Fedeggs reached Reachtown in the morning of the other day.

  Partly because he felt Bill needed to work off the apple weight.

  Partly because I only want one more Fedeggs chapter to wrap things up.

  (Perhaps more in the future.)

  “Oh, piss off,” Fedeggs muttered.

  He did not approve of the last sentence.

  “Just fast-forward to where I give Lord Stupid the bag of new money and the letter, so I can go home,” he added.

  He’s in Reachtown at the same moment you are, the voice in his head replied.

  Something was wrong.

  He couldn’t quite feel what—

  But it was there.

  Bill laughed already.

  She had better comedic timing.

  ***

  Fedeggs dismounted and walked straight to the tavern.

  If Lord Single Braincell was in Reachtown, there was a 95% chance he was inside—

  boasting about a nonexistent or wildly exaggerated slaying of the Bovine Menace of Edofake.

  He heard noise from within.

  Wisely, he stood beside the door.

  Normally, he got the door straight in his face—

  which still hurt from the demon child.

  Facing the wall beside the entrance, he felt safe.

  Bill wandered a few steps away, unimpressed.

  Then the wall hit Fedeggs in the face.

  Hard.

  He flew a full meter into the air.

  A deep inhale escaped him as he caught sight of the drunk and stupid Lord,

  juggernauting his way through the wall.

  Holy fury, screaming about freeing a maiden.

  “Of course,” was Fedeggs’ only thought,

  before he hit the ground.

  Hard.

  ***

  Fedeggs woke up again in a clinic in Reachtown.

  His wounds were being treated.

  He was already battered black and blue.

  He sat up straight.

  Every muscle objected. Continuously.

  “I have to go,” he muttered. “Perhaps I can still catch him.”

  The nurse pushed him gently back into bed.

  “You have to stay another day. Could be some brain damage.”

  Fedeggs, fairly certain the brain damage was emotional rather than physical, sighed deeply.

  This wasn’t his first rodeo.

  Sadly, always the same bull.

  “I insist. Give me the release forms,” he said, exhausted.

  “Where do I sign?” he asked when she returned with the papers.

  He never learned to read,

  but he had learned to sign somewhere along the line,

  usually to get out early.

  The nurse pointed at a dotted line.

  Fedeggs signed with the symbols he remembered.

  “Well,” the nurse said with a kind smile,

  “if there’s anything wrong or you feel lightheaded, just ask for Nurse Fiddy.”

  ***

  Back on the road, Fedeggs was trailing Reralt by only a few hours now.

  Grumpy, mostly because he had him within earshot.

  And somehow, Bill had gotten another apple—

  which she waited to eat until Fedeggs was sitting again.

  “I hate you, Bill,” Fedeggs said, laughing.

  “Don’t ever change.”

  He patted the mare on her head.

  The tracks Fedeggs was following led—of course—

  to a large troll den.

  It smelled surprisingly pleasant.

  Goat soap. With parsley?

  Bill looked left.

  Then right.

  Then decided to flip, stagger, and jump at the same time.

  Fedeggs fell off the horse,

  adding yet another bruise to the growing collection.

  “Why?” he asked the universe.

  Bill whimpered, as horses do.

  Somewhere,

  an animal handling check was failed.

  Severely.

  ***

  Fedeggs held his hand where—until recently—two fingers had been firmly attached.

  Then looked at the little bunny.

  White at first, now more blood red.

  His blood.

  Matching red eyes stared at him.

  The foam on its mouth had started as harmless little bubbles.

  Now it mixed freely with gore.

  Bill, standing at least twenty steps behind, whimpered loudly—

  a clear I told you so—and made no effort to come closer.

  For a second, Fedeggs didn’t know what to do.

  The bunny was slowly chewing his fingers.

  He couldn’t get them back.

  Not without risking another two.

  It watched his every move.

  Getting past it? Impossible.

  Fight it?

  The thought confused him.

  How does one fight a creature like that?

  He looked at Bill, hoping the horse had a better idea.

  Bill nodded back the way they came.

  Honestly…

  Not the worst idea.

  Certainly better for the rest of his appendages.

  They’d find a place where the river was still small enough to cross.

  He didn’t like the look of that bridge anyway.

  Especially not with that stupid sign he couldn’t read.

  ***

  Terribly wet and somehow even moodier,

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  the Messenger of Givia—bruised black and blue, missing two fingers, and nursing a serious head wound—

  crawled out of the water.

  Bill had him by the collar, gently pulling him ashore with her teeth.

  “Thanks for the help, Bill,” Fedeggs muttered,

  sitting up in the sun and trying to absorb some warmth.

  Bill, who had clearly expected at least an apple, stood still.

  Waiting.

  Silent.

  Judging.

  “Yes, yes. One apple—as soon as I find one.”

  Satisfied, Bill wandered off in search of juicy green grass.

  Onward to her next quest.

  Fedeggs looked around.

  How far had he drifted from the bridge?

  From the trail?

  “Oh, come on!” Fedeggs groaned.

  On the far bank of the river, he spotted Reralt.

  And next to him—

  a man Fedeggs felt an immediate sense of companionship with.

  Someone who clearly didn’t belong either.

  First, Fedeggs sat in the grass for a few seconds,

  feeling very sorry for himself.

  Then he sprang into action:

  shouting, waving, throwing things—

  everything short of setting himself on fire.

  Still no reaction.

  Which made sense.

