The Warsworn Trilogy: The Warsworn

By Ben Hale

Forged for combat, the rock trolls have no equal. They train from birth, endure brutal conditioning, and mark their skin with every kill. They have become the very flesh of war, but their history of honor has been forgotten. Now a bounty has been issued, one which calls for the extermination of their race. To survive they must awaken to what they have lost, before their enemies begin to gather.

 

Born in the midst of a bloody conflict, Tryton bears a heart of peace. His talent will command respect, but his nature is the true weapon. To wield it he must rise to lead them all—without sacrificing his soul. The fate of his people lies with him, but the seeds of destruction have already been sown.

 

And the harvest has come.

 

 

This omnibus edition of The Warsworn Trilogy contains The Flesh of War, The Age of War, and The Heart of War.  

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ben Hale
• Release date: Mar 14, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224307708

Book preview

Chapter 1: First Rite

ANCHORING THE CENTER of the rock troll army, King Utoric swung his double-bladed axe into the orc line. Their leather armor split beneath the blow and the weapon cut into flesh. The orcs gurgled as they sank to the ground, and Utoric stepped over their corpses to engage another group. He released a rumbling snarl as he advanced.

Desperate to escape, the orcs and gnomes shoved and trampled each other as they fled down the canyon. Hundred-foot walls rose on either side as they sought an exit, but there was none. Utoric had lured the orc army into the depths of the Fractured Plains, and now he used the terrain itself as a weapon.

As if a great mallet had struck the earth, the desert lay cracked and open. Plunging canyons marred the landscape like twisting scars, curving in a labyrinth of dead ends, winding alleys, and sharp corners.

A side canyon appeared in the gloom ahead. The orcs rushed to it, but their cries of relief turned to dismay when more trolls blocked the way. Appearing from the myriad of side paths, other trolls closed off the orcs’ retreat, forcing them into a box canyon with no egress. Trapped, the orcs and gnomes shrieked in fear and turned on the trolls.

The clash of steel reverberated down the canyons and came back distorted, obscuring the screams of the dying. Wind howled as troll clerics sent miniature tornadoes churning through the orc line. Trolls pressed into the gap, widening the breach and plunging into the horde.

Utoric led the charge, driving his great axe through orcs with brutal precision. Marked by the plumage on his helm, an orc chieftain stepped to the front and attempted to rally his force. Stepping over the bleeding dead, Utoric aimed for him.

Seeing him coming, the orc swung his sword. Utoric bared his teeth in a snarl and caught the blade in his free hand. His thick skin split, but the dull blade could not penetrate far enough to draw blood. Ripping it free of the orc's grip, Utoric tossed it away. Then he caught the chieftain by the throat and lifted him into the air.

When will your kind learn! he bellowed into his face. You are rodents to be squashed and tossed to the dogs! Your sole purpose in life is to die by our hand!

Helpless and seconds from death, the orc flashed a bloody smile. Not anymore, troll.

Utoric brought him close to his face and sneered at him. You will always be a waste of flesh.

Instead of fear, the orc's eyes shone with an almost reverent fervor. The bounty has been issued, troll. This generation shall be your last.

With a savage twist Utoric snapped the orc’s neck and threw him to the ground, but the orc's eyes held his gaze. Even in death they appeared worshipful, causing him to frown. The orc's words had carried the echo of truth, but Utoric could not fathom their meaning. Issuing a grunt of irritation, he returned his attention to the battle.

The other trolls roared, shattering the orcs' resolve and sending them into a knot of shrieking flesh. Crushed by the struggling bodies, the gnome leaders frantically sought to rally their dwindling force. The rock trolls drove into the writhing mob and slaughtered them where they stood.

Although they outnumbered the trolls by ten to one, the orcs could not use their numbers in the packed confines of the canyon. They had garbed themselves in rough-forged armor of mixed metals, their breastplates and helmets adorned with fur, feathers, and teeth, much of which had been dipped in blood to make them more fearsome.

At nine feet in height and layered in muscle, the trolls towered over the stocky orcs. Their hair was black, matching the color of their eyes, while their features resembled the race of man. Tanned from thousands of hours in the desert, their skin appeared faintly cracked. As tough as hardened leather, their very flesh was armor.

Leaving the chest bare, the trolls wore belts with strips of leather that fell to their knees. Curving tattoos spiked across their upper bodies, marking every feat . . . and every kill. Unique to each troll, the Sundering created an armor of fear, causing even mighty foes to tremble.

Orcs and gnomes saw Utoric's thousands of kills and panicked, fleeing before his axe. He cut them down and relished the sound of his blade tearing through cartilage and bone. Packed shoulder to shoulder, the orcs could barely move. They squirmed and struggled to wield their stubby swords. In their haste they injured their own companions.

Utoric! a voice called, drawing his attention.

He spun on his feet, nearly beheading the young troll. To his credit the boy stood his ground and glared up at him. Tuul leapt to take Utoric's place in line as he stepped to the boy.

Sybrik, Utoric grunted in irritation. I warned you about joining the battle before you are of age.

Sybrik raised his chin. You gave orders to be summoned for the birth.

Utoric looked to the battlefield. In the few seconds that Sybrik had drawn his attention the rock trolls had pressed forward. There were still orcs to be killed, but the battle was over. Loath to leave it to the others, he hesitated. Then he recalled the oath he'd made to his sister.

Tuul, he shouted, make certain that one survives. Then he turned and joined Sybrik as they trod through the orc dead.

Why spare an orc? Sybrik asked.

The survivor will spread fear like a plague, Utoric grunted in response. Now where is Morana?

She was struck by a stray arrow, Sybrik said. She may not live through childbirth.

Utoric released a breath at the news. Morana and her son Sybrik were the last of his kin within the clan. If she died their bloodline would be threatened. To lose an entire lineage would be tragic, especially theirs. He hoped she would bear another son. Then he recalled Sybrik's tone when he had spoken.

You do not wish for a sibling?

Caught, Sybrik's eyes flashed dangerously. If the child is male, I will crush him.

