David Grunwell - author

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 blocked 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 hay shed 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 understood 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]

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 swiftly thought about his dagger and then promptly 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 could 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.

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

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