Kill the Farm Boy

by Delilah S. Dawson

  “Let’s go,” Grinda whispered to Argabella, breaking her silence. “You keep them happy and distracted,” she added to Fia.

  Argabella didn’t want to leave Fia, but that was part of the plan they’d made on the way over from the Braided Beard. She ducked down a bit and followed the possum counterclockwise around the fence, circling to where they could get a better view of Løcher’s villa, which had ambitions of castledom. Mostly they saw the walls and four thin towers capped by domes painted a soft lavender with a darker purple stripe along the bottom.

  Grinda skidded to a halt once they were a goodly distance away from the goats but still the same distance away from the walls. There was no getting closer, since the fence appeared to form a perfect circle with the villa in the center.

  “Time to see if this mad caper will work or not,” the sand witch announced. “Bust out the lute and wax poetic with the tunes, bunny girl.”

  Argabella sighed and swung her lute around, strumming an experimental chord or two and tuning the strings with her sharp ears. Then she took a breath, told herself she could do this, and strummed more confidently as she softly sang:

  “There’s nothing of note that’s happening here;

  There’s nothing to see or smell or hear.

  There’s nothing of note and we’re doing no harm,

  So there’s really no reason to raise an alarm.

  Just enjoy yourself with that billy goat,

  Because over here there’s nothing of note.”

  “Good,” Grinda said, aiming her wand at the ground over her head using her uncanny tail. “Keep that going on repeat.”

  Argabella only nodded and continued, trying to keep her mind in a soft unthreatening space full of fluffy harmless snuggly things where there was no plot to literally undermine Løcher’s villa and be totally Sneakful about it. They were operating on the theory that Løcher hadn’t prepared properly for bardic magic, and thus Argabella’s subtle song would not trigger the nanny goats’ rumored ability to detect magic, and if so, they’d be prevented by her song from detecting the much stronger magic wielded by Grinda.

  For the sand witch was going to shift some serious sand. “Kuchimba handaki,” she intoned, and Argabella heard the soft rumble of earth sliding behind her as she faced the distant cluster of goats. She didn’t look, however: her role was to sing of innocence and think of nothing threatening. So she repeated her song of nothing to see here over and over until the sun was nearing the horizon and her throat cried out for water. The only thing that kept her going was the fact that the nanny goats made no move in the distance: Gustave and Fia were keeping them wholly occupied, and Blurt remained knocked out by three whole pickled herrings. The plan was working. Except for the part where Argabella had nothing to drink and had to keep playing and singing for hours in the sun.

  There were many times in those hours of soft and progressively hoarse singing when her fingers ached and indeed when they eventually started bleeding that she thought she wasn’t up to such a chore. That she wasn’t good enough. That she wasn’t of the bardic quality required.

  But then she remembered that Fia was counting on her.

  And she remembered that she had survived years of isolation in the cursed thorny tower of the Earl of Borix. Cursed by the very same witch she was now helping! But still.

  She had endured. She had persisted. And so the blood running from her fingers onto the neck of her lute after an hour meant nothing. That blood, that pain, was only one more trial she had to pass, for her life was an unending series of trials that frightened her. Still she fought and sang and loved because that was why she lived. And eventually, as the sun sank down to the horizon, sweet and red and kissable like a lover long missed, a scratch at her leg caused her to look down.

  “It’s done,” Grinda said. “You can stop now. We can go get them.”

  And Argabella found that she had nothing left after all those hours, her fingers shredded like holiday yak meat. She collapsed on her back, lute lying on her belly, ears spread out on the ground like clover drinking up springtime sun.

  “You’ll go get the others, I hope,” she said. “I know we’re both tired now, but I’m the one that’s bleeding.”

  “Fair enough,” Grinda said. “We’ll be inside before nightfall.”

  Argabella made no comment. She had no strength left to muster one. Only a brief thought, there and gone again, that perhaps her father would stop haunting her now. She had done some serious bard duty today and proved to herself that she possessed the will and strength to continue her studies and possibly do some graduate-level work. And perhaps for the first time, she felt the desire to seek true creative greatness instead of wishing for the boring safety of accounting.

