Jim Baen's Universe

Introducing: Stories by new authors

In the Light of the Hunger Moon

Written by Kevin J. Cheek

Illustrated by Kristina Gehrmann

Lorgash discovered the homestead when he made his way to the mountains to die. The buildings had not been there a couple of years before, and he wasn't sure what to make of them. A round hut, constructed in troll-manner, squatted near a barn that had the look of humans about it. A house built in a mixture of both styles sat across the clearing from them. The wind shifted and he heard the bleat of goats. Sets of tracks marred the snow between the house and the barn. One set vanished into the woods.

He rubbed his bulbous nose, feeling the freshly healed pockmarks. If this place belonged to trolls, he wouldn't risk bringing smallpox to them. If they were humans, he didn't care if they died from smallpox or not. But though they were small and weak, he'd seen several humans bring down a troll like wolves killing an elk. For a moment Lorgash considered knocking on the door and letting them do just that. But no: A troll might answer. Though such things were forgiven during the month of the Hunger Moon, he couldn't bear the thought of bringing smallpox to another family. And if humans lived here and caught smallpox, they could easily bring it to a troll village. It was better to end it where no one would find his body.

He kept to the woods, circling the homestead to pick up the trail again on the other side. Clumping snow fell about him, and he wondered if he'd have time to make a shelter before dark.

He was so lost in thought that he nearly stumbled over the boy. The child knelt, weeping silently beside a stump. His bared head revealed the small, close-set ears of a human. The boy looked up and gasped.

"No!" the boy said in Trollish. He scrambled away and leaped to his feet. "Smallpox! Get back!" He ran to the house, screaming in Norse.

Lorgash cursed. He drew his knife and ran after him.

The door of the house opened and the boy darted inside. Lorgash threw his weight against the door as it closed.

A woman, tall for a human, fell over backward onto the wooden floor. Wide-eyed, she scuttled away as Lorgash forced his way into the room.

"Smallpox," the woman said in Trollish. "We have smallpox."

"I've already had smallpox," Lorgash said.

The boy yelled in Norse and flung a pot. Lorgash batted it aside and lunged for him.

The child dove beneath a table beside the hearth.

The woman found her feet, picked up a broom and struck the troll across his back. "Leave him alone!"

Lorgash yanked the broom away. He grabbed the woman's arm, twisting it behind her. She dropped to her knees.

"How many are here?" He said.

"Just my son and I."

Lorgash looked around the sparsely furnished home. Joist timbers, set too low for a troll to walk without stooping, stretched from wall to wall. A cross hung over the mantel and a pot simmered over the fire. To one side was a curtained doorway. He gestured toward it. "What's in there?"

"My husband."

"You said only you and your son were here."

"He's dead. Smallpox."

"Show me." Lorgash yanked the woman to her feet and pushed her through the curtain.

There, on a low bed, lay what had been a man. Smallpox covered his face, so much so that Lorgash could barely tell it was a human corpse.

"Why is he unburied?"

"He died this same hour," the woman said. "We don't know if we can bury him—the ground is frozen and we are still weak." She turned her head toward Lorgash, and he noticed the fresh pockmark on her cheek.

Tears welled in the woman's eyes. Her long black hair fell back, revealing flared ears.

Lorgash released her and stared. "You're a troll."

"My mother was. Please: Don't hurt my son."

He put away his knife. "I'll bury your husband."

"But the ground's frozen," the woman said.

"I've had plenty of practice."

****

Lorgash waited while the woman and her son wept at the grave. It had taken a fire and a pick, but he'd managed it, digging the grave so that the foot was to the east, as the woman had asked. The boy set a cross made of lashed wood at the head of the mounded earth.

A blast of wind brought a fresh wave of snow. Trees only a few paces away were barely visible.

Lorgash shouldered his pack and walked to the grave. "I'll be going."

The woman looked up, snow clinging to her hair. "There's a blizzard coming."

"I'll manage," Lorgash said.

"You are welcome to stay with us until it passes," the woman said.

"Why?"

"It's the Christian thing."

Lorgash scowled.

A gust of wind shook the clearing. The firs swayed from the might of the storm. Lorgash looked at the sky. He could freeze to death where a troll might find him and bring the smallpox to yet another village. Besides, there was no reason to suffer from the cold before he ended it. Even a Christian's barn was better than no shelter at all. He nodded. "Only until it passes."

