CHAPTER 12 — Makes My Hand Itch
STEPHANIE
Collecting eggs turns out to be a proper gauntlet. Thankfully, I left Opkug safely in the care of Namak?ga. I did this because I was afraid she might get pecked by a chicken during my nest box raid.
Not that I’ve yet to make it to the nest boxes.
I can’t. The bossy flock of guard geese are preventing me from entering the paddock. One might be forgiven for thinking that from a distance, they don’t seem like they’d be all that formidable.
Looks. Are. So. Deceiving.
Feathered velociraptors with flippers, that’s what geese are. To manage the frilly pack of saw-billed killers—
No, seriously, geese have serrated bills. Wicked ones. Did you know that? I didn’t know that. Thankfully, these game level boss-worthy beasts waste no time in opening their billed jaws and flashing top and bottom sets of skin-shredding mini teeth.
After this threatening show, here’s my plan to defeat them: I bravely risk raising my arm over the fence to sprinkle grain.
The geese want my flesh more than food, but when I retract my limb from their pinching range, they move their bills down to the ground, grumble-clicking as they pick at their food.
I ignore the way it sounds like a flock of Edward Scissorhands are trying to pick up MnMs from the ground and race around to the other side of their enclosure, risk sticking my hand through the fence weave, and tip over their water tub, which is a poop and mud-filled mess.
Namak?ga had warned me that they manage this muddying feat in minutes and armed me with two jugs of water from the house for the purpose of changing out their drinking source to something (temporarily) fresher.
As soon as the first glugging splash of water is heard, the geese start flapping and honking and running for me, crazy to destroy the liquid the way they like best.
With their attention on the H2O, I move for the gate, pop it open, slide through, slam it shut—and sprint for the henhouse.
The geese honk louder at my daring and they start hissing, and the splashes and flapping tell me that they’re leaving their water in favor of chasing me.
I run faster. Dress slapping tight to my legs (yet thankfully stretching wide enough to accommodate an Olympic sprinter’s stride), I make it to the chicken house’s door and bolt inside (startling years off the fanged chickens’ lives, if you judge by their panicked clucking) like I’m Ellie Sattler sprinting for the generators in Jurassic Park.
(The book version, not the movie. It was so adrenaline-fueled in the book.) I slam the door on the geese-raptors, barely missing their strong necks, leaving me shivering at the furious hisses that promise there will be hell to pay when I go back outside.
***
A half hour later, and I’m still in the henhouse, growing a lovely case of Bird Fancier's Lung with every inhale.
Bird Fancier's Lung: a subtype of hypersensitivity pneumonitis, care of sucking in allergens from bird dander and droppings whenever killer geese trap you in henhouses.
“This is bullshit,” I tell the band of mercenaries keeping me hostage.
The birds mutter angry honks on the other side of the door, daring me to come out and declare this to their saw-beaked faces.
“I’ve practiced a kung fu move on chickens that will give you nightmares!” I warn them.
They reply in low “Wuh wuh wuh wuh!” noises that sound vaguely taunting.
“Fine, don’t be scared of me—but you should be afraid of Joktepitha. She can rip your heads clean off!”
That gets them. The geese hiss and honk in fury.
Despite my bravado, I’m resigned that I’m going to die here.
I’ve slumped down, my back against the door, my arms wrapped around my knees, my basket of eggs beside me.
I took many pecks to retrieve these. A chicken I’ve nicknamed Tuff Cluck pokes at my shoe, marching around me, keeping a hard, direct eye contact that feels more than mildly adversarial.
I don’t think she’s forgiven me for sticking my hand under her egg-maker.
Behind her are an army of her toothy bird friends who seem to hold similar grudges.
Obviously, I’m not as terrified of them as I am the geese because otherwise I’d open the door and make a break for it.
I’ll take my chances with the fanged chickens, thank you very much.
Suddenly, the geese kick up their protests by a notch until over their din I hear a rumbled, “Stephanie?”
I shoot to my feet, relief—and a surprising amount of inner warmth—hitting me. “Roarg?!”
There’s a chuckle on the other side of the door, followed by heavy hisses and outraged honks.
“Get. Get—be gone!” Roarg orders them, and I entertain a tiny worry that even he—at something like seven feet of formidable—will be no match for the foes outside, and he’ll get knocked down and pinched to death.
After that, it’s only a matter of time before the killer geese learn how to get through the door, and I’ll be next.
