The Chronicles of Dog and Troll: Book 1 - Of Dog and Troll

THE CHRONICLES OF DOG AND TROLL: BOOK 1

OF DOG AND TROLL

By

Joshua S. Friedman

SMASHWORDS REVISED EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Joshua S. Friedman on Smashwords.com

The Chronicles of Dog and Troll: Of Dog and Troll

Copyright © 2010 by Joshua S. Friedman

Thank you for downloading this book. This books remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed for any commercial or non-commercial us without permission from the author. If you enjoyed this book, then please encourage your friends to download their own copy.

Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are a production of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

Adult Reading Material

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I would like to take the time to thank the following people, without whom, this book would not be possible. Sally May Britten, thanks for trying. Susan Mary Show Me! Malone. My sister, Rachel. The love of my life, Andrea. And to Dave, thanks for all the inspiration.

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For Dad

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FOREWORD, AFTERWORD, AND EVERYWHERE IN BETWEEN

Oh, hello, I didn’t see you there. What’s that you say? You’re sick of all those campy teenage romance tales where vampires sparkle in the sunlight instead of burst into flames? Tired of aliens and acne-riddled-adolescent wizards? You say you’re looking for something new? Something that is more of an adventure than a story? Well, set on down a spell and I’ll spin you a yarn.

Wait, I almost forgot, before we begin, there’s just a few things we need to go over. Don’t worry, I’ll keep this brief.

Firstly, this tale is not intended for small children. This story is set thousands of years in the future. So far into the future in fact, it almost seems like the past. An age where the only rule or law is that of survival. It is a dark and savage world in which the characters, Troll, the Dog, and Myriam Star live. This tale of grim is filled with graphic violence and coarse language but virtually no sex (so make of that what you will).

Secondly, this is only the first installment in a series of six. So bear in mind, there’s going to be a lot of stuff that you won’t be able to understand, not yet anyway. But by the end, you will have at least a small glimmer of what’s really going on. Some things just can’t be told all at once. Sometimes, one has to come to a truth slowly, piece by piece and a little at a time.

So get nice and comfy, grab yourself a snack. Do you have to go to the bathroom? ‘Cause now would be a good time to go.

Where should I begin? That’s a question that plagues all story-tellers. Where does a tale really begin? When do previous events or persons not affect the course of things to come? Surely, there is a long history behind this story before ever we meet these characters. And much has already happened. But before I can tell you the story of the Wachati tribe, or the history of Myriam Star, or even the very beginning, I guess it all started with just two: Troll and the Dog.

And so, dear friends, when the past is lost, and the future a riddle, the only place left to start -- is the middle.

J.S.F

May, 2012

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"He who makes a beast of himself, gets rid of the pain of being a man."

Dr. Hunter S. Thompson

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PROLOGUE

DARKNESS RISING

Dasher trotted solemnly through the dense forest trail. She was not accustomed to night travel, but the past few months had seen an increasing amount of midnight rendezvous. For when the Mistress of the Trees did call for conclave, Dasher’s master came faster than the winds of winter. In the distance a screech owl broke the ominous silence with a blood-curdling shriek. Beams of pale moonlight penetrated through lush leaves and thick twisted bramble, composing incandescent gems that danced merrily about Reverend Warwick’s dark, wool-stitched cloak.

The priest and his steed pushed onward through dense forest thickets until finally emerging into a small, moonlight clearing in the midst of nothingness. A low thrumming drowned out the calls of nocturnal nature as the whole world seemed to shimmer with a sickish, vibrating glow. Dasher neighed objectively to this particular piece of forestry, time for her master to dismount.

Warwick tied Dasher’s reigns around a nearby ash tree. This, the mare protested as well. With that done, he crept through the clearing to a blockade of thorny bramble and anciently warped trees. The reverend approached precariously, his hands searched for invisible obstacles before finally falling upon a solid porous surface. His fingers worked blindly along as a faint bluish-light seeped through the knotty cracks of the door’s camouflaged façade. The thrumming in his head resonated like a kettle drum as the light intensified, illuminating the outline of a crooked and haggard door. An eerie glow smeared across the reverend’s face as he curled an old and twisted hand around a crudely carved wooden knob. A frigid blue light spilled hastily into the forest clearing as the door slowly opened. All the while that thrumming sounded like wild fire in the deepest recesses of Reverend Warwick’s mind. Dasher neighed and bucked, driving her hooves defiantly into the soft undergrowth. The reverend took no notice as he inched toward the encompassing blue aura. The door slammed shut behind him.