  After an uncountable time, the sky, edging from blue to purple and thinking about settling into a deep indigo, became occluded by a beautiful face.

  It was Fia’s, looking down at her.

  “Honey bunny?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s time to kick some arse.”

  “Oh, good. I thought that that time would be coming along soon.”

  “The time is now.”

  “Like right now? Or are we going to travel a tiny bit before the kicking begins?”

  “Oh. I see your point. Yes. Come on.” Fia extended her huge hand, and Argabella raised her tiny, bloody one and braced herself for the coming pain. But Fia saw the blood, gasped, and rummaged in her cloak for a new bottle of NyeQuell.

  “Where’d you get that?” Argabella asked before taking a swallow. The pain subsided, and the skin, though still tender, at least closed up.

  “I got it from Yåløndå at the Braided Beard. Now, let’s try that again.” Fia took Argabella’s hand and hauled her to her feet as if she weighed no more than a throw pillow. “We just need to run down that rather low-ceilinged tunnel the sand witch made, and I’m sure everything will work out fine, unless it doesn’t.”

  “That is typically how everything goes,” Argabella agreed. “Fine until it isn’t.”

  She hadn’t taken time to look at Grinda’s progress, but the sand witch had excavated and shored up a tunnel accessed through steep stairs cut out of the packed earth. Along with Gustave and Grinda, Argabella and Fia padded quickly down the passage, lit by fragile luminous sand globes like the one Grinda had made outside the catacombs of, of…that umlaut guy. Grinda scurried bravely onward until they were all short of breath and wondering when it might end. They emerged into the light of a single wan candle before ranks of shadowy circles arranged in rows and stacked on top of one another. A sour, sweet scent rode the heavy air.

  “Whaaaat is even going on here?” Gustave asked. “I gotta say, I miss Beatrix already.”

  “Those are casks of wine,” Grinda said, “because this is Løcher’s wine cellar.”

  “Oh. Um. That means we’re still operating according to plan, doesn’t it?” Fia said.

  “Definitely,” Argabella replied.

  “Except we didn’t really have a plan for this part,” Fia pointed out. “We just followed the instructions Mathilde gave us to get past Løcher’s defenses.”

  “Those were good instructions,” Gustave said. “I’m going to party with those nanny goats later.”

  “The plan,” Grinda ground out, “has always been to rid the kingdom of Løcher and Staph the pixie. They turned Mathilde into a marmoset. They’re responsible for that mess at the castle of Borix. They turned Gustave into a Chosen One and made my nephew run off to get himself killed. They’re the reason Toby and Poltro are buried in the Grange. And I’m pretty sure they want the king to drink himself to death. Getting that cask of Amon Tiyado would be a clever way around my inhibition because it would count as an innocent gift.”

  “Speaking of that cask, where is it, do you think?” Argabella asked. “I could use a good d
rink. For courage.” She had never heard of a story in which a mediocre bard overcame a powerful wizard, so some courage would be good to have.

  “Drink from any other cask but that one,” Grinda said. “We’ll want to use that Kolonic as leverage.”

  They found the Amon Tiyado with little trouble; it was sealed with fancy waxes and painted garishly. Save for Gustave, they each took a gulp or five from some other Kolonic that was the best wine Argabella had ever tasted. Fortified for the unknown, she hitched the small cask of Amon Tiyado on top of her shoulder and gathered with the others at the steps leading up to the kitchen. Fia was going to go first with her weapons waving threateningly, and she looked back at them all to make sure they were ready.

  “I don’t think it’s smart for me to walk into a kitchen,” Gustave said, but no one wanted to take that moment to unpack whether they were being smart or not.

  “I’m ready,” Argabella said.

  “Ready,” Grinda affirmed.

  Fia nodded. “Then let’s go end this once and for all.”

