Bridge Bargain

Agor unfurled the crinkled yellow parchment and grinned at the deed in his hands. For a troll, securing the most trafficked bridge in Rhodinia was a life’s ambition. It had cost him, but even the depleted coin purse tucked into his loincloth couldn’t have dampened his spirits today. 

For the first time, Agor gazed upon Krakow Bridge. Stretching across the rumbling Tibeth River, the bridge was comprised of four arches, divided by three piers of interlocking stone. The parapets were the tallest he had ever seen, perfect for concealing his ambush. Under the bridge was a broad grassy riverbank, an ideal encampment as the caravan wagons and citizens crossed overhead. 

From his vantage half a mile away, the bridge gleamed like a prized jewel against the rolling green hills of Rhodinia. He took a breath of warm summer air, scents of pine and stink flower filling his roomy nostrils. This was it. He had made it.

There would be a tremendous feast to honor him in the great halls of Trogdollon. Tales would be told of Agor the Conqueror, the youngest river troll to acquire the greatest bridge in Rhodinia. The others would be there: the city trolls of Trogdollon, the trolls of the forest and mountain, and his own kin: the river trolls.  

It was a hard life as a river troll; the constant plundering and looting was tiring. You were reliant on the quality of your bridge — how much traffic it had.

 Agor always remembered the hole where he had started: Lichen Bridge. He had shared it with three others, and the bridge had less than one crossing per day. It was called the spoils number, the number of crossings per day — common knowledge to the river trolls.

Lichen Bridge had a spoils number below one. It was terrible, and the quality of the crossings was appalling. The donkeys leading the wagons were thin and stringy, and the green stalk and potato were rotted and sour. The four trolls didn’t quite like the taste of farmer; it had a bitterness to it, tasting similar to the green stalk the farmers had cultivated. The trolls were always starving and they often talked of better days with better bridges.

Agor was impatient and unsatisfied. It was hard to get each troll alone, but after Agor managed to drown the three of his kin in the river, he boiled up their bodies under the bridge. Their skin was tough and leathery, and the meat lacked the juiciness of pork, but troll tasted better than farmer.

When he was the only troll under that bridge, there was extra donkey, green stalk, and potato to sell. He started taking short trips into the surrounding villages to peddle his wares. Offering a heavy discount to the farmers’ sale price helped overcome the villagers’ initial shock to trading with a troll. 

In time, Agor had enough gold to make a move. He sold Lichen Bridge to a fellow river troll, Pyloth.

“Zvoils number ov zvive,” Agor had told him. 

“But zis bridge iz zo remote,” Pyloth said. 

“Yu mus believe Pyloth. Agor iz friend. I do anzething fur friend.”

“Ow much doz yu want?”

“Yu givz me fortze gold, doz zree chickins, an da donkey, and Lichen iz yurz.”

Agor used the proceeds from the sale to partner with another troll, Gulof, and buy Magon Bridge with a spoils number of three. He failed to remember much of Magon Bridge, only the image of black blood draining into the grass after he slit Gulof’s throat in his sleep.

During his rise from bridge to bridge, Agor had lost count of the number of his kin he had lied to and murdered. He didn’t care, he never did. The only thing driving him forward was the sound of the drums of Trogdollon as he entered its halls, the chants of his kin screaming his name: Agor, Agor, Agor, Agor.

When he acquired Hyan Bridge, he had just turned eight. It was young for a river troll to have a bridge of Hyan's stature. There were seven crossings a day at Hyan, and Agor had the bridge to himself. 

The elder river trolls were taking notice. A few had stopped by at Hyan; they had come from Trogdollon.

Agor recalled the legendary Jowgan Gimroth, his drooping olive skin clinging to his aging frame.

"Keep zgoing Agor," he said, his voice like nails on stone, "one zay yu zwill be zgreat."

It was a magical day. Agor remembered the feeling that anything was possible. Maybe one day, he would become part of river troll folklore, just as Jowgan had. Maybe he would be even greater than Jowgan.

And then the opportunity of a lifetime arrived, rumbling down the road to the bridge.

***

Agor remembered the day with icy clarity. He was under Hyan Bridge when he heard the wheels of a wagon rolling in the loose dirt about a mile away. That was the nice thing about being a troll, your ears were highly sensitive; you could hear a citizen coming from a mile away, and they couldn’t hear you. 

Agor waited for the wagon to get onto the bridge, and then he set his trap. He swung himself from the riverbank onto the wooden planks of Hyan and blocked the wagon’s escape. 

He smiled with excitement when he saw there were two donkeys and a wagon full to the brim of food: fresh carrots, radishes, blue stalk, haunches of pork and cattle, and jars of preserves. The produce and meat were marketable, and the wagon had two donkeys — they always fetched a high price in the market if he decided not to eat them.

Although this wagon was strange; there were no guards to subdue. To protect its contents, most wagons on Hyan traveled with hired guards. They were always poor fighters, and Agor often made quick work of them. Another surprise was the wagon's driver — he appeared unperturbed by the ambush; most drivers were horrified at their first encounter with a troll.

