Thunder: The Shadows Are Stirring (Thunder Stories Book 1) (18 page)

I wave my arms wide, like a flapping bird. Hey, it’s what you’re supposed to do with mountain goats to get them to turn away from you. “Shoo! Scat, guys. We just want to find your owners. Dude! Back up!” They’re steadily pushing us back simply with their presence.

“Maa-aa-aaa! We a-a-are the shepher-her-herds. Now le-eea-ve! Go no-o-ow! Tu-u-urn ba-aa-ack!” the lead goat bawls at us. It slows down but scuffs its hind feet around and thrusts its head like he’s just waiting for us to step forward so he can impale us. The others stomp and glower at its side.

In my head, I shout at Maddix. Tough old goats? He could have mentioned he’d meant it literally about the guys. But, when I glance in his direction, I can tell Maddix is as shocked as I am; he hadn’t known either.

Our jaws flop open uselessly and the other two take up the call, “Go-o-o-o! Enter not our la-a-a-ands.”

The diplomacy I had planned is dying a quick death. They obviously don’t want us standing around and chatting with them.

Behind me, I hear a strange wet sucking noise, making the hairs along my arms and neck prickle into full alert. Something is very wrong. I spin towards the river bank in time to see the tops of two huge bushy heads—one red, one brown—with two sets of massive arms ending in two pairs of beefy hands, pulling their way over the ten-foot ledge of the embankment. The redhead is holding an almost-four-foot-long wooden club. The other guy has no obvious weapon, but his muscle mass is enough to count him lethal. Their skin is a muddy green color, like foul stagnant water, and looks just as moist. Yellow bulbous eyes, filled with the deepest malice I have ever seen, rake over each of us in turn, and the two split their fleshy lips in unison, showing humorless grins with blackened, jagged teeth. Their stench is mind blowing.

“Fresh ones have we, yes? Treats for our hunger?” gurgles Ginger, sounding like he’s speaking around a phlegm clot. I want to hurl.

Angry goats on one side of us and a pair of what—Trolls?—on the other. Are they working together? If they’re all against us, we’re goners for sure, but we’ll go down fighting. The greatest threat appears to be the huge slimy beasts. Our one advantage is that we’re on higher ground than they are. It’s not much, but we can use it.

“Now!” I shout as I fire. Jamie and Maddix, knowing exactly what I mean, have their weapons drawn by the time I’m reloading my slingshot.

Then, I hear the thudding of the goats’ hooves, and I turn my head. We’d all been aiming down at the seemingly more dangerous scenario, but maybe I’d misjudged. Maybe these goat-guys are going to attack us from the rear. I can’t do much but hold my breath and wait for the impact. It doesn’t come. I blow out a stream of breath in relief as they rush past us, horns aimed at the monsters’ torsos as the beasts heft themselves over the ledge. For the moment, anyway, the goats are on our side. My steel ball imbeds itself into Brown’s upper left temple with a dull thwack and an arrow sprouts from Ginger’s shoulder, but the trolls brush these off like pesky flies. That’s when the goats reach them.

The trolls had just staggered to their feet, standing about eleven-feet tall and clad in grubby loincloths. Their stomachs are bloated, but I can see hard knots of muscle under their skin. Two goats aim their curved horns into their bare guts, the third goat rears onto its back legs and strikes with sharp, not-so-little hooves. The trolls lumber to the side, swinging their arms and the club cracks against the smallest of the goats’ ribs; all are thumped to the ground. The clubbed one had the wind knocked out of him, and he’s gasping for air. Maddix throws a dagger, which slices through Ginger’s ear. The troll roars with annoyance more than anything.

The goats go at it again, trying to trample, butt, or trip their foe. Repeatedly reloading and firing, I cause some damage when Brunette catches a ball with his nose, which shatters and spurts red everywhere. In his anger, he picks up a goat by his horns and twirls him in the air, letting him loose in my direction. The goat hollers as it spins towards me. I dive out of the way and the goat somersaults up the slant of the hill before being able to twist to a stop. He unsteadily gets to his feet, shaking his head as he charges back down.

