The Bridge Over The Ymral
Tyr pulled his once stylish green tunic over his head and one of his ocean blue eyes peered through the hole burnt into the Lemurian silk.
"Look at this," growled the big man to his short companion. "That damned abomination ruined my expensive new tunic." Tyr’s voice held the unmistakable rolling brogue of a Khamorrahn, spawn of the warrior tribes that ruled the north east islands of this world.
His short companion, Thorvald, snorted and stroked his long beard. "It can’t be that expensive." Thorvald’s voice had a timbre as deep and as dark as the dwarf mines of the Iron Mountains where he grew up.
"I paid six silver shillings for this tunic," answered Tyr, his voice indignant.
"You were cheated," snorted the dwarf.
"It would have been just fine…"
Thorvald cut off Tyr before he can finish his sentence. "You’re not going to blame me for that damned spider showing up," huffed the dwarf in indignation.
"I told you not to touch the altar," responded Tyr as he pulled his tunic back over his shoulders. "Dark priests always put the prettiest stuff out on the altar, because the altar is always a trap. I thought you’ve done a few temple raids before."
"I have," said Thorvald. "It’s just that the sacrificial blood bowl was solid gold with a platinum trim that was edged in rubies. It was too good to pass up and I figured I could beat the trap." Thorvald licked his lips over the memory of the Blood God’s favourite bowl and how good it would look with its precious metals melted into coins and its gems adorning his sweetheart back in Iron Mountain.
"What was your big plan to beat the trap?" Tyr was curious. "From what I saw, it looked like you just ran up to the altar and grabbed it."
"I figured that if I did it fast enough I could outrun the trap."
"The damn thing had eight legs," answered the Nomad, "each one longer than mine and definitely longer than the stubby little stumps you run with."
"I run just fine," answered Thorvald with another snort of indignation.
"I could have escaped easily if it hadn’t started spitting that venom all over the place." Tyr looked down at his overpriced tunic and it’s random smattering of burn holes, all courtesy of the venomous spider-demon.
"You slew it like a true hero," continued Thorvald in an attempt to change the subject. "They’ll be singing songs of that fight for generations to come. Your sword cleaved its head like it was a common bug."
"It wasn’t a bug," said Tyr, running a hand through his roughly cropped ash-blonde hair. "It was a spider, an unnaturally big spider. You dwarves are all so bloody gold happy."
"We’re not all like that," said Thorvald.
"Okay, maybe I’m generalising," answered the Nomad. "I’ve met a few who were absolutely mad over diamonds."
"You see," said Thorvald. "We’re a richly diverse culture."
The pale gravel of the road crunched under Tyr’s booted feet. Those same feet ached for they had been marching Southwest since dawn and the sun had already set again. Tyr had done longer and harder marches in the past, but for those, he at least had the benefit of some preparation.
This little trek had been a rushed affair, precipitated by the arrival of the spider-demon and the ensuing fight. The fracas summoned its master, Athryll, the Red Priest of Osmodea, who showed up with at least fifty of his most fanatical retainers. Everything got complicated after that, and Tyr and Thorvald decided that it was best to leave town immediately.
Tyr knew he should consider himself lucky that the worst he got were a few burn holes in his tunic. He didn’t have any new scars to add to his already sizeable collection, and he didn’t leave that foul temple completely empty handed.
"At least we’ve got some money out it," said Thorvald shaking his purse to hear the always-joyous music of dancing gold and silver.
"Yes," said Tyr. "We were lucky to grab the collection plate. Though I regret having to leave a rich town like Ossara."
"Don’t let Athryll’s threats worry you."
"I’m not worried about his threats!" Thorvald’s lack of faith offended Tyr. More frightening people than the Red Priest had threatened Tyr, and for a lot better reasons.
Priests who spilled blood in the service of the Binder of Souls enjoyed many privileges, fanatical followers, the service of abominations like the temple’s spider, and the kind of wealth and power that only terror brings.
