[Primrose Bolger]

A little north of the Weather Hills . . .

‘Nay, brother! It’s the little ones what goes on the bottom and then them bigger pieces. And step back a bit. That scraggly old wolf skin of yours is about to catch fire!’

Grimm watched as Broga raised his great ham fist to his temple and knuckled the coarse patch of hair there in a worried manner, trying to recollect the rudiments of making a small cooking fire. Grimm wheezed out a resigned sigh, standing up from the log he’d rolled near for a seat, and went over to help his brother. ‘Here, now. Let me get this going. You ready them rabbits we trapped.’

Broga spitted the stringer of unfortunate hares, skinned and gutted earlier, on two long, thin metal poles. Four to spit, with some fat taters pushed in between them. 'Kay-bobs' they called them, remembering the word one of those Southron fellows had used. Last word, he’d used, in fact, as Broga had bashed him soundly on the skull just after Grimm had inquired what the man called that spitted meat he was holding. Very tasty, they were . . . those first kay-bobs . . .

‘Wish we had sumthin else to eat, brother,’ grumbled Broga, threading the last of the rabbits on the second spit and securing it with a fist sized tater. ‘Rabbits yesterday. Rabbits today. And don’t it just look like rabbits tomorrer.’

Grimm nodded, his beady eyes taking in the wicker cage where their hunting ferret lay curled up on some old rags - a rabbit hindquarter clutched in his paws; his sharp little teeth stripping the meet from the bones; his hind teeth and strong jaws cracking open the bones as he sucked the marrow. ‘Think we might learn him to fetch chickens for us,’ said Broga, breaking in on his brother’s perusal their little companion. The answer to that question was cut short as Grimm’s attention was caught by the slow approach of two other Trolls.

‘Best put on some extra taters,’ he muttered low to his brother. ‘Here comes old Big Nose and his shadow . . .’