Fia noticed Grinda and Mathilde exchanging a look of surprise.
“Goat’s got a point,” Mathilde squeaked. “But we should go.”
As the smell of the dead troll wafted up the alleyway, Fia picked up Poltro’s limp body, slung it over her left shoulder, and followed the witches up the street. Argabella fell in step with her to the right, and Fia smiled. The whole troll quest had gone pear-shaped, but so long as the bunny girl looked at her like that, it didn’t matter. Her sword, for now, was quiet. The troll could troll no more. A light rain began to fall, and Fia welcomed it. Soon the troll’s book would be nothing more than pulp and ink, his words lost forever.
“How does it feel to be a hero?” Argabella reached for Fia’s open hand and squeezed.
“Well, actually, it feels pretty darn good,” Fia said, squeezing back. “M’lady.”
Now that her honey had bravely vanquished the troll, Argabella looked forward to visiting the dwarvelish inn outside the city gates. They were usually Loudful and Cheerful places that offered a selection of extraordinarily messy foods along with magic napkins that cleaned up all your skin and/or fur afterward. They were also reputed to be places of occasionally intense violence, in which case the magic napkins were helpful in soaking up the blood, but those occasions were rare, Mathilde assured them. The inn she had suggested was called the Braided Beard, and the ex-marmoset said she knew the proprietors, who originally hailed from Håpipøle.
“Why is it so far out of the city?” Argabella asked. They’d been walking almost an hour westward out of Songlen and already were heading uphill into the great mountains there. They’d passed all the outlying homesteads and farms, and Argabella’s sensitive nose could smell the swamp to the north, which meant they were also close to the Harrowing Hills at the base of the Korpås Range, and the infamous Perilous Poplars. Such places were considered Scareful, but Argabella found she wasn’t as prone to anxiety when Fia was around. Perhaps there was something Songful about the area that would inspire her to twiddle the lute.
“This inn in particular is close to the mountains because that’s where dwarves want to be,” Mathilde said with a shrug. “I like it because it’s a bit far from the more unsavory elements of the city, like my ex.”
“And because they put uncut pixie pepper in the beer,” Grinda said out the side of her mouth.
Argabella’s bunny ears heard the Braided Beard before she saw it. There was some raucous merrymaking going on inside, a bawdy sing-along about the legendary Nåtålø Kaer and the Hair Down There. She’d heard that one before and hummed along with a shy grin. This would be a warm and pleasant change from scary halflings and trolls. Dwarves were generally a friendly and welcoming people. Hopefully, no one would give Fia a reason to be scary either.
The Braided Beard turned out to be a long, low-ceilinged lodge with orange light glowing from the many windows and stout silhouettes inside. Six chimneys—two from the kitchen, two from the common area, and two from an attached wing—testified that it would be warm.
Argabella prepared herself for the assault of smells once they opened the door and was surprised to find them pleasant. Normally, food warred with body odor in such places, but in this case the food battled for dominance against notes of cedar, lemon, and lavender.
“Whoa. Whoa. Why doesn’t it stink?” she said. “What sorcery is this?”
“No sorcery,” Mathilde said. “Just fanatical devotion to personal hygiene. The proprietors and their employees wash and oil their beards before every shift and won’t serve guests until they bathe as well.”
“You mean we have to get a room?” Grinda asked.
“No, just visit the attached bathhouse.” That must account for the extra two chimneys, Argabella thought. They were heating water in there.
“What about me?” Gustave asked. “Like, what’s their stance on indoor goats? Pro? Con? Are diapers involved?”
“I’m sure we can arrange it. The dwarves don’t have anything against hair and fur, obviously, so long as it’s clean. And it would help if you didn’t poop in there.”
Gustave promptly unleashed a landslide. “All cleaned out. Because I’m thoughtful.”
Conversation quieted somewhat as they entered, curious eyes sizing them up—especially since Fia still had a sleeping Poltro draped over her expansive shoulder—but the chatter resumed soon enough as one of the proprietors, who introduced herself as Yåløndå Køpkümp, recognized Mathilde and ululated in joy as she embraced the witch.
