Kill the Farm Boy

by Kevin Hearne

  “She’s not dead,” she told the girl.

  “But she’s not moving! And the smell is so bad; somebody vomited carrots in here.”

  “Um, that was the possum,” Argabella said. Grinda hissed.

  But Argabella’s eyes flitted to the closet. “You should probably go fetch a physician.”

  “This is highly abnormal,” Grinda whispered after the frantic woman ran out the door, wailing. “The spell is broken. She should be awake. I mean, I’m glad she’s not dead, but she shouldn’t be half dead. This is not how the spell was supposed to work. I really do need my library.” She held up a teeny possum hand to the light. “This form grows tiresome. I must return to my beach house to investigate. Will you two be fine if I take the coach?”

  Argabella looked at Fia, and Fia looked at Argabella.

  “We don’t mind walking,” Argabella said.

  “You know, I was thinking.” Fia smiled at Argabella like she was the most beautiful thing in the world. “Now that the heart rose is gone, I remember you saying Lord Toby had lovely roses. I might have even spied a few on my visit there.”

  “He does,” Argabella said. “I mean, he did when he was alive. I suspect the roses are still there, but they’ll need tending. Pruning, mulching, that sort of thing. Can’t have them getting leggy.”

  “And I know he would want someone to keep his tower properly landscaped. He was the sort of fellow who would hate to think of his demesne gone amok.”

  “He would probably appreciate it if two kind souls took over his rose gardens and kept his chickens in check. And we know a goat—I mean a guy—who could grant us proper title to that land.”

  Fia grinned at her. “We should depart forthwith and enjoy the flowers in bloom.”

  “We should.”

  Grinda growled to get their attention, as they were just gazing into each other’s eyes like complete ninnies as they murmured about roses and peace.

  “Well, you two darlings seem to have a plan. I’ll see you at King Gustave’s birthday party next month, I suppose. Hopefully, I’ll have proper hands by then. Oh, and don’t even think of getting him a boot. I already got him one.”

  The possum sand witch left with the usual curtness that poorly hid her feelings, and Argabella and Fia wandered back down to the courtyard as everyone else rushed up the tower steps to fret over the sleeping lady. They were serene amidst the pandemonium. As they approached the door to leave, Argabella watched Oxnard the guard finally finish eating his cherry pie, look up, and exclaim, “Oi! Where’s my crossbow?”

  They managed to just barely contain their mirth until they exited, when their eyes met and they both burst out laughing.

  Everyone lived happily ever after—or at least until King Gustave’s birthday.

  Except for the dead people, who remained dead.

  And for the sleeping lady, who kept on sleeping.

  King Gustave received many, many old boots for his birthday, which his human dentition and digestive system could no longer tolerate but which were very much appreciated by Beatrix and the nanny goats, and his regifting of said boots went a long way toward repairing the rift between them. He had already given Blurt a fresh jar of pickled herring and a new bed to nap in after eating it.

  In the same dining hall where Gustave had once urinated into a bowl of lima beans, the now diaperless monarch reveled in a fine birthday feast with his friends. Grinda was there, triumphantly returned to her human form and efficiently organizing the dissemination of Gustave’s policies while dealing ruthlessly (and quietly) with threats to his throne. He had successfully negotiated the end to the giant strike with the bone donor ploy and was thinking something similar might tempt Ol’ Faktri to work in exchange for food and make much of Grunting habitable again. He had also made immediate improvements to the postal service, and when people remarked upon it, the postal workers were quick to credit King Gustave’s canny mind. Not all of his initiatives were soaring, but these early successes were doing much to discourage challenges to his rule, and Grinda could deal with what little resistance she’d seen.

  Fia and Argabella were there for the party, too, having come from a victorious visit to the Pell Smells Rose Show. Once they promised to spend at least part of the year in Songlen in service to the crown, Gustave immediately granted them title to Toby’s tower at Malefic Reach. That way, they could continue to employ old Dementria and Poltro’s brother Morvin while enjoying their peace and roses. King Gustave was all about caring for the pooboys of the world.

  As the party progressed, they raised glasses and flagons of elvish mead to the dear memories of both Lord Toby and Poltro, and then the cake was brought out, a magnificently flaming baked meringue cake in the shape of a leather boot, its innards filled with delicious vegan custard that set their mouths to watering.

  Argabella volunteered to slice the cake and serve everyone, and she sang a tiny happy cake tune while she distributed the treat:

  “Cake is good, cake is fine,

  I’d eat cake all the time

  If I could, because cake is good.

  And so is King Gustave, knock on wood.”

  Something blue and ethereal slid over the frosted expanse of the cake as she sang, and it took Argabella a moment to realize that it was a pair of feet. And when she looked up, she recognized that the owner of said feet was a vaporous and glowing Lord Toby, who said, “Wow, that looks pretty scrumptious!”