Outside, that eerie blue radiance evaporated and once again Jeffrey Rush was able to take hold of the grounding elucidation of the world around him. The frightened yet still voluntary scout found his feet and ran like hell for back up.

****

Wax candles fenced the interior of a dimly lit hut. Red-orange gleams of flickering light contradicted a piercing blue radiance emanating from a brilliant blue ball hovering weightlessly above a wooden table that furnished the otherwise vacant domicile. A haggard figure trenched in a thick, black cloak loomed frighteningly over the pulsating orb. The figure paid no notice to the visitor, for she was too fascinated with the relic before her.

Well, what is it now, witch? The reverend approached the wretch with the greatest of caution, and asked, Why hast thou summoned me?

The witch’s response came as a vacant peering into the orb. Sick, blue light splashed across the hag’s face and for the briefest of moments the reverend could have sworn that the outline of the woman’s skull was clearly visible through her cracked, leathery skin. For the first time since his original encounter with the Mistress of the Trees, Reverend Warwick shook in terror.

Come now, woman. He quivered, swallowing his fear in dry clumps. Speak, for our time grows short. The town’s people grow suspicious.

The time grows nigh, the old woman croaked without removing her gaze from the glowing trinket before her. The promised one approaches, the first of the king’s knights, the darkling.

A Hellion, he gulped. When is he to arrive? But Warwick’s queries were answered only with nerve-wracking silence. Blast ye, cursed wench! he hissed through yellow stained teeth. How long?

The ball is unclear. Wait, there is something else. She peered further into the glass. There are others among us, town’s men. She gasped in disgust. "Ye brought them here." She glared up at the reverend with dead, suspicion-glazed eyes.

No, no. I swear. His sole desire was to flee in terror, to run as far away as possible and bury his head in the sand as some ancient bird, but his feet were frozen and unresponsive to logic. They must have followed me. I told ye they were becoming suspicious of us.

"Us? the witch snorted. Why no, ye poor fool. They were suspicious of you. For, it was ye who sought me out." The witch hissed, glaring intently at the reverend with pale cloudy eyes behind strands of spidery hair.

Warwick felt her hatred penetrating through to his very bones. He paced anxiously in front of the small coffee table, and muttered, No, no, no. It was the only way. The only way I tell ye. I had no choice. I had to do it for Anna.

Who does thee seek to convince? she asked, following the reverend’s every move with those dead empty eyes.

****

Jeffrey Rush wasted no time in retrieving the cavalry, and now a crowd of men from town gathered in the clearing in front of the witch’s invisible hut. Armed with torches, pitch forks, and shovels, the soon-to-be esteemed constable, Silas Withers, managed to amass a small tribe to dispense with the king’s advocates.

Are ye certain this is the place? Withers questioned from atop his salt-and-pepper steed.

Aye, Jeffrey said.

I see no hut, are ye for certain?

T’is hidden, sai. Jeffrey searched feverishly for the spot through which Reverend Warwick had entered a doorway of solid blue light.

And the Reverend Warwick, asked Withers, does he hide as well?

Still scanning the woods, Jeffrey said, Aye.

Very well, then, Withers proclaimed, sitting tall in his saddle, his long dark hair held back in a ponytail. He raised his torch to the darkness and bellowed a boasting warning, "Reverend Warwick, crawl out of your snake hole, now!"

The horses drew anxious, and the few of the cavalry who had not yet dismounted prepared to engage in this very activity now. Withers stood in the middle of the clearing, muscles tensed back and ready to spring at the first sign of danger. He held a torch valiantly against the piercing darkness. In the other hand he brandished the battle axe of his forefathers. He crept toward the tree line and the origin of muffled voices that sounded leagues away. An intense buzzing carved deeper into his brain with every excruciating step. Wither’s skull trembled, teeth wriggled, eyes tearing and bulging out at the socket. He boasted another warning through a wavering and terrified voice. Reverend Warwick. I repeat, come out this instant or we shall be forced to take drastic action.

