Dragon Removal Service Page 5

  Behind her, Gulchima saw Brunhild's boat. It had drawn closer, but seemed to be waiting for something.

  Up ahead, Gulchima saw that the river narrowed. There were two fingers of rocks on either side. Who knew how many more rocks lay just below the surface. If they hit the rocks at this speed, the houseboat would sink. This was not time for heroics. Gulchima had to steer the boat.

  And her attackers knew it. The two largest river-hags moved in unison toward Gulchima.

  One of the workers from the dining hall ran over and slashed at the river-hags with his short sword. The creatures didn't seem to notice. The smaller river-hag pulled the sword from the worker's hand, snapping off the nicked blade, then tossed the ruined weapon onto the deck. The river-hag's oily black eyes never left Gulchima. It shuffled closer.

  "Oh there's one," Uncle Roog said. "Let's see if this russet brown, will . . . uh . . . I can't think of a rhyme."

  "Just shoot it!" Gulchima yelled. The river-hags were almost to the steering oars. They smelled like swamp gas and spoiled fruit. She gagged.

  "Take it down!" Isolde said. "Russet brown, will take it down."

  "No, that rhyme is too obv—" But Roog had already lit the fuse. The cannon boomed, launching the potato far out of range.

  Gulchima looked behind her, just as the potato slammed into Brunhild's laughing face, hitting her above the right cheekbone. It hit her real face, not the carved caricature on the prow of her ship. Brunhild toppled into the water, and her soldiers stopped rowing. The longship drifted sideways, oars lifted.

  Would the soldiers save someone like Brunhild? Gulchima wasn't so sure.

  But Gulchima had other things to worry about right now. The river-hags had ganged up on her. One dug its cold claws into her forearm, and tried to push her overboard. The other larger river-hag shook the steering oar, trying to crash the houseboat. A third was fighting with Isolde, who kicked at it viciously.

  "I'm on it," Uncle Roog said. "Root vegetables beat water-magic every time. It's a good thing we had all these potatoes." He pointed his hand-cannon, squinted his eyes and then . . . .

  Clunk! The hand cannon exploded, spraying shards of metal across the deck. One dug into the nearest river-hag's face and the creature pulled it out distractedly. A fine meshwork of slime grew across the gash and in an instant, the wound was healed.

  From the cloud of black smoke on the porch, Gulchima heard Uncle Roog yelling at one of the girls from the dining hall.

  "You mumblecrust, that's a Yam! I said sweet potato." He listened as an indistinct voice replied, then said, "Yes, there's a difference!"

  "The potato cannon is down," Gulchima gasped. Her river-hag was pulling at the steering oar, twisting it. Obviously river-hags had no idea how to steer a boat.

  "And the rocks—" Isolde said.

  "Imminent." Gulchima looked down at the bag of potatoes at her feet, and the ruined short sword. It would work. Probably. "Okay you steer backwards. These river-hags are dumb. Whatever way you pull, they'll pull the opposite. Get it?"

  "No," Isolde said. Then she tried it. "Ok yes, now I get it. I'll trick them into steering the way I want to go. I pull the opposite way, and let them think they're stopping me."

  But Isolde's trick was irrelevant as long as the two river-hags were messing with Gulchima's steering oar. That was step two.

  Gulchima squirmed free of their grasp, then ran over to the broken short sword. The blade was fractured, but it was the handle she wanted. She leaned down and scooped up a wayward potato, then jammed it on the broken blade.

  There. Instant potato-sword. Should she yell potato-power? If there ever was a good time to say it . . . .

  "Care for a slice?" she asked the nearest river-hag. It grabbed for her, but she spun and then jabbed the homemade potato-sword into the creature's chest. It stumbled backwards, claws covering the gaping wound, then fell off of the boat. That left two river-hags.

  This time, Gulchima decided she would say it. "Potato-power!" she screamed, then ran headlong at the largest river-hag. She brought her potato-sword down, but it had no effect.

  The muck slime from the first stabbing covered her potato. It was useless.

  She slipped and fell onto her backside, just as several fried potato chips whizzed through the air.

  Gulchima looked up at the porch. Tormo and the small children from the plaza were raining potato bits onto the river-hag. Though they didn't have the force of Roog's cannon, they had numbers. The creature screamed.

