The Troll-Demon War Read online

  Alan should know better. Christine wasn’t a hothead, but she was a troll. It wasn’t ever going to take much to get her riled up.

  Particularly not with the week she’d had, with Dennis still scolding her for almost forgetting Father’s Day, how Christine’s hair still looked (making her feel like a poofy dog), how down Tina was about her magic and what a tragedy that would turn into if she did lose her magic, her own father finding out that he did have magic, and now Lars escaping.

  Alan shrugged. “That was kind of the idea. If we went down the first couple of rounds, then made a grand comeback in the last.”

  “I won’t do it,” Christine said. “That isn’t honest.”

  “And you’re always all about being honest, right?” Alan asked archly.

  “What are you talking about?” Christine said, confused.

  “How long did it take you to tell me your true heritage?” Alan said. “That you were actually troll royalty?”

  Christine sighed. “You’re right. I should have told you sooner. I apologized for that.” And she had, more than once. She just hadn’t known how to bring it up! What was she supposed to do, introduce herself then say, “Oh, by the way, I’m also a princess? Next in line for the throne?”

  “You’ve also always kept your magical abilities under wraps,” Alan pointed out.

  “That isn’t anyone else’s business,” Christine countered. Besides, if she showed up all glowy, people would automatically know that she was royalty. For the most part, only troll royalty had any magic. So maybe she should next time, just so the other trolls would know.

  But that was going to make it harder than the toughest granite to find anyone who really wanted to date her and not her position.

  “So let’s just lay it on the line, tonight,” Alan challenged. “You and me. Let’s see who’s the better troll.”

  “I don’t want to fight you,” Christine said, a sinking feeling starting to roll through her belly. “I wanted to fight with you, together, against all comers.”

  “No,” Alan said. “Not tonight. Let’s just shake things up. Okay?”

  Christine shook her head. Nothing good was going to come of this. Nothing.

  However, if this was how Alan wanted to break up with her, then that was going to be on his head. Not hers.

  Boxing matches had been held in the room before tonight. The center ring had been replaced with a large children’s wading pool. It was maybe fifteen feet in diameter, with an edge rising about a foot and a half off the floor. Good brown mud filled the bottom of the pool, leaving a rim of shocking blue.

  Old-fashioned wooden risers circled the pond in the middle, to give those watching the fights a good view. The seats were already mostly packed with kith and kin—orcs, dwarves, brownies, pixies, dark elves, and other creatures who Christine was still trying to come up with a proper taxonomy for. (Again, why would nobody write anything down?)

  Christine separated from Alan when they entered the room. He was going to make all the accommodations, get the lists changed, etc.

  Of course, he wasn’t about to change his bets. He would never bet against himself.

  And maybe that had been part of the problem all along, that Christine wouldn’t have bet against them as a couple, while he was only concerned with himself.

  She went to sit on the benches opposite the door, scooching herself in between a group of pixies with their long, mis-jointed fingers and wicked teeth on the one side, and a pack of dwarves on the other. Both groups ignored her. Christine loosened her illusion slightly, making her face appear half-troll, half human, just so the others would feel more comfortable around her.

  Like Tina, Christine was never comfortable in a crowd, though all of the beings here were kith and kin, which made it a lot more tolerable.

  The first fight would be a couple of orcs. Both males, dressed in speedos (never a good look for anyone, no matter what race.) They came out of their corners, snarling as they stalked toward the mud-filled pool. Bright spotlights followed them. The crowd started yelling.

  Christine compared the pair of them to Patrick, the orc she regularly boxed and wrestled with. Patrick was a shade taller, as well as thinner. His body was shaped by free weights and fighting. These two looked like gym rats, with pretty physiques instead of useful muscles.

  The announcer came on the loudspeaker. Both orcs received a lot of cheers as well as boos. They strutted around the outside of the wrestling pool like the fake human wrestlers did.

  Finally, the pretty boys, as Christine had come to think of the two orcs, climbed into the ring. The mud wasn’t too thick, but it was slick. She could see that by how they adjusted their stances.

  Without waiting for the announcer to officially start the bout, the first raced at the second, angrily growling. He slammed into his opponent with a high body check. The other orc fell backwards directly into the mud.

  Wait. How did that even work? Christine knew the pressure points on a body. Striking someone in the chest, unless they were coming at you with speed, would not drop someone to the ground like that. They’d stumble back.

  Something else was going on.

  The two orcs taunted each other before grappling again. The mud was slippery and their tricks were easier to disguise. But Christine watched how they pulled their punches, fell without provocation, and got back up after the most dire of tumbles.

  They were merely putting on a show. None of it was real.

  Did none of the other beings watching see through these tricks? Or was the crowd in on it? Did they accept that it was a game?

  Christine didn’t know. She tried to peer at the faces of some of the kith and kin while at the same time not to stare too hard or give any offense. It was difficult as the sidelines were in shadow, and bright spotlights shone down on the participants.

