SL Huang - Up and Coming - Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

Herlechin and La Héron collapsed into a messy heap in the water as a burst of wind hit Alex clean in the face. She dropped the blade and clutched her chest instead. She staggered back a few steps as both duelists splashed to a stand.

“First blood?” Alex croaked. “Does it count?”

For a few quiet moments, nobody answered.

“Yes,” La Héron barked, pushing Herlechin away from her and fishing around in the water for her soggy clothes. “It bloody well counts.” She turned on Herlechin and shook an angry finger in his face. “Don’t like it, monsieur? Argue with fate! Mademoiselle Birdsong’s soul has been gifted to me.”

“It has?” Alex said, frowning and poking her chest.

“Yes.” La Héron waded back toward the gate, clothes bundled under one arm and her sword in the other. “Next time, negotiate better terms. Breaking one bondage and tying up another—not smart, Birdsong. Not smart.”

“Next time?” Alex trailed behind her.

“Yes, next time. You’re free of your God now. You belong to me instead. What else did you think we would do? We go to the next town, the next tourney. Next time. On it goes.”

“You’re a bird.”

“Very astute.” La Héron paused and turned back to Herlechin. “Did your Hunt come for me, monsieur? Did you hope to bring me back to fairyland with you?”

Herlechin grinned, his smile reaching the tips of his ears. “I sensed an attractive soul here, yes.” He chuckled.

La Héron bowed. “Then I wish you better luck next time as well.”

Alex mirrored Herlechin’s smile. “Next time,” she echoed.

Originally published in The Sockdolager, Summer 2015

After Esja produced sour milk three days in a row, Sigrid knew she had a problem. Leaving the pail of greenish milk next to her stool, she trudged off in the grey light of the early morning towards the barley field at the verge of the woods; the new field she had cleared only this spring. When your cow spoilt on the inside, she knew, that only meant one thing: mischief.

She found the door nestled in the mud between the last row of barley and the half-completed fence. Made of scavenged barrel-boards and twine, it could have been mistaken for a junk heap if not for the flotilla of little footprints surrounding it. Sigrid lifted the artless trapdoor a few inches just to be sure and was rewarded with the warm stench of burnt rabbit pellets. She dropped the door and staggered back. Kobolds .

“Ogmund,” Sigrid said to her husband that night after he’d come back from the pub, “Ogmund there’s kobolds in the field. Might you not take some time tomorrow to clear them out, before you leave for Norvgod?”

“Kobolds,” Ogmund turned his nose up disdainfully, half tripping over a stool. “I don’t have time for kobolds. Get Jord’s boy to take care of them.”

“What, Grann?” Sigrid planted her hands on her narrow hips, “you want me to send a boy down into a kobold lair?”

“He’s a big boy, and strong. Don’t think he hasn’t been in a fight or three. He should have a few likely friends to help him out.” Ogmund started unbuckling and unslinging his many weapons. “Offer him a bit of coin and see if he isn’t down there before lunch tomorrow.”

“Ogmund, Grann Jordsson hasn’t even got a stout knife to arm himself with.” She looked pointedly at the great steel sword denting her kitchen table. “His mother would tear off my scalp if he were to hurt himself. Couldn’t you just do it?”

"I’m bound for Prince Aelfwenther’s at first light, Sigrid, you know that. I’ve got bigger foes to face than kobolds ." Ogmund stretched, took Sigrid by the shoulders and kissed the very top of her tawny head. "Now, come to bed with me, wife. I will need some memories to take with me across the Durkensea." Sigrid crossed her arms, refusing to return his embrace.

“No, I don’t think I will,” she said stubbornly. “I’ve got bread to rise if I’m to eat anything tomorrow, now the cow’s upset.” Ogmund paused, then turned and ducked under the doorframe to her bedroom without saying anything. Sigrid snorted with frustration.

What’s the point of marrying a great, celebrated hero if he won’t even keep kobolds from harrying your cow? She thought, surveying the room. Her eyes alit on the satchel he’d brought back with him from Norvgod—gems and jewels aplenty for her, for all the good they did. What I need is good milk from my cow . Sigrid sighed and turned her thoughts to young Grann Jordsson.

Grann Jordsson was fifteen years old and as big as a bear. As Ogmund had predicted, he agreed to help Sigrid with her kobold problem in exchange for ten bits of tin and a fresh loaf of bread. He’d enthusiastically raided her shed for equipment, taking with him a ball of twine, a dozen row pegs and a hoe as well, with the promise he’d bring them back when he was through.

Armed with her farming tools, Grann Jordsson descended into the dark and fetid lair at mid-morning, and by sunset his parents were seated at her table drinking barley wine by the jugful. Sigrid baked them bread and kept a lantern lit by the tunnel entrance, but as Jord and Egritt passed out just before sunrise the next morning, she had to admit she would never see her hoe again. She placed woolen blankets over their shoulders, left out the last of the milk, and snuck out at first light.

Sigrid set out down the wooded path towards Yunderhill, the tall keep built into the rocky foothills. It had been a good long time since she’d called on the sorceress there, but she and Groa had played together as girls and Sigrid was sure Groa’s time in Alfheim couldn’t have changed her as much as folk said it had. She brought a loaf of bread and a jug of wine with her, and the satchel of jewels just in case.

“Groa?” Sigrid called from the base of the high walls, circling the keep looking for a door. “Groa, it’s Sigrid Ulafsdottir from down in the valley! Hullo, dear, are you at home?” Her voice seemed to get lost somewhere between her throat and the crow-lined crenulations of the wall, but she kept yelling. “Groa, I’ve been walking all day, and I can’t go home just now. Be a dear and show me to the entrance, will you?”

A dozen crows suddenly took flight, reluctantly finding new perches now that their section of the smooth, grey wall was dropping open on invisible hinges. Sigrid scrambled out of the way as the wall hit the gravelly earth with a bang and a cloud of dust. She was still coughing when a blonde woman robed head-to-toe in red stepped out onto the slab and regarded her curiously.

“Sigrid Ulafsdottir? By my one good eye!” Sigrid moved to meet the red woman still coughing and waving away the dust in front of her face. Groa looked the same as ever, complete with two perfectly good eyes. The two women met with an embrace before Groa took Sigrid by the elbow and drew her towards the tower at the heart of the walled keep. “Where have you been, my dear? I’ve been back for nearly a year now! Not very neighbourly of you, is it now?” Groa chided her, smiling toothily. Sigrid hung her head and squeezed the other woman’s hand.

“I’ve been running the farm alone, Groa, you’ve no idea the work it takes. I’ve been through three farmhands in six months, and Ogmund’s no help at all. I wanted to come sooner, I really did!” Sigrid stopped as a servant shambled past her, smelling oddly of spoilt meat, but Groa tugged her along.

“Three farmhands? Wherever do they go?” Groa led her through a gated door carved so thoroughly with runes that it had the topography of porridge.

“Two were eaten by Rut the Rugged before those fellows from the capitol came to drown her, and the third simply went missing in the woods earlier this fall.” Sigrid thought a flicker of recognition flew over Groa’s face just then, but she didn’t have anything else to contribute. “So, I’m sorry to say, I’m not just here to visit, Groa. I was hoping you might be able to help me with a thing.”