  “What? Toby? Is anyone else seeing this?”

  Judging by the exclamations of surprise, they all were. And then Poltro appeared next to him, similarly limned in blue. “Were any chickens harmed in the making of this cake?” the ghostly form asked. “Please say yes.”

  The ghosts were immediately peppered with a barrage of questions. “How are you here?”

  “How did you die, Poltro?”

  “Is this what happens after you die? You crash birthday parties?”

  “Forget death. Can you even eat cake now?”

  Lord Toby held up his hands for silence. “We merely heard your kind toast to our memories and thought it would be nice to visit. We’ve been quite busy otherwise, you know, haunting the Morningwood for fun. Those horrible cheese thieves have had cause to regret their actions, let me tell you.”

  Fia asked Poltro about Konnan. “Did he bury your body next to Lord Toby?”

  “Oh, yes, he did, very polite and respectful of my bones, he was. Then, because for a bit I was attached to him and Lord Toby was attached to me, we followed him here to Songlen, where he spent a week in Testy Tom’s asking everyone if they’d seen a girl who looked kind of like a rabbit, and he was feeling pretty testy and blue by the end of it.”

  “I’m glad I don’t look like that anymore,” Argabella said. “Lord Toby, did you take any revenge on Bigolo?”

  “It proved not to be necessary. Indeed, I couldn’t!” he cried, dramatically clutching a fist in the air. “Fate dealt with him first. The very troll for whom Belladonna had prepared that bog frog smoothie wound up eating him somewhere near the Grange.”

  The two ghosts were welcomed by all after that, even by King Gustave, who was fairly certain the ghosts could not make curry out of him now.

  “This is all very merry, m’lord,” Poltro said, “but I’m thinkin’ it’s probably time you got around to asking them that thing, you know.”

  “Ask us what?” Grinda wondered aloud.

  “Well, you know what would go perfectly with this cake?” Toby asked.

  “What?”

  “Some flesh honey.”

  Argabella promptly vomited her entire meal on top of the king’s birthday cake, and there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth. But then Lord Toby pressed his case.

  “Seriously, I think just a dollop or two of—of that precious substance upon our bodies might serve to give me and Poltro
another shot at living. And you know where to get some.”

  “Nonsense,” Grinda said. “Fle—that stuff extends life, it doesn’t resurrect it.”

  “Well, how would you know?” Toby demanded. “Have you ever tried what I suggest?”

  “No, but—”

  “Recall, if you will, who originally bred the necrobees: the Dread Necromancer Steve.”

  “Auggh! I hate Steve!” Fia cried.

  The door to the dining room burst open, and the friends were instantly on guard even as the specters of Lord Toby and Poltro winked out of sight. It was a postman looking sharp and crisp in a new Pellican Poste uniform. He held aloft a wax-sealed envelope.

  “Majesty, a message from Lord Ergot in Bruding. It’s the first one sent at the new Super Big Way Huge Mega Important rate.”

  “Bruding?” Gustave looked at Grinda. “Is that in Borix?”

  “It is. And I recognize that name.” Grinda’s expression was dark and smeared, but her power suit was impeccable.

  “I think I do, too. Wasn’t he the guy who stabbed my pooboy’s older brother in the heart?”

  “Yes. He killed my nephew Bestley.”

  “Huh. Might be time to find a new lord of Bruding. Well, let’s see what he wants.” He took the letter from the postman and dismissed him, then promptly handed over the missive to Grinda since he still had problems fiddling with paper because paper cuts are terrible. The sand witch tore open the envelope, fished out the letter, noted the date, and read aloud:

  “My Deare Goode King Gustave,

  My Best Congratulations on your Recent Kingship. I have always known you wouldst make a Foine King, and I am sure you will keep our Realme in Foine Fettle. I wish to assure you that my state of Bruding is likewise in Excellent Handes and will require little of your Most Important Time. The Halflings are Foine People, and the Gnomes are Under Control. No problems to see Here!

  If, on the Other Hande, you wouldst require an Aide to act as Wise Adviser in your New Role, I wouldst welcome the Opportunitye for Bro Times on the Town. And I did take care of Borix while the earl slept, so I know Things about keeping Order. Do send for Me soon!

  Yours in service,

  Lord Ergot of Bruding”

  The first thing Gustave said was, “What the heck are Bro Times, and why do they sound so terrible? Are they even legal?”

  “More importantly, why is this lord spending so much gold to tell us there are no problems?” Grinda asked. “I think this matter might require our personal attention.”

  “Yeah? Okay, that’s fine with me.”

  “We have to see to the Lady Harkovrita anyway,” the sand witch added. “I have researched some additional remedies that may cure her condition.”

  “And, uh, there’s Worstley to think about,” Fia said. “Remember we left his body wrapped up in the lady’s wardrobe?”