Jeffrey Rush wasn’t entirely sure Withers’ brag would hold water considering the fact that nobody knew exactly in which direction the reverend lingered. Never-the-less, his patriarch’s proclamation instilled great courage within the young Mr. Rush. With every step, that low thrumming rapped at Jeffrey’s frail frame. He was only exposed to such torture for the briefest of moments, but more than enough for Mr. Rush to call it quits and shrink behind the soon-to-be constable. From somewhere in the densest of undergrowth, a familiar voice did swell.

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This is ye’r fault, ye heathen bitch! the good reverend spat accusingly.

Why, my dear boy, the witch’s voice seemed oddly calm, how dare ye have the audacity to bring men to my sanctuary only to insult myself and the king with such slander!

Reverend Warwick shrank away in terror. The hovering blue orb pulsated rhythmically to match the tenseness in the air. Violent shades of blue hummed and thrummed with such force that the very hut danced and weaved in step with the mesmeric beat.

No, no, I… Warwick pleaded in a mouse’s squeaky diction.

There is only one punishment for treason amongst the king’s court! the witch cried, her words distant, emanating from some far-off plane. She rose above the earthen floor like some terrible phantom.

The reverend felt his grip on reality begin to slip as the hut spun into a hellish vortex. The intensity in the room swelled to volcanic magnitude. The candles blew out. And the orb fell dead.

****

Silas Withers felt sick. And not the kind of sickness he was stricken with at age twelve when he had fallen ill with the Potter’s flu. This was an ailment like no other. All his extremities felt as if they were comprised of poorly made springs and God just sent the world rocking back and forth. Pushing back the acrid vomit rising in his throat with hefty effort, Withers, followed by the young Jeffrey Rush nipping tightly at his heels, trudged onward through the painful radiance that racked away at their bones.

The soon-to-be proclaimed constable disdainfully savored every bit of strain. His body cried for him to set fire to the entire bloody forest. But he was still true to his duty. His Cree, his religion, the very dogmatic law of his fellow countrymen, which he’d sworn to uphold for the later part of his life, demanded he give a third and final warning before engaging an enemy.

Reverend Warwick, this is ye’r last chance. Either face ye’r countrymen or we shall burn this entire forest to its cursed floor.

A pale blue light sank through the brush. Crude lines of incandescence formed the outline of a clearly visible hut. A misshapen door hung loosely on its façade. The radiant blue glow pulsated to a distorted rhythm. Shadows cast an eerie aura into the trees. Towers of Ash and Maple shifted nervously at the roots. A terrible thrumming tore tenaciously at Withers’ ears. The once bothersome vibrations erupted into a violent blast of energy that surged through the hut’s warped door and flowed ceaselessly into the forest. Knocking townsmen and steeds back a piece. Only Dasher, whose master had tethered her at a safe distance, was spared by the vicious burst. The tremors swelled to an immense factor before cutting out without warning. Dead silence. Not even the screech owls dared to violate it.

Withers glanced back to see if any of his fellow townsmen had conjured the good sense to run for the hills. But his men were loyal. The most loyal of all being the young and idealistic Jeffrey Rush. Feeling steadfast, Withers journeyed onward, followed by Rush (and farther behind and more cautious, the rest of the troop advanced). A shrill scream stabbed away at the silence. The men recoiled in confused horror. No one even noticed that the once puncturing thrumming that so furiously tore away at their courage was now absent. The fear in their hearts deepened into a new kind of terror, that of the unknown. Now all that remained was a feeble old shack with a crooked door that led into nothing but blackness.

Withers blinked in disbelief at the apparition that now stood so plainly before him.

Rush, McCoy, Hawkins, Withers beckoned with as much discretion as he could muster, fearful that his very voice would shatter the silence into mass hysteria. The three men presented themselves in formation before him with lightning promptness. We shall investigate the hut. Everyone else, remain at your posts, flee only at the first sign of trouble.

