Ok, this is one I wrote a while back (read about three years) and decided to dust it off and review it a bit.
Day 18 – April 18 – The Bridge Keeper
The master waited for his pupil to bow. The boy was young, just over a century old. The master was well over 1000 and his face split and cracked like slate. His hair had vanished somewhere after he turned 400 and his bare head was covered by a rough woolen hood. The apprentice in front of him looked as scared as he himself was after being given his first task. The boy still had his hair, though, and his face barely showed the cracks of time. Unfortunately he also wore glasses.
“Take this, apprentice Shar-ghathal,” the master said and handed the boy a staff of gold wood. Inscribed upon it, in runes, were not the names of the doomed as some thought, but a couple of back-up riddles if he should need them. As they were too powerful to be taught to anyone and the speaking of them could make even the barrow dwellers sit up and take heed, they were only written and given upon an oath not to use them except to defend themselves.
Shar-ghathal took up the staff.
“I swear that I will use this only in defense of myself and my kin, Master Néghla-ghurtathal,” he said, bowing his head.
The master nodded.
“I give this bridge to you to keep. You will defend it with your life. You will not let anyone pass into the realm of the Trolls. You will ask three riddles to all who step upon the bridge. If they do not answer correctly, they may not pass. If they answer right they are considered a Troll-friend and may pass the bridge. But under no circumstances may they pass into the realm. This is your order. Do you accept?”
“I do, Master Néghla-ghurtathal,” he answered, banging the end of the staff upon the bridge.
“What will you do if someone tries to pass without being let by?” he asked.
Shar-ghathal thought of the sword slung across his back.
“If they try to pass, they will be slain and given to the river to ferry to the sea.”
“Good,” the master nodded. He stepped off the bridge, seeming to blur for a moment before vanishing, having passed through a doorway into the realm of the trolls.
Shar-ghathal sat down on the bank next to the river, keeping his eyes on the road that led from the southern cities, reciting the three riddles of the bridge over and over in his head.
Some time had passed since the apprentice took his seat on the bank of the river. The road where he was stationed was not used much – therefore the perfect place for an apprentice Bridge Keeper to start. On either side of the bridge was a half overgrown road that led to some of the smaller northern cities and the Wilds beyond. The sun had gotten a lot warmer and he crept underneath the bridge to get some shade without leaving his post. As the bridge was made of wood, he reckoned that he would easily hear anyone trying to cross it.
He lay there, content with listening to the river and the birds in the tall grass, when he heard taps on the bridge. He hastened up the bank and onto the bridge to see who it was.
There, on the other side of the bridge, with the wide river below them, he saw three goats. One was an emaciated, pathetic looking animal. One was a bit fatter, though he had quite a dumb look about him. The other one was fatter and larger than his companions and had a magnificent pair of horns on his head.
An eerie feeling came over Shar-ghathal and he clenched his hand tightly around the staff in his hand. Pushing his glasses back on his nose, he spoke to them, as most people will speak to animals.
“Shoo,” he said, “Go away. Bridges are no place for goats. You have enough grass on that side.”
The fat goat cocked his head to the side.
“I beg you pardon, Troll, but the grass seem to be greener on the other side of the river. Look at my friends here, they need food and they need it quickly before they starve,” the goat said gruffly.
Quite surprised at the learned accent of the goat, he let them come closer.
“If you wish to pass, you must answer my riddles three,” he said, remembering again his task as Bridge Keeper.
“Very well,” said the fat goat. “I will answer your three riddles.”
The troll scratched his nose absentmindedly and started with the first riddle while the emaciated goat chewed on the hem of his robe.
“I was weaponed warrior. Now proud, young,
a warrior covers me with silver and gold,
with curved wire-bows. Sometimes men kiss me;
sometimes I summon companions
to war with my voice. Sometimes steed bears me
over the marchland; sometimes a mere-steed
bears over oceans me brightly adorned.
Sometimes a maiden fills ring-adorned bosom;
sometimes on tables, on hard boards,
headless I lie, despoiled by the warriors.
Sometimes I hang with jewels adorned
where men drink, fair on the wall,
noble war-trapping: sometimes folk-warriors
on steed carry me--then must I wind
swallow, wealth-marked with name.
Sometimes with calls I warriors invite,
proud ones to wine; sometimes from cruel ones
with voice I restore booty, from raiders,
make fiend-scathers flee. Guess me!”
He watched the fat goat closely as he tapped-tapped a hoof on the bridge while he was thinking.
“A sword and a goblet,” he said, not thinking quite straight.
“That is not correct. You may not pass.”The apprentice took his staff in both hands.
“I will pass,” the goat said.
“Then I must slay you as any other man that passes the bridge.”
“I’m a goat, not a human.”
“Then how could you not guess the answer to the riddle? Your own forebears taught the trolls that riddle.”
“Our forebears hate trolls,” the second goat said without thinking. The emaciated one looked up, the hem of the robe still in his mouth.
The troll apprentice made a swipe with the staff, sending the emaciated goat plunging into the cold water of the river and causing a few travelling salesmen who had just came to the bridge to gasp at the sight of cruelty to an animal – by a troll nonetheless.
The goat plunged into the cold water, and went under for a moment, but then bobbed to the surface, changing its shape to that of a magician. The others, too, changed their shapes. But Shar-ghathal was ready with his silver sword and fought the magicians, using the trolls’ own magic to guard him from their spells. They too, he sent to the river.
He returned his sword to the scabbard on his back, and adjusted his robe, mending the hem with a few words. He stood in the middle of the bridge, his staff in one hand, and pushed the glasses back on the bridge of his nose.
“If you wish to pass the bridge, travellers, you must answer my riddles three,” he said, his voice carrying loudly to the travelling salesmen.
“How far to the next bridge?” One of them asked.
“Twenty miles.”
The man lifted his wide brimmed hat. “Well, good day to you, I believe we’ll not be taking the short cut after all, thank you all the same, sir.”
 |
| Troll Bridge by Woodwose |
No comments:
Post a Comment