"But it's a dangerous weapon, Zealan," Lambart said, scratching his head slowly and thoughtfully. He lowered his voice to an awed whisper. "It's a sword!" Lambart gazed down at the gleaming blade and shuddered. His moon face showed grave concern, even as he reached into his dirty peasant's cloak and picked a windblown leaf from his chest hair.

"I know what it is," said Zealan. "I'm not an idiot like you. But we can't just leave it here by the roadside. What if some lad or lass were to stumble upon it?" He blew his nose into a dirty handkerchief and gave his brother a look that was supposed to show how much more intelligent he was than the oversized farm boy. His eyes watered from allergies, and his gaunt, pimpled face burned fiery red from the summer sun.

Lambart glared down at Zealan with his own superior look. Zealan was three year’s older, yet Lambart was larger and stronger. "But it's a sword! What would father think of us messing around with something like that? Maybe we should just hide it for now, and . . . and tell someone about it. "

Zealan sighed. "Hide it where? Huh?"

Lambart glanced about. Open grassland greeted his blue eyes, dotted with only a few oaks here and there. Forest and mountain were hazy in the distance on this fine summer day. "I don't know. In the grass somewhere."

"We could sell it," Zealan said. "It's a well-crafted blade. Probably.” He shrugged. “Looks nice, anyway. We could probably get something good for it. It would be worth more than, well, maybe a day of work, at least. Maybe a week of work, for that matter. We're taking it!"

"Fine," muttered Lambart, shaking his big head. "Then you carry it. I won't touch that thing."

Zealan reached for the sword and then hesitated. He gulped. "Don't tell Father, Lambart. You better promise me!"

"I won't," Lambart said. "But we split what it's worth. Right?"

Zealan's mouth gaped open, showing a good many rotten teeth despite the fact that he was only twenty-two years old. "I'm your brother, Lambart! Did you think I'd hog all the profit for myself?"

"Just making sure," Lambart replied, remembering how many times Zealan had hogged things over the years. "Because," he added in a whisper, "you're a hog if ever a hog was. And ain’t that the truth!"

"What?" Zealan said, balling up his bony fist. "What was that? You might outweigh me by fifty pounds, you giant oaf, but I can still knock the stuffing out of you right and proper!"

"Let's get going," Lambart said, shuffling away and picking up two baskets of potatoes.

"Aren't you going to grab a basket of my taters too?" Zealan asked. "I can't carry this sword and two baskets at the same time."

"You wanted that thing, not me," Lambart said grimly. "Carry your own taters, Zealan."

"Just take one of my baskets," Zealan said. "Come on now. I'll get the other. Or I'm not splitting the money with you."

Lambart sighed and hooked a third basket over his brawny arm. It was an awkward arrangement, with potatoes threatening to fall at the slightest misstep.

"Now I'm gonna lose a tater or two, gosh dang it!"

"Quit your complaining," Zealan said. "We got us a fine sword to sell."

The two brothers trudged onward along the trail. A pleasant breeze ruffled the grass and stirred their excitement. They wondered what lay in store.

"What if someone meets us on the road," asked Lambart, "and claims it's theirs. Could easily happen."

"What if they do?" Zealan replied. "They'll have to prove it. I'm not going to hand over something as valuable as this sword just because someone claims they own it. Besides, the real owner is probably long gone."

"What if we're robbed like usual?" Lambart asked. "The thieves might think we brought the sword to use against them. Might make them mad.”

Zealan paused in stride. "Hmm . . . that's true. I didn't think of that." His bushy eyebrows furrowed and he bit his lip, as if thinking hard.

Moments drifted by with the breeze.

"Well?" Lambart demanded.

“We can leave the road and take another route,” said Zealan. Then he sighed. “No, that won’t do us any good. Too much open grassland out here. They’d spot us anyway. Hmm . . . Maybe we could offer them the sword. They'd be happy to get it, instead of just taters and copper pieces like all the other times they robbed us."

Lambart nodded. "I guess that's a good plan. We can get rid of that thing, and probably keep our taters. I hate it when I lose my taters to those doggone bandits!"

They continued on. The sun passed deeper into the afternoon sky, and it wasn't long before the brothers ran into two thieves. The robbers hid behind a huge, lone oak tree waiting for unwary travelers. As the brothers passed by, the robbers leapt out and brandished clubs. They were big, rugged-looking men with weathered, bearded faces. One towered over the brothers, nearly seven feet tall, while the other, much shorter, displayed a fat gut that merrily bounced free from his open tunic.

