Far to the north, hidden amidst the blue mountains that rise to pierce the spring skies, on a rutted dirt road, a thin and grimy teenager wearing a tight homespun wool jacket is on his way home. Over his shoulders sits a stout wooden yoke carrying two large empty brown buckets that are swinging lightly with his brisk strides.

Long dark shadows stretched out before him urging him on, warning him of the impending nightfall. As he walked, Ruferto Basaretti turned at his waist causing the long arms of the yoke to swing in a wide arc. Squinting through his unruly mop of thick dark brown hair he measured the waning position of the sun. In under an hour, the sun would drop behind the imposing mountain ranges surrounding the remote, valley where he lived. Once the sun dipped down out of sight behind the peaks, he would have no more than thirty minutes before it turned dark.

High above him, a blanket of slate-gray clouds was blocking the sky all but for the westernmost edge of the valley. Those in the valley called such nights, with no stars or the moon to give light, tripping nights, and most chose to stay indoors and shut their doors tight.

There were other reasons for Ruferto to hurry home. It was early spring; when the sunset, the temperatures would drop below freezing. Those without shelter or fire didn’t survive.

Passing the side road leading to Haraldsholm Farm, the teenager smiled. He would make it home in time to pay his rent to Mr. Baggs and bring his cow in from the field before settling in for the night. His chickens would take care of themselves. His cow had eaten most of the winter stores of hay lining the walls of the small hayshed they shared, revealing large holes in the walls near the floor. These openings allowed his chickens to come and go as they pleased. As the night grew colder, they would make their way back in to join him to roost for the night. He doubted they felt any bonds to the drafty old shed, but they did understand that a cow gave off a great deal of heat.

Ruferto picked up his pace. In about fifteen minutes he would gain the last hill on the road before making it home. And like every rent day for the last two years, he would see his stout and jowly landlord Mr. Baggs standing next to the gates with his arms crossed, his face pinched, red, and sour. Seeing him, he would wade forward with his palm outstretched demanding his rent. Like a dour human gate, he would bar his entrance to the farm, until he carefully checked each coin.

[Several pages later]

Clearing the last hill in the road that led to his home Ruferto noticed something was wrong. The split rail fence that lined Mr. Baggs’ farm was down, smashed to splinters in several places and the cows and sheep were nowhere to be seen. He hadn’t seen any of them wandering along the roadside. Stopping on the worn and rutted trail, Ruferto scanned the mountainside and fields for signs of fallen boulders. There was no sign of any fallen rocks or even an avalanche further up the sharp slope. He bent forward to examine the ground by the fence and saw large sections of roughed-up grass and soil where possibly strong spring gusts had come through. Something just didn’t seem right. The fact that Mr. Baggs wasn’t there was the most troubling part. He never missed rent day.

With his yoke and buckets bouncing wildly, Ruferto ran up to his old homestead. The front door was open, so he called in, but Mr. Baggs did not answer. Going in was against “the rules” so Ruferto stayed outside waiting for a few seconds before running around back to find that the privy’s door was open enough to reveal that his landlord was not there. Nearby it, more of the sections of the fencing were crushed into kindling. There was not a cow or sheep in sight.

Loping down the narrow path that led to his home, he hopped the steppingstones across the narrow stream and crested the last hillock. Coming to an abrupt stop, he stared in amazement to see his shed wasn’t there at all. All that remained to show his hayshed had been there was a rectangle of grassless black dirt, some clumps of thatching, and a few odd broken bits of wood lying about. The old winter-bare maple that stood next to the shed was knocked over revealing the tangle of its roots. All around the brown grass ground surrounding the spot was scuffed up. Had swirling spring winds done all this?

Stunned Ruferto realized that the large churned-up sections were actually huge footprints. He stared unbelievingly. They were just too big to get one’s mind around.

