"Yeah," I said. "Let's go...."
The Baronial palace was a forty-story slab of concrete and glass that had been known in my days as the Hilton Garden East. We made it in three hours of groping across country in the dark, at the end of which I was puffing but still on my feet. We moved out from the cover of the trees and looked across a dip in the ground at the lights, incongruously cheerful in the ravaged valley.
"The gates are there—" the old man pointed—"guarded by the Great Troll."
"Wait a minute. I thought the Troll was the Bolo back at the Site."
"That's the Lesser Troll. This is the Great One."
I selected a few choice words and muttered them to myself. "It would have saved us some effort if you'd mentioned this Troll a little sooner, Old Timer. I'm afraid I don't have any spells that will knock out a Mark II, once it's got its dander up."
He shook his head. "It lies under enchantment. I remember the day when it came, throwing thunderbolts. Many men were killed. Then the Baron commanded it to stand at his gates to guard him."
"How long ago was this, Old Timer?"
He worked his lips over the question. "Long ago," he said finally. "Many winters."