A day later, Narro and Reralt rode beneath the main gate of Reachtown.

  Reralt sniffed the morning air—loudly, theatrically—and appeared to be in an annoyingly good mood.

  Narro trailed a few steps behind on his horse, quietly sad to leave Mary and Siril behind after such a short visit. Still, one week with Reralt meant a few years of peace. Maybe even a house. A quiet life, at least financially speaking.

  For that, he supposed, he owed Reralt thanks—a thought he had no intention of ever acting on.

  “Following the crazy man into a troll’s den,” Narro muttered. He made a silent vow: if danger appeared, his face—and his horse—would be pointed the other way.

  Reralt was humming a tune he’d heard the other day—about a man who drank too much and went on a hallucinatory quest.

  “The noblest of all,” he chuckled.

  Narro wondered if he realized it was about himself.

  He chose not to bring it up. For now.

  Reralt greeted everyone along the road, flexed for children, and signed random scraps of parchment.

  Signed, in this case, meant scrawling a sloppy, archaic R.

  “They’ll know,” he told Narro, unprompted.

  Narro just shrugged.

  Nobody knew who Reralt was—though Reralt told everyone, asked or not.

  “Lord Reralt!” a group of men called after him, applauding with theatrical enthusiasm.

  Narro turned to look at them.

  They looked like escaped mental patients.

  At least, he hoped they were.

  Another group—mostly women and children—sang the chorus of Free Fiddy as Reralt passed. They waved enthusiastically.

  Reralt basked in the attention like a cat in a sunbeam.

  “Music, Narro,” he said, flashing a wink at the children.

  With a sigh, Narro pulled out his new lute and strummed the familiar three-note song.

  “I may have to move,” he thought, embarrassed, waving back with a limp hand at people he was fairly sure he didn’t know.

  And so they rode on, until the city was no more than a shadow on the distant horizon.

  ***

  “There’s another one,” Narro said, annoyed, pointing to a large indentation in the grass.

  “You been eating that funny shroom soup again, Narro?” Reralt replied—arrogant as only Reralt could be. “It’s just another dent in the grass.”

  “It’s a footprint. Huge. Three toes. Left step’s deeper than the right—like it was carrying something.”

  Narro wasn’t a tracker. Not even close.

  But this was obvious.

  “Nonsense. Just holes in the grass,” Reralt scoffed, already walking on—directly along the path the indentations followed.

  Narro noticed. Of course he noticed.

  “Not going to live through the week,” he muttered, annoyed with a sad undertone.

  Then followed anyway.

  At a safe distance.

  Reralt rode toward the forest’s edge, where the land dipped slightly. Nestled in the hollow sat an old farmhouse, half-built into the rock. A crumbling archway of chipped stone marked the entrance.

  Beneath the arch, a dirt road snaked between two sheer stone walls—two, maybe three meters high on each side. Tight. Enclosed.

  “Reralt!” Narro tried to yell, but the so-called hero had already ridden too far ahead.

  Or more accurately—he was ignoring Narro completely.

  Good to know, Narro thought.

  Apparently this doesn’t count as a rune...

  Ruin, he corrected himself.

  Stupid Reralt.

  ***

  Reralt was searching for signs of the troll. They had to be near.

  He could already smell it—sour, pungent, unmistakable.

  The scent of evil.

  “I’m sorry?”

  A large troll stood barely three meters away, stirring a steaming pot with what looked like a grotesque bone-spine ladle.

  “How rude,” the creature slissed, “coming into my house unannounced.”

  Its voice echoed strangely, giving its already massive form an eerie, vibrating menace.

  Reralt cleared his throat.

  “Eh… yes. Good morning, Evil. Prepare to be slayed.”

  Then, after a polite pause, he added, “Sorry for coming unannounced so early in the morning.”

  No need to be rude, he thought. Heroism and manners.

  He glanced over his shoulder. No Narro.

  Of course, Reralt thought. Without my incredible courage, the poor lad must be hiding—to witness my heroics from safety.

  “Slayed?” the troll repeated, frowning.

  “But… there’s no snow.”

  He looked around, genuinely confused, then resumed stirring his pot.

  “No—slayed, as in killed,” Reralt clarified, puffing out his chest.

  Then paused.

  “Though… I suppose you can sleigh without snow. You’d just need a grassy hill and something smooth enough to use as a sled…”

  He trailed off, now staring intently at his saddlebags.

  What could work? The pan? The saddle? Maybe the blanket?

  The troll blinked.

  Still stirring.

  Still unimpressed.

  “Shame,” the troll said. “I just finished my soup.”

  “Well, we have some time,” Reralt offered, with a half-apologetic hand gesture.

  “There’s no other heroics planned after this.”

  “No, no, no,” the troll waved him off.

  “Let’s get this over with. Might even make my soup more filling.”

  He placed a lid firmly on the kettle.

  “After all, I’m a big, evil, man-eating creature, and you’re a hero and all.”

