Kill the Farm Boy

by Delilah S. Dawson

  Poltro dismounted from Snowflake some distance away from the flickering campfire and patted her stallion’s ebony flanks with affection, picketing him for a little gourmet grazing in this fine pasture. It smelled fresh and clean and safe, and it was all of those things, Poltro thought…at least until she arrived, the dangerous huntress of the dark nighty night. (Or was it supposed to be knighty night with a silent k? She was never sure except that she would sure like to make homophones illegal and lock up the person who thought silent ks were a good idea in a dungeon most dank and stank. She would tie him up in nots with an n instead of knots with a k, because he would not be getting away.)

  Poltro allowed herself a grin as she threw the hood of her cloak over her head. It had stopped raining, but the clouds still obscured the stars and moon. Nobody would see a black stallion in such a profound absence of light, and she could infiltrate the camp ahead in complete stealth and stealthily purloin information like a gopher smuggling ale into subterranean oblivion.

  Wait, should that have been kale? No. Again, this k was silent.

  Her footsteps made only the barest whisper in the grasses, like the secrets of caterpillars. The turf under her boots was soft and springy like the jiggly bellies of middle-aged men. Her mental prose was as purple as a very purple thing. She advanced on the camp, cloaked by her actual cloak of mystery and menace but also by the night, two cloaks that cloaked great together, providing her near invisibility, an impenetrable fog of stealthy stealth as she—

  “Hey there,” a man’s voice said, and Poltro froze. He couldn’t be talking to her. She was a shadow in the darkest pit, unknowable to any—

  “Yeah, you. The one skulking around in the cloak and hood. What’re you looking for?”

  Poltro flailed in surprise, took two steps back, and stumbled over a tiny tricksy pebble, one that had obviously lain in wait to ambush her in a moment of vulnerability. Pebbles were like that, always tripping her up, even worse than chickens sometimes.

  “Gah! What?” she said. She couldn’t see who was talking. Was it a god or some restless spirit of the night?

  “You’re clearly looking for something,” the voice said. “Did you lose a coin purse, maybe, made of stitched and oiled leather, utilitarian yet delicious?”

  Poltro scrambled to her feet, stepped on her cloak, and fell down again. “No,” she said, her breath coming fast as she peered into the darkness for the speaker. All she could see was the fire some distance away. She put a hand over her heart and tried to will herself to relax, to slow down, buy some time. “I’m looking for a farm boy. People around these parts are calling him the Chosen One.”

  “What do you want with him?”

  “Oh, well, not to kill him, ha ha!” she said as she fumbled at her waist for her dagger. “Certainly not that.”

  “Too bad. I could have made you happy there. Because he’s dead already.”

  Poltro froze again. “The Chosen One…is dead?”

  “I know, it sounds impossible, right? The evidence suggests someone made an astoundingly poor chosening. Say, do you really need that cloak? Seems like it just gets in your way.”

  “Why, do you need a cloak?”

  “I could use it, sure. This grass is a bit rich for my blood, and I like high-fiber foods.”

  “Pardon me?” The conversation had turned so sharply around a corner of strangeness that Poltro couldn’t follow where it had gone. Nor could she see who was talking. “Who are you? Where are you?”

  “My name’s Gustave,” the voice replied. “Come on, let’s head over to the fire. I’ll introduce you to the others and you’ll be able to see.”

  Gathering her cloak carefully from underneath her feet this time, Poltro succeeded in standing up and locating her dagger. She didn’t pull it out, but she kept her hand on the hilt the way she’d learned from Cutter, although he had mostly just advised her to run away and say the target had gone underground while gazing into the distance, her eyes narrowed and haunted. With her cloak balled up in one fist and her dagger’s handle in the other, she’d be ready for trouble if this Gustave fellow intended to give her any—or if his secretive and sneaky friends did.

  “Who’s over at the fire?” she asked.

  “An unusually tall human and a sort of rabbit thing.”

  Poltro thought it odd that the man specified there was a human there but ignored that bit to ask, “A rabbit thing?”

  “Once you get used to the twitching nose, she’s not so bad.” Gustave’s disembodied voice rose as he called out: “Hey, Fia! Argabella! I found someone out here who’s looking for Worstley!”

