Troll Hunter's Apprentice

By Eliza Chambers

No one ever survives outside the village gates after dark.

Banished with nowhere else to go, Dag is sent to the troll hunter.

 

The land of Jotunheim is filled with deadly creatures, and a giant troll threatens to destroy his village.
Is the task too big for the son of a woodsman?

 

A thrilling coming of age fantasy. For those who love Norse mythology, legends, and lore, you need to read this kingdom saving adventure.

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Time Glider Books, LLC
• Release date: Sep 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393515043

Book preview

1

Dagmar Thorston paid no attention to the coming of night. His mind set on his task, he gathered another stick and tossed it on his sled. The trees mocked him, their bare branches open to the icy winds.

Silence wrapped around him as he walked soundlessly across the bare patches of needle-carpeted earth. On the other side of the tree grove, a thick blanket of snow covered the land.

But here, the trees towered above, so enormous that one alone, standing in the middle of the forest, could provide enough firewood for an entire family for the winter. These trees were older than the generations of people who lived in Goodalir.

Dag searched for more loose limbs. He hated this backbreaking chore, almost as much as he hated Da.

Inside his pocket, his fingers slipped over the pence he earned from delivering wood to the village residents. His mouth watered for the hot loaf of bread they’d have for supper, and if Dag was lucky enough to catch the butcher before he closed his shop, a few meat scraps for Ma’s frying pan.

His eyes trailed up the trunk of a massive oak, peering past the low branches and up at the sky. This one reached for the stars. Not quite, but its highest branch appeared to have a star sitting at the tip of the limb.

At one point in his life, Da would have told Dag this was a special tree — a wishing tree. He’d heft Dag up into his arms and gaze at its splendor, but those days were long gone. The only thing Da hefted these days came in a pint from Shanks’ Tavern.

Dag snapped a twig beneath his foot and tossed it on his sled. He paused and listened.

Almost twilight, he held his breath and looked again at the darkening horizon.

Time to go. No one in the village dared to tarry beyond the gates after dark. A shiver slipped down Dag’s spine.

Quickly, he secured the ties on the top rails around the bundle of twigs. It would have to be enough to keep the woodstove burning through the night. He slipped his hatchet in his belt and turned his sled in the direction of home.

Da had also once told him the forest never sleeps. It’s always alive. It’s always dangerous.

While Dag didn’t fear the dark, his blood still turned cold and his fingers locked around the bar in an urgency to go. A tree moaned, and a tall black shadow stretched over him.

Trees swayed apart, cutting a path through the middle of the forest. A cold brisk wind rushed past him like a breath against his neck, whispering, "Run."

A tree bent forward. Snapped. Its roots tore from the earth as it came crashing down. Other trees groaned, tilting toward him.

Shoving hard, he took off.

His heart pounding.

Dag dug his feet deeper into the frozen ground for leverage.

Harder and harder, he pushed until the sled took off, sliding in its previous tracks. He had made so many trips from the edge of the village fortress to the woods he had left a trail in the snow.

One foot on the runner, he glided toward the village gates. Faster, he clung to the driver bar, leaning to keep the sled riding on the icy grooves.

He could see the edge of a watchtower. Its dim light glowed like a beacon in the night.

Glancing back, he scanned the forest and gave the sled another shove forward. He ran with both feet crunching through the protective layer of ice on the snow. The sled bounced on and off the tracks as he headed for the village.

A long dark shadow stretched up ahead of him under the glare of the dying sun while an icy wind froze his lungs and shortened his breath. Dag’s ears tuned to the sounds from behind him. Beneath him, the ground trembled. His feet slipped as he lurched through the snow.

There, ahead, he spotted the village gates.

Tripping, his sled tilted and crashed on its side. Dag’s chin smacked the icy earth. Stars burst in his vision before going blacker than night.

In the distance, a toll of bells vibrated through the stillness.

Slowly, Dag opened his eyes.

Deep hues of night and dark clouds passed over him. He trembled, unsure if the earth had moved beneath him or the cold, seeping and twitching deep in his bones. He got to his feet, rubbed his chin. Dag winced at the pain lacing up his jaw, amazed his teeth seemed intact. With great effort, he heaved his sled upright. Peering out over the distance between the forest and the village, he tried to ignore the nausea rising in his belly.

There at the edge, a shadow — dark, black as ink — stained the snow.

Bracing against the harsh winds, he shoved his sled forward, keeping on the grooved path that would lead him to the gates of the old queen’s fortress. The ache in his jaw complained far less than the pounding of his heart.

Large stone walls, over four men tall, surrounded the village. Once the summer retreat of King Guttorm and his lady love, the old fortress named after Queen Rayna had long ago become the settling place for the people of Jotunheim.

Seeing the gates closed, Dag gave the bell-rope a frantic tug near the gatehouse. Carl, the patrol guard, stuck his head out from above. The gates are closed.

