The Rise and Fall of a Dragon King (Dark Sun: Chronicles of Athas 5)

"Can't talk. Doesn't know his name. Must be the village loon."

"Hungry, loon?"

Another voice, maybe a new one, maybe not. I heard the words as if they came from a great distance. A warm, moist clod struck my arm and landed in the dirt at my feet. My mind said stew-pot meat, but my heart said something else. More clods came my way, more laughter, too. I began to shiver uncontrollably.

"Clamp your maws!" a woman interrupted sharply.

Hard hands grasped my shoulders and spun me around. I lost my balance and leaned against the woman—the best of a sorry lot of humanity—I'd attacked with the rock. She was shorter than I, but numb and hopeless, I needed her strength.

"Dolts! Can't you guess? This was his village, his folk—"

"Why ain't he strung-out dead, like the rest of them?"

"He's the loon—"

"He ran off. Turned his yellow tail and ran."

I stiffened with rage, but the woman held me tight. Her eyes told me to be quiet.

"He got conked, that's what," she said, defending me.

Her hand brushed my hair. It was a gentle touch, but it awakened the pain both in my skull and in my heart. I flinched away with a gasp.

"Clipped him hard. He's lucky he's not dead or blind."

Lucky—the very last word I would have chosen, but it broke the spell that had bound my voice.

"My name is Manu," I told them. "This place was called Deche. It was my home until the trolls came this morning. Who are you? Why are you here? Why do you eat with the dead?"

I knew who they were by then. There was, truly, only one possibility: These were the soldiers of the Troll-Scorcher's army. They'd pursued their enemy—my enemy—back to the Kreegills.

"Where are the trolls? Have you avenged our deaths?"

There were more hoots and wails of laughter until an otherwise silent yellow-haired man got to his feet. The mockery died, but looking into this veteran's cold, hard eyes, I was not reassured.

"You ain't dead yet, farm boy, 'less you're tryin' to get yourself killed w' fancy words."

He had the air of leadership about him, just as my grandfather had had. The woman beside me had gone soft with fear. His stare lashed me like a whip. I was expected to fear him, too. And I did. I'd measured myself against the Troll-Scorcher's soldiers and knew myself to be less than the least of them in every way save one: I was cleverer. I could see them for what they were. They scorned me, so I stood tall. They mocked my speech, so I chose my words with extra care.

"I'll speak plainly: We farmers are told the-Troll-Scorcher's army swears an oath to uphold our race and pursue each and every troll to an unhallowed grave. I see how you uphold the folk of Deche; now show me the trolls in their unhallowed graves."

The yellow-haired man cocked his fist, but my clothes were stained with the blood of my kith and kin. While I met his stare with one of my own, he didn't dare strike me.

"Where are the trolls?" I demanded. "Have they returned to the plains? Have they ravished Corlane as they ravished Deche?" Corlane was another Kreegill village, somewhat higher in the valley. "Have they vanished into the mountains above us? I know their old places. I can take you to them."

Behind my eyes I saw the folk of Corlane not as I had known them, but as my own people were: mutilated, faceless, and bleeding. I felt nothing for them; I felt nothing at all, except the need for vengeance.

"You can slaughter them as they slaughtered Deche."

"Slaughter!" the yellow-haired man snorted. "Us? Us slaughtering trolls? Risking our lives for the likes of them... or you?"

There was a secret in his eyes. I saw that, and a challenge. He'd answer my questions if I had the guts, the gall

, to ask them, but he didn't think I'd survive the knowing. Perhaps, I wouldn't have if he hadn't tempered me, then and there, in his contempt.

"Why are you here?" I demanded, returning to my earlier questions. "Why do you feast with the dead as witnesses?

Why don't you hunt and slaughter the trolls who hunted and slaughtered us?"