  Reralt wouldn’t react even if Fedeggs were standing beside him,

  screaming directly into his ear.

  And the other man?

  No response either.

  Which meant…

  The river was just too loud.

  Fedeggs sighed.

  Then, in frustration, kicked a small pineapple into the current.

  It bounced once,

  then smacked into a small black, pointy hat

  that bobbed up from the river every few seconds.

  The hat seemed—somehow—offended.

  “Sorry!” Fedeggs shouted toward it.

  A string of profanities floated back at him,

  carried vaguely by the river,

  half-lost in the roar.

  ***

  Fedeggs gave up.

  He bought some supplies at a nearby castle and considered what to do next.

  Chances were, the Lord of Givia would find him—

  inconveniently, unexpectedly,

  and hopefully without another arrow to the leg.

  He held up the bushel of apples he'd purchased.

  Bill, very content, trotted along the path like she’d planned this all along.

  The map he’d picked up mentioned an old monastery—

  recently rented out to a strange man.

  Which, given Reralt’s inexplicable seventh sense for exactly the wrong places,

  made it the most likely destination.

  So instead of following the trail of destruction,

  Fedeggs decided to wait for it to come to him.

  Preferably from a safe distance.

  ***

  The monastery was abandoned.

  As if whoever had rented it had simply given up,

  left everything behind,

  and walked out without locking the door.

  Fedeggs stopped to give Bill another apple,

  teasing her that she was getting fat.

  Now he was picking apple chunks out of his hair and face.

  Bill, apple-less but content, roamed the surroundings.

  After a little while, she returned and pushed her head firmly against his back.

  “What now?” Fedeggs muttered.

  He was treasuring this moment.

  Not trying to find Reralt.

  In fact, he was strongly considering just running.

  Even if they caught him,

  he’d probably have more peace of mind in a prison cell

  than chasing that lunatic.

  Bill exhaled hard in his face,

  forcing him to look up.

  Thick black smoke rose in the far distance.

  “Great,” Fedeggs sighed.

  “Probably found him.”

  He stretched.

  It looked like they would not make it before nightfall.

  “Let’s sleep here and go tomorrow,” he suggested.

  Bill whimpered in sharp disagreement.

  This whole quest was cutting into her dreams

  of standing in a warm stable, doing absolutely nothing,

  while being brushed.

  “...Carrot?” Fedeggs offered.

  He knew her well.

  Too smart for her own good.

  Too easily bribed.

  ***

  In the morning, bright and early, Fedeggs rushed Bill toward the source of yesterday’s smoke.

  Suddenly, he stopped.

  A large green dragon lay in the field next to the village.

  Dead.

  Citizens gathered around it—carefully peeling away dragon scales, precious as gold.

  They were talking about Reralt the Bold, a bard, and some sort of mythical feline beast.

  Fedeggs stood, stunned.

  His Lord Ignorant the Third?

  Slayer of a dragon?

  A real one? Not the imagined kind?

  If the Chamberlain heard this, he’d have a stroke. Then still wouldn’t believe it.

  Fedeggs was absolutely going to tell him.

  The thought alone almost made the entire trip worth it.

  Almost.

  He looked down at where his fingers used to be and retracted that thought immediately.

  He found the three of them sleeping beside a dying campfire, at the edge of what could only be described as a wildly out-of-hand folk festival. Lord Smellown-the-Turd, the smaller man with the lute, and…

  …a kitten darker than the darkest night. She seemed to absorb all light—and return none.

  Fedeggs did the only thing imaginable for a man of his posture and station.

  He took some charcoal and drew round glasses and a small lightning bolt on Reralt’s forehead.

  Bill, naturally, was amused.

  “Ahem,” Fedeggs said, clearing his throat.

  “You know Reralt?” the bard asked, eyeing Fedeggs’s wounds and generally exhausted demeanor.

  “Lord Givia,” Fedeggs corrected, stiff as parchment.

  “Messenger boy!” Reralt shouted, half-sitting up with a grin.

  “Milord,” Fedeggs replied, bowing—grinning himself, pleased with his juvenile prank.

  “News from the Realm,” he said, handing over a wet, battered, half-burned, bloodstained parchment.

  “And your weekly stipend.” He pointed at two large bags of gold.

  Oh hear the tale of Fedeggs brave,

  Who barely bathed and rarely shaved,

  Who bore the gold through wind and flame,

  And only once misplaced his name.

  He fought a bunny—lost two fingers.

  (That pain, alas, still sort of lingers.)

  He crossed a river, wet and sore,

  While screaming things we can’t restore.

  He saw a dragon! Slept through most.

  He met some eagles. Got quite close.

  He bribed a cow, he soothed a widow,

  Got mugged by kids and pineapples, ditto.

  And when at last he reached the scene,

  Where Reralt stood all proud and mean,

  He brought the news, the cash, the pain—

  Then drew dumb glasses once again.

  So raise a mug (or two or three),

  For messengers who choose to flee.

  He may be bruised, but he won’t crack—

  Until the gods just hire him back.

  ***

  Fedeggs stared at Narro as the bard finished the final verse.

  He nodded.

  Then slapped him across the face with the flat of his hand.

  Narro blinked, rubbing his reddening cheek.

  “No sense of humor,” he muttered, disappointed.

  Fedeggs grunted.

  “Sense has nothing to do with it anymore.”

  But will following Reralt bring him glory… or just headaches?

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  As always, thanks for reading!