He heard a high-pitched clarion call from a long way off, the sound of some distant golden trumpet, echoing in the hills.
The Trolls suddenly stopped attacking. One of them dropped off Shadrach’s neck. Another let go of his arm.
The call came again, this time more loudly.
“Elves!” a Troll rasped. He turned and moved toward the sound, grinding his teeth and spitting with fury.
“Elves!”
The Trolls swarmed forward, a growing wave of gnashing teeth and nails, pushing furiously toward the Elf columns. The Elves broke formation and joined battle, shouting with wild joy in their shrill, piping voices. The tide of Trolls rushed against them, Troll against Elf, shovel nails against golden sword, biting jaw against dagger.
“Kill the Elves!”
“Death to the Trolls!”
“Onward!”
“Forward!”
Shadrach fought desperately with the Trolls that were still clinging to him. He was exhausted, panting and gasping for breath. Blindly, he whacked on and on, kicking and jumping, throwing Trolls away from him, through the air and across the ground.
How long the battle raged, Shadrach never knew. He was lost in a sea of dark bodies, round and evil-smelling, clinging to him, tearing, biting, fastened to his nose and hair and fingers. He fought silently, grimly.
All around him, the Elf legions clashed with the Troll horde, little groups of struggling warriors on all sides.
Suddenly Shadrach stopped fighting. He raised his head, looking uncertainly around him. Nothing moved. Everything was silent. The fighting had ceased.
A few Trolls still clung to his arms and legs. Shadrach whacked one with the barrel stave. It howled and dropped to the ground. He staggered back, struggling with the last Troll, who hung tenaciously to his arm.
“Now you!” Shadrach gasped. He pried the Troll loose and flung it into the air. The Troll fell to the ground and scuttled off into the night.
There was nothing more. No Troll moved anywhere. All was silent across the bleak moon-swept fields.
Shadrach sank down on a stone. His chest rose and fell painfully. Red specks swam before his eyes. Weakly, he got out his pocket handkerchief and wiped his neck and face. He closed his eyes, shaking his head from side to side.
When he opened his eyes again, the Elves were coming toward him, gathering their legion together again. The Elves were disheveled and bruised. Their golden armor was gashed and torn. Their helmets were bent or missing. Most of their scarlet plumes were gone. Those that still remained were drooping and broken.
But the battle was over. The war was won. The Troll hordes had been put to flight.
Shadrach got slowly to his feet. The Elf warriors stood around him in a circle, gazing up at him with silent respect. One of them helped steady him as he put his handkerchief away in his pocket.
“Thank you,” Shadrach murmured. “Thank you very much.”
“The Trolls have been defeated,” an Elf stated, still awed by what had happened.
Shadrach gazed around at the Elves. There were many of them, more than he had ever seen before. All the Elves had turned out for the battle. They were grim-faced, stern with the seriousness of the moment, weary from the terrible struggle.
“Yes, they’re gone, all right,” Shadrach said. He was beginning to get his breath. “That was a close call. I’m glad you fellows came when you did. I was just about finished, fighting them all by myself.”
“All alone, the King of the Elves held off the entire Troll army,” an Elf announced shrilly.
“Eh?” Shadrach said, taken aback. Then he smiled. “That’s true, I did fight them alone for a while. I did hold off the Trolls all by myself. The whole darn Troll army.”
“There is more,” an Elf said.
Shadrach blinked. “More?”
“Look over here, O King, mightiest of all the Elves. This way. To the right.”
The Elves led Shadrach over.
“What is it?” Shadrach murmured, seeing nothing at first. He gazed down, trying to pierce the darkness. “Could we have a torch over here?”
Some Elves brought little pine torches.
There, on the frozen ground, lay Phineas Judd, on his back. His eyes were blank and staring, his mouth half open. He did not move. His body was cold and stiff.
“He is dead,” an Elf said solemnly.
Shadrach gulped in sudden alarm. Cold sweat stood out abruptly on his forehead. “My gosh! My old friend! What have I done?”
