‘Carrick…Carrick, we’re still out of water.’
The heat of summer lay heavy upon the morning like a very patient stone. ‘Come-on Mr.Wizard, magic up a stream or something.’ Aya whined as she lay slumped against the protection of a small bolder, she was a native of a nation drenched eternally by rain and was in no way used to the stillness of a dry summer. Drifting her gaze to the bag by her side, she wondered if there was anything non-toxic enough to drink.
‘If I had my spellbook- ’ Carrick began as he absentmindedly tossed a pebble out into the field. The pebble arced upward and was then met by three arrows before it hit the ground. ‘They’re patient aren’t they, that’s fourteen hours now!’ The pile of arrows flanking either side of their shelter began to resemble an overstuffed pin cushion.
‘Why did you leave your spellbook at the pub again?’ commented the potion-smith as she watched four more arrows thud into the ground. ‘Surely that’s the first thing you’d check to see if you have,’
‘Mistakes maketh the man Aya. What about you? Why did you think the bartender wanted his ale turned into a powder?’
‘He didn’t believe that I could. Anyway, it was reversible, I don’t know why he overreacted like that.’ said Aya trailing off somewhat as she lost interest in the conversation. This moment of absent thought let something rekindle within her memory. ‘Carrick! I’m an idiot. We’ve still got the hand!’ sitting up with excitement and rummaging through her smithing bag, Aya smiled as she withdrew a bloodied hanky wrapped neatly around what once was a troll’s hand — coming very close to knocking open a canister of portable fire while doing so. Grabbing her last healing draught she uncorked the vial and forced it into the hand’s death grip. ‘Ok, if this works we run away as fast as we can. And if it doesn’t work, we’ll still try running but get cut down by arrows in the process. Ready?’ offering no time for any reasonable argument Aya hucked the hand-grenade of potential over the bolder toward the archers.
:——————————————————————————–:
Trolls are interesting creatures: Quick to anger and yet unfathomably patient, they are respected for how quickly they can bounce back from any seemingly life-threatening injury. The saying Like fighting a troll without a whetstone comes from the great difficulty involved in killing one when it’s really pissed off.
As an arrow struck the hand, halting it’s flight and sending it spinning downward in an arc, the glass of the healing draught shattered and began to leak into the hanky. Cell upon cell reforming and reknitting, a full forearm slapped to the ground with a wet thud.
Life quietly remembered, the hand shook off wet hanky and began to drag itself toward the archers with their wagon of arrows.
:——————————————————————————–:
‘Jeffrey I say’ the lead archer placed his cup of tea down and in grabbing for his telescope squinted with curiosity, ‘Was there torso in the field before?’
‘Torso? Hmm, not from memory, was that the Lundrian looking girl or the scruffy fellow?’ replied the second.
‘No, I think they’re both still behind that jolly rock. It looks green-ish -oh, it’s got a second arm! Loose an arrow at it would you Jeffery? There’s a good chap,’ said the lead archer as he placed the telescope on his lap, picked up his tea cup and then muttered to himself ‘How I do love a nice weekend spent hunting, what sport!’
With practiced ease the second man, Jeffery, loosed an arrow striking the strange torso directly in its shoulder. Stroking his mustache in self admiration, he shouted a joyous ‘Tally-ho’ after hitting his mark.
Befuddled by the audacity to strike it with an arrow -a great feat for something not yet containing a brain- the half assembled troll froze in anger. Remembering that it was just about to kill somthing the troll’s head reformed with an explosion of viscera and roared bloody murder towards the archers.
‘Troll! Jeffery it’s a Troll! Kill it, kill it!’ Mickial stood abruptly kicking over his teacup and breaking the handle, ‘Fuck!’ he quivered with a panicked frustration.
Doing its best to sprint with only one leg and its two arms, the near complete Troll began to close in on the archers, shrugging off the arrow still embedded in its shoulder.
Taking cue from the screams Aya grabbed Carrick’s arm and ran.
‘I hate this country Carrick.’
‘The feeling appears to be reciprocal Aya; at least it hates us all equally.’
Jacob McCray
-2019
Sunday Short Stories 