“You’re free of the curse! How wonderful!” she cried, her long silken blond beard braided in seven tails and festooned with decorative pansies.
Argabella thought Yåløndå was sweet but didn’t pay attention to her reunion with Mathilde. She swept her eyes across the room to see if anyone was looking Hurtful. There were dwarves, of course, the beards of both the men and the women shining with health and scented oils, but there were also humans from most every earldom, halflings, gnomes, and even a pair of elves seated among the long tables and benches. All were very well scrubbed and did not look Troubleful whatsoever. A tall man with skin the same dark brown as Fia’s nodded at her and raised a flagon in greeting, and Argabella turned to see if Fia responded. She merely nodded back at him, her expression neutral.
“Do you know that guy?” Argabella asked, recognizing the tiniest twinge of jealousy.
But Fia’s attention was entirely focused on her. “No. But it’s rare to see people from the east out here, so we always say hello to each other when we meet.”
The party moved to the bathhouse after that, and Argabella had to admit that it was an outstanding idea. They all got their own rooms with scented candles and hot water and a selection of soaps and exfoliating scrubs. The solitude was relaxing and safe, and she realized that although she had always been very shy about her body, she would not have been shy about watching Fia, especially when she wasn’t covered in purple sextopuses. A small alarm chimed, letting her know that bathtime was over and she was in danger of turning pruney. Rising from the bath, she wrapped herself in a plush robe and selected a spritz of rose, thinking of Fia all the while. Opening the door to the antechamber, she felt so much better, reflecting that this was the most civilized inn she’d ever visited and betting that the bathing custom here reduced the incidence of fighting considerably. Who would want to engage in bloodletting so soon after bathing, when they were still feeling soft and Cleanful? And, pursuant to that, how many deaths could be prevented in less hygienic inns by posting signs outlining the steps for a rigorous beard washing?
Someone managed to wake up Poltro in the bathhouse, and the partially ensorcelled rogue joined them at a fine square of space between the lodge’s two fireplaces, far from the front door’s draft. Argabella appreciated the privacy afforded by their quiet corner, which had a designated spot for “extraordinary customers” where Gustave was allowed to stand. Poltro was mostly visible now and looked triumphant and dashing and completely unaware that she’d utterly bungled the business with the troll. She also suggested that they have Gustave for dinner, which earned her an angry bleat.
“No need for that,” Mathilde squeaked, looking past them all at a pair of approaching dwarves. “I ordered us the World of Cheese Board while we were in the bath, and here it comes—along with the pickled herring you need. But I beg you, don’t open the jar.”
The pickled herring looked pretty nasty, Argabella thought, but the cheese board was a work of art. Cheese wedges from eight different earldoms made from various milks got her whiskers twitching and her mouth watering. There were assorted crackers and breads, the toasted fairy wings Mathilde had promised, and mustards and charcuterie as well, shaved thin and ready to eat, along with a bunch of local grapes.
The dwarf server took their drink orders and promised to return speedily as everyone reached for something delicious. Argabella opted to begin with a rye crack
er and a soft gnomeric sheep cheese from the western side of the Honeymelon Hills.
Poltro layered a shaved slice of dry-cured Teabring thunder yak on top of a rare Grunting beaver cheese and commented that Lord Toby would have loved such fare had he still been alive. “Kind of sad, really, that he survived Ol’ Faktri and the necrobees and the hooktongues that tried to lick him to death only to die in a tragic smoothie accident. I bet if he had to choose death by necrobees or death by a healer’s apprentice named Bigolo, he’d pick necrobees every time. It just sounds cool. Cor, I hope I don’t die a stupid death.”
“Let’s try to avoid that, shall we?” Mathilde said, munching on a veined log of Pyckåbøg Styffy cheese, a hard dwarvelish variety with a nutty flavor. She moaned in delight, but the high pitch of her voice made it sound more like a squeal, and several heads turned in her direction. “Sorry,” she said. “I’ll try to keep it down. Marmosets are tragically lactose-intolerant, and I missed the mouthfeel of a nice Styffy.”
