How to Rescue a Dead Princess

Copyright ©2000, Jeff Strand

August 2000

This book is dedicated to my mother.

And not just because she said I had to.

Chapter 1

Introducing The Main Character

RANDALL'S JOY AT winning the hand of poker was substantially diminished as the three barbarians at the table drew their swords. He paused in mid-reach for the pile of coins.

“Problem?” he asked.

The barbarian to his right, a seriously unattractive thug whose beard contained remnants of his past twelve meals, slammed his fist against the table. Randall reversed his reach for the coins and put his hands back in his lap, where they were more likely to remain happily connected to his wrists.

“You cheat!” snarled the barbarian, pointing the tip of his sword at an especially soft part of Randall's face.

“I did not!” Randall protested, trying to sound indignant. Unfortunately, his current state of anxiety added a tremor and a squeak to his voice, two elements which have the unfortunate effect of reducing vocal indignation.

“You cheat!” the barbarian repeated, not so much for emphasis as for an inability to think of something else to say.

Randall pushed back his chair and slowly got to his feet. The barbarians did the same. “Listen to me,” said Randall, “I give you my word as a squire that I didn't cheat. I mean, I can't help it if you're all such lousy players!”

Randall did a mental rewind of that last statement and played it back. He carefully weighed the evidence. The verdict: It hadn't been a particularly intelligent thing to say.

One of the barbarians let out a roar of rage and overturned the table, sending overpriced, watered-down, and spat-in drinks flying everywhere. The other pub patrons looked up from their various reality-muffling beverages then launched into a betting frenzy based on how many limbs Randall would have remaining at the end of the scuffle. One-and-a-half seemed to get the best odds.

“Make you a deal,” said Randall. “You gentlemen can take all the money. I'll even let you keep the deck of cards. I'm just going to wait for the feeling to return to my legs, and then walk out of here. Is that okay?”

“No,” said the barbarian who'd overturned the table. “You cheat! We kill cheaters!”

There was some more betting amongst the patrons, based on this new shred of information.

Randall drew himself up to his full height of five feet and six inches. He was extremely thin for his height, and though he tried to dress in bulky leather garments to hide that fact, he still wasn't an especially intimidating figure. Plus, he looked a good five years younger than his age of twenty-two. And he was currently trembling like a frightened rabbit.

“All right,” he said. “I guess a fight is pretty much inevitable. But I need to warn you about something. My father was Sir Randall, leader of the Density Warriors, and he taught me everything I know!”

That was the truth. Sir Randall was a legend, and not just because he'd given the Warriors their unusual name by misspelling “Destiny” on the coat of arms.

The barbarians seemed taken aback. “That your father?” asked one of them. “The man who slay dragon that kidnap Queen Charlotte?”

Randall nodded.

“Your father defeat entire ogre horde with fork?”

Randall nodded. It had been one hell of a fork, but the deed was still impressive.

“Your father stop flounder invasion of Mosiman Kingdom?”

Randall moved his head in an up-and-down motion several times in rapid succession to signal assent.

The barbarians exchanged glances, then the one who'd been speaking stepped forward. “We hate that bastard!”

Randall tried to make a run for it, but he'd only gone one step when the nearest barbarian violently shoved him against the wall. The barbarian lifted his sword and let out the most painfully annoying battle cry ("yagga-yagga") Randall had ever heard. His life flashed before his eyes, forcing him to relive the infamous corset incident but reminding him where he'd left the key to his room.

“Stop!” shouted a voice filled with so much masculinity that one could almost see individual testosterone molecules rushing through the air in its path. The barbarians immediately turned toward the doorway of the pub, and one of them let out a tiny whimper.

There stood Sir William. Nobody messed with Sir William. He was the bravest, strongest, and overall mightiest knight in the king's army. He was also the handsomest and had the most fragrant perspiration. Randall was his squire, a fact that both frustrated him (when he had tons of squiring to do) and pleased him greatly (when he was saved at the last second from being killed by barbarians who thought he'd cheated at cards).

“Leave him alone,” ordered Sir William, “or you will all bear witness to a tremendous amount of anti-social behavior!”

Since the barbarians were stupid but not suicidal, they all lowered their weapons and quickly backed away. Randall wanted to make a face at them, but couldn't come up with a sufficiently funny one in time. He bent down and started to reach for a handful of coins, known throughout the Generic Fantasy Land as dvorkins.

“Leave them!” Sir William shouted. “Get over here, squire!”

Head hung, Randall slowly made his way over to the doorway. Sir William glared at him, then turned and began silently walking toward the stable. Randall cast a quick glance back into the pub, where the patrons were paying off and collecting their bets, then hurried after him.

It was a beautiful night, save for the thick mist hanging in the air from the various noxious spells cast by the local wizard. The Non-Vile Air Act had been passed within the walls of Mosiman Kingdom, but out here in the neighboring town of Tilton there were no such restrictions, so the air was rancid.

