Kill the Farm Boy

by Delilah S. Dawson

  “Lord Toby, could you please spread your wonderful fungus around this room so we can see what we’re dealing with?”

  “It’s algae,” he said. “And I’d be delighted to be able to see. I think I might have done something to my shins when we landed. I skipped leg day.”

  “And arms day,” Fia muttered under her breath. Toby splashed toward the wall, and the others commented that they weren’t quite feeling a hundred percent either, though they stayed still in the darkness.

  “That wasn’t such a terrible fall,” Fia said, “but I kind of hurt everywhere. Not like an oncoming bruise, either, or a cracked rib.”

  “I cracked a rib once,” Poltro reminisced. “I got ambushed by a henhouse. Lucky to escape with my life. But this feels different for sure.”

  “It’s getting worse, too,” Fia said, “not better.”

  Grinda noticed that as well. Her knees were shaking with effort. Without her spells, she’d soon be both in pain and swiftly succumbing to her age. “Toby? Please hurry. Something is awry.”

  “Hey, I could use a shot of rye,” Poltro said, a hopeful note in her voice. “Might you pour me some?”

  “This is really hurty, and I don’t like it,” Argabella said. “It feels like…hey. Hey! There’s something on me! What is it? Get it off! Gah, get it off!”

  Thus began much splashing and yelling.

  And soon, thanks to the rapid spreading of glowing algae, there was light, and they saw that they were in a somewhat sizable cavernous space with a couple feet of water at the bottom and that the water was full of leeches because the leeches were now all over them. The things were a peculiar rotten yellow-green and resembled nothing so much as mucusy boogers come to life and equipped with teeth.

  “Cor, it’s the acid leeches!” Poltro shouted. “They’re gonna dissolve our giblets!” The splashing and yelling intensified.

  Grinda thought it was much worse than that. She was fairly sure the water itself must be a low-grade acid, for she wasn’t covered all over in leeches yet but her skin was beginning to burn all over, and that was from falling in the pool to begin with. She scanned the walls and pointed. “There! A ramp up and out on the other side! Let’s get over there and then remove them!”

  As they discovered the ramp, the rest of the group ran for it. In her haste, Fia knocked Grinda with an elbow, and Grinda gasped as she rocked off balance and fell into the acid. Her hands burned in earnest now, her arms trembling, and she groaned as her very bones went frail and full of fire within withered arms. She felt her every year in that moment, every past ache and every hint of osteoporosis she’d magicked from her limbs.

  “Help!” she cried. “I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up.”

  But the others were already ahead of her, even Gustave bounding out of the acid, his belly leeched of hair and glowing a painful red.

  “You didn’t stop them from wanting to eat me; I’m not stopping them from running,” the goat called over his bony shoulder.

  Grinda struggled to her feet, veiny hands on shaky thighs, wand still clutched desperately in her fingers. Her back was hunched, her hair falling out in clumps. One of her teeth went loose in its socket, and the world went blurry with myopia. She was old, by gods, truly old, and with this knowledge came utter helplessness. She couldn’t even cross a street by herself, and she longed for a cane, even an ugly and twisted one like lesser witches carried for smacking cutpurses. Her knees wobbled, and she began to fall again, visions of broken hips dancing in what was left of her mind.

  “Worstley?” she called, seeing a shadowy figure gambol up ahead. “Is that you, boy?”

  “Gah!” someone who was definitely not her nephew shouted, and then Grinda felt strong arms like oak branches catch her and swing her up to carry her like a baby, thankfully away from the burning pool.

  “You’re a good boy, Worstley,” she said, and a distinctly feminine voice answered, “You owe me for this, witch.”

  Soon Grinda felt stone under her crabbed feet. She could barely stand; her balance wasn’t what it used to be. Someone held her upright, and someone else began tugging at her here and there, and it hurt but also felt lovely.

  “You stop that right now, whippersnapper,” she hissed. “I’ll turn you into a newt.”

  “That might be preferable,” a peevish woman said. “Damaged newts can regrow limbs, but damaged rabbits just look patchy and furious.”

