The Hill Folk
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Michael and Trevor continued up the winding trail through the foothills. Here it passed over many shallow, swift-running streams before finally climbing the side of a gully in sharp switchbacks, allowing Trevor’s shoes to dry.
Trevor followed behind Michael’s stooped shoulders, the older man’s cane beating a tireless rhythm across even the rocky and root-tangled stretches of trail. Trevor, though he thought himself fit, found himself feeling unaccountably tired.
“Are we nearly to the Mountain, Michael?”
“A fit man could make it in a fraction of a day. Since you are not accustomed to the elevation and distance travel, we will take the rest of today and part of tomorrow.”
“What about you?”
Michael looked out across the ravine the trail had been following. Was there a touch of sorrow? The wind in the treetops masked the sound of the creek far below. “Oh, I’ll manage. The Outside does not have much leeway for the tired and the weak.”
It occurred to Trevor that Michael was walking straighter and without as much assistance from his cane. How was he managing it? Trevor’s mind went back to the dagger that the Ghost Lady had given to Michael. Perhaps like his spear, the dagger was magical. Trevor felt that a dagger that gives strength would be much better than a collapsible spear. He realized it was covetousness, and found himself dwelling on it even more.
“Michael, who is the Ghost Lady?”
“Her name? Diana. I told you that already.”
“No, I mean who is she that she has these things,” said Trevor, gesturing towards the spear.
“She is one of the Veteranii. She fought in the wars on the Outside. The great armies are disbanded and scattered throughout many villages to help them fight in the Long Defeat.”
“So, she is like you,” ventured Trevor.
“In some ways. She is more powerful than me, even in her diminished state. I am of a different sort, a different time.”
Trevor looked at Michael quizzically. He had thought many things of him, but never powerful. “What do you mean?”
Michael grabbed his cane in the middle and carried it. “I may be old, but I still have fire in me.”
As the last golden light of day began to fade, Michael brought them to a hollow near the trail. The area was carpeted with pine needles, which partially obscured the seldom-used fire ring. Not too far off, a little spring wept just enough to fill the kettle.
After Trevor had cleaned around the ring, Michael began constructing a fire with a substantial bundle of kindling which he had collected while Trevor was busy. He sent Trevor out after as much big stuff as he could collect before dark fell.
Each foray took him farther away from camp, as he searched for sound pieces that were both big enough to last, and small enough to carry. His arms full, he started to turn, when he was caught in the gaze of two dark eyes not more than a dozen yards away. Crouched, half concealed behind the trunk of a fallen tree was a girl with wild hair and long, muscular limbs. Trevor felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
She growled when he caught her eye, and bristled. She stood a half-head taller than Trevor, who was not small by any account. She wore simple hide clothing, and had a stone hatchet gripped in her hand. She shouted something menacing and guttural as Trevor fumbled frantically for the spear. She scoffed, then sprang through some thick brush and vanished.
Trevor told Michael what he had seen when he got back to camp. “Trolls,” he said, by way of explanation. “They haunt these mountains.”
“But I thought they were just stories,” said Trevor skeptically. The girl, though tall, did not look much like a troll to him.
“No, not just stories, and the stories don’t do them justice,” Michael replied. “They are sidhe like us, but of a different sort. You had better not stray far from the camp. They will leave you alone if you are with me.”
Trevor looked at Michael in awe. “You are friends with trolls? They are… ‘she’?”
“Sidhe. They are not exactly friends. The mountain folk are our rivals, and they do not love us, least of all me. Still, they know I come and visit the Dragon occasionally, and they let me be.”
Later, the flames danced among the branches as Trevor and Michael watched. From his bedroll, Trevor watched as the light made the creases in the older man’s face dance.
“Michael, what will it be like on the Outside?”
“Well, things are pretty easy here. Plenty of space, food, water. Outside, the path narrows for the likes of us, almost to vanishing. That is from the ghings. They make all paths narrow, except their own. They put out all fires, except their own. When you walk in their paths, you don’t know if you are walking along it or crossing it. When you are at their fire, they begrudge you the warmth.”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” Trevor complained.
“No, it doesn’t, but you will see things yourself soon enough.”
That night Trevor had a disturbing dream. Faceless soldiers from a ghing were searching for him. They spoke in guttural voices, like the troll girl. They were everywhere, and if he moved, they would find him. He hid in the bushes outside the Ghost Lady’s house.
Trevor smelled smoke, and saw flickering firelight behind the soldiers. Their black armor and glinting swords gleamed as they cast about for him. They would find him soon. An arm flashed into his hiding place, slamming him in the gut. He gasped awake to the ashen smell of the dying campfire and furtive noises in the night.