“Uhh ... thanks for helping me,” Randall said, sheepishly. “You showed up just in the nick of time, as usual.”

“I'd been standing outside the door for the past twenty minutes, waiting for you to get into trouble and seeing how you would handle the situation.” Sir William informed him. “As usual, I was extremely disappointed. How many times am I going to have to rescue you?”

“I dunno,” Randall replied, being honest.

“Well, it's becoming very tiring. How could you be so foolish as to cheat at cards with barbarians?”

“I didn't cheat! I swear it! I was going to, sure, but they were so awful that it wasn't necessary!”

They handed their claim tickets to the stable valet, who went to retrieve their horses. “We have a very important mission tomorrow,” said Sir William. “We'll be escorting Princess Janice to the kingdom of Rainey.”

“Hey, that sounds like fun. I hear they serve really great stuffed dragon lips there. Who all is coming with us?”

“Just you, myself, and the princess.”

“That's it?” Randall was flabbergasted. “A knight and a squire doing a royalty escort? Was the king sniffing the queen's breath when he decided that?”

Sir William raised a fist as if to strike him. “You will not mock our king, squire! If I hear talk like that again, I will personally see you locked in the dungeon with the Beggar Who Sings Badly On Purpose!”

“I'm sorry. It's just unusual that he would trust his only desirable daughter with two lousy escorts.”

“The king knows that I am more than capable of handling any situation that occurs. For example, the barbarians you angered have already gathered reinforcements and are hiding outside this stable as we speak, preparing to ambush us. And yet I remain absolutely confident of my ability to defeat them.”

Randall's eyes widened, and he glanced furtively outside the stable. No sign of them.

“They're hiding around the corner,” said Sir William. “I expect that they'll attack a few seconds after we exit.”

“You're, uh, not going to take this opportunity to test me on my combat skills, are you?” asked Randall.

“No.”

“Thank you very much.”

The stable valet returned with their mounts. Sir William climbed upon Crunch, the largest, fastest stallion in the king's army. Randall climbed upon Thud, a sieve-brained horse that usually just stood around sweating.

“You're, uh, going first, aren't you?” asked Randall.

“Yes.”

“Thank you very much.”

Crunch let out a mighty whinny as Sir William rode him out of the stable. Randall eased Thud forward a few steps into the doorway, but didn't see any reason to overexert the poor animal for the time being.

Ten barbarians rushed out from around the corner of the stable, all of them carrying various implements of skin-puncturing. Sir William threw his sword, smacking one of them in the forehead with the handle. That barbarian dropped his axe, which was promptly stepped on by the barbarian directly behind him. That barbarian howled in pain and threw his arms out to keep from falling, accidentally stabbing the barbarians on each side of him with the pair of daggers he'd been carrying. This caused those two barbarians to shriek in unison, startling the barbarian in the back of the group and causing him to drop the Stone of Vaporization, which the other barbarians had told him to be very, very careful with. As it struck the ground, the stone let out a flash of light with a rather anticlimactic fizzle sound, instantly disintegrating all nine of the barbarians in front of it.

“Uhhhhh...” said the last barbarian.

“Please leave,” Sir William requested.

The barbarian hesitated. “Can I take stone? It rented.”

“Go ahead.”

The barbarian picked up the Stone of Vaporization, then ran off as fast as he could. But his speed lessened his accuracy, and he tripped over an inconveniently placed patch of dust. He dropped the stone, vaporizing himself.

“There's a lesson to be learned here,” announced Sir William. “Whenever possible, fight stupid enemies.”

“I'll do that,” said Randall, as they began to ride their horses back to the castle.

Chapter 2

Getting Into the Plot

RANDALL'S departure at sunrise was slightly delayed by an unforeseen plunge into quicksand. He'd taken this particular route on his morning jog/stagger a couple times before, but this time vandals had changed the “Quicksand” sign to “No Quicksand Here.” Which is how he ended up waist-deep, sinking fast, and screaming for his life.

“Heeeeeeelp!” he shouted for what seemed like the hundredth time but was actually the ninety-seventh. He was a good two miles from the castle, so it was unlikely that anybody would hear him, but he was a strong believer in keeping busy.

“Heeeeeeelp! Hee—”

He cut off his scream as a kiriki stepped out of the woods. A kiriki was a cross between a wild boar, a dragon, and a cow, with a boar's size and temperament, a dragon's scales and ability to breathe fire, and a cow's desire to chew cud. These animals were the scourge of the area. Ferocious man-eaters, with long, brutally sharp teeth to assist in eating the aforementioned man. Basically, it was the kind of creature that provided a serious distraction from sinking in quicksand.

“Go away!” cried Randall. “Shoo! Scat! Skedaddle!”

The kiriki neither shooed, scatted, nor skedaddled. It licked its lips and walked up to the edge of the quicksand.

