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Chapter Twenty-six

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Toniz and his buddies lined the six humans face down on the lawn outside, hands clasped behind their heads. Looked uncomfortable.

Twenty trolls marched up and down and between ’em, continuin’ to growl. The din would have hurt an elf’s ears. Great Grandpa had told me a story when I was knee high to an elf, about the old wars, of tales aboundin’ about trolls and ogres eatin’ the brains of their fallen foe right out of their skulls. He got a big chuckle out of that. I never considered him sadistic, but that chortle was a little—evil.

Those were good stories, ones the giants didn’t even try to quell durin’ the time. Why would any army want to end a good story that put the fear of the gods in their enemy?

So watchin’ ’em shake on the brown grass, I wondered if those stories spun through their imaginations currently. I hope so.

A pair of EMTs worked to shuttle Nuel toward an ambulance, but one of Toniz’ buddies was insistin’ she identify the fool who had shot her. Meh. As far as I was concerned, they all shared the same guilt, for actions commanded by bigger fools seven-hundred miles north of where we stood.

But, okay. We can call it attempted murder and make an example of him, if the trolls wanted. They’re the experts in criminal justice after all, not me. But couldn’t it wait?

She pointed to the fellow, and with the rise in the troll rumble, the man vomited, then convulsed for some reason. That was a little scary. Watchin’ him writhe. Though I imagine listenin’ to trolls who are really angry with ya is a bit movin’.

With him layin’ there comatose, local constabulary began cuffin’ the others and cartin’ ’em away one at a time. I was interested to see what the trolls would do with the really sad guy.

“So ya had other plans?”

I turned around and took in Nuel. How was she still standin’? Why wasn’t she on a gurney? She was probably bein’ stubborn. Pale as new snow. Bags under her eyes. She had a lot of blood flowin’ down her front. Though most of it was dry, blackish. She’d seen better days. Not like I was gonna tell her that. I’m a fool, but not stupid. I reconsidered what she said. Didn’t sound like a real question. So I didn’t say anythin’.

“I was told,” she continued, “Ike was gonna let us stay here for a while, out of the way?”

That had to come from Toniz or one of his three buddies. I certainly didn’t tell anyone else. Why would they tell Nuel that? I was pressed, for some reason, to deny it. It would appear to put Ike in a bad light. But if I denied it, and she learned it was pretty much true—but hey. She already hates me. So I just shrugged, conflicted.

“Ya gonna explain why yar stuck speakin’ Trollish?”

I kept my expression as neutral as possible. In fact I didn’t have much to say to the hen on a good day. I’d had enough of her—meanness.

The EMTs again pressed her to move along with ’em. I hitched my head toward the ambulance, as a timid suggestion, hopin’ she’d leave me be. I’d had a tough few days too. We ogres like our sleep. Granted, I hadn’t been shot, yet. But I felt the need for a long nap.

She smiled. Not used to that, her smilin’ at me. She trudged along with the two local fellows.

~

Nuel

~

I wasn’t gonna second guess Ike’s willingness to leave us, held hostage. After all, he didn’t know I have a bullet in my chest. I guess leaders can’t pick favorites. Before he started a war, there was a preponderance of evidence that Ike preferred not to be entangled in a relationship anyway.

After bein’ rolled out of the place where they took a thousand painful x-rays, I found Darshee and Wizper hangin’ out in the hall waitin’ for me. They both started to speak at the same time, before they looked at each other. Silently, they must have decided Wizper should speak as they followed my gurney.

Outside an elevator, she said, “We don’t want ya movin’ North.”

That isn’t what I expected.

“Ya’re feelin’ like both of us have felt over the years. It’ll ease. Ya’ll get used to bein’ a close friend of the idjit’s.

I did not want to talk about Ike. Assumin’ they were talkin’ about Ike. Maybe my eyes welled.

“And we think ya’re doin’ good thin’s at OW. Know ya can be happy here.”

The elevator door opened and the troll in quirky pastel hospital scrubs rolled me in, the two hens hawin’ to get in next to me.

“Ya can make a good life here,” Wizper continued.

“We just need to get ya on two wheels,” Darshee added. That wasn’t somethin’ I expected either. Wasn’t gonna explain again why I did not like motorcycles. Pa lost a lot of skin slidin’ down the street once.

I tend to forget one of the things Ike and the hens have in common is motorcyclin’ across the continent.

I asked the troll where we were goin’. The ER was downstairs, and he pressed the up button.

“Ya’re on yar way to pre-op,” Wizper said. Maybe I looked at her oddly. She shrugged. “We heard ’em talkin’ downstairs.”

Darshee said, “They went out for some cement to mend yar clavicle and close up that divot ya got on the tippy tip of yar scapula.”

The troll laughed.

“Cement?” Had the two hens inspected my x-rays already for the doctors?

“Yar buddy Kriz did pretty good,” Darshee said.

My buddy? What mushrooms had she been snackin’ on?

That must have been all they could think of to say, because the elevator turned quiet. Up three floors, we rolled to double doors that they weren’t allowed to pass, and as I returned their waves, my eyes clouded with tears.

“We’ll be here,” Wizper said just before the doors swung closed.

I maybe sobbed a little. The troll rested a hand across my good shoulder before repeatin’ what’s probably common cliches as ya look forward to emergency surgery.