  The blur around Grinda’s eyes suddenly went clear, and she saw Argabella and Fia on either side of her, annoyed as they pulled long acid-green leeches off her withered arms. Each beast left a hideous burn behind, some showing muscle and a thin layer of fat. But as they were removed, she found her magicked strength returning, and she was soon able to pull out her wand and shout, “Ruddi laece!”

  All the leeches in the general area tore from their bodies and splattered the walls with yellow-green slime, causing a collective sigh of relief from Grinda’s compatriots.

  “Well, that was useful, I suppose,” Toby said, “but do you have any healing spells?”

  Grinda patted at her swiftly regrowing hair. “That wasn’t my concentration. Major in illusions, minor in manipulation. You?”

  Toby turned a deep shade of puce. “I went with a more hands-on approach.”

  “Then we’ll just have to get out quickly and find a healer.” Grinda looked around grimly, noting that they would have to hurry if they wanted to survive long enough to do so. Their skin bubbled and hissed and oozed in the many places they’d acquired leeches, and it was irritated everywhere else from the acid bath, and she wished for the first time that she’d at least considered healing as an elective.

  “That’s it,” Fia said, standing tall. “Forget magic. We can do this. Toby, don’t you have some milk in your pack? That neutralizes acid. So pass it around.”

  “But it’s goblin yak milk! A rare—”

  “My fist in your teeth won’t be rare. Hand over the yak milk.”

  Soon they were dabbing their wounds with Toby’s milk as Fia meted out her NyeQuell and Argabella sang a new and improved version of “The Ouchie Song” that featured many fine rhymes and a repeating chorus of, “So let good healing reign! Not today, pain!” Grinda was surprised to find her wounds going from red to pink to her usual pasty white as the wounds and pain simply melted away. She had never before considered that there might be a decent answer to anything other than magic, and she began to consider a trip to the Seven Toes, where there were supposed to be skin chirurgeons capable of altering one’s appearance and even reversing the effects of aging. Soon they had a lovely collection of scars that would impress any future romantic prospects but were no longer in agony as their flesh dissolved away.

  This curious quilt of healing worked, but it left them exhausted and with no remedy for future injuries. They shuffled up the ramp until they reached a door, and after confirming that it would open and they weren’t actually trapped in the hateful leech pit, Grinda suggested that they rest in the chamber beyond, since it seemed a place of relative safety. “With rotating watches, of course.”

  Not that she would ever admit how very close she’d come to dying, old and blind, in the vat of leech acid.

  “That guy took us for suckers,” Fia groused.

  “Bloody awful,” Argabella agreed.

  Poltro nodded along. “Cor, what a slimeball. We totally fell for it.”

  They grabbed a few hours of sleep each and ate some provisions—Lord Toby shared a wheel of cheese to go with some almost-crackers, although they were forced to listen to him whine about his lost yak milk—before they deemed their entire party rested, wary, and determined to press on. As the others slept and Grinda took her watch, she carefully, quietly replaced all her magical spells, tightening up her body and mind for what was to come. She never again wanted to feel as hopeless and alone as she’d felt in the lee
ch pit even if her cold heart was warmed just the tiniest bit to know that her compatriots—maybe one day her friends—had waded in to save her. Witches didn’t give credit where credit was due, but she laid some enchantments over them while they slept to strengthen them for the journey ahead. When they woke and prepared to venture forth, the best way forward seemed to be a twisting stone stair that led them ever upward in tight circles that left Poltro quite dizzy. Fia took stock of where they were, tested several hallways, and then beckoned to the group to join her. “This is the main passage,” she said, pointing to the left, where Toby’s algae marked the walls. To the right, the algae hadn’t spread so far. “So we’re ahead of where we got dropped into the pit.”

  Only Fia felt like going left and getting revenge; that sickly madman had been too confident, and Grinda argued that the Hirudo Brønsted character might not have been dead at all.

  “I think he might waken if we attacked, and we don’t know his abilities. Surviving was victory enough, I think. Let’s not make the same mistake twice.” She glared at Fia. “We should press on.”

