In Hjardvik village, spring offerings kept the trolls of Hjardvik Ridge at peace. Young shepherd Oskar dismissed the custom and encountered a watching troll on the ridge. Given a riddle for his life, he answered correctly but…
Hjardvik village had always lived in the shadow of Hjardvik Ridge. The villagers whispered stories of ancient creatures that dwelled in its depths—trolls—guardians of stone and shadow, born from the mountain itself.
For centuries, the villagers made offerings at the ridge’s base every spring to keep the trolls at peace: loaves of fresh bread, jars of honey, salted meat, and mead. It was an old custom, one that no one dared break.
Except for Oskar.
The young shepherd was bold and foolish in equal measure. He scoffed at the rituals, believing them relics of a time long past. “Trolls are just stories for children,” he said. “A tale to keep you afraid of the dark.”
The villagers warned him again and again: Stay away from Hjardvik Ridge after dark. The mountain sees all. The mountain remembers.
Oskar didn’t listen.
One evening, as the sky turned crimson and his flock wandered dangerously close to the ridge, Oskar followed.
Lantern in hand, he climbed the narrow, winding path that snaked into the mountain’s shadow. The air grew colder with every step, and a strange silence settled over the land—no rustling leaves, no distant bird calls, only the sound of his boots crunching on the gravel.
He found the first bones near a jagged outcrop. Scattered and broken, they glowed pale in the dim light. Some belonged to animals…but others were unmistakably human.
Oskar froze, the hairs on his neck standing on end. A low, grinding rumble echoed through the cliffs, like distant thunder.
Then he saw it.
Perched atop a boulder was a mountain troll—a hulking figure with cracked stone skin and glowing ember-like eyes. Its face was grotesque, its mouth stretched into a jagged grin filled with stone-like teeth.
It dropped from the boulder with a deafening crash. The ground trembled beneath its weight. Towering over Oskar, it stared down at him with terrible hunger.
“You should not have come here,” it growled, its voice deep and guttural. “The mountain remembers those who defy it.”
Oskar stumbled back, gripping his staff. “I didn’t mean to trespass!” he stammered. “I—I was just looking for my sheep!”
“Liar,” the troll rumbled. It took a step closer, its claws scraping the rock. “The mountain knows you. I have watched you for many seasons, boy. You mock the old ways. You scorn the offerings. The mountain has been patient, but its mercy is thin.”
Oskar’s heart pounded in his chest. “Please,” he begged. “I’ll leave. I won’t come back!”
The mountain troll leaned in, its eyes blazing. “No one leaves without paying a price. But perhaps the mountain will spare you…if you can answer my riddle.”
Oskar swallowed hard. He had no choice but to agree.
“Answer true,” said the troll, “or join the bones beneath my feet.”
It spoke the riddle in a slow, deliberate tone:“What has roots that never grow, a crown without a throne, a face without eyes, yet rises to touch the skies?”
The words hung in the air, thick and heavy. Oskar’s mind raced, every second feeling like an eternity. Then it hit him—the answer was so obvious, it almost felt like a trick.
“A mountain,” he whispered.
The troll’s face twisted into a smile. “Clever,” it said. “Clever enough…to delay your fate.”
Oskar felt a surge of relief and turned to run. The troll’s laughter echoed through the cliffs, growing fainter as he fled down the path. His breath came in ragged gasps as he reached the village and collapsed at the tavern door.
The villagers gathered around him, their faces pale as he recounted what had happened.
“The troll of Hjardvik Ridge…he’s real,” Oskar panted. “He knows who we are. He’s been watching us.”
The village elder, a gray-haired woman named Ingrid, stepped forward. Her face was grim. “You escaped,” she said softly. “For now.”
Oskar blinked. “What do you mean?”
“The mountain never forgets a broken promise,” she said. “You answered the riddle, but you did not listen to the troll’s bargain. He said – delay your fate”
Oskar’s blood ran cold. “But he let me go—”
Ingrid shook her head. “No, Oskar. He spared you for a time, but he’ll come for you again. Trolls are patient. But they always collect what they are owed.”
The villagers fell silent. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled over the ridge. Oskar glanced toward the dark outline of the mountain and swore he saw two glowing eyes watching him from the shadows.
Weeks passed.
As did months,
Flowing into years.
Oskar tried to forget the troll, but the village elders warning stayed with him.
Every night, he locked his door and barred the windows. He no longer laughed at the old tales.
Then, one cold autumn night, there was a knock at his door. Three slow, deliberate knocks.
He froze, his heart hammering in his chest. No one came to his house this late. The knocking came again—louder this time.
“Oskar,” rumbled a familiar voice from the other side. “The mountain has come to collect.”
The door splintered, and the last thing Oskar saw was the glowing eyes of the troll, its jagged smile stretching wide.
Below are a collection of famous stories, some from folkloreFolklore encompasses myths, legends, jokes, proverbs, rituals, and customs shared within communities, conveying history, morals, and identity. Coined by William Thoms in 1846, it spans verbal, material, and customary forms. Dynamic, folklore adapts through migration,… More and mythology, some more contemporary but all feature the fearsome creature from myth, magic, and legend, the Troll!
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