"Give over your goods!" the tall man ordered.

"Do it, or we'll club you dead," the fat one added.

"Now hold on, Parn," Zealan said, addressing the tall one. "Can't you give us a break? All we have are these taters." Displaying unusually quick thinking and reflexes, Zealan hid the sword behind his back even as the thieves jumped from hiding.

The fat thief eyed the potatoes. "Those will do nice enough."

Lambart glowered at him. "We worked hard to pick these taters, Fargo. You just keep your dirty hands off them."

Fargo spat on the ground. "Why should we, Lambart? We've got to make a living just like you. You want us to starve?"

Lambart sneered. "You're a long way from starving."

"I'll brain you for talk like that!" Fargo waved his club.

"Now hold on," Zealan said. "You can have the taters. And we'll even give up our copper. There's no need to get angry."

"Now you're talking some sense," Parn said, grinning broadly. His head seemed as long as a stovepipe. "Just give us half of what you got, Zealan, like usual. Oh, but there's one more thing. We want that sword you're hiding, too."

Zealan lowered his gaze. "You're robbing us blind! This isn't right. Why don't you just take everything, and then we can starve, and Father too!"

"Maybe we ought to," Fargo said. "But we're not that cruel. Tell you what, you can give us the sword and half of your taters. You can keep the other half. That's a fair deal!"

"Maybe we ought to just take that sword and . . . " Lambart gulped, letting his words trail off. "Um, maybe not, now that I think about it."

Fargo took a step closer. "What was that, Lambart? A threat?"

"No, no threat," Lambart stammered. He cleared his throat. "I was just going to say we should take that sword and, you know, let you have it."

"Let us have it?" Fargo mused. "I thought so."

"We'll let you have it alright!" Zealan said. "You can bet on it." A strange, wild look had sprung to life his eyes, like that of a caged animal at last glimpsing an exit.

Parn's eyes narrowed. "Well, okay then," he said slowly. "So, um, why don't you let us have . . . " He swallowed. "Why don't you hand it over?"

"Sure," said Zealan. He held the sword in front of him, the sharp blade aimed straight at Parn. "Here you go."

"Zealan, what are you doing?" Lambart whispered.

"Letting him have it!" Zealan replied.

"Fargo, take the sword," Parn said nervously.

"I always carry a club," Fargo said. "I don't need a stinking sword. Might slip and slice my leg off or something. You take it." Fargo backed up a step.

Fargo and Parn stood frozen, staring at the sword pointing at Parn’s heart.

"Who wants a sword anyway?" Parn said suddenly. "A club is easier to use, and like Fargo says, you might slip and lose your doggone leg or something." He chuckled. "I'll give you boys a break this time."

Lambart sighed. "Thanks a bundle!"

"You're welcome," Parn said, nodding. "But next time I might not be so generous."

"Could we have a couple taters?" Fargo said.

"Sure," said Zealan. "All you had to do was ask."

Lambart tossed a few potatoes to them, which Fargo stuffed in his pockets.

"Hey, see you fellows around," Parn said, smiling.

"Yeah, sure," Lambart said. "You fellows have a good day."

Exchanging friendly, bewildered looks, the four men parted ways.

Zealan and Lambart hurried on without looking back, hoping the thieves wouldn't come to their senses and chase after them.

"What was that all about?" said Lambart, wiping sweat from his brow. "It looked as if you were gonna go down fighting."

Zealan shrugged. "I don't know what came over me. I just didn't want to give up the sword. I guess I was willing to fight for it alright."

Lambart shuddered. "I knew it. That thing's trouble, Zealan. I'm telling you, trouble all the way! Father always said we were cowardly. Now all of a sudden you're acting like some . . . well, like some bold fellow or something. Ain’t the way things are supposed to be. You should just throw that sword in the grass and be done with it."

"We're only a few hours from town," said Zealan. "Once we get there we can sell or trade it. Think of how much money we'll have!"

"Yeah," said Lambart, "and just how much is that?"

Zealan frowned. "A lot, I suppose. More than these taters will fetch us, most

likely." He raised his arms in exasperation, and lost a potato. "How in the world

would I know? I've never sold a sword before."

"I'm telling you," said Lambart, "trouble is waiting just around the corner."

Zealan grinned. “The road is pretty straight out here, Lambart.”

“I didn’t mean it lit . . . litter-rarely,” said Lambart. He sighed. “I don’t know if that’s the word, but you know doggone well what I mean.”