However, like all things, it came with a price. The average life span of a Red Priest was short, considering the unnatural darkness they dealt with. A twisted form of meritocracy ruled Demonic Orders and there was always some covetous little acolyte cunning enough to put the blade, literally, to his master and seize the mantle of the Red Priest with all its apparent rights and privileges. No matter how ruthless you are, there is always someone to top you, and demonic temples attracted ruthless people like flies to filth.
Tyr wasn’t worried about the demon worshipper or his raging threats from the temple window; he was actually more annoyed. Although the Red Priest would most likely be dead within a few months of this embarrassing incident, he would still be alive during the Midsummer festival, and that’s what stuck in the barbarian’s craw.
City festivals were the best times for men like Tyr who eschewed the tedium of life as a farmer or tradesmen and hit the road in search of adventure and fortune. Festivals always attracted aristocrats willing to pay a few stout men-at-arms to help advance their position. Failing that, there would always be body guarding, bounty hunting, or like their semi-successful raid on the temple, giving people a reason to hire bodyguards and bounty hunters.
It was an unpredictable life; one day comely servant girls in a grand mansion are feeding you imported grapes. The next day you’re on an empty road in the middle of the night with a scorched shirt and a dwarf with eyes bigger than his common sense.
"Where the hell are we anyway?" Tyr looked around, and with only the light of a half-moon, all he saw was shadows.
"This is the Ossara to Kethra road," said the dwarf. "It’ll take us south-west across the Ymral River and straight on to Kethra. They call it the Jewel of Numeria."
"Don’t try to sell me on the place," added Tyr. "I’ve been there. It’s mostly slums, but there’s probably a good score to be had on the waterfront."
"I hate waterfront jobs," Thorvald snorted. Like most dwarves used to vast underground mines, or mountaintops, he had little experience with seas and oceans. In addition, like all fashionable dwarves, he wore so much metal that he’d sink like a stone and he knew it.
"I’ve got a friend in the City Guard," said Tyr the Nomad. "He should be able to steer us in the right direction."
Tyr paused on the road and took another look around.
"Are you sure we’re on the right road?" he asked.
"Of course I am," said Thorvald. "I saw a sign a half a mile back."
"I didn’t see a sign."
"You humans couldn’t find your own buttocks without a candle," said the dwarf, proud of his people’s excellent night vision.
"You said this was a major highway," said Tyr as he looked around. "This road is half-overgrown."
"What a load of tosh," exclaimed Thorvald. "This is the same road I took out of Ossara last time."
Tyr crouched down and pulled up a handful of weeds and grasses from the middle of the road. "Nobody’s done any work here in a long time. Also look around, what do you see?"
"Nothing," answered Thorvald.
"Exactly," said the Nomad. "A main road between a rich mining town and a major port should be crawling with travellers and wagons. Also there should be some roadside inns or at least a camp or two."
"That’s nothing," said the dwarf. "I saw an inn about three miles down the road."
"That ugly little stone building?"
"Yes."
"I thought that was a fort." Tyr was confused. "What kind of an inn has three foot thick stone walls and guarded watchtowers?"
"Maybe it’s an inn with a special deal on security?" huffed the dwarf. "I distinctly saw the sign. It said ‘The Last Inn before the Bridge.’ What kind of a fort puts up a sign that says it’s an inn?"
"When was the last time you were on this road?"
"About eight years ago," answered Thorvald as he unconsciously unravelled a tangle of red hair in his beard.
"There hasn’t been hide nor hair of anyone on this road since your so-called inn. What happened to drive everybody off?" wondered Tyr aloud. "I didn’t hear about any wars or famines happening in Numeria."
"Unlikely," said Thorvald. "What probably happened is that the prince of one city slapped a new tax on the road and wrecked the economy. It’s happened before." The dwarf’s voice trailed off as his own argument died under a wave of unease.
