Terry Pratchett - Monstrous Regiment

She narrowed her eyes. This stupid fool in front of her, a man making one long eyebrow do the work of two, was serving them slops and foul vinegar just before they marched off to war—

“Thith beer,” said Igor, on her right, “tathteth of horthe pith.”

Polly stood back. Even in a bar like this, that was killing talk.

“Oh, you’d know, would you?” said the barman, looming over the boy. “Drunk horse piss, have you?”

“Yeth,” said Igor.

The barman stuck a fist in front of Igor’s face. “Now you listen to me, you lisping little—”

A slim black arm appeared with amazing speed and a pale hand caught the man’s wrist. The one eyebrow contorted in sudden agony.

“Now, it’s like this,” said Maladict calmly. “We’re soldiers of the Duchess, agreed? Just say ‘aargh’.”

He must have squeezed. The man groaned.

“Thank you. And you’re serving up as beer a liquid best described as foul water,” Maladict went on in the same level, conversational tone. “I, of course, don’t drink… horse piss, but I have a highly developed sense of smell, and really would prefer not to list aloud the things I can smell in this murk, so we’ll just say ‘rat droppings’ and leave it at that, shall we? Just whimper. Good man.” At the end of the bar, one of the new recruits threw up. The barman’s fingers had gone white. Maladict nodded with satisfaction.

“Incapacitating a soldier of her grace in wartime is a treasonable offence,” he said. He leaned forward. “Punishable, of course, by… death.” Maladict pronounced the word with a certain delight. “ However , if there happened to be another barrel of beer around the place, you know, good stuff, the stuff you’d keep for your friends if you had any friends, then I’m sure we can forget this little incident. Now, I’m going to let go of your wrist. I can tell by your eyebrow that you are a thinker, and if you’re thinking of rushing back in here with a big stick, I’d like you to think about this instead: I’d like you to think about this black ribbon I’m wearing. Know what it means, do you?”

The barman winced, and mumbled: “Temp’rance League…”

“Right! Well done!” said Maladict. “And one more thought for you, if you’ve got room. I’ve only taken a pledge not to drink human blood. It doesn’t mean I can’t kick you in the fork so hard you suddenly go deaf.”

He released his grip. The barman slowly straightened up. Under the bar he would have a short wooden club, Polly knew. Every bar had one. Even her father had one. It was a great help, he said, in times of worry and confusion. She saw the fingers of the usable hand twitch.

“Don’t,” she said. “I think he means it.”

The barman relaxed. “Bit of a misunderstanding there, gents,” he mumbled. “Got the wrong barrel in. No offence meant.” He shuffled off, his hand almost visibly throbbing.

“I only thaid it wath horthe pith,” said Igor.

“He won’t cause trouble,” said Polly to Maladict. “He’ll be your friend from now on. He’s worked out he can’t beat you so he’s going to be your best mate.”

Maladict subjected her to a thoughtful stare. “ I know that,” he said. “How do you?”

“I used to work in an inn,” said Polly, feeling her heart begin to beat faster, as it always did when the lies lined up. “You learn to read people.”

“What did you do in the inn?”

“Barman.”

“There’s another inn in this hole, is there?”

“Oh no, I’m not from round here.”

Polly groaned at the sound of her own voice, and waited for the question: “Then why come here to join up?” It didn’t come. Instead, Maladict just shrugged and said, “I shouldn’t think anyone is from round here.”

A couple more new recruits arrived at the bar. They had the same look—sheepish, a bit defiant, in clothes that didn’t fit well. Eyebrow reappeared with a small keg, which he laid reverentially on a stand and gently tapped. He pulled a genuine pewter tankard from under the bar, filled it, and timorously proffered it to Maladict.

“Igor?” said the vampire, waving it away.

“I’ll thtick with the horthe pith, if it’th all the thame to you,” said Igor. He looked around in the sudden silence. “Look, I never thaid I didn’t like it,” said Igor. He pushed his mug across the sticky bar. “Thame again?”

Polly took the new tankard and sniffed at it. Then she took a sip. “Not bad,” she said. “At least it tastes like it’s—”

The door pushed open, letting in the sounds of the storm. About two-thirds of a troll eased its way inside, and then managed to get the rest of itself through.

Polly was okay about trolls. She met them up in the woods sometimes, sitting amongst the trees or purposefully lumbering along the tracks on the way to whatever it was trolls did. They weren’t friendly, they were… resigned. The world’s got humans in it, live with it. They’re not worth the indigestion. You can’t kill ’em all. Step around ’em. Stepping on ’em doesn’t work in the long term.

Occasionally a farmer would hire one to do some heavy work. Sometimes they turned up, sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes they’d turn up, lumber around a field pulling out tree stumps as if they were carrots, and then wander off without waiting to be paid. A lot of things humans did mystified trolls, and vice versa. Generally, they avoided one another.

But she didn’t often see trolls as… trollish as this one. It looked like a boulder that had spent centuries in the damp pine forests. Lichen covered it. Stringy grey moss hung in curtains from its head and its chin. It had a bird’s nest in one ear. It had a genuine troll club, made from an uprooted sapling. It was almost a joke troll, except that no one would laugh.

The root end of the sapling bumped across the floor as the troll, watched by the recruits and a horrified Corporal Strappi, trudged to the table.

“Gonna En List,” it said. “Gonna do my bit. Gimme shillin’.”

“You’re a troll!” Strappi burst out.

“Now, now, none of that, corporal,” said Sergeant Jackrum. “Don’t ask, don’t tell.”

“Don’t ask? Don’t ask ? It’s a troll, sarge! It’s got crags! There’s grass growing under its fingernails! It’s a troll!”

“Right,” said the sergeant. “Enlist him.”

“You want to fight with us?” Strappi squeaked. Trolls had no sense of personal space, and a ton of what was, for practical purposes, a kind of rock was looming right over the table.

The troll analysed the question. The recruits stood in silence, mugs halfway to mouths.

“No,” said the troll at last. “Gonna fight wi’ En Army. Gods save the…” The troll paused, and looked at the ceiling. Whatever it was seeking there didn’t appear to be visible. Then it looked at its feet, which had grass growing on them. Then it looked at its free hand and moved its fingers as if counting something. “…Duchess,” it said. It had been a long wait. The table creaked as the troll laid a hand on it, palm upwards. “Gimme shillin’.”

“We’ve only got the bits of pape—” Corporal Strappi began. Sergeant Jackrum jabbed an elbow into his ribs.

“Upon my oath, are you mad?” he hissed. “There’s a ten-man bounty for enlisting a troll!” With his other hand he reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a real silver shilling, and placed it delicately in the huge hand. “Welcome to your new life, friend! I’ll just write your name down, shall I? What is it?”

The troll looked at ceiling, feet, sergeant, wall and table. Polly saw its lips move. “Carborundum?” it volunteered.

“Yeah, probably,” said the sergeant. “Er, how’d you like to shav—to cut off some of that hai—moss? We’ve got a, a sort of a… regulation…”