McCoy squawked, Why, sai --

"What is it?" Withers hissed.

Maybe we should wait for the dawn of light. After all, we now know where the traitor holds conclave.

Teeth clenched, Withers snarled, And by dawn they may have fled just as ye are willing to do now. Pivoting, he marched valiantly toward the hut. The others, led by Jeffrey Rush, had no choice but to follow. Withers stopped in front of the twisted entrance and swallowed deeply before turning the knob.

It was quiet, too quiet. And the encompassing darkness took on a liquid-like quality that not even blazing torches could ever hope to break. Withers crept laconically across the bare earthen floor.

Is anyone there? Rush asked, breaking their oath of silence. His voice sounded awkward and shrill, startling himself along with the others.

Sshhhhhhh! Withers hissed through terror-clenched teeth.

Over in the far corner, a huddled figure slumped low to the ground, rocking rhythmically back and forth, and sobbing softly.

The three men stared at Withers aghast. This was not the priest they sought.

Are ye…all right, madam? Withers asked.

No response other than the soft blubbering of a child.

Madam, was there a priest here? Did he hurt ye? Withers crept toward her. His companions did not follow.

A maniacal air stirred about the room and the three young men wanted to be as close to the door as possible.

Madam, Withers said, still attempting to make some kind of communication. Madam? His voice rose just the slightest amount. Madam?

The figure said, He… he…he touched me! Her voice swelled to a fanatic pitch.

For the utmost of brevity, Withers thought the woman would resume crying, but she began to cackle with frightening lunacy.

Billy Hawkins backed toward the door. Jeffrey Rush saw this, as well as McCoy (who was well on his way to following the only sane man left in the world). Jeffrey, not wanting to leave Withers, looked back longingly at his deserting comrades.

Come on… McCoy mouthed, silently motioning for the door.

Where is he, madam? Withers persisted, still creeping toward the old woman.

Come on, McCoy repeated with a harsh nod toward the exit.

Jeffrey gave Withers one last foreboding look before obliging.

Where is the Reverend Warwick? Withers asked. Come now, speak! The soon-to-be constable expected the woman to answer in that quivering child’s voice, if at all.

What he got was a cold, flat, assertive voice of a man. A voice Withers knew all too well. The voice of Revered Hansel Warwick. The reverend, or woman, or whatever the hell the figure really was, spoke only two words to Silas Withers that night. Two words that made the hairs on the back of Jeffrey Rush’s neck and arms stand up and demand he get his skinny behind the hell out of there in a hurry (nearly knocking over McCoy and Hawkins as he bolted for the realm of sanity). As long as he would live, Jeffrey never forgot that voice or the two words that would hence forth plague his dreams. The figure rose with such fluidity that Withers had become entranced. Those words were: Right here.

****

The room was silent, silent and dark. Withers had no idea how long he’d been standing there alone in the darkness, nor had he any recollection of the preceding events that led him to his present predicament. From somewhere off in the distance, the chattering voices of his fellow townsfolk were clearly audible, yet, oddly muffled as if emanating from some other plane of existence. He turned; his body sluggish and heavy. In front of him, only a few feet away stood an opened door. The constable trudged toward it, but was stuck in slow motion and his feet fell with the sluggish malaise of a nightmare from which he could not flee. He marched for what seemed like minutes yet gained no ground. The voices outside rose in urgency, pleading for him to get out now before it was too late.

I’m coming. His voice seemed a distant echo. The door slammed shut. Withers’ panic alarm went through the roof. He dropped his axe and torch (which had gone out some time ago). From behind him came a voice panting and grunting with rage. Closing in. Withers pivoted. Nothing there. The door seemed leagues away. His exit had vanished without a trace. From out of the darkness a twisted old face feverishly rushed him. It shrieked a terrible scream that sent the soon-to-be constable into a descending spiral of madness. The last thing he saw before the phantom pounced upon him were the cold, dead eyes of a demon.