The brothers didn't have to round a corner to find trouble. They spotted it approaching in the form of a ragged old bent-backed farmer clutching his side. He seemed in great pain, wincing with each step. His cloak was torn and bloody, his weathered face twisted in a grimace. He stopped before them, huffing and rasping. The brothers didn't know him by name, though they'd seen him before.

"You're the Brimwald boys, right?" he asked.

"That's right," said Zealan. "What happened to you?"

"Troll attacked me," the farmer said. "Took my copper and broke my ribs. It hit me so hard I guess it thought it had killed me."

"Troll?" Lambart dropped his potatoes and they tumbled this way and that. "Are you sure?"

The farmer peered at him from beneath a raised eyebrow. "Of course I'm sure. I got a close enough look at it."

"But there hasn't been a troll in these parts since . . . " Zealan contemplated for a moment. "Since who knows when?"

"There is now," said the farmer. "My name's Gorb Molskin, and Molskins never lie. If I tell you I saw it, you better believe it's the truth." He showed them a bloody gash in his side. "You think I did this to myself, you stupid oaf?"

"But what could it possibly want?" said Zealan.

"That's a good question," Gorb said. "I'd guess it's probably after treasure. Maybe something that was stolen from it. Like that sword you're carrying."

"Wha . . . what?" Zealan gulped. "You mean . . . "

Gorb shrugged. "Oh, I don't know. I was just speculating."

"What will you do now?" asked Lambart.

"I know a healer not far from here," Gorb said. "He'll fix me up best he can. Meanwhile, you boys better head back home."

The brothers nodded.

Gorb sat down, rubbing his side. "Horrible," he whispered. "I guess I'm not so strong as I once thought. Nearly took my sanity."

Their faces pale, the brothers glanced at each other, and then back at Gorb. "You sure we can't help you somehow?" Zealan said.

Gorb shook his head and groaned. "Never could have imagined a thing like that. It was something I'll never forget. Flesh, all flesh sagging and reeking. Carried a bag of flesh over its shoulder, but I think the bag was part of it, like a huge nasty growth. Made me want to kill it, to just beat it into nothing. But of course it was too strong for me. It just wasn't right, boys. A thing like that shouldn't exist!"

Gorb began to sob. "I'll never recover from this."

The brothers gazed at him in pity.

Gorb wiped his eyes and staggered up. "Good luck," he said, and shuffled off in the direction the brothers had come from. "Don't go and get yourselves killed, boys!" he called back without turning his head.

Lambart cleared his throat. "Guess that settles it. We head back home and forget going to town. I ain’t going anywhere near a troll."

Zealan looked away thoughtfully, off into the grassland. "We're not far from town, Lambart. And who says that farmer was telling the truth? It could have been a bear that attacked him, or some other creature. If it had been a troll, he'd surely be dead. A troll wouldn't let someone escape. Think about it."

Lambart thought about it, and it took awhile. "I guess that's true, Zealan," he finally said. "But why take the chance? If it's a troll, we could end up dead. This is serious!"

Zealan studied the sword. "It looks well crafted, but so plain," he said in a whisper, his eyes gleaming. "It's sure to fetch a solid price, but would a troll really be interested in this simple weapon? A plain wooden handle with no gems; a smooth blade with no runes. But look how that blade shines like fine silver, which just a hint of blue. Do you see that blue glow . . . like magic!"

Lambart shuddered. "I don't know, and I don't care to find out. You're talking strange, Zealan. Your . . . your doggone eyes! They shine like fire!"

"Anyways," Zealan said, "I'm going on into town."

Lambart opened his mouth to protest, and then, seeing the determined look on Zealan's face, he closed it. He sighed helplessly. "Why?"

"I have to," Zealan said. "I'd be less than a man if I didn't, and so would you. We're both grown men, Lambart--but look at us. We're pitiful. Father works us to the bone, and thieves rob us whenever they care to and laugh at us in the meantime. No woman will look twice at us. What do we have in life? We'll be poor farmers until our dying day, a couple of fools who missed their chance at greatness."

"Greatness?" Lambart shook his head in utter bafflement. "Selling a sword won't make us great. And if you're thinking of taking on that troll, that's just stupid. Besides, killing a troll wouldn't make us great, neither. I think you've lost your wits, my brother. I really do."

"I don't think so," said Zealan. "The chance I'm talking about can only come to us when we embrace our gosh dang destiny, when we quit lying to ourselves! We found this sword for a reason. It was the old hand of fate, Lambart. We have to continue on and see where it leads us. This could be our one big chance in life!"

