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  “Ours, Pinty, our children. I have to say you gave me the most delicious offspring of all my lovers. You should be very proud of that.”

  Proud might not be the word that comes to mind at the moment. “Okay, there. Have any of your children ever been worthy of survival?”

  “Once, but she turned out to have a fatal allergy to steel shaped into a sword. I did do my motherly duty though and I avenged her. The intruder’s skeleton still resides near the bottom of the pool.” She holds her hand out and waves lazily towards the water. “Anyways, shall we? I make this promise: Pay my price as you have before and I will scry you an answer to the question you seek. But fail in pleasing me once we begin and I will consume you as I did our children. Make your decision, Pinty, for as I said, it is too warm above the surface of the water and I tire of this heat.”

  I give Muel a “what the hell” look and a few moments later I’m naked in the pool beside Mirabel. I said it was a good experience before. I’m sure I can satisfy her once again.

  We clasp hands and a moment later both Mirabel and I are fish.

  Chapter 13

  “This is not like you, Pinty. I don’t think I’ve seen you like this before. Angry, happy, crazy even. But not sullen.” Muel looks across the campfire then back down and away. “It’s been three days of riding since the witch. You haven’t told me anything.” He looks up and keeps staring this time. “Is it me? Did I do something back there to make you mad?”

  He’s right. I have been sullen, almost completely silent, since the water witch. I’ve been spending the days just contemplating what she told me after I fulfilled my part of the deal. I have been totally ignoring him. I look into Muel’s eyes, which I note are bloodshot, and at the corners they’ve watered up. He really thinks I might hate him.

  I relent, stop being such a stick-in-the-mud, and crack a huge smile. “Muel! No, it’s not you. Not one bit. I was just thinking about everything that Mirabel told me. She went well beyond answering the questions I asked. She also volunteered answers to questions I never made. She’s a really mean woman for doing that.”

  “So it’s not me?”

  “No! Seriously, no. It’s not you. Really, how could I ever hate you? You’re the Muel. There’s no one else I would rather have at my side, darning my socks, carrying my loot. Giving me piggyback rides.” He totally lights up at that. “You’re the one.”

  “Okay. I was really worried there.”

  “Well, don’t be.”

  “Well, I was.”

  “Yes, I get that.” I add another smile to help out. Muel returns one twice over in size, with huge teeth showing in the firelight. “Anyways, I’ve got a plan. Mirabel told me where Amber is and we are going to rescue her and return her to Guild Master Tavos. Done and done.”

  “Good, I’ve been itching to knock some heads. Where we going?”

  “Along the northern pass, the one that winds through the mountain peaks. If we follow it, it comes to an abandoned tariff station. Castle Umber. She’s there.”

  Muel’s smile fades a bit. “Castle Umber. Ahh, isn’t there a reason it’s abandoned?”

  “Yes.”

  “Like problems with bandits, monsters and magic?”

  “Yes, and a lot more.”

  “And Amber is there, still alive and uneaten?”

  “As of three days ago she was uneaten. That okay with you?”

  “Is that okay? By every god that encouraged battle, that’s great! I thought all we were doing was riding around with you being mad at me!”

  “Well, by the day after tomorrow we should make it to the foot of the mountain pass. I’m going to close my eyes for a bit. Wake me in a few hours and I’ll keep watch till sunrise. You sure you’re good with this?”

  “Absolutely. I don’t think I’m going to be able to sleep I’m so excited. I have to make everything ready. Where am I going to start!” And faster than I can suggest he start with my socks, he’s already working on his own gear.

  I smile a bit more before pulling down my hood for a bit of sleep. Finding Amber wasn’t my worry. Mirabel was pretty direct about answering that question once we transformed back into human form after chasing each other round her pool for an hour as koi. It’s what else she told me. I’m just glad that Muel isn’t quick enough sometimes to realize he forgot to ask the real question: What was it Mirabel volunteered up?

  Lies. All lies.