Utoric glanced at his nephew. At seven years old Sybrik stood almost as tall as a human, and boasted the strength of a naifblade. His skill with a hammer had forced the Blademaster to elevate him three age groups. Many already thought that he would eventually assume the throne. For Sybrik to consider the babe a foe—before the child had even been born—demonstrated a penchant for vicious forethought.

You must wait until the infant grows, Utoric allowed. Then you may prove your strength.

They turned a corner in the canyon and found a healer rock troll kneeling beside Morana. A black arrow had penetrated her neck. Blood seeped from the wound and darkened her leather tunic. Her breathing was labored and her features were twisted in pain.

Amidst the stink of dead orcs, the healer had leaned Morana against the canyon wall. Still warm in the twilight, the wall reflected a torch nearby. Blood from the orcs splattered the wall, drying as their owners cooled on the ground.

It's nearly time, Drenuh said as Utoric approached.

Will she survive?

Drenuh shook her head. The shaft has done too much damage. Her willpower and my magic have kept her alive.

Utoric nodded. Morana had always been strong. Male rock trolls were rarely gifted with magic, while females frequently carried the power. Those without magic became soldiers like their male counterparts. Morana was one of the best warriors in the clan. His fists clenched at the manner of her dying.

He stepped to her side and knelt. A thousand orcs will die in your name.

She shook her head. My husband would not have wanted that. Nor would I.

The fool never did care for our ways, he said with a grunt.

Nor did I, she whispered, her statement ending in a hiss as another contraction assaulted her body.

He met her gaze, surprised by the truth in her voice. You said you did not agree with him.

If I had joined him in exile I would have left Sybrik alone, she said. My fear bound my tongue.

Trolls do not know fear, he said, but the reflexive reply caused her to shake her head.

We fear what we have become, killers without souls. Or do you not feel the regret?

Her treasonous words caused Drenuh to suck in her breath, but Utoric could not look away. His chest tightened with sadness as he recalled the regret he used to feel. He shook his head.

I have not forgotten, he murmured, his words barely reaching Morana's ears.

She smiled. I know you as a king, Utoric, but I would have liked to know you as a brother.

Utoric made to reply, but her face twisted in a grimace. Reluctantly he retreated to allow Drenuh space, and stepped to Sybrik's side. Although the boy tried to hide it, his face revealed his internal conflict. Trolls were taught early that death came in battle, and in another setting Utoric would have chastised the boy for caring about the loss. But Morana's words were too fresh in Utoric’s mind, so his rebuke went unvoiced.

In silence they listened as Morana's labored breathing continued to worsen, until ultimately she sighed in relief. Then he listened for the child's cry that would herald its arrival.

It did not come.

The child is male, Drenuh announced. And healthy.

Utoric and Sybrik stepped to join her.

Why does he not cry out? Sybrik asked.

Then Utoric's gaze connected with the infant’s. Awake and alert, the baby stared at him with intelligent brown eyes, unflinching under the gaze of the rock troll king. Struck by the sense of calm about the infant, he reached out to it.

Wait, the healer warned. I have yet to complete the First Rite.

Use his mother's sword, Utoric said, and retrieved it himself.

Lifting the bloodied weapon from beside Morana, he placed the hilt into the hand of the infant. His tiny fingers curled around the hilt, gripping with a strength that belied his small form.

A troll's flesh is born for war, and feels a blade of such, Drenuh intoned. Before breast or sleep, a blade is this child's first touch. By his blood does he take his First Rite, to join his people with a weapon in hand.

She drew a dagger from her side and pricked his finger, allowing the infant's blood to touch the hilt still stained by his mother's blood. Utoric looked to the baby, but once again he did not cry.

What shall be his name? the healer asked, and turned to the dying Morana.

Her eyes fluttered open. He does not cry out, she said weakly, so he shall be named after the blade of his father, Tryton.

You would name him after a weapon? Sybrik's voice filled with anger.

A strand of compassion pulled on Utoric's heart. I will allow it.

It is not permitted!

Utoric struck him, sending him to the ground. The blade does not speak against its master, he growled. It is a lesson you would do well to learn, Sybrik.

Sybrik forced himself to his feet and glared at him. Then he stalked away. In the ensuing quiet Morana spoke.

My eldest is full of pride, she whispered. I fear it will be his undoing.

Utoric knelt at her side. We are trolls, Morana. Our pride comes from our prowess. Sybrik will be one of legend.

Perhaps, Morana allowed, but I sense a unique spirit in this babe.

I as well, Utoric said with an approving smile. I wager he will be like his father.

Morana smiled as her eyes closed. That would please me.

He clasped her hand. You have served the clan well, Morana. You die with honor.

Her smile softened, and then her body relaxed. Utoric stared at her body, the battle and Tryton momentarily forgotten. He released a held breath, struck by the sense of sadness that overcame him.

Walk with Ero, he whispered.

Then he stood and strode away. As he left Drenuh called to him.

No mother has a child at this time, she said. We cannot wean him at another's breast.

Give him to the Blademaster to raise, Utoric said, and turned toward the battle. Perhaps there were still orcs to be slain.

But he is not strong enough to eat on his own! she protested.

Utoric answered without pausing. Then he is not strong enough to live!

Part I

Whelp

Chapter 2: Whelp

THE BLADEMASTER FED Tryton for a week on mashed lurnit root and kull milk. Against all odds the infant survived until another troll gave birth, allowing him the chance to receive the sustenance his body craved. He and his milk sister, Salina, were weaned together at the end of their first year. Then they began their training.

Tryton's first conscious thought was of fatigue and pain. He learned to walk with a blunted sword in his hand. It accompanied him to his uncomfortable rock bed. It was strapped to his fingers during the endless hours of practice. It even remained his companion during meal times.

Battle offers no time to eat like a thin-skinned, the Blademaster said. Eat quickly or go hungry.

I tired, Ryphon complained.

The Blademaster struck him, sending him to the floor. Crouching over him, he growled at the whimpering child.

Whine again and I will have you crushing rocks until your fingers bleed.

Tryton bowed his head and shoved the food into his mouth as Ryphon resumed eating. Tryton did not understand why, but he knew the consequence of speaking back to the Blademaster. Disobedience, speaking out of turn, or any other infraction earned crushing rocks in the mine.