Meanwhile, Jamie has got in several good shots around the armpits of Brunette, who now has ribbons of red lacing down his sides. He resembles a dented porcupine with all the arrow shafts and projectile impressions littering his body. He’s getting unsteady on his feet.

Ginger wrestles a goat on the ground. Wrapping his long sausage legs around the goat’s torso, he drops his club and grapples for a hold around the animal’s neck. The goat thrusts its horns back into the troll’s chest, eliciting a yowl of rage, and making the troll release its grip. Furious, Ginger throws himself back onto the goat, managing to slam its head into the ground with a loud smack. He repeats the move again and again as the goat’s body goes rigid, convulses, and at last goes still.

“NO!” I shout in frustration. I’d been pelting the troll’s backside the whole time. The projectiles carry the force of a bullet. They should be inflicting some serious damage, but the trolls seem to absorb the momentum with their flesh. Like they’re made of soft clay. If it weren’t for the blood, I’d think they were indestructible. The trolls aren’t even polished fighters, and they seem surprised we’re fighting back. Their sheer bulk plays heavily in their favor, though.

Changing tactics, Ginger grabs up his club, swinging it around him like he’s using a machete to clear a jungle, and both trolls turn from the two remaining goats and jog with squelching steps in our direction, Ginger taking the lead. The goats spin and chase at their heels, but can’t do much more than try to dodge the swinging club. An arrow of Jamie’s flies true and pierces Brunette through his neck. Lifting his hands, his face registers surprise. His feet misstep to the side and his whole body sways and falls.

“Gambol!” spews Ginger, calling to his uncharacteristically silent companion. “Gambol, oaf, up and rise!” Bewildered, he stares at the fallen figure and then over to Jamie, as if the thought of his comrade’s death is impossible. The poof of black smoke speaks otherwise, and the body dissipates into nothing. At the sight, Ginger bellows so savagely my insides turn watery. His slit eyes glint and in them I can easily read his intent.

Without hesitation, I shoot one last round. Seeing that I catch Ginger against the bridge of his nose, making blood spurt like a fireworks display, I drop my slingshot to the ground. Fisting two daggers, I race towards the creature that had gawped at my little brother with murder in his eyes. He will not touch Jamie. Ginger blinks, trying to clear his vision.

I hear distant shouting but ignore the words. I zone in on the muddy green target in front of me. Then two white rockets fly into my sight; I’d forgotten the goats. Apparently, Ginger had, too. When they clash into him from behind, the troll is knocked to his knees. This makes him a little closer to the height of a man and he has to swing his club tip downwards into the ground to keep his balance. I take advantage of the opportunity as I turn my sprint into a flip kick aimed at the beast’s face, slashing with my knives at any flesh I pass. It feels like slicing into thick mud, wet and sucking. It is not enough. The troll lets go of his club completely and grabs my leg and twists, and I hear the cracks before I feel the pain.

My eyes roll back, but I blindly stab as I rotate my torso, jabbing him in his massive body as he dangles me in the air. The goats continue ramming into him, now from the sides, and he sways drunkenly. The pain of my bones rubbing together as I swing upside-down makes my world darken to a pinpoint.

The sound of a dual war whoop registers in my muddled brain, and I slam to the ground. Oh. That hurts. Jamie and Maddix have performed a joint attack of some sort, and I shake my head and blink back the black bursts, which want to obscure my vision. Above me, the boys are clinging to Ginger’s upper body and, with the goats’ help, are pulling him to the ground. I see something dark slide into Maddix’s right hand. Curved and gleaming. Sharp enough to slice into skin without pain meds, if I recall correctly. With a lightning quick flick of his wrist, Maddix slips the blade across the troll’s neck, right below his jawline, before the troll has a chance to respond. And by that point it’s too late. Ginger slides to the ground in slow motion and puffs away into a dark cloud and is gone.

Jamie bends over me, looking me grimly in the eyes. “Bud, we’ve got some—” He stops short, jerking his head to the left; his jaw drops open in surprise. I crane my neck, expecting to see Maddix and the goats hovering around. Instead, my hazy vision and pain-confused brain take in Maddix leaning over two bleeding men.

