Swords & Heroes Story #3

Playing With Fire by Geoffrey Hart

Jun 25, 2024

My first encounter with Geoff’s fiction was when he sent a creative horror piece rife with sly humor to my weird western anthology, Monster Fight at the O.K. Corral. He sent something equally as clever for this project, but I wanted something, I dunno, ‘darker.’ And boy, did he deliver. This piece is troubling fantasy - not S&S but just as gutsy - and totally lends itself to more adventures featuring our fearless heroine. Here’s to hoping Geoff writes more. - Ed.

This week, we present Story #3…

“Playing With Fire” by Geoffrey Hart

Raisa lay in the frigid muck as two shadows moved slowly closer. Wedged between corpses, she made the sign against evil, and the ghast that had been eyeing her hungrily recoiled and turned away. The soul-eater that followed behind it had already lost interest; her soul still being bound to her body.

What she feared more, and watched closely through sweat-clotted eyelashes, was the human scavenger who drew nearer, looting the fallen. What little concentration she could muster let her invoke the warmth that was her sole magical talent. Heat spread through her arms until she was able to flex her fingers again.

The soldier from the Usurper’s army was no fool. He carried a spear with a twelve-inch blade, and as he approached each new body, he thrust his spear into it to ensure the fallen soldier was dead. This he did before stooping to remove rings and other lightweight, high-value items with a practiced flick of the blade that parted flesh or bone. He paid no attention to purses; there was precious little coin to be had from a Loyalist—as Raisa knew well from her own long-delayed pay—and the soldier had undoubtedly learned this many corpses ago.

Broken ribs were a fire along her side but at least they forced her to breathe shallowly, making it less likely he’d notice she was alive. She gave thanks; she didn’t give much for her chances against an alert, armed man while her sword arm was next to useless. Instead, she concealed the long fighting knife she’d drawn from her thigh sheath and held it behind her, left-handed. It would be difficult to see in the fading light. She’d learned patience, and kept still as the corpse-robber took an eternity moving across the field towards her.

Whenever his head dipped to examine another corpse, Raisa clenched and relaxed her arm muscles, then conjured more warmth to keep them flexible. She didn’t want them to stiffen as the combined effects of the cold and a long afternoon’s desperate exertions took their toll.

In any event, she needn’t have worried. As he plunged his spear into the corpse beside her, she rolled toward the spear, grunting at the pain, and wrapped her right arm around its shaft, capturing it beneath her. As he tried to reclaim his weapon, she held tight, stifling a scream as the shaft pressed against broken bone, her weight taking him off balance.

The pain gave her strength, but she was too focused on surviving the next few seconds to let it slow her. As he fell, their eyes met, his eyes widening with the knowledge of his death while she buried her knife in his unprotected throat. Warm blood flooded down her arm, and her nostrils filled with its coppery scent. Her exhilaration faded nearly as fast as it had arisen, and the damp began chilling her.

When the dead man stopped twitching, she rolled onto her left side, panting with the pain. Nothing moved near her, so she took a moment and emptied the scavenger’s sack. If she survived the next day, she’d need money and it seemed unlikely the royal paymaster would prioritize her needs. More likely, he’d fled with such loot as he could carry before the Usurper stormed the palace. The sack contained a few bloody necklaces but was mostly filled with severed earlobes and fingers—the scavenger hadn’t taken the time to remove the gold and silver.

Clenching her throat against a surge of bile, she set about freeing such pieces as she could, working with the tip of her knife. By the time she was done, she’d donned the few necklaces worth the effort, slid some of the smaller rings around her fingers, and filled her purse with the rest; most of the men’s ring were too large and in imminent danger of slipping loose.

One last look around to be sure she was alone, then she rose to her knees. The land sloped upwards from the riverbank she’d been sent with her fellow guardsmen to defend against flanking attacks. Uphill lay the battlefield and the Usurper’s forces; downhill lay an unfordable stream and the possibility of escape—to live and fight another day if there was anything left to fight for.