“Why aren’t you the lucky one today,” the driver said, his face darkened by the shadow of his hood.

“I fink it iz yu who iz de unlucky one,” Agor grinned through twisted teeth.

“Perhaps. Or perhaps neither of us is lucky; perhaps this meeting was a stroke of fate.” His brown beard streaked with gray moved as he spoke. 

“Dis fate iz not real. Yu make yur own luck. An yu av crossed ze bridge ov Agor ze Conqueror. Now yu mus pay.”

“You can have this wagon, Agor, I offer it to you freely. Surely, it will heavy the weight of your coin purse. But I have another — perhaps more generous — proposal on offer.” 

“Yu av nofing do offer. I only zee what iz here.”

“Yes Agor, but the imagination is an incredible thing, isn’t it? You look like a young troll, and you have this bridge to yourself? Why you must be doing quite well for yourself.”

Agor felt his green cheeks turn red. “I am zoing OK I guez.”

“And how did you get here?”

“I work ard. Ze odder trolls ar lazy. Not Agor. Agor iz a conqueror. Agor wanz more.”

“Ah, you see, you have imagined a better life for yourself, and you have made it happen. And now, I am offering you an opportunity, an opportunity for more.”

Agor scratched his head with a long crooked nail. “What iz dis yu speak ov?”

The man leaned forward from his seat on the wagon. “What if I told you, you could have the greatest bridge in Rhodinia, all to yourself?”

“No pozzible. Men no own bridges. Onze trolls.”

“Ah, but you must use your imagination.” The man reached into his cloak and pulled out a yellowed scroll sealed with red wax. “I have here a deed, a deed to Krakow Bridge.”

Agor raised an eyebrow. “What iz dis deed?”

“A legal document, giving you sole ownership of the busiest bridge in the land. The spoils number is thirty.”

“Ow do yu no ov ze zvoils number?”

“I am a bridge dealer, my friend. Just like you. You could say I have dealt my fair share of bridges over the years. I know everything there is to know about a good bridge.”

“Yu will giv up ze greatest bridge in Rozinia?”

“I have no need for bridges. I have… other tastes. For the right price, it is yours.”

“Ow much doz yu want?”

“Gold is what I am after. I think a better question is how much do you have?”

“I will not giv yu all ov me gold. Ze price iz too zteep.”

“Fair enough. The next bridge I cross I am sure I will meet another troll. I am sure that he will want the greatest bridge in Rhodinia.”

Agor looked down at his four-toed feet and shuffled them on the wooden planks of the bridge.

“Yu zay it iz ze greatest bridge. I av erd ov dis Krakow Bridge.”

“Then you will know what is on offer.” The man lifted the scroll. “This gives you legal authority granted by King Balthenomew himself to the rights of ownership. You see the seal?”

The red wax seal was stamped with King Balthenomew’s royal sigil, a pine tree. 

Agor considered the offer. Giving up his gold pile was a hefty blow. It would take two years of looting at Hyan to build back his reserves. He didn’t know if he could trust the driver. On the other hand, to have sole ownership of Krakow at his age, he would be a legend in the stories of old. Agor thought of the great feasts of Trogdollon: the towering fires burning, glistening haunches of horse and boar dripping with juices, the young trolls gathering to hear the tales of Agor the Conqueror, greatest of the river trolls.

“Ow do I no yu ar zelling ze zruth?”

The man smiled, his thin lips visible through his thick beard. “You don’t. But what do you have to lose? I’ll let you keep Hyan Bridge. You can sell it, I know you are more than capable of that.”

Agor furrowed his olive-colored forehead. “An what ov ze wagon?”

The man laughed. “Mine? I keep it of course. How many do you think you will have when you own Krakow?”

Agor stood for a moment. He removed the coin purse from his loin cloth. It felt heavier in his hand. The scroll was visible in the man’s hand, the red wax seal staring back at him. He could see beyond that seal, could see the fires burning at Trogdollon, the trolls hoisting him, the deep rumble of chanting: Agor, Agor, Agor, Agor.

“Zvoils number ov zhirty,” Agor opened his coin purse and presented it to the driver, “Yu av a deal.” Agor smiled as the roaring chants continued to ring.

***

The Tibeth river rolled into verdant fields in the distance, isolated pine trees dotting the landscape like deep green droplets on a grass canvas. Agor was nearing Krakow bridge, and as he descended the grass slope to the riverbank, the road to the bridge faded from view.

It was a grand road that could fit twenty men across its width, and the regular traffic had made its dirt surface packed and solid. The road seemed deserted today, which Agor thought was strange, considering how bustling it was alleged to be.

When he reached the riverbank, he looked up to admire his new purchase. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, a golden trophy for a life well lived. Butterflies fluttered in his stomach. As he admired the high parapets and the stone piers, his gaze fell to the flat area under the bridge, where the water met the grass.

He had to take a step back when he saw the mob of moving bodies — there were trolls, lots of them.