Dag rubbed his chin, felt a scrap of frozen blood on it. Leave me in, will you?

Thought you’d be at Shanks’ fetching that father of yours by now, Carl shouted down.

I fell on the ice. Pain laced up through his jaw as he tried to shout. Please, I’ve got a load of wood for Ma. He turned so Carl could see his sled.

The gatekeeper shone a lantern down on him. You know the rules, lad. No one allowed inside after dark.

Dag gritted his teeth and winced. A tree fell. Did you see it?

Ja. That I did and more. Carl’s face remained unchanged in the glow of the lantern.

I’ll bring your wife a cutting in the morning if you let me in.

Dag waited. After a moment’s pause, Carl said, I’m sorry, lad. The rules be what they are. The gates be closed until first light.

A sick feeling slithered down into Dag’s belly. I’ll bring you two cuttings!

Dag jumped up, swiping at the lantern Carl pulled back into the tower, leaving him standing outside the gates in the dark of night. Three!

A howling wind blew against him.

I’ll fill your box until winter’s end! A wave of nausea caused his body to flush and grow sweaty. Let me in!

Dag hugged himself, taking deep breaths and willing his trembling limbs to hold steady. You’d let me out in the night to die?

Huddled against the wooden gate, his teeth chattered from the cold catching the sweat of him and turning it to ice. He slammed his shoulder against the gate.

He gave the metal a hard kick, but the gate didn’t budge. The heel of his foot, like his shoulder, smarted from the impact.

Ma and his younger brothers were counting on him to bring wood for the fire. He needed to fetch Da and bring him home.

By morning, it wouldn’t matter.

No one ever survived beyond the gates at night.

Swallowing the bile rising in his throat, Dag took one last look up at the gatehouse. He wouldn’t be like Da. Even with a bit of fear trembling in his limbs, he took hold of his sled, ready to slam the gate with all his might, when a hand grabbed him by the shoulder.

2

Dag hadn’t heard the snow crunch behind him when a hand laid down on his shoulder. His heart skipped a beat.

I wouldn’t if I were du.

A cut of the moon illuminated the sky. Dag glanced over his shoulder at the hooded figure. The old man’s cloak billowed behind him as he dropped a sack at his feet and used a sword as a cane.

I have to get back in.

Inches apart, the stranger peered at Dag from under his hood. Du won’t be finding it through those gates.

We are to stay out here and die?

The old man patted Dag’s shoulder before he turned to leave. Du, perhaps, but not I.

There has to be a way back inside.

The old-timer turned back. Don’t count on it. Might as well follow me. Unless, that is, du came out here looking for du death.

A gust of bitter cold wind billowed the back of the old-timer’s cloak. Dag peered back at the gates.

Bring du sled of wood. The light will help keep the devil’s spawn at bay. The old-timer picked up his sack and motioned for Dag to follow. Come, they grow bolder as the night gets longer.

In the shadows of night, Dag caught a glimpse of the hilt of the old-timer’s sword. It bore the symbol of the king’s guard.

He pushed his sled, careful to avoid the holes, and followed the old-timer. Beneath the snow-covered ground, giant sinkholes and piles of black rock from inside the village mines winked at him in the moonlight.

Dag followed the old knight around the fortress walls until they came to the south end of the village fortress. A piece of the old tower still stood against the wall. Shards of large rock, scattered and buried in the snow, glinted under the peaking moon.

The old-timer laid down his sack in the snow beside the stone tower.

There is no way in there. Dag left his sled and leaned against the crumbled pieces of rock scattered at the base.

Look again. The old knight stepped out of the moonlight to show Dag the spot. Push the stone, here.

He did as the old knight instructed. Cold seeped through the barrier of his clothes, his fingers gone numb.

Nothing is ever as it seems. The old knight grunted. Push.

Dag dug his boots in the snow and pushed, and several of the stones fell inside, creating an opening wide enough for a man to slip through.

Grab some sticks for the fire. Then du can help me put these stones back.

My sled ...

Will keep until the sunlight kisses the land, the old knight said.

Not sure if he could trust the old knight, Dag kept his eye on the opening while he loosened the ties on his sled and gathered a bundle of wood. He jumped as an owl screeched in the night and hurried inside the tower. A lantern sparked, and dim light cast shadows up a stone stairwell.

It won’t take you far. They never rebuilt it after the attack and moved the gates to the north side. Fools.

You mean after the great war between the Jotun and King Guttorm?

The old knight snorted. A suicide mission. Guttorm’s greed will lead to the death of us all.

Dag dumped the wood in a circle of old ash and glanced about the enclosure. A wooden bowl, a few pots, and a shield from one of the king’s knights sat upon the stairs leading to nowhere. For a fleeting moment, he had hoped this would lead to a way back inside the fortress walls.

