Sky Over Mountain

James Callan is author of five books, including Old Sorcery, a hilarious homage to classic fantasy to be released by The Arcanist: Fantasy Publishing. The book is coming first to Kickstarter in February 2026.

Under the mountain, known to the trolls who lived in her caverns as Cairn, winter was held at bay. In the cavernous network worming through Cairn’s rocky heart, the temperature remained constant, no matter the season. For trolls, with hides as thick as an ox’s, the near-freezing atmosphere was favorable to their hardy constitution.

Not unlike the caves within Cairn, Hakon, the clan’s chieftain, was neither warm nor cold. He was stern, but fair, and his mood, like the innards of the mountain, seemed held at a constant. Such was his stoicism when he approached Noma, an elderly troll who awaited what all trolls—all living beings—must one day face...

Death.

“Fate catches us all.” Hakon announced, his voice as deep as the roots of Cairn.

Noma faced her leader, surprised by her own sense of calm. “Yet our custom is to turn round and confront it. Must we rush to our deaths?”

Hakon laid a huge hand on Noma’s shoulder, and though he was capable of crushing rocks into dust, he offered only the gentlest of squeezes. It was a rare gesture of comfort coming from a chieftain, typically short on affection. Even so, Hakon did not extend his compassion to the lengths of lengthening her life. Her time had come.

“How old are you, Noma?”

“One thousand and twenty.”

“One thousand and twenty,” Hakon echoed. “A millennium, and more.” He removed his hand from Noma’s shoulder. “Tell me, old one, is one thousand years what you would call rushing to your death? How many more decades would it take to satiate your soul? How many more years must you stoop under the ceiling of Cairn?” Hakon shifted his stance to stand directly in front of Noma. “Another decade will do nothing to alter your fate. Another year is a blink of a troll’s eye, and Cairn will hover above you throughout. The mountain demands it of you, Noma. You must climb to her summit and become one with the sky.”

It was the clan’s ritual, a rite of passage, an elder troll’s expedition to death. There was no fixed age when a troll reached their end, but every troll must one day face their duty. Once the spirit ripens, a troll’s eyes change from green to gold, and on this day, fate intervenes, and a troll’s story comes to an end.

Once the centuries fall away like autumn leaves, when the very marrow at a troll’s core changes, when, deep from within, a beckoning song emanates from her soul, the final hymn in her story, a troll must face her fate and climb to her death atop the mountain that had granted her life for many years. Upon the summit, where exposure is fatal even to the stern constitution of trolls, an elder will find her place among the thousands who have come before her. On top of Cairn, on top of the world, she will make her final rest. Among her brethren, she too shall become part of the sky that watches over the mountain.

Once more, Hakon placed his hand on Noma’s shoulder. His other hand rested on the hilt of his hammer. His grip was gentle enough, but something in it seemed to speak of urgency, some underlying threat. Hakon leaned in close, looking into Noma’s bright, golden eyes.

“Do you deny your fate?” He asked her. “Tell me, Noma, do you falter?”

Noma looked into her chieftain’s moss-green eyes and saw, reflected in their luster, a youthful vibrancy she knew had departed from her own.

“I do not deny my fate, Chief Hakon.” Noma turned away from her leader to face the open maw of Cairn, to leave its shelter which she had known for over a millennium. “I do not falter,” she announced, and with her back to Hakon, Noma ventured out into the open world.

*

From the fringes of the forest, two men observed the foothills of a mountain they called Tor. In silence, they probed the snowfall with focused gazes, following the ascent of a lone troll who had embarked upon a journey to a place the humans had come to call the “eternal summit.”

“I don’t understand,” Halbert whispered to Ogden, his clan leader and the wisest man among his people. “Why do they summit the mountain? Why do the trolls climb Tor when they grow old?”

“They call it Cairn.”

Halbert squinted and spat. “Who calls what Carn?”

“Cairn, not Carn. The trolls, they call the mountain Cairn. They make the summit when they feel they have expended their vitality. Their eyes change, some say, and more than that, they feel it in their soul.”

“Trolls have souls?”

