LITMIR.BIZ

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cheered.

      “Yeah, sure,” Gustav said, crossing his arms and nodding. He was getting his old confidence back. “I’m great at all kinds of stuff. Hunting, fishing . . .”

      Several of the monsters stopped smiling and glowered menacingly at Gustav.

      “Ha-ha,” Mr. Troll said. “Angry Man joking. Angry Man remember trolls is vegetarian.”

      “Oh, yes,” Gustav mumbled. “How could I forget?”

      “Angry Man will teach trolls how grow veggies,” Mr. Troll announced as if it were an established fact.

      “You’ve had this farm for months,” Gustav said. “You haven’t grown anything yet?” He surveyed the scene around him. The field was completely bare except for a few rickety troll stick-houses and a large rock with a log tied to it (which one helpful troll pointed to and identified as “plow”).

      “No, nothing,” Mr. Troll said. The monster looked down, embarrassed (at least Gustav thought he was embarrassed; it’s hard to tell when you’re dealing with a creature that has a face like a demonic mulch pile). “Trolls not know how grow stuff. That why trolls still steal food from humans.”

      “You’re still stealing food?” Gustav asked, flabbergasted. “The whole reason we gave you this farmland was to stop the food raids. Do you want to start a war?”

      “No. Trolls just want eat. That why Angry Man must teach trolls grow veggies.”

      Gustav paused. He knew nothing about farming. Although, to be honest, he didn’t really know anything about hunting or fishing either. But being a farming instructor was better than going home. “All right, trolls,” he said. “Let’s do some farming.”

      Gustav taught the trolls everything he knew about growing fresh produce. He spent day after day out in the fields, imparting every bit of knowledge he had about preparing soil, sowing seeds, and keeping plants well watered. And after months of working under Gustav’s tutelage, the creatures were able to head out for a harvest and gather up a fresh crop—of exactly two potatoes. Each of which was approximately the size of a peanut.

      Let me reiterate: Gustav knew nothing about farming.

      “How ’bout I teach you trolls to fight instead?” he suggested.

      The trolls greeted this new idea with enthusiasm. And that was when Gustav really started enjoying himself. He put together a lesson plan (Ramming Your Enemy, Throwing Heavy Objects, Pummeling for Beginners, and so on), and the trolls proved to be excellent students. In reality, trolls were natural fighters and didn’t need the instruction—but they had a blast taking Gustav’s classes.

      One afternoon, Gustav and Mr. Troll sat together in the house that the trolls had built for their teacher (five precariously balanced logs with some loose straw thrown on top). “Troll think Angry Man better fighter than farmer,” Mr. Troll said.

      “I guess you and I have something in common then, Leafy,” Gustav said.

      The troll let out a harsh, retching laugh. “Maybe Angry Man be better as troll than human.”

      “You know, there’s a lot I can appreciate about you trolls,” Gustav said. “You pack a solid punch, you’re not scared of anything, and you’ve got no love for fancy doohickeys and dingle-dangles. That’s why I’ve been able to tolerate you beasts for months now. But I still think I make a pretty good human. And anyway, I miss meat.”

      “Troll understand. Troll not be happy living with humans either. Human houses have too many parts; make Troll claustrophobic.” Through the “walls” of Gustav’s dwelling, they could see the other trolls gathering for their next lesson. “But Angry Man inspire Troll,” Mr. Troll went on. “Troll going to be first troll hero. Trolls always bad guy in songs by Itty-Bitty-Guitar Men. Troll want Itty-Bitty-Guitar Men to write song ’bout Troll save the day.”

      “Yet another thing we’ve got in common,” Gustav said.

      “Huh?” the troll grunted.

      “Never mind,” Gustav said. “It’s time for class.” He stood up, bumped his head against a log, and knocked the entire house down. It was the fourth collapse that week. Mr. Troll started to pick up a log to rebuild it, but Gustav told him not to bother. The two of them stepped out to the field to join the rest of the trolls.

      “Okay, furries,” Gustav announced. “Today’s lesson is brawling. Everybody start beating up your neighbor.”

      Dozens of the enormous monsters started attacking one another, slamming their hairy bodies together and grabbing each other in wet, sweaty headlocks. “Nice,” Gustav said, and dove into the fracas himself.

      It was then that a messenger ran up. He was a skinny, gap-toothed thirteen-year-old in a heavy sweater, wool hat, green knit scarf, shorts, and tall leather boots. He was undeterred by the raucous fray going on before him. He produced a rolled-up piece of paper from the satchel at his side and cleared his throat.

      “Excuse me,” he said, his voice cracking. The brawl came to an abrupt stop, all the combatants panting and staring at the messenger. “I’m looking for a Prince Gustav. Which of you is Prince Gustav?”

      Gustav cocked his head. “I’m the only one here without spinach growing out of my skin and you need to ask which one I am?”

      “Sorry, sir, Your Highness, sir,” the messenger said. “But I have strict instructions to deliver this message only to Prince Gustav. I went to Castle Sturmhagen, but Prince Gustav wasn’t there. They told me that if I wanted to find Prince Gustav, I had to come here. So are you Prince Gustav?”

      “Gimme the note,” Gustav said.

      The messenger shook his head.

      Gustav huffed. “Yes, I’m Gustav. Now give me the note, Captain Specific.”

      The messenger hurried over to Gustav and handed him the letter. “Here you are, sir, Your Highness, sir,” he said. “I sense you were probably being sarcastic when you referred to me as a captain, but just to be clear, I am not one. I’m merely a messenger. My name is Smimf.”

      “Sorry to hear that,” Gustav said. He unrolled the note and read, his eyes growing wide as he took in everything that Frederic had written. “Criminy Pete! Capey went and got himself kidnapped. Hey, Message Kid, go back and tell Tassels not to do anything stupid without me. Tell him I’ll be there.”

      Fig. 5 SMIMF

      “Right,” Smimf said. “Only, the name is Smimf.”

      “Whatever,” Gustav said.

      “And by Tassels, I assume you mean Prince Fre—”

      “Yes!” Gustav said. “You assume right. Go.” But by the time he was finished, the messenger had already vanished.

      “Angry Man got to go, huh?” Mr. Troll asked.

      “Duty calls, Swamp Fuzz,” Gustav said. He’d never admit it to anyone, but he’d been waiting for months to hear from his old friends. He was somewhat annoyed that it was Liam they’d have to rescue, but the thought of a real quest got his blood pumping in a way it hadn’t in ages. “Don’t worry, though. I’ll be back. You’re in charge of lessons while I’m gone.”

      “Ha-ha, excellent,” Mr. Troll said. “Troll going to do class on smacking with tree stumps.”

      “Good call,” Gustav said. He gathered his things as quickly as he could, mounted Seventeen, and tore off down the long road to Avondell.

      As hard as this

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