“Nice kiriki,” said Randall, in a babyish voice that implied a couple dozen I.Q. points had been pulverized into oblivion. “Nice, sweet, non-hostile kiriki! You're a good boy, aren't you? Yes you are! Yes you are! You're not going to open your mouth and sizzle the flesh right off my skull, are you? No you're not! No you're not! Because you're a niiiiice kiriki!”

The niiiiice kiriki opened its mouth.

Randall cringed.

The kiriki sneezed, sending out a burst of flame that ignited the sleeve on Randall's left arm. He dunked it beneath the surface of the quicksand, extinguishing the fire. And, unfortunately, trapping his arm in the muck.

“Bad kiriki! Baaaaad kiriki!”

The kiriki opened its mouth again.

The blood drained from Randall's face and exited his body in the form of another liquid.

The kiriki glared at him for a moment, then turned around and began to walk away. Randall breathed a sigh of relief, which was then replaced by a jolt of panic as he remembered that he was now up to his upper respiratory area in the quicksand. But he didn't dare shout for help with the kiriki so close by. The rather annoying, high-pitched, nasal-sounding Voice of Reason told him he was dead meat.

Then, as he watched, the kiriki picked up a large fallen branch in its mouth, turned around, and returned to the edge of the quicksand, holding the branch out for Randall to grab.

“I'll be gosh-darned to heck,” Randall remarked, taking hold of the branch with his free hand. The kiriki backed up, slowly but surely pulling Randall out of the quicksand onto solid ground.

Randall got to his feet, wiping some of the gunk off his shirt. The kiriki stood there, regarding him closely.

“You're not such a bad guy after all,” Randall told it.

The kiriki pounced, knocking Randall onto his back. Its cud-soaked jaws snapped at Randall's face as he desperately tried to push it away. Its claws scraped violently against his chest, causing Randall to gasp with pain. The creature snarled and growled as it viciously attacked him.

Then, with a burst of strength, Randall threw up both of his hands, slamming them against the underside of the kiriki's belly. It turned its head as flames jettisoned from its mouth, and the creature began to stagger away, coughing and choking.

Right into the quicksand.

As it realized it was caught in the muck, the kiriki began yelping in terror. Randall lay on the ground and meditated about how much his body was hurting. The yelping turned to a puppyish whimpering as the kiriki rapidly sank to its torso.

Randall looked over at it, and stared into its pleading eyes. This didn't particularly please him, because he was still supremely ticked off at the rotten little creature and didn't want to feel sorry for it.

“I'm sort of obligated to save you, aren't I?” Randall wondered aloud. “As much as I'd like to just let you sink.”

The kiriki howled in fright.

“Fine. I'll save you, then we'll be even.”

He picked up the same branch the kiriki had used to pull him out and extended it toward the creature. It latched its jaws tightly around the branch, and Randall, straining a bit with the effort, pulled it out of the quicksand.

The kiriki dropped onto its side and lay there, panting. Randall hesitated, then slowly began to approach it. The kiriki turned and looked at him gratefully.

“I have to leave now,” Randall told it. “Sir William is already going to rearrange my body so that my head never sees sunlight again.”

The kiriki whined. It twisted its head and tried to lick some of the quicksand off its scales.

“You'll be okay. Just find a waterfall or something to wash off in. I've got to get out of here.”

The kiriki continued to whimper pitifully. Randall sighed.

“You're going to get me in a lot of trouble, I hope you know. You better appreciate this. Tell all your kiriki friends.”

He knelt down next to the creature. It suddenly dove at him, snarling, trying to rip out his throat with its teeth. Randall smashed his fist into its chin, knocking its jaws together with a loud clack. The kiriki squealed and took off running into the forest, its tail tucked between its legs.

“Lousy mutt,” Randall grumbled, as he headed back to the castle.

* * * *

“YOU'RE LATE,” said Sir William.

“And you're filthy,” added Princess Janice.

“And you smell terrible,” said Sir William.

“And you're tracking dirt all over,” added Princess Janice.

“And your shirt is torn,” said Sir William.

“And you didn't brush your teeth,” added Princess Janice.

“And your hair is uncombed,” said Sir William.

“And your earwax is leaking,” added Princess Janice.

“I should break your neck,” said Sir William.

“I should have him break your neck,” added Princess Janice.

Randall stared at the floor and tried to look ashamed. He could see his reflection in the smooth tile, and used it to adjust his expression to the proper degree of penitence. Mouth turned down slightly, eyes filled with regret, nose not involved. When it appeared Sir William and the princess were either done chastising him or pausing for breath, he looked up and favored both of them with his finely tuned expression.

“Wipe that ridiculous expression off your face,” ordered Sir William. “You look like you're about to give birth.”

Randall glanced down at his expression again. No, he looked ashamed all right. Perhaps gravity had disrupted the effect when he raised his head. He looked up again, this time making a great effort to hold the expression in place.