“As much as you or I,” Ogden assured him. “They are large and brutish by appearance. But do not rush to wrongful judgement; trolls are as cultured as you or I. Trolls are as wise as men.”

Halbert did not doubt Ogden’s wisdom, but in this he questioned his leader. “If they are so wise, why do they climb Tor, knowing they’ll perish at the top?”

“Death calls to them,” Ogden explained. “Tor—Cairn—calls to them to become a part of the sky.”

Halbert had more questions, but Ogden signaled for quiet.

They fell silent as the snowfall thickened, blanketing the wide hem of Tor with bright powder that absorbed all sound. Halbert pondered his leader’s words, dwelling on the strange customs of trolls. From a distance, he watched as the lone troll climbed the slope of the mountain.

When the troll’s vague shape vanished behind the first blind corner, Ogden said: “You know what it is you must do?”

Halbert nodded. “Slay the troll and take its horns.”

“Take the horns, yes. But do not slay the troll, not if it can be avoided. Do you know why?”

They had discussed the plan a dozen times on their way to the base of the mountain, over the course of their journey to the entrance of the cavernous kingdom of Cairn. Halbert waved his hands in dismissal, fatigued of his leader’s nagging. “I will not slay the troll until it leads me to the summit.”

Ogden needed more convincing. “And what awaits you at the summit?”

Halbert sighed, his irritation wafting out on a warm cloud of mist amid the cold. “The burial ground,” he begrudgingly announced. “Untold troll corpses, and with them, a great cache of their horns.”

Ogden nodded sagely. “Do not settle for one pair of troll horns when you might take all you can carry.”

“And if I am forced to kill the troll?”

“Then one pair will do. They are magic by nature, and even one set of horns will bring prosperity to our village for a season or more. But should you manage to reach the summit, a bundle of horns will change all of our lives. Our village will never want again.”

The thought alone was enough to stir Halbert’s blood. Should he succeed in his mission, he would become the shining hero in songs sung over many generations.

“Ogden?”

“Yes, Halbert?”

“How many have reached the summit of Tor?”

“Many a troll, Halbert.” He placed a hand on the shoulder of the younger man. “Many a troll,” he repeated.

“And how many men?”

The silence that filled the passing seconds told Halbert he would be the first.

“Be brave, young warrior,” Ogden cut the quiet with his blessing. “Gods be with you. Now go, your time has come.

*

The outside world was refreshing—at first. But after an hour or so, Noma began to feel the biting cold that accompanied the slopes of Cairn. She had never felt anything like it, nothing half so cold while nestled in the heart of the mountain, except, perhaps, its cavernous pools where sometimes she bathed or dived for cave fish. But that was different. In the icy pools beneath the mountain, there was always the shore, dry land, and fires to escape to. Out here, beneath the frigid clouds, there was nothing but the cold. Nothing but the steep side of Cairn and the infinite sky above.

There were more challenges, too, than the cold. There was the climb itself, which was moderate in stretches, but severe in others. After the treeline faded away below her, Noma noticed a steady rise in the incline as the mountain stretched towards the sky. With the wind buffeting her head-on, her ascent proved anything but simple. For the first time since she had waged war in her youth, those spanning decades of conflict between the ogre tribes who wished to conquer her home, she felt the pains of exertion.

As she marched onward to her eventual end, she felt more alive than she had in a century or more.

Why is it that a troll’s eyes turn golden as she ripens to maturity? Noma wondered. And why, she questioned, must a troll be cast out to die when they do?

Did she feel in her soul that her time was up? Did she, in the marrow of her thick, troll bones, feel the vibrations of her final calling? Noma climbed the mountain, step by step, stone by stone, pondering the mysteries of life, the peculiarity of tradition.

Do you feel the sky calling? She asked of herself, and when she did, a murder of crows stormed by, blotting out the snow-laden sky. Noma smiled, trudging on. Yes, she determined, the sky is calling.

The path before her steepened. The wind picked up. The snowfall swirled, falling heavier by the minute. Noma leaned on her ancestral constitution, summoning the reserves of that prodigious strength all trolls inherently possess. She dug her fingers into the snow, into the very rock, up to her first knuckle and pulled herself onward, upward, higher and higher into the sky.