  Two silhouettes stepped out of the dark to stand in front of the fire, and one of them was indeed unusually tall, as was her unusually tall sword. The other was thin with fluffy rabbits’ feet and whiskers and some long ears drooping down from the top of her head.

  “Who is it?” the tall one asked.

  “Oh, some human lady with the kind of cloak that would ruin your diet.”

  “My name is Poltro,” the rogue called ahead, her voice crisp and confident in the night. But that confidence didn’t stick around; it migrated south in search of sunlight after she got close enough to see who she was dealing with.

  “Well met, Poltro. I am Fia the Mighty, and this is Argabella, the bard.”

  “Almost bard. Still two credits short,” Argabella mumbled.

  Fia the Mighty was a wall of muscle barely restrained by a chain-mail bikini, the firelight lending bronze highlights to her dark brown skin. Poltro noted that she had a sword and a high-quality pair of shears and what appeared to be a truly wicked bottle opener. Deadly things, bottle openers. Poltro let her hand fall to her side lest Fia think she was going to pull that dagger.

  The other person, Argabella, displayed a hybrid of human and rabbity features that Poltro thought the Dark Lord Toby would appreciate, since he was so interested in crossbreeding animals. She had no visible weapons, but Poltro thought her claws might be nasty up close, and her chattering teeth could probably crunch through bones. Argabella didn’t appear to favor violence, however. She looked terrified, which was gratifying. Then again, she looked like looking terrified was her default. Must’ve been the rabbit blood.

  The owner of the rich male voice turned out to be a black billy goat with a coat as dark as Snowflake’s—no wonder she couldn’t see him in the night! And she realized that Gustave must be the talking goat that Lord Toby had told her about. The goat she was allowed to eat if she completed her mission. He licked his goat lips and stared at the hem of her cloak, obviously imagining how it would taste. That was okay; she was imagining him in a stew pot brimming with spices from Thyme Island. But business would have to be concluded before dinner.

  “Great to meet you all. So!” Poltro clapped her hands together and kept them clasped. “This Chosen One. What happened to him?” She saw a flash of shame in Fia’s expression before the fearsome fighter turned hostile.

  “Why do you care?”

  “Well, I’m told that Chosen Ones tend to have quite a bit of magic about them. Lots of folks are interested in that.”

  Fia snorted. “He had no magic ability whatsoever, I assure you.”

  “Well, what about his heart?”

  “What about it?”

  Poltro didn’t think it would be wise to ask her if it was magic, so she said, “Do you know where it is?”

  Fia’s reply dripped with scorn. “Inside his rib cage, of course.”

  “Do you think he’s still using it?” The fire popped and hissed, and Poltro felt the weight of three heavy stares and an awful silence. “I mean, being dead and all, he’s probably a bit disappointed with it, or he would be if he could feel disappointment anymore, and so he wouldn’t mind if someone borrowed it for a while, if he was able to mind anything, that is.”

  “Borrow it?” Gustave said. �
��You want to borrow his heart? Cut it out of his body and return it later?”

  “No, no, you’re right,” Poltro admitted, realizing her mistake and relieved that they were simply concerned with semantics. “He probably wouldn’t be a stickler about me returning it. What are deadlines to a dead guy, am I right?”

  Poltro was pretty sure she was right, but another uncomfortable staring session stretched on and she couldn’t think of what to say to make it stop. Just as she was going to deliver a prosaic compliment to Argabella on the length and utility of her whiskers, Fia spoke in a flat voice.

  “You can’t have his heart,” she said. “He’s going to be needing it later on.”

  “For what?”

  “For beating, of course.”

  “He’s going to beat his heart?”

  “No,” Fia said through clenched teeth, “his heart is going to beat and he’ll be alive again.”

  “Oh! Oh, I see now. Yeah. That’ll be great, no doubt. But that sort of thing—returning to actual life—that’s, uh, kind of rare, isn’t it?”

  “We’re going to find a wizard to make it happen.”

  “That’s right!” Argabella chimed in for the first time. “We’re going to see the Crepuscular Lord, Toby.”

