Land of Salvania

  This was a stupid idea, Henri thought. He wondered if the other more experienced troll hunters were playing a prank on "the new laddie," leaving him out here while they swilled beer back in town. "You block this trail," one had said. "The troll will spot you long before you spot him, and he'll slip to the left since the river is on the right. See?" Yes, Henri saw. He saw he had been played for a fool. "We will be spread out over here," he had pointed left. "And one of us will drop him." He gave it another hour, and he stomped off. This was a stupid idea. /// Copyright

  "The tracks end right here," Cedric said to his nephew. Saul was the only one of the brood that showed any aptitude for the "family business." Saul knelt with his uncle, watching the older tracker's eyes and hands move over the ground as if he was invoking some arcane spell of magick. Cedric's voice was dreamy. "It's like she was walking at a normal pace, then took a leap off her right foot." He pointed to the last track, deeper than the others in the soft soil. They both turned, facing the direction of travel, looking for a reason someone would jump. Saul said, "She might have jumped up to that limb." He pointed to a forked tree with a low limb on the right side. They both looked up the tree. It was empty, swaying a little in the spring breeze. Cedric stood and walked around the tree in a circle that spiraled out. There were no other tracks from their quarry. "If she climbed that tree, she didn't come down." Th

Khevol was perfectly positioned to spot a troll yearling, probably no taller than seven feet, moving along an established trail. A steep valley separated them, so neither were in danger from the other, and besides, the yearling would not be ready for harvesting for a dozen more winters. Normally, he would watch the creature’s behavior carefully, hoping to learn something new that would keep him alive when he was hunting in earnest. But today, he was introspective. Something made him look back on a year of troll hunting along the White River, living among the whispering, insular villagers who hated his Dwarven ways but were too frightened to face him or too greedy to risk losing access to his fine pelts. He was sure he paid higher taxes than others on his prized skins, but that had ceased to rankle. Maybe he was growing complacent here, domesticated by a lovely mate, sleeping under a real roof most nights, eating seasoned food with a spoon at a table. He snorted. His kith back home