Behind her, further below, she smelled a human. Humans, she knew, were nothing but trouble. But they were also weak, Noma recalled. Industrious in numbers, but insignificant on their own. The human was a cause for curiosity, but not at all a cause for concern.

Noma shrugged the snow from her wide shoulders and continued her climb up the mountain.

*

The slope of Tor was mean and unforgiving. The wind was cruel as the expunged fury of an ice dragon. The snowfall was relentless, a scattering of cold ashes from the burial ground high above. Halbert regretted volunteering for the quest. Almost at once, he second-guessed his ability to summit the mountain, let alone to defeat the troll.

He used the path the massive troll had plowed before him, relying on his quarry’s pathfinding to ease his own ascent. He could see it now, the troll up ahead. He wondered if the monster had seen him, too. If it had, it gave no sign of it, nor even a hint of interest.

Halbert followed a bend in the trail that turned directly into a gust of ferocious wind. Even with his hood drawn tight, the icy gale pried beneath its folds and scratched at his cheeks, his neck.

“Damn this mountain!” He shouted, and winced at his folly. He looked above, but the troll had not turned around. He prayed the beast had not heard him. Higher up, a murder of crows darkened the harsh, iron sky. Their raucous cawing had masked his own outburst. “Bless the carrion feeders,” he whispered in gratitude to the black birds above.

For all his reasons to be miserable—the cold, the danger, the exertion—Halbert had just as many reasons to be joyous, excited to pursue his sacred quest. He was an excellent spearman, and should the elderly troll have enough strength to put up a fight, he believed he could overcome his monstrous foe. In the moments when his confidence wavered, Halbert considered the wealth, the glory, the fame that would follow his miserable ascent, which provided all the motivation he needed to continue onward.

The value of troll horns was known by all of his kin; a rare and magical artifact, coveted by every tribe, clan, and kingdom across the far-reaching lands. Like precious jewels, troll horns inhabited the yearning desires of men. They were, each one, a small fortune, worth more than their weight in gold. Should Halbert succeed, the monster would grant him fortune beyond just the horns upon its head. The troll would guide him to the burial ground above the clouds. And there, amid the high heavens, a cache of riches beyond measure lies unguarded for the taking, a tremendous sum of wealth that would reduce kings and emperors to envy.

With these thoughts circling in Halbert’s head, the cold seemed tolerable, the wind not so damning. The snowfall was nothing. Fueled by notions of fortune and fame, each step became easier. Halbert gripped his spear and quickened his pace.

Not long now, he thought. Gritting his teeth, he prepared to ambush a geriatric monster at the end of its days.

*

Halfway up the slopes of Cairn, Noma gazed out to the valley below, the river that shone silver and the dense trees that danced in the wind, swaying as if they were one, enormous living entity. As she stood still, catching her breath, she heard a muffled noise that brought her attention back to the mountainside. She held her breath and waited, focusing on each and every sound around her. And there it was—a stirring beneath the snow.

Leaning forward, careful not to disturb the snow piling higher than her knees, Noma thrust her open hand down into the white depths and pulled free a plump, writhing, mountain hare. She snapped its neck and grinned in the cold. The hare was just what she had needed. Not for food—a troll that marches to her death has no need to curb her hunger—but for something else.

With the dead animal hanging at her belt, Noma listened for other sounds she might hear, signs of her pursuer, which she had not detected for several hours. In the gap between two gusts of wind, Noma heard a noise which disturbed the silence. From above—not below, she was surprised to note—she heard the sound of human footsteps. A lone man, she surmised.

So the human found a way to circumvent my path. Though impressed, Noma was not concerned. Surreptitiously, she eyeballed the rise at her side and prepared for the ambush she knew was moments away.

*

Halbert watched from above as the troll edged closer, and, with a stroke of luck he could scarcely believe, the lumbering monster paused just at the very spot he had planned to attack. The troll seemed to be scanning the valley below, wistful, Halbert thought, and likely in need of succor, enfeebled by the hard climb and its advanced years.

He did not waste this opportunity. Halbert poised his spear and leapt to the ledge below.

