Friday Flash: Gorg at Midwinter

I've finally bestirred myself from my own midwinter torpor, and concocted a new tale of Gorg the Troll. This one, in fact, demands a sequel, so there will either be more soon--or I'll be working on Gorg's own book. In any case, in keeping with the season, here are 998 words about Gorg Trollheim at the turn of the new year.

Gorg at Midwinter

In the kingdom of King Celery the Halfwit, all business stopped at the festival of Midwinter. No one attempted to travel during the week of celebrations that marked the end of the year. Everyone remained at home and marked the return of the sun with family and friends, and a fair bit of food and drink.

At least, that was how Celery saw it. If there were those in the kingdom who had little with which to celebrate, he was far too deep in his celebrations to know of it, even with the half a wit he retained.

Far across the kingdom, in the Valley of the Baleful Stones, Gorg Trollheim celebrated nothing at all.

Gorg was in trouble. He had returned to the Valley of the Baleful Stones, where his greatest enemy had held sway before what Gorg hoped was his death. Gorg had returned to the Valley because events had planted doubt in the troll’s stony mind, and he believed that if Duke Bale the Artichoke Hearted lived, he must return to his home.

Unfortunately, Gorg was correct. Unfortunately both because the kingdom would have been much better off had Bale remained dead, and because Gorg, deep in thought about the portents leading him back, had walked into a trap. Now it was Gorg who languished in a tower prison, with only the smallest of windows from which to watch the approach of the longest night of the year, wishing for family aznd friends.

If Gorg had still had with him the five trolls with whom he had conquered Bale a few months previously, no tower could have held them. But Gorg walked alone. Or, as now, sat and brooded alone.

The trap had been so simple. Gorg had been drawn by the sight of a new tower rising from what should have been the rubble of Bale’s castle. And then there had been a pit. A pit, such as one might use to capture any dumb beast. From the bottom he had looked up to see the loathed face sneering back. Bale’s latest pet sorcerer had sent him by magic from the pit to the sealed room at the top of the tower.

There were no stairs down. There was no opening in the floor at all. Only the tiny window gave light and air.

Bale didn’t bother to send up food or drink. In that, Bale showed he had also forgotten much about his old enemy, for Gorg needed no water, nor did he go hungry. Gorg ate his prison.

The floor, though stone, was too tightly fitted to allow him to pull up any bits from it. But he crumbled the edges of the window, which every day grew slightly larger, so that as the sun shone the less, the gap by which it entered his prison widened and let in more light.

From this prison, Gorg occasionally saw Bale and his new pet magician—the sorcerer had given no name, nor shown his face—about their tasks. Neither acknowledged in any way that they had a prisoner in the tower, and by all appearances he was forgotten. He tried pitching a few stones at them, but they never ventured within range.

Gorg did not believe for a moment he was forgotten. He knew Bale had something in mind for him, though he knew not what. He still had his flask, and the potion that made his mind move with un-troll-like celerity, but he saved that for a time when he might need to think quickly. In the tower, nothing happened. He could afford to think at a troll’s pace.

Nor did Bale seem to be moving fast. In the deeps of winter, the stinking vents that gave the Valley of the Baleful Stones its name stank less, but their warmth kept the ground in the valley free of the deep drifts of snow that make the lands beyond impassible. Only the route across the Iron Desert lay free of snow, and daily men entered the valley by that harsh track.

Bale was assembling an army, Gorg saw at last.

Gorg knew then that he must free himself, and he must stop Bale from marching forth with his army. Midwinter’s Night found Gorg lost in thought as he pondered his course. Idly, he reached a hand into the window and pulled loose another stone with which to quell his hunger. The sulfurous stones of Bale’s valley tasted vile, but they kept the troll alive, and the window grew larger.

Gorg looked again at his window. Yes, it was much larger now. Almost large enough to allow a troll to escape.

Looking carefully about to be sure he was unobserved, Gorg leaned as far out the window as he could and studied the sides of the tower. As he’d suspected, despite the care taken to make the floor of his cell impervious to a troll’s prying fingers, no such care had been taken with the exterior of the tower. The rough stones left plenty of hand- and toe-holds for a troll, who could grip the tiniest crack and would in fact become quite literally one with the rock if not careful.

Whatever Bale planned for Gorg, he was not watching him when the darkest night of the year became still darker in the blowing, whirling snow. As the sun set on that longest night, Gorg ceased fretting for the family he no longer had, and set about escaping from the man who’d killed that family. He no longer ate the stones he pulled from around the window, but stacked them hastily into the corner.

At the midnight hour, when all was dark and nothing still in the howling wind, Gorg pulled himself out the window and began to climb down the side of the tower, twining fingers and toes into the gaps and cracks between stones.  Nothing disturbed his climb, and no one watched as he disappeared into the swirling snow.

###

©Rebecca M. Douglass

Can you see Gorg?

