The spear hurtles toward me, dark and gleaming like an obsidian fang. I squeeze my eyes shut, every muscle locking up, bracing for the inevitable—sharp, sudden, final.
But the pain never comes.
The forest exhales, a breathless hush settling between the trees. No victorious snarl. No hot bloom of agony. Just silence.
I crack an eye open.
A massive root, gnarled and knotted like an old sailor’s rope, has erupted from the earth, coiling around the troll’s spear. It twists, thick as a man’s thigh, bark splitting as it writhes. The tendrils, rough and fibrous, slither up the troll’s arm, binding his stone-like fingers in an unrelenting grip. He snarls, muscles bulging, but the root only tightens, its deep, loamy scent mingling with the damp forest air.
The troll jerks against it, his voice a guttural growl. “What the bleedin’ ’ell…?” He tugs, fingers twitching, eyes narrowing. “Oi, what’s this, then? Didn’t peg you for a magic user. Not a whisper, not a flick o’ the wrist—real subtle-like, you are.”
Then the strangest thing happens.
The root pulses. Once. Twice. A heartbeat of wood and earth.
Bulges swell along its rough surface, small pods pushing through the bark, growing at an unnatural speed. They stretch, split—then burst.
An avalanche of potatoes erupts in a wild, tumbling cascade.
Not leaves. Not flowers. Potatoes.
They pour from the root in a chaotic, rolling tide, bouncing off the troll’s chest, piling at his feet, scattering through the undergrowth. Dozens. Hundreds. Starchy, round, endless.
The troll lets out a furious roar, but it’s swallowed by the sheer absurdity of it—his bellow lost beneath the rustling, thumping, bouncing deluge of tubers.
And I—I can only stare.
Then…
I blink.
The world wavers, edges blurring like ink bleeding into water. Poison? Probably. Because at this point, what I’m seeing cannot—should not—be real.
The potatoes sprout limbs.
Stubby, root-like arms and legs twist free from their round bodies, wriggling like newborn things testing their strength. Tiny fingers unfurl. Little feet stomp against the earth, kicking up dirt.
And just when I think it can’t get any worse—they’re wearing armor.
Full plate, polished to a dull, root-tinted sheen, complete with crested helmets that barely fit their lumpy heads. Each one wields a tiny sword, more twig than steel, but sharp enough to catch the light.
Then they move.
A living tide, surging forward, screeching in high-pitched, battle-mad voices.
"In the name of the Great Tree!"
"By order of the Great Harvest!"
The troll stumbles back, a strangled noise caught in his throat as the first wave of tiny warriors crashes into him. Root-swords stab into thick, stony flesh, and where they pierce, delicate tendrils burrow deeper, spreading like ivy through cracked stone.
He flails. Thrashes. His breath turns ragged, the fight shifting from irritation to raw, unfiltered fear.
With a guttural roar, he severs his own arm.
Stone-like flesh cracks, splits—he tears himself free. The severed limb drops, still tangled in vines, twitching once before the creeping roots consume it whole.
Panting, furious, the troll pivots—then starts smashing.
Tiny armored bodies fly. Helmets clatter. Swords snap. The battlefield reeks of raw earth and something disturbingly... buttery.
And then—
BOOM.
The ground trembles. A thunderous explosion rips through the clearing. The troll rockets backward, a blur of flailing limbs before he crashes through a thick tree trunk. Wood splinters. A deafening crack splits the air. The tree groans, teeters, then collapses in a cloud of dust and shredded leaves.
I whip around.
The Crew stands poised like a battle-hardened unit.
Four raccoons, eyes blazing with determination, crossbows raised. Their tiny paws grip the triggers with unwavering precision. And at their front—**as tall as a sentient potato can stand—**is Mr. Spuds.
His knobby form is braced in a defensive stance, stubby arms crossed over his armored chest. Behind him, his Royal Starch Army is already regrouping, an undulating mass of tiny warriors, battered but unbroken.
Then, something skitters onto my shoulder.
I go still.
A squirrel. Shifty-looking. A glinting knife clutched in its tiny paws. His fur is slick with sweat, beady eyes darting like he’s expecting an ambush.
"Mistress," he squeaks, all business. No preamble—just starts slicing through the vines binding my wrists with terrifying efficiency.
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I bristle. "Don’t call me that."
"Right, you got it, toots."
I narrow my eyes. Oh, he did not just—
"Say that again," I murmur, voice low, deadly. "And I'll finish whoever started you off."
The squirrel clamps his mouth shut.
Good choice.
The raccoons launch into battle.
Swift. Unnervingly coordinated. One rolls beneath the troll’s wild swing, firing a crossbow bolt mid-dodge. Another leaps onto a low-hanging branch, using the high ground to aim for the troll’s exposed neck. Their little paws work with machine-like precision, reloading in seconds. Their eyes burn with focus.
Meanwhile, Spuds stands firm, his starchy form radiating authority.
"Hold the line, my starch soldiers!" he bellows, voice far too grand for something his size. "For the glory of the harvest!"