*

Covertly, Noma smiled. She saw it coming: the downward thrust of a spear-point from above. She saw the human’s face, the expression of his exaltation for what he believed was his victory. Part of Noma was amused by the man’s delusion. Another part of her felt pity.

As the human’s attack grazed her bearskin cloak, piercing its matted fur and thick hide beneath, Noma turned, precisely, just enough to dodge the spear-point, which did little more than tickle her flesh, and allowed it to rupture the plump, mountain hare concealed beneath her layers. The new wound to the recently dead animal was enough to incite a fresh bout of blood flow.

The human readied his spear and held it flush against her throat. “One more move, troll, and you die right here, short of the summit that calls to you.”

Again, Noma was torn between amusement and pity. She began the day knowing that she would die. But this weak creature, a human that deems himself a warrior… he woke thinking only of glory, and of many long years ahead of him.

“Now turn around,” the human demanded of Noma. “Lead on to the summit, and I will allow you to rest among your brethren. Lead on, and I will not deny you your eternity among the sky over the mountain.”

*

“Is it true?” Halbert asked. “You trolls call the mountain Carn?”

“Cairn,” Noma corrected. “And you, your people, the humans call it Tor, if I am not mistaken?”

“Its proper name, so far as I am concerned.”

Noma smiled, not at all insulted by the human’s misnomer of her homeland. “My name is Noma,” she offered.

A pretty name, Halbert thought. “Noma, is it? A female name?”

The troll smiled, unabashed. “I am the female of my species, yes.”

Now that she said it, Halbert supposed it was evident enough. Her face was wider than his own chest, but it wasn’t unpleasant. Her horns were elegant, and her eyes, like molten gold, were beautiful to behold. “Your eyes...” he began, “you were not born with gilded irises?”

“No,” Noma explained. “Once, they were emerald, speckled with violet. I woke one day, a morning like any other it seemed, and my reflection in the cave pool revealed I had reached the full ripeness of my maturity; my eyes had changed to how they are now.”

“Gold,” Halbert whispered, his breath carried on the wind in a silver mist. “They are the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen.”

Noma turned toward her “captor” and smiled. “You are kind to say so.”

Halbert, despite himself, averted his gaze in hopes she would not see him blushing. Their chatter died for a while, before he elected to break the silence. “Halbert,” he announced. “My name is Halbert.”

Without turning back to embarrass the human any further, Noma smiled as she climbed the mountain. “Despite the circumstances that have brought us together, Halbert, I am glad for your company on this final day that I live and breathe in this world.

*

With each passing hour the sky became closer, wider, and the valley, seemingly smaller and much farther away. The snow seemed to taper off, thinning almost to nothing, but the cold had a sharper, more insistent bite.

“Tor is unkind to treat us so,” Halbert remarked, shivering through every word he spoke.

“Cairn is uncaring to the comforts of man and troll alike,” Noma agreed. “Of course, it will only get worse as we ascend, the summit is the coldest place in our world.”

Halbert groaned and spat into the snow. “I am almost tempted to turn around.”

“Why don’t you?” Noma was quick to ask him. “What is it you hope to achieve by escorting me at spear-point to my death, which has already been ordained?” She knew, of course, but she wished to hear it from the human himself, before she went through with her own plans, before she finalized her choice to usher Halbert, too, to his imminent demise.

“Now, don’t take this the wrong way,” Halbert began. “It’s nothing against you, Noma, or your people. Trolls, I’ve learned today, have souls as much as men. I’ve determined this by meeting you. You are kind and well-spoken. You are not the monster I thought you would be. So please, when I tell you that I ascend this mountain in hopes of ransacking your ancestors’ resting ground, do not claim the offense in my deed, but rather, recognize my need.”

“You are here to take the horns of the dead.” It was not a question. “You would desecrate the bodies of my brethren.”

“Not for sport, I assure you.” Halbert lowered his spear.

“For wealth, then.” Noma’s words came out calm and controlled, only hinting at their underlying bitterness. “You would interrupt my sacred rite, defile my ancestors’ eternal rest, for the value of our horns that you humans have assigned to them. This ascent, for you, is little more than a treasure hunt.”