  A large potato chip slashed at the river-hag's forehead. A second clipped off its ear. A sling-shot tater-tot took out its left eye. The river-hag tried to pull out the tater-tot, but this time the mesh of black slime curled up and drew away from the wound.

  Gulchima slid across the mucky deck and reached for the sack of potatoes. She stood up and then swung it at the creature. It spun twice, then fell off the boat. That left one.

  The last river-hag left its struggle with Isolde, and started toward Gulchima. She slipped again, and came down hard on her funny bone. Gulchima dropped the bag of potatoes.

  "Gulch, here!" called Tormo. He threw down an oversized rectangularly cut potato, what the cookers called a "french-fry" for some reason. Gulchima held the french-fry up to her nose and inhaled. It smelled like oil and salt.

  "Get off my boat," she said, calmly.

  The river-hag held up a single claw to its face. The claw grew, until it was the length of her french-fry. "Blarrgh-rowrg-ra-roorg," it answered.

  They dueled.

  Neither the river-hag nor Gulchima was very good. But where the river-hag had strength, Gulchima had speed. She waited for her opening, feinting in and out. The river-hag did the same.

  The deck trembled as the boat skimmed off a rock or maybe a log. Gulchima and the river-hag both stumbled, but neither attacked.

  "Isolde, steer the boat! I'll take care of this one."

  "Yeah, got it," Isolde said. The boat glanced off another rock, with a sickening thunk.

  The river-hag was strong, stronger than Gulchima liked. It swung its claw around without skill, but even one blow would be enough to hurt her. And Gulchima was no sword-master.

  Still she knew a bit. Uncle Rattbone had taught her to keep her feet, something the river-hag knew nothing about.

  Gulchima darted in and out thinking only of her footwork, not the blade. Which was only a french-fry, she reminded herself.

  Another second, another rock. This time Gulchima jumped at the river-hag. But it spun at the last second, and instead of hurting it, Gulchima careened into the top-rail of the boat. Her french-fry plopped into the water.

  The river-hag chuckled, then slid toward her. It held up its overlong claw, ready to cut her throat. To kill her. It was angry, huffing air, growling. Magic didn't like a challenge.

  Gulchima closed her eyes. She didn't want the last thing she saw to be its stupid magical weedy face.

  From behind them, Gulchima heard Isolde. She was trying to say something.

  "Mel-mow, moo-mu-ful," Isolde said.

  "Rowg?" asked the river-hag. It turned.

  Isolde was the last thing it would ever see.

  Isolde mashed the last of the potato bits in her mouth, until her cheeks were full. She winked at Gulchima, then slapped her overfull cheeks. The mashed potatoes erupted like a volcano, spewing out of her mouth and into the river-hag's eyes.

  The creature screamed, clawing at its face. It rebounded off of the steering oar.

  Isolde threw the bag of potatoes to Gulchima.

  She caught it, then swung the bag of potatoes like a war-hammer, connecting with a huge uppercut that sent the river-hag off its feet, and over the side of the boat.

  Gulchima looked at the river-hag as it lay facedown in the water, its arms spasming.

  "I always knew your big mouth would get me out of trouble," Gulchima said.

  "I know," Isolde replied. She spat on the deck. "And don't you just hate cold mashed potatoes."

  �
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  In a few minutes they righted the houseboat, and the river-hag slime was mopped from the deck. Tiktok was with the herbalist, getting a tincture of light acid applied to his face. Maybe it would improve his breath.

  Isolde and Gulchima stood side by side, guiding the boat with the twin steering oars. The wind, the soft lapping of water, it was hard to believe they'd almost died a few minutes ago.

  "You did good," Isolde said after a lengthy silence. "I mean well. But you look awful. Your hair . . ." She picked a twig out of it. A small insect that had been nesting there buzzed angrily and flew off.

  Gulchima patter her hair. "We both did good. Those river-hags usually try to waylay sailors by enchanting them. They don't usually come onto your boat."

  Isolde shrugged. "One more reason not to gird about with magic. Magic keeps changing the rules."

  Gulchima pressed her lips together. If Isolde felt that way, then she didn't know everything about the next contract. Bayadev was overflowing with magic. Big problems meant big profits.

  "So you heard about Bayadev," Gulchima said, pretending her heart wasn't beating in her throat.