  Chapter 14

  The northern pass is not so much a pass as it is a cart path with a serious death wish. In between hours of steep slopes, switchbacks and washed-out track, we get the heart-pounding pleasure of road that is one side sheer cliff face and the other a magnificent view of a terminal fall.

  Sure, occasionally it pretends to be wide enough for two merchant carts to pass in opposite directions, but good luck to the one on the outside lane.

  For the past couple of hours we have been trailing three heavily laden carts up the treacherous route. Unless they’re actually trying to cross the mountain range, which I think is unlikely, then they’re heading to the same place that we are — Castle Umber.

  Muel, who hours ago dismounted from his horse, is panting and winded from the exertion of the path. Had he continued to ride, the poor horse would have perished under the combination of carrying him and climbing the steep slope. I, of course, have remained mounted.

  “Watch your speed, Muel. Even traveling at a walking pace we move faster than the carts. I would rather them get to Umber first and observe them there than interrupt their journey on the way.”

  Muel huffs a loud exhaust of breath as an affirmative. “Then,” between breaths, “head bashing time?”

  “Most certainly, my friend. Most certainly.”

  The sun sweeps most of the sky by the time we reach our destination, but reach it we do without mishap or detection.

  Umber is a three-story building that is not so much a castle as it is a small fortified keep. While the path at this point widens into a large plateau (though still with a sheer wall on one side and a fall on the other), Umber cuts through the middle of it. To continue on the path one must pass through the castle’s ground floor.

  That’s what makes Umber such a great tariff station. There are no routes around the fortification. One must either cough up a few coppers per hundred value and call it the cost of business or turn back. There are no other options.

  Watching from down the path, we see a half dozen disheveled men with mismatched tunics and weapons exit the castle and join the merchants. The lack of standardized uniforms pegs them as brigands, not mercenaries. That makes me feel better already. With brigands one just needs to identify the leader, take him out, and the rest should flee. Totally simple.

  The brigands join the merchants and assist in unloading the carts of their goods, which look like food, more food and maybe, if I squint a bit, yet more food.

  Still mounted, I smack Muel with the sole of my foot and lean in. “So here’s the plan — the armed men you see are all yours once we get in close. You can ignore the merchants, but please do your best to incapacitate the guards in as noisy a way as you can. The more sound they make dying, the better. I’ll slip to the side of the gate, await their leader and, when he shows his head — bamo! I take him down.”

  There are occasions where I don’t have to hear words from Muel. The absolute happiness in his face tells me the whole message. That he gets all the guards and I only get the leader makes him giddy. “You’re absolutely sure. I mean, this isn’t my birthday and I get six? Really?”

  “Absolutely. Just leave the commander all to me. It’s going to be mano-a-half-mano. And half-mano is going to win.”

  “Agreed!”

  “Good, then follow my lead, trusty sidekick. We’re going in.” And with that I give my horse a get-up-and-go, and we start forward. Muel, his steed in tow, walks beside.

  Chapter 15

  A lanky guard, even more ragtag than the others, notices us approach. Leaving the carts, he moves
to cut us off from accessing the keep. “Normally, I would ask you to state your business, but the path is closed for the season. No travelers through the gate. Sorry, you’ll need to turn back.”

  “Ahh, but perhaps my business is within the keep and not beyond.” I give him that pearly white smile that says “trust me”. Blink. Blink. My teeth, they literally gleam.

  “Yeah, well, not today and not tomorrow.” He steps up to my horse and stands almost eye-to-eye with me. Smart though, he keeps Muel on the other side of the mare. “There’s nothing here but us caretakers.”

  “I see. Just the six of you then.”

  “Oh, a few others as well. And the sergeant.”

  “A sergeant, you say. Well, perhaps I can speak with him?” I give Muel a quick, secret wink and then look to the carts and back to the guard. There really is a lot of food being unpacked and carried in. “But so few of you! By the amount of food received, I would think an army is encamped within those walls! Seriously, is that three entire boars being unloaded as we speak?”

  “Well, some of us do eat more than others.”

