by Kevin Hearne
Good.
At least someone recognized Vic’s latent lethality and obvious swoleness.
He flexed his pecs, one-two, one-two, and considered the other swoleboys currently lifting and grunting around the room. It was like every other gym he’d encountered from the Centaur Pastures to the Bearded Plains to Pyckåbøg, and just like in all those other places, it was cram jam with elf biceps and dwarf glutes and centaur flanks and glistening troll chests peppered with the most masculine sheen of sweat. Vic looked at his hands in their fingerless lifting gloves. Flexing his fingers, he offered up his daily prayer: Dear Pellanus, Keep these fingers from revealing my secret and let them only be used for swole and manly purposes. Amen.
A giant hand shoved him aside, almost causing him to trip over a dumbbell. “Oi, My Little Pony.” The troll grinned, revealing teeth that looked like stumps. “Quit hogging the mirror. This corner of the gym is for serious lifting only, not flexing your ladyfingers. Or are you a bard? You gonna play a dainty little lute?”
Vic’s lips lifted in a snarl as his, yes, somewhat feminine fingers curled into fists.
“You talking to me, Sissy MacTeaparty?”
With the fondness for name-calling that all trolls shared, this one turned on Vic, his eyes alight with pleasure. “That’s Fergus MacMurdernuts to you, pony boy. You want to take this fight outside?”
No, actually, Vic did not. He loved lifting, loved being swole, loved cutting a swath through any crowd that valued their toes and didn’t like a luxurious black tail flicking at their eyes. But he did not enjoy fighting, especially not with an audience. Fighting tended to bring out…well, his worst qualities. Qualities he wanted to keep hidden.
“Love to fight you, bro, but I’ve got an appointment. To, er…” Vic trailed off, trying to think of the most masculine pursuit in the world. “To go fishing in a freezing mountain stream with my bare hands while drinking whiskey and eschewing my father’s funeral.”
A nearby centaur, a dappled gray Percheron, turned around, scowling. “That’s cold, dude. Like, don’t you think your father deserved the bare minimum of respect? I hate my dad, but when he kicks it or breaks a leg or whatever, I’m totally heading home to the pastures, at least to support my mom.”
Vic almost winced; he’d miscalculated.
“Oh, yeah, well, my mom is dead. So it’s just him. Was just him. And he…he liked…he played with dolls and painted his hooves?”
Another centaur turned around, this one a palomino with flames painted on his plate-sized hooves. He lifted one, pawing the air for emphasis. “You got a problem with painted hooves, bro?”
The troll just sat back, arms crossed, grinning maniacally. As much as trolls loved fighting, they mostly just loved instigating pile-ons of trouble and then eating whoever lost.
“Your hooves look fantastic,” Vic said, hoping the other centaur could hear his sincerity, as the dude’s sausage fingers were curled in fists, one airbrushed hoof stamping in annoyance.
A third centaur rounded on him, this one a slender but still tough-looking Thoroughbred with a glossy black coat that suggested he supplemented with omega-3s. “I assume you’re going to put down braided beards next?” he asked, his chest-length beard wagging. “Or eyeliner? You got a problem with that? Because this is just how we do things in Qul, and I’m not here for your toxic and ignorant viewpoint. I’m here to lift—because it’s good for cardiovascular health and also counters later osteoporosis.”
“Me too!” Vic said, fully aware that his voice was an octave higher than it had been before three centaurs and a troll had backed him into a corner. “I just want to be swole with my swole bros! No offense meant!”
“Offense taken!” the centaur with the braided beard said, stepping closer.
“Say, what’s your name?” the palomino asked.
Vic puffed out his chest and gave an up-nod. “You can call me Vic.”
The palomino rolled his eyes. “That’s not your name,” he growled. “If it is, you’re not a centaur, and I can see you are, even if you’re a poor excuse for one. What’s your full name? I’m Stampeding Triumphant.”
Vic gulped. By Pellanus, that was a fantastic name. He had to choke back a compliment and remember that he was on the spot here. Mustering what dignity he could, he lifted his chin and said, “My name is Pissing Victorious.”
