It was too much. There are some shocks the mind refuses.
I thought of the tree that had fallen and crushed the east wing. An elm that size was at least fifty to sixty years old—maybe older. And the only elm on the place had been a two-year sapling. I knew it well; I had planted it.
The date carved on the headboard was 1992. As nearly as I could judge another thirty-five years had passed since then at least. My shipmates—Banner, Day, Mallon—they were all dead, long ago. How had they died? The old man was too far gone to tell me anything useful. Most of my questions produced a shake of the head and a few rumbled words about charms, demons, spells, and the Baron.
"I don't believe in spells," I said. "And I'm not too sure I believe in this Baron. Who is he?"
"The Baron Trollmaster of Filly. He holds all this country—" the old man made a sweeping gesture with his arm—"all the way to Jersey."
"Why was he looking for me? What makes me important?"
"You came from the Forbidden Place. Everyone heard the cries of the Lesser Troll that stands guard over the treasure there. If the Baron can learn your secrets of power—"
"Troll, hell! That's nothing but a Bolo on automatic!"
"By any name every man dreads the monster. A man who walks in its shadow has much mana. But the others—the ones that run in a pack like dogs—would tear you to pieces for a demon if they could lay hands on you."
"You saw me back there. Why didn't you give me away? And why are you taking care of me now?"