My guess is I’m not hunting Unferth, I’m hunting Unferth-pretending-to-be-a-troll, so it’s troll-sign I should look for: broken tree limbs, flattened underbrush, stone, or fire. There’s nothing at the edges of the parking lot, though I walk the perimeter twice and slowly. I head for the creek, because he said they need water.
It’s a quick hike over rough forested land, cold and dim from the heavy evergreens pressing all around. But there’s no snow and the frost is thin, melting in patches so I can’t even tell if he came this way. Birds trill at odd intervals and everything smells of crisp ice and tangy evergreen sap. I can’t help smiling, despite the heavy shield and awkward troll-spear I have to wedge in the crook of my elbow so my whole arm carries the weight instead of only hand and wrist.
The creek is wide enough I couldn’t leap across without the spear to use as a pole. There’s no sign of Unferth here, but I head downstream, deciding the creek might widen or spill into a larger body of water, where either a troll could hide or there might be a deposit of glacier boulders or other exposed stone.
I go quietly now, knowing that though the sun is high, the oldest trolls could be awake in this pockmarked shade. Unferth said the adolescents can’t take sunlight filtered through cloud cover and when they calcify they look like rough-cut marble statues of themselves. But the strongest, and the troll mothers, not only can move slowly through morning or evening light; they can force their calcification into bulky, nonspecific shapes and truly huddle like boulders.
The banks of the creek grow steeper. The trees lean around me. Heavy clouds roll over the sky and it grows dark, but my eyes adjust to the variations of shadow. I keep them up on the trees, searching for a swath of broken branches, and finally see a row of baby trees cracked halfway up their trunks as if something quite huge shoved through.
I pull myself up the bank with a wrist-thick root to where there was a small fire. The smell hangs lonely around it. I hover my hand over the ashes, but there’s no residual heat: it’s been out for a while. Scouring the area, I find a print hidden half under the weeping feathers of grass. It’s nearly circular, with deep gouges where the claws would be, impressed into the ground litter. I settle for a moment, leaning on the troll-spear, and drink some water. Eat a handful of nut mix. Then I take off at a jog, going parallel to the creek but up on the bank. The spear knocks against my shoulder, and the round-shield rubs the small of my back.
In perhaps another half kilometer I burst out through a layer of trees and nearly fall headlong into a meter-deep gully. With a tiny cry, I catch myself on the rough trunk of a tree and hold tight, entirely winded and heart pounding. A flatter stream, more like runoff from rain, spreads beneath me, reflecting the gray cloudy sunlight. The mud clearly displays troll footprints.
Sliding haphazardly down the bank, my boots crack through a thin layer of ice and sink into a layer of slimy mud. I inspect the prints. They’re two hand spans across, but I see the tread of Unferth’s boots in them. He must’ve stamped out these vaguely troll-shaped tracks. I laugh a little.
The tracks lead away from the creek.
Ice begins to fall from the sky, hissing against the bare branches and thick umbrellas of pine needles. I hook the shield off my back and lift it over my head to keep ice out of my eyes as I follow this uphill path marked only by crushed and slightly disturbed undergrowth. My arms tire quickly and I’m huffing before long.
Once or twice I worry I’ve lost the trail, and I stop. I close my eyes and listen. I breathe deeply through my nose, trying to smell smoke or the sweetness Unferth insists is the greater mountain troll scent. There’s only the dull moan of wind and hiss of snow. I press on, both times finding sign again: first an uprooted baby tree, and second, three fresh gouges in a reddish trunk that are too perfect to be made by actual claws.
I come to a meadow and wince away from the white glare of sunlight on ice and snow. Tucking against a tree until my vision adjusts, I realize there are rocks here, large ones on the opposite edge of the meadow, where the land cuts up sharply into a short mountain. A perfect place for troll-Unferth to hide.
But there’s nothing to see besides gray and white and dismal yellow deadfall. I start across and something hard hits my shoulder.
Spinning, tearing the shield down before me, I fall into a ready stance, knees bent, and I slam the butt of the thick troll-spear into the frozen grass and brace it with the sole of my boot just as Ned Unferth throws his body against me. The blunt tip dents the huge leather cushion he’s got strapped to his torso, but he rolls and shoves into the shaft with a yell. I stumble, and swing the spear around in a fast arc to hit his shoulder. He retaliates with a hard punch to my ribs with weighted mitts that turn his fists into hammers.
They make him slower, but his punch knocks the breath out of me.
Cold wind burns down my throat as I gasp for air. Ned charges sluggishly forward, like the very trolls he’s teaching me to fight, and raises both fists up for a heavy blow.
I scuttle back, dropping everything, and head for the boulders. He gives chase, laughing out a guttural roar like the challenging cry of a real greater mountain troll. I run full out, hitting the tallest boulder hard, and scramble up onto it. Unferth can’t follow me with his troll gear. I stand and yell wordlessly. He glares up at me with his colorless eyes, opens his mouth to chastise me, no doubt for escaping, when I bend my knees and smile.
He only has time to realize what I’m doing before I launch myself down at him.
We slam together into the meadow.
All the leather cushioning and Ned keep me safe, but I roll off him fast before he can get a good grip. He doesn’t move.
I spread out my arms and pant, sweat tingling at my hairline. Tiny pellets of snow prick my cheeks, melting down the hot skin. “Does that … count … as a win?” I gasp after a moment.
There’s no immediate response besides his own labored breathing, and if I had the energy, I’d crow with triumph.
“You took your time getting here,” he eventually grumbles.
Rolling, I slap my hand against his stomach, forgetting about the leather cushion. He smiles as I cradle my smarting fingers. “It was well-enough done, little raven,” he admits. “Much longer and we’d have been snowed out. But you did let down your guard.”
“You said find me, not beware of sudden attacks.”
“More the fool, you.”
I climb to my feet and stare down at him. “Can you stand in that? You look like a beached walrus.”
His head is tiny as a pin over the wide, scuffed leather cushion tied around him. He strips off the gloves and unties the heavy ropes securing the cushion. When he stands, it falls off around him like he’s shedding a shell. His shirt sticks to his stomach and shoulders, molding into the shape of his muscles like a shellac. He puts his hand on the back of my neck, his fingers freezing against my hot skin. I shiver but return his victorious grin.
Like we’re teammates, or partners, Unferth tugs me under his arm, against his side, and clasps me there. I put my arm around his back, hand tentative on his hip, and we face back the way we came. Side by side. His shoulders lift and fall as he sighs with absolute satisfaction.