  Poor lanky guard. I don’t know if it’s that he’s hungry or if it’s simply that he’s inexperienced, but he turns his back on me to observe the unloading of the boars. I take full advantage of his poor judgement. I pull the reins and yell “Go!” and the mare leaps forward, flinging me into the middle of the merchants, the teamsters and the five other guards. For a moment he wants to chase after me, but Muel clears his throat. My horse, which only moments ago formed a nice wall between Mr. Lanky and Muel, has vanished — leaving only a few scant feet between the two. Muel already has his cudgel out.

  Mr. Lanky isn’t all that happy about the new situation. “Aww, shit. This is going to hurt.”

  As I leap off my horse into the middle of everyone else, I can hear the wallop of Muel’s blow echoing like a crack of the bat down the mountain pass. I assume Mr. Lanky’s skull shatters from the blow.

  Muel calls out, “One!”

  Chapter 16

  Screaming men, panicked horses and numerous carts (that I will easily move through and beneath) offer more than enough cover. Leaping from my horse, I hit the ground and tumble forward, hurling myself under the first cart. My left hand pulls the knife from the belt sheath and the right grabs the wagon’s bottom edge, allowing me to change direction in mid-air. Now, instead of having tumbled all the way under, I’m facing back towards my horse. With a yah-haw and a quick smack, I startle her away from the danger of being abandoned in the middle of the combat. Step one completed.

  A quick glance back to Muel and I see that he has everyone’s complete attention. The merchants are madly throwing themselves into their carts to hide and the five remaining guards are sizing up their competition. They advance as a group with that cocky stance that says five combatants will always beat one. Professional soldiers would know that five-to-one are still not enough odds against Muel.

  Looking out from my hidey, the way to the front gate is clear of trouble — a few more wagons and a few more merchants. It shouldn’t be too hard to conceal myself beside the keep’s entrance.

  “Go, go feet!” And I’m at full sprint before I even leave the cover of the cart. I take a roundabout way, keeping as many unloaded boxes and trade goods between me and the gate as possible. No need to risk being seen before I make my spot.

  Crack-a-cow! “Two!”

  Barreling past some of the unloaded goods, I round a cart and catch a merchant desperately scrambling at the side of his wagon, trying to get a leg high enough up to climb inside. With a small leap to his butt and a sprint across his back, I use him as a ramp. The crown of his balding head forms enough traction that I launch the width of the cart and land on the other side. Quickly, I hug the wheel, keeping the solid oak spokes like a shield on my left side. The keep gate is still quiet of reinforcements and my luck continues to hold out. I shift the knife from my left to my right hand. Here’s where we go for broke — the thirty feet empty of cover between this cart and the gate will be risky.

  “Three!” Something mushy goes flopping down the mountainside.

  I scan the parapets for archers, mages or anything that would take glee from picking off a small, defenseless shortkin running coverless across an open stretch of ground. It doesn’t appear that anyone is there. I squint a bit more just to make sure, but still no one appears on the fortification walls. Well, this better be it then.

  Sixteen long strides and I make it, flinging my back against the wall on one side of the gate. I get small then, as small as I can make myself against a brick and buttressed wall, without a blade of grass for cover in any direction. “Just think small. Be the small. I am one with the small.” I am so one with the small.

  I have a moment to glance back at Muel. The three remaining guards have come to their senses as their advantage in men has quickly dwindled. Spreading out, they form three points of an almost perfect triangle, with Muel in the middle. Muel’s been in this situation before. His reach extends farther than the reach of the men surrounding him so he’s just biding time, watching their every move.

  Each of the three guards knows that if they attack singly, the club Muel wields will crush their bones before they reach him. Attacking all at once will bring him down, but one of them will still get tagged. Now it’s a game between the guards — each trying to trick the others into over-committing just enough that Muel’s cudgel cripples someone else when they swarm him.

  This will be fun to watch and I silently lay odds on which of the three will make the mistake and take the hit. A few moments later the smallest guard almost makes a fatal mistake and backs out just in time. Muel grins at the guards, but he’s not going to swing unless he knows that he can connect. Swinging and missing would leave him open to the other two. This goes on for a few more seconds.