  “You mean the Dark Lord?”

  “Right. He might be able to help.”

  Poltro did some quick calculating and broke into a smile. “He probably can! You know, I just came from his tower! I work for him. I can take you there if you like—I know the shortest route.”

  “You work for him?” Fia frowned. “So he’s the one who wants the heart of the farm boy?”

  “Not if he’s still alive!” Poltro hastened to reassure them. “I’m no expert on manners, but I’m pretty sure that would be rude, and Lord Toby’s very polite. It’s just that his heart might be worth something, magically speaking, if the poor boy doesn’t need it anymore. One man’s garbage heart is another man’s treasure, right? But things are different now. I’m sure you can work out something with Lord Toby.”

  For Poltro was quite certain that if there were three things in all the world her master could appreciate, they were a magically talking goat, a cursed rabbit woman, and news of where the Chosen One’s unbeating heart might be quietly doing nothing of use.

  “Great. Let’s go,” Fia said.

  “Now?” Argabella’s whiskers drooped. “But we just got here. I was going to forage for lettuces.”

  “We don’t have time to waste. What’s your name again, rogue?”

  Poltro beamed. A proper recognition of her skills, that was. Professional courtesy. “You can call me Poltro.”

  “Well met, Poltro,” Fia said, and kicked dirt onto the fire. “Lead the way.”

  “Oh.” The rogue turned in a circle, uncertain.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Well, it’s mighty dark out here, isn’t it? I can’t find my horse.”

  Gustave swiftly found Snowflake, for not only did beasts have an uncanny need to smell one another’s bums, but the horse was positively riddled with bits of dangly leather.

  “Is he being eaten by a blanket?” Argabella asked.

  “A proper huntsman requires a proper costume and kit,” Poltro explained. “The Dark Lord says that makes it more legal.”

  Fia squinted at the accoutrements doubtfully. “It looks like he’s being ridden by a jellyfish.”

  The goat made lip-smacking noises. “It looks delicious.”

  Gustave sidled up to the stallion and delicately reached for a bit of saddle ornamentation. From Snowflake’s point of view, he was being attacked in the night by a coven of monstrous beasts intent on lipping at his pendulous bits. In the way of stallions and cowards everywhere, he squealed, spun, and galloped away, taking his decorative blanket and ornamental trimmings with him.

  “Cor,” Poltro shouted. “He’s got all my food—that I totally forgot to bring with me, dang it!—plus my weapons and that special box the Dark Lord gave me for…” She trailed off. “Um, fresh herbs.”

  Argabella perked up. “Fresh herbs?”

  Poltro nodded, in no way lying now. “Oh, yes. Lord Toby adores fresh herbs. He makes the loveliest rosemary butter, and then he uses a sort of squeezy bag to make butter stars on these things that are almost crackers.”

  Fia looked around. The first flickers of dawn shone pink at the edge of the forest. She put her mighty hands on her goose-pimpled hips. “It is nearly morning. Perhaps we should venture forth to see this Dark Lord.”

  “We kind of already were,” Gustave said after swallowing the tiny bit of leather he’d nibbled from Snowflake’s harnessing. “That’s why we’re standing and sort of headed in that direction over there.”

  Fia’s brow rumpled. “I was just making it official. Four people stumbling about in the forest means someone has to take the first steps. And I say they go that way.” She pointed at the rising sun.

  “Well, Toby’s demesne is more that way.” Poltro pointed a bit to the right.

  “To the east?”

  “No, to the right. And down a little.”

  Nodding wisely, Fia shielded her eyes with her hand. “Then that is where we go.” She lifted her boat-sized foot to take a step.

  Gus sighed heavily. “Yes, we’re trying to, but you keep stopping us to make pronouncements.”

  “Um,” Argabella said hopefully, “perhaps we should make sure the fire is totally extinguished first? And fetch our bags?”

  “That,” Fia said loftily, “is what I was going to say next.”

  “Good gravy,” Gustave muttered. “People.” He wasn’t sure that being able to talk to them now was an improvement. They didn’t seem to want to hear anything he had to say, and being understood and ignored was little better than bleating incomprehensibly and being dismissed as a dumb animal. In fact, he was beginning to suspect it might be worse.