  "You told Uncle Roog," Isolde said sweetly. "You may as well have told us."

  She hadn't told anyone. But Uncle Roog—who wasn't really her uncle—must have found out somehow. Like while cleaning her cubby where she slept. She pictured Roog tripping and falling, so that his hand accidentally felt underneath her sleep-sack. He'd try to look away, but his eyes would mistakenly read all the personal letters hidden there. For half-an-hour. All the while he'd be grumbling about the undead, the bad food, how nobody liked him. Still, he had saved the boat today. Uncle Roog had his uses.

  "Am I running the Outfit or not?" Gulchima asked.

  "Well, are you?" Isolde said. Her voice rose in pitch. The sweetness evaporated.

  Gulchima crossed her arms. "Yes. And it would be a lot easier if you helped me."

  "I am helping. You're the one throwing money overboard," Isolde yelled. "And throwing Novvy overboard too. Do you even care about him? He could have been killed today at the bridge."

  Gulchima gripped the top rail, digging her fingers into the smooth wood. Her eyes traced the pattern of the grain, the swirls and knots. "That one hurt. Nice work. There’s one point for you."

  "I'm not keeping score," Isolde said.

  "Are you sure?" Gulchima snapped. "Because every few minutes you tell me the score is Gulchima eleven, Isolde thirteen. You're two years older than me now. You're thirteen, I get it. You think I don't know? That I'm a freak to you?"

  Neither girl said anything for a few minutes. They watched the lamps of the Barkers houseboat getting closer. No one followed them.

  "Look, the giant's boulders," Isolde said quietly. "It's a good omen." She pointed skyward.

  In the waning light, Gulchima saw one of Suur Töll's massive boulders, hurtling through the sky toward the enemies of the east. What was life like for Suur Töll, way out on Saaremaa island, in the center of the sea? What was that giant aiming at?

  The return attack, boulders courtesy of the eastern giants, would soon follow. Neither side had very good aim. They'd been at it for centuries.

  "A wasteful war," Gulchima said, absently.

  Isolde reached out, and put her hand over Gulchima's. It felt warm in the cool spring air. She spoke slowly. "You're not a freak. I'm just scared. If we don't pay off our debts soon, we really will lose the Outfit." She started to tear up. "We could all be conscripted into the King's army. Not just Uncle Rattbone."

  "Then help me," Gulchima said quietly.

  "I want to." Isolde wiped a tear from the side of her nose.

  "Wanting is not doing. Doing is doing."

  "Now you sound like Mom," Isolde said.

  Gulchima smiled, then imitated her mother's sing-song accent. "Now Isolde, moreover, one must remember: People who divide money in the mud are the lowest common denominators."

  Isolde smiled. It wasn't the broad, confident one from before. "Do you think they worry about us?"

  "Every day, and twice on Tiewsdays." Gulchima squeezed her hand. "Is Novvy really all right?"

  Isolde breathed out. Somehow the tears made her more beautiful. "He's Novvy. I don't think he understands that bad things can happen." She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. "He's fine. He got sick because he ate twenty eggs. One of the older boys dared him."

  Gulchima relaxed. She hadn't been worried. Not exactly.

  "Twenty? Oh. Well. Good," Gulchima said. "Good-Good . . . Then, let me tell you about the contract."

  This was as good a time as any. The contract at Bayadev wasn't just for re-construction of the town. It was to clean up magic. Lots of magic. That was why they offered so much money. Big Problems. Big Profits.

  Gulchima paused. How would Dad say it? If he really wanted things to go his way? If he needed people to do exactly what he wanted? He always would say:

  "I'm excited to talk to you about Bayadev. Because I think I'm going to need your advice."

  "Sure the prince was charming, but then I thought: Hold on . . . Is he shy or just plain weird? I mean, who goes around kissing sleeping girls? That's not exactly someone I'd want to marry. Imagine explaining to your friends how you met. 'Well I was asleep, and next thing I knew . . . .'

  Plus, what if he kept doing it? You'd never get any rest."

  -The Collected Lies of Gulchima Brixby

  (15/100: An Outlandish Story. Never Happened!)

  Chapter 10: Gulchima Lands at Bayadev

  The sunrise was hidden behind the mist, and the stench of sulfur filled the air. It was Gulchima's first day in Bayadev. And it smelled.

