Kill the Farm Boy

by Delilah S. Dawson

  “Nope!” Fia said, shaking her head and cutting Mathilde off.

  “I’m sorry, but I really need to clean my ears,” Argabella said, attempting to be more polite.

  “Infinite nopes,” Gustave added. “Goats are a troll’s favorite snack food.”

  “I adore you, Mathilde darling, I really do,” Grinda said, “but no way.”

  “No problem,” Poltro said, and everyone stopped to make sure they’d heard that right. “Don’t get me wrong, Ms. Marmoset: if your wand was being guarded by a henhouse, then I’d be saying ‘no way!’ too, because chickens are nightmares and I’m out the door at the first sign of a cluck or a cloaca. But trolls, now: trolls is easy.”

  Everyone glared at her, and Poltro smiled back at them, confident that for once she was on sure ground with no tricksy pebbles lying about. “Trust me. I got this.”

  As she stared at Poltro and Gustave ejected a platoon of befuddlement pellets, Fia couldn’t help wishing for momentary omniscience. Was the rogue in fact the most stupid sentient being alive? As Poltro went to stick a finger in her ear and nearly poked herself in her eye, Fia had to assume that she was. Still, perhaps Poltro’s instincts could prove useful in more ways than one.

  “Great. You’ve got this. So where’s the troll?” Fia asked nervously, anxious to leave.

  Her sword jerked in her hand, and she was overcome with the obscene need to swirl it through another hotheaded halfling. She quickly slipped it into her scabbard, knowing that its song wouldn’t cease and hoping no one had noticed her smiling as she sliced the blasted Beadlebone. She really didn’t like violence.

  Although she hadn’t mentioned it to anyone, her sword was enchanted to crave blood, and she could feel it singing for more, calling to her hand to just swish the blade a little somewhere near a bit of exposed flesh or goat flank. The halfling’s half-liquored splashing of the ol’ red stuff only made the warrior and her blade both crave more wanton destruction. Or wonton destruction, as her high metabolism had made quick use of that delicious cornucopia of gourdly delight at Balzac’s. That was why she’d become a vegetarian in the first place: the less meat she ate, the less she longed to drink a river of blood. Because she truly yearned for that dream of peaceful existence to be hers someday. Killing a troll, though, did seem like it could be construed as a public service, a manner of keeping the peace, should Poltro require backup.

  “I’ll lead you there,” Mathilde said, her fur all fluffed out like a frightened cat. “But I’m not getting close personally. That troll looks at me like the last piece of popcorn, and his breath is bad enough to make me pass out.”

  “I do that, too, sometimes,” Gustave said helpfully. “It’s easier to deal with great horror when you’re unconscious and being speedily carried away by your companions.”

  “Speaking of which, if you don’t mind?” Mathilde was looking up at Fia, and Fia felt like she had missed something.

  “Uh? No, I guess not.”

  With a squeak of victory, the tiny marmoset scampered up Fia’s legs, swung from her precariously positioned breastpiece, and hurtled onto her shoulder, where she wrapped one tiny claw around the metal bra strap and wound the other one into Fia’s hair.

  “Did I just agree to be your steed?” Fia said, gritting her teeth against the creepy feeling of claws tangled in her scalp.

  “You’re the tallest,” Mathilde agreed. “And the least likely to be eaten, judging by your…”

  “Muscles?”

  “I was going to say your enchanted blade that calls for blood. Gurrrrl, I bet that thing has cleaved many a meanie! Go that way, by the way.”

  As Mathilde steered Fia’s head like a horse and Fia began walking in that direction, she realized that she’d rather face a troll than have this exact conversation. She glanced at Argabella and found the bunny looking at her in the worst possible way, doubt and fear scribbled on her fuzzy features.

  “Enchanted blade?” Argabella asked.

  “Cor, that sounds cool!” Poltro practically yodeled. She was pumped up over this troll hunt.

  “Well, kind of.” Fia sighed and felt her shoulders slump in a very unwarriorlike way that reminded her all too well of the year she’d turned fourteen and grown three feet, dwarfing all the other girls in her class at school. “My sword is a gift from Steve, and it’s kinda enchanted to sorta want to murder everyone constantly. It really likes blood. Like, a lot. And when I don’t use it for a while, it sleeps. But that halfling halving really—”

  “Woke it up?” Argabella asked.