Chapter Fifteen: Shadow

(ETHAN)

I
GIMP AT OLIVIA’S SIDE
, like some old man trying to get to the Bingo Hall before closing time. After we’d made it through the needle farm, we’d come across a broken fence where the bull must have jumped. Beyond that, there’d been another field, which seemed to be used as a pasture and contained a couple of old buildings. At the roadside hung a hand-painted wooden sign for “Adelade’s Leatherworks and Sewing Sundries.” We decided to walk away from Adelade’s, hoping we hadn’t been thrown off course and might actually get to the town where our official journey is supposed to begin. A lot of the upheaval seems to be drifting down from the northern terrain, the mountain regions. We’ve planned a course, which will cover a lot of ground, giving Olivia plenty of time to feel the currents or whatever it is she does to sense the rift.

The dirt road is dry and dusty, relatively level, but with lots of wheel ruts. The air is warm with a slight breeze, and there are finally noises of civilization around us. Small houses are spread around, at a distance from the road. Trees and gardens have been planted around the dwellings and voices drift our way. Laughter and shouts, dogs and chickens; the basic sounds of life. These families would either work the land or own the fields, probably both.

Olivia stops walking and pulls a baggy out of her pack and hands it to me. It’s full of this bird food mix of hers. Seeds, nuts, dried fruit, and other crunchy things.

“You’re still green,” she says. “You need to increase your iron and protein levels; you lost a lot of blood.” Biting her lip she hesitates before blurting out, “You scared me there, you know.” She kicks at a pebble and we both watch it skitter across the road.

I take a handful of the trail mix, which tastes halfway decent and seems to work almost immediately; I feel much less woozy and am able to think out a response. “What we’re doing is going to be hard, Olivia. This whole deal. Nothing’s going to come easy and we’re going to get hurt. But, honestly, I trust what you’re capable of, the job you need to do. You’re going to have to trust what I can handle, too. It’s part of the job I need to do.”

She sighs softly. “I know; I just don’t want to see you like that again.” She’s quiet for a moment before asking, “Hey, do you think the whole bull thing was bad timing on our part or an intentional attack? I mean, we don’t know what to expect from the people who live here. It seems like a normal place, but maybe it’s not. They might not be on our side.”

I’d been wondering the same thing. “I think we mainly need to be aware of our surroundings and try not to stick out too much. Like what Xaiben and Marrah were telling us.” I squint skeptically at our clothes and shake my head. We hadn’t bothered changing and we both appear pretty much like we’ve been in a bull fight. Olivia’s hair is slipping out of her braid, curling all around her smudged face, and she has blood down her pant leg and on her sleeves.

Basically, we’re more than a little conspicuous with all sorts of stains covering us from head to toe. The people here would have to be blind not to notice, but even then they’d likely be able to smell us. It’s growing warmer and I’m already sweating on top of all the other grime. Since I’m feeling a little ripe, I try not to walk too close to Olivia.

“We should get cleaned up before we get to town,” I suggest.

She studies me and considers her own appearance, a grimace splaying across her face. “Yeah. We are pretty gross. People would pay a little too much attention to us like this.” She gives a self-conscious laugh. “You know, blood creeps me out, but I certainly seem to wear a lot of it around you. This is foul.” She scans the area and points to a miniscule blue dot barely visible down the twisting lane. “Let’s go over there and ask for water or something to clean with.”

There are other houses, small, like cottages I guess, that are a lot closer. “Any reason in particular we’re choosing that one? And you think it’ll be okay to show up on someone’s doorstep looking like we do?”

“Yup, it’s where we need to go,” she declares.

I don’t ask any more questions, but I do make her stop to give me my new shirt from the bag; there’s no need to scare anyone. My stomach is puckered in a neat line of stitches, with various hues of fresh bruises and yellowish-brown stains of antiseptic. It feels tight and sore, but the medicine has already begun to work and I can almost feel my skin fusing back together. I sense Olivia’s eyes on me as I tug down my shirt, keeping it tied loosely so it doesn’t rub. We’re still rocking the Jedi clothes.