  She cursed her upbringing again. She’d never been around the other kith and kin enough to be able to read their facial expressions or body language clearly. She still struggled with some of the non-verbal cues of trolls. It was possibly why she kept failing at her relationships—she’d been unable to read what her partner was truly telling her.

  However, it wasn’t up to her to unmask these fighters.

  She just needed to remember their names and their faces, and to never rely on them in the upcoming war.

  Finally, the winner was declared. Though the announcer tried to incite someone else to come and fight the bad boy who’d just won, there were no takers.

  Christine was tempted to take them up on it. However, she wasn’t about to. She would end up shaming the fighter. And again, that wasn’t her place.

  Besides, she had her own bout coming up, one that she was approaching with deadly seriousness.

  Then the second bout started, with two cat-like creatures who actually put on a good fight, not just a show.

  When the winner from the first bout went back into the ring for the next round, Christine watched more carefully. How was he telegraphing his moves? Or was it all choreographed?

  Only this time, the orc was really fighting. And his opponent was good.

  Either the first orc hadn’t been as good at play acting or it had been a setup, to get the beings here to bet more as they were certain to be entertained.

  Now, Christine was interested in meeting this orc, the one who was both an actor as well as a real fighter. Orcs weren’t known for either their cleverness or for being sneaky.

  Christine had a soft spot for all of that and more.

  Finally, the fifth bout arrived. The announcer came on the speaker, introducing Alan first.

  “And in the other corner, well aren’t we honored tonight? It’s Princess Kizalynn Linumok Te’Dur!”

  Christine gasped. Why would Alan do that to her? Break her cover that way?

  Alan stepped out of his corner and up to the ring, looking tall and proud of himself.

  Wanker.

  A spotlight revolved around the small space, shining on the crowd, as if try
ing to pick Christine out.

  Slowly, Christine stood up. She didn’t bother trying to hide that she’d been using a spell to disguise herself.

  One moment, a troll-like woman stood in front of them.

  The next moment, a troll herself was there.

  The crowd gasped.

  Oh, this was going to be priceless.

  Christine stepped into the ring, dipping her hands into the mud, coating them thoroughly. She wasn’t going to bother covering the rest of her body in it.

  The fight was going to be over far too quickly for that.

  Alan called out a taunt in trollish, “Your father is weak and smells of mead!”

  Christine couldn’t help but roll her eyes. “And your father likes human women,” she said in reply.

  A couple of gasps from the audience told her that at least some understood Trollish. It was a serious insult.

  Alan narrowed his eyes. “You’re not one to talk.”

  Christine shrugged. She couldn’t help how she’d been brought up, as a changeling. It wasn’t her fault. And anyone who thought that it was, was an idiot.

  Like Alan.

  Christine waited until Alan finished posturing. He bent over and growled at her, showing off his fangs.

  Boy had never used them in battle now, had he?

  Christine merely widened her stance and waited.

  Without warning, Alan charged at Christine.

  It seemed as though time slowed for her. The crowd grew silent. The smell of dirt and sweat and anger filled her nostrils.

  Alan was slightly bent over, as if intending to tackle her into the mud.

  He certainly wasn’t moving fast enough to get the drop on her.

  Christine timed her punch perfectly, striking Alan under the jaw with her powerful fist.

  His own momentum carried him upwards.

  Christine followed through with the punch, her fist rising to the ceiling.

  Alan’s eyes crossed from the impact. His body grunted from the force.

  Then everything sped up again.

  Alan’s body flew back into the mud.

  He rose up on his elbow and shook his head, moving his jaw around.

  The crowd went wild.

  With a loud growl, Alan launched himself at Christine, intending to take her down. Again.

  She blocked his attempt with a foot to his face.

  He was lucky that she was well trained. She could have just as easily broken his neck with that maneuver.

  She slapped away every punch he threw at her, efficiently blocking them. Then she swept his legs out from under him, dropping him into the mud again.

  The crowd cheered her on, though it wasn’t as raucous as it had been.

  Christine wasn’t playing along, wasn’t giving them a show, not how they’d been expecting. This was serious.

  “Are you done?” Christine asked Alan after she did a second leg sweep and dropped his butt into the mud. He was coated from head to foot, while only Christine’s hands and feet had mud on them.

  “Never,” Alan growled.

  “Your choice,” Christine told him.

  As the entire evening had been—his choice of venue, his choice of the fight.

  His choice for living his life without her.

  When he came at her again, Christine had a punch combination all set. One to the stomach, one to the ribs, then the last, the hardest punch, to the side of his head.

  She struck him with so much force that he spun around and ended up face first in the mud.

  With one hand she pulled his shoulder up, leaving him face up so he wouldn’t choke. Still passed out.

  “And the winner is…Princess Kizalynn!” the announcer said over the speakers.

  The crowd cheered until Christine held up her hands, indicating that she wanted to say something.

  Christine had never been good at public speaking. She’d been a librarian, for goodness sakes, specifically so that she didn’t have to ever talk with anyone.