  “More like rang a bell in its ear and reminded it what bacon smells like.”

  “But you wouldn’t hurt us?” Gustave asked. “I mean, any of us? Especially those of us who are particularly edible and unable to defend themselves because all they have are hooves and horns?”

  “No! Of course not. You guys have traveled with me for weeks now and never been scared of me. Don’t start now. I can control it. And maybe, if the troll gives us trouble—”

  “Addiction is a slippery slope, my dear,” Grinda said, gliding along with the sort of frown older people reserve for rock music and new ways to smoke things that they smoked differently when they were younger.

  “It’s not an addiction. It’s not me. I can control it. I’ve been going to AA meetings, and—”

  “AA meetings?” Argabella asked. Gods, how Fia hated the worried way Argabella was looking at her, as if she’d uncovered every horrible secret all at once.

  “Assassins Anonymous. They teach you how to follow the One Step for Not Murdering Someone.”

  “What’s the one step?” Gustave asked.

  “You don’t murder them.”

  “Huh. Sounds like a solid program with a refreshing lack of nuance.”

  “Yes. I’ve been going, and it helps. Turns out it’s not my fault if I want to murder everyone, but it is my fault if I actually do it. The only sword I can control is my own, and then, sometimes not—like when a halfling threatens us. But you don’t have to be scared of me. I’m fine.”

  Argabella reached for her hand—not her sword hand—and gave it a squeeze.

  “I support you,” she said softly, and Fia finally exhaled and squeezed back.

  That was all she needed, really.

  “Good. Then let’s go get this troll.”

  “I support you, too,” Gustave added. “For the troll-killing part. Not the general murdering part. Think about vegetables. A tasty lentil stew. Roasted cauliflower. If you’re feeling particularly violent, contemplate tearing the tender leaves from a charbroiled artichoke.”

  “That just makes me think about tearing legs off a goat,” Fia muttered darkly.

  Gustave bleated and ran behind Poltro, which showed just how afraid of Fia he was at that moment.

  All along, Mathilde had been turning Fia down this street or that by using her hair like reins. As they passed a particularly dank alley, the marmoset yanked back hard, and Fia skidded to a stop.

  “Ow! Careful!”

  “Shh. We’re here. Good steed.” Mathilde released Fia’s hair and scampered down her body and back to the slick cobbles. “So the troll lives at the end of Rotbritches Alley here. He’s of normal troll size and stature and level of stench, but there’s one thing you should know about him.”

  “He’s particularly fond of sand witches?” Grinda asked.

  “His mother was kicked in the head by a goat?” Gustave pressed.

  “He has a fondness for chicken farming?” This from Poltro, who looked far less confident regarding the troll than she had previously.

  “None of that,” Mathilde said, shaking her furry little noggin and trying to look serious but failing, because she was an adorably tiny monkey. “The thing is, he’s not dumb at all. He’s quite clever and will debate you to death. A devil’s advocate. So it would be best if
you didn’t attempt to talk him out of the wand but rather charge right in and kill him before he can get a word out.”

  Fia was already shaking her head. “Nope. That would violate the One Step. We have to talk to him. I feel certain we can get the wand without any violence. Especially considering Poltro’s potions.”

  They all stared at Poltro. “Poltro’s potions?” she muttered. “Ah, yes. I am Poltro, and I have these potions. Not rectal ones.” She held up three vials, and one slipped out of her hand, smashing on the ground. Everyone drew back from it, but it looked like nothing more than a small puddle of water.

  “Cor, who could’ve guessed that might happen?” Poltro said, holding up the two remaining vials. “And now the barely legible labels have all gotten mucked up with my nervous sweat. I have no idea which one broke or which ones these are that ain’t yet broke. Lord Toby, what—” She looked around, sweat forming on her nose. “Oh, yeah. That’s not good, is it? Ha ha! Mystery potions. Oh, yes. I’m sure these will do…something.”

