Page 1 of Sky and the Grumpy Troll

Chapter 1

Moerrven

The Mill Creek Bridge was crumbling the way everything crumbled without Bryndala’s care. She would never have let it get to this state.

The new county engineer had stomped on the bridge and told me it was steady as a rock. But I didn’t trust him with one of Bryndala’s bridges. I didn’t know much about bridges, but the casual way the engineer had checked it off his list had shown me that Bryndala had been his superior in every way.

I was not in any way qualified to do bridge repairs, and bridge repair was not particularly enjoyable. Perhaps it was one of those things that went better if you were properly trained. For example, at a training I might ask how one applied mortar above one’s head without dripping it all over one’s face. Grumping at Bryndala for not being here to handle these sorts of things herself, I attempted to brace myself in a different position.

Within minutes, I’d given up and was flat on my back on the muddy ground beneath the cracked joint. Which was why I heard the hoofbeats well before the horses arrived.

It sounded like multiple horses, riding hard, which was unusual on a county lane where ox carts were the preferred method of transport. The bridge shook with their passage overhead. Three riders, heavy, galloping hard enough to rain dust and grit down onto my face. Just when I was about to go out and yell at them to be more careful about bridges, they slowed and stopped.

They sounded rough and loud, and they were discussing a robbery like I might discuss a trip to the bookstore. Highwaymen. It couldn’t be. In broad daylight? I crawled deeper under the bridge because I was not fond of danger.

There was a sharp yelp, followed by a thud and the scrape of something being dragged.

“He’s not worth the trouble. Leave him.”

A rough laugh. “I’m not even sure why you snatched him in the first place!”

“I thought he was a woman, didn’t I, with those legs and the very tiny trousers.”

More laughter, followed by a groan. Then they were off, headed southward by the sound of their retreating hoofbeats. After a moment, I heard a small whimper that made me concerned. Had they left a person behind?

I set down the trowel, climbed up the embankment, and hauled myself over the railing onto the road.

There was a human lying in the middle of the road.

Humans were small in general, but this one was particularly so, slight and compact, little more than five and a half feet, with black hair, tan skin, and an outfit that I could not begin to explain. He was wearing shorts made of something purple that glittered like gemstones and a shirt that wasn’t a shirt so much as a suggestion of one, sheer and made of a sort of mesh, covering nothing that needed covering.

He was covered in road dust, but even so, I could see that he was remarkably attractive, with a fine angle to his jaw and big brown eyes that slanted up slightly at the corners. His hands were bound behind his back with rough rope, and he was wriggling on the cobblestones like a landed fish, accentuating the lithe muscles that his strange clothing did nothing to cover.

He was on the far side of the bridge from where I’d climbed up. I crossed to him. He spotted me, and the sounds got louder, with a cadence that suggested extreme distress, but the gag in his mouth stopped them from being intelligible. His eyes were wide as they tracked up from my boots to my chest to my horns, then settled between my legs, one eyebrow quirking up.

Perhaps I had gotten mud or mortar there. I looked down and brushed at my pants as I walked closer, feeling sorry for the man’s plight. The eastern trade routes had been troubled lately; bandits preying on travelers, mostly interested in coin and goods. Perhaps that was why he was in his underthings. The highwaymen had taken everything of value and left him practically naked. At least they had not taken his footwear, which was bright blue, the height of low boots, and stranger than everything else he wore combined. I knelt and examined the rope.

It was abhorrent, that was what it was, leaving a man in just his underthings.

I pulled my belt knife and cut the gag, then the ropes.

The human scrambled to his feet, ripping the gag from his mouth as he started talking, a torrent of sounds, musical and rapid, with hand gestures that encompassed the road, the bridge, me, the concept of reality itself, and possibly his feelings about all of the above. I understood none of it.

“I don’t speak your tongue,” I said, drawing out each word, in case clarity of pronunciation would somehow bridge the gap between our languages. It did not.

He looked at the bridge, then at the embankment I’d climbed up from. The space beneath the bridge from which I had emerged.

“Oh, I’m not an engineer. I was just doing some rudimentary repairs,” I said.

A grin spread across his face, equal parts delight and mischief, and he planted his feet, squared his shoulders, and began what I can only describe as a performance.

He held up one hand, palm out, like a sentry, drew himself up to his full, unimpressive height, and said something in his language in a deep, dramatic voice. He pointed at me, pointed at the bridge, and shook his head with theatrical gravity.

He was deliberately blocking the bridge with his body.

He put both hands on his hips and widened his stance. He said something else, louder this time, and stamped one foot.

“Okay, well, I need to get back to my repairs. You are free to go. Though, if you need some clothing first, my house is just around the bend.”