"This is giving me a bad feeling," said Tyr. "Let’s get across the Ymral and to Kethra as soon as possible. I want to be as far away from Ossara as I can get before sunrise."
"I’m starting to agree with you," said Thorvald, his night-keen eyes scanning for danger in the shadows. "This is beginning to worry me too."
***
The Ymral was a long and hostile river that bisected the Numerian lands like a battle scar. Its constant rapids and frequent waterfalls made it a hazard to navigation, so a network of bridges was constructed ages ago to link the independent city-states of Numeria.
The bridge on the Ossara to Kethra road spanned a deep gully where one of the Ymral’s numerous waterfalls emptied into a deep churning pond before the water flowed into another series of rapids. Failure to cross that bridge meant a trek along the treacherous edges of gullies and cliffs that could last for days until the next crossing.
The Nomad from the northlands and his dwarf companion really couldn’t risk that. Until they crossed the Ymral, they would be in Ossara territory, leaving them targets to Athryll’s pursuing minions or any over-ambitious city watchman looking to fatten his purse.
Once over the river they could easily disappear into the teeming slums of nearby Kethra, rendering pursuit not only futile, but also dangerous.
After walking for hours in the night, Thorvald paused in front of a stone statue of a once great prince now resplendent in bird droppings and moss.
"This statue’s supposed to mark the old toll gate," said the dwarf.
"There’s nobody here," said Tyr. "I guess they don’t care about the toll anymore."
"I’ve never known a prince to give up a source of money," said Thorvald.
"Neither have I, and that’s what’s worrying me," added Tyr pointing to the bridge, a long wooden structure that creaked in the gentle breeze. "But there’s the bridge, so I suggest we get across it before we find out who’s really watching the gate."
As Tyr stepped onto the bridge, he could see the peeling paint, the obvious wood rot, and something else. He couldn’t tell exactly what it was in the light of a pale moon. It unevenly covered wide areas of the bridge floor and even stained the struts and support beams that rose along the sides.
"Do you have your lamp?" asked the Nomad as he crouched down for a closer look.
"What do you need a lamp for?" asked the dwarf. "The bridge is as sound as a mountain."
"The bridge is half rotted," added Tyr. "And there’s something all over the floor."
"Fine," said the dwarf as he fished into his pack for his lamp. "It just sounds like a waste of oil." Thorvald paused and sniffed the air. "What’s that smell?"
"I smell it to." Tyr’s keen nostrils drew deeply and he didn’t like what he smelled. It was sour, metallic, and reminiscent of death.
Tyr sparked the tinder and instantly the dim yellow light of the dwarf’s lamp illuminated their path. As if on cue, the ancient bridge moaned and trembled with such force that the travellers almost lost their balance.
"There’s something on this bridge," said the Nomad as he saw what that the bridge was covered in the all too familiar rust of dried blood.
The bridge shook and moaned again.
"Something big!" said Tyr. "Let’s get across now!"
The pair was halfway across when a huge shape stomped out of the shadows and stood foursquare in their way. In the lamplight, they could see it’s coarse grey skin, it’s beady red eyes, and its thick bull neck connected to a pair of massive shoulders. Those shoulders led to long arms, as thick as tree trunks, ending in hands that clutched a monstrous iron war hammer.
The beast opened its maw, revealing rows of bloodstained fangs, and it let out a roar that echoed through the gully and for miles around.
"It’s a troll," muttered Thorvald, his grip on his axe tightened as instinct commanded.
"Oh damn it," cursed Tyr as he took a tentative step back. He had faced a troll once before, in the abandoned underground city of Akhor. His stumbling upon a hidden exit brought him out to the safety of sunlight and away from the troll and certain death, but no such escape seemed possible here.
Trolls are one of the most feared creatures in the world of Agartha. Despite their bulk, they’re incredibly quick, and despite their small brains are very adept at setting up ambushes in dark corners like the one Tyr and Thorvald just stumbled into.
