Kill the Farm Boy Page 8

  “So you know her, then?” Gustave asked.

  “No. Of course not. Whatever gave you that idea? Silly goat. But she sounds like a real treat,” Toby said, but what he probably really meant was that she sounded like someone who needed to be taken down a few pegs right before a certain Dark Lord plundered her library and laboratory for the pearls of arcana locked within. Gustave had always been good at reading the menacing body language of humans, and the way Toby was wringing his hands and snickering darkly spoke of either ill intent or a dire need for lotion.

  “Would you want to go with us, then?” Argabella asked, her watery eyes filled with hope. “We could use magical protection. And maybe you’ll be able to convince Grinda to help you, too.”

  “That would be just lovely,” Toby said.

  And he really did seem to mean that, which made Gustave a little nervous. For although Lord Toby possessed the finest of boots and seemed a genial host, there was something off about him. His smile was a bit mad, his bland brown eyes twinkling with something a bit too greedy and murderous. The thought of being the man’s bosom friend, much less his familiar, made Gustave’s cud go sour. And of course Gustave couldn’t forget that earlier slip about how the Dark Lord had sent a rogue to cut out the pooboy’s heart. Gustave hadn’t been too fond of Worstley, but his most sinister plans had included kicking the boy in the junk, not sawing out his internal organs for nefarious wizardly reasons. Gustave wasn’t sure what he wanted now that his life had changed forever, but he was fairly certain it didn’t involve having his own heart roasted in Toby’s oven and topped with a cardamom soufflé.

  He would have to watch this warlock carefully.

  “You must be tired and ready to sleep off that meal,” Toby told his guests, ringing a bell. “I’ll summon my servant, Dementria, to show you to your quarters. Why don’t you take your ease this evening, let me make some arrangements for provisions, and we’ll depart in the morning on a pleasant perambulation.”

  They all belched their agreement except for the turtles and hedgehogs forming the centerpiece. Lord Toby muttered a phrase, sketched a sigil in the air, and splayed the fingers of one hand suddenly to their maximum extent, waggling it three times. The animals disappeared from the table, and Gustave desperately hoped they found themselves safely deposited in the lush gardens surrounding the tower to enjoy their freedom, mate with their own kind if they wished, and be amazed by their good fortune. The Dark Lord, Gustave noted, was in an uncommonly good mood. And to a goat, that remained quite worrisome.

  It was a rare sunny day in Borix when the party set off to the south with light hearts and a wagon groaning under the weight of victuals and Lord Toby’s potion and feast ingredients, all fastidiously labeled to avoid mixing the deadly mushrooms with the edible ones or the salamander eyes with the salmon roe. Since Fia couldn’t really ride horses without crushing them or having her feet drag the ground, and also because cardio is important, they all walked alongside the wagon, which was being pulled by two sturdy oxen named Moxie and Doxy. That was all right by Toby, who’d never actually ridden a horse before and wasn’t entirely prepared to look a complete fool. He knew he’d be able to ride at least as well as Poltro, but that wasn’t saying much.

  As he locked the tower door and left a note for Dementria to keep things tidy while he was gone, he couldn’t help gazing up at the top of his home. He looked up and up and up and up to the tiny window where he spent much of his time watching life pass by using an enchanted spyglass. He’d grown so accustomed to the lofty view that the world seemed quite large and strange when viewed from his doorstep.

  “Coming, Lord Toby?” Argabella called.

  She stood with the others beside Toby’s oxen. He’d never met the oxen before or been close enough to smell their meaty musk. Poltro’s brother kept track of the beasts, using them to cart groceries in from some hamlet or other. Now Toby realized how very big oxen were and how very moist their noses looked, and that somehow made him realize how very big and terrifying the world could be.

  “Er,” he said, pressing his back against the solid comfort of his door.

  His door, he understood. Everything else was still up for discussion.

  “We’re losing travel time,” Fia added.

  “Hey, you look a little green,” the goat noted. “Are you dyspeptic or homesick?”

