There's a computer game that came out recently, "Day of the Destroyer," by a company called 3DO. It's the eighth in a very exciting series called Might and Magic. This is some fan fiction I've written for it.
THE ORACLE'S CHAMPION "Dark elves again, damn their sneaky eyes!" Laying down the claw-lever he had been using to extract a rusty spike from a log, Grapnir shouldered his huge mallet and strode to the end of the bridge. "Stop right there!" he rumbled, in his basso profundo voice.
The elf who was almost up to the bridge stopped short, watching him warily. Behind that one were others, driving wagons or on horseback. It looked like a fairly wealthy caravan that could well afford the toll. But this elf in front of Grapnir, the big one with the sword, didn't look as though he intended to put away his glowing sword and open up his money pouch. He was a little bit muscular, which for an elf was massively muscled. He had on a tunic of glittering chainmail, and his scarred face had streaks of red and black paint on it. Still, for all his warlike costume, he smelled frightened.
"The toll is five gold per wagon, one per horse and rider," the troll said, watching that glowing sword out of the corner of his eye. "Payable in advance."
"We won't tolerate robbery," the elf said.
"Neither will I. Pay up."
For a warrior with an obviously magical weapon, the elf seemed reluctant to use it. He glanced back at a woman sitting on the seat of the front wagon. She shook her head no.
"I speak for Lorallis, the Oracle of Alvar," said the elven warrior. "We're on our way to Ravenshore on a mission vital to all of Jadame. Let us pass."
"Sure thing," Grapnir said, exposing his great fangs in a grin, "as soon as you pay the toll."
"It's robbery. We won't pay."
Grapnir lifted the hundred-pound mallet from his shoulder and began to swing it in a circle by its braided leather strap, just for exercise. "If you're short on cash, you can work for it." He nodded toward the cliff edge, where steps cut in the stone led down to his house. "I'm carving myself a new patio by the riverside. Send five able-bodied elves down to cut stone till sunset, and your party can pass."
The elven warrior glanced over his shoulder at the woman, who shook her head again. "No."
Although he was beginning to think there was no bargaining with these elves, Grapnir gave it one more try. "All right, since you seem to have no cash and no time to spare, I'll barter. I need a new iron cookpot, and something to cook in it. A horse would be tasty."
"Goddess preserve!" the warrior exclaimed. "As though we would let you eat a horse! Move out of the way, vermin, or I'll slay you where you stand!"
The leather strap of Grapnir's mallet creaked as he changed the direction of the swinging mass. In the next instant, the glowing sword thudded to the ground, followed by its dead owner. From the wagons, there were several gasps of dismay. But the woman in the front wagon, the one who was apparently running the show, quietly climbed down from her seat and walked towards him. Her black hair fluttered around her shoulders like smoke, and her translucent white gown outlined the slender curves of her body. Her brown eyes were hypnotic. She glanced down at the dead body with a twist of her perfect lips.
"What is your name, troll?" she said. Her voice was low and thrilling. Strangely, she spoke the trollish dialect perfectly.
"Grapnir," he said. He shifted his gory mallet to his other hand and took a step back. "Sorry about that. You elves are fast--faster than me. Once he started talking about slaying, I had to strike first. Look, just pay the toll and go. I know you can afford it."
"Of course we can." She had continued walking toward him until she was right in front of him, and actually standing on the end of the bridge. "Graptor, you have slain my champion, the renowned hero Merlade. Now I have no champion to protect me, and my mission to Ravenshore is vital. Do you have a sense of honor?"
"Of course," growled the troll, irritated.
"Then come with us, and be my champion."
"What?"
"I sense a courageous soul in you. Would you like to travel, have adventures, and see the world?"
Grapnir was silent. His kind did not roam. It was the custom of his tribesmen to build a bridge, then tend it for the rest of their days. He had a good bridge here, and a road with brisk traffic on it, and he was to be married soon. Still... what Lorallis had said was true. He did want a more exciting life. He took a deep breath. "Yes," he said.
"Then swear to serve me faithfully as my Champion."
"On one condition!" growled the troll. "You won't try to make me fight my own kind. I'll not be cheating my cousins out of their rightful toll!"
Lorallis the Oracle inclined her head in assent. "I shall not ask you to slay your own kind."
"All right then. I'll do it." He held out his calloused hand.
She ignored the hand. "Swear it."
"I swear."
"Then kneel, Graspar, and I will anoint you."
Grapnir frowned, not sure what "anoint" meant, and very ill at ease about the kneeling. But the Oracle's hypnotic brown eyes were on him, and suddenly he dropped to one knee. He hoped she would get this anointing over with quickly, because if she was up to no good, it was hard to swing the mallet effectively from this position.
However, all she did was take a tiny flask from her belt, open it, wet her fingertips with its contents, and touch his lips. He smelled flowers. "Champion," she said.He woke with a bone-splitting headache. It was dark. That wasn't right, because the last thing he remembered was morning. He sat up, and groaned at the pain in his head. He felt strange; there was something all over his skin. When he touched his chest to clear the stuff off, he realized he was wearing clothes--more than just the regular loincloth--and chainmail. He snorted. Surprising they'd had anything in his size.