"What the hell is a troll doing hanging around a bridge," Thorvald hissed. "That’s just so wrong."
"There must be a cave nearby," replied Tyr in a low whisper, never taking his eyes off the brutish creature. "It’s got to be pretty deep so he can hide during the day."
The troll crouched before them, thoroughly sniffing the air. The troll’s beady red eyes were attuned to catch the movement of prey, so Tyr and Thorvald stood as still as stones. As long as they didn’t move, it couldn’t see them.
"Let’s just stay still," whispered Tyr. "The sun will be up soon and he’ll have to go back to his cave." The Nomad felt free to whisper because even he knew of the troll’s notoriously poor hearing.
"Yes," whispered Thorvald in reply. "He can’t see us, and he can’t hear us."
The large troll stood up blew its porcine snout on its crude tunic of animal skins and the clothes of previous victims. It then sniffed the air once more and raised its hammer with a speed that belied its bulk.
"He can still smell us!" bellowed Tyr, his reflexes coming alive.
The hammer came down on them with bone crunching force. Thorvald leapt away to the side and grabbed onto a support beam to keep himself from going over the edge. While Tyr, faced with the choice of the coming hammer or a fifty-foot drop into blackness, chose a third path, and leapt forwards, right between the troll’s elephantine legs.
The massive hammer made short work of the bridge’s floor timbers. Pieces the size of logs flew like twigs into the inky blackness that surrounded the bridge.
Thorvald saw his lamp bounce off the bridge and plunge into the darkness below, casting them all into shadow. The dwarf grabbed his axe and tried to put some more timber between him and the troll.
The troll sniffed the air and turned towards the dwarf. The beast didn’t need to see him to know where Thorvald was. His racing heart pumped the delicious dwarf blood that the troll’s stomach craved and its keen snout could smell it too.
The massive creature raised its hammer again. The bridge moaned in protest from the shifting weight. It took one step towards the dwarf…
Then it stopped.
Thorvald froze. What happened? The troll just stopped dead in its tracks, and the dwarf’s night-keen eyes could see the fear on its face. What scared a troll bad enough to stop it like that?
"Thorvald," said a voice from the shadows.
"Tyr," replied Thorvald, recognising the voice. "Where are you?"
"I’m under the troll," answered the northlander.
"Under the troll?"
"Yes," answered the Nomad from beneath the troll’s filthy tunic. "The troll and I have come to an understanding."
"An understanding?" Thorvald was confused. Trolls viewed all life as either edible or inedible, and were not the kind or creature you can reason with, like a clever dragon, or a particularly sharp basilisk. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"I’ve got a dagger pointing right at——" Tyr paused. "Let’s just say that if he ever wants to father little trolls then he better do as I say."
"Oh," said Thorvald wondering. Then it hit him like a gold brick to the head. "Oh!"
"I’ve been in dungeons," continued Tyr. "I’ve been in sewers, I’ve been on battlefields where pieces of the dead were stacked like firewood, but this is the worst spot I’ve ever been in."
"It seems to be working," said the dwarf. "The troll doesn’t know what to do next."
"Neither do I!" snapped Tyr.
Thorvald looked to the east. Just over the distant Mountains of Weeping, the dwarf’s keen eyes could see a subtle change in the colour of the sky. It had shifted subtly from deep black dotted with stars, to a very dark purple.
"The sun’s coming up," hissed Thorvald. "Just hold on and the sun will turn the troll to stone." Thorvald felt relief wash over him like a gentle wave. The main reason trolls stuck to dark caves was because their unnatural origins gave them a very serious weakness, sunlight turned them into common granite. Every once in a while travellers would find a self-made statue of a troll too stupid to get out of the sun. Those who never saw a live troll considered them figures of mocking fun rather than fearsome, ravenous beasts. Tyr and Thorvald both knew better by bitter experience.
"You’re not the one with an up close view of things no man should ever see," growled Tyr, fully believing now that the real reason trolls had such bad eyesight was to keep them from seeing such things themselves.