Once the strangers had looked away and Argabella had given Gustave a hunk of Drabbe ox cheese to nibble, Mathilde leaned over conspiratorially and tried to squeak quietly. “Now, look, the pickled herring is for the goatherd Løcher has watching over his goats. He can’t control himself around herring, but he’s allergic. Puts him right to sleep. And the billy goat there,” she said, pointing at Gustave, “is for all the she-goats.”
Gustave nodded and waggled his ears. “I like this plan already.”
“I don’t understand,” Fia said. “Why do we have to worry about a bunch of goats and a goatherd?”
“Because they’re not normal,” Mathilde explained. “They’re his early warning system.”
They were interrupted by the arrival of their drinks and took a moment to slake their thirst before the witch continued.
“The she-goats are like Gustave over there. They all talk, and they can sense magic spells. If they get worried about anything, they can trigger the rest of Løcher’s defenses, a dense web of traps impossible to pass through safely. He keeps the magic on standby because it’s draining to maintain and has killed a couple of innocent visitors in the past. But take care of the goats and the goatherd and you can just walk in. Once you’re in, you’ll still have Løcher to murder, but you’ll never get close to him otherwise.”
“Why don’t we just approach him while he’s at the king’s court?” Poltro asked. “Seems like that would be easier.”
“We don’t want the Chosen One there to get too close to the king,” Grinda answered. “Or put anyone at court at risk besides Løcher. He’s the problem, so we have to go after him alone.”
“Ah. Got it.”
“So what am I supposed to do to the lady goats to prevent them from getting nervous?” Gustave asked, panting a little.
“Charm them. Keep their attention. That shouldn’t be difficult since they haven’t seen a talking billy goat in years. Be friendly and keep them distracted while everyone else sneaks past.”
“Oh, I’ll be friendly, all right.”
“As long as we don’t have to watch you—”
Before Grinda could finish demanding the impossible, the door to the inn burst open abruptly and armed soldiers poured in with a familiar filthy figure hovering above them in midair.
“They’ve found us!” Mathilde squeaked.
“Who?” Poltro said.
“Staph the pixie! Remember that magical alarm? Løcher must’ve sent her here to deal with me.”
As if summoned by her name, the pixie rotated toward their cozy corner and pointed a filthy finger in their direction. “There they are!” She hiccupped, then added, “Kill them all!”
The problem with such a vague command was that everyone on the crowded eastern side of the inn thought the pixie meant them. As one and in a puff of lavender, the patrons rose or staggered from their benches and drew weapons, all conviviality gone, and Argabella knew the peaceful inn was about to get Deathful. Beside her, Fia drew her Bloodful sword, and her pretty face twisted into a snarl. Songlen’s soldiers rushed in, weapons swinging, and the collection of rogues and travelers gladly joined them in a good old-fashioned melee, the clash of swords and shields and armor deafening in the enclosed space.
“Meet back here later!” Grinda shouted, which indicated to Argabella that they should leave. That sounded like a fine idea to her, and several others felt the same way. Behind her, on the north wall, the tall man from the east rammed the hilt of his sword through the window and then cleared away the shards clinging to the frame with the blade until he could safely exit through it, giving his unfinished beer a brief look of longing before he went.
“I’m not prepared for a good skewering by acrobatic armored lads,” Poltro said, and Argabella agreed. Lutes were famously ineffective against steel plate.
“We should exit out the window,” she said, already scurrying in that direction.
“I’ll be right behind you!” Gustave shouted, but he was immediately not behind them, much to Argabella’s confusion.
“Be safe,” Fia whispered fiercely, her sword shivering in her hand and her eyes full of apology as she cupped Argabella’s cheek with one callused hand.
“You, too,” Argabella whispered, then added, “Have fun murdering!” because she wanted to seem supportive.
