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

Groa raised an eyebrow as she led Sigrid into the most opulently appointed hall Sigrid had ever seen. Red and gold tapestries lined the walls and the floors, warmed with the extravagance of dozens of wall-mounted torches. The long table was still shiny and soft, the carvings still smooth, and the paint unchipped. Being a sorceress must pay well , Sigrid marvelled, though she did note Groa’s servants left a little to be desired, slow-moving and rather smelly they were.

“Tell me all about it,” Groa insisted, showing her to a chair. Sigrid produced wine and bread, and the two women settled in for an evening of talk.

"…so it isn’t that Ogmund isn’t a very nice man," Sigrid found herself saying mid-way into the third bottle of wine; a better vintage, Groa told her, though it tasted like the bottom of a well. "It’s only that he’s no good for anything." She cut herself another slice of bread and heaped butter on it, thick and fresh. "He’s ever off overseas killing dragons or ettins or whatever for all these great princes, but what good is that to us? Why can’t he stay home and deal with our problems?"

“Why don’t you go with him, dear? A man with his reputation, I’m sure you’d be staying in palaces from here to Qat San!” Groa motioned for one of her smelly servers to fetch another bottle.

"Pfft," Sigrid snorted dismissively. "Then I’d just be abandoned amongst foreigners, without even my chores to occupy me. No, the truth is I rather prefer being a widow. I only wish Ogmund would stop coming home again. He gets underfoot!" Sigrid laughed inappropriately and Groa joined her. Just like when we were girls , Sigrid thought. We were mankillers, both of us, then , she remembered fondly. Groa’s golden eyes twinkled with a familiar mischief.

"I could help you with that, Sigrid," Groa raised one eyebrow suggestively. "It wouldn’t take much to make you a free woman again. You and I—the times we used to have! We could find you a new man. One better equipped to serve your needs ."

Sigrid gasped. “Groa! What are you saying, girl? No, don’t say anything more! That isn’t the kind of help I had in mind.”

Groa looked miffed, and poured herself another cup of wine. "More’s the pity. I could make you the perfect partner if you really wanted."

“No thank you,” Sigrid said firmly. “I only need some help with the kobolds.”

Groa shrugged. “Sigrid, you know I love you, but I don’t have time for trolls-”

“Kobolds.”

“-whatever. I’ve been slaving for months now raising some help with the bigger problem of the Jarl.”

“What, Jarl Eskrisson? The man we pay our taxes to?”

"Oh, Sigrid. You really shouldn’t. That is a waste of your hard-earned coin."

"Well, it’s rather the law , isn’t it? The last thing I need is ruffians 'round the farm looking for tithes." Sigrid said with some surprise. Groa stood up abruptly, slopping her wine on the table.

“That’s what I’ve raised the army for-”

“Army?”

“-and that is why I don’t have the time to go slumming down kobold-holes.”

“Army? What army? You’ve raised an army so’s you don’t have to pay taxes?”

“Sigrid, you understand very little,” Groa turned towards her fiercely and for a moment the firelight cast such an odd shadow over her face that Sigrid wasn’t quite sure Groa had two eyes after all. “The Jarl is a horrible bully of a man, and when I’m through with him, no tyrant will ever dare take another penny from the lands of others.” Sigrid opened her mouth to object to this misleading hyperbole, but something in the sharp angles of Groa’s face made her think the better of it. She gulped down the last of her wine instead.

“Very well, Groa. You fight the Jarl and I will go home and attend to the kobolds all by myself.” Sigrid stood and tripped a little trying to disentangle herself from the legs of the table.

“Oh Sigrid, don’t pout.” Groa threw up her hands, spilling yet more wine. “Stay the night. It’s dark and you’re in no shape to get home.” Sigrid hesitated, considering it. “Really, you ought to stay longer.” Groa looked as if she’d just remembered something. “My army marches out this season. It’s bound to be safer here.”

That was startling. "The local lads wouldn’t touch my farm, would they?" Sigrid asked. "I wouldn’t know the Jarl if he came calling for tea."

Groa looked evasive. “My army—they aren’t really local lads as such. Look, you really ought to just stay here.”

Sigrid set her mouth in a determined line. “Groa, I really don’t think I will. I have my cow to feed, the fields to tend, and now, apparently, kobolds to scare off on my own. In fact, I should be going now. I can see I have overstayed my welcome.” Sigrid gathered her sweater and her walking stick from the table. “I do hope you enjoy the jewels. I will visit again, perhaps, if I am not killed by the kobolds.”

"As you wish. But you can’t say I didn’t warn you." Groa flopped down into her chair and took the last hunk of bread. "One of the nair can see you out."

Groa’s shambling corpses only accompanied her as far as the outer wall. Sigrid staggered the rest of the way home in the moonless black alone.

War . Kobolds now felt the least of her worries. But that was always the way, wasn’t it? Big people with big powers were ever mindless of what they trampled when they clashed with big trouble. No heed at all for humble people and their cows.

Sigrid stood by the flimsy trapdoor with a fresh loaf under her arm and a bucket of not-entirely-sour milk in her hand. She took three deep, calming breaths and then lifted the door off the hole. Muddy earth rained down a steep slope into a dark tunnel.

“Hullo?” Sigrid called, “I’m Sigrid Ulafsdottir and I’m coming down now.” She paused. “I’ve brought some breakfast.”

The entrance didn’t smell any less like sacrificed rabbits than last time, but as she descended into the darkness, the smell of mould and earthworms quickly choked out anything else. Sigrid inched along, mindful not to scrape her head on the roots overhead, heading cautiously towards a ruby light around the first bend of the tunnel. The tunnel grew more clean-cut the deeper she descended, and Sigrid noted with some satisfaction that the place was quite tidy, not strewn about with bones and rot, as she’d feared. At least the kobolds were not complete animals.

“Hello?” Sigrid called again. “Is anyone at home?”

The dim light flickered as impish shadows sprang up on the tunnel walls, followed by the pitter-patter of quite a lot of feet. Sigrid tried to stand as tall as she could, her offerings clutched tight to her skirts. She affected a resolute expression, though her heart was racing with the knowledge that she could soon be hacked to tiny pieces by the underground folk.

They came three abreast, as small as children dressed like an army of cookware. Red-faced and large-eyed, the creatures waved six sharp spears under her nose, threatening and jabbing at the air. Behind them, a fatter one in robes followed with a lantern. The fat one scowled terribly at her and chattered like a squirrel.

"I’m sorry, I don’t-" Sigrid started saying, and the spear-bearers began to snicker. Sigrid frowned and looked imploringly at the fat one, whose smirk suggested to her a clever mind. "Come now, do try ," she said. "I’ve come in good faith."

“We know you,” the fat one said with a clipped accent, eyeing the milk with cunning. “You the missus with the angry cow.”

“Yes,” Sigrid replied. “I suppose I am. I am Sigrid Ulafsdottir and I live over your heads.”