Foundling (16 page)

“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 Rossamünd’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. Rossamünd 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.”

Rossamünd 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?” Rossamünd whispered to Licurius. “Will she send it on its way?” Disturbed, Rossamünd 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 Rossamünd could read in its eyes
But why? But why?

“No!” Rossamünd 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 Rossamünd 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, Rossamünd 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 Rossamünd’s head.

His body jerked violently.

Then there was nothing for the longest time.

 

 

 

T
O 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 Rossamünd 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. Rossamünd 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 in the way.

Instead, a great sorrow set in his heart. What would Master Fransitart think of this? Rossamünd had met his first nicker and come out of the experience a monster-lover. Unable to move or see, he lay filled with grief for some brutish giant he did not know and should not like.

A new sound broke in, right by his head. “I . . .
hiss
. . . hold that
something
must be done.” It was the wheezing of that terrible leer Licurius. He was right by Rossamünd, far too close for the foundling’s ease. The boy’s stomach churned in pure fright.

“I . . . I have
done
enough, don’t you think? It was just a little spark to quiet him . . . but look now!”

This was Europe’s voice—Europe, the mighty fulgar.

Europe, the slayer of innocents.

Europe, the electrocuter of children.

How powerfully uncertain he was of her now. So
this
is what she meant by a glorious “life of violence”!

“. . .
Wheeze
. . . What good is he? Just some squirming snot nobody wants.You spied how he cried for that beggar, shed real tears like a toddling lassss for some tottering great waste of a nicker.You did a’rightly with him, I say—we’ve got nought spare for a rotten little . . .
hiss
. . .
sedorner
like his-same-self there . . .
hiisssss
!”

Rossamünd’s soul froze. A sedorner? A monster-lover! That was one of the worst things to be called. Worse yet, they were quite clearly talking about him. What were they going to do to him?

Europe sighed a long, almost sad sigh. “Stay in the carriage and everything was good, that was all it needed . . . What is it with males and listening? I wonder how this would read in the panegyric of my life, that I shock bantling brats.”

“All the more reason to repair the wreckage. We should slit his belly and spill his umbles right here and leave done with it . . .
gasp
. . .” The leer’s voice rasped right by Rossamünd’s ear. “Or take his corpse and blame it on that ettin! A clear reputation is as good as a clear conscience, like you always say.”

“Hush it, Box-face! You push too much!
This
circumstance does not warrant such brutal work. My word, leer! You are starting to scare me with your talk of slitting and spilling. It has gone from worse to worse these past months—is it possible your black old heart gets blacker still?”

The leer hissed, long and cruelly. The landaulet shook for a moment, as if there was a struggle. Was Licurius daring to tangle with the fulgar?

Europe gave a yelp. “Enough, now!”

Rossamünd lay aware, terrified yet blind and paralyzed. With the shaking of the carriage, this terror rose unwanted from his gut to his throat and, though he tried to suppress it, it came out as a bubbling, whimpering cough.

Everything seemed to go even more still. Then, “Aah.” Europe sounded relieved. “It appears he has returned to us. Good, good.”

“. . .
Wheeze
. . . Don’t be blubbering to me, then, Sparky,” Licurius said, concluding their previous business with faintly wrathful tones, “when thisss’un places well-found blame on your pretty pate.”

“Enough!
Enough
!” The lahzar’s voice wavered briefly. “Cease your insolence and boil the water. You know I am sorely in need . . .”

With his little outburst, Rossamünd found some capacity of movement return. He wrenched his eyes open in an instant and, as his neck still proved stubbornly immobile, rolled them around wildly, to know his fate.

He was lying under a blanket on one of the seats of the landaulet staring up at the clear sky pricked with early evening’s first stars, through high, scruffy boughs—they were still in the forest. It was bitterly, breath-steamingly cold. He began to shiver. Europe was in her usual place on the opposite couch. Her hair was down and that big book she scribbled in was upon her lap. By her sat the lantern, already lit. She was looking at him with an expression he could not fathom, neither hostile nor tender. He blinked over and over at her, limbs twitching as he tried to get some use out of them.

“Good evening, little man,” the lahzar said slowly, her arms folded, her right hand up and covering her mouth and chin. “Don’t wriggle so.You will be able to move soon enough,” she chided, as Rossamünd’s wriggling turned into writhing. He did not heed her, but struggled and strained to get his body to respond. Now that they knew he was alive—that he was awake—he did not want to remain vulnerable one moment longer!

Europe leaned over and placed a hand upon his shoulder. At this he yowled mightily. Europe herself shied, genuinely startled.

Licurius came over to see about the commotion. “What a noisy little toad!” he growled, gripping the foundling hard about his throat. “Hush it, basket . . .
wheeze
. . . or you’ll die here and now!” All sound was pressed from Rossamünd as the leer clenched tighter and tighter, the boy’s cry changing to a panicked gurgle.