Lambart considered that for a moment, then muttered a curse. "This ain’t fate. We found a sword someone lost by the road. That's it. Nothing more."

"But what about the troll?" Zealan said. "This is too much of a co . . . co . . . in . . . ci . . . dunce . . . I think that's the word. Like when something happens by more than just chance. Something big is in the works here. I'll go on without you if I have to."

Lambart's gaze turned pleading, his moon face awash with desperation. "Don't do this, Zealan. Please! I don't want to die at my age. I've never even kissed a gal. I've got a lot of living to do. A whole lot. Don't take that away from me!"

Zealan sneered. "You'll never know what it means to truly live, Lambart, if you go back home now. I'm darn certain of that. You'll live out your life as nothing but a slave to hard work, fit only for picking taters and planting seeds."

"Why are you saying these things?" Lambart asked, his voice shaky with emotion. “What's gotten into you? I think that sword must be cursed!"

"No, it ain’t," Zealan said. "If anything, it's blessed. You with me on this?"

"Just to town," Lambart said, knowing he couldn't change Zealan's mind. "We'll hurry there and sell our stuff. Then we'll hurry back."

"Just to town," Zealan agreed. "Straight there and back again."

"I don't want to do this," Lambart said. "Why can't we just go home?"

"Straight to town and back," Zealan said. "We already agreed." With that, he strode on along the road. "The shortest distance between two points is a straight curve, so they say. No bent curves for us, my brother! It’s straight all the way! Anyways, think about and it will make sense."

Lambart hesitated, then groaned in frustration. "I don't like this one bit!" he bellowed, starting after his brother. "This is the stupidest doggone thing we've ever done. And we've done some stupid things in our time."

Zealan ignored him, his stride brisk with purpose.

A potato fell. Lambart ignored it, too overcome with dread to stop and retrieve it. "That tater is smarter than we are," he muttered. "It's staying put."

As the afternoon slipped past, the day's beauty took on a cold, sinister look. Clouds would occasionally drift in front of the sun and shadows would fall across the grassland. Lambart muttered helplessly to himself, while glancing about constantly for the troll. Zealan seemed to lose confidence, at times pausing to look around uncertainly, but nevertheless he trudged onward.

Mid-afternoon they discovered a ransacked wagon. It was in the tall grass by the roadside, overturned and broken in two. Barrels and crates lay in splinters, with wine soaking the wood like blood.

The brothers gulped.

"The troll must have done this!" Lambart whispered. "Let's go back!"

Zealan's lower lip quivered, and for a moment he said nothing. He glanced at the sword, and then at his brother. "We can't," he said quietly. "Whoever was with this wagon might need our help. We have to save them."

"They're probably dead," Lambart said. "Please, Zealan. Let's get out of here." He set his potatoes down, ready to flee.

"Father didn't raise no cowards," Zealan said. "No matter what he says to the contrary." He pointed to where the grass was crushed. "There's a big trail for us to follow. It leads to those rocks out there. Looks like the troll was dragging something or someone. Maybe a couple folks."

Lambart was nearly sobbing. "Come on, Zealan. It could come back at any time. Don't do this to me!"

"I'm not doing anything to you," Zealan said. "Go home if you want to. I'm scared too, Lambart. I'm so scared my belly feels like it's full of boiling taters. But this is serious business. We need to help those folks."

Lambart studied his brother. Zealan's eyes were big and round. His knuckles were white as he gripped the sword. It seemed only determination held him together. Lambart lowered his gaze in shame.

Zealan dropped his potatoes and clutched the sword with both hands. "Follow me if you dare, my brother. But this is our destiny. This is why we found the sword!"

"Nonsense," a deep voice called out.

Lambart screamed and threw up his arms. Zealan cried out and swung the blade in a random direction, nearly slicing his brother's neck.

A huge form had been lying silent in the grass, and now it rose up about ten yards away from them. The troll was a mass of sagging flesh that looked as if it had been folded together, leaving deep creases--with one large fold hanging from his left shoulder like a massive tumor. Gnarled bone chips like awkward toenails covered his toes, and ridges of bone crisscrossed his torso. His arms were longer than his body, his misshapen, bony hands dragging in the grass. His head was a pumpkin-shaped abomination of oozing flesh, with two round dark eyes like mud pools, and a nose so twisted and ugly a hag would have sawed it off her face. His mouth was dark pit of decay and drool, large enough to engulf a human thigh.

