Kill the Farm Boy Read online

  Purposely beginning to one side of the window so she wouldn’t have to climb over halfling remains dripping with cheap jewelry, Fia grunted and cursed as she slowly worked her way up the tower, her leather-wrapped boots finding protected toeholds among the vines but the rest of her getting finely shredded. The pain gave her a boost of energy on top of her already formidable strength, and she found the rain refreshing instead of oppressive. She wasn’t getting tired; she could take her time.

  Once she’d cleared the topmost collection of halfling remains—perhaps only a third of the way up—Fia shifted over so that she was directly underneath the window. Only then did she notice a couple of things that had not been obvious from the ground.

  For one thing, the thickness of the vines diminished considerably as they climbed the tower. They wouldn’t be able to bear her weight much longer and probably would snap or break off in her gauntlet. Fia imagined that if that were to happen, it would be no different from taking a hatchet to the plant: it would respond with prickly, deadly force.

  But she spied a potential solution to that problem just a few feet above: a frayed, braided rope dangling down from the window, hidden beneath the leaves and blossoms and thorns, invisible until now. If it was fastened securely to the interior, she’d be able to use that to climb up the rest of the way.

  A few more careful minutes and it was in her grasp. She held on firmly to a thick vine with one hand and tested the rope with the other. It had some give to it, but only a few inches, and then it was solid. She pulled hard, and it didn’t budge. Excellent.

  Fia grinned into the rain and said, “Oh, yes, my lovely magic roses, you will be mine!” Grabbing on to the rope with both hands, she braced her feet against the wall and started to walk up. The rope pulled away from the tower reluctantly, entwined with vines here and there, and in some cases Fia saw fibers get torn away by thorns. They didn’t behave like proper rope fibers, though. They were much finer than any rope she’d ever seen before. And now that she looked at it closer, the braid didn’t really look like a standard rope twist or even smell like a rope should. It smelled like scented soap, like—

  “Hair! Oh! Ick!”

  Fia’s hands jerked open in revulsion. A split second later, she realized quite literally the gravity of her mistake. She fell from the tower, thinking this was going to be a stupid way to die, and commenced to plummeting. She was just expecting an explosion of pain when she landed on something that wasn’t the ground and that made several disturbing noises all at once: a cry of pain, the dull pop of bones breaking, the tinkle of shattered glass, and the squelch of blood spurting from torn flesh.

  “Gah! You killed Pooboy!” a man’s voice exclaimed. “I mean Worstley!”

  “What?” Fia rolled off of whatever had broken her fall and discovered that she had broken a pale and rather malnourished young man, together with a jar of pickled herring he must have been carrying. His eyes stared unblinking into the rain, and the sharp edges of snapped bones stuck out of his ruptured skin here and there. “Oh, no. I’m sorry!” she said to him, and then spoke to whoever she’d heard speak earlier. “Maybe he’ll pull through.”

  “I don’t think so. That was wild, though! One second he’s talking about the treasure he’s going to find in that tower, and the next, POW! I told him the world was going to crush him, but I didn’t think it would happen exactly like that, you know?”

  Fia turned toward the man’s voice for the first time as he finished the sentence and realized it wasn’t a man speaking at all. “Gah! You’re a talking billy goat!”

  “Yeah, but never mind that.” The sodden goat craned his neck up at the sky. “It’s raining humans around here! Used to be you only had to worry about lightning, but now you can get struck by women! I didn’t realize the weather would be so severe once we left the farm. What do you call this kind of storm? Is it a hurricane? But actually, like, a her-icane? I understand now why people speak of them with such dread, because they’re obviously deadly.”

  “What? No. It’s not weather. I just fell from the tower. Don’t you even care about your friend here?”

  “Who? Worstley? I wouldn’t say he was a friend. His mother was going to eat me, you know, which means he would have eaten me, too, when she called him in to dinner, and once somebody confesses they have plans to eat you, it tends to dissolve any emotional bonds you may have had. You’re not going to eat me, are you?”

  “No. I’m a vegetarian. I don’t eat things with faces.”

  “What about when you have two eggs and a piece of melon for a smile, and it kind of…?”

