teeth. It stepped into the clearing, sending the shattered pine toppling into the gorge.
Europe gave Rossamund a passing wink. 'How so, how so, to do my work I go,' she murmured, then she turned and marched directly toward the ettin, shouldering the fuse and waving to get its attention.
Rossamund was agog: surely she did not think to challenge such a fearsome foe? It wore a large smock for modesty's sake made up of many hessian sacks stitched very roughly together. Under its left arm the ettin carried a great barrel, which had probably been a vat for aging wine or brewing beer. The ettin waggled this distinctly, pointing within its wide gape.
'I'll not stop your chill-day stroll,' the ettin hoomed, 'if you'll not shrink from the bridge-crossing toll.'
'Ho! ho!' Europe chortled dramatically, continuing her approach. 'It's that old ruse, is it? Frighten everyday folks out of their goods?'
The ettin nodded once. From Rossamund's vantage it seemed very proud of itself.
'What's more, you stand-and-deliver us with sweet little rhymes. What a lovely touch, don't you think, Licurius?' the lahzar continued, looking over her shoulder briefly at the leer, rolling her eyes mockingly as she did.
Licurius, as always, said nothing.
The ettin almost beamed with self-satisfaction, revealing even more crooked spadelike teeth. Rossamund was finding it very hard to believe this creature was all that terrible. In fact it seemed more like a childish prankster than a dread threat.
'And what do they call you, sir?' Europe stopped no more than ten feet away from the giant and planted her fuse firmly.
Hesitating for a moment, the ettin formed its reply with obvious effort. 'I'm th' Miss-be-gotten Schr-rewd.' It patted its chest.
'Well, Mister Schrewd, do you know who I am?'
The ettin shook its head.
The lahzar's voice became very icy. 'No?' She gave a cold, humorless smile. 'It's a bit much, I suppose, to expect absolutely everybody to have heard of me. No matter.'
Rossamund was grateful she had not asked him the same question when they had first met.
'Nevertheless,' she went on, 'there's a problem, you see.
Everyday folk don't want to pay your toll, and I for one don't believe they should have to. What say you to that?'
The ettin's face fell. It looked genuinely perplexed.
Europe pressed on. 'Hmm? Well, I have an alternative for you, and it's the only one really, though I know you'll neither understand nor agree…' The fulgar toed the ground in a mime of unconcern.
'What's she going to do?' Rossamund whispered to Licurius. 'Will she send it on its way?' Disturbed, Rossamund stood, causing the wagon to rock and the horse to nicker.
'Be still, toad! Wheeze!' Licurius hissed. 'The beggar must die. That is our duty!'
This small interruption caught the schrewd's attention. It peered at them in a baffled way.
Europe took her chance and struck out with speed, jabbing ferociously into the schrewd's belly with her fuse. She spun about, as fast as the eye, with coat skirts flying, to strike again at its rump. There were no bright flashes, just a loud Zzack! with the first hit, and a ringing Zzizk! with the second.
The ettin yelped and staggered, and dropped the barrel. As this hit the ground, many apples in various states of decay and a rind of cheese bounced out. In truth the brute had not really expected much at all! It flailed its arms wildly, and whether by design or accident caught Europe up in a giant fist. This was its big mistake-the fellow had surely never encountered fulgars before. It made as if to hurl Europe into the trees, but instead, with a look of profound confusion and horror, stood suddenly transfixed. By some invisible force, and most certainly against its will, the ettin bent its arm. This unwilling action brought Europe, whose own arms were outstretched and groping, closer to its head. All the time Rossamund could read in its eyes But why? But why?
'No!' Rossamund cried. He leaped off the landaulet, avoiding the grasp of Licurius as the leer wrestled with the near-panicked horse.
By now the schrewd held Europe up in front of its face and she quickly gripped its forehead like a snake might strike a bare ankle, sending a mighty charge of electricity straight into the monster's skull. The schrewd could not even bellow its agony as smoke began to rise from its head. It simply swayed and took one step backward toward the ravine; then another, and another, and another.
'No… no… no,' was all Rossamund could find to say. Tears began to flow as he stumbled, as helpless as the schrewd, unable to do anything to intervene.The foundling dropped to his knees in horror.
Almost inevitably the ettin tottered on the brink. It paused there for one terrible moment, its usually squinty eyes almost popping out of their sockets in terror, before toppling headlong into the gorge. As it fell, it released its grip on Europe, who pushed off from its hand and vaulted back nimbly to the ravine's edge. She landed lightly, ready to fight on.
In control of its voice once more, the Misbegotten Schrewd let forth a heart-wrenching wail-a cry of deep sorrow and great agony-which echoed all around the gorge, and then ended all too abruptly.
Huddled on the ground, Rossamund wept.
He became aware through his tears that Europe was standing over him. She bent down and stroked his hair briefly, almost as Verline might have done when he had been sick or sorrowing. Then she said softly, 'You broke your word, little man.'
There was a sharp pain and a flash of sparks in Rossamund's head.
His body jerked violently.
Then there was nothing for the longest time.
8
Sedorner (noun) official name for a monster-lover, often used as an insult. To be heard even trying to understand monsters from a sympathetic point of view can bring the charge upon one. Different communities and realms deal with sedorners with their own severity, but it is not uncommon for those found guilty to be exposed on a Catherine wheel or even hanged on a gallows.
To come back to awareness after you have been unconscious, especially if you have been unconscious for a long time, is an exceedingly odd experience. The first sensations Rossamund became aware of were his hearing and a great ache in his brain. Amid the sharp throbbing was a rushing whoosh that spun about in his head, rising till he almost understood its purpose, then descending back to nothing.
Rising again.
Descending again.
After who knows how long, he came to realize it was the sighing of wind in treetops; the voice of birds calling thin, lonely music; and the tap, tap, tap of a small scratching very close by. Smells returned: pine needles, wood- smoke and some worse stink. The sense of touch followed these other clarities as he felt his own weight pressing on something hard yet strangely yielding. He became aware that he had a hand, and that his hand was holding something that felt rough yet also soft-his scarf. He tried to move his hand and found that he could not. He was numb at every joint, frozen in every muscle. He could not even open his eyes.
It was then that memory returned. Rossamund forgot all the sensations he had just rediscovered, and was filled instead with the recollection of all that had just passed, the destruction of the poor Misbegotten Schrewd. He should not have cared. He should have rejoiced: one more triumph of everyday folk over the ancient oppression of the monsters. Yet somehow the foundling could not see much to cheer in it. Some poor ignorant slain just for being