  Reralt nodded.

  It was refreshing to meet a genre-abiding evil for once.

  He unmounted, led his horse beneath the archway, and let go of the reins.

  “Stay,” he said firmly, locking eyes with the animal and lifting a warning finger.

  The horse, long-suffering and wise, found a patch of grass and went to work.

  Reralt unsheathed his sword.

  He’d oiled it that morning while riding, so it slid free with a satisfying hiss.

  “I’m sorry—sir knight?” the troll bellowed from across the clearing, voice echoing off the stone walls.

  “Which rules do you abide by?”

  Reralt hesitated. Then raised his voice:

  “Standard monster-slaying. Advanced, I thought.”

  “Good,” the troll called back.

  “Shall we roll for initiative, then?”

  ***

  Narro followed the preposterously strange conversation from his hiding place near the archway.

  He didn’t understand any of it—though, to be fair, he wasn’t exactly well-versed in monster-slaying tactics.

  Still, he had a nagging feeling this wasn’t how it usually went.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  “Reralt!” he whisper-yelled.

  Reralt waved, mid-lunge, warming up his muscles like a man preparing for a dance-off.

  “Reralt, what is happening?”

  Reralt called back—without even attempting to lower his voice.

  “We’re having an old-school monster fight!” he beamed.

  “By rules of old! We decide who starts!”

  This cannot get any stranger, Narro thought.

  But still, he nodded. “Thank you for the explanation.”

  Reralt gave a cheerful thumbs-up.

  A goat bleated near the troll’s house.

  “This is Blergh,” the troll announced solemnly. “He will be our judge.”

  “I have a fourteen!” the troll shouted, tossing a large, carved die that cracked the dirt as it landed.

  Reralt mimed a throw with great flair. “I have a fifteen!”

  The goat bleated again—loud, wet, and disturbingly similar to a gargling frog.

  “Don’t cheat, sir knight!” the troll bellowed.

  “You’ll lose your alignment!”

  Reralt looked genuinely disappointed.

  Also, he did not carry any dice.

  “Narro!” he yelled.

  Narro dove deeper into his hiding spot.

  “Don’t worry, other human,” the troll said helpfully. “I haven’t noticed you yet.”

  A beat of silence.

  “I rolled a four.”

  Narro was mildly stupefied. Deeply terrified. And very, very confused.

  “Thank you!” he shouted up to the troll, without really knowing why.

  Then to Reralt: “What do you want?!”

  “Do you carry any dice?” Reralt called back. “A standard set?”

  “Well—no! Why would I carry dice?!”

  Then added, “Do you?!”

  “Well, that’s more of a sidekick thing, isn’t it?” Reralt replied, with genuine disappointment.

  “That’s right! Ha ha!” the troll chimed in.

  “Don’t worry—you can roll with Blergh’s.”

  “Isn’t this taking a bit long?” Narro asked into the void of nonsense.

  “Talking is a free action,” the troll provided cheerfully.

  A bleat followed. Firm. Affirmative.

  “You have a six, sir knight,” the troll announced, voice booming.

  “Other human… a two.”

  Figures, Narro thought—completely unaware of any of these so-called rules.

  ***

  The troll charged at Reralt, bellowing, “AAAAHHHHHH!”

  Then it suddenly stopped mid-stride and looked at the goat.

  “Beheheheh,” the goat bleated.

  “Ha! Eighteen! What’s your armor class?” the troll boasted.

  “Twenty-eight,” Reralt replied with a smirk.

  The troll blinked.

  “But… you’re not wearing any armor.”

  “Vow of Poverty. Extremely high Dexterity. Oil of Reflection. And I was blessed by a wandering fairy,” Reralt said proudly.

  Then, clarifying—mostly for Narro’s benefit—he added,

  “The horse owns all the cash.”

  “A vow of what?” the troll asked, bewildered.

  He turned to the goat. “Bleeergh?”

  The goat let out a strained, judgy bleat.

  “That’s no longer in this edition,” the troll grumbled, arms crossed.

  “What do you mean? Edition? There’s a new edition?”

  Reralt looked—somehow—directly at Narro.

  Narro shrugged heavily.

  Then turned around and took a long, much-needed swig of wine.

  “Free Fiddy me now, please,” he muttered.

  “We are fighting according to Edition V rules,” the troll explained patiently.

  “You’re quoting Edition III-point-V.”

  “Don’t worry, this happens all the time.”

  He turned to the goat. “Blergh—high Dex, no armor?”

  The goat bleated, somehow managing to punctuate it like a question mark.

  “Oil of Reflection?” the troll asked, squinting.

  “An oil that reflects evil damage,” Reralt explained.

  “Also makes me shiny as an angel. And no dry elbows.”

  “But… it’s worth nothing?” the troll clarified.

  “The horse owns it. I just use it.”

  The goat gave a long, satisfied bleat.

  The troll nodded.

  Then punched Reralt straight in the face.