After the morning meal Tryton's group went straight to the training hall, making room for a group of older children to take their place. Once they stepped into the training hall they lined up in formation.

You are whelps, the Blademaster said, striding among the children. And will remain such until you are inked at the age of ten. Then you gain the title of naifblade and join us on the battlefield. If you survive to fifteen you will have the chance to forge your soulblade and become warsworn. We train for life . . .

To fight to the death, the children finished.

The Blademaster issued a grunt of satisfaction. Older whelps to the back. Younger whelps to the front. Bring your swords up and prepare yourselves.

Tryton shifted to the front and struggled to follow the Blademaster's naifblade trainers. His small body ached by the time a break was called. Following the meal they strode down a side corridor to the teaching hall. Tryton fought to keep his eyes open as warsworn Hogath droned on about blade types. When the lesson finally ended they trudged through the training hall and then to the smallest of the sleeping chambers.

Arranged in a horseshoe configuration, the sleeping chambers all faced the training room at the center. Meal and teaching rooms were situated on the two ends of the arch. Several hundred whelps rotated through the chambers like weapons through a forge, each becoming a lethal instrument of combat. None were allowed to leave.

The days blended into a single memory of striking the other whelps and fending their attacks with weak parries. Naifblades assisted the Blademaster in his training of the children, often by demonstration. Tryton watched the older youths and admired their strength and grace, but most of all he envied them. They were allowed to go outside, to see the sun and the sky.

Each day he rose from his bed of stone and ate a meal of vegetables and seared kull meat. Then he joined the other whelps of their clan. His entire world was bound by the confines of the three caverns and ruled by the Blademaster, Geranaut.

Huge and forbidding, Geranaut's body was covered in scars and tattoos. Twisted flesh bent his face into a grotesque testament of his encounter with a tigron. The tigron had taken his eye. Geranaut had taken its life. A few years later an orc battle had damaged Geranaut's arm beyond repair, forcing him to give up his staff weapon for a sword. Even without his chosen weapon he was a legend among trollkind, and his Sundering demanded respect. Like most of his peers, Tryton's first words were addressed to him.

Yes, Blademaster, he said.

Towering over him, Geranaut nodded in approval. Widen your stance and you won't go down as easily. Do it again.

He did, and got better. The next day he did not fall down, or the next. Occasionally he saw adult trolls, but they mostly came to observe. Tryton stared at them in fascination. Over nine feet in height and corded with muscle, the adults moved with a fluidity that implied years of training. The males kept their black hair cropped short to their heads, while many of the females allowed theirs to grow long. Underneath their unique Sunderings, their skin appeared as worn leather, hardened and faintly cracked.

Sometimes the warsworn told stories in the teaching hall. Tryton listened to their tales of battle with rapt attention, curious about the outside world. At night he listened to his age whelps whisper.

Do dwarves really eat rocks? Salina asked, her voice full of wonder.

Of course, Ryphon said. What else would they eat?

Tryton smiled in the dark. Ryphon was the oldest and largest of their group, and liked to pretend he knew everything.

You have the head of a Kull, Orlana said, causing Drea to giggle. They eat as we do.

They aren't monsters, Drea agreed.

A grunt of irritation came from Ryphon's bed, but Arkon spoke first. I think they live differently than we do.

His twin, Alkon, snorted. I've heard them talk about clans and families.

What's a family? Salina asked.

Solus shifted in his bed. I heard a human in the mine talk about his. He spoke of his mother and father. It sounded like he was raised by them.

They are not taught by a Blademaster, Ryphon said. It's why they are weak.

His bravado carried a trace of falsehood that prompted Tryton to speak.

I would like a family, Tryton said.

He rarely spoke, so his comment caused the others to fall silent. Then Solus grunted his impatience when Tryton did not elaborate.

Why?

Because I want there to be more, Tryton said.

More of what? Salina asked, her tone curious.

Tryton shifted in his bed until he could see the outline of her form. Aside from Solus, Salina was the closest to his age, but there was an innocence about her that set her apart from the other whelps. Tryton shrugged, and then recalled she could not see him.

I don't know, Tryton finally replied. I just want . . . more.

No one spoke, and Tryton took their silence to mean they felt the same. The next morning they did not speak of the conversation, but the sidelong looks Tryton received implied the others continued to ponder it.  

When they finished eating, they were ushered into the teaching hall. Shelves containing hundreds of books lined the walls, leaving space for the whelps to sit on the floor. The instructors varied by day, and ranged from grizzled warsworn to clerics with healing and wind magics.

Drenuh strode into the room and ignored the disappointment on many faces. Warsworn told tales of war, clerics taught from the books. In spite of that Tryton liked her. Unlike the other teachers, she spoke with a quietness that somehow silenced the room as much as a shout. Drawing a book from a shelf, she strode to the single chair and motioned the whelps to sit on the floor. Knowing well the consequence of disobedience, the whelps sat without a word.

Many of the other races think us uneducated, Drenuh began. But the opposite is true. By the time you are naifblades you will read and write better than many humans, and you will know more about their history than their own people do. Knowledge will be your greatest weapon.

For the next hour she detailed the armor types of various races. Examples were brought out to show them, and Tryton looked upon them in wonder. Then one of the five-year whelps rotated his palm face up, indicating he had a question. Drenuh motioned him to speak.

Why do the other races wear armor while we do not?

They must, Drenuh replied. Their skin is so thin even the sun damages it. By the time you are a naifblade your flesh will be strong enough to deflect most weapons. However, it is your Sundering that will truly protect you. She motioned to a naifblade at the rear of the room.

You all know Sybrik from your training, Drenuh said as the boy moved to stand next to her. He has been a naifblade for just over a year, yet he already has numerous kills. The ones on his right arm prove he is strong enough to defeat skilled warriors, while the ones on his left arm prove he does not hesitate to slay the weak. The volume of kills on his chest indicates that many standard foes have fallen to him. The four on his face reveal that even the mighty have fallen to his hammer.

She paused and her gaze swept the group. A troll's character and skill can be seen at a glance, but that is not what our foes see. The Sundering creates an armor of fear that will terrify even the valiant. I have seen mounted knights tremble at the sight of a troll's Sundering. They know that if they fail, their legacy will be an indelible mark on our flesh.