  “Ew. No. Eggs are just faces that haven’t learned to smile yet.”

  “But you’re okay with leather?”

  She glared at him. “Leather doesn’t have a face.”

  “Ah. Okay. Well. I’m sure we’ll get along fine, then. My name’s Gustave.”

  “I’m Fia.”

  “Nice to meet you, Fia. I notice you have a whole lot of extra leather wrapped around your boots. You don’t really need all that, do you? Because I’m hungry.” Gustave drooled a little, his yellow goat eyes going all dreamy.

  Fia studied her scratched-up leathers and itty-bitty metal bikini. “Well, I do need it, actually. I have to get back up that tower.”

  “The one you just fell from? Look, you seem nice for a human, but I’m not going to stand underneath you to break your next fall, okay?”

  “No, I mean there might be a way to save Worstley.”

  “That’s fascinating, because to my eyes he appears beyond saving.”

  “Well, maybe not. There’s magic up in that tower.”

  Gustave gave a very goatish snort. “More magic. How do you know?”

  “You can’t see it, but there’s a rope of living hair dangling out of that window. And that means it’s attached to someone. Someone who didn’t wake up and scream when I yanked on it. Which means someone up there is frozen in time. Suspended until the spell is broken. I’ve heard this place is under an enchantment. So if I take Worstley up there with me, maybe he’ll be suspended, too, until we can get help.”

  “Help to bury him or…?”

  “Help to revive him! Heal him. Fix him somehow! I don’t want his blood on my conscience. I feel terrible.”

  And she did. The whole reason she’d left home and traveled to Borix was to bring an end to the violence that had plagued her entire existence. When you’re taller and more muscular than all the men in any room, you tend to get into a lot of fights. Although Fia preferred peace, she’d made her first kill…well, accidentally. And her second also accidentally, just trying to defend herself from some knuckle dragger who’d been ogling her body. She had slain quite a few more people accidentally, but no one wanted to believe they were accidents. She couldn’t physically shrink or escape her growing reputation for violence at home, so she’d fled to the west, hoping to find some isolated spot where she could live unmolested and far away from potential victims. But now, out here, alone, she’d still managed to accidentally kill a guy, and without even drawing her sword.

  “Look, you might feel terrible,” the goat said, sounding very reasonable for a goat, “but Worstley doesn’t or he’d be complaining, believe me. So you don’t have to worry about it.”

  “Yes, I do. I have enough guilt and can’t live with any more. I have to try.”

  Rising to her feet and wincing at some new aches—she’d definitely bruise up—she took the opportunity to stretch and work out some tightness in her muscles. The rain obligingly slowed to a drizzle.

  “Dang. You’re the tallest human I’ve ever seen. Are other humans usually afraid of you?”

  Fia eyed him suspiciously, waiting for the tall joke. “It tends to manifest itself in different ways, but…yes.”

  “Good. Can I tag along with you, then, and have you fall on anyone who wants to eat me?”
>
  Fia snorted. “Sounds like a lot of work. What’s in it for me?”

  “Well, you get to walk around with a talking goat, which means you’re distinguished at the very least, but more likely venerable and maybe even illustrious.”

  “I don’t need that. People already respect me. Or at least they respect my ability to administer pain.” She grimaced. “Eventually.”

  “Right. Negotiation! That’s great. You do what you need to do up in the tower and I’ll wait here and think up something to sweeten the deal.”

  “You don’t want to…say goodbye to your friend?”

  The goat rolled his eyes and coughed, resigned to at least pretending to be polite. “Goodbye, Pooboy. Your shirts tasted pretty good. Sorry your destiny didn’t work out. Hey, wait a minute.” Nudging Worstley with his nose, Gustave waited a few moments for any response. When none came, he pulled off the boy’s poo-covered boots with his teeth and daintily lipped them with a small moan of pure ecstasy.

  “You done?” Fia asked. “Because this is getting weird. Can I take the poor boy up to the magic tower now?”

  “Sure. You do that. I’ll enjoy some private time with his boots. To remember him.”