She considered walking away, but that would silhouette her against the horizon and draw unwanted attention. The river, on the other hand… She knew how to float, if not how to swim, but she knew she’d never float far with the encumbrance of her armor. She returned her knife to its sheath, and set about removing the armor, though not without regret. Armor wasn’t cheap, and in the midst of a war, it was a seller’s market.

The same axe blow that smashed her ribs had also severed the straps that held her boiled-leather cuirass to her chest. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she pulled it from her and flung it aside, left-handed, without a second glance, along with her cuisses and cowters. Upstream, the river was dammed by a clot of corpses, some of which broke free as the backed-up water surged over the grisly dam and carried them a short distance downstream before they lodged again.

Steeling herself, she waded in amidst the bodies of those who’d crawled to the water, thinking drowning a better fate than lying amidst the corpses and waiting for ravens to pluck their eyes, feral dogs to gnaw their entrails, and soul-eaters to consume them while they waited for help that would never come.

The water still held the chill of spring, and Raisa gasped as the water rose to her armpits. She closed her eyes, concentrated, and heat flooded through her despite the water’s efforts to suck away all warmth. The dead who’d been dead longest floated, and she seized upon one corpse, clinging with her good arm, hoping to stay afloat long enough to drift downstream and escape the battlefield. The dead bumped against her legs where they dragged against the gravel bottom, motionless save where the current tugged at their clothing or fish tugged at their flesh. Several times she flailed with her legs at the touch of something unseen beneath the water’s foul surface. She shivered, and it wasn’t just from the water’s chill.

The corpse dam soon passed out of sight, and she judged it time to leave the river before she could no longer sustain her inner warmth, grew too cold to hold on, and slipped beneath the water. The river had widened, and it swept her with increasing speed towards a stone bridge some distance downstream that she had no desire to strike. She saw no one moving atop it, however, and it would offer some shelter from hostile eyes upstream. Sculling with her legs, she guided herself between the pillars, and when she entered the backwash downstream, kicked herself towards shore.

She let her feet sink to the bottom, then pushed her corpse-float away. When she tried to rise, her legs wouldn’t support her weight. Half wading, half crawling, she propelled herself forward until she could crawl from the water and lie in the muck. She felt a surge of hope, which lasted all of a heartbeat. Before that hope could give her strength to pull herself fully from the water, something wrapped around her leg and pulled. Once, an oxcart’s leather bindings had snapped under load as she walked alongside, and the backlash had wrapped a strap around her ankle, still under tension from the ox’s full weight. The pain had been the worst she’d ever experienced, though it lasted only until a quick-thinking drover cut her loose. She’d feared she’d lose her leg, and though it soon became apparent she’d been lucky, she’d limped for weeks afterwards.

Her reflexive intake of breath to scream saved her, for whatever had grasped her leg pulled her back into the stream and under water so fast she struck her head on the bottom. As the water closed over her, she clenched her jaw to keep from exhaling and drowning. She had no idea how long she’d be underwater, and in the rush of current, had no way of drawing her knife, let alone knowing what to strike at. When she could no longer hold her breath, she began exhaling, drawing out the exhalation as long as she could manage, her head bumping against gravel and then mud. Her head rose above the water just as her vision began to grey, and she heaved a gasping breath before the stench stopped her.

A voice like wood rasping on wood filled the space around her. “You’re still alive? How delightful! Live meat will be such a nice change from filling my belly with corpse flesh.” From the darkness came a long, loud, belch. The stench intensified, as what must have been a small space filled with the sickly-sweet reek of carrion.

Despite the pain, Raisa reflexively reached for her sword, only to discover she’d lost it somewhere in the water. But her knife was still there, and clapping hand upon it gave her enough courage to gather her wits and appraise her situation. She’d thought her surroundings pitch black, but as her vision cleared and her eyes adjusted, she found herself surrounded by phosphorescence. It wasn’t bright, but it did provide enough illumination to reveal her captor amidst the shadows.

The thing had a man’s shape, but with skin like an eel and muscles that worked beneath its skin like a bundle of knotted tree roots strangling a rock. When it moved, two great pale eyes with no pupils fixed upon her. A troll! Before she could muster an argument as to why the troll should release her, it flung itself into the pool of water that lapped at the edges of a narrow beach and disappeared with a splash.