Trolls? Are those troll’s footprints? Had trolls come into Nöstervalley? The horror of every kid’s nightmare might be somewhere nearby. He stood there on the path with his yoke and buckets still suspended across his shoulders. He was transfixed trying to figure out what he should do. Should he find Mr. Baggs or run to town? What if it wasn’t trolls? He would look foolish calling out the alarm if it was just a freak windstorm.

Off to the left and in the distance Ruferto saw movement. From behind the pine-lined grove and the deep ravine that lay behind where his shed once stood, a gigantic figure moved up and into view. Its sheer size struck Ruferto like a physical blow; it was twenty, maybe twenty-five feet tall. Transfixed by fright and disbelief, he stood staring at the creature. His vision blurred around the edges as he continued to gape in fear. This was a troll.

It looked like an ancient mossy oak tree that had grown into the shape of an enormous blocky man. It had a long bulbous nose, a large mouth full of greenish teeth, and pointy ears. This thing shouldn’t exist, but there it stood vigorously scratching its enormous head as it stepped out of the ravine. That is when Ruferto noticed his squashed shed home was easily tucked under its tree trunk-sized arm.

Ruferto stood perfectly still like a rabbit does when they are surprised out in the open. He wanted to run, but his legs just wouldn’t move. His heart was beating faster than it did after a running race at the summer fairs. He was one of the fastest runners in Nöstervalley, but now he felt like he was stuck in clay up to his knees.

If that wasn’t bad enough, a second troll lumbered up over the hill and growled at the other one, “Grask, none left. Youse eat all! Me get four only!”

“Tash, quiet you up now. Me smell sumting.” The first troll lifted up his hideous face, opened his mouth slipping his purplish spotty tongue out like someone gagging; his large nostrils flared, and his long lumpy nose moved about smelling the spring breezes.

The second troll made the same stinky face as they continued to sniff the air. For some reason, they couldn’t see Ruferto although he was standing seventy yards away.

The two buckets that hung from Ruferto’s wooden yoke started to move in lazy circles in the light wind. He prayed that they didn’t see him as he tried not to move.

Ruferto’s mind was racing even though his body refused to respond to his commands. He had to get out of there! He had to survive. His thoughts came in short, quick bursts. Sweat began running in streams down his neck and sides. He immediately thought about his dagger and then immediately discounted it. His dagger was short and of poor quality and it was prone to bending. The metal was too soft to keep much of an edge for long and he doubted that it would be able to cut into their thick, tough-looking hides. If he was so unfortunate to get that close, the most he could hope for is a chance to stab at their tonsils and tongue when they ate him.

The trolls’ towering presence made his heart pound even harder. As his fear grew, his vision started blurring even more. Panic was taking over and normal thinking was getting harder. All he wanted to do was run and get far, far away.

The trolls started moving in the direction towards Ruferto, each step swallowing yards. Like a thunderclap, the immobilizing fear burst from him and his legs came unstuck. With a quick twist and ducking move, Ruferto dumped his yoke and buckets with a clatter on the rocky path. At a full-out run, he darted off to the south towards the woods that climbed up the mountain behind his home. He couldn’t run down the road, they would catch him too easily, and worse, the road would lead them directly to other farms and ultimately to the town. He needed to lead them away up into the forests and rocks laden mountainsides and hope to lose them there.

A deep, earthmoving growl came from behind him. A whoosh of wood and faded brown thatch flew past, narrowly missing his head. Ruferto’s house crashed just in front of him and shattered sending splinters flying in all directions. He winced and dodged to the right as flying wood chips and dirt stung his face. Ruferto was dumbstruck; a troll just threw his shed at him!

Dodging back and forth in random patterns like an upset chicken, Ruferto ran hoping not to give the trolls another easy shot at him. The last of his logical thought fled and some deep inner animal inside him took over. He scrambled over and around the large stones as he ran up the mountainside. A whistling sound passed his head as his yoke and buckets slammed into a tree just missing him. Another burst of energy took over and he ran on.

Read excerpts from Prophecies and other Problems - Book Two
Read excerpts from Dark Elf Danger - Book Three

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