  Fia bent down, picked up Worstley, and slung him over her shoulder so that his bottom half was draped across her front. That meant Worstley’s backside and legs would shield her from the worst of the thorns. She just hoped the rain-slick vines would hold their combined weight long enough to allow her to get to the hair rope again.

  The grunting and cursing as she climbed were louder this time, and she felt her strength drain away with every inch of progress. But she’d done this before and some of the vines were already smooshed flat from her first trip, so it went faster. Once she shifted over to where the hair rope was, she felt the vine in her gauntleted right hand begin to give way. She let go and lunged for the wet golden braid, breath labored now, fully grossed out by the boy bleeding on her and the hair presumably attached to someone’s unconscious head. It was hardy stuff, though; the owner clearly had fantastically strong roots and ate a lot of collagen.

  Stuffing Worstley’s body through the window with one hand while thorns snagged on his clothing and she held on desperately to someone’s hair with the other hand was worse than anything Fia had ever done before, and she had once vomited chunks of fried okra while wearing a tightly fitted mask. Her arms trembled with fatigue, and her frustration and guilt welled up and spilled out of her eyes. Fia hadn’t really let herself cry since the day her mother had been eaten by a Yilduran shockfrog, but now, in the rain, uncertain if this caper would ever pay off or just leave her scarred if not dead, she wept.

  When she was done crying, she managed to lever the rubbery, blood-slicked body of the farm boy over the wide windowsill. His legs ensnared in thorns, she crawled over him and crashed to the floor inside, her eyes scanning the room as she took deep gulps of air. Rolling to her back, she allowed herself one drop of a healing potion, which at least made the many scratches go from red to pink. The healing potion, a cheap brand called NyeQuell, tasted of licorice and unconsciousness, but Fia had to stay awake. There were roses to be plundered, a peaceful future to be secured by force of pruning shears.

  The room was surprisingly warm and cozy like a winter blanket despite the cold rain outside and the open window. Fia looked around, wondering if the peculiar scent riding the air was a curse or too much varnish, as the walls and floors were carved of knotted hardwoods that seemed to glow from within. Tapestries covered two of the walls with scenes of frolicsome unicorns happily disemboweling white men while maidens looked on with ill-concealed delight, just a few slim fingers failing to cover their wide grins. A promising sort of door waited on the wall opposite the window, but Fia’s attention was caught by a huge poster bed shrouded with thick velvet curtains. The thick rope of hair was threaded through a hole in the center of the bed’s headboard, but Fia couldn’t see the occupant yet.

  “Hello?” she called out, but received no answer. Rising to her feet, she took a few steps forward to see what could be seen, peering around the corner of the bed. “Oh! Uh. Well, that’s different.”

  Something akin to a young white woman rested on the bed, her blond hair pulled away from her face and through the hole in the headboard, head pressed up tightly against it rather than centered comfortably on the pillow. Fia grimaced; she had been responsible for that.

  The woman was dressed in blue velvet embroidered with gold knots around the neckline, but she must have been lying there for a good long while, since her face and neck had sprouted long, fine hairs that wreathed her face like a lion’s mane and also a lion’s beard, and her fingernails had grown past the point of claws into long, curling monstrosities. Fia briefly considered using her pocket shears to clip the nails but decided against it. She didn’t know, after all, if they had grown during the woman’s long slumber or if she’d been put to sleep that way. It wasn’t Fia’s place to judge standards of beauty. Neckbeards and impractical fingernails might be a mark of extraordinary hotness in this woman’s culture, and Fia wasn’t originally from Borix or anyplace near it.

  There was nothing of value in the room unless one counted the stunning tapestries. No jewelry on the woman, no tantalizing chest secured with an iron padlock. No large blue key foreshadowing future usefulness. No helpful instructions, either, on how she might be awakened. But the woman appeared to be glowing with health, and that was a good thing.

  Her mind made up, Fia tugged at Worstley’s still form until his pants tore free of the thorns and she could carry him to rest beside the enchanted hairy lady. He looked much worse for the wear, but she told herself that she’d make it right somehow. She’d also make right the ragged cloak she was borrowing from his corpse, because although this particular room was warm, the province as a whole was a little colder than she was accustomed to, especially considering the chain-mail bikini.

