The magic thrumming across Brittle’s bark changed as he followed Sir Thomassin down the narrow hallway. What had originally been a light hum, similar to the vibration of a bee’s wings, had doubled, almost tripled. It reminded him of the staticky air right before a thunder and lightning storm, except instead of happening around him, it took place inside of him. The magic moving across Brittle’s bark hide crackled and popped, shooting invisible lances of pain throughout his hollow bones.
Brittle fell behind. “Lastar,” he hissed, tearing at the magical collar of clothing that tightened like a noose around his neck, “what’s going on?”
“Can’t…hold it.” Lastar’s whispered voice was strained.
“Yes, you can. Please, just a few more minutes. You can do this.”
Brittle forced his sluggish steps back into motion. By the time he reached the private room, Sheriff Rodrick and his deputy were already on their way out. Brittle staggered past with crackles of lightning pulsing beneath his bark, and slammed the door shut. He pulled the little frog from his breast pocket and held it aloft, safe from harm, as the rest of him flopped over the nearest table like a limp cattail.
“Oh!” He heard Lastar give a squeak of fear. “Uh, hello again.”
“Brittle?” A girl’s voice said.
“Of course he gets all the credit,” Lastar muttered, hopping free of Brittle’s hand.
Brittle unplanted his face from the cool wood of the table. To his surprise, absolute relief, and maybe just the tiniest ounce of embarrassment, he discovered the Nettles family was already present. He saw Rochelle across from him, with tears in her eyes. The wizened man beside her had to have been her grandad. Mr. Nettles had the same brown skin and dark eyes, only his hair was white, not black. He had a big, bushy beard too, which he was currently wringing the ends of whilst staring at Brittle with eyes wider than an owl’s.
“Rochelle!” The decent thing would have been to totter over and give her a hug, but Brittle’s legs felt like they had the structural integrity of straw. He feared he’d end up sprawled across the floor the moment he stopped letting the table do all the heavy lifting. Brittle offered the next best thing and waved. “We’re here to save you.”
Mr. Nettles’s white eyebrows rose high on his forehead as his gaze darted to his granddaughter. “You know each other?”
“Brittle’s my friend. We met in the forest. I’m pretty sure he and his family are forest sprites, but he won’t admit it.”
Sir Thomassin stepped in and took charge. He explained the situation as quickly and efficiently as possible, stressing the importance of getting the medicine completed in a timely manner so that they could be on their way before the rest of the village woke up. Mr. Nettles appeared to be in some sort of shock. He processed the information with a blank stare and occasional bob of his head, as though some part of his mind had decided to throw out logic and simply go along with whatever was happening. Probably for the best, really.
He, with Rochelle’s help, gathered the rustic equipment provided by the jailors and set to work. Lastar watched the process curiously, while Sir Thomassin paced back and forth by the doorway, ensuring the door stayed bolted shut. Brittle’s only contribution was the mushroom. He felt a little lost once handing it over, as his part was done. He couldn’t help in the medicine making process and feared watching would inevitably lead to questions. Something neither Rochelle nor her granddad obviously had time for.
He wandered the cramped room, stretching the life back into his numb legs as he went. It was small, more of a glorified closet than a room, with four stone walls, a heavy bolted door, and a small window fitted above the worktable. At some point in its life, someone had cleaned the window’s glass, because Brittle could see the dark night sky stretched above, dimmed slightly by the warm flicker of torches below.
That second detail gave Brittle pause. He didn’t recall seeing any torches during his and Sir Thomassin’s walk through the village. A suffocating mix of fear and dread churned within his trunk as he clambered up onto the table to get a better look.
“Brittle!” Rochelle snapped, shielding her work protectively. “What are you doing? We’re working here.”
“There’s people outside.” Brittle described what he was seeing. “Lots of people. They’ve got torches.”
The sturdy table shuddered under Sir Thomassin’s weight as he joined Brittle at the window.
“Seriously?” Rochelle cried.
Sir Thomassin ignored her protests as he gazed out the window, studying the milling crowd assembled outside. The flickering flames highlighted his face in a sickly yellow light. “The deputy must have gone and opened his mouth to the whole village.”
“Are we in trouble?” Brittle asked.
“They look orderly at the moment. Probably heard news of the king and his cure, and are eager to be the first in line.”
“You know what would help get the cure to them faster?” Rochelle wondered aloud. Her voice was sweet and unnaturally innocent. A third tone lurked beneath the sticky sweet surface of the other two, like a sand viper, poised and ready to sink its fangs into you. “If our workstation wasn’t teeming with feet!”
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
“Rochelle,” Mr. Nettles hushed.
Rochelle eyed Sir Thomassin warily as he clambered down from the table. “Well it’s true, isn’t it?”
The old man’s steady hands were a blur of activity. Mr. Nettles poured, measured, and mixed dry ingredients with the practiced skill of someone following a recipe from memory. He didn’t even flinch when Sir Thomassin lifted Brittle from the table and set him back onto solid ground. “A good herbalist must learn to keep their cool under pressure,” Mr. Nettles said to his granddaughter. “A hot temper only leads to mistakes.”
“That’s what I’ve got you for. You’re the calm and I’m the fire. We’re the perfect team.”
A faint smile pulled at his lips as he held a dried bundle of green springs in her direction expectantly. “Speaking of fire, would you be so kind?”
“Here?” Rochelle squeaked.
“Would you rather bother Sheriff Rodrick for some matches?”
Rochelle shook her head no. She hunched her shoulders, lifting her fingers to either side of her face, and concentrated. Her eyebrows furrowed so closely, they nearly fused together. She stared at the bundle, channeling her concentration unblinkingly, until the tops of the dried springs burst into flames.