  “Invisibility, sleeping, and healing,” Grinda reminded her. “Let me see them. Perhaps I can figure out what you have left.”

  “Wait!” Poltro fell to the ground on her hands and knees. “Just let me lick up whatever this is, and then we’ll know one out of three.”

  “Poltro, no!” everyone shouted, but it was too late.

  The rogue was lapping the clear liquid off the filthy cobbles.

  “Tastes a bit like if velvet and vomit had a baby,” she noted, eyes going round as she sat up. “Also, a bit like sharp shards of glass. Oh!”

  “Is that a good oh or a bad oh?” Gustave asked.

  “If she goes to sleep, it won’t be the worst thing that ever happened,” Argabella murmured, and Fia was gratified to note that the bunny girl was standing rather close, indicating that maybe she wasn’t so frightened of Fia’s potential for violence anymore.

  Grinda was studying the potion vials, but she shrugged and pocketed them. “The Dark Lord apparently never learned the trick of color coding potions. They’re all clear and odorless. Not even a tang of scent.”

  “Cor, I feel…” Poltro stood and flexed her arms. “I feel rather stronger, I do say! And goodness, what a failure of basic motor skills, dropping that invaluable potion! I warrant my neuromuscular system is not precisely tuned for roguish feats of stealth and skill—a poignant irony considering my professed métier.”

  “Poltro,” Grinda said slowly, “were you ever…dropped on your head?”

  “Many times, sadly. Lord Toby felt rather guilty about it, but he could never figure out which end was up when I was a child. Dandled me upside down all the time. It’s a wonder I never became addlepated, is it not? Ah, my friend and benefactor! May your bones feed the worm that feeds the fish that feeds the savior of the world someday!” Poltro sniffled once, wiped a nascent tear from the corner of her eye, then crossed her arms in front of her and squinted into the darkness. “Enough of my rhapsody. Now, yon troll. What is our strategy, my boon companions?”

  Grinda leaned over to Fia and Argabella and whispered, “It was a healing potion, and it’s healed something in her brain. Knowing Toby’s powers, it won’t last long, but we should use it while we can.” Then, louder, to Poltro, “We thought you might best lead us in this venture, fair rogue.”

  “Ah, yes, I have it!” Poltro spun around and held up a finger. “These potions are vital to our mission. If we give one drop of each to our two animal companions, we can see which creature grows sleepy and which one grows ever so slightly invisible. Then I can use the invisibility potion to sneak up and give the troll the sleeping potion.”

  “That’s…kind of genius,” Argabella admitted.

  “I don’t know how I feel about that,” Mathilde said. “Now is not the best time to be ever so slightly sleepy.”

  “Fia can carry whoever feels sleepy,” Poltro pointed out. “And you can all wait right here while I do my rogue whoosiwhatsit down in the alley.”

  At the word whoosiwhatsit, everyone else traded concerned looks.

  “Let’s hurry,” Grinda said, handing over the vials.

  Poltro opened each of the remaining vials and dipped a single drop onto each index finger. She held her hands out to Mathilde and Gustave, who both grimaced but recognized that there was no way out except licking the rogue’s besmirched fingers.

  Gustave immediately let out a jaw-cracking yawn, and Mathilde faded just a tiny bit.

  “Eureka!” Poltro cried before swilling the invisibility potion.

  Grinning as she vanished, she said, “Fear not, my friends. I will soon return with that whatchamacallit, that, uh, that…wand.”

  As the rogue’s footsteps announced her invisible progress down the alley, Argabella and Fia traded looks.

  Fia frowned sadly. “I have to go, too, don’t I?”

  “You’re the only one among us who could best a troll,” Argabella said. Her hand reached up to Fia’s cheek and pulled back uncertainly, then returned, fingers trailing softly down the side of her face. “I believe in you.”

  “You do?” Fia’s heart thumped hard against her armor from the inside, threatening to burst through it. A nameless fear had been building within her that Argabella didn’t feel as strongly as she did, that she was reevaluating, reconsidering, perhaps even regretting their closeness. And feeling was so blasted easy. Putting those feelings into words—the right words at the right time—was much more difficult than climbing a tower covered in deadly thorns.