  Like rotten eggs. Like bad breath. Like Uncle Roog's cabin after a bean-bake. Did you get used to it after a few years, or could you always smell it? Would you bother to wash your clothes?

  In the distance, a geyser erupted, shooting steam and water droplets twenty feet into the air. The closest gurgling mud pot quieted, as if listening. Then the geyser subsided with a thump and a hiss, and the mud pot started up again, twisting and bubbling. Gulchima could feel the heat coming off it, like a dirty sauna towel smothering her face.

  She coughed. Bayadev smelled. Seriously, how did anyone live here?

  Isolde and Novvy walked over to her, their faces red from heat and hurry. Gulchima noticed Isolde had wrapped a bit of rope around Novvy's waist and tied it to her wrist. Good idea. The soil was thin here in the geyser basin. Scalding death lay inches below them.

  "Where's Uncle Rattbone?" Gulchima asked. "He was supposed to meet me here."

  "At the alehouse with Roog and a few of the local burghers he knew," Isolde answered. "He told us to go ahead without him. We'll make a group decision on the contract this afternoon." She wrinkled her nose.

  "Hot pot!" Novvy squealed. He yanked at the rope, but Isolde did not move.

  "The alehouse already?" Gulchima asked. "Is there anybody those two don't know?"

  Isolde shrugged. "Roog said it's 'normal and customary preliminary business'. Then Uncle Rattbone said buying a few rounds of ale for a customer was a 'good investment'. They'll come get us before they tour the town, so we can all size up the job together." She paused. "They said this looks like a green arrow. Nice work."

  A green arrow—a large profit. And the compliment came from Isolde. Gulchima felt her pulse. Okay, she was still alive. And it smelled too bad to be a dream.

  "So what, we sit around and wait for the adults to come get us?" Gulchima asked, sarcastically.

  Isolde smiled. "No, we're supposed to go hob-knob with the local officials. They're waiting for you. They sent a message to the docks just after Uncle Rattbone left."

  "Hot pot, not?" asked Novvy.

  Gulchima turned to him. "No Novvy. That will burn all the skin off your body."

  Novvy furrowed his brow. "Got lots of skin," he muttered.

  He looked at Isolde, hopefully. "Skin grows back."

  She yanked him forward.
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  Bayadev called itself a burgh, but that was generous. It was just another town along the river, one of the few left standing after the war. The Sorcerer's Bastion lay beyond the mist, perhaps two days journey to the east, on high hills surrounded by mazes of ironwood. The Bastion wasn't one of the main fortresses, but rather the place where they'd finally caught and killed the Sorcerer. The Sorcerer's Demise, they called it now.

  During the war, the larger burghs along the river were occupied, fought over and then destroyed in the final battles around the Bastion. Now that the War of the Ribs was over, everyone in Baltica was rebuilding. Since Bayadev had been damaged, but not ruined, it had a head start. With a functioning dock and warehouse system, Bayadev could establish itself as a major burgh on the river.

  And they wanted it done quickly.

  Gulchima walked from the geyser basin along the marked path. Isolde and Novvy followed, careful not to fall behind in the mist.

  They passed a dense woods, a few hundred feet from the low burgh wall. The Maplespray trees along the edge were stunted and leafless, yet deeper in the woods the trees grew straight and tall and were starting to green out. And deeper still was a handsome white cottage, just visible behind the curl of smoke from a welcoming fire . . . .

  Gulchima blinked.

  No. That was a haunted woods. She knew it was haunted because someone had put up a sign that read, "Caution: Haunted". The incessant steam and calcium had eaten away at the wood of the sign, all but covering the letters.

  It was haunted. Gulchima glimpsed the gauzy shapes of ghosts, gesturing to her, calling her name in her parents' voices. Her parents. That's what the ghosts would pretend to be. Ghosts were so heartless.

  "Scratchy-Do-Dongs!" Novvy cried.

  "No, just a magic trick," Gulchima said.

  "I heard Scratchy-Do-Dongs, barking," Novvy said.

  "Do you smell chocolate?" Isolde asked.

  Gulchima sighed. She wasn't scared. Not exactly. "Keep moving. It's a magical trick in a magical woods. And if magic is trying to trick us to go there, then that's the last place we should go."