"Just stay calm," snapped Thorvald. "It can’t be much longer."
Tyr sighed. "You’re right," he said. "I’ll just keep our friend from doing anything stupid, he’ll turn to stone and there’s probably a reward for him. Think of the reward. Think of the reward." That became the northlander’s mantra.
"That’s right," added Thorvald. "We’ll split it fifty-fifty."
"Who’s doing all the work here!"
"Sixty-forty," replied Thorvald.
"Seventy-thirty you gold happy grit-sucker," said Tyr. "And you have to carry the damn thing’s head to Kethra."
No answer came from the dwarf.
"What’s happening, Thorvald?" asked Tyr. "I can’t see a damned thing."
The dwarf saw the troll’s eyes widen even more. Its innate instinct warned that its most ancient enemy was rising, and it knew what that would bring. The massive beast raised its hammer as its eyes shifted from the horizon to a broad support timber.
"Tyr," warned Thorvald. "He’s about to do something stupid! Get——!"
Before Thorvald could finish his last sentence, the troll swung its hammer. Heavy metal hit rotten wood and the wood lost.
With a vicious scream of breaking wood and tearing nails the bridge split beneath them.
Thorvald grabbed a half-rotted timber and held on for dear life. Tyr didn’t have such a luxury and he and the troll plummeted into the inky blackness of the gully below.
As he plunged into the shadowy depths Tyr felt a brief instant of relief to be freed from his uncomfortable stand-off. However, that instant ended when he hit the cold black water.
***
Tyr the Nomad grabbed a tree root with his leathery hand, and with a great heave, pulled himself out of the churning water.
Dirt and lichen clung to his wet clothes, but he didn’t care, his first concern was getting air. The foetid stench of troll still clutched at his nostrils while he hacked water from his lungs.
Tyr looked up and his dark-adapted eyes could make out a narrow strip of trees and shrubs that lined the edge of the pond. He could hear the sound of the nearby waterfall, the churning of the pond and the roar of the rapids at the other end. He could even see the vague outlines of the gully’s stone walls and the bridge that spanned them.
He didn’t see one thing he was expecting.
He didn’t see the troll.
Tyr let out a small chuckle. The troll was gone. Maybe he drowned, maybe he ran away, who cared anymore. Sure he wasn’t going to get the reward for its head, but he was alive, so that made this a very lucky day. Tyr gave a small cheer of victory.
He cheered too soon.
Trees splintered and went flying as the troll’s heavy iron hammer ploughed through them. Tyr dived, just missing the crushing blow, and drew his broadsword. It had finally come to this. He had to fight that troll, and he had to win if he was going to survive.
The troll puffed out its barrel chest and let out a great roar followed by a wave of breath that was thick with the stench of half-digested death. Tyr leapt to his feet and quickly side-stepped behind a thick old oak.
The troll raised its hammer and brought it down after Tyr, splitting the oak down the middle, but just missing its target.
Seeing his chance Tyr leapt from behind the tree and nimbly landed behind the troll and slashed at the back of its broad right leg with his sword. Steel parted leathery flesh and thick black troll-blood spurted from the wound.
The troll howled in pain as its right leg went rubbery and the monster fell to its hard-knobbed knees, crushing the shrubs beneath it. Tyr had slashed its tendons, partially crippling the horrible beast.
The troll’s beefy fist lashed out. Tyr tried to dodge it, but wasn’t fast enough. The blow struck him in the stomach and sent him flying like a balloon with the air let out.
Tyr hit the broad trunk of tree. The impact knocking out any wind left in him. His sword flew from his hand and imbedded itself in the soft earth of the water’s edge.
Tyr rolled off the tree and rose to his knees, gasping for breath. The troll had yanked its hammer from the mauled oak and turned to the injured Tyr. Blood streamed down its injured leg and there was a look of pure hatred in its beady red eyes.
