“Go,” Galindra said, flicking her fingers. “I’ll join you momentarily.”
She watched as her brother stalked toward a slight rise in the landscape, where the ruins of a square stone tower and surrounding outbuildings stood. A crow squawked at his approach, rising from the top of a lichen-covered wall with a whirr of wings.
Galindra narrowed her eyes and sucked in a calming breath. Why had their uncle sent them here? The area was barren moorland, dotted with dark pools and studded with rocks jutting from the spongy grass, ready to trip the unwary traveler.
She gazed at the imposing mountain range in the distance, its stately, jagged peaks sparkling with snow even though it was full summer. The Knife Ridge Mountains. She suppressed a shiver at a memory from her childhood and pushed the thoughts away. “Now is not the time,” she murmured.
Trolls lived beyond those mountains, she recalled. After their defeat in the recent war with the dragons, Galindra knew the trolls had surrendered many of their fortresses and settlements, retreating even farther north. According to Mirchelius, this training foray was meant to catalog the citadels they had abandoned.
“ForeSenders are not just responsible for investigating extraordinary crimes and dispensing justice, my dear niece and nephew,” he’d told them as they prepared to depart. “We are also the eyes and ears of the Continuum, watching over and protecting its people. Hence, we also perform mundane duties, like helping to patrol the border between warring peoples, such as where you are now going.”
A desolate bird call drew her attention back to her immediate surroundings. She let her gaze wander across the flat, almost featureless moor that stretched in all directions, the grass-covered ground sprinkled with yellow and white wildflowers. Bees droned as they flitted among the stalks, while the sun beat down from an azure sky dappled with the occasional fleecy cloud.
“A delightful day,” she mumbled as her jaw cracked in a yawn. She was tempted to find a rock or boulder sizeable enough to sit on so she could rest, eat, and renew her energy after her time in dragon form. But she reminded herself they had to be back on Centristra within a few days, and she intended their last training expedition to go off without a hitch.
“Almost time to graduate,” she declared, cinching her rucksack closed. “We must complete this task as ordered and return home without delay. I don’t want to disappoint Uncle.”
Her senses pricked, and she shuddered, glancing over her shoulder. Her fingers strayed to the small, amethyst-flecked foresense gem embedded in the skin at the base of her throat. Was someone out there? Were they being watched?
She surveyed the empty upland. Nothing moved in the mostly flat landscape, and anyway, there were few places to hide. The tops of large, gray, weathered rocks were visible among the wildflowers and sturdy grasses. Galindra scrutinized the largest boulders, yet could discover no indication of anyone hiding nearby.
She sent out her senses, but grimaced, her hand rubbing her temple. My knees and shins are throbbing so much after that damnable landing, she mused, that there could be an army of enemies crouched below the horizon, and I wouldn’t detect them.
“Maybe I hit my head harder than I imagined when I touched down,” she said to herself with a shrug. “Who would be out this far? It’s not as if anyone knew where we were going, and there are no dwellings hereabouts for many a league.”
Galindra slipped her arms through the leather straps of her knapsack and turned to follow Salith’s footsteps to the abandoned watchtower. Her boots sank into the spongy ground as she strode toward the standing ruins, careful to avoid the muddy, water-filled pools and puddles. Salith was nowhere to be seen.
Where are you? she sent.
Exploring, he replied, the thought flowing inside her mind with ease. These ruins are ancient. No sign of life. However, there is a remarkably realistic mural on the wall of the former feasting hall.
There was a muted grating sound, as if someone were grinding corn on a quern-stone. Galindra frowned. Are you certain the tower is uninhabited?
Yes, why?
I thought I heard…
Galindra glimpsed movement from the corner of her eye and turned her head. The same vista met her gaze: desolate moorland strewn with rocks and wildflowers. A sheep, perhaps; or a wild goat? But if so, where was it? It couldn’t have scampered out of sight that fast.
She pursed her lips, shrugged, and started to turn back toward the tower. “I definitely need to rest.”
Galindra had taken another few steps when realization dawned. Earlier, she’d noticed a sizeable boulder nearby and had even contemplated sitting on it to catch her breath after her rough landing.
She whipped around. The rock was gone.
“Am I losing my mind?” she muttered.
Salith, she sent, something odd is…
Galindra never completed the thought. A massive, gray, lichen-draped figure pounded toward her. It clutched an enormous war club—the rounded surface festooned with sharp spikes—and uttered a rumbling bellow.
Troll!
“We’re under attack,” Galindra yelled to Salith. Wide-eyed, she yelped and dove to the side as the troll lunged at her with his spiky club. Unable to reach the relative safety of the abandoned watchtower, she rolled to her feet and scampered toward a boulder. Then skidded to a stop, almost slipping into a broad, muddy puddle.
With a deep grinding noise that vibrated across Galindra’s teeth, the boulder began to move, accompanied by a deep-throated groan. A rounded lump of rock rotated to face her, and a pair of large, black-orbed eyes appeared on the craggy surface. They didn’t look friendly.
Two trolls, Galindra sent. And I don’t think they’re here to act as our tour guides.
Make that three, came Salith’s reply, sounding rushed even inside her head. The mural sprouted a troll. I thought it looked exceptionally lifelike.
Save the art critique for later, Galindra responded, when we’re not in danger of having our brains mashed into the moorland.
She dodged another swipe of the club, the weapon’s close passage like the hint of a breeze on her brow. Her fingers reached for the foresense gem at her throat as she scuttled away.
She glanced over her shoulder and gaped. The second troll unfolded in a series of jerky, but swift, movements. Gray, with moss and lichen clinging to most of his body, he stood at least eight feet tall and, like his companion, hefted a gigantic war club festooned with iron spikes.
The creature threw his head back and roared. A flock of crows spiraled into the air, venting their resentment with raucous, high-pitched caws.
The troll lowered his bulky head, glowered at Galindra, and flared his nostrils. “I smell human.” He narrowed his dark eyes. “An’ somethin’ more. Alt-form. She’s a dragon shifter!”
“Don’t let her transform,” rumbled the first troll. He charged again, lifting his heavy club above his shoulder, preparing to strike. The second troll lumbered toward her, his movements sluggish. Perhaps he was still waking up? If so, Galindra didn’t want to give him time to shake off his slumber.
She made a swift decision. It would take too long to morph into her dragon form—the trolls might be on her before she completed her transition. Even a dragon’s head, as thick as the skull is, would be vulnerable to a battering from rock hard, spiky war clubs wielded by two enraged trolls. And they could catch her in mid-transformation, when she would be at her most exposed.
A fiery staff materialized in her hands, the flames wrapping around her fingers while leaving them unscathed. And not a moment too soon.
The first troll gave a shout as his deadly club descended. “Watch out, she’s usin’ elemental energy. Kill her quick.”