  If he was being insulted by goats, Toby clearly had to pull himself together.

  “I am merely laying an enchantment about my demesne,” he said. “Pay me no mind.”

  “Keeping the chickens out.” Poltro nodded. “Quite wise, m’lord.”

  As Toby looked beyond his new companions and his wagon, the road seemed to disappear into the horizon. He could well imagine the terrors that awaited: monsters, larger monsters, entire cities bereft of cheese. Yet that way might also lie his dreams: the means to becoming a true Dark Lord replete with powers beyond his current ken. All he had to do was step off his own porch and keep walking—and in the company of a rogue, a fighter, a bard, and a talking goat, no less. Surely he could do that much.

  He stuck out his foot, for the first step was surely the hardest part—

  And Poltro put a hand against his chest.

  “Not on the Unwelcome mat, m’lord,” she reminded him.

  Grateful for the timely reminder, Toby stepped over the mat, saving himself a troubling and sticky afternoon in the jam cellar. His boot landed in the dust, and he smelled his fine roses, which were kept trimmed and fertilized by Poltro’s brother. He took another step and another, right up until he was close enough to pluck a rose from its bush.

  “These are pretty fabulous, aren’t they?” he asked, holding the rose out to Fia.

  She took the flower, but not as if it were a gift from a fine wizard. Turning it around carefully, prying its petals apart, and picking off the thorns one by one, she considered it. “Better than most, but I think the bushes toward the center of the circle are more true. Within a few generations, with the right care, I do believe they could win a prize.” Bowing, she held the flower out to Argabella, who laughed lightly and blushed, tucking it above her ear.

  Fia started walking, and everyone followed her, including Toby. By the time he realized it was happening, his tower was far behind them, obscured by a cloud of dirt and methane from the oxen. He told himself this “going outside” business wasn’t so bad and began to sweat.

  They headed almost due south toward Malefic Beach, straight through the pristine realm of the dwarves, who mostly lived in the Korpås Range and left the largest part of their lands open and unspoiled, concentrating their population in a few cities and building economies around the shampooing of beards. Poltro commented that their route was likely to take them through the wondrous demesne of the elves, being very careful to pronounce the word correctly this time. A quick roll call revealed that none of them had ever beheld the magical elven Morningwood before, home to the proudest stands of timber anywhere.

  Argabella realized that it was the perfect moment to perform her bardic duties and maybe make Lord Toby more comfortable, as he kept gazing back in the direction of his tower and sucking worriedly at his lip like a small child who’d lost his favorite doll. She pulled her lute around front, strummed an experimental chord to check that it was in tune, then plunged into a cheerful riff, improvising a happy song about cheese that was sure to be a hit with her audience.

  “Oh, there’s nothing quite so hearty

  As a huge hunk o’ Havarti

  When I’m going to visit the elves!

  “I’d sure like to take a crack

  At a wedge of Colby Jack

  When I’m going to visit the elves!”

  The rest of the party quickly caught on and joined in on the last line of each verse.

  “Yes, I’m the kind of fella

  Who’d like some mozzarella

 
When I’m going to visit the elves!

  “A thick slice of Swiss

  Sure wouldn’t go amiss

  When I’m going to visit the elves!

  “Just toss some Gorgonzola

  Into my cheesehole-a

  When I’m going to visit the elves!”

  Fia threw back her cloak and danced along with heavy steps as she walked, straining the ability of the chain mail to contain her metaphorical milkshakes. Although everyone noticed and enjoyed her enthusiasm, Lord Toby took an especial, perhaps salacious interest in her movements. Fia had kept her cloak fastened all during yesterday’s epic luncheon, so he had not realized she was in such fantastic shape or that she had so very little clothing underneath the cloak. It took only another couple of verses before his hips began to gyrate and thrust in an unfortunate simulation of rhythm, and a single verse after that he had shimmied up to Fia in what he thought was a deeply sensual dance of seduction but really wasn’t. He puckered his lips and stood on tiptoe to give her a kiss and the goat called him a jackass, and something happened to the sun because it completely disappeared and the music stopped and—

  * * *

  Toby blinked and moaned some time later. “Where am I?”