Lambart sat down, squashing some potatoes, and cried.

The sword slipped in Zealan's hand, its tip sticking in another unfortunate potato. His legs wobbled beneath him.

The troll grinned. "You boys don't look too happy to see me, and I haven't yet done a thing to you. The injustice of it all."

"Please!" Lambart sobbed. "Please don't hurt us, big fellow!"

"Hurt you?" the troll mused. "But your friend fancies himself a knight of some sort, a troll slayer perhaps. Are you a troll slayer, young man?"

"Who? Me?" Zealan shook his head vigorously. "I just happened to find this sword and I don't even know how to use it! I've never killed anything in my life. Except bugs, that is. Well, a few farm animals too. And a couple of birds with my slingshot when I was younger. And deer, too. But nothing else!"

The troll chuckled. "That's good news. I'll just be taking that sword and a couple of those potatoes to munch on. Then I'll be moving along. I've got a few travelers tied up in those rocks over there, and I'm getting hungry."

"My sword?" Zealan said. "You want my sword?"

The troll nodded. "None other."

Zealan's eyes narrowed with sudden focus. "I can't let you kill them!" He was shaking so hard it seemed as if a bolt of lightning propped him up, but he managed to raise the sword until the potato (which was still stuck on the tip) pointed at the troll's chest. He struggled to speak for a moment before managing to loosen up his throat muscles. "I'll kill you, foul beast, if I have to!"

The troll growled and took a few steps forward. He raised one impossibly long arm high into the air, his muddy eyes gleaming with malice. Then he lashed out and swiped the potato off the end of the blade. He tossed the vegetable into his mouth and swallowed it whole. "Not bad," he said.

Zealan let out a whimper of shock and relief.

Lambart's face lit up with hope. Frantically he began tossing potatoes toward the troll, including the ones he had smashed beneath his rear. "Have them all, your lordship!" he cried. "We can even go get you some more of them!"

"I thank you for your hospitality," the troll said, munching them down. "But now I crave something a bit more juicy than potatoes, if you get my meaning. Actually, you two will do nicely. Follow me to the rocks over there and I'll put you to work. You can keep your sword."

The brothers made no move, except violent shaking.

The troll sighed. He swiped them up, one in each hand, and carried them to the rocks. It was a dreadful sight--two brothers, heads bobbing and mouth's gaped open in horror, howling with all the wind they could muster. Zealan hacked the troll's leg with his sword, but his blows were so weak--and the troll’s skin so thick and tough--the creature didn't seem to feel it.

Once amid the rocks, which were large enough to conceal them from anyone passing by on the road, the troll sat them down. Two young men were bound with ropes. They were dressed like royalty. On the ground near them were swords, daggers, and bows, as well as some fancy goods and treasure.

The men, handsome and strong, glared at the troll with hatred. One of them, a blond fellow and the more nicely dressed of the two, spat in the creature's direction. The troll seized his curly golden locks and growled.

"Better watch yourself, Prince Leedan," the troll warned. "I might just toy with you a bit before dinner, and I assure you it won’t be enjoyable!"

"You better let go of me, you filthy beast!" the prince said. "When my father finds out what you've done, he'll kill every troll in the land in retribution."

The other young man strained at his ropes. He was not as fair as the prince, but his shoulders were broader and his arms thicker. "Leave him alone!" he roared. "Touch my cousin again and I'll kill you!"

The troll released the prince and turned to Lambart and Zealan. "These two attacked me for no good reason. They shot at me with arrows. What do you think I should do with them?"

Zealan raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "They attacked you?"

The troll nodded. "I was just walking along the road, minding my own business, and they happened by and shot at me. So naturally I defended myself. Since they committed a crime, I've tied them up while I figure out what to do with them."

"But you hurt that farmer," Lambart said.

The troll nodded. "He attacked me first, too, with a pitchfork of all things! How clichéd can you get? Farmers with pitchforks assaulting trolls." He sighed. "Nothing ever seems to change. Anyway, I had to send him a firm message. I think I did just that!"

Lambart and Zealan shuddered.

"Are you saying you don't eat people?" Lambart asked.

"I mostly eat vegetables," said the troll. "And maybe a few grubs and worms. Not to mention small animals such as rodents. Well, deer too if I can catch them. Okay, so there were those four thieves, but that was quite some time ago."

"Then you'll let us go?" Zealan said, daring not to breathe.