Help me get these stones back in place. We don’t want any unexpected company. The old knight motioned for him to put back the stones.

Are you one of the king’s guards?

Ja. Once. The old-timer grumbled. Forty years, I served the king.

Dag crouched down and started to stack the sticks to light a fire. Then, why are you here?

Abandoned me. Ha. No good because I’m old. Ha. Someone’s got to guard this place. Don’t think they won’t come back. They will! The old knight’s sword clattered on the stone floor. Slowly, Dag reached out and took the heavy weapon by the hilt. His fingers brushed over the symbol of a sun and cross on the handle. Standing it back up for the old knight, Dag waited for the old knight to snatch it back.

For as long as Dag could remember, curfews and laws forbade the residents of Goodalir from wandering outside the village walls after dark. With winter having the least daylight hours of the two seasons, the Goodalirian people became more trapped than free to roam the land of their king.

Outside, the wind blasted the tower and the timbers groaned. Dag grabbed another stick for the fire.

Let me show du a trick about building a good fire.

Dag watched the old knight grab some black rocks piled in the far corner. He knocked away some of Dag’s sticks and placed the stones inside the stack. Keeps the fire burning longer and hotter.

Rocks?

Ja. Black as rot and softer than any other stone. A hidden fortune below ground, and what do they do with it? Toss it out. Fools. Du got this and du got a weapon. He held it up and shook it in Dag’s face. There is only one way to survive on a night like this. The old knight tossed the rock in with the rest. He clicked his two bits of flint to make a spark. Du’ll see. These stones will protect us. They know better than to mess with ole Jedrus.

While grateful for a safe place to wait out the night, Dag couldn’t stop thinking about Ma and his brothers. She would fret over him not coming home. Would they stay warm enough in their blankets tonight? He couldn’t say no to the spinster Robinson down in the old stone mill who promised him a small sack of flour this spring for a stack of wood from his sled.

Later, with the fire crackling and warm, Jedrus pushed back his hood. Deep shadows fell into the creases on the old man’s forehead, and tufts of white hair stood up over his head. How old are du, lad?

Old enough, Dag said, sitting near the fire.

Du should be apprenticed by now. Jedrus pulled out a knife and a dead hare by the hindquarters from his sack.

What makes you think I’m not?

Jedrus grunted. Collecting wood from the forest is no trade. Du be man-years, it be a trade du needing if du survive long enough.

Dag’s stomach sank. He watched the old knight gut the hare and skin its hide. I’m a woodsman. You said it yourself.

Jedrus didn’t look up from his task. Ja. The son of the woodsman. But has he taught you the secrets of the forest? Or to carve the wood? Jedrus pointed his knife toward Dag.

That he had not. Bitterness rose in his throat, and he pushed it down. Da left him. Abandoned him in the forest, shoved beneath an upside-down wood cart, when he was only a few years of age.

And Dag remembered. He hadn’t forgotten. Nor had he forgotten the strong arms or the soothing voice that had carried him home.

If Angus Thorston had taught his son anything, it was not to be like him. Where his father’s footsteps stopped, Dag filled in his own.

Dag’s body betrayed him at the scent of the roasted hare as it made his mouth water. Tired, his belly cramped with the want of food. Jedrus talked of bridges, battles, and the devil’s spawn infecting the land. Not much of it made any sense to Dag.

Curled up close to the fire, he felt the heat pressing against his chest and breaking up the cold inside his body.

Stay close to the fire. Always safe where there is light. Jedrus wrapped his cloak tighter.

Thoughts of the fresh-baked bread he’d take to his family in the morning, and a full belly, sated him. His limbs, like his eyelids, felt heavy.

Jedrus’ whistled tune rose and echoed into the hollowness of the tower.

3

At dawn, Dag slid himself out of the old knight’s shelter. Jedrus snored beneath his cloak, and Dag poked the fire hot and left more kindling before he took his sled across the scarred ice. Not long after the village gates swung open, Dag gave the gatekeeper a nod as he passed through. Carl watched, his frown unmistakable.

Inside, several merchants stood out front of their tiny shops with long straw brooms to push away the snow left behind from the night. Dag kept to the cleared path, avoiding the horses and sleds trotting down the road.

Anxious to get home, he parked his sled near the baker’s shop. He could smell the warm yeast of wheat from way down the streets. Puffs of smoke streamed from the shops, swirling into the tinged pink skies of morning.

Standing in line to await his turn, Dag noticed a girl in a dark cloak in front of him. Long strands of her blonde hair blew out from beneath her hood. She caught him looking at her and smiled. Good morning.

Morning. He stepped up beside her and gazed at the window. The baker’s son, Aaron, slid a tray of hot buns into view. Steam rose up and fogged the window. She placed her palm against it.

You have no gloves.