“How dare you give me that seductive look?” asked the princess. “You're not worthy to lick the dried lint from between my toes! I'll have your unappealing carcass thrown into the coal mines to test bats for rabies!”

“I'm sorry,” said Randall in a small, hopefully ashamed-sounding voice.

“That's better,” remarked Sir William. “Now go get cleaned up. Quickly! We can't have you escorting royalty looking like a vagrant! What will people say?”

“'Look, there's a vagrant escorting royalty. How tacky!'” offered Randall, helpfully.

“Sir William, go see that the horses are ready,” said Princess Janice. “I think your squire needs to be taught a lesson.”

An uproariously funny comment about giving his old teacher a call sprang into Randall's mind, but he had the good sense to squelch it. Then he decided that it wasn't nearly as amusing as it had seemed at first, and forgot it altogether.

Sir William exited the chamber, shutting the door behind him. After he left, the princess shook her head. “He really is a wiener, isn't he?”

Randall hesitated. Agreeing that a knight was a wiener didn't seem overly wise, even when the wiener status had been bestowed by a princess.

“It's okay,” she said. “You don't have to say anything that would result in Sir William showing you a guaranteed cure for masculinity. I just want to get out into the open that he's a jerk. When a man's a jerk, it doesn't matter if he's good-looking, as Sir William most certainly is. Really, when you think about it, so what if he has gorgeous eyes that just about bring me to my knees? And a smile that makes me tingle inside. What good is that if he's a jerk? Do you know what I'm saying?”

Randall nodded that he did.

“And those bulging biceps, that ripple when he walks? Who cares? I'm not even concerned with his chest of pure, throbbing muscle that glistens with wet, delicious beads of perspiration and is like solid steel when I run my hands along it.”

She shivered with excitement.

“And his rear? Oh, sure it's firm, perfectly-shaped, and tightly-packed. Sure, it makes my salivary glands lose control. Sure, I want nothing more out of life than to grab hold of it and just squeeze!”

She mimed this with both hands.

“But he's a jerk, so who cares?”

“Not me.”

“So if I scold you, it's simply because a princess must take a knight's side over that of a squire. It's not because I agree with him. And certainly not because I'm driven to the brink of madness with lust. Do you understand?”

“I believe so.”

“Good. Go get cleaned up. I need some privacy.”

* * * *

HALF AN HOUR later, they were riding along the countryside. The princess was on her own horse, Squish III. Her body pressed forward into the wind. Her long, golden hair flew out behind her. Randall wondered if she'd notice later how much of it was missing.

She was a fairly attractive woman, which was interesting because everyone agreed that both the king and queen had more than a trace of canine in their appearance. At twenty, she was the youngest of the three princesses, and the only unmarried one. She was also the only one who had more than the brain power of lard. Princess Janice frequently acted as a diplomat between the nearby kingdoms, and had been responsible for such projects as the Pet Leash Law (revoked two weeks later when a certain dog owner got carried away with role reversal), organizing the Six Kingdom Music Contest (which, sadly, promoted a great deal of ill-feelings when the winning song was “Spank Me With Your Tongue"), and the very first September Fool's Day (also the last, though she couldn't possibly have foreseen the immense number of distasteful gags involving umbilical cords).

Randall was curious about what she was going to do in Rainey Kingdom, but neither she nor Sir William had volunteered the information, so he didn't ask.

They rode throughout the morning and well into the afternoon, stopping only for lunch and to give the horses an occasional back massage. Then, around three o'clock, a series of events was triggered that could best be described as “bad.”

“I don't recall this being here before,” said Sir William, bringing his horse to a stop. Randall and the princess stopped on each side of him. They were at the edge of a thick, dark forest. A trail led into the trees, but they could only see it for a few feet before it was engulfed by darkness.

“It wasn't,” agreed Princess Janice. “I've been this way several times, and there was never any forest. There's some sort of magic at work here.”

“Or an agricultural breakthrough,” added Randall.

There was a large wooden sign nailed to a tree. The nail looked suspiciously like bone, and the words looked suspiciously like blood. The wood was, mercifully, wood. Beware! You Are About to Enter the FOREST OF DEATH!

“I wonder what creative genius came up with that name?” Randall muttered.

“I'll go first,” offered Sir William.

“I'll ride in the middle,” offered Randall, “just in case they think the person in the safest position is the one they should attack.”

Sir William drew his sword. “Let us go. Slowly.”

Carefully, the three of them directed their horses down the path into the forest. All light seemed to vanish. They could hear the wind, but none of the leaves were rustling. Thud began to whinny softly, and Randall stroked the horse gently along its neck. This unexpected touch scared the living daylights out of the animal and caused it to rear up onto its hind legs, dumping Randall to the ground. Thud turned around and took off running back in the direction of Mosiman Kingdom.

“Are you all right?” Princess Janice asked. “How many fingers am I holding up?” She lifted her left hand and held up three fingers.

“Three,” Randall replied. He blinked. “On each hand.”