  A few seconds too long, actually. “Muel! Muel! Run! Something’s wrong — they’re delaying. They don’t need to take you out. Something else is going to happen!”

  And I’m right. At that moment, three things happen. None of them really make me happy.

  First, the smaller of the guards is distracted when I yell and he drops his guard on Muel. At this point, beyond better judgment, Muel cannot resist the opportunity to strike. “Four!” And he swings the cudgel in a huge, looping, overhead circle, bringing the end straight down on the guard’s shoulder. I can hear the collarbone shattering, and then several ribs, as the force of the blow pulverizes the entire left side of the guard’s body.

  Second, with Muel focused on his recent kill, the other two pounce. Quicker than I would expect, one drives the point of his sword into the small of Muel’s back, the other looping a cut through a thigh.

  “Muel!” But I cannot do anything from this distance and he staggers forward and down. The two guards dogpile on, swords flailing upon him.

  Third, from within the gate comes a bellow of “Who breaches my trust?” followed by the lumbering and heaving steps of one ugly, eleven-foot, twenty-two-hundred-pound monstrosity of a man. Pockmarked and disheveled, large tracts of bulbous raw flesh festoon his body, which is highlighted with tufts of hair sprouting randomly from everywhere. His ragged uniform, really a series of burlap sacks that have been stitched into a poncho and draped across the shoulders, wear the chevrons of a sergeant.

  I am completely wrong thinking I can take this alone. “Muel! Get up! Get up! I changed my mind! I don’t want to be selfish! I want to share! Muel!” But it’s no use. The two guards are on top of him.

  And me? I don’t want to be one with the small anymore. That’s a troll.

  Chapter 17

  I’ve never met a troll, but I have spent time looking at pictures in a bestiary and reading the descriptions. My favorite saying about trolls is, “Spend enough time chopping the arms off a troll and you’ll end up with two things: a pile of arms and a really skinny troll.”

  Those who claim firsthand witness of a troll confirm the mythical power of regeneration is
both authentic and faster than quicksilver, when it comes to replacing severed limbs and healing mortal blows. While some claim troll regeneration is new flesh that simply appears out of nowhere, that assertion is incorrect. New flesh has to come from somewhere, and for trolls it comes from a near instantaneous conversion of their fat into new skin, muscle, bone, sinew and tendon.

  To that, trolls are huge, greasy, porcine creatures — not by nature, but by choice. Fat, bulbous flesh is a security blanket no matter the wound: falling damage, cutting damage, piercing damage and even fire damage can be regenerated as long as there is enough fat to convert into new troll flesh. Equal out, equal in.

  Best part yet, though, is that every single writer claims the only way to win a battle with a troll is to run away, which they all claim to have done. Not a single report, letter or description comes from someone who claims to have battled a troll and won.

  Absolutely brilliant there. And not very helpful.

  So that’s why I think I should share the pride of taking down this sergeant with Muel. I’m really not sure how to take out a couple thousand pounds of regenerating flesh all by myself.

  Chapter 18

  My free hand unlatches the strongbox on my hip and searches madly for the vial with the correct cap shape — round and indented with an obvious triangle depression. If I’m lucky, Mavis has stocked the strongbox with this particular glass tube. I am lucky. Pulling out the vial, I cock back my arm, ready to fling the vial into the back of the troll, and pause.

  The troll has already gone past, completely oblivious to me all snuggled up to the wall. For a moment it crosses my mind that, in this situation, every rational, sane or authentic shortkin (like myself) would hightail it right out of there. Fleeing would assure my continued breathing for years to come and I could retire to a life of safety, tranquility and gardening. My great achievement would be the publication of my very own bestiary highlighting how I survived the great troll.

  It’s a reasonable proposition. I give it about two seconds to play back and forth — should I or shouldn’t I?

  From beyond the troll I hear, “Five!” Muel’s yell is definitely not as loud or as sure as the previous numbers in the series and is most certainly tinged with a thick dollop of pain. Damn it. My mind is now made up. Time to put on the show.