Their fear makes them weak, Sybrik added. The king's Sundering has even caused orcs to lose their bowels.

A murmur swept the group until Drenuh's look of disapproval silenced them. That is enough, Sybrik. You may return to your post.

His lips tightened at her tone, but he obediently returned to his previous position. As she continued the lesson, Tryton's thoughts were drawn to the people she described. The way she talked about the outside made him yearn to see it. Following the lesson they returned to the training hall to find that different types of armor had been placed on figures of stone that resembled the different races.

Strike until they break, the Blademaster said. You may sleep when one has broken before you.

The older whelps had clearly had the lesson before, and destroyed their targets with relative ease. Tryton looked up at the armored stone human and swung his sword with all his strength. With each blow he tried to imagine the man as an evil monster.

You strike with precision, the Blademaster said from behind him, but not with strength.

I am small.

The Blademaster grunted in amusement at Tryton's innocent reply. Your strength will come. Strike here. He placed a finger on the heart. The leather will split, even for you.

Tryton struck hard, leaving a shallow opening in the material. At the Blademaster's prompting he did it again, and again. When it did split he was almost surprised.

Even a whelp may kill a man, the Blademaster said. Their flesh is weak and their hearts are fragile.

Tryton thought of the conversation with his age whelps and turned to meet the Blademaster's gaze. Why do we hurt them? Are their families dangerous to us?

An uncomfortable silence passed as the Blademaster stared down at him. You will understand when you are older, he said. Don't ask again.

Tryton's gaze fell. Yes, Blademaster.

Confused and uncertain, he stabbed at the armor until it gave way. Then he stared at the bare stone chest visible through the broken armor. Only when he heard the heavy footfalls of the approaching Blademaster did he stab at the rock. Bits of stone chipped away under the blows until the Blademaster spoke.

You may return to your bed, whelp.

Without a word Tryton turned and left. Reaching the stone bed he called his own, he reclined on the rock. The minutes ticked by as his other age whelps entered and collapsed into slumber. Overpowering his pain and fatigue, a strange ache in his chest held him awake.

Chapter 3: Dwarf

HIS FIRST PUNISHMENT came for continuing to ask why. His wooden sword was taken and a hammer was strapped to his hand. Then a naifblade led him out of the whelp caverns. Tryton peered at his surroundings with interest as he was guided up a curving corridor.

Metal brackets held strange balls of light near the ceiling, illuminating the hallways and the few occupants. A pair of naifblades strolled by, arguing about the forge, while a towering warsworn hurried past them.

The doors on either side were made of stone and cunningly fastened to the wall in order to swing open and shut. None were open, but he imagined other whelp caverns like the one he trained in. He felt a flicker of hope that he would get to see the sky as they continued to ascend—but his hope evaporated when they turned into an arched opening.

The new corridor wound deeper until it ended at another arch. Guarded by a pair of young warsworn with small Sunderings, the threshold opened onto a platform overlooking a sprawling underground mine.

Light cascaded through a series of large holes in the ceiling of the cavern. The beams of illumination were hazy with dust, but filled the gigantic cavern with sufficient light to work. White orbs burned in the darker corners, further lighting the space. The walls were knobby and rough, and veined in different ores. White, blue, gold, and other colors sparkled in curving patterns within the rock.

Hundreds of figures smashed hammers into the stone, the din echoing off the curved cavern walls. Tryton peered through the gloom—and his eyes widened as he realized the workers were not trolls. Identifying them from the books shown in the teaching hall, he saw humans, dwarves, orcs, gnomes, goblins, and others.

As the naifblade led him down a curving path, Tryton stole glances at the other races, awed by their presence. Lathered in sweat from their work, they looked down upon him with forbidding expressions. That's when he saw the shackles.

Confusion crashed over him and he pulled on the naifblade's arm. Why are they chained?

They're porgrin, the naifblade said and pulled his arm free. When Tryton stared at him with a blank expression he added, They're slaves from battle.

Why—

Have you no smarts? the naifblade snapped. "Asking why is what got you punished in the first place. He shoved Tryton to a pile of rocks. You must learn to obey, whelp, or you are only fit to do the work of a porgrin."

For the rest of the day Tryton crushed rocks into a fine powder intended for building fortifications. Afraid to raise his eyes to the naifblade, he cast surreptitious glances at the slaves around him.

Dwarves, humans, and orcs comprised the bulk of the porgrin. A pair of elves pushed a mine cart, while a handful of the dark-skinned azüre worked nearby. Goblins were also numerous, their spindly forms used more to carry and transport the ore. Hunched by the weight he carried, one met Tryton's gaze with a sneer on his face.

Unable to withstand the accusation in the goblin's gaze, Tryton turned to his work. Lifting the hammer again, he brought it down on the chunk of rock, shattering it into smaller pieces. Separating the sand from the pebbles, he placed each into the appropriate pile and then grasped another rock. His shoulders and body ached but he did not stop.

Many times he looked to the columns of light coming from the surface. It was the first time Tryton had seen sunlight, and he yearned to see what it would look like on top. During training he'd caught whispers from the older students of how their lands appeared. Their words and the lessons in the teaching hall detailed the region surrounding their home.

Their clan of rock trolls made their home in Astaroth, a natural tower of stone that stood in the northern deserts near the center of the Fractured Plains. The orcs lived to the west of the plains, and beyond them were the dwarven mountains. North of Astaroth the ground rose into a swath of foothills and was home to the sand trolls, lesser cousins of the rock trolls. The other rock troll clan, Blackrune, made their home on the northern border of the Fractured Plains.

East of Astaroth, their territory extended to a river just beyond the edge of the Fractured Plains. On the other side of the river lay the unclaimed lands, an area infested with goblins, giants, and vicious beasts. During the summer months the goblins moved into the mountains in search of game. Nomadic and quarrelsome by nature, they frequently warred with the trolls.