“Good,” Mr. Nettles congratulated before resuming his work.
Brittle clutched his chest in surprise. His legs forgot they weren’t made of straw and gave out. He stumbled several steps backwards until he struck the wall, unable to retreat any further.
Rochelle whipped her head around at him, glaring. The spell had drained her. Her fiery expression was missing some of its customary spark. “Oh come on,” she panted. “You came waltzing in as a human just a few minutes ago. My magic isn’t any scarier than yours.”
Brittle begged to differ. For one, Brittle didn’t have magic. Secondly, fire was substantially worse than wearing someone else’s magic like a second, itchy skin. Brittle didn’t dare say this, of course. Mostly because he’d swallowed his voice in fright. He sank to the ground, content to wait for the part involving fire to be over. A wide-eyed Sir Thomassin joined him, claiming it was for moral support.
“Fascinating.” Lastar was the only one daring enough to get a closer look. His tiny frog form crept across the table, with the light of Rochelle’s fire dancing in his dark eyes. “Do you mind if I take notes?”
The demigod stayed by Mr. Nettle’s side for the remainder of the hour until the old man declared the potion ready. Mr. Nettles fixed a lid onto the cast iron pot and extended it in Sir Thomassin’s direction. “One spoonful each. There’s enough for the whole village.” His gaze swept over Rochelle, adding, “My granddaughter and I will remain here while you distribute it.”
Sir Thomassin took the pot by its handle. “One spoonful,” he repeated. “Is that all?”
“A ‘thank you’ would be nice,” Rochelle said, crossing her arms. Her attitude wilted under her grandad’s glare. “I meant from the villagers.”
“That’s all,” Mr. Nettles answered.
“Thank you,” Sir Thomassin said anyway. “Get your disguise back on, Quiet Boy. It’s time to finish what we started.”
Brittle rose from the corner and trudged over. He returned the tiny frog to his breast pocket and took a deep breath, steeling himself against the wave of magic as it washed over him.
“Fascinating.” He heard Mr. Nettles say.
With his glamour back in place, Brittle followed Sir Thomassin out of the room and to the front of the jailhouse. The reception area was brimming with activity. Noisy villagers jostled shoulder to shoulder, their numbers spilling out the doorway, down the steps, and into the street. From the blurred flickers of light coming in through the grimy windows, the mob of people might have wrapped around the building.
The sheriff had been busy in their absence. The front desk was prepared, as instructed, laden with what looked like every empty cup the village had to spare.
Sheriff Rodrick stood, issuing commands between haggard coughs. “Deputy!” he shouted. “Get these people back. I want an orderly queue, single file. Anyone caught shoving gets sent to the back of the line.”
“Yes, Sheriff!”
Brittle and Sir Thomassin hastily filled cups as the deputy wrangled the community into an orderly line. Sheriff Rodrick oversaw everything like a hawk, relying on his presence alone to keep the villagers from devolving into an unruly mob. It wasn’t until Sir Thomassin and Brittle had the first round of cups ready that he made his move.
“Wait!” He strode to the desk and plucked the cup from the first villager’s grasp. He jutted it in Brittle’s direction. “We test it on your squire first.” His eyes narrowed at Sir Thomassin. “Just to be sure.”
Human medicine was meant for humans, not wee bog log beasts parading around as one. Brittle didn’t know what would happen if he took it. Something? Nothing? Instant spontaneous combustion? Yes, definitely that last one.
“I, uh,” he stammered uselessly. “The thing is–”
“Quiet, boy. We won’t be wasting any of this on the likes of you.” Sir Thomassin snatched the cup from the Sheriff’s hand and threw his head back, downing it in a single go. Somehow he managed to do so without breaking eye contact with the sheriff, a feat Brittle found both impressive and impressively intimidating.
“There.” Sir Thomassin slammed the empty cup against the desk hard enough to make its rickety legs consider a career in the kindling business. “Satisfied? I assure you, there are no foul tricks at play here, sir.”
A nod from the sheriff got the line moving again. He took a cup for himself, Brittle noted, before helping direct the people in and out in an orderly fashion.
Brittle edged closer to Sir Thomassin. “You alright, sir?”
Sir Thomassin’s face was greener than usual. “I think Old Man Nettles might have gotten his revenge after all.”
“You don’t mean…” Brittle didn’t dare say it out loud with so many near.
“No, that’s not what I meant,” Sir Thomassin assured him with a grimace. “He made the concoction taste awful, like rancid onions and soap. The foul taste won’t leave my mouth.”
The long line moved at a constant, albeit agonizingly slow, pace. Eventually, Brittle was awarded a tray of cups to take into the street to move things along quicker. He traveled back and forth, up the steps and down the steps, refilling his tray over and over, for what felt like hours. The mob outside dwindled. They had served nearly half the village when Brittle felt a lance of pain shoot down his spine. He jumped, nearly dropping his tray of cups.
“Brittle,” Lastar whimpered weakly. “It’s too much. I can’t hold it any longer. Find somewhere to hide, quickly.”
There wasn’t time to waste. Brittle shoved the tray into the nearest villagers hands and sprinted back up the jailhouse steps. Hot magic burned against his bark as he shoved his way through the crowd. He was nearly to the hallway when the hot buzz thrumming through his hollow bones dropped. The crisp night air wafted over him, cooling the blistering ache.
Someone screamed. Dazed, feeling as if he was caught in a dream, Brittle turned in the direction of the sound. The entire room was staring at him aghast.
A woman lifted her trembling finger at him. “Monster!”