the troll on the spot, but the bearded man stared at Little Snenneq’s outstretched hand. “For true?” He frowned. “No tricks? I don’t want to get a troll knife in my gorge when I only came in here to pass the time.”
“No tricks. On the honor of the prince.” Snenneq kept his arm out.
Morgan started to rise but Astrian reached out and grabbed his tunic, holding him back. “Let it be, Highness,” he said softly. “Do not spoil the joke—whatever it may turn out to be.”
Lomskur turned and straddled the bench to face the troll. It took a while—each one of the bearded man’s legs looked as wide as a normal man’s waist. Finished positioning himself, he thumped his elbow down on the table, making the crockery jump. The troll did not sit down, but knelt on the bench opposite Lomskur so that he could rest his elbow and still reach the other’s hand. The difference in their sizes was so great that the Rimmersman had to grasp the small man’s hand at an angle, with his arm low to the table; the troll’s hand almost disappeared inside the Rimmersman’s grasp.
The bearded man suddenly began laughing. “You are no coward, I see. If you live, little snow-beetle, I will buy you a pitcher all for yourself, to wash away the pain.”
Snenneq nodded, still not smiling. “And the same I will be doing for you. If you live.”
Everybody in the place seemed to be watching now. Even the ostler had come out from the back room, and stood, worriedly wiping his hands over and over on a dirty cloth.
“Start!” yelled one of Lomskur’s cronies.
It should have been over in an instant, and nearly was. With a scowl on his red face, Lomskur bent Little Snenneq’s arm until the back of the troll’s hand quivered just a finger’s breadth above the table. Most of the Rimmersmen in the alehouse were so certain of the outcome that they dared not turn away to take a drink, certain they would miss the ending, and instead fumbled blindly for their bowls. But Snenneq did not collapse. He made what looked to Morgan like a few small adjustments of his knees and back and shoulders, and although Lomskur leaned far to his left to keep the pressure on, somehow the very small man withstood it. Snenneq shifted again and pushed his elbow closer to Lomskur’s, and for some reason the tiny change of angle brought an expression of discomfort and surprise to the big man’s face.
Moments became longer moments. The faces of Lomskur and Little Snenneq settled into fixed masks of effort. Every time it seemed the much bigger man must finally overcome the resistance of the smaller, the troll moved again—never more than a little, but always enough to keep the giant on the other side from being able to force his hand down against the table.