The southern edge of the Fractured Plains abutted the great Blue Lake, a monstrous body of water that held the islands of Azüre, home of the dark-skinned humans. Known for fishing and warring, their ships sailed the entire north of the Blue Lake

Tryton watched the porgrin, imagining them in their native lands until after dusk.  His thoughts were interrupted when the light became insufficient to work. Wiping sweat from his brow, he paused to watch a cleric ignite spheres of light throughout the mine. The moment signaled a halt among the porgrin, who put their tools down and gathered around rough hewn tables.

Tryton ate his evening meal with the slaves. He wished he could speak with them, but their sullen silence quelled that urge. After the meal he returned to work until the naifblade released him.

That's enough, whelp, the older youth said.

His mind a haze of fatigue, Tryton looked down at his blistered and bloodied hands. He allowed the older student to remove his hammer and re-strap his sword. Then Tryton was led back to his sleeping room. His fingers and back aching, he stared at the ceiling and thought of the question that had led to his punishment. In spite of the brutal labor, the question persisted.

Why do we fear them?

The Blademaster had rounded on him, his expression furious. Rock trolls do not know fear, whelp.

But we train to kill them. If we are not afraid, why do we kill them?

The question had gone unanswered, and Tryton's punishment had merely made him more curious. The only thing he'd learned was not to ask. As he fell asleep he resolved to find out from another source. The next morning he asked Salina at breakfast.

Why do we train? he whispered to her.

She looked up from her meal. The Blademaster says it is who we are.

But why? Tryton asked, curiosity burning in his voice. Why must we fight the other races?

Perhaps to defend our own lives, she said. Or would you let them kill us?

His eyes dropped to the cut on her face. The red lines curved across her cheek, inflicted by Ryphon during a duel. Bruises darkened one eye and covered her arm, some going yellow while others were still purple. Beneath it all he saw an innocence that had somehow survived the Blademaster's training. A desire to protect her suddenly filled him.

I don't want to see you hurt, Tryton said.

She smiled. Then teach me. Your skill surpasses my own.

Stand with me during training, he said. I will aid where I can.

Her smile widened and she nodded. Then a naifblade walked by and they bent to finish the meal. Afterward they spent the bulk of the training side by side, allowing Tryton the chance to help her. By the end of the week she had already improved, and Tryton's desire to protect her only grew.

He felt better helping Salina but his question remained. Shortly after the blisters from his first punishment healed he asked a naifblade. Again he was sent to crush rocks. As Tryton repeatedly raised the hammer he realized that crushing rocks was not merely a punishment, but also a tool meant to build up his strength and harden his hands. Unlike the others Tryton did not loath the task, for it provided a glimpse of life outside of Astaroth.

The more he was punished the easier it became. The sensation of the hammer grinding on his palms faded, leaving only satisfaction as rock crumbled under his blows. The older students set to watch over him were frequently bored and paid little attention to him. On one such occasion, Tryton took advantage of the opportunity to talk to a dwarf nearby.

What is your name? Tryton asked.

The dwarf blinked in surprise, but did not stop swinging his pickaxe. He responded with a derisive grunt before drifting away. Several days later Tryton forgot a technique and was punished. Again he was placed near the dwarf. Now at age five, Tryton was deemed old enough to work without constant supervision. The naifblade set to watch over him left after a few minutes to practice between piles of rock and a mining cart.

What's your name? Tryton asked.

The dwarf cast him an irritated look. Your kind doesn't talk to us.

Why?

You think we're not worthy foes, he said.

What makes a foe worthy?

The dwarf paused in his work to stare at Tryton and a rumble of amusement escaped his throat. You're a curious one, I'll give you that.

With both hands Tryton swung his hammer into the rock, and then set the tool down to move the pebbles aside, grateful that weapons were no longer strapped to his hand. The calluses remained. After a moment, the dwarf responded.

Your kind thinks a worthy foe is one capable of killing them.

And you aren't?

Anger clouded the dwarf’s expression, but the earnestness in Tryton's query diffused it. No one is a match for your kind, boy.

Tryton pondered that for most of the morning. After the midday meal, he waited until he'd been left alone to ask again.

What's your name?

Urthin, came the reply, and the name was accompanied by a slight grin.

Tryton, he returned.

As if the small revelation had stretched the conversation to the limit, they worked in silence for a while. Throughout the afternoon Tryton studied him. The slivers of grey in his beard marked him as older, but Tryton resisted the urge to ask his age. The dwarf stood shorter than a human, so Tryton didn't have to crane his neck to meet the dwarf's eyes.

How long have you been here? Tryton then asked.

Twelve years, the dwarf said. He hefted a large chunk of ore and tossing it aside. And you?

After a moment's thought Tryton realized Urthin was asking how old he was. Five, Tryton replied.

The dwarf issued a rumbling laugh. You speak well for a child.

Tryton didn't respond, struck by how easy the dwarf was to talk to. In two minutes with the dwarf he had said more than in an entire day with his peers. Troubled with that realization, he crushed several rocks before he spoke again.

Why are you here?

I surrendered, Urthin said. Everyone knows what happens when you fight the rock trolls. You either win, die, or surrender—and we don't win often. Surrendering means twenty years of slavery.

The dwarf's gruff accent intrigued Tryton, and he wondered what the dwarf's own language sounded like. It was apparent that the dwarf's humor had not faded in captivity, nor had his physical stature.

Stocky and broad, the dwarf was dressed in a simple leather jerkin and spun trousers. In spite of being imprisoned and shackled he remained strong, implying a sturdy diet. Tryton could see no significant scars from his imprisonment.

Will you be released after your time?

The dwarf stopped and his grey eyes studied Tryton. If I survive, yes.

What do you mean?

We aren't here to work the mine.

I don't understand.

The dwarf stared at him, his expression inscrutable. You'll see when you're older, boy.

He drifted away, leaving Tryton to stare after him. Confused, Tryton returned his attention to the rocks. Long after the columns of light had gone dark, the naifblade led him back to his sleeping quarters. That night Tryton stared at the ceiling as if it contained the answer he sought. The snores of his age whelps echoed softly around the small chamber, reverberating like accusing statements.

We are trolls.

This is who we are.

Killing is in our blood.

Then Geranaut's voice replaced theirs.

Become the flesh of war, whelp. It is your birthright.

The grizzled warrior had repeated the phrase many times, frequently after a shameful defeat. Tryton had often wondered what he meant. This time another thought crossed his mind.