“Ha!” Stampeding Triumphant barked.
“I would’ve guessed Sniveling Pathetic,” the troll chortled.
“Or maybe Insulting Boorish,” the stallion from Qul said with a sniff.
“Or Waxing Insecure,” a gnome muttered from just outside the window. He popped out of sight with a squeak before Vic could flick him with his tail.
The gray centaur crossed his arms. “You’re not from around here, are you, buddy?”
“He’s not,” Stampeding confirmed. “He’s a rube, fresh from the pastures. Probably hasn’t ever been to a big city like Sullenne before or learned to live among and respect other cultures.” He stamped a hoof. “Pasture Boy, d’you remember what they do back home to trespassers?”
Vic felt utterly called out. To have his name mocked hit closer to home than he liked. And if Stampeding Triumphant was from the Pastures, then Vic couldn’t put on his Tough Guy from the Country routine. Because the palomino could clearly invoke the Even Tougher Guy from the Country routine.
“Well?” the palomino demanded.
“S-s-s-stomp the trespassers to bits and leave them on the edge of the territory in decorative gift bags,” Vic whispered.
At that, all three centaurs, the troll, and everyone else in the gym laughed. At him.
“Why’s that funny? It’s true.”
“It’s funny because it’s so pathetically xenophobic,” the Thoroughbred said.
“But mostly ’cause you’re so scared you’re tap-dancing, mate,” the troll said, pointing down.
And it was true. Vic’s carefully polished and, yes, ever so slightly tinted hooves were dancing with inelegant clomps, his flanks quivering, his tail twitching. He felt a blush start up his cheeks and spread into the hairline of his mullet.
“I’m just flexing,” he muttered. “Uh, working my hocks. It’s leg day.”
“It should be brain day!” the palomino bellowed. “You trod on my workout bag!”
Vic danced backward, all control of his equine half lost. His hoof slipped on a barbell, and he pinwheeled his arms as he fell heavily on his rump and let out a squealing whinny.
“Did somebody fall down go boom?” the Thoroughbred chortled.
“Gonna live up to your name now, Mr. Pissing? Gonna make a mess?” This from the gray, who was laughing so hard he was partially whinnying, but not in the high-pitched way Vic was.
“Looks like you need a beginner’s tap class more than leg day,” the gnome observed from the window, more boldly now.
“I can hold my bladder! I’m not dancing! Dancing is for girls!” Vic squeaked as he struggled to muscle his bulk to standing.
The palomino shook his head sadly. “Dancing is for everyone,” he said sagely, giving a graceful hop. “What you’re doing is a public disturbance. If you would just ask for help—”
“Hey!”
Every head turned toward the burly dwarf who’d just appeared in the door marked Ye Old Employees Onlye, and every swoleboy took a respectful step toward the wall.
“Mr. Kross, sir,” the troll said with a slight bow. “What an honor!”
“Shut your piehole, Mac, and back away from the ballerina with four left feet!”
The dwarf had a rope in his hands, and everyone got out of his way as he stormed across the gym, directly toward Vic. Vic could feel his skin shuddering like he was beset by flies, and the fear sweat drying into his bay coat itched something terrible. When the dwarf stopped in front of him, he wanted nothing more tha
n to gallop away and never enter a gym again, but instead, his rear hooves lashed out, putting a hole in the wall and upsetting the cozy home of a family of muscular mice.
“You,” the dwarf said, pointing one finger at Vic. “Were you born in a barn?”
“…Yes?”
The dwarf rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I forget that only works with people who don’t have hooves. What I mean to say is, don’t you know they make rubberized hoof covers for this sort of nervous condition? You can’t just go putting holes in a person’s walls. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, but it’s right there in the rules.” He pointed to a hand-painted wooden sign on the wall. Rule 6 read: THOSE WHO LACK SELFE-CONTROL MUST WEAR RUBBERIZED PROPHYLACTIC GARMENTS FOR THE SAKE OF PUBLIC DECENCY AND OUR RATINGS ON YE OLDE YELPE.