  Grinda waved her hand, dismissing it. “Don’t worry about that. I’m sure the people in the earl’s castle have found him by now and buried him somewhere. His body’s just an empty husk of flesh, anyway.” She looked at the ruined birthday cake and sniffled once, a tear in her eye.

  “Believe me, my friends: that farm boy is dead.”

  To all the mouthy goats out there: You’re extraordinary. Trust us. We’re writers.

  Unlike perhaps all other humans in history, we are thankful for airport barbecue. Not because the barbecue was good but because the joint inside the Dallas–Fort Worth airport was strangely open at 10 a.m. in February 2016 and we could sit down and chat for an hour before we had to catch our flights home. It was during that discussion that we thought it was high time someone killed the farm boy. And by that we meant it was time to make fun of white male power fantasies, the formula for which almost always involves some kid in a rural area rising to power in the empire after he loses his parents, usually because somebody comes along and tells him not to worry, he’s special. (For the record, we do not have anything against farmers of any gender.)

  We didn’t get started on writing it until a year later, when we discovered that skewering tropes was tremendous fun, and we wondered why we’d waited so long.

  Thank you, airport barbecue. Thank you.

  And epic thanks to Tricia Narwani, the Metal Editor, for believing in this project, providing golden insights (and golden corn pudding!), and taking pictures of us with goats.

  Thanks also to the spiffy Del Rey peeps who help get our words into readers’ hands: David Moench, Julie Leung, Ryan Kearney, Scott Shannon, and the Darths—Darth Internous and Darth Breakfast—plus the art mages Scott Biel and Craig Robertson and the myriad folks in sales who get our books on shelves.

  You all deserve a luncheon with the Dark Lord Toby and a jar of invigorated ham jam.

  * * *

  —

  Kevin would like to thank Kimberly & Kid for putting up with me during a year in which I wrote three different series. Your love and support keep me going.

  Thank you, Delilah, for making me laugh all the time and being a bottomless well of inspiration. It is such a pleasure to work with you, D.

  Thanks also to my agent, Evan Goldfried, for taking our proposal in stride and running with it and for introducing me to mushroom toast.

  * * *

  —

  Delilah would like to thank Craig, her sweet babies, and her mom for putting up with me during a year in which I also wrote three different series. Your love and support likewise keep me going, as do the hugs, gluten-free pizza, and cookies you supply.

  Thank you, Kevin, for being the ideal writing partner and friend. When people ask me what it’s like to co-write a book, I tell them that for us, it’s mostly drinking fizzy things, giggling, and trading compliments. You’re the best, homey!

  Thanks to my agent of awesome, Kate, for encouraging my harebrained schemes and always taking me to the places that serve duck.

  And merci beaucoup to all the people who read books and to booksellers and librarians. You’re the best people walking the planet right now, you know.

  Thanks for going to Pell with us!

  BY DELILAH S. DAWSON AND KEVIN HEARNE

  THE TALES OF PELL

  Kill the Farm Boy

  BY DELILAH S. DAWSON

  STAR WARS

  Phasma

  The Perfect Weapon (e-novella)

  THE SHADOW SERIES (AS LILA BOWEN)

  Conspiracy of Ravens

  Wake of Vultures

  Malice of Crows

  Treason of Hawks

  THE HIT SERIES

  Strike

  Hit

  THE BLUD SERIES

  Wicked Ever After

  Wicked After Midnight

  Wicked as She Wants

  Wicked as They Come

  Servants of the Storm

  BY KEVIN HEARNE

  THE SEVEN KENNINGS

  A Plague of Giants

  THE IRON DRUID CHRONICLES

  Hounded

  Hexed

  Hammered

  Tricked

  Trapped

  Hunted

  Shattered

  Staked

  Besieged

  Scourged

  THE IRON DRUID CHRONICLES NOVELLAS

  Two Ravens and One Crow

  Grimoire of the Lamb

  A Prelude to War

  OBERON’S MEATY MYSTERIES

  The Purloined Poodle

  The Squirrel on the Train

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  DELILAH S. DAWSON is the author of the New York Times bestseller Star Wars: Phasma, as well as Hit, Servants of the Storm, the Blud series, Star Wars: The Perfect Weapon, a variety of short stories and comics, and Wake of Vultures (written as Lila Bowen). She lives in Florida with her family and a fat mutt named Merle.

  whimsy
dark.com

  Facebook.com/​DelilahSDawson

  Twitter: @DelilahSDawson

  KEVIN HEARNE hugs trees, pets doggies, and rocks out to heavy metal. He also thinks tacos are a pretty nifty idea. He is the author of A Plague of Giants and the New York Times bestselling series The Iron Druid Chronicles.

  kevinhearne.com

  Facebook.com/​authorkevin

  Twitter: @KevinHearne

  Please visit talesofpell.com for more.

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