The Fading Dream_ Thorn of Breland - Keith Baker [82]
The three surviving soldiers had surrounded the troll and were harrying it from all sides. It was an impressive display of skill; as soon as the beast turned its attention to one of the three, the other two would redouble their efforts, causing enough pain to let their companion back out of the troll’s reach. Impressive, yes, but futile; the troll’s power of regeneration healed the minor wounds mere seconds after they were made. And sooner or later, the troll would catch one of the men and crush him. Thorn was watching the savants.
Two broke from the panicked mob. The Vadalis woman drew a wand, leveling it at the raging troll. Unfortunately for her, Thorn also had a wand—the weapon she’d taken from the Orien guard. A thought sent the savant tumbling to the ground, every muscle frozen. Still, that gave an opening for an unlikely champion to dart forward—the old Jorasco healer. The gray-haired halfling laid his hand on the troll’s leg, and blue light burned along his palm, the radiance of a dragonmark. The Jorasco bloodlines carried the Mark of Healing, but his touch did anything but help. The effect on the troll was immediate and shocking. The beast dropped to the ground, its howls of rage fading to pitiful whimpers. It tried to push itself up, but it seemed to have lost all strength. Emboldened, the soldiers darted forward, thrusting with their blades. Before, the wounds from their weapons healed mere seconds after they were made, but black pus oozed from the new injuries, which seemed to spread instead of sealing, as if the troll’s regenerative powers were being turned against it.
If not for Thorn, the fight would have surely ended there. Thorn almost felt guilty; the halfling was barely the size of the troll’s head, and she had to admire the courage of an old man willing to grapple with the beast. But she had a mission to accomplish and no time for mercy. Steel flashed through the air, tearing through the little man’s flesh. Thorn had pierced a lung—not instantly lethal but certainly enough to take the fight out of an old halfling. Or so she thought. The little healer staggered, but he kept his grip tight on the troll’s leg. When Thorn pulled Steel back to her, the halfling reached back with his free hand and laid his palm across the bloody wound. There was another pulse of blue light.
He’s healing himself, she thought.
Thorn was amazed. A normal man would have been in shock within seconds, but the little healer wouldn’t fall. The troll still writhed beneath his grasp, barely able to move. One of the soldiers snatched the captain’s axe and raised it above his head. The runes began to glow, power building for a decapitating strike.
Axes it is, then. Replacing Steel in her glove, Thorn charged forward, calling out the long myrnaxe. She swung the axe as she ran, smashing the flat of the blade into the side of the halfling’s head. She wasn’t sure if it would kill him, but the sheer force of the blow knocked him away from the troll and left him crumpled on the floor. Reversing the weapon, she leaped over the troll, jabbing at the axeman with the silver spearhead. He jerked back but not fast enough; the point of her spear sank into his arm, and he dropped his weapon. Before he could recover, Thorn drove the haft of the spear into his throat, and he collapsed to the floor.
The troll rose to its feet, mottled flesh already healing. The surviving guards turned to flee, but the door was blocked, and the troll was upon them before they could shift the