The Spud Brigade surges forward.
An undulating, armor-clad wave of tuber terror. Their tiny swords jab and slice, root-like arms swinging with unexpected force. They climb the troll’s legs, clinging with stubborn determination, stabbing at joints, weak spots, anywhere soft enough to wound.
The troll roars, thrashing, shaking his foot like a dog trying to rid itself of fleas.
Meanwhile, the squirrel works furiously at my bindings, his tiny knife a silver blur. I feel the pressure ease, the rough fibers loosening their bite against my wrists.
"Almost—there," he grunts, blade flicking with expert precision.
Snap.
The last vine falls away.
I flex my fingers, shaking out the stiffness. The squirrel puffs up proudly, twirling his knife like he just won a duel.
"Not bad, huh?"
I shoot him a look. "I guess."
No more waiting. No more watching.
I charge.
We don’t have a tank. No solid wall to soak the hits. But Spuds—because of course Spuds—throws out a plan.
"The Brigade will run aggro!" he declares, stubby arm thrust forward like some pint-sized war general. "Redirect the beast’s wrath!"
Before I can even process that, the Spud Brigade erupts into an ear-splitting war cry.
"FOR THE GREAT HARVEST!"
And then, the second wave swarms.
A rolling landslide of furious potatoes. They fling themselves at the troll’s legs, clamber up its arms, hacking, stabbing, biting. It howls, stumbling, its attention yanked in every direction at once.
The Crew takes their opening.
Aether-infused crossbows snap and fire, bolts streaking through the air in glowing arcs. The first shot lands—a pulse of blue energy detonates against the troll’s shoulder, sending up a cloud of burning embers. Another bolt follows, crackling with lightning, striking its chest.
The troll staggers. Its skin smolders, smoke curling from the impact points.
But then—
Its severed arm twitches.
The flesh bulges, stretches, regenerates. Bones realign. Muscle knits together. In seconds, it’s whole again.
I clench my teeth. That’s not fair.
The troll lifts its head, eyes glowing with fresh rage.
"Right… you've gone and done it now. I'm proper livid!" he bellows.
I smirk. "Well, fe fi fo fum, don’t go stompin’ all over me bridge, ya great lummox!"
Yeah. This is about to get worse.
The Spud Brigade fights with reckless, unwavering bravery. Tiny shields clash against massive blows. Little root-swords hack at the troll’s thick hide. They swarm like a living flood, relentless. But size and power don’t care about courage.
And the troll is winning.
Potato warriors sail through the air, bouncing off trees, rolling into crumpled heaps. Others vanish under the beast’s stomping feet, their tiny helmets spinning across the dirt.
But they don’t retreat.
And neither do I.
I plant myself between them and the troll. If we don’t have a real tank, I’ll have to fake it.
The troll’s spear slashes down. Jagged tip, straight for my ribs. I intercept. My blade catches the strike, but the impact rattles my bones. My feet dig trenches in the soil. My arms scream.
Another strike. Another. Each one like a battering ram.
I grit my teeth. Hold the line.
The Crew fights smart—darting in and out, never still long enough to be targeted. A raccoon slides under the troll’s legs, crossbow bolt punching straight into its knee. Another leaps from a branch, firing mid-air before tumbling into a roll.
And then there’s Spuds.
Even while commanding his troops, he somehow finds time to rant dramatically, his voice booming like an old war general.
“The soil remembers, my friends! The earth endures! Even stone yields to the righteous harvest!”
I don’t know if he’s taunting the troll or giving a TED Talk, but the sentiment sticks. Because the troll is yielding.
The enchanted bolts work.
Each shot burrows deep. Their glow spreads, carving fractures in gray skin like cracks in old stone. The troll lurches. Flesh hardens. Limbs stiffen.
Its movements slow. Wild, enraged swings turn jerky. Sluggish.
Its voice, once a booming roar, grinds into a low, uneasy rumble.
"Oi! Hang on a minute, hold your horses—parley? Stop. Yea?"
The final bolt strikes its chest. Magic crawls over its body.
A second later, the troll stands frozen—an ugly, snarling statue, locked mid-battle.
I exhale sharply. My pulse pounds in my ears. But it’s not over. One last thing.
Demonic strength surges through me, tingling in my limbs, turning exhaustion into power.
I step forward. Lift my blade.
One decisive strike.
The troll shatters.
A burst of stone dust and debris. The once-terrifying beast collapses into nothing but jagged rubble.
Silence. Then—
Cheers.
The Crew erupts. The Spud Brigade—what’s left of them—raise their weapons in triumph.
Spuds beams, his leafy mustache twitching with pride.
“A glorious victory! A tale for the ages! A song for the feast!”
I open my mouth—maybe to say something sarcastic, maybe something cool—but the world tilts.
A strange numbness creeps through me.
Oh.
Right. The poison.
The last thing I hear before darkness swallows me whole is a squirrel’s panicked voice.
“Oh, nuts. Toot’s down.”