They returned to the cottage. The woman stirred the gruel while the boy set a platter of bread and three bowls on the table. He stared at Lorgash.

"My name is Domah," the woman said. "This is my son, Silas."

Domah: That was a respectable troll name, Lorgash thought. And Silas sounded much like the troll name Silak. "I'm called Lorgash."

The woman carried the pot to the table and ladled the gruel into the bowls as Silas poured mead and water into three mugs.

They sat at the table and Domah turned to Lorgash. "Would you do us the honor of praying thanks for our food?"

Anger blazed through Lorgash. He felt his face redden. "I am no Christian," he snapped.

"I'm sorry," Domah said. "But I when I saw you wore no plaited strip, I—"

"I burned my village so smallpox would not make it a lair. I threw my strip onto the flames to let the gods know what I think of them."

Domah's eyes widened. "Smallpox wiped out your village?"

"A Christian led it to us." Lorgash stopped short of adding: when he carried him, trussed to a pole like a hart, into the village for the solstice sacrifice.

Domah crossed herself. "Smallpox took my mother's village." She and Silas bowed their heads and she prayed in Norse.

Lorgash waited until they raised their heads before he started eating.

"What was your village?" Domah asked.

"Haalswood."

"I've heard of it. When did this happen?"

"It started a couple of months ago."

Domah's eyes flashed. "About the time of the solstice?"

"I was the first stricken and the only one spared."

"They say Targlor of Ravensdale has found a way to ward off smallpox."

"Targlor says a great many things." Lorgash tore off a chunk of bread and dipped it into the gruel. "I was surprised to find anyone near the mountains. Chief Wenmarg of Craigskeep doesn't care for trespassers, particularly humans."

"We trade for furs and gold," Domah said. "We provide goods from the human towns."

Lorgash nodded. He'd heard that humans who still worshipped the old gods sometimes did business with trolls, the two finding a thin sliver of common ground. Still . . . "I thought you were Christians."

"We are," Domah said.

"Isn't it unusual for Christians to come so deep into troll lands?"

"It seemed best," Domah said. "After all, Ravensdale still attends the assemblies, and they are Christians now."

Which, Lorgash thought, didn't answer his question.

"Where are you headed?" Domah asked.

"Into the mountains. I know of secluded places there. I will not lead smallpox to another town."

"And after that?"

Lorgash shrugged.

She continued to stare, as though peering into his mind. "You carry a small pack for a long stay in the mountains."

Lorgash shifted on the bench. "This is a good location for a trading post," he said, hoping to change the subject. "There are advantages in trading without going to a village. A pity you'll be leaving."

"We're staying," Domah said.

"Oh? These are difficult times. What if I had not stayed my hand?"

Silas said something in Norse. The woman shook her head.

"We are where we are," she said.

Lorgash raised an eyebrow. It was an old troll saying. He finished his gruel.

****

The blizzard arrived in strength just as Lorgash and Silas finished tending to the animals. They brought in more firewood then bolted the door. The wind howled around the eaves.

"I'll stay in the barn," Lorgash said.

Domah paused as she stirred the fire. "In this weather? I would not be showing proper hospitality if you did. Here: Rest beside the hearth."

"These are bad times. You shouldn't be so trusting as to have a stranger in your home as you sleep."

"There'll be no sleep for me this night." Grief peered through Domah's eyes. She patted Silas on the shoulder and the three talked of what news they'd heard.

It was late when they turned in. The woman brought Lorgash a blanket, and he made his bed on the bench. Domah and Silas went through the curtain and in a few moments Lorgash heard them talking low in Norse, much as she had when she prayed thanks for their meal. Then there was only the sound of weeping and the moan of the wind.

Lorgash watched the logs burn on the hearth and thought of his family, their fever cooled forever by the chill of the barrow. His own grief returned, yet tears refused to come. That bothered him. He had mourned, as best he could, as he tended to his dying neighbors, but even now his grief was more numbness than pain. He listened to Domah's sobs and wondered why he could give no tears for the dead.