As the troll limped towards him, Tyr could plainly see that it fully intended to kill him and it was going to enjoy doing it.
Tyr staggered to his feet. His every bone and muscle ached and he tasted blood in his mouth. His hand reached for his belt and drew his extra dagger. It was the equivalent of trying to empty the ocean with a soup spoon, but he wasn’t going down without a fight.
The huge troll actually grinned at him with his foul yellow teeth and raised its hammer. Tyr spun the dagger in his hand, gripped the tip of the blade, and threw.
The troll’s sickly grin transformed into a grimace of agony as Tyr’s dagger sank up to the hilt into its left eye. Black blood streamed down the beast’s leathery cheek as it flailed madly in pain, splintering trees and shattering rocks.
Tyr jumped away from the troll and pulled his broadsword from the damp earth. It probably wasn’t enough, but he was hurting the beast and now was the time to kill the troll or die trying. Either way, this was going to end now.
The troll let out another howl and turned to face Tyr, who held his broadsword ready. The beast had never met a meal that fought back so fiercely before. It was going to catch the burly human with the rat coloured hair, and make him pay. Plots for vengeance completely overtook the troll’s tiny brain, cutting out everything else. It could see nothing but the human charging with his sword. The beast howled in rage, yanked the dripping dagger from its eye socket, raised its hammer, and charged at the human.
Nothing mattered more than making the human suffer. Not its own pain and humiliation, or even the sun rising above the gully.
The troll charged Tyr, its hammer ready, and rage painted its grey face black.
Then the black rage vanished, replaced first by a look of confusion because it couldn’t bring its hammer down, then terror, as what was happening sank in. The look of terror froze permanently as the sun took sacred revenge on the unnatural and its flesh yielded into stone.
It took a second for Tyr to realise what had happened. The adrenaline kept him expecting the beast to leap back to life, but it soon dawned on him that his foe truly was stone.
This time Tyr let out a full-blooded roar of his own, one of victory over horror.
"Tyr!" cried Thorvald from the edge of the gully. "Are you still alive?"
"Yes," answered Tyr. "Throw me a rope. I’ve got something to show you."
***
The dwarf’s broad feet dug deep into the ground as he pulled on the rope. It seemed as if his friend had gained a lot of weight.
Tyr’s hand shot up from the gully, grabbed a sturdy root, and with the other hand on the rope pulled himself over the edge and back onto solid ground.
The dwarf could see the wide bruises and shallow scratches that mapped his friend’s chest. This was because he had removed his now worthless tunic and had wrapped it into a heavy bundle tied to his broad shoulders.
"By the Holy Mountains!" exclaimed Thorvald, "What happened?"
"We fell into the pond," answered Tyr as he carefully unwrapped the tunic, revealing the petrified head of the troll. "The thing was a hell of a fighter, but it couldn’t beat the sun."
The dwarf did a merry dance of victory around the stone head. Tyr had cracked its neck with its own hammer, because you couldn’t claim any bounty without the head.
"Looks like you did some damage," said Thorvald. "I think you fully deserve your seventy percent."
"Oh, really," said Tyr with a grin as he tied up the bundle again.
"You earned it," said the dwarf.
With the bundle wrapped back up Tyr took his weighty burden and dropped it into the dwarf’s arms. The short man wavered from the sudden gain in weight, but he recovered quickly.
"Good," said Tyr. "Now you can earn your thirty percent. Let’s get to Kethra and cash this thing in before something else turns up."
The dwarf shifted the weight to his strong back and tied the tunic around his strong shoulders. "With pleasure," he answered his heart aglow with thoughts of the possible reward.
"Of course the cost of my tunic will be coming out of your share," added Tyr as they strolled on the road to the coast. "It’s a business expense."
"All right," huffed the dwarf. "You win. I admit it. I was wrong for raiding the altar. Are you happy?"
Tyr smiled and stretched his aching body, taking sweet relief from the sunlight and the open road.
©2004 Duncan R. MacMaster
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