“Get up, squire,” said Sir William. “We haven't got time for this nonsense! Or any nonsense, for that matter.”

Randall sat up. Then he lay right back down again to make a more difficult target for the numerous arrows he could see pointing at them from amongst the trees.

“I think we have kind of a serious problem,” Randall noted.

An arrow sailed through the air, swishing right past Sir William's face. He turned Crunch around in the direction from which the arrow had been shot. “Come out and fight like a non-female!” he demanded.

Fifteen or sixteen non-females stepped out from their forest cover. Most of them were holding bows and arrows, ready to fire at the slightest provocation. Then, after an appropriately dramatic pause, the leader stepped out into the path directly in front of Sir William and Randall.

“A female,” muttered Sir William. “I've always hated irony.”

She was at least six feet tall, with an ugly scar that ran down her left cheek, crossed over her chin, went back up the other cheek, took a sharp turn to her nose, circled around one nostril, went down over her lips, did a figure eight where it intersected with the other part of the chin scar, then moved around her neck in a poorly-drawn smiley face.

“Make a move, we kill you,” she said.

“Thus explaining your reasoning behind having all these arrows pointed at us,” Randall observed.

Sir William started to tell him to shut up, but only got as far as “shu—” before something more important came to mind. “What do you want?” he asked.

“The princess,” the woman replied.

“You can't have her.”

“We've already got her.”

Randall looked around. The princess and her horse were gone without a trace. These people were efficient if nothing else.

“You will return her or face my wrath!” shouted Sir William.

“Oooh, I'm quaking in my bloodstained booties,” said the woman, trembling a bit to make sure the full brunt of her sarcasm reached him. “Maybe we'll give her back, maybe we won't. That all depends on you.”

“What do we have to do?” asked Sir William.

“For right now? Lose consciousness.”

The men who hadn't been holding bows began throwing rather large rocks, striking Sir William and Randall in the head and making the process of losing consciousness go by with very little effort.

Chapter 3

The First Big Fight Scene

RANDALL woke up from the recurring nightmare where he was in a public place wearing only a loincloth. Except this time the loincloth was replaced by poultry.

He was seated at the edge of a clearing, with both arms firmly chained to a tree. Sir William was seated next to him, also chained and still unconscious. At the other end of the clearing, maybe fifty feet away, Princess Janice kept with the chain motif on her own tree. She was awake, and gave Randall a frightened look that he was more than willing to return.

The men were standing around, discussing politics and the unfortunate depletion of natural resources. Their leader sat on a stump directly in the center of the clearing. She was holding a clear crystal the size of an apple. When she noticed that Randall was awake, she stood up, set the crystal down on the stump, and took a step forward.

“Somebody wake up the knight,” she ordered.

“Wake up, knight,” said one of the men.

Sir William woke up. “How dare you restrain me like this?” he shouted. “When I get free I'll kill the lot of you!”

The woman rolled her eyes and walked over to him. She smiled, then kicked Sir William in the chest, driving the breath from his lungs with a loud oooomph!

“What did you think about that?” she asked.

“I found it disturbingly pleasant,” Sir William admitted.

“Shut up.” She stepped away from him. “Let me introduce myself. People call me Scar.”

“Seems appropriate,” said Randall.

“It's short for Scarlet.”

“Obviously.”

“Now, pay close attention, because I'm going to explain the current situation to you. Your princess will be held for ransom. You two are going to be killed and dumped.” She thought for a moment. “Well, I guess you didn't have to pay that close of attention, it's a pretty simple situation, really.”

“Then why did you keep us alive this long?” demanded Randall.

“Here's the deal. We're starved for entertainment, and as a crew of bloodthirsty thieves, we like our entertainment to be violent.”

“All that violence will rot your brain,” said the princess.

Scar turned to face her. “That has yet to be proven in a reliable, unbiased study!” She returned her attention to Sir William and Randall. “Anyway, what I want is a good fight. One-on-one.”

“Fine!” said Sir William. “I'll fight any of you!”

“Not you. You'd kick my butt. I'm talking about your squire.”

Randall shifted uncomfortably. “I'm not much fun in fights. I tend to bleed all over the place and spoil it for everyone. How about you give Sir William a handicap? Tie one hand behind his back or something.”

“I've got an idea,” said one of the men. “We could say he has to hop on one foot during the whole fight!”

“Or we could spin him around a whole bunch of times, get him really dizzy first!” chimed in another.

“Make him stick out his tongue and balance a rock on it!”

“Make him sing a song that we choose, and whenever somebody shouts ‘New song!’ he has to start singing some other song that somebody else picks, but if he doesn't know the lyrics he has to do a somersault instead ... no, change that to playing a game of leapfrog with the squire.”

“Make him ... uhhhh...”

“Quiet!” shouted Scar. “Somebody unlock the squire.”

After about twenty minutes spent trying to figure out who had the key, the chains were removed and Randall was escorted to the center of the clearing. Scar and Randall stood a few feet away, facing each other. One of the men walked over, holding a wooden box.