Additional windows got broken as others thought a quick exit might work out better than facing a throng of professional killers. Argabella politely waited her turn as the pair of elves somersaulted out the window.
“Better alive and clean than pretty much anything in that room,” one said snidely.
Fia and her Bloodful sword weren’t thinking along those lines, Argabella noticed. Neither were Grinda or Mathilde, who had drawn their wands to engage Staph, casting visible curses at the pixie that she deflected and returned with her own. Argabella’s ears and shoulders both drooped in fear. How skilled that dirty single-socked pixie was to be able to withstand attacks from two powerful witches and still launch a counterattack!
She was so skilled, in fact, that one of her curses landed on Mathilde and turned her back into a marmoset, causing Mathilde’s wand to clatter onto the table, suddenly too cumbersome for her tiny monkey hands.
“Auggh! Not again!” she squeaked.
Argabella saw Poltro dive out the window and took one last look at her mighty Fia, who deflected a lunge from a soldier and now had him out of position and vulnerable to a counterstrike. The bard turned away so that she wouldn’t have to see the killing blow and hoped that Fia would be all right and she’d see her again soon and enjoy her gentle smile, hopefully once all the blood had been washed off.
With a last air kiss in Fia’s direction, Argabella dived out the window, landing in some soft mud, and scrambled away to avoid the hooves of Gustave, who followed after her as promised. A torch swooshed at them threateningly, and the soldier holding it said “Halt!” but no one was in the mood to do any halting. There were two of them, Argabella saw, dimly lit by the torch, and Poltro was already scampering away from the grasping hand of the smaller soldier while the bigger one came for Argabella. Gustave bleated and charged him and planted his horns beneath the man’s ribs, knocking him aside and extinguishing his torch in the mud. That allowed them all to escape, though Argabella quickly lost her companions in the darkness. No one wanted to make any noise for fear of attracting soldiers, and so she let her inner bunny take over and ran away, hunched down with her lute strapped to her back, tears running down her furry cheeks as all sense of safety and comfort faded. She could only hope to see her friends again when and if she could find the inn during the light of day.
The world suddenly felt very big and Doomful, and Argabella knew no song could fix that.
The patrons of the Braided Beard who chose to fight rather than run were all very accomplished in the skills of wanton slaying and disregard for personal safety. Fia was the
best of them when she allowed herself to forget all about her One-Step Program. This wasn’t that kind of situation anyway: it was self-defense since the armed brutes had declared their intention to kill her already. She cut down six soldiers and saw that more already lay dead. Her sword practically hummed with ecstatic pleasure as she paused to look around for the rest of her party. They were all gone except for Mathilde, who was grappling over her wand with Staph the pixie. Staph was a target for sure, and Fia took a step in their direction. But Staph landed a kick to Mathilde’s face, wrenched the wand out of her grasp, and flew out the window before Fia could render any assistance. Mathilde screeched in anguish, and Fia stopped, unable to do anything for her. She could do nothing now except run for it.
More soldiers were coming, too many to handle. She could hear the rhythmic pounding crunch of armor approaching the inn. It was time for her to leave as well. Her sword had to sing out once more to clear the doorway, and then she turned west because it was the least heinous of her options. To the south was the Grange and Belladonna’s hut, and she had no wish to place herself at the questionable mercy of the healer and her apprentice. To the north nothing awaited but the supposedly haunted Harrowing Hills and a fetid swamp that no doubt teemed with malevolent frogs, and she’d had more than enough of them ever since a Yilduran shockfrog had eaten her mother.
The soldiers were coming from the east. So west it was, into a stand of poplar trees that had somehow earned a bad reputation. People just said “Don’t go in there” and expected you to believe there was a good reason, the way parents said “Ugh. Llamas. So much drama” without explaining how deadly llamataurs could be. Fia was sure these trees had some sordid history from which those rumors had sprung, but in the moment, they were vastly preferable to facing frogs or overwhelming numbers of soldiers.
Not that she could see any trees or much of anything once the soft glow of the Braided Beard failed against the night.