  She still waited until the crowd had mostly calmed down, when there was just shuffling noises in the background.

  “My good beings,” Christine said. “You saw this battle. You’ve been watching fights for a while now. But this is nothing, nothing, at all like what is almost upon you.”

  The crowd had grown entirely silent now.

  Maybe Christine was getting better at this.

  “War is coming. The Great War,” she warned. “One of the chief demon generals just escaped his prison. He’ll be coming for you. For me.”

  Christine looked around the room again, her gaze as cold as a winter’s morn.

  “Be prepared.”

  Later that evening, Christine laid back in her lovely clawfoot tub, filled with Epson salts, and had herself a good cry.

  She had the feeling that, even given how truly awful this week had been—between Lars breaking out of prison, her father discovering he had magic, and her boyfriend breaking up with her—it was all about to get much, much worse.

  Chapter Twelve

  Holy fuck.

  Lars couldn’t believe his eyes or his ears.

  His plan worked. The demons in the field of battle before him were winning. All the reports were coming in with casualties on the other side.

  It was a tiny pocket world, filled with fawns, creatures who were constantly confused with the satyrs. Instead of having the legs (and attitude) of a goat, they were a mix of deer and human. A little shy, but when cornered, they turned into fierce fighters.

  No one was going to miss this little pocket plane or the fawns who’d resided in it. Not for a good long while. Possibly not until after the Great War had already started, though Lars didn’t believe his luck would be that good.

  His armies had all been carrying the corrupt corruption gems. The force of their will was overwhelming. The fawns had put up token resistance, but their lines had collapsed. Quickly.

  Lars usually didn’t put the magical power into his wings that was necessary for him to achieve full flight. Normally, he glided or merely hopped.

  This time, his armies needed to see their glorious general, to hear his bellowing cry, to feel their victory deep in their bones.

  With a mighty push, Lars leaped off the ground. Even here in a pocket world, created by magic, it wasn’t easy to obtain altitude. Still, he rose up, calling out their victory so everyone could hear. The demons below him raised up their bloodied snouts, looking up from their feasts of the fallen, and cheered.

  Lars circled the battlefield. Off at the far end, some of the fawns still tried to run away, to seek refuge elsewhere. Demons loped after them, laughing at their enemy, rejoicing in their chase. Lars shouted orders down at them, telling them to speed it up.

  It wouldn’t do for any of the fawns to escape and go and warn the other worlds.

  He already had demons set in place on the human plane who would kill any fawn before they made a full report to the Host.

  It was too soon for his plans to be revealed.

  Plans within plans.

  Lars was ready, however, for when the slaughter that he and the other generals had released would be known.

  Because by then, it would be far, far too late.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Dennis sat on his leather couch in his living room, with none of the lights on, slowly drinking a beer. It wasn’t completely dark. The shades weren’t drawn on the windows in front of him, showing the lights of downtown Bellevue. Behind him, in the kitchen, the clock on the stove shone with a bright green light, as did the second clock on the microwave above it.

  Down the hallway, the door to the bathroom was open, and the light from his electric toothbrush gave quite a bit of illumination. As did the light from his clock in the bedroom.

  Dennis didn’t normally sit in the dark, or the semi-dark, or whatever you’d call the light levels in his condo. He usually didn’t drink beer alone, except on the occasional afternoon when he was by himself watching the game, or someti
mes when he was unable to sleep and would turn on late-night TV, drink a beer and watch infomercials until he was tired enough to go back to bed.

  In addition, Dennis didn’t generally contemplate the entirety of his life. One of his previous girlfriends had accused Dennis of being as introspective as a mud puddle.

  She hadn’t been completely wrong, but also, not completely right. The events over the course of the last five years had caused Dennis to become more reflective.

  Finding out that there was magic in the world and whole societies of beings who weren’t human living right beside you did that to a person.

  Particularly after discovering that your sister was a troll. A princess troll. Troll royalty. And that your biological sister was one of the strongest magicians in the world.

  That was all old news for Dennis, however.

  Tonight, he needed to think about what it meant to be second fiddle.

  No one liked to think of themselves as merely being the supporting cast. Everyone wanted to be the hero of their own tale.

  But Dennis…well it had just been shoved in his face, yet again, that he wasn’t the important one. He didn’t have a Destiny, not like the others in his family.

  He took another sip of his beer, making a face at how sour it had grown. Then again, he wasn’t drinking to drink, otherwise he’d probably be drinking whisky or something harder. The beer was just something to do while he sat and thought.

  Mostly.

  The first insult had come when he’d discovered that Lars, his best friend for most of his life, was only hanging around Dennis so that he could keep track of Christine.

  Since Dennis was in an honest mood tonight, he may as well admit that while some of the things that Lars had said about his sister had rankled Dennis, too many of Lars’ comments hadn’t.

  And what kind of big brother did that make Dennis?

  He’d tried to make it up to her, this trollish sister of his, but he feared it would never be enough.