“If you win,” Scar explained, “you get your precious princess back. If I win, your king is going to be giving up his entire fortune for her return. Now, pick your weapon.”

She gestured, and the man opened the box. Inside were four dead squirrels. “As the person being challenged, you get first selection,” Scar said.

Randall stared into the box, straining his eyes to make sure that the contents were indeed deceased squirrels. They were. He realized that Scar was no doubt aware of their presence in the box, but he still felt uncontrollably compelled to point it out.

“Those are dead squirrels,” he said.

“I know,” replied Scar.

“Oooh, can I see them?” asked Princess Janice, craning her neck.

“Forgive me if I seem a bit ... brain-dead,” said Randall, “but the idea I'm getting here is that you want us to engage in hand-to-hand combat with dead squirrels.”

“That's right. Live squirrels writhe too much,” explained Scar. “Now pick one.”

The man with the box leaned toward Randall. “I suggest the one on the left,” he whispered. “It's the freshest.”

Randall picked up the squirrel by the tail and lifted it out of the box. He swung it back and forth a few times, testing its weight. “I guess this one will do.”

“An excellent choice,” said Scar, taking a light brown squirrel from the box. The man holding the box replaced the lid and stepped out of the way.

The men on the sidelines began to applaud and cheer and whistle and make obnoxious nostril sounds and whoop and hiccup. Scar gave Randall an I'm-going-to-beat-you-to-a-gooshy-pulp-you-skinny-little-twerp-and-when-I'm-done-I'm-going-to-stomp-your-unappealing-face-eight-feet-into-the-dirt look. Randall suddenly wished he'd selected a different squirrel. This one felt like it was going to come apart.

“There's one rule,” said Scar. “Only squirrel contact is allowed. Aside from that, anything goes. We start ... NOW!”

Scar lunged forward and swung her squirrel. Randall cried out just as the squirrel smashed into his face. He staggered back a few steps, spitting out bits of fur. Scar rushed at him, striking him in the side of the head with incredible force. Randall dropped to the ground. The men roared with laughter.

“Get up!” shouted Sir William.

Randall rubbed the side of his head. He could feel the distinct imprint of a squirrel face there.

Scar chuckled and walked back to the center of the clearing. “I think we've set an all-time record here, gentlemen! Now let's kill the knight!”

“No!” Randall stood up. “Have a taste of this!” He swung the squirrel over his head, working up some velocity. The body of the squirrel chose that moment to detach from the tail, flying off to the side and knocking out one of the men. Randall stared at the worthless tail in his hand as his stomach did a figure-eight.

Scar laughed wickedly as she began spinning her squirrel behind her back and under her legs in a truly impressive display of skill. Randall's pulse quickened. Scar began to slowly advance toward him, the squirrel getting closer ... closer....

“Stop!” Randall shouted.

Scar stopped and gave him a questioning look.

Hey, it worked, thought Randall. That sure was easy.

Scar began to swing the squirrel again.

“Stop!” Randall shouted.

Scar continued to move forward, the squirrel spinning with deadly speed.

Crud, thought Randall.

He leapt out of the way at the third-to-last second, which was too early and gave Scar a chance to alter her direction and smack him in the face again. He hit the ground, his head coming into contact with a healthy-sized rock that, ironically, had been purposely placed in that very spot over two hundred years ago by the warrior Edmund the Untanned in the hopes that some day it would cause harm to somebody, or at least become a major inconvenience. Sadly, Edmund was long-dead and never got to see the seeds of his labor blossom into fruition. He would have been pleased.

Randall lay there for a moment, his head aching with so much pain that it blocked out the statement he wanted to make. He slowly sat up, waiting for his vision to de-blur. As Scar returned to sharp focus, he recalled what he wanted to say.

“Ow.”

“Do you surrender?” Scar inquired.

Then something bizarre happened. But it happened in some far-off kingdom and had no effect on Randall's current situation. He shakily managed to get back to his feet again, while his body put in a formal request for him to return to an unmoving position.

“Ready for more, then?” Scar sneered.

As he stared into her eyes, a change overcame Randall. His fear turned into anger. “That's right. I may only be a squire, but I will defend my princess to the death!”

“I don't think so. You're no hero. You're a pathetic little cretin, and you'll always be a pathetic little cretin, even when you're a dead pathetic little cretin.”

“Bite me,” Randall said.

“Eat me,” Scar replied.

“Lick me,” Randall suggested.

“Chew me!” Scar offered.

“Lap me!” Randall urged.

“Gnaw him!” Sir William pitched in.

“Ingest me!” Scar recommended.

“Masticate me!” Randall advised.

“Deglutiate me!” Scar proposed.

Without warning, Randall rushed toward the man holding the wooden box. Before the man could react, Randall had tackled him and knocked him to the ground. The other men weren't sure whether to intervene or not, so they pretended to have been paying attention to some birdies. Randall wrenched the box out of his grip, then got up just in time to dodge a squirrel attack by Scar.