Halbert lowered his head and dragged his feet as a growing sense of shame washed over him. Then he thought of his village, his wife, and his unborn child that grew within her womb. He thought of what his shameful act would translate to: honor, comfort, prosperity. It was two sides of the same coin, he reasoned. And he would not apologize to a troll for the ways of humans.

“I do not decorate my mission with honey-coated falsehoods.” He stood tall, alert. He raised up his spear to rest against the spine of the troll before him. “There is something despicable in what I do here today, it’s true. But what I do, I do for my village, my family. I am sorry that my actions will inadvertently lead to the suffering of you and your people. But I am not sorry, will never be sorry, for those same actions, should they, as I hope, result in the prosperity of my own people.”

“Well spoken, human,” Noma told Halbert, and meant what she said. “We are different in so many ways—you humans and we trolls—but truly, upon close examination, we are not all that different.”

Not long now, and she would forgo her deception. Noma was no longer torn between amusement and pity. Now, for what she must do to Halbert, she only felt sorrow.

“I will honor you in what way I can,” Halbert told her. “It’s not much, I know, but I make this promise here and now: I will leave your horns with you when I go back down the mountain. For eternity, you and your body will remain whole.”

Halbert extended his hand, a human gesture, but Noma understood what it meant —she offered her own.

These two, human and troll, held no grudges.

*

Hours devoured the day as both troll and human climbed higher and higher, now very near to the summit of Cairn; the highest peak of Tor. They had already broken the clouds, walked through and among them, but as daylight faded, the weather cleared to reveal the valley below, an indecipherable smear painted amber-rose among the sunset. As the sun dipped behind the far-off peaks of other mountains, dusk settled, and with it, a sudden drop in temperature.

It had been over an hour since Halbert lost the strength to wield his spear. Fifty meters behind him, he had abandoned it, no longer capable of carrying weight beyond his own. His very limbs became a burden, heavy objects that did not respond to his command. Above him, he could see the summit—so close. But he doubted he could make it to the top, let alone take another step. An additional thought entered his mind: after the summit, he still had to make his way back down. Holding on to no delusions, Halbert sank to his knees and rested, glad to give in.

Noma took a stride or two then stopped, looking behind her shoulder. Without any words of explanation, she turned back to Halbert and took him up in her mighty arms. She opened her bear-skin cloak and tucked the human tight against her chest. Noma’s body was warm, almost hot, and the shaggy furs that wrapped Halbert against her shielded him from the icy wind and frigid, mountain air.

Carrying Halbert, as if an infant in her arms, Noma advanced farther up the slope.

Halbert was beyond the notion of shame, any undue embarrassment. He was grateful for respite, for the tender kindness extended to him. Above all, he was humbled, and touched.

“Your wounds…” Halbert showed his concern for Noma. “This mountain is harsh enough without carrying me along. How will you manage the summit with both the burden of my weight and the injuries I’ve inflicted on you?”

Noma did not speak, focusing on her arduous climb. Instead, she opened up her cloak, revealing the hare that had taken the brunt of Halbert’s spear, and let its carcass drop to the ice and snow. Amazed, Halbert understood; the troll had faked her injuries. Old and infirm, golden-eyed and expired, nonetheless, from the beginning, Noma had always had the upper hand.

Halbert nodded, smiled, and accepted his fate.

In the arms of a creature he no longer saw as a monster, he fell asleep, dreaming of wind, and snow, and mountaintops; vibrant souls resting on top of a mountain for all of time.

*

Halbert awakened and wondered if he had died. He blinked away the buildup of frost on his eyelashes and, laboring to breathe, he absorbed his surroundings.

Trolls. So many trolls. Dignified and calm, a portrayal of halcyon days locked in eternal ice. Each one lay unmolested, their horns intact, proud figures that seemed a natural extension to the summit.

Beside him, Noma sat, asleep or dead, a noble figure bejeweled in ice. Halbert, with the very last of his strength, moved his arm to take her huge hand in his own. The moon cast its light on the final image he would ever see: thousands of trolls, their countless glittering horns, and above them all, innumerable shining stars.