  “End turn!” he yelled.

  Reralt stood swaying in slow, uncertain circles, his upper body rotating gently as he listened to the bluebirds and counted the pretty little butterflies.

  “That wasn’t a stun attack,” the troll clarified helpfully.

  Reralt found his bearings a few seconds later.

  He raised his sword with dramatic flair.

  “Full Mega Smiting Attack!” he yelled.

  “That’s not a thing,” the troll replied, now clearly losing patience.

  A small, hesitant bleat came from the goat.

  Reralt swung hard—too hard—and struck the stone archway with the full force of his blow.

  First his arms, then his face, then the rest of his body vibrated with the hum of impact.

  “Auw,” he said weakly—then passed out.

  The troll blinked.

  “...He didn’t say ‘end turn.’ Bad gamesmanship.”

  For a moment, nothing happened.

  Reralt lay face-first in the dirt, gently blowing little dust bubbles through his nose.

  The troll stood politely, waiting.

  Then he turned toward the shadows.

  “Other human I did not see yet and don’t officially know is there,” he said loudly,

  “it’s your turn.”

  ***

  Narro sat, finishing the wine.

  It did him good.

  The nonsense—the risk of being killed by a troll playing by non-existent, unintelligible rules—had finally worn him down.

  “It’s your turn,” he heard the troll say.

  Ah well. Screw it, he thought.

  He assessed the situation:

  The troll stood beneath the crumbling archway, apparently waiting on his move.

  Reralt lay face-down about a meter beyond, completely motionless.

  Narro nodded to himself.

  “How many steps can I move?” he shouted.

  He was thinking of running.

  Better to live as a coward than die as one.

  “What is your race, level, and class?” the troll shouted back.

  “A starting-level bard. Human,” Narro replied.

  No point lying—the stupid goat seemed to know everything anyway.

  He looked at the archway. It wasn’t very sturdy.

  Years of weather and neglect had weakened it—one good push might be enough.

  “Feet or meters?” the troll asked. “We seem to use both.”

  Narro picked up a large boulder and calmly walked toward the archway.

  Then slammed it dead center.

  “Ah,” the troll said, genuinely impressed. “Very smart.”

  “Can you end your turn?”

  “Don’t think I will,” Narro said.

  The troll sighed heavily.

  “But I’m out of movement…”

  He looked to the goat for guidance.

  The goat remained silent.

  “Talking’s a free action, isn’t it?” Narro asked.

  The goat bleated—softly. Apologetically.

  “Well, poop,” the troll muttered—just before the archway collapsed on top of him, burying him under the stones that once held it up.

  ***

  Reralt woke beside a campfire.

  Narro was turning a spit, roasting something over the flames.

  “Ugh… what happened?” Reralt groaned, rubbing his head and shoulder.

  “Feels like I hit a rock.”

  “You hit a rock,” Narro said flatly, handing him a wooden bowl.

  Reralt took it and sniffed.

  “Is this… goat?”

  Narro nodded.

  Reralt glanced around. Nearby, a heap of stones marked the remains of the archway.

  From the rubble, a troll’s hand and one ugly, three-toed foot poked out.

  “You hit a rock—just where the masonry was weakest. The arch fell straight on the troll and killed him,” Narro said, gesturing toward the pile.

  “Of course I did,” Reralt replied, entirely unsurprised.

  He sipped the soup. “Hmm. Delicious.”

  “Then, thoughtfully:

  ‘Just for accuracy in your ballad—I didn’t pass out. I lay very still so the stones wouldn’t hit me.’”

  Narro paused, as if searching for the correct version of events.

  “Uncanny, really. One in a hundred chance.”

  “More like one in twenty,” Reralt chuckled.

  Narro stirred the pot slowly.

  “Just out of curiosity… what was that game called again?”

  “Duels and Dices,” Reralt said proudly.

  “Though apparently, they changed the rules while I wasn’t looking.”

  (As performed by Narro, under duress)

  Oh gather round and hear the tale,

  Of Reralt, brave and bold.

  He faced a troll, without a quail,

  In lands both damp and cold.

  The monster growled, the dice were cast,

  With rules both deep and thick.

  But Reralt stood and swung so fast,

  It almost looked… heroic.

  He fought with skill beyond compare,

  And oils that gleamed just right.

  He smote the beast with dashing flair—

  Then passed out from the fight.

  But still he won (I swear he did),

  The troll was crushed by fate.

  And not, say, rocks—by someone hid—

  No, Reralt he was great.

  Yes, sometimes in the same paragraph.

  No, it’s not because I forgot what I started with halfway through.

  It is, in fact, an active stylistic choice—because sometimes “three feet” sounds funnier than “one meter,” and “twenty meters” sounds grander than “sixty-five feet.”

  definitely didn’t confuse runes with ruins once and then commit to it so hard it became lore.

  I’m narratively whimsical.

  Next: A test of wit. Reralt is involved. You do the math.