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Authors: Matthew Reilly
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it, when he saw the view from the throne.
It took his breath away.
Beyond the jagged peaks of the nearby lesser mountains, he saw the landscape to the south: the Badlands, his own river valley, and beyond that, the vast southern sea, glimmering in the blue moonlight.
As he gazed out at the magnificent vista, he cursed the cruel trick of geography that allowed the trolls to keep a stranglehold over the valley tribes.
Raf had once asked one of the elders why the Northmen didn’t flee to the north of the mountains and escape the tyranny of the trolls.
The elder had smacked him over the head, hard. “Silly boy! Do you not pay attention when the traditional stories are told? As everyone knows, there are no habitable lands beyond the mountains. There are just more mountains, stretching away to the earth’s end.”
Recalling those words, Raf turned around and faced north, expecting to see an endless range of mount—
Wait a moment.
Raf frowned as he gazed northward.
From this vantage point, he could see beyond the jagged peaks of the mountain range, and what he saw shocked him.
The Black Mountains did not go on forever.
In fact, they ended quite abruptly only a short distance from Troll Mountain. And beyond the mountain peaks, Raf saw broad sweeping plains, rolling hills and grassy vales, stretching away to the north as far as the eye could see.
“There is more land out there …” Raf gasped. “The traditional stories were wrong …”
He wondered how the stories could have gotten it so wrong. Who had created them? And had anyone ever actually checked their accuracy? Or were they accepted simply because they were old and passed on by generations of elders?
Raf shook away these thoughts and returned to the mission at hand—he had to be off the mountain by dawn, before the sun removed the cover of darkness.
He grabbed one of the long banners hanging from the ceiling behind the throne and, moving nimbly hand over hand, scaled the banner and arrived at the rocky uppermost section of the mountain.
Peering upward, Raf spied the thick battlement ringing the summit.
Two guards patrolled it.
He could tell from their postures that they were idle, bored: they clearly didn’t believe any intruder could—or would even dare—get this high up the mountain.
Raf saw them stroll away, chatting, with their backs to him—and so he seized the opportunity and darted from cover, scampering up and over the battlement before quickly scaling the last twenty yards of rocky ground that led to the tower at the absolute summit of Troll Mountain: the Supreme Watchtower.
*
Of course, the Supreme Watchtower had no external doors on its brick-walled flanks. Access to it was only available from within.
But given it had once been a working watchtower, Raf guessed correctly that it would have a door up on the lookout platform at its peak.
No sentries patrolled that platform, since the watchtower was now only used to keep the wise old troll Vilnar imprisoned.
Raf flung his trusty rope up over the crenellations of the Supreme Watchtower’s parapet and, hanging from it, scaled the lofty tower with the peaks of all the neighboring mountains far below him.
At length, Raf slid over the crenellated platform and beheld a thick wooden door leading into the Supreme Watchtower.
With a final deep breath, Raf opened the door and stepped inside.
Chapter 16
Raf found himself in a small guardroom lit with candles: a room that had been converted into a laboratory.
Thick wooden benchtops were covered with jars, pots, and barrels, all of which were filled with bubbling, steaming liquids. On long shelves sat unruly clusters of flowers, fruits, and vegetables; garlic and onions hung from strings.
In the floor in the center of the guardroom was a wooden ladder that led to lower levels.
And in the midst of it all, snoring loudly, fast asleep in a chair, was a small wrinkled old troll.
*
Raf stared at the old troll in wonder.
He had never seen a
It took his breath away.
Beyond the jagged peaks of the nearby lesser mountains, he saw the landscape to the south: the Badlands, his own river valley, and beyond that, the vast southern sea, glimmering in the blue moonlight.
As he gazed out at the magnificent vista, he cursed the cruel trick of geography that allowed the trolls to keep a stranglehold over the valley tribes.
Raf had once asked one of the elders why the Northmen didn’t flee to the north of the mountains and escape the tyranny of the trolls.
The elder had smacked him over the head, hard. “Silly boy! Do you not pay attention when the traditional stories are told? As everyone knows, there are no habitable lands beyond the mountains. There are just more mountains, stretching away to the earth’s end.”
Recalling those words, Raf turned around and faced north, expecting to see an endless range of mount—
Wait a moment.
Raf frowned as he gazed northward.
From this vantage point, he could see beyond the jagged peaks of the mountain range, and what he saw shocked him.
The Black Mountains did not go on forever.
In fact, they ended quite abruptly only a short distance from Troll Mountain. And beyond the mountain peaks, Raf saw broad sweeping plains, rolling hills and grassy vales, stretching away to the north as far as the eye could see.
“There is more land out there …” Raf gasped. “The traditional stories were wrong …”
He wondered how the stories could have gotten it so wrong. Who had created them? And had anyone ever actually checked their accuracy? Or were they accepted simply because they were old and passed on by generations of elders?
Raf shook away these thoughts and returned to the mission at hand—he had to be off the mountain by dawn, before the sun removed the cover of darkness.
He grabbed one of the long banners hanging from the ceiling behind the throne and, moving nimbly hand over hand, scaled the banner and arrived at the rocky uppermost section of the mountain.
Peering upward, Raf spied the thick battlement ringing the summit.
Two guards patrolled it.
He could tell from their postures that they were idle, bored: they clearly didn’t believe any intruder could—or would even dare—get this high up the mountain.
Raf saw them stroll away, chatting, with their backs to him—and so he seized the opportunity and darted from cover, scampering up and over the battlement before quickly scaling the last twenty yards of rocky ground that led to the tower at the absolute summit of Troll Mountain: the Supreme Watchtower.
*
Of course, the Supreme Watchtower had no external doors on its brick-walled flanks. Access to it was only available from within.
But given it had once been a working watchtower, Raf guessed correctly that it would have a door up on the lookout platform at its peak.
No sentries patrolled that platform, since the watchtower was now only used to keep the wise old troll Vilnar imprisoned.
Raf flung his trusty rope up over the crenellations of the Supreme Watchtower’s parapet and, hanging from it, scaled the lofty tower with the peaks of all the neighboring mountains far below him.
At length, Raf slid over the crenellated platform and beheld a thick wooden door leading into the Supreme Watchtower.
With a final deep breath, Raf opened the door and stepped inside.
Chapter 16
Raf found himself in a small guardroom lit with candles: a room that had been converted into a laboratory.
Thick wooden benchtops were covered with jars, pots, and barrels, all of which were filled with bubbling, steaming liquids. On long shelves sat unruly clusters of flowers, fruits, and vegetables; garlic and onions hung from strings.
In the floor in the center of the guardroom was a wooden ladder that led to lower levels.
And in the midst of it all, snoring loudly, fast asleep in a chair, was a small wrinkled old troll.
*
Raf stared at the old troll in wonder.
He had never seen a
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