  “About a foot away from my fist,” Fia growled. “Would you like to try that again?”

  Toby’s vision snapped into focus, and he saw said fist and the snarling face behind it. Beyond that was the blue sky, and he realized that he was flat on his back in the dirt. His teeth did not feel securely anchored in his gums, and he tasted blood. “No, no,” he assured her through mashed lips. “Once was enough.”

  “Good. Delighted to travel with you, Lord Toby. You have been kind and generous with your provisions, and I promise I will have your back if there’s a fight. But if I—or anyone else, for that matter—wants anything more than a traveling companion, we’ll let you know with words we speak out loud. Do not assume otherwise.”

  “Got it. That’s very clear, thank you.” Toby coughed once and spat blood to the side. Fia beamed at him, unclenching her fist and offering an open hand to help him up. He took it, and she hauled him easily to his feet.

  “Excellent. Then we can continue without further delay. Perhaps our bard knows a healing song to help you feel better.”

  Argabella’s ears drooped. “I know one called ‘The Ouchie Song,’ but that’s it.”

  “Practice makes perfect,” Fia said, and the bard strummed the opening chord.

  Gustave noted with private amusement that Fia still had a bottle of NyeQuell on her belt but had seemingly forgotten it was there. Perhaps looking like a pummeled pudding would remind the Dark Lord that consent was more important than magical ability and being born among the landed gentry.

  As the afternoon wore on to dusk and the party continued perambulating and singing about cheese and fond fantasies of fabulous fair folk, a funny thing happened. Everyone started sneezing, even Gustave. Poltro in particular began to swell up and look a bit puce about the gills. Fia was at her side in an instant, but she couldn’t find anything wrong with the rogue—nor could she stop sneezing herself. Fortunately, the Dark Lord never traveled without a trunk of handkerchiefs, doilies, and antimacassars, and he generously supplied everyone with a bit of linen he’d embroidered personally and with very little skill.

  “Do you have a potion for this malady, my lord?” Argabella asked hopefully, whiskers twitching and, truth be told, a little moist.

  Toby flicked his fingers, in no way trying to get rid of a persistent booger. “Alas, there is no spell to staunch the common cold.”

  “Not even NyeQuell can touch that beast,” Fia lamented.

  Argabella sneezed explosively. “Perhaps the elves have something. A dainty posset of flowers and berries to soothe the—ah—ah—achoo!”

  “Yes,” Fia chimed in between sneezes. “The elves are known for their healing powers and wisdom.”

  “And their beauty and art and songs,” Argabella added.

  “And their skill at killing things they don’t like,” Gustave said.

  “And their cunning perception and excellent aim,” Poltro sniffled, but it came out very muddled, as her lips were starting to swell.

  “Bah,” Toby barked. “Myth and hyperbole. But they do make an excellent mead. And here we are. Morningwood.”

  As the words left his mouth, the smooth stone road disappeared into the rich forest loam before them, and the wagon bumped onto soft earth as they entered the shadow of the great green forest of Morningwood. The air seemed to dance with magic itself, tiny glittering flecks of dust turning to gold as they spun through sunbeams piercing the verdant canopy. The birds called sweetly, their songs somehow more musical, more intricate, as if these birds had perhaps been sent off to study opera and returned home after having their hearts broken and learning valuable lessons about birdhood. To either side of the path, which was really just two dirt ruts now, soft green fronds of ferns unfurled along with periwinkle carpets of velvety violets. The oxen had to struggle to pull the wagon now, but no one really noticed the beasts’ plight because everything that people cared about was extraordinarily pretty. No one could hear Moxie and Doxy snorting and groaning, what with all the sneezing.

  “Oh, my,” Fia breathed before she fell into another sneezing fit.

  Somewhere in the forest, a bright voice giggled.

