Free Nine Goblins by T. Kingfisher Page B

Sings-to-Trees might open a book. The elf
pulled the fox’s foot free, working as delicately as he could to
keep the wound from being torn even wider by the cruel metal teeth.
The fox panted in pain.
    It took less than a minute, but several
subjective eternities passed for Sings-to-Trees.
    “Got it…got it…There!” He reached out and
patted Frogsnoggler’s flank with his free hand. “Well done!”
    The troll beamed at him. “Grah!
Grah-grah-hrragggh?”
    Sings-to-Trees had no idea what the troll had
said, but he could venture a guess. “I think he’ll probably be
fine, but I need to treat this. Can you help me a little more? If
the daylight’s not bothering you too much?”
    “Grah, grah.” The troll waved a hoof-like
hand dismissively.
    “Then if you could take him…” Sings-to-Trees
placed the fox back into the troll’s arms and went to get catgut
and a needle.
    Cleaning the wound and sewing the fox’s leg
up was a tedious process for Sings-to-Trees, and an undoubtedly
painful one for the fox, despite the sedative the elf poured down
its throat. He was rather glad the troll was holding the animal.
The fox kept snapping and trying to thrash, but it might as well
have been held down by a mountain.
    “One more…and…there we go.” He tied off the
thread. “Okay. I’ll keep him for a few days and make sure it heals
up clean, and he gets a couple of square meals.” He accepted the
fox again. “Thank you and—oh, no!”
    “Grah?”
    Sings-to-Trees leveled an accusing finger at
Frogsnoggler. “Why didn’t you tell me he was biting you?”
    “Grah…” The troll shrugged and scuffed the
dirt with one hoof, like a small child caught at mischief. Its left
arm was full of tooth marks, most of which had skidded off the
thick hide, but a few were filling up with blood.
    “Stay right there. I’m cleaning those.”
    “Gr aww …”
    The fox went into an empty hutch, most
recently home to an infant manticore. Sings-to-Trees put a bowl of
water in with him, and draped the towel in the corner. He went back
out to the porch.
    Frogsnoggler had waited. Sings-to-Trees
picked up the bottle of iodine, turned around, and sighed.
    The troll’s eyes riveted on the bottle. Its
mouth sagged in a parody of despair. “Grawh.”
    “Come on, you’re a big troll,” said
Sings-to-Trees. This was something of an
understatement—Frogsnoggler was probably close to two tons and
stood nearly eight feet tall. “And I know you’re brave. You stood
there while that fox bit you and never a peep.”
    “Gr aww …”
    The elf put his hands on his hips.
Frogsnoggler cowered away, one arm over its eyes. Trembling, the
troll held out its injured arm. Tears welled in dinner-plate sized
eyes.
    This was the standard trollish response to
all medical treatment, and Sings-to-Trees knew full well
Frogsnoggler would have done the same thing for removing a splinter
or splinting a bone, but he was still torn between wry amusement
and feeling a bit like an ogre.
    In truth, it was probably nothing—trolls
sustained worse every time they went after a billy goat—but still,
foxes weren’t known for their clean mouths. He brandished the
iodine bottle and a clean rag.
    The troll sniffled through the whole
operation. Finally, Sings-to-Trees set the rag aside. “All
done!”
    Frogsnoggler inched its hand down from its
eyes and gazed at him worriedly.
    “Really, all done,” said the elf, and patted
the troll’s shoulder. “And you were very brave. I’m proud of
you.”
    A smile cracked the immense face.
Frogsnoggler leapt up and cut an elephantine caper around
Sings-to-Trees. “Grah! Grahgrahgrah!”
    “Now, if that gets infected—if it turns red,
or it starts to smell bad—I want you to come back here, okay?”
    “Grah!”
    “Then go on home before the sun fries
you.”
    The troll nodded, reached out a hand, and
patted Sings-to-Trees rather heavily on the shoulder.
    “Oh—” The elf patted the troll’s knuckles in
return, which