1

Well, this is certainly another fine mess ye’ve gotten us in, Troll said to the Dog. Troll ran a hand down the left side of his handsome face, fingers running over the scar the Dog bestowed upon him the first time they met. The scar consisted of three concise lines. Two of which ran from forehead to jawline on either side of his eye (though, his beard concealed most of the damage). The middle line would have taken that eye, but the Dog’s blade had missed -- narrowly. But all that was then, and this, unfortunately, was now.

They hid in a small cave, seeking shelter from the storm, and boy, was it a thrasher. Lightning crashed. The wind, rain, and hail came so fierce that Troll and his diminutive companion had no choice but to flee the forests. Troll veiled his head with the hood of his bear-skin cloak, hobbling as swiftly as he could haul all eight-feet and 450 pounds of him, via the aid of his ever-trusty staff, of course. His soaked deerskin shirt and kilt clung to his skin as he plodded through mud and muck. The viscous, brown liquid slithered its way through Troll’s sandals, settling between his toes.

The Dog scampered ahead of Troll on all fours, just as a real dog might. His clothes were but rags. Dark-green pants sagged at the seams and stitches as he moved. A weather-torn black shirt cut off at the sleeves covered his childlike torso. Previous battle wounds made the shirt appear as more of a retired pirate’s flag than an article of clothing. An old and beaten cap with the letter D stitched into it in gothic lettering rested upon his head. The D no-doubt stood for some long-extinct empire of athleticism. A thick and scruffy beard stretched across his youthful face, while the hair dangling from his chin was longer still, gnarled and mangy, like that of a goat’s.

A custom leather belt carrying an assortment of knives and daggers hung snuggly around the Dog’s thin waist line, fashioned together with a silver disc-like object for a buckle. Metal gauntlets rode his wrists and forearms, suspended by thick leather straps that protected his hairy skin from the abrasive metal.

The Dog led Troll into a clearing before stopping on the ridge of some bowl-like valley. Porous rock formations and twisted-black trees dotted the stony earth. That was when Troll spotted the cave at the bottom of the ridge. The climb down would have been arduous even if they weren’t pelted by hail and rain. Somehow they labored down the ridge and into the cave.

We thank-ye, oh Lord, for little-miracles. Aye, so we do, Troll said as he eased back against the cavern wall, and steadied himself with his staff. The wall felt surprisingly soft, for a rock, anyway. Lightning flashed. Thick vines lined the interior of the cave like roots. How odd. Troll sniffed the air. A pungent aroma, like rotten-cotton filled his sinuses.

The Dog sat on his haunches at the mouth of the cave, peering up into the stormy skies with quiet fascination. His golden eyes glittered iridescently every time lightning crashed.

Stick ye’r head out further and see if the storm does not strike thee down, Troll taunted.

The Dog glanced over, golden eyes twinkled as lightning flashed again. The light danced off the Dog’s gauntlets and buckle. He tilted his head like a dog does when it hears a strange noise, a low guttural growl seeped out of him.

Do not raise such a tone with me. Troll tried to get up but he couldn’t. He was stuck to the wall. What sort of trickery be this?

The Dog hunkered low to the ground, ready to pounce, teeth barred as he growled louder.

A most peculiar sound echoed from the depths of the cave, like some type of unintelligible clickity-clacking. What could be making such a noise? Whatever it was -- the Dog didn’t like it.

The Dog shivered in excitement. Golden eyes grew wide. Foam dripped from his mouth, and ran down his long, gnarly beard.

The odd clickity-clacking drew closer. Troll couldn’t see it, he couldn’t even turn his head, but he sensed the thing bearing down on him with incredible speed. Troll made out another sound, something scuttling voraciously among the stony ground from behind. Troll tried to turn his head again. No use. He tried to move. He succeeded in wriggling his appendages, but he just couldn’t hoist himself away from the wall -- try as he might.

The Dog fetched a ten-inch hunting knife from his belt and skillfully flicked the blade into the darkness.