  “Who’s there?” Toby shouted, pulling back his sleeve to give his magic fingers more nimbleness. Taming the challenges of stately Morningwood would no doubt require two ready hands.

  In response, an arrow zipped past uncomfortably close to his face, taking a patch of his beard with it.

  Thwack!

  Everyone stopped walking to turn and stare at the arrow quivering in a silvery birch.

  Toby went for his chin, checking that it was still in place and that his beard wasn’t completely gone, taking his powers with it. Fia soon had her sword in one hand and her pruning shears in the other as she squatted in a fighting stance, her muscles rippling and her chain mail creaking with effort as her cloak fluttered to the ground. Argabella held her lute and shook with nervous anxiety as she continued a series of tiny baby sneezes. Poltro simply struggled to breathe, her face as red and swollen as a baboon’s posterior. After assuring himself that he was still in possession of his chin, Toby licked his finger and held it up, turning slowly in a sunbeam until he faced the direction from which the arrow had obviously originated.

  “O wise and fair elves of Morningwood, we humble journeymen beg passage through your demesne,” he shouted. A confident woman’s voice replied, though the owner of said voice remained unseen.

  “Take heed, children of men: we fair folk are aware that no one comes upon Morningwood without good reason. It is sprung from your dreams of greatness and magic, a monolith of beauty and strength. But beware that you will also, in passing through, discover the steely strength of our Morningwood, whose limber limbs bend but do not break yet bear succulent fruit with each new stroke of spring.”

  In the quiet that followed, Fia could hear Poltro not breathing. Argabella dropped her lute, fell to her knees, and tried to find the girl’s mouth but failed. Fia stood over them, weapons ready, sneezing.

  “I’m not sure what all that means,” Gustave called, “but a member of our party is in dire need of the renowned elvish healing. Like, right now, unless your woody magnificence needs fertilizer of the dead and rotting kind.”

  When no one appeared, Fia added between sneezes, “Please. And might I mention that I assure you of our respect for your proud Morningwood, which is most impressive and eternal.”

  The air shifted, and everyone stopped sneezing to gasp. An elf stood there among them, quiet and dignified, everything that Fia had dreamed of seeing when she’d heard tales of the fair folk back home. The elf woman was as pale as the heart of a rose, tall and slender and gracef
ul, her snow-white robes fluttering in a breeze that wasn’t there. Her eyes were fathomless, glittering green, her ears coming to slender points that peeked out from beneath hair like spun gold. A jewel glittered around her neck as she bowed slightly.

  “I am Sylvinadrielle,” she said, her voice sweet as chimes kissed by a breeze. “And you guys fell for the oldest trick in the book. It’s called sneezing powder. And you just kept breathing it in like absolute morons. Lord, what fools these mortals be, am I right?”

  “Gadzooks, yes,” a new voice answered, dripping with condescension. “Dumber than a third nipple.”

  It belonged to another elf who appeared at her side, this one masculine but still refined and suppler than most men in Fia’s opinion. He was clad in a hunting costume woven of the colors of the forest, moss green and birch gray with a silver sash from shoulder to waist. His blond hair was long and flowing past his shoulders, and he had a bow in hand and a quiver of arrows on his back.

  “Poltro’s still not breathing,” Gustave noted. “That’s bad, right?”

  Sylvinadrielle laughed her wind chime laugh and knelt smoothly. Removing a handful of powder from a velvet reticule at her waist, she blew a cloud of glitter into Poltro’s face, then tossed the rest in the air. Fia had never been happier to not be sneezing. The glitter settled on Poltro’s swollen cheeks, and after a long moment, the huntress jerked with a deep, gasping breath and set to coughing. Fia helped her sit up, and the more Poltro coughed, the more the unhealthy burgundy faded from her face, leaving her ashen and exhausted and positively riddled with glitter.

  “It’s called a remedy. Ever heard of it?” Sylvinadrielle said. “You’re welcome.”

  “The great healing power of the elves is celebrated in our realm,” Toby explained tersely, “but we didn’t get the memo about how the elves instigated the sickness they later treated.”