Looking around, he saw a glimmer of light, and realized he was seeing a campfire through the fabric of a tent. He stood up. There was something on his feet. Ah, the idiots had put boots on him. Well, later on he would figure out how to remove those, but first he needed to find the Oracle. He had a few choice things to say about the way he'd been treated.
Clumping awkwardly to the side of the tent, he ripped it open and stepped out. Flimsy thing.
To his surprise, the elves weren't camped next to his bridge. They had moved a good fifteen miles down the road. He recognized this clearing: It was near his cousin Horkrag's place. Six wagons were parked in a circle. An elven woman was tending the fire, and an elven male walked out of the darkness beyond the wagons with an armload of firewood. Both of them glanced at him when he walked out of the ruins of the tent.
"And we're too mighty to use the door, are we?" the woman scolded him. "I hope you can sew, because *I'm* not going to fix that great gaping rip in the Oracle's tent!"
"Idiot," said the elven man, looking away and spitting into the fire.
Grapnir ignored them, looked around, spotted a light over by Horkrag's bridge, and went toward it, mentally cursing the boots that made walking so difficult. Something banged his thigh. He realized he was wearing a scabbard with a sword in it: the dead champion's magic sword. He had no idea how to fight with such a weapon. He hoped they'd had sense enough to bring his mallet with them. What fools, to dress up a troll as though he were a damned sissy elf.
The Oracle was having a conversation with his cousin Horkrag. Grapnir suppressed a sudden and surprising wave of jealousy. It wasn't as if she were going to offer his cousin the Champion job. Even if she did, Horkrag wouldn't take it. He was very conservative and very married. Grapnir hoped he wouldn't laugh too hard at this getup, with the chainmail and the boots and all.
He walked through some brambles, which would normally have scraped harmlessly against his hide. Unfortunately the thorns caught the fabric of his trousers and the holes in his mail tunic, and half the bramble patch came with him, making walking even more awkward. Grapnir growled. He would deal with that later. That, at least, was a good use for the damn sword.
"What's going on?" he said, approaching his cousin and the elven woman. Then he looked down and picked a thorny branch away from his leg. It was painful. Must be some acid or something in the thorns.
"This troll won't let us pass," the Oracle said, staring in apparent wonder at the bramble branches enmeshing Grapnir's legs. "Kill it, Grifter."
"Yes, I guess I'd better." He drew the sword and started chopping off sections of the pesky weed.
"No, I meant the troll," said Lorallis.
Grapnir looked up in surprise, just in time to see Horkrag's mallet coming down. He only had time to throw himself to one side. The mallet struck the ground beside him, making a six-inch dent in the turf. Desperately wishing for his own weapon, Grapnir stuck out the elven champion's sword. It pierced his cousin's fat belly and the troll howled in pain.
"Back off!" Grapnir roared, reaching up with his free hand to grab the handle of Horkrag's mallet. They grappled. To his surprise, his cousin was stronger. This was new. Horkrag jerked the weapon free and hauled it back for a smashing blow. Grapnir leaped back, jerking his sword out of Horkrag's body, but the brambles on his legs tripped him. Falling heavily, he rolled to avoid the mallet, but the blow that was meant to crush his chest still glanced off his shoulder. "AAAA!" he cried, as he felt a bone crunch. He scrambled awkwardly to his feet, backed away, and chopped off some of the brambles while the troll drew back for another swing. "Horkrag, damn your hide, what in the name of the Pit do you think you're doing?"
"Defending my bridge!" Horkrag yelled back, hauling his weapon in a horizontal arc that might have been deadly if Grapnir had been anywhere close to it. Although Grapnir was still weakened by whatever the elven she-devil had done to knock him out, Horkrag seemed to be impaired as well. His movements were oddly slow, as though he were fighting underwater. Grapnir used the time available to move farther away and cut off the rest of the brambles around his legs, except the ones on his backside which he couldn't reach. The thorns didn't bother him anyway; his shoulder hurt too much.
"You don't need to defend your stinking bridge!" he shouted. "Just let us pay and pass!"
Horkrag paused, breathing hard. "You're going to pay?"
"Of course!" Grapnir said.
"Not at all," said the Oracle, who was standing a safe distance away at the edge of the woods. "Finish him, Gruffnip."
"I won't kill my own kind," Grapnir reminded her.
"Naturally. I would never ask you to slay an elf."
"But I'm--" Suddenly the pieces of the puzzle started to fit. He glanced at his hand, holding the sword. It was a large hand, very much larger than that of a normal elf... but it was covered with smooth dark skin, not the scaly gray hide he wanted it to be. "Horkrag! Look at me! What do you see?"
The troll stalked towards him, swinging the massive mallet. "I see a sneaky, thieving, soon-to-be-a-grease-spot-on-the-road elf!" he snarled.
"Oh damn," said Grapnir, feeling ill.
The Oracle's silvery laughter made him wince.