A loud Screeeeeeeeee echoed throughout the cave, hurting Troll’s ear drums. Something massive fell at his sandaled feet. What, what is it? Troll knew the Dog wouldn’t answer him -- he never did. A horrid stench rose and violated Troll’s nostrils. Some time ago, Troll passed across a skunk’s carcass. The body was well into decomposing, maggots writhed within the moldy and gamey meat. Whatever lay at Troll’s feet smelled worse -- much worse.

The Dog arose, strode toward Troll, and crouched on his haunches.

For a moment, Troll lost sight of the Dog before hearing a ploosh. He caught another (this time, hefty) whiff of that aged and earthen aroma. What’s going on? I want to see.

The Dog stood, knife in hand. A slick greenish-goop dripped from the serrated steel.

Troll felt a little better knowing that whatever the thing was, was now dead.

Eyes twinkling gold, the Dog stared off into the abyss. He tilted his head this way and that, pointy ears twitching at the slightest of sounds. Then he growled again.

Whatever glimmer of hope Troll felt moments ago, now sunk into the deepest recesses of his bowels. What? Troll asked in panic, "what is it? Then he heard it, a frightening amalgamation of (what sounded like) thousands of…well, that was the thing. Troll still didn’t know what those things were. But they were coming fast, all scuttling and clickity-clacking away. They were coming for Troll. Quick, cut me loose!"

The Dog pivoted. He tried to free Troll. No use. Slick with gore, the serrated steel of the Dog’s blade had been rendered useless (at least, until he cleaned it).

Still, the demons in the dark closed in on them.

The Dog didn’t even bother going for another knife from his belt. No time. Instead, he tore away at the vines restraining Troll, with tooth and claw.

Not until the Dog disturbed the plants did Troll realize the smell of rotten-cotton emanated from the viny tentacles. The odor sweltered and swarmed within the cave, and for the utmost of brevity, Troll felt he would faint. But he didn’t.

The Dog continued to gnaw away at the restraints.

Troll’s body shifted slightly, allowing him to turn his head. Troll gazed down at the creature at his feet. In the darkness, he could see it had long, spindly legs, giant mandibles, and was bigger than Troll, himself. That was when Troll noticed that the vines holding him weren’t vines at all -- they were webs.

Lightning crashed. Troll could see the creature’s massive hairy shell. The thing was covered in spines and had ten legs, five on each side of its segmented body. The two front legs had hand-like appendages. Another flash of lightning allowed Troll to see the thing had dozens of eyes, all of varying sizes. Those eyes almost appeared human -- almost. A chill coursed its way up and down Troll’s spine. The monster before him was not a spider, it didn’t even really look like one, it was just the closest thing he could equate it to. And there were more. Coming for Troll. He could hear them. Quickly now, Troll said as the Dog toiled away at the webs. Surely, this cannot be the end of Dog and Troll, can it, Lord? Troll opened his eyes. He could see them now, thousands of the creatures, all of various shapes and sizes, rapidly marching across the earthen floors, walls, and ceiling. They swarmed over top each other, some as big as the one dead before Troll; others bigger. The tiny ones looked like normal spiders, but were anything but. Faster would be good, Troll said. His heart raced.

The Dog bit, clawed, and basically hacked away at the webs as swiftly as he could, but many a-strand held Troll.

The creatures approached. Millions of humanoid-eyes glowered at their prey in hatred. The Dog bit away another bundle of strands. They stuck to his face like silky-rotten strands of taffy. The Dog hacked and coughed. His body hitched as if about to sick-up, but webbing and chunks of spider guts were crammed in his mouth, and he couldn’t. His body heaved and retched in torment as he struggled for air. urk…urk…urp…uuurpk. Tiny rivulets of vomit drizzled out of the corners of his mouth and down his long, gnarly beard.

Troll’s stomach turned.

The webs held, rendering the Dog incapable of spitting out the obstruction in his throat.

The first wave of the spiders fell upon them. The smaller creatures reached them first, crawled up their legs and into their undergarments, biting and stinging them.

Hurry! Troll called out again as the spiders chewed away at his flesh. He was stuck there, helpless, being devoured alive.

The Dog did the only possible thing he could do to remove the obstruction in his throat -- he swallowed it. Uuurk….uukuup… Several times he almost regurgitated (Troll along with him) as he choked back the vomit, guts, and spider webs. Uurk…ulp…urkkp… Somehow, he managed to swallow it all down.

