“I see that,” said Will, then he dipped his head respectfully toward the troll. “If you taught Arrogan your language, who taught you ours?”
“Old wizard, long ago. He was Lanthel, first troll friend. ‘Gan is last troll friend.”
‘Gan, that must be short for Arrogan. “How long ago was this?” asked Will.
Clegg scratched his head. “Very long.”
“Lanthel wasn’t in favor of the scorched-earth policy back when they were driving back the troll hordes,” Arrogan informed him. “He made contact with Clegg and managed to convince the last tribe in our world to relocate voluntarily. Since then, the council maintained contact with them for diplomatic reasons. I was the last ambassador appointed before the Terabinian War for Independence.”
“You knew Lanthel?”
“No, that was over a thousand years before I was born. I just happened to be the last wizard who handled our contact with Muskeglun before—well, before everything went to hell,” explained the ring.
Will nodded, swallowing as he tried to comprehend what he was hearing. “So Clegg is somewhere around two thousand years old?”
“Who knows?” admitted Arrogan. “He was old before Lanthel first met him, supposedly, but whether that was fifty years or five thousand years, no one can say.”
Clegg smiled, showing a multitude of dark, stained teeth. “We don’t count many. The years mean little.” Lrmeg leaned in, making an odd series of sounds. The chieftain translated for Will, “Enough talk. Time for drink.”
Will produced the first butt of ale, causing it to appear atop the heavy wooden trunk section. The trolls didn’t bother tapping it the usual way. Lrmeg moved up beside the massive barrel and with one heavy fist knocked the top end into the keg, then pulled it out. Trolls began disappearing into their homes and emerging with large wooden bowls, which they dipped into the keg before pouring the contents into their mouths.
There was a tap on his shoulder, and Will looked over to see Clegg holding a small bowl by troll standards. “Drink,” ordered the troll chief.
Will did as he was told. He was so relieved to not be facing the loss of an arm or leg that he would have done almost anything just then. The bowl held something close to what a large human tankard might contain, so he drank it as speedily as he could. Clegg took the bowl, filled it, and gave it back to him a moment later.
“The drinking has started?” asked Arrogan.
Will swallowed another mouthful of the ale, which was quite good. “Yeah.”
“Good luck,” said the ring. “Enjoy the dancing and don’t worry too much about the food. You can take a blood-cleanse potion later.”
“Food?”
“They’ll want you to eat with them.”
“How bad is it?”
“They’re afraid of fire. You can guess what I mean,” said Arrogan. “Just be sure you don’t eat any troll. The stuff they hunt won’t kill you, but sometimes they get excited and someone rips off his own arm or a leg. If you eat troll flesh, you’ll wind up with more than an upset stomach.”
Will wrinkled his nose. “That’s revolting.” He didn’t say more, though, because one of the trolls let out a loud ‘whoop’ and snatched him up to sit on the massive creature’s shoulder. The crowd seemed to be cheering, so Will held his bowl up in the air and yelled with them.
Then he drank.
He didn’t have very much experience drinking, aside from a few minor occasions while he was in the army and one or two formal events in Cerria. During most of those times, he had been more concerned with keeping a clear head or babysitting one of his squad mates. This time he had only himself, and the trolls insisted that he drink as much as his stomach would hold.
When he got too full and belched up a large mouthful of foam, they laughed and cheered. Things got considerably more chaotic after that.
Drums were brought out, and the trolls began to dance. The music was strangely compelling, particularly since it was different than anything Will had ever heard before. There were no strings or horns, only drums, so the music consisted entirely of a variety of percussive beats that shook his bones and vibrated through his chest. Before long, he was up and dancing with the trolls, while the world swirled dizzily around him.
When they finally brought in the food, Will was drunk beyond his wildest imaginings. The feast consisted of a large reptile some twenty feet in length. He’d never seen anything like it, but the size, short legs, and long, sinuous tail suggested the beast was semi-aquatic. If he’d been in his right mind, he would have decided he was glad that he hadn’t gone near the lake. As it was, he was busy watching the trolls rip the massive reptile apart, exposing its guts and flesh, which they greedily stuffed into their mouths.
Someone handed him a handful of something bloody. Will held it for ten or fifteen seconds, hoping the giver would move on, but the troll simply stared at him, then barked and pointed at his mouth.
Well, shit, he thought blearily. Steeling himself, he shoved the bloody gobbet of flesh into his mouth and chewed the rubbery meat. It was an effort to keep from gagging, but being drunk seemed to help. Eventually he swallowed, and the trolls began cheering for him again.
He smiled at the troll who had fed him, whereupon the seven-foot humanoid promptly grinned back before vomiting. A cascade of foul-smelling fluid rained down on Will’s head, and he reciprocated by gagging and retching up the contents of his own stomach.
Lrmeg appeared then, yelling something at the troll who had vomited. He pointed at the empty barrel, and Will guessed that he was remanding the troll for not vomiting into the container so it could be saved. That’s right, Will reminded himself. They only have one orifice, so they piss and shit from their mouths. He looked down at himself, covered in rancid troll bile, and promptly threw up again.
Thankfully, he passed out soon after.
He awoke sometime later, as someone shook his shoulder. Opening his eyes, he saw a creature of nightmare staring down at him. He almost screamed before recognizing it as Clegg. “Barrel full. Time to go,” said the troll in what was probably a gentle tone.
Sitting up, Will’s stomach lurched, and his head began to pound. “Oh,” he groaned. He’d had a few minor hangovers in the past, but this was an entirely new level of misery. Reaching up, he rubbed at his temples, only to find that his hair was stiff and sort of crunchy to the touch. Examining himself, he realized he was still covered in troll vomit, or piss, whichever way one preferred to label it. The disgusting fluids had dried in his hair and on his clothes while he slept.
Thankfully, he couldn’t smell it, or much of anything else for that matter. His nose had been overwhelmed by the constant onslaught of troll stench and had given up at some point while he slept, but he had no doubt he probably smelled like something that had been retrieved from a cesspit.