The Merchant Adventurer (10 page)

“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 have 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.”

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?”

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,”

“Thank–” Relan began.

Rattick pressed a finger to his lips and silenced him. “Shh. Don’t ruin it. I’m going to enjoy this,” said Rattick.

The Troll lowered his head and made two whuffing grunts. This expulsion of air freed his tusks from the ponderous folds of his cheeks and filled the enclosed space with the foul stench of Troll breath. He stepped forward to begin his charge.

“Here,” said Boltac, “Try this.” From within his sack of holding, Boltac produced a glittering silver mace. The head was encrusted with jewels that glittered in the uncertain light of the dungeon. The whole thing was so large that it was more decorative club than mace proper. He held it out to the Troll and said, “Just try it, see how you like the heft.”

The Troll, not being smart enough to fear a shrewd Merchant’s smile–and well-accustomed to not understanding what was going on–took the relatively tiny mace in his absolutely gigantic hand.

“There,” said Boltac, and he released the mace. No sooner did let go of the bejeweled head of the weapon than the Troll was pressed to the rough stone floor as if he had been smashed there by the hand of an angry god.

Pinned to the floor, the Troll seemed much less fierce. His eyes were wide, and shifted fearfully as he whimpered a little. His foul claw remained tightly wrapped around the ornate mace.

“What is that?” asked Rattick.

“That is a very cursed Mace of Encumbrance,” said Boltac as he removed his mittens.

“Magic,” whispered Relan.

“Yeah, kid, that’s Magic for you, there’s always a catch.”

“Like dealing with you,” Rattick said to Boltac with newfound respect.

“Hey, I didn’t force him to do anything. ‘Here you go Mr. Troll. Here’s a free mace.’ He took it.”

“But the Troll didn’t know…” said Relan.

“That’s there’s no such thing as a free mace? Everyone knows this. That’s how they get you. And that’s especially how they get you with Magic.”

“But what about Wizards? They use Magic,” countered Rattick.

“They always end up doing themselves in. Just ‘cause you get away with something for a while doesn’t make it safe.”

Rattick said, “Awed as I am by your cunning, good Merchant, one question remains: How did you learn about the mace?”

“A guy brought it in a carrying case and refused to take it out. I thought maybe I could get the jewels off, but the enchantment was too powerful. My last apprentice was pinned to the floor of my shop for a week before we figured out how to get him out from under that thing.”

“How did you manage it?” asked Rattick

“Ahhhh,” said Boltac, holding the thick wool mittens up in the air. “Woolen Gauntlets of Magic Negation. Very rare, very powerful, and very handy.”

“They look more like mittens,” said Relan.

“Yeah, basically. But Gauntlets have a better ring. Merchandising. You tellin’ me you’re gonna pay top dollar for Magic mittens? So, let that be a lesson to both of you. Stay outta my bag. No telling what you’ll find in there.”

“No problem,” said Relan.

Problem, thought Rattick. He didn’t know what could possibly be in Boltac’s Magic bag, but now he knew for certain that it was Magic. There was no way a bag that size could contain such a big, heavy mace. It had to be Magic. Why, the bag itself, never mind the contents, had to be worth more than even he could imagine. And that was saying something. Rattick had quite an imagination where riches were concerned.

“C’mon, I don’t want to be all day getting my lady friend back,” said Boltac as he headed into the darkness. “How deep do you think this goes anyway?”

All the way to the bottom, thought Rattick.

The faint light from torches and braziers flickered throughout the round room as if it were afraid of being caught there. The space had been carved from the living rock, but, in a concession to the occupant, mortar lines had been chiseled into the stone to create the illusion that this room had been constructed by masons. If one ignored the lack of windows, one might well imagine that this was a room in a tower, keep, or castle, instead of hundreds of feet below ground.

The room had a high, arching ceiling, with a hole in the top. The smoke from the burning coal and torches sent streams of greasy smoke into this upper darkness. Below, thick rugs, the fine work of Southron craftsmen, divided the room into several areas.

In the very center of the room was a round hole, six feet across, capped by a wooden cover. On the left was a collection of shelves filled with scrolls, codexes, potions, and ingredients under glass.

On the far side of the room was a raised dais with a kind of altar. On the altar was a large glass jar, perhaps half the height of a man. In the jar, a flame danced, but it seemed to be just out of focus. Its weak light threw strange shadows and shapes on the wall behind it, but its light did not penetrate any farther into the chamber.

And on the right, at a desk covered with papers and oddments, sat the Wizard Dimsbury, slumped in frustration. The heels of his hands pressed into his forehead, he scowled from beneath his troubled brow at the mountain of paperwork before him.

The Wizard had prided himself on his ability to create and control monsters. But in his quest for power and understanding, Alston Dimsbury had inadvertently created a monster so powerful and unruly even he couldn’t control it. This savage beast was known as an Organization. And a hungry beast it was, demanding a never-ending flow of supplies, inventories, requisitions, orders–attention of every kind. Some 2,000 Orcs and wolves required feeding and clothing and organizing. It was all so
tedious
. He had needed an army, so he created the Orcs. Now what he needed was an army of smarter Orcs to keep things running. But smarter Orcs were a problem.

Intelligence is a dangerous thing to breed into a creature. You could never know which way it would go. Too much intelligence, too much initiative, and your creations would be rebellious and impossible to command. Too little intelligence and they would be useless, sometimes dying because they forgot to breathe. It was a lesson Dimsbury had learned the hard way.

In all his experiments with the various strains and cultivars of the species “Orc” (his own name, and he was quite proud of it) Dimsbury had had many, many failures. But he could only count one unqualified success in his quest to create the perfect mix between intelligence and servility. He was so pleased with this Orc he had given it a human name: Samga.

Once Dimsbury saw how useful Samga could be, he made it the overseer of all the other Orcs. In a short time, Samga had become his right-hand almost-man.

Samga approached the desk with a covered tray. Dimsbury looked up and said, “Ah, lunch.” At last, a reprieve from paperwork. Samga smiled, or as close to it an Orc could manage, and set the tray down.

When the Wizard lifted the cover, he found a gory, unappetizing mess. He struggled to read what was on the plate before him. It looked like two slices of bread, some lettuce, two slices of tomato, and a lot of bloody meat. The Wizard gently asked, “What is this?”

“It’s an M.L.T.,” grunted Samga with all the manners and polite inflection he could muster. “Man, Lettuce and Tomato samwich.”

“And what is that?” asked Dimsbury, pointing at one of the more disgusting bits.

“Well, it’s either Man, Lettuce, or Tomato.” Seeing the foul look on the Wizard’s already foul-looking face, Samga quickly changed tack, “O’ course, the finest sliced leg of man.”

“Raw leg of man, I assume?”

“Oh, of course, my Master. Only the best for you.”

The Wizard replaced the cover on the vile lunch-like creation that sat before him. “And the leg of man is, I am to understand, uncooked?”

“Oh, of course, my–oh, I see what you’re getting at. It’s just that Orcs don’t, you know, cook meat, so the cooks don’t, uh…” Samga seemed genuinely hurt and flustered. “Really more butchers, then, aren’t they?”

“There, there Samga. Your kind was not bred for cuisine. I understand. Simply take it away and bring me the female prisoner.”

“You want us to cook her?”

“No, Samga. I have other uses for her. Bring her to me unharmed.”

“Oh, all right,” Samga said with obvious disappointment. He hunched over the tray and shuffled towards the door, tusks hanging low.

“Here, Samga, what’s wrong now?”

“Nothing, my Lord. It’s just, she looks
delicious
.”

“Yes, Samga, she certainly does.”