Did he really wish to find out?

Chapter 4: United

THE MONTHS BECAME YEARS, and Tryton’s group moved into the sixth year cavern, vacating space for a younger group of eleven whelps. Tryton took nothing but the clothes he wore. Even his sword remained behind for the smaller trolls.

Tryton barely had time to place his two changes of clothes into a small trunk before he was ushered into the training hall. Aside from the transfer of sleeping quarters, little changed in their routine.

Tryton and Salina remained inseparable as Tryton continued to teach her. Although she was the smallest, her skill surpassed the other girls’ and rivaled the twins’. Noticing their unity, the Blademaster tried to separate them, forcing them to duel others. Whenever he turned away they slipped back to fight each other.

The Blademaster kept trying, and after placing Salina with Alkon she was struck hard in the head. Knocked to the floor, she began to cry. Alkon was praised for his skill while Salina was chastised for weakness. Her weapon was taken and her hand was strapped to a hammer.

Two days of crushing rocks will remind you to endure pain without complaint, the Blademaster said as he towered over the whimpering girl.

It was the longest punishment any had received, and Tryton took a step to defend her. Noticing his movement, she met his gaze and shook her head. Then she raised her chin and followed a naifblade from the hall.

A seething anger filled Tryton as he looked at the Blademaster, and he felt the urge to shout at him. Surprised by the desire, he tried to identify the emotion. Then the Blademaster turned to find him staring. His eyes narrowed.

Do you have something to say, whelp?

She did not deserve that.

The words escaped his lips before he could stop them. Although quiet, they caused the roomful of whelps to halt their duels. The Blademaster’s gaze sparked with anger and humor.

Do you wish to join her?

Tryton ignored the question. You say we are the flesh of war. Is that all we are?

The training hall had gone deathly quiet, and now anger overpowered any humor in the Blademaster's gaze.

She's a warrior, whelp, he growled. Not your sister.

In an instant the seething anger in his chest clarified. That was exactly the way he saw her. Ignoring the warning in the Blademaster's voice, he shook his head.

You are wrong, he said. "She is my family."

Shock blossomed on the faces of the older whelps and the younger ones gasped. His features twisted in fury, Geranaut stalked toward him. Tryton held his ground in the face of the Blademaster's wrath—but Geranaut's features did not convey the fury he expected. Instead Geranaut stared at him with a strange expression.

Four days, he said, and motioned a naifblade to take him from the room.

Without a word Tryton fell into step beside him. His expression frozen in disbelief, the naifblade took his sword and gave him a hammer. Then he led Tryton from the room. Once they were in the hall the naifblade turned to him.

You must have lost your wits, whelp. I've never seen anyone defy the Blademaster like that—and from the quiet one, no less.

He is not infallible.

The naifblade snorted. Perhaps, but no whelp has had the courage to say it. Even warsworn show him deference. Why did you do it?

Tryton remained silent until the naifblade shrugged and turned away. It's your death to give, he cast over his shoulder.

They came to the mine and Tryton was placed near Salina. The naifblades over them soon drifted to an open area to duel. Shortly after they left, Salina cast him a look.

I warned you not to intervene.

I know.

So why did you?

He stopped to look at her. Because you are my family. Saying it again caused him to smile.

How can you say that? she said, her eyes wide. We are not born of the same lineage.

Our family has been taken from us, he replied, so I would choose my own.

A naifblade shouted at them to get to work. Once his attention had returned to his duel, Salina whispered to Tryton.

You have always been my brother, Tryton.

His smile lasted the rest of the day. During the evening meal he spotted Salina slide food towards a young goblin. The goblin looked up in fear, then snatched the gift and retreated into the shadows. A softness played across Salina's features as she ate what remained. Tryton's smile softened, and he looked away before Salina noticed his scrutiny. For the first time he realized he no longer wanted more.

Then he caught Urthin staring at him. The dwarf appeared puzzled as their eyes met. Tryton could not have explained if he wanted to. All he knew was that for the first time in his life, he felt whole. When his four days of punishment finally ended he returned to his training, but the feeling persisted.

And it began to change the others.

Shortly after they turned seven their training shifted. Their time listening to lessons all but disappeared while their time with weapons tripled. They were also given individual time where they were allowed to train or practice as they desired. Tryton and Salina took advantage of the time to teach each other.

Tryton taught her what he had observed, speaking more than he ever had. In turn, she shared what she had learned. They put the new techniques to the test on each other, but the duels frequently ended in smiles and stifled laughter. All of the whelps took notice, but Solus approached first.

May I join you? Solus asked, his voice tentative.

Tryton nodded, and they made room for him. From then on he joined them during the personal hour, and he too began to change. Many days ended with them whispering to each other late into the night, and smiles often lightened their expressions.

The twins came next, and shortly after Drea and Orlana as well. After several months even Ryphon slipped into their group. The older whelps looked upon their age with a mixture of scorn and irritation, but Tryton caught a note of yearning in their eyes. They belittled their age group at meal time and when the Blademaster wasn't looking, but the comments only served to knit them together. And Geranaut took notice.

He did not speak on it, but his gaze lingered on Tryton and his friends throughout the daily training. Many times Tryton expected the Blademaster to separate them, but he did not.

You are whelps, he said for the thousandth time. But your time to feel a real blade approaches. You must be ready. When you are warsworn your training will be entirely your own. Use the individual hour wisely, for it reflects how you will train as an adult.

Tryton's heart filled with hope when Geranaut left, and he imagined training every day with Salina and the others. He turned to find Solus at his side, his expression revealing he felt the same.

Tryton raised the stubby length of wood, the motion one of invitation. Solus grinned as he stepped in to strike. Tryton blocked the blow and retreated. Their motions conveyed a sense of coordination that belied their youth. After years of daily practice they had learned how to stand, parry, and attack. Bruises were common on their flesh, which had yet to harden. Then Solus interrupted Tryton’s thoughts with a deceptive twist.

The blow struck Tryton's shoulder painfully, driving him back. He grunted, more in annoyance than pain, and retaliated. For several seconds they fought with the fury of youth until Tryton returned the bruise.