“Can we talk about this in private?” Vic squeaked.
“No,” Mr. Kross barked. “You ignored the rules and made your problems public.”
“This isn’t usually an issue for me.”
“Usually only counts in things that don’t involve disrupting the lives of lifestyle coaches and well-behaved mice.” The mice squeaked their agreement and flexed in annoyance before scurrying back into the safety of the wooden wall.
Vic realized his human upper half was now fidgeting too, almost wiggling his fingers, and he crossed his arms and tucked those rebellious digits into his manly, sweating, hairy armpits before they could do something even more embarrassing than his horsey half had done.
“I’d be glad to patch it up, sir,” he said.
The dwarf nodded thoughtfully. “Know how to do handiwork, eh?”
“Er, well, no, Mr. Kross, sir, I just wanted to…”
“Act like you’re traditionally masculine and know everything?”
“Yes! Wait. No?”
“You seem fairly confused about personal balance, young buck. Look down.”
Vic looked down. He’d been so discombobulated by being yelled at, in public, by a knee-high dwarf, that he’d stumbled into the yoga corner of the gym and deflated several yoga balls. He turned suddenly, and his dancing hooves clattered into a stack of metal weights, sending them skittering and tripping the other gymgoers. That was not how the day was supposed to go. He’d just wanted to stop in at a gym, get his pump on, impress the local swoleboys, find some drinking buddies, and head to the nearest inn for foamy mugs of manly lager and the chance to ogle some fillies and feel like Gulping Glamorous, the famous centaur mascot of the Bushy Beer Company. That’s all he ever wanted, but somehow it never worked out. Usually it didn’t go this badly—usually he just slunk out of the gym alone, having been utterly unnoticed.
But, as Mr. Kross said, usually was for things that didn’t involve dancing the can-can and putting muddy hoofprints on a collection of expensive yoga mats.
“Sir, I’d really like a chance to fix this situation,” Vic said. “If you’ll just give me a…thingy, a trowel? I’ll, um, spackle the wall, or—”
The dwarf’s eyes boggled. “Give a clumsy centaur a sharp object? In my place of business? Are you barmy?”
“No, sir.”
“Then simply pay the fracas fee and get out.”
“Pay the…what?”
The dwarf coolly pointed to another sign, this one reading: FRACAS FEE: FIVE FICKELS. “You start a fracas in my gymnasium, you pay for the trouble you cause me.”
Vic dug around in the fanny pack slung around the point where his human torso met his equine lower half.
“I don’t have five fickels,” he said, very quietly.
The dwarf just shook his head. “Get out of here, kid. And you might as well stop talking. I’ve got a mess to clean up, and I don’t need you to add any more to my load.”
With as much dignity and swoleness as he could manage, clenching his biceps and his buttocks, Vic walked out of the gym, his head held high and his magnificent tail flicking over the disastrous yoga-corner carnage. He was followed by the not-so-quiet mutterings of the Krossfitters.
“Poor guy has the self-control of a yearling hopped up on Blue Bull,” the palomino complained.
“Can’t even talk about his feelings or ask for help,” added the gray.
“And he didn’t apologize to the mice!” said the scandalized Thoroughbred.
“You’re not even worth getting my club out of my locker.” This from the troll, who was twirling a barbell on one finger as if it weighed nothing.
Past that gauntlet of shame, Vic stepped out the door and into the near-omnipresent gray drizzle of Sullenne. The dwarf grumbled behind him, his spackling trowel scraping against the wall, as the other centaurs continued to loudly and self-righteously express their pity for Vic’s lack of balance and manners. As if they didn’t also dance around like prey animals when frightened! No matter what the head told the heart, the heart couldn’t always get that message to the equine’s hindquarters. Why, it was rumored that even the great Howling Thunderous, Fury of the Five Pastures, had danced a fierce jig during battle!
No good telling the swoleboys that now. They’d just find some other reason to ridicule him.