The smaller spiders covered them.

Troll desperately wanted to swat the little buggers away, but couldn’t.

The Dog didn’t even seem to notice them crawling all over him.

"Screeeee!"

The larger spiders emerged, nearly upon him. He was about to call out for the Dog again, but no need.

The Dog grabbed Troll by his deerskin shirt with both hands and ripped his behemoth master free with brute strength alone. Troll was loosed. And not a moment too soon. One of the larger spiders crashed its hand-like appendage into the wall where Troll had just been.

With one hand, Troll swatted the smaller spiders (those crawling on him) as he dashed for the mouth of the cave, his trusty staff in the other. Another bolt of lightning crashed across the sky, but he no longer cared about the torrential weather. Troll sprinted a good twenty yards away from the cave before he bothered to look back.

The very webs the Dog ripped away with his own teeth had attached around one of his bare feet, tethering him to the inside of the cave. At the wrist of each gauntlet upon the Dog’s arms resided a small pinion just underneath each thumb. He pulled back one pin. An audible clicking sounded as three long serrated blades emerged in a snap, poking ferociously out at the knuckles. Dog did the same with the other gauntlet, arming himself with blades that could not be knocked away or dropped just as a spider pounced. He wrestled on the ground, slashing away as spiders continued to fall upon him. Of course, he only attacked the larger spiders. The smaller ones crawled all over him, biting and stinging, attempting to pump enough venom into the Dog so that he might fall, and be their next meal. Yet still he fought on.

What should he do? He couldn’t leave the Dog, could he? Ye’r right, Lord, I cannot. Troll doubled back, keeping as much distance between himself and the mouth of the cave as he could. A few of the spiders noticed his advancements as Troll climbed the embankment surmounting the cave. They pounced, huge fangs dripping greenish venom. Troll swung his staff at the demon arachnids. Their innards splattered upon him. Their green-black guts stunk worse than the webs.

The winds picked up. The sky boomed with thunder. The spiders fell.

Troll climbed to the top of the embankment, glancing up just in time to see a man-sized spider rappelling from the twisted trees above. Troll drove his staff upward into the creature’s midsection, sending it flailing wildly backward. The spider rolled across the rocks, bowling over a few others in its wake. The arachnids stumbled briefly before scrambling to their feet. Regrouping, they charged toward the top of the cliff, attempting to cut off Troll’s escape. He glanced up. Twenty more (all good sizers) rappelled from the warped branches above. Troll batted them away and inched toward the apex of the precipice. The spiders closed in, surrounding Troll. Can’t worry ‘bout that now, he thought, not when the Dog is down there fighting for his life. Troll glanced behind him, finding just what he had been looking for. He pivoted, wedged his staff between a boulder at the top of the cliff. Troll put his weight into it. Another spider pounced from behind. Troll turned his attention from his staff to one of the metal bands he wore around his meaty fore-arms. He pulled back a pin on the band in the same fashion as the Dog had done with his gauntlets, except this time, instead of razor-sharp blades, a twirling hook followed by a length of thin chain-wiring rocketed out from the cuff. The hook sailed through the air with such force as to tear through the spider’s armored body, slicing through two more of the beasts on the return trip. The hook retracted into Troll’s cuff and he returned his attention to the boulder. The Dog fought furiously below. With all the strength he could muster, Troll pried again. This time, the boulder fell.

Without so much as an upward glance, the Dog bounded away (as far as his tether would allow) just before the rock crashed into the earth, squashing a bunch of the beasts and creating enough of a shock wave as to momentarily stun the others. The Dog had just enough time to cut himself loose with his teeth as a spider regained its footing and pounced. The Dog rolled away.

With the Dog free, Troll turned back to the spiders surrounding him. They jumped, fangs exposed. Troll twirled his staff around like a propeller, splattering their guts about the rocky surface. Seeing something out of the corner of his eye, Troll tilted his head.

The Dog crouched beside his master, as if leaping straight up to the top of the outcrop in a single bound.