  With Poltro in tow, they hurried back to their campsite. Fia stamped out the last few stubborn smoldering coals while Argabella collected the makeshift bag she’d fashioned from her fine cloak, which was now full of the carrots, vegetables, and herbs she’d rummaged for along the way. Fia had appeared frustrated with her at first, stopping all the time when they were clearly on a schedule to revivify the farm boy before he got even deader. But every time Argabella froze, sensitive nose twitching, and threw her arms out as if to halt the world in midsentence, she seemed to find some sort of gastrodelectable gold. Leeks and ramps and sunchokes and rutabagas and…well, Fia didn’t complain anymore except when they found Gustave innocently sidling toward the stored veggies, drooling a little. The humans seemed quite capable of hiding their desires, but he had not yet gained such powers.

  While Fia and Argabella broke down the campsite, Poltro did her part by protecting them from rogue chickens and other dire threats, or at least holding out her dagger and hopping around a bit. Gustave flopped down on his callused knees, closed his slitted eyes, and took a quick nap as green foam oozed out the side of his mouth. Soon the sun was completely up, and the entire group was ready.

  “It is time—”

  Gustave interrupted Fia’s next pronouncement with a sneeze as he wobbled to his hooves, shaking his shaggy head. “I was dreaming of cake,” he said. “Nasty dream. Wretched stuff. It had sprinkles. That bit of leather must not’ve agreed with me.”

  “—to go.”

  They walked all morning, discussing mainly the weather, which everyone agreed was nice, and the current political state, which no one knew anything about but on which topic everyone had much to say. Around lunch, Poltro pointed out a pitch-black tower rising into the sunny blue sky.

  “That’s the Dark Lord’s demesne,” Poltro said with great seriousness.

  “Why do you keep saying that? What’s a dem-ez-nee?” Gustave asked.

  “It means h
is territory, the land attached to his tower thingy,” Poltro explained, bending down to help make Gustave feel that they were on the same side and that she had many valuable things to teach him.

  “It’s pronounced ‘do-main,’ and you’re an idiot,” the goat said, then coughed up some cud and chewed on it, rolling his eyes.

  Poltro stood straight and pointed at the goat with a shrug that said, Can you believe this ungulate?

  “He’s right, I think,” Fia said. “I’ve always heard ‘domain,’ sure enough.”

  “Those scribes do love their extra Ss,” Argabella added. “The castle scribe back home spelled Argabella with three of them. Looked very pretty but sounded like a cat with a hairball.”

  They hadn’t stopped walking all through this exchange until Poltro froze suddenly to sniff the air, taking in a deep lungful. Her stomach made noises like growling dogs. Gustave took a whiff and caught something savory and oily that was making the rogue’s stomach grumble.

  “The Dark Lord’s domain,” she said, nose tilted up to catch the breeze, “is up ahead. And you’re in luck, as it smells like Lord Toby is throwing one of his grand luncheons.”

  “A grand luncheon?” Fia said, catching up to her in a few strides. “So there will be others there? Strangers? High society?”

  “He’s not the most sociable sort, our Dark Lord, but it’s possible he might have some turtlehogs at the table,” Poltro admitted.

  “I don’t have anything fancy to wear,” Fia said. “Think I can get away with just closing the cloak?” She pulled said cloak around her body and buttoned it down the front. She was so tall and broad that she somewhat resembled a velvet-wrapped armoire, and Gustave briefly considered calling her Chester Drawers for a laugh but then remembered he kind of needed Fia to be on his side so as not to wind up as part of somebody’s grand luncheon.

  “Wardrobe shouldn’t be a problem,” the rogue said.

  As Poltro led them along, they soon found neatly kept cobbles under their feet and hooves, respectively, leading them down a hill toward the dark tower of Toby, its black stones glistening in the morning sun as it stood proudly, surrounded by well-trimmed ornamental shrubbery and several circular stone walls. Fia’s earlier nervousness subsided immediately after she spotted a rose garden inside the outer wall. She turned to Argabella to share her excitement, murmuring, “Those roses!”