This is a background clip, written to help me get to know my villain better. I'm not quite sure where this gets used, as prologue or some other way. Anyway, here it is.
Maddig Vachon was ten years old with the trolls came to her village. They burned the homes, carried away the men and women as slaves, and left the younger ones for the wolves. For some reason, not that reasons mattered, a troll killed Maddig’s mother. He wielded a monstrous hammer. The girl saw this happen, but could never afterward remember any details. Her recollection was only a red fog through which shapes moved and fell. Only that, and a deep cold that lay at the bottom of her belly like winter soil.
On that day, though, in that moment, Maddig saw with utter clarity. Her mother’s head exploded as the war hammer swept through and her body collapsed. The troll stood just beyond, his powerful legs in a wide stance, bloody hammer in one huge hand. His chest was covered with designs. All trolls did this—even at ten Maddig knew this much—but this particular troll bore a crude figure of a human that stretched from his neck to his waist. The figure was headless.
As soon as her mother fell, Maddig attacked. She summoned stones and sticks, hurtling these at the troll, causing him to grunt like an ox but doing no damage. She tried to seize control of the hammer, to use it against him, but the weapon never budged, so she charged, furious as an avalanche, intending to tear out the troll’s eyes.
This was a mistake.
The troll glanced at her, watched her tiny assault. As she launched herself over her dead mother, the troll swung his other arm and batted her away. She tumbled sideways like a tossed pebble, then slammed into the hard ground. For a moment, everything stopped—her breathing, her perception, even her blood seemed to stop its movement. Her thoughts remained utterly clear.
Don’t move.
Breathe quiet.
Wait.
She soon heard the troll’s heavy tread as he moved away, toward other cruelties. Maddig turned her head just enough to track him with one eye. She recorded everything about him—his gait, the color of the hammer, the long earring of bone that hung down over his left shoulder. This was her target; she would not forget; she would not mistake.
The creature made his way around a burning hut. Black smoke writhed upward into a pale sky. The ground smelled cold, for autumn was fading. Screams tore the air from time to time, but mostly she heard the deep grunts and growls of the trolls, as if bears were rooting through her village.
Maddig waited, unmoving, until she judged the moment right. She had the cunning of the young and the trapped. Scrambling to her feet, she darted low and quick until her troll-for that’s how she though of him now—was again in view. At once she cast herself to the ground, motionless, waiting. Another of the dead.
She realized she would need a real weapon, not the flails and rakes and mattocks that lay scattered about. She passed one sword, but it was as big as she. Having to play dead most of the time made the searching harder.
Across the village, the trolls were getting ready to leave. Their captives, collared and chained, stood with heads down, most bloodied. A boy, still free, ran at a troll, screaming rage and murder. Another troll gutted him from the side with a short spear. He twisted and fell with a high-pitched cry that sounded like a rabbit. Maddig took note of another mistake she would not make. She would wait until her troll was alone when she killed him.
The sun was well up now, driving off the last of the chill. The stench of fire and blood and offal poisoned the air. The girl sidled and edged her way closer. She found a knife and tested it against her own flesh, then set it down again. Too dull. Not that mistake, either.
The trolls began to move. A few had whips, using these to move and direct the train of slaves that yesterday had been her village. She paid no attention. There was her troll, and he was leaving. Maddig followed, small, furtive, wet leaves in her hair, sly as a wild dog.
At the edge of the village, the pale sun showed her a knife. She picked it up on the run, for trolls move fast, even when herding slaves. She tested the blade on her arm. Blood sprang forth at once and she suppressed a cry of pain even as she smiled. The knife was as sharp as her need. She tucked the knife into her rope belt, clamped a hand over her would, and settled into a run. Not pain, not breath or laboring lungs, not aching muscles, nothing would stop her. She watched everything as she ran, never losing sight of her troll.
Behind her, the village burned, small children wept and wandered, and not once did Maddig Vachon glance back.
Maddig Vachon was ten years old with the trolls came to her village. They burned the homes, carried away the men and women as slaves, and left the younger ones for the wolves. For some reason, not that reasons mattered, a troll killed Maddig’s mother. He wielded a monstrous hammer. The girl saw this happen, but could never afterward remember any details. Her recollection was only a red fog through which shapes moved and fell. Only that, and a deep cold that lay at the bottom of her belly like winter soil.
On that day, though, in that moment, Maddig saw with utter clarity. Her mother’s head exploded as the war hammer swept through and her body collapsed. The troll stood just beyond, his powerful legs in a wide stance, bloody hammer in one huge hand. His chest was covered with designs. All trolls did this—even at ten Maddig knew this much—but this particular troll bore a crude figure of a human that stretched from his neck to his waist. The figure was headless.
As soon as her mother fell, Maddig attacked. She summoned stones and sticks, hurtling these at the troll, causing him to grunt like an ox but doing no damage. She tried to seize control of the hammer, to use it against him, but the weapon never budged, so she charged, furious as an avalanche, intending to tear out the troll’s eyes.
This was a mistake.
The troll glanced at her, watched her tiny assault. As she launched herself over her dead mother, the troll swung his other arm and batted her away. She tumbled sideways like a tossed pebble, then slammed into the hard ground. For a moment, everything stopped—her breathing, her perception, even her blood seemed to stop its movement. Her thoughts remained utterly clear.
Don’t move.
Breathe quiet.
Wait.
She soon heard the troll’s heavy tread as he moved away, toward other cruelties. Maddig turned her head just enough to track him with one eye. She recorded everything about him—his gait, the color of the hammer, the long earring of bone that hung down over his left shoulder. This was her target; she would not forget; she would not mistake.
The creature made his way around a burning hut. Black smoke writhed upward into a pale sky. The ground smelled cold, for autumn was fading. Screams tore the air from time to time, but mostly she heard the deep grunts and growls of the trolls, as if bears were rooting through her village.
Maddig waited, unmoving, until she judged the moment right. She had the cunning of the young and the trapped. Scrambling to her feet, she darted low and quick until her troll-for that’s how she though of him now—was again in view. At once she cast herself to the ground, motionless, waiting. Another of the dead.
She realized she would need a real weapon, not the flails and rakes and mattocks that lay scattered about. She passed one sword, but it was as big as she. Having to play dead most of the time made the searching harder.
Across the village, the trolls were getting ready to leave. Their captives, collared and chained, stood with heads down, most bloodied. A boy, still free, ran at a troll, screaming rage and murder. Another troll gutted him from the side with a short spear. He twisted and fell with a high-pitched cry that sounded like a rabbit. Maddig took note of another mistake she would not make. She would wait until her troll was alone when she killed him.
The sun was well up now, driving off the last of the chill. The stench of fire and blood and offal poisoned the air. The girl sidled and edged her way closer. She found a knife and tested it against her own flesh, then set it down again. Too dull. Not that mistake, either.
The trolls began to move. A few had whips, using these to move and direct the train of slaves that yesterday had been her village. She paid no attention. There was her troll, and he was leaving. Maddig followed, small, furtive, wet leaves in her hair, sly as a wild dog.
At the edge of the village, the pale sun showed her a knife. She picked it up on the run, for trolls move fast, even when herding slaves. She tested the blade on her arm. Blood sprang forth at once and she suppressed a cry of pain even as she smiled. The knife was as sharp as her need. She tucked the knife into her rope belt, clamped a hand over her would, and settled into a run. Not pain, not breath or laboring lungs, not aching muscles, nothing would stop her. She watched everything as she ran, never losing sight of her troll.
Behind her, the village burned, small children wept and wandered, and not once did Maddig Vachon glance back.