  When she burst from the wine cellar into the kitchen, Fia’s sword practically wiggled in delight, light in her hand and eager to slay something. But there was only the kitchen staff present, and they were not interested in fighting or being slain. They had a gourmet dinner to serve soon to Løcher and his guests. The saucier was tending an oxtail gravy; the sous-chef was flash searing a medley of Qul succulent cactus pads in olive oil and Sixth Toe spices that Fia thought looked delicious; and the chef was applying finishing touches to a roast Corraden megapheasant. They didn’t even notice her at first, and it was only the others making noise behind her that drew their attention.

  “What? Hey. Whoa. Wait,” the sous-chef said, her eyes on Fia’s sword.

  Argabella had the small cask of Amon Tiyado wine in her arms and spun a bardic tall tale. “We were sent to fetch this for the chamberlain. Is he in the dining room yet?”

  “No. Are you the entertainment or something? A sword swallower and a bunny woman and a goat and a…ew, what is that thing?”

  “I’m a possum sand witch,” Grinda snarled.

  The sous-chef nodded, her eyes wide. “Of course you are. Sorry.”

  “I am not a sword swallower. Where is Løcher?” Fia asked.

  “Beyond the dining room in the entrance hall, I think. He’s waiting.”

  Fia didn’t ask who or what he was waiting for. He was waiting for vengeance as far as she was concerned. She pointed to a door spied through the maze of countertops and hanging pots and pans. “Through there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thanks. We’ll let you carry on, then. Looks delectable, by the way.” Argabella, Gustave, and Grinda followed Fia as they passed many delicious smells on their way to the exit. The dining room was a sumptuous affair, and there were stewards setting the table with dwarvelish silver, fine gnomeric crystal, and exquisite porcelain fired and painted by Qul artisans.

  They tiptoed into the entry hall to discover that the person Løcher was waiting for was none other than King Benedick himself. The two men were at the other end of the long room, doing that weird half-hug that bros do while shaking hands. Fia had seen sketches in eastern broadsides and thus could easily identify both men. Løcher could have been a father to Poltro with his dusky-hued skin and blue-black hair and a bit of dash to his red sash, dressed largely in white with shining black boots and piping, a fine black velvet cloak tossed over one shoulder. An escort of his private soldiers with familiar blue insignias loomed behind him as he met the king near the door of the expansive marbled hall. The king, a handsome fellow with a gray curly beard over tanned white skin, was dressed in fine robes of silk encrusted with sparkly bits and was handing Løcher a few envelopes. A gold scepter swung from his hip, informing everyone who held the kingly might.

  “Mishdelivered posht,” the drunken king was saying, his speech already slurred. “Thought I’d drop it by myshelf shince you said you had a casssh…k of Amon Tiyado you wanted to share. Hope’s not an impozish (hic)…impo (urrrp)…any trouble.”

  Argabella piped up: “No trouble at all! I have the Amon Tiyado right here!”

  Løcher, the king, and their assorted muscled lads all turned to look at the interlopers, and the chamberlain’s pleasant expression melted into a scowl.

  “Intruders!” Løcher shouted. “Protect your king! Kill them!” he added, not bothering to inquire who they were. He drew his wand out of a pocket in his cloak, a rather short and thin one to Fia’s eye, bordering on inadequate, but perhaps he had some moves to make up for its disappointing appearance. In any case, Grinda was ready.

  “Vumbi pua!” she screeched, and her spell directed every particle of dust in the room to fly straight up Løcher’s nose. He sneezed and struggled to catch his breath and in the meantime would not be casting any spells. His bodyguards were unafflicted, however, and they advanced, swords drawn, in two groups of three while the king’s escort surrounded him in a protective ring.