Dog, to me! The duo stood back to back, creating a tight perimeter of defense. Troll, with his staff and long reach, dispatched of any pouncing spiders while the Dog cut down any that managed to crawl underneath Troll’s range. Slowly but surely, they fought their way out. Troll didn’t know how long they battled the demon arachnids, just that they kept coming -- from everywhere. The smaller ones were quick enough to break the duo’s perimeter, attacking their already sorely stung legs. Troll’s lower extremities burned in agony. He could only imagine the pain the bare-footed Dog endured.

The wind howled, thunder and lightning crashed ceaselessly above, yet no rain fell to ease the duo’s burning appendages. They inched across the rocks, pivoting, turning, and fighting, before finding themselves at the edge of a cliff. The river ran fiercely below. The cliff was tall and flat, too high to jump, and too steep to climb down while still fending off the invading arachnids. They were trapped.

The spiders encircled them, but did not attack. Then they parted, creating an aisle amongst them.

Troll realized the spiders were toying with them, as if saying, Go ahead, run -- if you can.

Out of the aisle, the biggest spider emerged. The beast was larger than the boulder Troll pried loose in order to save the Dog. Its hide comprised of sharp spines; on its back was a red mark that resembled that of a skull.

Dear Lord, if it be ye’r will that we die this night, please let it be a good death, Troll prayed aloud as the queen spider approached. Hissing, venom dripped from its fangs and sizzled on the rocky ground. …and let not our flesh decay in the gullet of these demons. Troll drove his staff into the ground, and said, Amen!

What happened next was a miracle. The winds ceased, the skies parted, and a huge bolt of lightning crashed down amidst the spiders.

The force of the lightning sent Troll and the Dog reeling off the side of the cliff.

All the dead, dried trees made for excellent kindling, setting the entire forest ablaze.

Troll’s ears rang as he (and the Dog) plummeted to the racing waters below. His vision faded as the ringing in his ears subsided. The last thing Troll remembered before crashing into the river (and losing consciousness) were screams. The screams of the spiders being burned alive.

****

Dog awoke sluggishly, drifting past the treacherous waves of unconsciousness. Two voices echoed from somewhere in the depths of sleep. Their language was odd, some ancient dialect he couldn’t place. Sifting through the darkness, he could not move, though his restriction was not from bondage. His muscles simply refused to cooperate with the Dog’s will. He tried to open his eyes but found them as equally unresponsive.

The voices swelled and yet he could hear beyond them. Birds gibberishly chattered away. Some scrapping sound that resembled the clickity-clacking of… The spiders! The spider. The fall from the cliff. Troll. A wave of anxiety came over the Dog as he tried to force his muscles to work, attempting any sort of movement he could muster. His arms and legs trembled in violent seizures. Further out still, children laughed. Horses playfully trotted about. Even Troll’s voice was now evident. This gave the Dog the briefest moments of relief. But still, he must try and move, must try and escape this motionless darkness that bonded him.

A few of the Dog’s fingers slightly wriggled. A low growl came deep from within the Dog’s gullet, though no sound reverberated. He began to shake his head back and forth, slowly at first, but getting faster with each pendular motion. One of the Dog’s arms flopped spastically, like a fish drug out of the river swift, perhaps by Troll himself. And if he could hurry in breaking his comatose façade, perhaps Troll might even share some of that fish with him (even if he did ruin the flesh by cooking it). Troll -- the Dog could hear his voice loud and clear now, speaking of some ancient flood of lore. Dog’s entire body was in tremulous agony. Almost fully awake now, he could feel it. It would only be a matter of moments before he would be able to move again. But then Troll’s voice drifted away, along with the horses’ hooves. The gleeful squeals of children faded back into the darkness Dog swam against. No more scrappity-clackity. Now all that remained were two voices: One of a man’s, the other a woman. Both sounded elderly and hoarse.

The Dog’s eyes fluttered rapidly behind closed lids. His head rocked back violently, hitting the base of his cranium on something soft yet solid. Dog’s eyelids shot open. Sitting bolt-right, he examined the strange new surroundings. He was lying on