The chill from the water and the horror of her situation set her to shivering so hard she feared she’d tear a muscle. But the muscle movement and the pain it awoke in her side let her focus and warm herself until the shivering subsided. She sought for calm, but slow, deep breaths were impossible; she couldn’t overcome her aversion to the foul air, and her ribs made deep breaths difficult. But after a time, she was able to master herself.

“Raisa, if you’re going to survive this, you’d best start thinking.” The muck ceiling and floor, woven with a net of rotting branches, swallowed her words, but hearing a human voice, even her own, gave her courage. Louder, this time: “Think, girl. Inventory your possessions. Find something that’ll get you through this.”

All right: She’d maintained most of the rings on her fingers. They’d be useless as weapons, maybe less use as a bribe. A pile of crushed bones formed a nest of sorts, but the bones had long since been shattered and had the marrow sucked from them. They’d also be useless. But she still had her knife and its thigh sheath, and if she kept the knife hidden, perhaps the troll would come close enough for her to hurt it.

Whether that would be enough to gain her freedom was unclear; there was no way she’d survive any effort to escape through the flooded entry passage, and trying to dig her way out would, at best, end in collapsing the roof. She withdrew against one of the walls, keeping her knife concealed between her and the wall, which proved to be stone. One of the pillars that supported the bridge, probably.

She set herself to wait, as she had little alternative. After a time, the water began lapping at the edges of the hole, and the troll surged from the water.

“Still here? Good. I’ve gone and crapped out breakfast and lunch to make room for dinner. Should be ready to eat you in a couple hours. Don’t go anywhere!”

It farted, filling the air with a stench that even her abused nose could no longer ignore. She vomited in the corner, the troll chuckling all the while, in a good humor. When she’d emptied herself as best she could, ribs shooting pain up her side with each spasm of her gut, the troll curled up in a corner, atop the heap of bones, and began snoring.

Seizing her chance, she drew her knife and moved as quietly as she could towards the troll. It wasn’t clear which part of the creature was most vulnerable, so she judged the position of its eyes and drove the blade as hard as she could manage left-handed into an eye socket. Her blow was true, but the blade skidded away as if she’d struck a rock. Before she could gather herself for a second try, the troll’s arm lashed out and flung her across the small room, driving the breath from her as she struck the wall. Tears came to her eyes, and she moaned from the rekindled pain in her ribs.

The troll chuckled. “What a poor house guest you are! Still, we’ve just learned a valuable lesson, haven’t we?” It released another noisome fart that made her eyes water, rolled over, and appeared to sleep again. Too late, she recalled childhood tales that warned how only enchanted steel could harm a troll. That and fire, not that there was any hope of fire in this damp burrow.

She retrieved and resheathed her knife; whether or not it could penetrate the troll’s stony hide, it gave her courage.

After a time, fatigue from the day’s exertions and her situation’s horror overcame her. She sank against the wall and fell into an uneasy sleep. She woke to a greasy hand pawing at her thigh.

“Not much meat on you.”

“Meat tasty enough for the likes of you,” she riposted. If she could keep the troll talking, perhaps it would gain her time for inspiration to strike.

“Shall we test that?”

Despite herself, she recoiled hard against the wall, slapping at its hand. It was like slapping a tree. Without thinking, she’d used her right hand, and her ribs flared with agony.

“Let’s not,” she hissed around clenched teeth. It withdrew its hand, chuckling. She took as deep a breath as she could draw, regretted it, and continued. “I don’t suppose I could pay you to let me cross your bridge?” She clicked the rings on her fingers together, hoping it wouldn’t notice her purse.

The troll snorted. “Hardly. What use has such as me for money?” It gestured around its cave. “Perhaps I could buy some paintings to improve the decoration? Buy a cat?” It paused a moment. “I’ve never eaten a cat. Horse, yes. Ox, yes. Dog, yes….”

At least it was talking. “Then how else could I buy my freedom?”

