“Well there’s Uthgar, and Frowen, and C’huhoyle…”
“C’huhoyle my squeaky wagon wheels! Not Heroes from sagas. Not dead guys you heard about in a song someplace. I mean, how many honest to Gods Heroes do you know? Had a beer with?”
“Uh…”
“Take your time. Make sure you count them all,” Boltac said as he let the soothing clip clop of the horse’s hooves and the tranquil beauty of the forest road lull him into a kind of trance.
“None,” interrupted Relan.
“Did you miss any? I mean is that an exact count? Because, as a Merchant, I can tell you, it is important to be precise with figures.”
“Okay, okay, you’ve made your point.” Relan said, staring off into the trees.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. There are two possible reasons for this, and pay attention, because they are closely linked. One, everybody who sets out to be a Hero gets killed. And two, there’s no such things as Heroes.”
“That’s not true. That can’t be true! Why, there have to be Heroes. Who else would look out for the poor and the unfortunate?”
“The poor and the unfortunate either look out for themselves or… well, or they just keep being really poor and unfortunate.”
“That’s terrible. That’s the most awful thing I’ve ever heard.”
Boltac shrugged. “Hey, these are dark ages in which we live. I don’t make the rules. I don’t even like the rules.”
“The rules suck. And I think you have it wrong.”
“I wish I did,” said Boltac, “but there’s nothing either of us can do to change it.”
They rode on in silence for a long time. Finally, Boltac grew so bored he decided to try again.
“Kid, do you know why people fight wars?”
“To win?”
“Nobody wins in a war, except the guy selling swords and armor. No, people fight wars to put themselves in a better negotiating position.”
“Not for Love, or Honor, or a Righteous Cause?”
“Not in my experience.”
“But in the songs…”
“Kid, they’re songs. Songs. As in, not real.”
“They’re real to me.”
“En-henh. And that’s great, but the point here is that fighting is stupid. Negotiation is power.”
“I don’t think–”
“Yeah, I figured that one out already. Just trust me; if we can bribe our way in and out of this thing, everybody will be a lot happier. And a lot more alive. Hey kid, you mind taking the reins for a while? I’m still a little woozy from that potion.”
“Woozy? But it was Magic!”
“Trust me, the hangover you get from Magic is the worst kind of hangover there is. I’m gonna sleep it off in the back. Don’t go chasing after anybody while I’m asleep.”
18
Rattick was no Hero. Like all true survivors, he always seemed to find ways to profit from the misfortune of others. So at the first sign of trouble, he slunk into the alleys of Robrecht. While Orcs marauded through the town and fire ravaged the buildings, he kept to the shadows, looting corpses where he could, burgling a store here and there, until finally he reached the north gate. He found a horse in the guard’s stable and was gone into the night without a second thought.
When Rattick reached the forest, he abandoned the horse and worked his way along the road from twenty yards into the woods. When he grew tired, he climbed a tree, wrapped himself in his cloak, and tried to nap. His sleep did not last long, for he was awakened by the sounds of the raiding party returning from Robrecht. Horrible things on wolves crying “Hork, Hork, Hork!” as they rode the unlit roads. Rattick wondered what Treasure they had taken from the town. Probably just people, for food. But just in case, he followed their tracks, looking for dropped baubles by the light of a waning moon.
The raid was bad news for Robrecht, of course, but good news for Rattick. When word got out, Adventurers would come from all parts of the Four Kingdoms. They would see Glory, and loot. And with such a school of fish to draw from, Rattick’s grift was about to go big time. Maybe he needed a partner to handle the additional volume? But the problem with taking a partner in a grift was how could you trust a grifter?
With his careful traveling habits, it took Rattick three days to return to the entrance of the Wizard’s lair. And by that time, it wasn’t there anymore. The once-grassy hill and innocuous-looking wooden door had been blown apart, leaving a smoking hole in the earth.
