Ravenmar's Luck Runs Out

Ravenmar scanned the rapidly darkening sky. The Moon was not yet risen and tatters of grey clouds scudded overhead, driven by a biting Easterly wind. He gathered his heavy, woollen cloak around him and followed the track by the river. His destination was the village of Red Crest, just beyond the hill. With luck, he would make it before the gate closed for the night.

As he approached the bridge, he slowed. You could never be too careful around here as trolls were known to sneak down from the hills and use human structures for shelter. Trolls, while not necessarily evil, were spiteful and malicious creatures, given to tricking unwary travellers with their riddles and wicked magicks. Ravenmar loosened his sword in its scabbard, a precautionary measure, and stepped onto the crumbling stone of the bridge.

"Halt, who goes there?" came the squeaky voice, in heavily-accented Common Speech. A shadow hopped over the bridge's wall and resolved slowly into the short, stooped figure of a troll. It was around three feet tall, of scrawny build, but with a large, mis-shapen head, unevenly pointed ears, one of which looked like it had been bitten in two, and almond-shaped black eyes. Its skin was covered in greyish scales and it was dressed in a loincloth. Ravenmar took in all of this in an instant. His attention was occupied by the short spear which the troll held, aimed squarely at his chest.

"A weary traveller, bound for the village beyond the hill," Ravenmar replied.

"You lie!" spat the troll. "That village is in troll-country. Your kind are not welcome there."

Ravenmar spread his arms wide and looked around. "Since when has this been troll-country? The Earl gave you territories in the hills a decade ago."

"He gave us cold, damp caves, ruins of shacks and worked-out mines!" What followed was what Ravenmar judged to be a string of expletives in troll-tongue. "He tricked us, he did. One day soon, he will pay."

This was not typical trollish bluster, however. Something in the little beggar's stream of invective struck a chord in Ravenmar. "What do you mean, the Earl will pay?" His hand went to his sword hilt.

The troll brandished his spear and gutsily advanced a couple of paces. "Halt!" he screeched. "Keep your hands away from your weapon!" He emitted a shrill whistle.

Ravenmar felt a chill, like icy fingers, run down his spine. He was by no means a wizard but even he could sense when magick was at work. The concealing glamour, which had hidden a dozen trolls, was cancelled and Ravenmar found himself surrounded by wicked spear points.

He might be no wizard, and he was certainly no warrior: he could not fight a dozen armed trolls, not even this diminutive rabble. He raised his hands and the trolls searched him, relieving him of his sword, dagger, coins and food. They bound his hands behind his back and, at spear-point, marched him to the village.