He opened the box, grabbed the two remaining weapons, then tossed the box aside, hitting the unconscious guy who'd been struck by the tailless squirrel.

“Those don't frighten me,” said Scar. “It's like the old saying: It's not how many you have, it's how much use you get out of each one.”

“Say what?”

They rushed at each other, then attacked. The squirrels collided with a sickening plink! sound. Randall swung his other squirrel, bashing Scar in the face and knocking her back several steps.

“Oh no!” exclaimed the man who'd been holding the box. “That was the one that was foaming at the mouth!”

“You're through, squire!” said Scar through clenched teeth. The fact that these teeth were clenched around her tongue made the sight less pleasant. “You're dead! Worm chow! Necrophile bait!”

“Look, I just—” Randall began.

“Shut up! You're not talking your way out of this. What do you have to say to that, huh?”

“Nothing. ‘Look, I just—’ was all I wanted to say.”

Scar began to swing her squirrel once again. Randall tied the tails of his own squirrels together and began to swing them like a pair of nunchaku.

“Eeeeeyaaaaa!” he cried.

He flung the squirrels at her. Their connected tails wrapped around her neck, and their bodies slammed against each side of her head. Scar dropped to the ground and dreamed she had turned into a colony of lice.

“You did it!” shouted Princess Janice.

“Wow!” exclaimed Randall. “If I'd known I was this tough, I'd have started kicking butt years ago!”

The men started to discuss their plan of action amongst themselves. It was put to a vote. Three-fourths of them raised their hands for option one. One of them demanded a recount. They voted again. Option one passed again. They all readied their bows and arrows and aimed them at Randall.

“You scum-slurping wretches!” growled Sir William.

“You can't do this!” Randall insisted. “Whatever happened to honor? Whatever happened to being able to trust your fellow man? There was a time, not so long ago, when a person like me could knock someone unconscious with a set of dead squirrel nunchaku and walk away if that was what we'd agreed upon. Now, are you men so lacking in conscience that you would take part in destroying the bonds of faith?”

“I am,” said one.

“What are you, cattle?” asked Randall. “There was a time when men could think for themselves. They didn't have to follow the leader, do what everyone else did. They had minds! They had souls! If one of you decided to jump off the Kilpatrick Bridge onto that flagpole in the center of the river, would all of you? Are you lemmings? Don't any of you have initiative?”

“I don't,” said one.

“You know, there was a time when men didn't have weapons, a—”

“Quiet, squire!” said Sir William. “I think you all should know that I've picked the lock on these chains, and will be slaying each and every one of you very shortly.”

The men lowered their arrows and took off running into the forest. One of them made a “yip!” sound.

“You're my hero!” said Princess Janice to Sir William.

“That's not surprising. Squire, find the key so I can get out of this.”

“You were lying?” Randall was incredulous. “You know, there was a time—”

“Be quiet and find the key.”

“Wouldn't it be amusing if one of the guys who just stampeded out of here had it?”

“Just find it!” Sir William ordered.

Randall knelt down next to Scar. He reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He opened it and read aloud. “Dearest Pooky Moocher Lovey Frumps—”

“Forget the note!” said the princess. “Find the key!”

Randall slipped the note into his shoe for future entertainment, then checked Scar's other pocket. It contained a silver key. “Found it!” He looked at it more closely. “It's got something written on it.”

“What?” asked Sir William.

“This is not the key to the lock on the chains.”

“Search the man you knocked out with the box.”

Randall walked over and knelt down next to him. He checked his left pocket. Inside was a coupon. “Buy one, get one free.” he read aloud.

“Where?” the princess asked.

Randall flipped the coupon over. “Madame Taylor's Supreme hall of Exotic Dancers.” He checked the other pocket. Inside was a ring with about ten keys on it. “This might be it.”

He hurried over to the princess and began to test each key. “Hmmmm ... nope ... hmmmm ... nope ... hmmmm ... nope ... hmmmm ... nope ... hmmmm ... nope ... hmmmm ... nope ... should I start over?”

“Confound it!” said Sir William. “Find my sword! You'll have to cut down the tree.”

Randall glanced around the clearing. “No sword here.” He approached the stump where the crystal lay. When he picked it up, it began to glow with a soft, ethereal light.

A voice spoke. “It has the power. It is the key.”

“What?” Randall asked.

“I said, it has the power. It is the key,” repeated Sir William. “Now bring it here.”

As Randall moved toward Sir William, the crystal began to glow brighter and brighter. It began to quiver in Randall's hands. He immediately dropped it.

“Good Lord that's freaky!” Randall exclaimed.

“Pick it up!” Sir William ordered.

“What if it's nuclear-powered or something? I could get radiation poisoning! I could turn into a twisted, misshapen creature before your very eyes, and then you'd both be up the creek!”