Wolf tracks led directly over the edge and into the maw of the pit. Evidently, the Wizard had had enough. It was not hard for Rattick to envision the scene. Often enough, he had heard the Wizard’s howls of frustration echoing through lower dark of the dungeon. Of course, Rattick had been amazed and frightened by the mighty Magicks he had seen the Wizard work. But that’s what made it funny now. That one so wise in the ways of power could be so ignorant of patience. That was amusing. And worth remembering.
Had someone made it past the Troll and stolen something of true value from the Wizard? Yes, that would do it. And Rattick wouldn’t be surprised. His grift had been keeping the Troll so well-fed that half the time he brought Adventurers there, he’d had to wake the beast up to get him to eat his marks.
A theft certainly would have pushed the Wizard over the edge. His temper lost, raging against insults real and imagined, his foul creations scurrying for cover… yes, that must have been the way of it. The Wizard throws his hands into the air, says a word of power, and the entire hillside blows outward into the night. With a hue and cry, he lets slip the Orcs of War.
Yes, that’s how it would have happened. Dimsbury had enough power to do it, that was for sure. He was a Wizard more powerful than any BattleMage Rattick had heard of.
It was the kind of scene one would place in a mighty saga to give the Hero time to rally an army and save the town. Except, there was no Hero. And there was no army. Just a wound in the earth and an unsuspecting town that had been sacked. And would be sacked again and again, now that it was defenseless.
So now he would wait for the next party of Adventurers. When they came, he would spin his sad Tale of Love and Life Lost in the fall of Robrecht. He would summon tears to his false eyes and tell how he had come for vengeance, but had realized that to attempt the depths of the fiendish dungeon alone would be surest suicide. Then he would promise to serve his new friends faithfully.
After a while, he grew tired of standing around waiting for the next flock of Heroic lambs. So he climbed into a tree, found a comfortable limb, and went to sleep. But his dreams of blood and fortune were soon interrupted by the sound of horses and, wait, was that a wagon?
He peered down through the leaves and spied a coach fit for a King. A King, or a party of Adventurers so rich that Rattick would only have to run his bloody con one last time before he retired to the warmth and debauchery of the Southron Kingdoms.
He jumped down from the tree so quickly he nearly broke his leg. As he rushed to greet the Adventurers, he saw that the strong-jawed blond lad who drove the carriage was wearing a very, very high grade of armor. A good sign, thought Rattick, expensive armor, even on the servants.
“Hello, hail and welcome, proud Adventurers. Be on your guard, for you have come to the lair of a Wizard most foul and dangerous. Humble as I am, I place at your service my unworthy person, Rattick.” He finished with a low bow.
Before he could raise his head, he heard a familiar and irritating voice say, “Ah, Rattick! Do I have a deal for you!”
He snapped up from his bow. “BOLTAC!?”
19
“Rattick!” answered Boltac, not missing a beat. “Is it ever your lucky day!”
“Why?” asked Rattick with narrowing eyes.
“Like I said, I have a wonderful deal for you. A deal no honest man could pass up.”
Rattick made a face. “I think that you are a long way from your store, shrewd Merchant.”
“And don’t I know it. Relan, unload the bags while I hav
e a word with Rattick here.”
“Who’s he?” Rattick asked, nodding at the kid.
“Him? Oh, he’s the Hero.”
“If he’s the Hero, what does that make you?”
“The cunning fat guy who outsmarts everybody in the end.”
“I don’t understand,” said Rattick, telling the truth for once.
“Rattick, I want to hire you. Now before you protest, here’s ten gold pieces, and there’s more where that came from. Plenty more. I seek an audience with the Wizard at the bottom of this smoking hole, and I want you to get me there.”
“I… I…” Rattick stammered to a halt. Between trying to twist circumstance to his advantage and trying to figure out what in the hell circumstance was up to, he locked up. Finally, he asked, “Have you lost your mind, fat Merchant?”
“What? You mean because I’m here? Yeah, probably. But I haven’t lost my cunning, you understand. I’ll give you half your reward now, half when you get me back to town.”
“Twenty gold pieces is not enough.”
“I know that, Rattick. I do. That was just to get your attention.”
