The Farm Boy was so terrified he left the sword in the Orc.

“Mister? Mister? What do I do?”

“Henh?” said Boltac, wondering why he wasn’t being left to die in peace. Then he realized that he wasn’t dead, but was in a tremendous amount of pain. “The store, get me to the store.”

“Okay, I can do that.”

“Good kid. I’m gonna pass out now.” But as soon as the mule-strong Farm Boy started dragging him across the cobbles, the pain of his injuries brought him back to consciousness. “Ahhhhh–AHHHH!”

“Sorry,” said the Farm Boy.

“Don’t apologize. Just draAAAAAAAAAHag!” Boltac screamed, then passed out from the pain.

When the Farm Boy got Boltac into the store, he propped him up against the counter. Boltac came around enough to say, “Take the keys. In the back, the chest on the left. Very important, only open the chest on the LEFT. Bring me the bottle.”

“Which bottle?”

“The only bottle. And hurry up. I’m dyin’ here!”

“The only bottle. Right.”

The Farm Boy hurried to the back. Fear caused him to fumble with the lock. And drop the keys. He had never seen that much blood come from a person before. And that thing he had stabbed out there. What was that? He hadn’t really thought about it. He’d woken up and seen it about to kill the Merchant. There had been a sword in his lap. There had been no time. He had just done what needed doing.

He dropped the keys again. He never thought it would be anything like this. They sure didn’t sing about this part. What if more of them came? What if they could smell blood? What if they were coming to the shop right now? Had he shut the door? And if he had shut the door, had he remembered to bar it? He was confused and his head really, really hurt.

He opened the chest. Inside were many leather bags filled with coins. Ye Gods, how many coins were in here? Tucked in a corner was a cut-glass bottle with the stopper wired shut. It seemed very old, and the edges of the bottle were painted with gold leaf. The Farm Boy picked it up very carefully. Drop the keys all you want, he told himself, but don’t drop this bottle.

He carried it out to where Boltac sat propped up in a pool of his own blood. As he handed it to Boltac, he heard a buzzing as if an angry hive of bees were close by and with it, the smell of burning wood. “Gods,” the Farm Boy exclaimed, “flaming bees!”

“Shut up, kid,” Boltac said weakly, knowing that it was only the Magic-detecting wand under the counter reacting to the potency of what was in the bottle. “It’s Magic. Now, undo the wire.”

The Farm Boy did as he was asked. Boltac held the bottle in his left hand and took the cork out with his teeth. He spit it across the room. Then he raised the bottle in a toast and said, “Listen, kid, if I don’t make it. All this…”–he indicated the store he had worked so hard to build–“You don’t take a single friggin’ thing, you understand? I wanna be buried with all of it.”

Up until that point, the Farm Boy hadn’t thought of stealing. It wasn’t what Heroes did, so it wasn’t what the Farm Boy would do. But now he couldn’t help himself. As Boltac drank the bottle, the lad looked around. But when Boltac screamed in pain, the Farm Boy’s attention snapped back to the shopkeeper.

Boltac writhed and his back arched at a frightful angle. There was a snapping and popping noise as his knee twisted back into place on its own. Sweat poured from Boltac’s face as he spiked a fever and broke it in less than a minute. A wave of nausea came, and then a sense of calm. The ragged wound in his shoulder spit out a wickedly curved tooth and closed.

“Wh-wh-wh-what was that?” the Farm Boy asked in amazement.

“That,” Boltac said, the snap returning to his voice, “was a Magic potion. The genuine article. Most of what I sell is herbs and healing tonics, a couple of smelly poultices made by this old crone out in one of the villages. I won’t say they’re garbage, but uh, you slap a poultice on a serious wound? Ya gonna die.”

“Do you have any more?” the Farm Boy asked with wide eyes. Carrying a few of those potions with him would be an antidote to the fear that was still causing his limbs to shake.

“Ah, no. Very rare. Very expensive. Help me up.”

Boltac tried his recently mangled leg. It felt good. In fact, it felt better than he could remember it ever feeling.

“Are you okay?” asked the Farm Boy.

“En-henh.”

“What are you going to do?”

“What am I going to do?” Boltac thought hard. Set his jaw, narrowed his eyes and then fell dead asleep on his feet. He didn’t even wake up when he hit the floor.

* * *

When Boltac awoke, he found himself in his bed. Bright light streamed in through the window and he was, inexplicably, alive. He returned to consciousness slowly and from a great distance. At first he couldn’t remember how he had gotten here, or what had happened. Then, as the memory of it flooded back, he became fearful. Unable, at first, to separate fantastic dream from terrible reality, he flung back the covers. His leg was straight. His shirt was ripped, but the skin underneath was perfect and unscarred. That really had been a Magic potion. Hell of a way to find out.

He got out of bed and stretched. Then he went downstairs.

At the foot of the narrow stairs, he found the Farm Boy asleep in a pile of cloaks. Even in his sleep he clutched the sword Boltac had given him. When Boltac nudged him with his boot, the lad awoke with a start.

“Ahh!” screamed the Farm Boy, jumping back. When he saw it was Boltac he said, “I was standing guard. In case those things came back.”

“No kid, that’s sleeping guard.” Boltac softened a little. “But, uh, I appreciate it.” He stepped over the boy and brought out a loaf of thick black bread and some butter. “C’mon, breakfast.”

They ate in silence for a time. Finally, Boltac asked, “Do you have a name?”

“In my village, they call me Relan.”

“En-henh,” said Boltac. “I thank you, Relan. You saved my life.”

Relan asked, “What were those things?”

“Evidently, what you killed was an Orc.”

“An Orc?”

“An Orc,” Boltac said with a shrug, to indicate that he wasn’t the guy making the rules.

“So they were bad,” said Relan.

“Yeah, kid, they were definitely bad.”

“Are we going to go get them?”

“We? No. I’m not going to go get them. That’s why I pay taxes.”

“But that Evil Wizard took the woman you Love!”

“Love is a strong word to use, for a pleasant association. Besides, I’m a Merchant, not a fighter.”

“If you’re not in Love with her, why did you charge out of your store to save her?”

“I, uh… hey, look. It’s complicated.”

“And if you’re not a fighter, how did you manage to kill two Orcs?”

“And a wolf,” said Boltac, shaking his head.

“That’s pretty good.”

“That’s only because you suck,” snapped Boltac.

“Suck or not, I’m going after that Wizard. Somebody has to do the right thing.”

“Kid, the right thing to do is almost always to keep your head down and make a buck.”

“That sounds like something a coward would say.”

“Eh-henh. It’s the kind of thing the living says. Get this, I was very stupid. And I am lucky to be alive. So I am not gonna push my luck. Besides, this kind of thing is why I pay taxes. Let the guards deal with this.”

“You’re a coward,” said Relan.

“Whattaya want from me? I’m a Merchant. I ain’t no Hero.”

“Well, why would anybody want to be that?” asked Relan. “If the whole world were Merchants, nobody would have saved your life.”

“If the whole world was Merchants, everybody would buy and sell instead of stab and hack,” snapped Boltac. “Look, I’m grateful for your help. It’s not like I’m not grateful. So, uh, as a reward, take what you like from the store–as much as you can carry without horse or wagon–and then go to your death. Have fun. Me, I’m going to find the Duke and see what he’s gonna do about all this. See if he can get my innkeeper lady friend back.”

Relan shook his head and took another bite of bread.