“You have slain the Great Troll.”
Shadrach paused.
“I what?”
“You have slain the Great Troll, leader of all the Trolls.”
“This has never happened before,” another Elf exclaimed excitedly. “The Great Troll has lived for centuries. Nobody imagined he could die. This is our most historic moment.”
All the Elves gazed down at the silent form with awe, awe mixed with more than a little fear.
“Oh, go on!” Shadrach said. “That’s just Phineas Judd.”
But as he spoke, a chill moved up his spine. He remembered what he had seen a little while before, as he stood close by Phineas, as the dying moonlight crossed his old friend’s face.
“Look.” One of the Elves bent over and unfastened Phineas’s blue-serge vest. He pushed the coat and vest aside. “See?”
Shadrach bent down to look.
He gasped.
Underneath Phineas Judd’s blue-serge vest was a suit of mail, an encrusted mesh of ancient, rusting iron, fastened tightly around the squat body. On the mail stood an engraved insignia, dark and time-worn, embedded with dirt and rust. A moldering half-obliterated emblem. The emblem of a crossed owl leg and toadstool.
The emblem of the Great Troll.
“Golly,” Shadrach said. “And I killed him.”
For a long time he gazed silently down. Then, slowly, realization began to grow in him. He straightened up, a smile forming on his face.
“What is it, O King?” an Elf piped.
“I just thought of something,” Shadrach said. “I just realized that — that since the Great Troll is dead and the Troll army has been put to flight –”
He broke off. All the Elves were waiting.
“I thought maybe I — that is, maybe if you don’t need me any more –”
The Elves listened respectfully. “What is it, Mighty King? Go on.”
“I thought maybe now I could go back to the filling station and not be king any more.” Shadrach glanced hopefully around at them. “Do you think so? With the war over and all. With him dead. What do you say?”
For a time, the Elves were silent. They gazed unhappily down at the ground. None of them said anything. At last they began moving away, collecting their banners and pennants.
“Yes, you may go back,” an Elf said quietly. “The war is over. The Trolls have been defeated. You may return to your filling station, if that is what you want.”
A flood of relief swept over Shadrach. He straightened up, grinning from ear to ear. “Thanks! That’s fine. That’s really fine. That’s the best news I’ve heard in my life.”
He moved away from the Elves, rubbing his hands together and blowing on them.
“Thanks an awful lot.” He grinned around at the silent Elves. “Well, I guess I’ll be running along, then. It’s late. Late and cold. It’s been a hard night. I’ll — I’ll see you around.”
The Elves nodded silently.
“Fine. Well, good night.” Shadrach turned and started along the path. He stopped for a moment, waving back at the Elves. “It was quite a battle, wasn’t it? We really licked them.” He hurried on along the path. Once again he stopped, looking back and waving. “Sure glad I could help out. Well, good night!”
One or two on the Elves waved, but none of them said anything.
Shadrach Jones walked slowly toward his place. He could see it from the rise, the highway that few cars traveled, the filling station falling to ruin, the house that might not last as long as himself, and not enough money coming it to repair them or buy a better location.
He turned around and went back.
The Elves were still gathered there in the silence of the night. They had not moved away.
“I was hoping you hadn’t gone,” Shadrach said, relieved.
“And we were hoping you would not leave,” said a soldier.
Shadrach kicked a stone. It bounced through the tight silence stopped. The Elves were still watching him.
“Leave?” Shadrach asked. “And me King of the Elves?”
“Then you will remain our king?” an Elf cried.
“It’s a hard thing for a man of my age to change. To stop selling gasoline and suddenly be a king. It scared me for a while. But it doesn’t any more.”
“You will? You will?”
“Sure,” said Shadrach Jones.
The little circle of Elf torches closed in joyously. In their light, he saw a platform like the one that had carried the old King of the Elves. But this one was much larger, big enough to hold a man, and dozens of the soldiers waited with proud shoulders under the shafts.