“I don’t know if I…”
“Of course you can. What’s that smell?”
“Troll.”
“There’s a Troll?” asked Relan, as he removed Boltac’s bag from the carriage. “Is this all you packed?”
“I travel light,” Boltac said, taking the sack from him. “If there’s a Troll somewhere in this hole, it’s the same Troll Rattick’s been using to kill hapless Adventurers just like us. Isn’t that right, Rattick?”
“I would never do such a thing. I am here to avenge my beloved Robrecht. And I, for one, am shocked, SHOCKED–”
“Yadda, yadda, yadda. See, kid, what he did there? Ahh, never mind. What he did was despicable, but the important thing is that we’re not going to fall for it, are we?”
“No, we’re not,” said Relan, not knowing what he wasn’t going to fall for. “Because I’m here to protect you.”
“Protect me? Ha. Kid, you’re here to carry the Lantern.” Boltac reached into his bag and handed Relan the Magic Lantern of Lamptopolis. As soon as Relan touched it, it blazed forth with a brilliant light.
“We’re not going to be sneaking up on anybody with that thing,” observed Rattick.
“Eh, yeah,” said Boltac, “you’re right. You carry it.”
“The Magic lamp,” protested Relan. “Do you trust him with it?”
“I trust him to be totally untrustworthy. Consistency. I can work with consistency,” said Boltac. As soon as Rattick took the lamp it went out. “Hmm. Smart lamp. Okay, we’ll use torches.”
Rattick handed the darkened lamp back to Boltac and asked, “What do you want with me, Boltac?”
“I want to make you rich. Name a figure, Rattick! How many coins do you need to guide me to the Wizard at the bottom of this smoking hole in the earth?”
“Why do you want to see him so bad?”
“He has a friend of mine. And I’d like her back.”
“Ho, ho, ho. Is this Love? Love from the man who is all business?”
“Yeah, I’m all business; how much you want?”
“I can’t get you past the Troll.”
“What do you mean, Rattick? Sneaky little weasel like you?”
“No, no, I swear it. Ever since Dimsbury put the Troll there, even I haven’t been able to sneak to the lower levels. Trolls have a very good sense of smell.”
“Nah, you’re just rotten to the core, so you stink to high heaven. But don’t you worry about that. You get me to the Troll, and I’ll take care of him.”
“What? YOU? You can’t be serious,” Rattick collapsed in laughter.
Boltac frowned. “Y’know Rattick, if I’m gonna be your boss, you might want to show me a little respect.”
“My boss? No offense, but I try not to work for people who will get me killed.”
“Ah, so little faith. I tell you what.” Boltac pulled a full coin purse from his belt. “This is for you. And three times this much when we get back to Robrecht with the girl.”
“Even with my help, you don’t stand a chance,” said Rattick.
“Don’t forget about me,” said Relan drawing his sword. The conversation came to a complete halt as both men stared at the Farm Boy. They stared so long that Relan became uncomfortable and asked, “What?”
“Put that away before you hurt yourself,” said Boltac. “Now where were we?”
“You were just about to get yourself killed,” said Rattick.
“Ah yes, exactly, ye of little faith. I tell you what, Rattick. You lead me to the Troll, and if I can’t defeat your Troll, you keep the gold. I mean after the Troll eats me and shits it out.”
“Trolls shit gold?” asked Relan, very confused.
“Gold is very hard to digest. Isn’t that right Rattick?”
“I shall do as you ask. Then I will loot your corpse with great relish.”
“There he is. There’s that guy I know and distrust. C’mon Relan. Let’s go meet the Troll.”
20
As they descended into the darkness, Rattick thought about knifing them both then and there. They wouldn’t be expecting it. It would be a quick, certain profit. Perhaps less than he might expect, but there would be no chance of getting killed on Boltac’s foolish quest. No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than Boltac said, “I know what you’re thinking, Rattick: ‘Why don’t I knife these two right now and go through their pockets for loose change?’”
“That’s not exactly what I’m thinking.”