  This time the party agreed with the sand witch, and the giant fighter was left to fume. Argabella was kind enough to sing a small ditty called “You Can Get Revenge Later, I Promise, and It’s Not Like That Guy Is Going Anywhere,” and Fia was at least entertained if not completely mollified. They followed the main passage for a long stretch without interruption, and in the first hour the fancy inscriptions disappeared and they were again passing the anonymous, less swell dead, ranks and ranks of them trussed up like particularly unappetizing hams and shoved clumsily into niches. But then the receptacles for the dead also ceased and they were back to a single, featureless corridor that closed in on them as they went.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Poltro said as the path seemed to dead-end ahead.

  “If it turns out that this is a maze, we’re going to get that monk and make him show us the way out,” Fia said. “Maybe use him as a battering ram.”

  But the dead end was merely a sharp turn. They rounded the corner, and the narrow passage abruptly opened before them into a large chamber lit by warm candles and torches on the walls. There were richly woven rugs on the floor. Upholstered chaise lounges. Tapestries between the sconces. Sculptures of graceful pixies and fairies and centaurs and what looked like a bust of the king of the Morningwood oddly juxtaposed with a frolicsome oil painting of the lethal llamataurs of the northern Teabring savanna tearing into some hapless travelers and playing tug-o-war with their entrails. The aesthetic was one of charming menace. On the far side of the room, on a raised dais, rested what could only be considered a throne. And behind it was a carved wooden door that certainly qualified as fancy and quite possibly as schmancy.

  “What is this place?” Poltro wondered aloud.

  “And who lit the candles and torches?” Grinda responded, which she thought was a much more pertinent question. As if in answer, the door behind the throne opened and a singular being emerged, bringing with him a distinct whiff of black licorice.

  He was mostly human, Grinda thought, but he was simply covered in an awful lot of gray hair. He looked borderline fluffy, but in an entirely different way than Argabella. Bare chested and barefoot, he wore a green and blue kilt and carried a brushed copper goblet in one lightly furred hand. He had an impressive white mustache and beard that fell down to his sternum. His eyes were smeary shadows underneath a deep brow. Where the gray hair didn’t cover it, his skin was bright white—not white in the way she was, like the pale-skinned people of Borix or parts of Burdell, but white like powdered sugar. He stopped when he saw them.

  “Oh! Hello!” he called, his mouth splitting into a pleasant smile. His voice rumbled and tumbled like the joyful growls of a puppy tugging on a sock. “How nice to have visitors today.”

  “Good morning, sir. Or is it afternoon? I don’t know what time it is,” Fia said. “Who might you be?”

  “I’m the steward of these catacombs, known in the world as Yör.”

  “Oh, so that’s why they call these the Catacombs of Yore.”

  The smile disappeared, though the voice remained friendly and patient. “No, it’s Yör.”

  “Isn’t that what I just said? Yore.”

  “Yör with an umlaut over the o and no e.”

  Fia stole a glance at Grinda, perhaps seeking guidance, but she had nothing to offer but a helpless shrug. If this was the namesake of the catacombs, he had to be hundreds of years old, and such people often developed eccentric behaviors.

  “I’m sorry, I’m not hearing a difference,” Fia said.

  “There’s a tremendous difference,” the man said, placing his goblet down on a small table next to the throne and taking a few steps closer before folding his thin hands together. “Try again. Yör.”

  “Yore,” Fia said.

  The man’s expression darkened, and his voice lost much of its initial warmth.

  “You know, it’s quite rude not to make the effort to say someone’s name correctly. It’s a basic courtesy that should be extended to everyone.”

  “I’m trying, sir, honestly. Please forgive me. I’ve never been able to roll my tongue or swallow my rs. I just don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

  “You’re not pronouncing the umlaut. You must respect the umlaut.” He pointed a bony white finger at Argabella. “You! Rabbit of unusual size. You try.”

  “Umlaut?” she said at first, then gulped, her entire body shaking. “I mean…Yore?”

  “Nnnno!” he roared, all civility gone, and the avuncular grumble turned to unnatural rage. “You disrespect the umlaut! I can hear you not saying it!”

  “I tried, I swear. I’m so sorry!” Argabella cried. “We don’t have umlauts where I come from! I don’t even know why we have semicolons. Please don’t be Shoutful!”

