The Lion of Farside by John Dalmas

Finally they turned north on a trail too distinct, too unbroken and purposeful not to have been made by humans. It would be faster, and it couldn’t hurt to follow it for a while. After a bit evening came, and a tiny patch of meadow at a seep. Again she left Maude free to graze, stowing the saddle and saddle bags beneath a nearby blowdown. The last of the bread and cheese she put in her shift, and climbed the ridge a little way, to shelter under an overhanging ledge she’d noticed. Climbed barefoot, walking carefully among the rocks and sticks.

Before long she slept, eventually to dream that something came shambling upright on two legs, then stopped and peered about while the dream-Varia lay paralyzed with fear. Suddenly Maude screamed, and Varia awoke with a start, rolling to hands and knees, heart pounding in her throat. The scream repeated, and she realized it was no dream. And there was more: a muffled half growl, half roar, that froze her where she crouched. She had no doubt it came from the throat of something whose jaws were clamped on Maude’s neck.

She realized she’d drawn her knife, though it would be useless against a bear. The mare didn’t scream again, but there were occasional growling grunts, and sounds as of joints being broken. She stayed where she was, crouched beneath her ledge. Dawn, she discovered, had preceded the predator, faint gray light bleeding through the treetops. As it grew, the sounds of feeding stopped. Birds awoke as if in celebration, first a robin, then a wren, then a clamor from many throats. The sun’s rays would soon light the higher treetops.

Something was coming up the ridge. Varia’s short hair crawled with fear, then terror. A shaggy, hulking, upright form, some eight feet tall and five or six hundred pounds, strode into sight at half a trot, one great hand shielding its eyes. Its belly was grossly distended, not with pregnancy but gorging. Its other hand held a horse’s hind leg over one shoulder, like a man might carry a club.

Varia almost missed seeing the small one, perhaps smaller than herself. Unlike its mother, it ran on all fours like an ape, carrying something in its teeth. Varia couldn’t see what; brush was in the way. Probably something its mother had torn off for it.

Then they were gone.

She’d always heard that trolls hated daylight. The belief among the Sisters was that their eyes were too sensitive. Folklore had it that they stayed in their dens till twilight, not even coming out on cloudy days. That daylight turned them to stone, though no reasonable person believed that. At any rate trolls were night stalkers; that much was certain.

Still she stayed where she was till the sun was well up. When she went down to the seep, it was shocking how much of the mare had been eaten. You’re going to walk to Ferny Cove after all, she told herself. Poor Maude.

Three ravens had already landed on the carcass, one a different species than the others. Large though the two were, the third was much larger, its high and feathered crown scarlet against black. Pausing in its breakfast, it looked at Varia. “Yours?” it asked. Its voice could have passed for human.

She nodded.

“Sorry. I trust you don’t mind excessively. One must eat, you know.” And with that, the bird returned to feeding.

Varia didn’t answer. She went to where she’d left the saddle. Not only the mare had been attacked. The saddle too had been mauled, gouged by sharp teeth in smaller but still powerful jaws. Her boots had been pulled loose, and one of them torn apart. The other was missing; it might have been what the troll cub carried in its jaws. She would not only walk to Ferny Cove; like it or not, she’d walk barefoot. Certainly she couldn’t stay where she was; the trolls’ den had to be somewhere near.

A thought occurred to her, and she looked back at the three ravens. “Excuse me,” she called softly, and the red-crowned bird looked up. “I’m afraid I’m being followed. By a man.”

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