But Roarg strides in like a champion goose fighter, broad as a barn, unafraid, verdant and handsome, and stops in front of me.
I stare up at him with gratitude. “You’re my hero.”
And if he notices me looking at him differently, it’s because I am.
I’ve had a lot of time to think while the geese kept me trapped here, and I’ve decided that since I’m in this game, I need to get into this game—or I’m never going to get home.
After Ulda told me about the other-realmers who went crazy, I have an extra vested interest in making it to the finish line and doing it with my sanity intact.
Roarg is stooped over me in the extreme, far, far too tall for the likes of the henhouse roof. From his arched brows and crooked smile, it’s clear to see he’s amused as he stands in this Shrinky Dink place and surveys me. “What do you suppose I get for rescuing a fair lady?”
“Oooh, I like that. A girl could get used to being called a lady, fair or otherwise.” Especially if Roarg is the one throwing the word around. His eyes stare into mine, searching my gaze like I’m someone special.
I like this too. As game objectives go, playing house with this man won’t be the biggest obstacle.
He smiles down at me, brushing a lock of my hair behind my ear… and his fingers encounter a feather. He smiles wider, plucking it free and handing it to me. “What do you suppose a miller’s daughter would bestow upon her rescuer?”
I shake my head. “How about this ‘miller’s daughter’ takes a bath tonight to wash off the smell of chicken and you can join her after the first rinse. Does that sound at all sexy to you?”
He pretends to frown. “Are you certain I have to wait for you to rinse?”
I raise my arms and indicate myself. “I’ve been trapped in here long enough that I qualify for bullion. In fact, when I get added to hot water, my bath is going to turn into a tub of chicken noodle soup. Does that really sound appealing to you?”
Chuckling, Roarg murmurs, “You underestimate how much a man like me appreciates a fine chicken soup.” He scoops me up and carries me past the honking guards, with me clutching him and the egg basket until we reach the kitchen. He walks us to Namak?ga, who accepts my basket with a snicker.
Until she sees the ZULDANA coin amid the eggs. Her eyes fly up to mine.
I shrug. “A reward for my bravery against the geese. I don’t know for sure when it showed up, only that it was by the door when I got done sticking my hand under chicken butts.”
Namak?ga holds up the gleaming gold piece, then offers it to Roarg, who jostles me in his hold until he can accept it the way I imagine dragons collect gold coins. If he weren’t carrying me, he’d probably hunch over it, rubbing it and calling it his precious.
Roarg slides it into his pocket and gives Namak?ga a hard peck on the lips, me between them—which should be super awkward, but it’s over and done so fast I don’t have time to get uncomfortable.
Then he carries me to the bathroom adjacent to his room.
He sets me down in the middle of it, takes my face in his hands, and gives me a heated, lingering kiss.
It’s so good I almost invite him to stay with me. But... I really do smell like dusty chicken feathers. It’s not the world’s most pleasant aroma.
With a hungry look, Roarg backs out of the room, preparing to return to his forge. He’s got that big Trog army order and all.
But Ulda pushes past him, meets his eyes, and holds up the koekje cream like it's a signal. Roarg stops his retreat. He steps up to Ulda, takes her by the hair, and stares into her eyes for a long time, silently communicating something. Then he kisses her too.
I should want to tar and feather them both, but instead, I find myself watching them, curious. Because with me, Roarg was passionate.
With Ulda, there’s... respect. Appreciation. Comfortable friendship. That’s really nice. But it’s the discernable swell of affection, deep, loving affection, that I can feel from all the way over here. It’s so tangible it grabs me in the chest and twists. It makes me… yearn.
I want that.
Not enviously—which is weird, right? The sisterwife scene must be rubbing off on me. I’m honestly not bothered watching this interaction, I guess because I feel like Roarg has so far given me a fair amount of attention.
And that thought is pretty stunning: he’s got four women in his keeping and he’s more attentive to me than any boyfriend I’ve ever seen in a monogamous relationship. Not just my own, but anyone’s boyfriend.
Wow. When I go back home, Roarg is going to be a hard act for a guy to follow.
Or, if I get stuck here, at least there are some consolations.
I nearly slap myself just for thinking this. That’s quitter talk, and that has no place here—I intend to play this game until I get the heck home.
What Roarg has with Ulda, Joktepitha, and Namak?ga is beautiful, but none of these people have enjoyed the wonders of indoor plumbing. I have, and I want to see it again.
So I need to play this game without developing feelings for this family.