The problem, Vic assumed, was that he still wasn’t buff and manly enough. That he was too soft, too girly, just like his father had always claimed. Perhaps he would have flames painted on his hooves, like the palomino. Or grow his soul patch into a bushy beard, like the Thoroughbred. Or maybe even cut his tail into a club, like the gray had, which only served to make his rump look bigger and more muscular. But to do those things he’d need money, and he wasn’t willing to waste coinage on surface problems.
Because he’d lied to the dwarf. He did have fickels—many a fickel, in fact. He’d been saving up to take a ship to the island of Mack Guphinne, where, legend said, a certain ancient temple sat. It was whispered that any supplicant entering the temple and performing the proper rituals would be subjected to a series of tests, their mind and heart probed intimately to measure their worth. And if they were found worthy, their greatest dream might come true.
Vic’s greatest dream was to have the softness and sweetness purged from his body and soul, that he might become the stud his father swore was in there, somewhere. And that meant he would finally lose his secret weakness, his shame, that parasite that he couldn’t shake, no matter how far he roved from home or how very swole he became. For perhaps dancing hooves were bad, but wiggling fingers were worse.
“He left a butt-shaped sweat blot when he fell!” one of the centaurs howled from inside the gym, and laughter shook the rafters.
“Clydesdale? More like Clydesfail!”
At that, Vic had had enough.
He looked up and down the street, then crept as much as a seventeen-hand Clydesdale with a ripped dude’s torso could creep, easing along the alley behind the gym. Finding an open window, Vic slipped his hands inside the room beyond. As he waggled his fingers, feeling the magic build with his rage and shame, he smiled. And waited.
It wasn’t long before the screaming started.
“So hot!” someone screamed.
“It burns!” shouted another one. “Like lava!”
“My gym!” Mr. Kross screeched. “It’s ruined! Flooded! Oh, gods of Pell, why? Why’d it have to be tea?”
“And is that a pistachio macaron?” someone else asked. “What the Pell?”
Soon the centaurs were cantering out of the gym, their fetlocks red and bare, the hair singed off and smelling slightly of Shih Terrace green tea. The paint ran off the palomino’s hooves in ripples, revealing the telltale signs of past laminitis due to binge eating. Elves and dwarves ran out, their shoes fizzling away as if eaten by acid as they screamed. Jerky MacJerkface the troll barreled out, his green feet pink, the toenails boinging off like popcorn as he whimpered. Behind them all came the swirling tide of boiling hot tea, gallons and gallons of it, along with a light curl of cream and a few qu
ickly dissolving sugar cubes.
“My eye! My eye!” The Thoroughbred galloped into the street, both hands over his face. When he pulled them away, a single pistachio macaron fell down, covered in smeary black eyeliner.
Vic withdrew his fingers from the open window and trotted away down the alley. All the swoleboys were too busy whining about second-degree burns to notice him.
It wasn’t easy, being afflicted with tea magic. But sometimes, secretly, it had its uses.
Still, he would’ve traded every drop of magic in his blood to be a normal centaur, who danced only when he danged well meant to.
Tempest was shopping, which was not a thing dryads generally did. She pointed to the garment labeled as a grey hooded cloak, which was significantly more attractive somehow than the one next to it described as gray hooded cloak but spelled with an a instead of an e.
“I’ll take three of those, if you have them,” she said to the merchant, pointing to the grey cloaks. She saw only two at present.
The clothing merchant puffed on his pipe, releasing a cloying odor of tobacco, cloves, and vanilla, and nodded once, chucking a young lad on the shoulder. “Fetch another from the back, boy. The grey with an e, now, not the gray with an a.”
The boy nodded and disappeared behind a thin curtain, and the merchant puffed again before removing the slimed stem from his mouth and pointing it right at Tempest’s face. Smoke streamed out of his mouth as he spoke and filtered up through his white mustache, which was stained yellow underneath his nose from years of such exhalations.
“It’s the hood ye want, isn’t it?” he asked. He wiggled the pipe’s stem around at the collection of vibrant vines and narrow-bladed leaves covering Tempest’s head, where a human woman’s hair would be. “To hide all that foine green foliage.”
Tempest looked down, her jaw clenched. “Yes.”