"Of course," said the troll. "I have no reason to deny you your freedom. But what shall I do with these two? They tried to murder me."

"You're just a godforsaken troll!" Prince Leedan cried. "Of course we tried to kill you. And if you let us loose, we'll finish the job."

"You're filth!" the prince's cousin pointed out. "Pure filth!"

The troll sighed. "I'm trying to send a message here. Trolls should have the same rights as everyone else. I should be able to walk in the sunlight and enjoy the protection of the law. My looks or smell shouldn’t matter. Or my inability to fully contain my bodily fluids."

"I agree," Zealan said. "But these two are royal folks. And, well, you're a troll. I doubt anyone would side with you."

"Sadly, I believe you speak the truth," the troll said. "But I shall be bigger in heart and spirit than these rogues. I shall let you men decide if these two, being of your kind, are worthy to live, or if they deserve to meet a different fate." He licked his lips.

"Save us!" Prince Leedan said. "You can't let us become food for that monster. We'll give you fame and fortune, all you can handle!"

"Let them live, troll," Zealan said. "You'll feel better for it."

"Let them live!" Lambart echoed excitedly, as if he could already taste the sweet brew known as fame and fortune.

"Done," the troll said. "And I'll leave the goods, too." He smiled at Lambart and Zealan. "You've just proven to me that there is hope for trolls; one day we may be able to walk in the sunlight without fear. It’s a good day indeed!" With that, the troll slapped the prince and his cousin hard enough to rattle their teeth, made a rude gesture at them, spat on them, and then walked away whistling a merry tune.

Springing into action, Zealan cut the men's ropes with his sword and freed them. Then he and Lambart waited eagerly.

The prince and his cousin, having recovered their wits, hurriedly stuffed their cloaks with the most precious bits of treasure. Then Prince Leedan pointed at the sword. "That one is my mine. It fell off our wagon.”

Zealan and Lambart stared in disbelief. "We just saved you," Zealan said. "What about that talk of fame and fortune?"

"We'll put in a good word for you," the prince said. "Now hand over the sword. It is very old and quite valuable."

"I'll do no such thing!" Zealan said. "We're at least keeping this weapon."

The prince and his cousin picked up swords. "I hate to do this," the prince said. "But hand it over right now or we'll run you through."

"Back stabbers!" Lambart cried. "Don't do it, Zealan!"

With a smile of contempt, Prince Leedan lunged forward and knocked the sword from Zealan's hand. It flipped up into the air and the prince smoothly caught it. Now facing two blades unarmed, Zealan backed away.

Leedan nodded to his cousin and, swiping up any remaining valuables, they headed back to the road.

Lambart and Zealan gazed at their feet. They not only had lost their sword and their potatoes, but the prince and his cousin had managed to grab anything of significant value. The day had been an utter failure.

"This is our destiny?" Zealan muttered bitterly. "What a waste!"

With heads bowed, they trudged out to the road.

"Let's go home," Lambart whispered, and they started off.

The afternoon slipped drearily toward evening.

"Hold on," a deep voice said, as the troll once again arose from the grass. He was holding the sword. "You can't leave this behind!"

"How did you get that?" Zealan said. "The prince took it."

"And I took it back," the troll said. “He doesn’t deserve it. I believe there's something quite special about it. It seems much more appropriate in your hands than those of that snobby prince. It's actually made of lake silver, which is a rare metal more valuable then gold. I’m guessing gnomes forged this blade--and their weapons always hold a fiery magic that warms the blood with courage. Kind of like whiskey or what have you, I guess." He tossed the sword to Zealan and winked. "Don't sell it, young man. It wouldn't be right."

With that, the troll headed off through the grass.

The brothers laughed with delight.

"I should never have doubted you, Zealan," Lambart said. "You're a brave fellow indeed. Soon father will realize that too. Now let me hold that sword. You've had it all this time."

Zealan nodded, and handed it over. "I know what our destiny is now, Lambart. I think I've figured it all out."

"So have I!" Lambart said gleefully. "We'll take this sword, go on adventures, and gain fame and fortune. Right?"

"Not exactly," Zealan said. "I have a different plan in mind. We'll take it on into town, sell it to a rich merchant, and buy up a nice little tavern. We'll persuade father to sell the farm, and we'll never do backbreaking work again."

"But what about adventuring and the pursuit of glory?" Lambart asked.

"What about ale and women?" Zealan replied.

Lambart thought it over, for about two seconds.

"Our tavern awaits us, brother. Lead the way."