***

Did you enjoy this story? Do you like fantasy? Load your new eReader with my new book, Halitor the Hero, a fantasy for 10-year-olds of all ages! Use the Smashwords code AV66V to get it at 40% off! Just click on the cover image:

Flash Fiction Friday: Gorg in Pursuit of Bale, Part II

So several weeks ago, Chuck Wendig challenged us all to write half a cliffhanger and leave it for someone else to finish.  I did that here, and the next week Jemima Pett wrote the next installment, or a possible next installment.  I mean to go back and steal some of her version, but never got around to it.  Because my dirty secret is out: I had already written a continuation of the Gorg story, which is looking more and more like a serial.  Here's my version:

Gorg in Pursuit of Bale (Part 2)

Gorg could feel his fingers growing into the rock.  His stone-bound Troll mind cracked here and there as part embraced the rock, and part struggled to move.  He looked down at the glassy surface of the water below.  A twist of his head showed the other side of the gorge only a dozen yards away.  But it might as well have been a hundred miles, because he could not cross that water.

Trolls can’t swim.  Being born of stone, they sink.  And one need they share with humans: they must breathe.  Deep water meant death and an end to Grog’s quest.  Duke Bale the Artichoke-Hearted would never be punished for having Gorg’s uncle, brother and three cousins turned (back) into stone.  He would either descend and drown, or stay where he was and become one with the cliff.

The thought roused him to anger.

“NO!”  Gorg’s bellow echoed back and forth between the canyon walls.  A few pieces of rock broke loose and fell with a hollow plunk into the water below.  And Gorg moved his left hand.

Slowly his fingers separated themselves from the rock face and he moved his arm upward, seeking a new hold.  The right hand followed.  His booted feet hadn’t had time to reach through the heavy dragon-hide to embed themselves in the rock, so they shifted easily to new knobs and ledges.

Retreating was hard.  Gorg had single-mindedly pushed forward, following the winds that had carried his enemy away, until it had become nearly impossible to do anything else.  Being born of stone makes trolls’ brains less nimble and flexible than humans’ minds, more tenacious and unbending.

When he stood on the rim of the gorge once more, Gorg turned his head and felt the wind.  It had shifted.  With relief, he turned and followed the gorge down the mountain.

##

Three days later Gorg stood on the Great East Road, which rolled between the Plains of Fruitfulness and the mountains.  Still following the wind, he turned south again.  Somewhere off there he would find Bale.

He would also find the City of Celestial Celery, home of King Celery the Half-Wit.  Gorg hadn’t yet worked out Bale’s plan with regard to the so-called King, but he knew his kin had been guards at the castle before becoming statuary in the Royal Gardens.  Bale might return to the scene of the crime.  And the wind led him in that direction.

A human traveler would have enjoyed the trip through the Plains of Fruitfulness.  It was the heart of the kingdom, farms as far as the eye could see, and well-watered by the rivers flowing from each crack and gorge of the mountains.  Gorg had to stay on the edges of the Plains, for deep, rich earth covered the rocks he needed to keep life in his stone body.  For all the challenges they posed, the mountains were more friendly to his nature.  He pushed on.

##

The City of Celestial Celery shone in the last light of a clear day when Gorg passed the gates and entered.  The last time he’d been in a city, a magical token had drawn him to his target.  This time he had no such help.  After wandering the streets for hours—and being threatened with fines for vandalism when he plucked up a cobblestone and ate it for a late dinner—he turned in at a way-house that advertised accommodations for Trolls.

Gorg paused just inside the door, his eyes adjusting to the dim light, and from a table to his left a voice called, “Gorg!  Gorg Trollheim!”

He turned.  “Pulgrum Stonelump!”  His luck had held, bringing him among friends.  And friends who knew the gossip of the City.  Three glasses of the powerful drink they called Stonejuice had loosened more tongues than Gorg’s, and he had told of his quest—and heard that the arrival of a balloon bearing a madman had been all the news for the last week. 

“They say he is completely insane, can’t talk so anyone can understand.  So King Celery has taken him in and given him a room and nurse.”

“Huh.”  Gorg wasn’t a city troll with lots of learning, but he knew a bad smell when he smelled it.  Gorg wouldn’t believe Bale was crazy and harmless even if he saw it with his own eyes.  And Crazy or not, Celery really was a half-wit if he took in his worst enemy right into his own castle. “I still have to kill him.”

The other trolls nodded.  “You do.  And he still needs it.  But you can’t just go in there and do it, you know.  Celery won’t allow it.  We need a plan.”

“We?”  Gorg felt something he’d never felt before.  He felt. . . friendship.  He knew kinship, and the rights and responsibilities it gave.  But others, trolls who would help him because they had known his uncle and cared about the revenge and the king and maybe even Gorg himself?  That was new.  They leaned their heads together, careful not to touch—it was annoying, how quickly trolls could grow together, rock calling to rock even faster than Gorg’s fingers in the stone of the gorge he’d so narrowly escaped—and began to talk in low voices.

To save Celery from Bale, they had to save him from himself.  It wouldn’t be easy.  But a half a dozen trolls made a formidable force, an unmovable obstacle to a regicide. 

They hoped.

##

Up at the castle, in a luxurious room lit by scented candles and cushioned with fine tapestries and feather comforters, Duke Bale stretched out on the bed, put his hands behind his head, and smiled to himself.  The winds of luck were still with him.

Gorg and his friends at the table?