Within the flames he saw his village burn anew. He raised his eyes from the fire to the cross on the chimney before turning his back to the fireplace. It was some time before he went to sleep.

****

The wind died after sunrise. Lorgash packed before helping the family with their chores. Silas went to the barn, but came running back inside, babbling in Norse.

Domah stiffened.

"What is it?" Lorgash asked.

"There's men at the edge of the woods," she said.

"Humans or trolls?"

"Humans."

"Here?" He went to the door.

Domah put her hand on his arm. "I'll talk with them."

She opened the door as Lorgash stepped back, keeping in the shadows.

A man in a hooded coat hailed her. They spoke in Norse.

One of the men went to the grave and cleared away the snow. He called to the others.

A man a head shorter than Domah stepped closer to the house, his hand on the haft of his sword. Blonde hair jutted beneath the edge of his hood and his nose looked more sharp-edged than the other humans. He said something to the woman.

Domah turned pale. She glanced at Silas and gestured as she spoke.

Silas stepped in front of the doorway.

A glint caught Lorgash's eye, and he saw a human at the edge of the clearing raise a crossbow. He yanked Domah inside and slammed the door just before the broadhead struck.

"What's going on?" Lorgash said.

The woman bit her lip. "They want Silas."

"Why?"

She glanced at the door.

Lorgash cursed. "Tell me, woman,"

"I picked my spouse unwisely," Domah said. "Kobbi was a good provider but quick-tempered. He never raised a hand to me or Silas, but—"

"Who did he kill?"

"Galinn, the brother of Sigmund, the chieftain."

"Why?"

Domah trembled. "It is hard having troll blood when you live among humans. To be a woman with troll blood is . . . some of the men assume things. Sigmund and Galinn were the worst."

She glanced at the door. "Sigmund wanted cause to seize our property and he and Galinn attempted to provoke Kobbi. Kobbi tried to ignore them. But then Galinn came to me one afternoon when he thought my husband was in the pastures, and . . ." She twisted her dress in her hands. "My husband slew him without thought." She looked up at Lorgash. "Sigmund is the one who just spoke with me."

"This is why you came here? To flee Sigmund?"

"We thought they wouldn't venture into troll lands."

"Your husband is dead. Why do they want the boy?"

"Because he's blood kin. As long as he lives there is claim to my husband's lands."

"Christians." Lorgash spat onto the floor.

"Not everyone that says 'Lord, Lord' shall enter into the kingdom of Heaven," she said.

Shouts from outside interrupted them. Silas peeked through a shutter before Lorgash pulled him back.

"Don't make yourself a target again."

The boy had a look of panic on his face. "There's trolls coming."

Domah cringed. "I was going to clear the snow from the plague markers yesterday, but . . ."

"You had other things on your mind," Lorgash said.

The sound of a troll battle hymn floated through the door, accompanied by the clang of iron against iron.

Lorgash waved Domah back and cracked the door. The trolls had driven the humans to the edge of the clearing. More humans poured through the woods and both sides paused. One vaguely familiar troll wearing a thick coat and the tall fur hat of a chieftain stepped forward and spoke in Norse. After much talk the humans pulled back and the troll walked to the house.

"Ho," the troll called. The others advanced behind him.

Lorgash opened the door. "Hold: There is smallpox here."

All color drained from the troll's face. He motioned to one of his men, who raised a bow.

"Step out," the troll said, "And we will give you a merciful death."

"We've had it and recovered," Lorgash said, "but it may yet linger."

The troll stared. "Are you from Ravensdale? Who are you?"

"Lorgash of Haalswood. Who do I have the honor of addressing?"

"Chief Yusslig of Craigskeep."

Lorgash raised his eyebrows and wondered what had happened to Wenmarg.

"What brings a Haalswood man to our lands?" Yusslig asked.

"I seek the quiet places, for Haalswood is no more."

Yusslig stared. "The smallpox?"

Lorgash nodded.

The trolls all touched the plaited strip at their side.

Yusslig fidgeted. "We were told her husband was dead."

"He is," Lorgash said, nodding toward the grave. "They gave me shelter from the blizzard." He remembered Yusslig now, from the assemblies. He'd always struck him as a greedy, ambitious sort.

"Ah," Yusslig said. "Was he human?"

"Yes."

