Free The Merchant Adventurer by Patrick E. McLean

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.

11
    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