“What else have you got to offer? I’m not seeing much of value other than your flesh. And there’s not so much of that.”

Clutching at straws, she remembered a nursery tale she’d been told about another woman captured by a monster and desperate to save her life. “Perhaps I could tell you stories? For each story that entertained you, you could let me live another day.”

“Interesting. What stories have you got that might buy your life?”

She thought a moment, recalling the bedtime stories her mother told. “Once upon a time—”

“Heard it.”

“You haven’t even heard what I was going to say.”

The troll sighed. “Don’t need to. I’ve heard every story you can imagine that begins that way.” It licked its lips. “Besides… I don’t much like stories. They tend to end badly for such as me.” It hawked and spat into the water. “What else have you got?”

She had nothing. Desperate, she tried the last thing she could think of. “Perhaps I could appeal to your sense of chivalry?”

The troll fell about the chamber laughing, throwing her up against the wall during one of its gyrations. When it used up its store of mirth, it sat up, focusing its pale eyes upon her. “I like your sense of humor. Perhaps if you have other good jokes, I’ll let you live ’til tomorrow.” Then those eyes narrowed. “Wait. Men don’t ask for mercy. You’re not a woman are you?”

Raisa was trapped, and at a loss for words. The troll grabbed her arm and pulled her towards him. She hadn’t believed it to be possible, but the smell grew worse. A long, slimy tongue emerged from between its lips and licked across her face. “Yes, by the bog, you’re a woman!”

“And?”

“It won’t save you. Quite the opposite. Can’t remember the last time I ate a woman.”

Had there been anything left in her stomach to vomit, she’d have done so. Instead, the small amount of bile she had left seared her throat. The searing awoke a thought.

“Wait!” She licked her lips. “I bet you’ve only ever eaten raw meat. Am I right?”

“I like raw meat,” the troll muttered.

“And I’m sure it’s lovely. But have you never eaten a cooked meal?”

The troll paused a moment in thought. “Never. And why should I want to?”

Hope surged in her breast, and her thoughts stopped churning and settled on a potential solution. She smacked her lips. “Because cooked meat is delicious. It’s why we humans cook everything we kill. Even our dogs prefer their meat cooked. If you’ve never had your meat cooked, you have no idea what a treat you’ve been missing.”

The troll scratched at its forehead with a sound like a file shaping wood. “I suppose I could try it this once. If I don’t like it, I can always let it rot a while longer before eating it.”

She bit her lip, thinking very carefully indeed. “Of course! But trust me: a full stomach of well-cooked meat is very comforting. If you like what I have to offer, you wouldn’t even need to kill me. You could keep me around for many meals. As your cook.”

“Until I learn to cook for myself? Yes, that might work.”

“But we’d need to do this aboveground. Building a fire requires dry wood and more air than this tiny burrow can provide.”

“Don’t you go criticizing my burrow!”

Raisa bowed her head, hiding her smile. “No criticism intended. It’s just that fires require open air.”

“You’re thinking you can escape once I let you out in the open again.”

She did her best to still her thoughts and put conviction into her voice. “I don’t deny that I hope you’ll let me go afterwards. But there’s no way I could flee. My injuries are too severe,” she opened her tunic to show the angry swelling on her side, “and anyway, you could outrun me even were I healthy.”

“That’s true. Very well, woman, tell me more.”

“First, we’ll need a pile of mostly dry wood, with pieces ranging in size from very small to about this size.” She held up her hands, thumbs and fingers of both hands forming a circle. “A pile about as big as I am should suffice, though more’s better. You’ll also need a few long pieces, about as long as I am, for skewers to hold the meat above the flames. Best if the skewer is at least this thick.” She touched thumb to forefinger, but averted her eyes, lest the troll see the gleam of hope. She felt at her waist, and the firestarter she’d carried throughout the campaign was gone. “We’ll also need flint and steel to set the fire alight.”

“How would I find flint and steel? I’ve no use for either, and wouldn’t recognize flint if I shat it out after a meal.”