The older whelps think us dimwitted, Solus said as he rubbed his own shoulder. Then he grinned.

They do not understand, Tryton said quietly.

Driving at Solus, he glided past the hasty strike and caught Solus's wrist with his free hand. On instinct Solus attempted to wrench his hand free—and Tryton let go. Solus tumbled onto his back. Gliding forward, Tryton kicked Solus's grip, sending his opponent’s weapon sliding away. Then he placed his weapon against Solus's neck.

The sudden defeat stunned Solus. Where did you learn that? he asked.

Tryton opened his mouth to respond but Geranaut's chuckle caused them both to turn. Tryton's lips tightened at the oversight. He had not heard the Blademaster re-enter the room. Tryton retreated, unwilling to reveal any more of himself.

You hide your true skill, little one, Geranaut said. I am impressed. Then his eyes flicked to the boy at his side. Will you do as well against Destrier? He motioned for the largest whelp in the hall to take Solus's place.

Tryton stood over four feet tall, but Destrier had three years of height and weight on him. The large boy offered a malicious grin as he glided into the center of the chamber and raised his steel sword. Tryton hesitated, but ultimately recognized he had no choice. He moved to face him.

Destrier didn't wait and surged into a sprint. Tryton sidestepped and brought his wooden blade up to block the anticipated strike. The impact nearly knocked his weapon from his hands and chipped a notch in his sword. Reminding himself of the strength of his foe, Tryton feigned a retreat. Eager to prove his superiority, Destrier followed.

As he took three steps back, Tryton examined him. Due to the disparity in size, the Blademaster had rarely placed them to spar. When he had, Geranaut had supervised. This time Tryton sensed a difference. The Blademaster stood with his arms folded, his expression inscrutable.

He intended to see a victor.

Distracted by the attention, Tryton nearly missed Destrier's next attack. At the last second he caught the steel blade and turned it aside with his own. Then he stood his ground as the larger boy unleashed a flurry of blows.

Destrier's strength far surpassed his own, so Tryton reverted to techniques that would negate that advantage. The older boy's swings were exactly what would be expected of a youth his age, and Tryton had no trouble blocking them once he was prepared.

Then he noticed Geranaut. The Blademaster's eyes were bright as he watched Destrier struggle to breach Tryton's defenses—and all at once Tryton realized what the duel would look like from his perspective.

The large whelp rained punishing blows upon Tryton, but Tryton glided out of reach with a fluid ease. He blocked with hardly a thought or effort, and made no effort to return the assault. Solus was talented, but had never forced Tryton to use the bulk of his skill. For the first time Geranaut was seeing Tryton perform close to his true ability.

The realization caused Tryton to hesitate. He was being trained to kill with supreme efficiency, and defeating Destrier now would mark him as one gifted for war. For the first time that he could recall, he acted impulsively.

Tryton stumbled, drawing a gasp from Salina. Destrier's blade slipped in and stabbed Tryton's gut, drawing a bead of blood. He winced at the injury. Taking advantage of the momentary lapse, Destrier pressed the attack. Fist and sword pummeled him, and Tryton allowed several to slip through. Then more.

Out of the corner of his eye he watched Geranaut's expression turn to puzzlement. Once Tryton was certain the Blademaster did not suspect him, he missed a block and clenched his jaw for the expected blow. The sword sliced deep into his shoulder, sending him to the floor. His vision flickered, and when it cleared he saw Geranaut nod in satisfaction.

You show promise, he said to Tryton, for a whelp. He signaled a healer to come and then he turned his gaze on Destrier. And you need to refine your balance. With your strength you should have defeated him in a fraction of the time.

Yes, Blademaster, Destrier said, and flashed a triumphant grin at Tryton.

Tryton quietly thanked the healer as his body healed. Then he rose to his feet, and at the Blademaster's orders, returned to Solus. Soon after, the Blademaster took an older class through a locked door. Tryton limped to their sleeping chamber to tend to the rest of his wounds. The others followed.

You could have bested him, Solus said the moment they were inside.

Tryton continued to dab at his bleeding cheek but Salina caught his arm, forcing Tryton to look at her.

Why didn't you beat him?

The earnestness in her gaze caused Tryton to speak. What would it prove?

That you are better, Arkon said as if it were obvious.

He's right, Alkon agreed. When we duel I sense a reserve in you. I hold nothing back—but you hold your own with hardly an effort. You clearly have a gift beyond any of us. Yet you hide it. Why?

Are you so ready for me to leave? he asked. If I had won, Geranaut would have removed me and placed me with an older class.

Orlana shook her head in disbelief. You would give up advancement for us?

Wouldn't you?

Tryton’s simple question caused them to look to each other. Then Solus released a breath.

Tryton speaks the truth. If we allow ourselves to be divided, we will be lost.

Do we have a choice? Alkon asked. He is the Blademaster.

Our choice is here, Salina said, and poked herself in the chest. I won't go back to the way the other whelps live.

Shorter than all of them, her challenging gaze was met by smiles and agreement.

Who can argue with our little sister? Drea asked with a grin, and put her arm around Salina.

He will test us again, Arkon warned.

A weapon made cannot be unmade, Alkon said, quoting Drenuh from the teaching hall.

Solus grinned at the statement. Then let's make certain we choose how we are made.

A knot of pride clogged Tryton's throat. Let nothing sever the bonds we have forged, he said. No matter the cost, we stand together.

They returned to their training even more united than before. It wasn't until he caught Geranaut staring at him that he had a disturbing thought. What if the Blademaster had planned it? As he met the Blademaster's gaze his doubt became certainty. But if Geranaut had acted with purpose, what was his intention?

And how would it impact his family?

Chapter 5: The Porgrin

A FEW WEEKS AFTER HIS duel with Destrier, Tryton awoke to find the Blademaster standing at the door. Tryton stood with the others as Geranaut entered their chamber. He strode among them, staring them down.

You have each proven your skill with a blunted blade, whelps. It's time your hands felt a proper weapon.

Yes, Blademaster, they replied together, and the sound carried a trace of excitement.