***

The roaring fire crackled and hissed as it cast a dancing light under the stone arch of Krakow Bridge. On the grassy riverbank around the fire, the nineteen trolls sat while they roasted spits of donkey, grease from the meat dripping into the flames.

“So dis is ze last ov ze zonkey,” Gremith said, wisps of gray hair glinting in the firelight. “Afta dis, I don’t no.”

“Da man with da wagon, I ztill cannot believe it,” Falgoth said as he threw a rock into the fire with his tree trunk of an arm. “Zhe cheated us all.”

Agor stared into the flames, seething. He had been here for three days, and not a single wagon or citizen had crossed the bridge. He felt stupid, out-witted, and ashamed of himself. 

“Doez any ov us get hiz name?” Agor said.

He could hear the trolls shift in the grass as the Tibeth River rumbled beside them.

Gremith produced his yellowed scroll with a wrinkled hand and unfurled it. “Zwell, I mus admit, zhe iz clever.”

Falgoth wolfed down his spit of donkey. “I zwill crush em.”

“Falgoth, yu zwill never find em,” Gremith said.

Agor turned from the flames, his belly full of donkey, and stared at the under-surface of the bridge. In the flickering light, he could see a feast in the city of Trogdollon, tales being told around a great fire of Agor the Stupid and how he had lost it all on a fool’s gamble. He saw them laughing, all of them, the whole city as he walked with his head down, the taunts rising in a crescendo until it was the only thing he could hear. 

Through the hideous laughter, the sound of something whistling through the air cut the night. And then, a brutish scream, Falgoth’s scream.

An arrowhead was poking through his forehead, black blood flowing like sap from the wound. Falgoth reached for the arrow as he buckled to his knees, his strength failing as he keeled over to lay motionless in the grass.

Whooshing sounds of airborne projectiles filled the night. Agor heard the grunts of his kin as troll bodies flopped like rag dolls, arrows puncturing their leathery flesh.

He heard a troll’s scream, “Hunters! Troll Hunters!”

Agor dropped to the ground and he saw them. Cloaked and hooded, figures emerged from the darkness with bows and quivers, filing in like a swarm of insects, surrounding the trolls on both sides of the riverbank. 

As his companions dropped around him, Agor crawled towards his only escape: the river.

His heart pounded in his chest as arrows impaled the grass beside him. The Tibeth wasn’t far, if he could only make it, he may be able to break free from the attack.

He heard the unsheathing of swords and steel slicing into tissue as his comrades tumbled around him. Black blood spattered on the grass in front of him as Gremith hit the ground to his right, his wizened eyes rolling back in his ancient skull.

Agor crawled on, his limbs trembling as the battle roared behind him. He was almost to the river, its waters a beautiful turbulence of safety.

He was there, he could feel it.

As his hands met the water, he felt a boot clamp down on his back.

He spun himself over and felt a sharp poke below his chin. Looking down the shaft of a steel blade, he came face-to-face with a hunter, his grizzled brown beard streaked with grey, his eyes hidden by his hood’s shadow.

“So, we meet again my friend,” he smirked.

“Yu! Yu cheat!” Agor sputtered.

“And have you not? We get what we deserve, Agor. I believe this is a fitting end for you.”

“Ztop! Pleaze! I no want do die!”

“What of your friends? The ones you buried with your ambition? Did you give them mercy?”

“No, No I waz zstarved. I needed do.”

The hunter frowned, and he nudged the blade higher. Agor could feel the cold steel intensify against his flesh.

“We don’t need to do anything. There is always choice.”

“I… I…” Agor saw the hunter blur in a kaleidoscope of color as tears came.

Agor the Conqueror, he thought; Agor the Ambitious; Agor the Fool; Agor the Dead.

Agor didn’t know how long he wept, but the hunter just stood there, with his sword as steady as a bridge, the screams of trolls behind him, the sounds of slaughter filling the night.

The hunter spoke, “but, I have another - perhaps more generous - proposal on offer.” 

Agor felt the blade loosen under his chin.

“You are a lucky one today. You will get another choice, Agor. Now tell me, what will you choose to do?”

***

The wheels of his wagon rumbled along the dirt road as he came upon Bowdale Bridge. The gold coins erupting from Agor’s coin purse were hidden under his cloak. He had lost count of how many river trolls he had sold Krakow Bridge to; Captain Dunbain would be wanting numbers for the next ambush.

There's an old saying in Rhodinia: slavery resides under marble and gold.

He recalled the screams of his kin that night under the bridge, the sounds of swords burying their steel into troll flesh. That night haunted him. He had never forgotten it.

A sliver of a thought came to him: maybe he was cruel to continue this charade. Maybe he was in a prison of his own making.

And then, it was gone, his coin purse clinking the thought away into the summer air.

When he rolled across the bridge, a creature, green and gangly, flung itself over the parapet and landed in his path. His yellowed teeth emerged through grayed lips in a crooked grin.

Agor smiled back from his seat on the wagon, he could feel the wax seal on the scroll in his hand. He looked down upon the river troll blocking his path and spoke:

“Zwhy aren yu ze lucky one zoday.”