[Primrose Bolger]

‘Take care of them other wood-ticks, brother! I’m heading for the house.’

Grimm gave a final blow to the three farmhands who’d been foolish enough to face him. Their clubs had bounced off his scaly hide, much to their slack-jawed surprise; his axe, to their further chagrin, had found purchase in two of their soft skulls. The third had provided some brief amusement with a show of bravado – the man had moved in to help his mates, and been brought to his knees by a single blow. Grimm laughed as the man’s bloody stumps hit the dirt.

As he made for the rear of the farm house, he could hear Broga baiting his four distractions . . . followed by the sound of his thick oak club thwacking something in a satisfying way.

The rear door was locked. It offered no resistance to the ham-fisted grip of the Troll, soon parting company with the door frame altogether. A single lamp stood on the kitchen’s table, its light glinting off the polished pots the goodwife had hanging along the wall. Grimm’s eyes lit up with greedy anticipation at the lovely glitter that enticed him. A few moments of rummaging brought the find of an empty cotton flour sack. Its empty interior was soon stuffed with all manner of pots, a smoked ham from the pantry, several loaves of bread, and a number of pots of jam.

From the kitchen, Grimm made his way to the front room. Nothing much of interest there - save for the fire poker with its polished brass knob, which soon found its rattling way to the bottom of the sack. Up the dark stairs he went, then, trying each of the room doors as he came to them. Naught of interest in what appeared to be the children’s rooms, but the last room at the end of the hallway was a treasure trove. Pretty glass bangles hung from the edge of a lamp’s shade. Grimm harvested them, carefully stowing them in his leathern pouch – some lacy doily from a nightstand serving to cushion them from each other. A wooden box on the same nightstand gave in easily to his prying fingers, and the few baubles within (hair combs, a cloak pin, and a necklace with earrings) soon found themselves nestling against the glass bangles from the lamp.

Grimm poked about in the wardrobe of the room; pulled out drawers from the storage cabinet, emptying their contents on the floor; flipped the mattress off the bed, all in hopes of finding the gold. Nothing! In frustration, he kicked the massive wooden chest he’d already gone through, sending it flying against the wall.

Broga, by this time, had finished off his assailants and come in to look for his brother. He found him leaning against a wall in the bedroom, rubbing the toes of one foot. ‘Oh! What’s this?’ his piggish eyes caught the sight of a thick metal ring, set in the floor where the chest had stood. He pulled on it with one hand, the other reaching down into the dark recess beneath it. Not one but three, leather bags were soon brought up. Their ties undone; the glittering treasure within fondled lovingly by the rough hands of the Trolls.

‘Gold!’ came the soft exclamation from Grimm. His eyes narrowed, looking about the room suspiciously as if prying eyes might see their find. With a sweep of his hand he picked up one bag, the largest, and stuffed it into the waist band of his ragged kilt. Broga was about to do the same, but Grimm’s hand stayed him. ‘These two’ll do for those other lugs, brother. Keep the Orcs from wondering who’s been dipping into their gold.’ Broga grumbled at this reasoning and gnashed his teeth in frustration. ‘Just a handful for me own?’ he whined. A wide grin split his face as his brother sighed and nodded ‘yes’. Broga’s massive fist closed about a pile of coins, hiding them in the hollowed leg of one of the wolf skins adorning his body.

Making their way back out to the farmyard, they found Arald and Dim making their way to the house. They’d plundered the smokehouse, and a necklace of sausages hung about Arrald’s neck while Dim’s hands grasped several great hams. ‘Here!’ cried Grimm, waving the two leather bags at the approaching Trolls. ‘We’ve done your work for you!’ He threw the two bags at Dim. ‘Gold . . . for them Orc scum.’ Arrald looked at the lumpy flour sack and snorted. ‘Nowt you need to be seeing in here,’ said Grimm, axe coming quickly into his hand. ‘Some pots and pans we want; and a few little baubles from the bedrooms.’ He narrowed his eyes at the other two Trolls. ‘Take your gold and hams, and sheep, too. We’re heading back. Had enough fun for tonight.’

Broga and Grimm gave the other two a wide berth, heading toward their camp. Their retreat took them past the chicken coop. The poor birds were in a dither from the sounds and the smell of blood on the air. A single swoop of Broga’s fist gathered up a fair number by their scrawny necks. ‘I’m hungry,’ he said, holding up the now limp forms for his brother’s perusal. ‘We can cook ‘em up while we sort through our prizes.’

The two great lumpish forms made their clink-clank way to the edge of the farm proper, disappearing beneath the darkness of the trees that edged it.