“You should be able to find such things on the battlefield. Many of the dead will be carrying a firestarter. Usually in an oilskin pouch at their waist or a backpack. Look for such a pouch that contains a piece of rock and a piece of metal to strike it against.” She shuddered despite herself. “You can do that while you forage for a fresh corpse to cook.”

“I couldn’t cook you?”

A chill went through her. “Of course not! Then who would tend the fire…you?”

“I’m smarter than I look,” grumbled the troll.

“Of course you are. And once I’ve taught you how to make the fire and cook your meat, you’ll have no more need of me.” She bit her lower lip. “Then you can cook me.”

“Yes! And your despair would be so much greater if you could see the coming sunrise and feel a last surge of hope before I strangle you! Despair improves the quality of the meat, it does.”

She shuddered. “I can see how that would improve the experience.”

“Let’s do that. I’ll be back soon as I’ve gathered enough wood and the necessary provisions.” It chuckled. “Don’t go anywhere!”

The troll slid into the water and vanished, and Raisa succumbed to a violent bout of shivering. It took some time to muster enough heat to banish the chill. At first, nothing; then, as she grew frustrated and frustration became rage, warmth shot through her limbs, and a faint hint of flame danced on one fingertip. That had never happened before.

As the flame faded, she realized her bladder was about ready to burst. She crawled across to the nest of shattered bones, dropped her breeches, squatted over the nest, and emptied her bladder. The warm smell of urine filled the burrow, temporarily concealing the stench of decay and unwashed troll.

Before she could buckle her belt, the troll returned. “Miss me?” Without waiting for an answer, the troll clapped an iron hand around her ankle and pulled her into the water, leaving just enough time for her to force a deep breath despite the stench and hold it.

When she emerged from the water, gasping, she found that night had fallen, and a large, nearly-full moon swam overhead. A disordered heap of wood lay piled by the shore, and a corpse lay beside it, eyes staring sightlessly at the sky. She rose to her feet, trembling, and one-handed, pulled up her britches, which had tangled around her ankles. Awkwardly, she refastened her belt.

“Here.” It thrust a pouch into her hand. “Flint and steel.”

She licked her lips and opened the pouch. Sure enough, both flint and steel were present, but even better, there were two large, dry milkweed pods. “Well done, troll. Now comes the difficult part. We need to break up some of the large bits of wood into smaller parts that will burn easily.”

The troll laughed loud enough to echo from the bridge’s stonework, then, abashed, hunched its shoulders and ducked its head, looking around as if expecting an attack at any moment. There were no signs of movement.

“I can do that. Don’t try to stab me in the balls while I do. You saw how well stabby-stabby worked earlier.” It paused a moment. “You want small bits of wood? Small bits of wood you’ll have.”

It found a large flat rock Raisa could never have lifted even with an undamaged right side, tore it from the muck, laid it upon the ground by the wood pile, seized a log thick as her thigh, and began smashing the log on the rock. Splinters flew everywhere, and in moments, the log had been reduced to a heap of kindling.

Raisa thought of the knife at her hip but abandoned any thought of trying to stab the troll again, balls or elsewhere. “Excellent. We make a good team, troll.”

She began by clearing the splinters from the rock and sorting them into piles of fragments ranging from small to large. She built a nest of splinters at the rock’s center, then tore open one of the milkweed pods and placed a small bundle of seeds into the nest. Then she knelt beside it, placed the flint against the milkweed to hold it in place, wincing at the pain that shot up her arm and side, and began scraping the steel against the flint, causing sparks to shower downwards.

In a moment, the milkweed was ablaze. Carefully, she set about building a small triangular heap of splinters above the fire, adding more and larger splinters as the smaller pieces caught. In no time at all, she had a small blaze going, adding some larger sticks, and eventually a small log.

The troll had taken a few steps backwards, balancing on the balls of its feet like it was getting ready to flee. “I don’t like fire. It’s not a trollish thing.”

Raisa smiled to herself. The old tales of trolls had been correct. Apart from enchanted weapons, they were also vulnerable to fire. “Don’t be a child. It’s quite safe, so long as you keep your distance.”

“What do we do now?”