  Argabella left her hand on Fia’s cheek, met her eyes, and spoke in low tones. “I do. You are safety and warmth and comfort in front of a fire until you need to be the fire itself. I understand that. I trust that.”

  Fia smiled in relief and gratitude. Bards were so much better at the parts where words were necessary. “You have no idea how much I needed to hear that.” Argabella stood on tiptoe and kissed her, and Fia marveled at how such an intoxicating draught of courage could be so soft. She let that kiss take its lingering time, for the next moments would not be so fulsome or fine, but she would meet them better for knowing Argabella felt so about her. Their lips parted reluctantly, and they looked away, embarrassed that the others had been watching. But Fia decided quickly that she did not care, for the moment of joy was more important, and she sprinted into the dark alley, fearless of what horrors it might hold. If they could watch her halve a halfling, they could by gosh watch her rub noses with a bunny.

  As she ran, she noted that it was funny how the alleys in Songlen seemed to go from rather nice streets to dark, dank, smelly dead ends. Along the way, Fia couldn’t help noticing occasional parchments tacked to the bricks, several of which showed a highly optimistic portrait of Worstley—when he was alive, looking very uncrushed. She slowed down to read one. “Hast thou seen this foine ladde?” they asked.

  “I have,” Fia murmured to herself. But she didn’t take a frayed paper tab with Worstley’s mother’s address on it. She still had hope that she could make amends for that mistake.

  Like the other alleys they’d encountered in the city, this one featured a single whale oil lantern at the end, casting terrifying shadows over the blood-splattered brick and filth-strewn ground. Under this light sat the first troll Fia had ever seen close up. He was bloody huge, at least twice her height and five times her mass. He looked like an elephant crossed with a poison mushroom, thick and rubbery with weird gills and spots. Although Fia would’ve expected a troll to be rending a corpse to fritters or stomping puppies, this troll lazed on a too-small office chair, murmuring to a book. A tiny pair of pince-nez were perched on his nose, which must have been an affectation since his wide-set eyes could not possibly focus through them, and he wore a black vest and a felt hat, the brim pulled down rakishly. The book in his hand looked new and expensive, and he licked his bulbous thumb before turning each page.

  It was
peculiar, Fia thought, that a troll could afford so many books, considering they were generally paid very little for their services as bouncers and muscle. Then she noticed a stack of bones off to the side, muddled up with green bags, piles of cloth, and pairs of spectacles. The top piece of cloth read BARNS AND GIBLETS BOOK SHOPPE, and Fia realized she was looking at a long string of delivery persons who had not been tipped appropriately. Her distaste for the troll grew.

  Fia stopped while she was still hidden by shadow and hadn’t yet attracted the troll’s attention. Trolls, she knew, rarely began any interaction; they preferred to let their victim make the first move so they could control how to react in the most egregious way possible. For most trolls, this consisted of bashing in one’s brains with a large mallet, but Fia didn’t see any mallets lying about. Although the troll appeared entirely absorbed in his book, she could hear evidence of Poltro climbing a towering stack of old crates filled with yet more books and leather journals. The rogue must’ve been attempting to pour the potion directly into the troll’s mouth, which seemed utterly ridiculous considering that he was drinking a growler of local beer, which sat on the ground by his feet. The healing potion must’ve been wearing off if Poltro thought it was a better idea to climb twelve feet into the air and dribble a potion into the yawning troll’s gaping maw of rotten teeth than to just pour the liquid into his ale.

  “Mm. Yes. Two sides to every issue,” the troll rumbled. “The man in the middle is a knave. A tasty knave.”

  The stack of crates wobbled, and a lone call of “Cor!” was the only sign that something terrible was about to happen. As Fia watched in horror, the entire tower of boxes and books and bobblehead dolls came tumbling down around the troll. As the dust cleared, a lone figure was seen flopped on top of the crashed pile: a half-invisible Poltro.

  “What’s this?” the troll thundered, rising to his feet. “My reading time is sacrosanct!”

  The sword in Fia’s sheath shivered like a grumbling stomach, but she didn’t reach for it. There was still time for the rogue to follow through and be the hero.