  Seeing that there was nothing more she could do for him, Fia turned toward the door, ignoring the large wardrobe on one side of the room, which doubtless was full of gowns and other items belonging to the sleeping lady. Fia had no desire to rob the innocently slumbering lady, especially considering that she’d pulled rather hard on her hair just to get into the tower. It was time to leave the sleepers and her guilt behind to find the heart rose.

  There had to be something else in this castle worth all this trouble. And it had to smell better than the farm boy’s feet.

  “Five years asleep my master’s been

  And all his mice and all his men

  Until the lady wakes and then

  The spell shall make everyone else also wake up as well—”

  “Potzblitz!” Argabella cried, throwing down her lute, but very softly and onto a pile of cushions, because she was running out of lutes. “You’d think that with five long years to perfect a song, I wouldn’t still be hung up on the first stanza. What rhymes with then? Sin? Hen? Winter wren?” She huffed through her wiggly pink nose. “All I wanted was to be a boring, respectable accountant and count beans, but no, Father wanted me to go to bard school and be Tuneful. Well, here I am, Father. Are you proud?”

  She nudged her father with a fuzzy toe, but he didn’t respond. He was asleep, just like everyone else in the tower and castle and, according to her song, the mice. That was pretty convenient when it came to leaving out bits of cake and bread overnight but not at all convenient when you hadn’t spoken to another waking creature in several years. Just the other day, Argabella had found herself talking to a candlestick, which didn’t seem at all strange until the candlestick talked back and told her to stuff it. She’d thrown the candlestick across the room, where it had bounced off the red nose of the Earl of Borix himself. He hadn’t so much as grunted, which was also pretty convenient considering how off-with-her-headish and Killful the earl had been when awake.

  The thing about curses was that they
could be quite Loneful, Argabella thought.

  With a heaving sigh, she picked her lute back up and girded her loins, or at least gave a convincing and confident shimmy. “You’re going to do it this time, Argy,” she said. “You’re going to be Tuneful. I can feel it in my ears.” She strummed a soft opening chord and begain to sing: “Five years asleep—what was that?!”

  Argabella went still as a shrew in a hawk’s shadow. She’d heard something loud coming from the tower, something that definitely wasn’t ensorcelled thorns slowly and madly growing or the candlestick being rude. She stood, her hold on the lute going from let’s have a nice song, then to maybe I’ll split your skull, Intrudeful Stranger. Tiptoeing silently, she crept from the throne room, out into the keep and behind a fountain showing buxom mermaids spitting water in a way that seemed much more suggestive now that the fountain had run dry. Ears up and quivering, she focused on the sound.

  There! A cloaked figure emerged from the tower onto the parapet that connected it with the rest of the castle, running with acrobatic grace along the stones. A Threatful figure that was most definitely not asleep. A figure that had most likely not come to hear a certain bard’s song about nearly permanent narcolepsy.

  Edging back into the throne room, Argabella slipped a crossbow from the side of Oxnard, one of the earl’s best guards. Argabella had to admit that even asleep, Oxnard had done his duty: no one had assaulted the earl, the countess, or the lady in all this time. Sure, maybe it was the millions of seemingly sentient vines crawling over the castle like nightmare monsters and whispering to Argabella in her sleep. Or maybe it was Oxnard’s mighty bulk and ever-ready bow. Which was now in Argabella’s altogether more noodly arms. She’d never worked a crossbow before, but there were lots of things happening for the first time today, weren’t there? With the entire castle asleep, it was up to her, Argabella the cursed bard, to defend the castle’s treasure.

  Her watery eyes followed the figure nimbly jogging along the stone, and she immediately knew where this thief, this burglar, this larcenous villain was headed. Not toward the castle coffers, deep underground and brimming with dusty gold, and not toward the throne room, where the countess’s jewels glistened around her alabaster neck thanks to Argabella’s thoughtful quarterly polishing. No, the intruder was headed toward the one room Argabella wouldn’t let him breach: the Rose Room.