“You’ll need to hold the meat above the fire. Did you bring a spear?”

The troll chuckled. “No spear for you. But if your goal is to be a safe distance from the fire, I can manage that.”

It went to the corpse, squatted down, and placed one hand on the thigh and another on the hip. With an unpleasant ripping noise, it pulled the leg from the corpse and came over to the fire. Raisa shuddered, not caring if the troll saw her. The troll held the detached limb by the ankle and swung the thigh over the fire. Steam began rising from the meat, and Raisa felt her stomach rebel.

“Excuse me,” she said in a strangled voice, and moved to the edge of the circle of firelight. Her stomach had filled with enough bile that she had something to vomit, and she did so at length, ending with a sobbing gasp. The pain in her ribs had intensified so much, it brought tears to her eyes.

“If you’re done, perhaps you’d inspect my meal?” The troll’s impatient voice sounded above the crackling of the fire. An errant breeze caused the stench of bad pork to blow in her direction, and she gritted her teeth.

Raisa turned back to the troll. “It’s ready when it starts smelling good, and before it blackens.” Moving as slowly as she could manage, she reached for a long, sturdy branch that tapered to a jagged point, and placed one end in the fire. The troll didn’t notice; it was too busy holding the limb to its nose and sniffing.

“Interesting.”

“Try it.”

The troll stuffed the charred flesh into its mouth and began chewing. Its eyes widened. “Not bad. Maybe you humans aren’t such fools after all. You’ll have to teach me how to make fires so I can feed myself once you’re gone.” It hesitated a moment, then waved the leg in her direction. “Want some?” It closed its eyes to better savor the new flavor.

This time without asking its leave, Raisa turned away and began trying to heave up her guts. By the time she’d turned back, it had its mouth full again and was chewing slowly and appreciatively.

The branch tip had begun flaming, so she slid over to it, not wanting to alert the troll. She placed her left hand on the free end, and her right hand further up the shaft; her injured ribs would prevent her from exerting any force with that hand, but it would be enough to guide her thrust. She hesitated just long enough to gauge distances and angles. If she waited any longer, she’d never have the courage.

“Troll?”

The troll opened its eyes and turned its heavy head towards her. “Yes?”

Without hesitation, she pivoted around her hips, thrusting the flaming branch at its closest eye with every ounce of strength she possessed, screaming as broken bones grated together. At the same time, she put every ounce of her rage and fear and loathing into feeding the flame. Heat flowed through her hands and into the wood. Then, as she’d hoped, the end of the branch flared brighter than iron in a smithy’s forge.

The troll jerked its head back and away, but she’d allowed for that, and she thrust the end of the branch into the troll’s eye with a hissing noise, blinding it. The troll bellowed and flung up its hands to cover its wounded eye, smacking itself in the face as it did.

But this wasn’t Raisa’s first fight, and she was ready. As the troll lowered its hands to reach for her, she stepped between its grasping hands and buried her makeshift spear deep in the other eye. Fear and rage gave her strength, and she poured that strength into the fire, the heat blinding her and singeing her hands and face even through the troll’s skull. The troll shrieked and convulsed, tearing her weapon from her hands and flinging her aside before she could release her weapon.

The troll fell to the ground, the branch projecting from its eye socket. Steam emerged from its nostrils and mouth. With a horrid noise, it vented its bowels and bladder. Its heels beat a mushy tattoo on the mucky ground before it gave one last spasm and fell still.

Raisa rose, staggered back a step, then fell to her knees, spent, all strength and warmth fleeing from her body. Part of her wanted to scream her horror to the skies, but she mastered that part. She was still too near the battlefield, and the Usurper would soon send troops to hold the bridge. She had no time to waste. She tried to summon her inner warmth, but it was gone, leaving nothing. Instead, she crawled to the fire and basked in its heat. With care, she found she could coax it to leave the coals and enter her, spread through her.

When her muscles had thawed again, she took firm grip of her dwindling energy and staggered off into the darkness, leaving the fire blazing behind her. She’d live to let her ribs heal and to fight another day, but for now all that mattered was finding somewhere safe to spend the night.

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