"Then for once a human spoke the truth. I asked them what business they had with troll kin, and they said her husband was a human."

Lorgash glanced at the humans and wondered what they had told the trolls. "May I ask about your interest? You do not seem to have brought trade goods."

"The woman is a half-troll. Isn't that enough?"

A troll behind Yusslig hefted his sword.

"In normal times," Lorgash said. But it was the Hunger Moon, and that made him wary.

Yusslig smiled. "Indeed. This is a Craigskeep matter. It may be best if you leave."

"Domah has shown me hospitality. I am obligated."

"In normal times," Yusslig said.

"And these?"

Yusslig's smile faded. "We are here to correct Wenmarg's error."

Lorgash stared at the troll chieftain for a moment. "In allowing humans to come to the mountains?"

"In allowing the turned-out to return."

Lorgash jerked his head around toward Domah.

Domah blushed.

Sigmund said something.

Yusslig turned and looked at the humans. "If we cannot enter, then perhaps—"

Silas darted to the door. He leaned out and shouted in Norse before Domah pulled him back.

The humans murmured. The ones closest to the grave leapt back as though they had discovered a wolf. Sigmund barked something at them, but they still looked uneasy.

Yusslig grunted. "Smallpox makes us all cowards." He turned back to Lorgash. "I remember you now, from the assemblies. You were always fair and you respected both law and honor." He paused. "There is no obligation to hospitality during the Hunger Moon."

In other words, you want me to do your dirty work, Lorgash thought. "Perhaps. For some."

Yusslig's face darkened. "So be it." He gestured to his men and they fell back to the other side of the clearing.

Lorgash watched both sides for a moment before bolting the door. He turned to Domah. "What exactly is going on here?"

"Kobbi slew the—"

"That's not what I meant, and you know it. Why did Wenmarg allow a turn-out to return to Craigskeep lands?"

"He is my uncle," Domah said.

"The turned-out have no kin."

"He disagreed with the verdict," she said. "He wasn't the chief of Craigskeep then, and we lived in a village on the outskirts of the lands."

"I thought you said you were a half-troll."

Domah swallowed. "My father was a human who worshiped the false gods." Her eyes widened and she sucked in her breath. "I did not mean to offend you."

"I don't think much of the gods, either," Lorgash said.

"He was captured as a trespasser and taken in when the village discovered he wasn't a Christian. He was accepted into the village and wore the plaited strip."

Lorgash nodded. Such things happened from time to time.

"He was an excellent trader," Domah said. "And he hated Christians. He . . . he would lead one to us every year to sacrifice at the winter solstice."

"Is that how smallpox found your village?"

The woman's face turned dark. "That was the claim. My father had gained some honor among the trolls and married well. Some were jealous. When smallpox came, some said my father brought it upon us to help the Christians."

Lorgash snorted.

"They charged my father with treason," Domah said. "They took him and . . ." Her eyes became haunted. "They turned us out."

"And Wenmarg?"

"He gave us supplies and hid us in the valley. After a couple of days he led us down the river to a monastery. He'd heard that the human holy men took in the turned-out. He stayed nearby until he saw that we were well cared for."

Lorgash's gaze turned to the cross above the mantel.

"Mother became a seamstress for the monks and the nuns. They did not mind we were trolls. The other humans were not as kind." Domah sighed. "Kobbi was different. We were wed at the monastery—Sigmund would not allow us to marry in the village. Later, when we had to flee, Wenmarg allowed us to settle here. Some suspected I was a turned-out, but none raised their hand against us."

"Because of Wenmarg." Lorgash turned to the door. "And now it's the Hunger Moon."

"So?"

Lorgash turned to the woman. How could she not know? "The Hunger Moon is the bad time. There is much sickness and little food. Fathers have killed their families rather than see them starve. Much is excused, so long as there's some cause."

Domah shuddered. "So Wenmarg . . ." She crossed herself.

"Yusslig has probably had Wenmarg killed," Lorgash said. "Yusslig always wanted authority and he is greedy. The chiefs trusted Targlor far more than Yusslig. At least Targlor puts the good of others above his own."

"So that's why you said 'These are bad times.'"

"Yes, and . . . " His eyes narrowed. "You knew. You knew Yusslig