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troll like him. He was smaller than the others, shorter even than Raf was. And he had reedy arms and thin knock-knees. His nose was long and beaky, with several warts, and he had a long white beard on his chin and wild bushy eyebrows. A field troll.
    As Raf peered in wonderment, the troll snorted suddenly, making him jump.
    But it was well and truly asleep.
    Raf realized with a thrill that this was his chance: to steal the Elixir and get away from Troll Mountain unnoticed.
    If he could find the Elixir now and leave this tower without waking the old troll, he could be out of the mountains by morning and home with the cure within days.
    Moving slowly and carefully so as not to make the slightest sound, Raf went over to the laboratory’s benches, scanning them for the Elixir.
    There.
    Three small glass bottles stood on a table off to one side, all on their own, separated from the clutter of the rest of the room.
    They were all filled with the same amber liquid and each bottle was of far higher quality than any of the other vessels in the laboratory. Apart from the dry husks of several discarded lemons and limes beside them, the benchtop around the three bottles was empty. Clearly, these three bottles were special.
    Raf stood before them, gazing at the all-powerful Elixir.
    Damn the trolls, he thought. He’d take all three.
    He stepped forward, his foot landing on an ancient floorboard.
    It creaked …
    … and the old troll awoke mid-snore, snapping up, looking around in a muddle. “What—? Who—oh my—how did you get in here!”
    Raf stood erect, somehow finding nobility in being discovered. “I come from the valley you trolls keep under your thumb—”
    The little old troll ignored him, rushing past him to the door through which Raf had entered the tower.
    He crouched by the doorframe, looking down at the floor beside it. “You silly fool—!”
    “I seek the magic Elixir,” Raf said desperately. “My people are dying. Please do not raise the alarm …”
    The old troll turned, pointing to a mechanism in the floor by the door: a weighted rope plunged down into a hole in the floorstones there.
    “My young friend, I’m sorry to inform you that the alarm has already been raised.” He spoke far more eloquently than Düm or the guards did. “The Troll King keeps me prisoner here. I cannot even go outside for air without his knowing it. When you opened that door, a stone attached to this rope was released. It has already fallen down its hole and hit a bell in the guardroom below. The king’s guards already know something is amiss . They will be here any moment!”
    “No … no …” Raf’s mind was racing. “I can take you with me then,” he said quickly. “You are Vilnar, are you not? My name is Raf and I am a friend of Ko’s, the old hermit of the Badlands. He speaks highly of you.”
    The troll looked at him askance.
    “I do indeed know Ko. He is a fine and wise man. And you, young man, you scaled this guarded mountain to steal the Elixir for your people? And now you offer to release me from my confinement, even though I am a troll. What kind of hero are you?”
    “I’m no hero, I’m just—”
    “Nevertheless, you deserve something for your efforts, even if you are ultimately to end up in the king’s belly. If I cannot give you the Elixir, let me at least give you some knowledge: the Elixir is not magical. It is the result of much hard work, my hard work conducting experiments in this room.”
    Raf heard a door slam somewhere deep within the watchtower, followed by urgent shouts.
    His eyes shot to the door through which he had entered: he could get out that way, but he knew that he’d never get past the battlement that ringed the summit. The guards on it would be alerted by now.
    Vilnar grabbed Raf’s shirt and yanked his face to his own, right up to his wart-covered nose.
    “Young man, pay attention! The illness, it is not a curse or an omen or black magic. It comes from a lack of