Geranaut nodded in satisfaction and led them from their room. Tryton was surprised to see the meal chamber empty, indicating that it was even earlier than usual. To his surprise Geranaut led them out of the whelp caverns. Passing the way to the mine, he continued to ascend the sloped corridor.

Tryton felt a chill as he crossed the threshold into Astaroth. Aside from going to the mine he had never left the whelp caverns. As Geranaut led them upward, he gazed upon his surroundings with interest. From the naifblades he knew their clan lived in a tower of stone. He had not known how large it was.

The corridors were vaulted and curved upward or downward. Chambers bordered either side of the hallway, their doors fashioned of wrought iron or steel. Many of them were open, allowing for a glimpse of private sleeping quarters and large training rooms.

The sleeping quarters were small, barely more than a bed and a weapon rack. Tryton occasionally caught a glimpse of a desk or a handful of books, but it was the weapons that drew the eye. The glittering blades of the warsworn elicited gasps from the whelps.

It quickly became apparent that training caverns were as numerous as private rooms. Even with the early hour, the training rooms were occupied with dueling trolls. They fought with single-minded ferocity and did not spare a glance at the wide-eyed whelps passing in the hall.

As Geranaut and the whelps ascended through Astaroth, the sleeping rooms and training halls gave way to larger chambers. From the few open doors it was clear they were occupied by trolls who had chosen to live together after being joined in marriage.

The corridor took on a more decorative air. Unlike the austere warsworn chambers, the upper chambers boasted polished shields and the weapons of fallen trolls. Bloodied and torn banners interspersed the weaponry, their sheer number suggesting thousands of distinct armies that had fallen before trollkind. Some were so faded that Tryton could not discern the pattern. Only the bloodstain on the bottom remained as a reminder of its bearer. Then they reached the summit of Astaroth.

For the first time in his life, Tryton stepped outside. Like his companions, he lifted his gaze skyward. They sucked in a collective breath at the starlit expanse. The sheer size of the sky inspired awe and wonder. As if welcoming them to the open the wind gusted, pressing on Tryton's skin. The touch caused him to shiver and smile. Then his gaze was drawn to his surroundings.

The summit of Astaroth had been carved into a massive courtyard with natural battlements. War machines and weapons of every type lined the walls, interspersed with huge shields and glittering helmets. Above the armory, trolls patrolled the top of the wall.

If you wish to see the sunrise, you should go to the battlements.

Tryton looked to the Blademaster, whose face twitched into a smile. Then he motioned to the wall that surrounded the summit. Hesitant at first, the whelps waited until he stabbed a finger at the stairs.

Ryphon took the lead, followed closely by the twins. Drea and Orlana were quick to follow. Solus and Tryton brought up the rear with Salina. They mounted the steps to reach the top of the wall. Standing as tall as he could, Tryton managed to see the outside world.  

Light touched the horizon, illuminating an uneven landscape. A massive pillar of natural rock, Astaroth towered over the desert below. Fingers of rock rose from the terrain like stone trunks from a long dead forest. Canyons, gulleys, and empty reservoirs gave the landscape a pockmarked and fractured look. Scrub trees and scattered cactuses had somehow found purchase to anchor their roots.

Tryton shielded his eyes when the light pierced the horizon, his heart stilled at the sight. The sun gradually climbed into view, turning the expanse into a labyrinth of shadows. Gold and blinding, the light conveyed a warmth that touched Tryton's skin—a physical presence that pressed against him. His flesh drew the warmth in as if it had never felt heat.

I've never seen such beauty, Salina breathed.

Nor I, Solus exclaimed.

The twins rumbled in agreement, and then Drea spoke, her voice full of awe. The world is bigger than I thought.

I can scarcely imagine so much space, Orlana said.

I wonder when we will leave Astaroth, Ryphon said.

You've seen enough, the Blademaster called, interrupting Drea's answer. It's time you felt a true weapon.

Tryton was the last to leave. Reluctantly, he followed the others down into the courtyard. While they had been occupied a handful of trolls had appeared. Several moved about the battlements while one worked on a ballista. Geranaut moved to the side where a long rack of weapons adorned the wall under an overhang.

Our minds may be our greatest weapon, he began, but it is what we carry that makes us lethal. In time you will forge your soulblade and become warsworn. For now, you must look within yourself to discover the weapon that best reflects your nature.

He took a step and picked up a two-handed hammer that appeared small in his hands. The maul is a frightening weapon, for it maims as much as it kills. Bones and bodies will shatter under your might. Surviving foes will forever fear you.

He put the maul down and picked up a long, curving axe. The axe is complicated and unwieldy, but in the hands of a master can be devastating. Whereas the hammer shatters, the axe rends in two, making it ideal for splitting shields and severing limbs.

Next he stepped to a staff weapon. As you have seen, wood is rare in the north, making staff weapons valuable. This shaft allows for excellent balance but is sheathed in steel to further strengthen it. As you can see, many of our staff weapons bear a blade on one or both ends. Trolls that wield a staff are experts at balance and movement, making them formidable against groups.

Last he picked up a longer version of the sword they had been practicing with, but in his hands it still appeared more like a dagger. With an expert twist he tossed it spinning into the air and caught it by the hilt.

Many of our kind regard the sword as the most rudimentary of weapons, but its simplicity hides a mastery that exceeds the others. For every axe or staff technique, there are hundreds with a sword. The sword is an elegant weapon, and in the hands of an expert it has no equal.

He returned the sword to the rack and gestured to the rest. Maces, fist weapons, or wind bows are all excellent tools to wage war, and unique in their own sphere. In the coming years you will learn to use them all—and how to defend against them. Regardless of the type of weapon you ultimately select, you will not use a sheath.

He removed the strap that carried his sword and held it aloft. Then he pointed to the stone fastened in the middle of the strap. As if bound by magic, his sword clung to the stone.

This is a lodestone, Geranaut said. It bonds to any metal, and will hold your weapon without a scabbard. From this day forth your blade will never be covered.

Returning his sword to his back, he picked up a smaller strap from a rack nearby. Then he caught up a hammer and held it close to the strap. As if drawn by magic, the metal hammer slapped onto the lodestone.

The lodestone is mined by the porgrin, he said, but it is our smiths that forge it.

Returning the hammer and strap, he moved to stand in front