  Fia had seen these men before with the circles on their armor, these soldiers with profound vulnerabilities for all they thought they were protected. She had mown them down and drunk deeply of them. And Fia thought she would never say that because she hadn’t drunk of them even a little bit, so who’s really thinking of this? But she thirsted at the sight of those circles, more delicious paid fighters practically flinging themselves upon her, their hot flesh enveloping her and squeezing even as she tore through it and their blood spilling out, delicious, as they screamed once, sweetly, before they died. And Fia thought that was crazier than a bag full of bug nuts and why was she even thinking stuff like that as she flourished her sword to intimidate her opponents and the song of it overwhelmed her, so much delightful blood to be shed—

  Wait, what? Blood was many things, but delightful wasn’t quite the—

  —so many soft organs hiding in the spaces between the bones. There! Yes! Oh, that was too quick. Another, sipping from the throat! Yes, yes, parry, bash to stun, and oh my goodness, what a fine dive into a brain through the eye! A delicacy to be sure, what a rare feast is laid out before me—

  Fia faced the second trio of Løcher’s men and growled at them. She spied an opening on the left and lashed out with a swift kick to the nearest set of ribs. In that vulnerable moment her sword was knocked free of her hand by one of the other soldiers and she fell from the shock of its absence more than from the strength of the blow. The sweetly insinuating song in her head went silent. She somersaulted backward, giving herself space, and came to her feet unarmed except for her pruning shears and bottle opener. That honestly relieved her, because the disturbing thoughts were gone. The magical sword she’d accepted from the Dread Necromancer Steve had grown far too strong on all the blood she’d fed it recently. The thing to do, she figured, was to pour lead around it and chuck it into the deepest part of the lake. She’d have to find a regular sword to use instead.

  She didn’t have to look far or long: one was thrusting at her vitals that very instant. She swept it away with a forearm and stepped in to ram the shears underneath the jaw of the soldier. His nerveless fingers obligingly surrendered the sword to her, which she caught in midair by the hilt in her left hand and then transferred it to the right. She sighed in relief when the sword offered no immediate soliloquies on blood. But these last two soldiers were more cautious. They had graphic proof of why they needed to be. And maybe, Fia thought, she could save them.

  “Just drop your swords and walk away,” she told them. “You can go home and see the sunrise tomorrow. You don’t need to die.”

  “That’s not how this works,” one snarled. “You drop your sword.”

  “Look around, fellas. I’m much better at killing than you, but I don’t enjoy it. I don’t want to do it. I’m giving you this chance to live. Please take it.”

  They yelled and charged her, choosing death. As Fia cut them dow
n, she thought that at least they’d have a clear shot at Løcher now. Except something on the ground moved.

  It was her erstwhile sword, struggling to guide itself to the nearest fresh blood source. Which, at this point, was her. The melee between Løcher and the others still raged, but it was a safe distance away and she could worry about it later. Keeping her new sword poised in defense, she lunged forward and stepped down hard on the flat of her cursed sword’s blade. It bucked underneath her boot and tried to slide free, and she shivered, realizing how close she’d come to the edge. That thing was far more dangerous than she’d supposed. It had nearly taken her over completely, and who knew, maybe one or two more deaths was all it would have needed to capture her forever, turning her into an unthinking killing machine. The sword was almost ready to become such an abomination without her.

  Fia had no trouble imagining what she would have done once she’d lost herself to the sword. She would have killed everyone. Her friends. Her love. She would have become an avatar of war when all she wanted was a place to be at peace. She could not stop shuddering at the thought, and her cheeks were wet, her vision blurry.

  She hesitated to pick it up without protective gloves, and so she felt trapped; she couldn’t simply let the sword do whatever it wanted at that point, because it wanted to kill her. But she couldn’t pick it up without losing herself.

  Fia heard a horrible death scream and turned to see who had made it. Her jaw dropped in surprise at the carnage strewn behind her.

  “Oh, no, Gustave…!”

  Gustave could practically see the recipes the cooks were imagining as he trotted past them in the kitchen. Their cold eyes professionally appraised his haunches and calculated how many mouths his carcass could feed. As such, he couldn’t wait to get away from the fires and the knives and the stew pots and the glass jars of spices. But he couldn’t refrain from taunting them as he went past, either: “That’s right. Curry on the hoof, baby. Curry you ain’t ever gonna taste. Last two people who tried to cook me straight-up DIED. Think on that before you pick up your cleaver there. By the way, y’all smell bad and nobody likes you.”