“Yeah, but close enough. And you want to know what I’m thinking about? Other than your inevitable and predictable betrayal?” Rattick was silent. Boltac continued, “I’m thinking, if you’re our guide, you should be going first. Kid, give this slippery bastard the torch.”
“But I’m one of your key suppliers!” protested Rattick “He’s going to run off and steal the torch,” said Relan, displaying the first glimmers of wisdom.
“Nah,” said Boltac, “if he steals it from me, he won’t have anybody to sell it back to. But if he makes you nervous, go ahead and poke him with your sword a little bit. Don’t kill him, just make him leak.”
“Shh,” said Rattick.
“‘Shh’ yourself, you crooked bastard,” said Boltac.
“What’s that noise?” asked Relan. In the distance, they could hear a horrible rumbling noise.
As they approached, the noise came and went in waves. It sounded like someone gigantic trying to exhale through a set of lungs filled with gravel. It was a horrible, igneopulmonary rumble.
“That’s the Troll,” said Rattick.
“Doing what?” asked Relan.
Rattick waited until after the sound had rumbled through the corridor again.
“Snoring,” whispered Rattick into the silence. “Which is a good thing for you, stout Merchant. What I suggest is that you keep to the shadows. Advance only while it’s snoring. Then you take your sword and plunge it right in his ear. It’s one of the only vulnerable places on a Troll.”
“I don’t have a sword,” said Boltac.
“You can use mine,” offered Relan.
“That’s nice of you, kid. ‘Cause after all, it’s my sword. But I’m not going to need it.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Rattick.
In the flickering torchlight, Boltac took his heavy wool mittens from his bag. As he put them on he said, “I’m gonna do what I do best. I’m going to make a deal with him.”
Relan searched his memories for any sagas or songs in which the Hero had defeated the monster by making a deal. He came up empty.
Rattick asked the obvious question. “Have you ever seen a Troll?”
21
The Troll was asleep next to a mound of phosphorescent lichen. Strictly speaking, the creature didn’t need light to see, but the presence of this slight illumination allowed the Troll to see the terror on his meals’ faces more
clearly. There is an old Troll proverb that says “food better frightened” or “scared is good eatin’” or “terror is the best sauce.” It loses pretty much everything in the translation. But in case there’s any confusion on the matter, Trolls aren’t nice.
Something kicked the Troll in the foot. This was a new sensation for the Troll. There really isn’t anything in nature in the habit of kicking Trolls. The Troll opened his large, yellow eyes. In the dim light of the lichen, he could clearly see food, holding a small sack and looking up at him.
“Yoo-hoo, Mister Troooooooll. Have I got a deal for you!” said the food.
Wait, food was talking? This was confusing. Food never talked. Sometimes food screamed. Sometimes food tried to poke the Troll with sharp things. Most of the time food ran away. But it never stood its ground and talked. And certainly never kicked. Since the Troll couldn’t understand what any of the funny, squeaky little sounds coming out of food’s mouth meant, it tried to understand why food wasn’t doing any of the things that it usually did.
Maybe it was poisoned? That thought disturbed the Troll. Since he often ate people without bothering to peel them, his stomach was a cause of constant trouble. He had been eating quite well lately. For some reason, food had been easier to come by–eager even–since he had come to this cave. He didn’t even have to go out and terrorize the countryside just to get lunch. But how had he gotten here? He couldn’t remember that part. Something about a very loud and angry piece of food wearing black. But the memory was blurry and confused.
Thinking made the Troll’s head hurt. He decided that he had thought enough for one day. He drew himself up to his full height and yawned. A Troll yawn is much like a roar, and this one was so loud it rattled chips of rock off the ceiling. The Troll expected food to flee, or curl up in a convenient, bite-sized ball of fear, but food was still there!
“There we go,” said Boltac, “Come get a closer look at the merchandise.”
In the shadows, Relan said, “He’s dead.”
A Rattick-shaped shadow next to him said, “You are not as dumb as you look, kid,”
The Merchant Adventurer Page 9