  The catacomb steward demanded that each of them try to say his name and grew increasingly angry as they all failed, in his judgment, to respect the umlaut. Poor Gustave, when it was his turn, dropped a steamy bevy of fright pellets and wailed, “I don’t have a uvula! I don’t even know how I can talk! Goats weren’t made for umlauts!”

  “You.” The enraged man pointed at Grinda. “You’ve got some miles on you. Surely you’ve traveled and studied among other cultures. Show these youngsters how it’s done.”

  Grinda cleared her throat and drew herself up tall. “Yore.”

  He flinched as if from a blow, then raised his chin in a fit of intense pique. “I’m afraid,” he said, “that it is time for you to feel afraid.”

  “But I’m already there,” Argabella wailed, and then the gray-furred man clutched his hands into fists, threw back his head, and bellowed at the ceiling, “Yööööö­ööööö­ööööö­ör!”

  His shadowed eye sockets focused on Toby, and his right hand shot toward the Dark Lord’s head, a black vapor snaking out and wreathing Toby’s skull for a brief moment before dissipating. For a second it seemed as if absolutely nothing had been accomplished, but then a swarm of fluttering paper-winged moths manifested in the room and flew at Toby’s face.

  “Moths! No! Augggh!” he screamed, green bolts issuing from each fingertip and incinerating a few of his attackers as they traveled to the ceiling, where a doughy cloud formed. The Dark Lord fell under a hail of moths and a panicked summoning of delectable buttery croutons, and his cries of terror eventually ceased, leaving only a mound of fried bread chunks and moth bodies atop a sobbing man-child.

  “That was pretty weird,” Yör said into the silence that followed, his voice flat. “Let’s try the dashing rogue next.”

  His hand shot black oily smoke at Poltro, and she jerked, grunted, and found herself confronted by a ravenous llamataur. A horrific, crazed llama head with carnivorous teeth grimaced at her and spat as it loomed above a thickly muscled human male’s body dressed in ill-fitting clothes t
aken from past victims. These brainless, spitting monsters no doubt had been created by some witch or wizard long ago for a cause he or she thought noble, but now their reproducing population in the northern savanna of Teabring made the entire area a death trap. The creature made a noise somewhere between a yodel and a gargle before the head whipped down at Poltro’s face and snapped its teeth where her nose had been a second earlier. Said snoot was no longer there only because the rogue had fallen back with a cry of fear, and Grinda wondered why Yör’s spell hadn’t summoned a chicken.

  “Better! And probably fatal,” Yör commented. “But I’ve seen it before. Come on, rabbit girl. Give me something fun.”

  Argabella rocked back under the black mist but steadied herself just in time to confront a slender and somewhat familiar-looking man wearing a Swords n’ Daisies concert shirt. He smiled placatingly and brandished a pair of bongos in one hand and a maraca in the other.

  “Accountants never account for anything,” he said. “The arts! That’s the way to go! Music is the only steady career for a girl like you. If you’d just make some effort to look like you have loose morals and a song in your heart. C’mon. Shake the maraca.”

  “Dad?” Argabella’s jaw hung open in horror.

  “If you keep clacking those abacus beads all night, your palms are going to grow hair. Keep wearing those sweater vests and parting your hair down the middle and no one will ever love you!” Grinda had seen enough. Argabella’s dad looked withering and damaging but not immediately lethal unless one was allergic to percussion instruments. The llamataur was something else, for it had taken a step forward and was zeroing in on the cowering Poltro.

  The witch employed her wand to blow dust into the llamataur’s eyes just as it lunged forward again. It flinched and missed, its teeth clacking on air, and bugled its frustration. Knowing what was coming next, Grinda faced an enraged Yör, who shot a geyser of thick smoke at her head. She twitched the tip of her wand to dissipate it and grew mildly alarmed when that didn’t work. The smoke did not behave as smoke should. She applied more mental force, slashing the wand’s tip through the air, yet still the smoke came for her, and she realized that there was no avoiding it. Her eyes widened, now fully alarmed, and then her vision dimmed as the smoke shrouded her sight and the spell invaded her psyche. Her vision cleared a second later, but Grinda did not move. She did not move because she could not. Her fear was no tangible thing but rather the inability to act, to control her environment, to feel anything but utterly helpless; the spell had paralyzed her in place instead of manifesting anything with teeth.