“Pick it up, dagnabbit!”

Randall picked it up. The quivering increased. He crouched down and touched the crystal to the chain. It instantly dissolved right through the metal. Sir William stood up and snatched the crystal out of Randall's grasp.

“Good work, squire,” he said, taking a couple steps toward Princess Janice. “Ow! Charley horse!” He fell to his knees. Randall took the crystal, then went over and freed the princess.

“Thank you,” she said, putting her arms around him. “You will be well-rewarded upon our return home.”

Scar moaned and began to stir. “I'll handle this,” said Princess Janice, approaching the fallen woman and prodding her with her toe.

Sir William gestured for Randall to bring the crystal over to him. Together they began to examine it. The glow was fading. “Fascinating,” Sir William said. “Absolutely fascinating. I wonder what other powers it has?”

He ran his hand along the crystal. A huge beam of light shot from it, firing across the clearing and striking the princess in the back. She instantly exploded into flames and fell to the ground in a burning heap.

Chapter 4

The Heroes Freak Out

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!”

Randall dropped the crystal. It fired another blast of light that narrowly missed Sir William and incinerated the tree that he'd been chained to.

They both rushed over to what was left of the princess. The flames abruptly vanished, revealing an extremely charred, blackened corpse.

“Maybe she's not dead!” Sir William insisted.

“Not dead? She's barbecue!”

“Check for a heartbeat!”

“I can see her heart! It's not beating!”

“Check it! Check it!”

Randall got down on his knees and rolled Scar out of the way. He pressed his hand against Princess Janice's chest and immediately pulled back. “Ow! That's hot!”

“Check it! Check it! Check it!”

“I'm gonna burn my hand off!”

“I don't care!”

Randall pressed down with his hand, wincing in pain. “Ooh! Ow! Ow! It's not beating. She's dead.”

“Do that thing where you push on her chest a bunch of times to get her heart started!”

“My hands'll break right through her! She's history! We killed her!”

“Oh...fudge!” Sir William began to rapidly pace back and forth. “That's it, we're finished! The king is going to use our necks as horseshoe targets!”

“We're not going back to the castle, are we?”

“No way!”

Randall had never seen Sir William so badly shaken. Of course, given the circumstances, it was a tad understandable.

“No more knighthood for me. No more respect. No more ‘Sir’ before my name. No more late night skinny dipping parties. No more hair styling discounts. I'm ruined. Everything I've worked for all these years has been destroyed.”

“It's probably not so thrilling for the princess, either,” Randall pointed out.

Sir William sat down on the stump and buried his face in his hands. “We're fugitives,” he moaned. “I've been reduced to a common criminal.”

“That's not true,” said Randall. “Common criminals won't have hundreds of people out trying to hunt them down like dogs.”

Sir William began to weep.

“I guess you two have a problem,” said Scar, sitting up. “Boy, I sure would hate to be you guys. Killing a princess? Whoa-mama! Looks like there's going to be some heinies in the kettle tonight.”

Sir William looked up. “This is all your fault! I should rip you apart, epidermal layer by epidermal layer!”

“Really? That would put a damper on my willingness to help you guys, then.”

“How could you help us? And as a follow-up question, why?”

“Well, let's consider your dilemma,” Scar began. “Dead princess. Now, what's the obvious solution to that problem?”

“Make myself feel better by stomping the person who got us into this mess.”

“Wrong. The solution is: Make it so the princess isn't dead. Bring her back to life.”

“Oh, what a brilliant solution!” proclaimed Sir William. “I can't believe I let that one get by me!” He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted at the still-smoking corpse. “You heard the lady, rise and shine! C'mon, it's time for wakeys!”

“Your sarcasm is only delaying matters,” Scar told him. “This forest is less than a month old. It sprouted up from nothing at the whim of a witch ... I think her name's Grysh. She lives in the center of a graveyard deep within this forest, and the rumors are that she has the power to raise the dead. At least that's the idea I got from all the zombies guarding her place.”

“You think she'd help us?” Randall asked.

“Well, no, she'll probably just try to kill you until she gets to know you better. But you haven't got much to lose. I dunno, maybe she'll act differently toward a knight.”

“What about my follow-up question?” asked Sir William.

“Why? The only ransom I'm going to get out of her now is a little extra cash from somebody who wants to buy charcoal briquettes. Knights don't work as hostages, because everyone expects them to save themselves, and nobody cares about squires. Plus you're no longer chained, and thus in a good position to hurt me.”

“Will you take us to this witch?” asked Sir William.

“No, but I'll draw you a map. You guys carry the princess and follow me back to our fort—it's just a few minutes away.”

Scar picked up the crystal, as Sir William and Randall each got on separate ends of the princess and lifted her. “Ow!” “Dang!” “Ouch!” “Crud!” “Eeep!” “Too hot!”

They set her down. “Do you have any gloves?” asked Sir William.

“Or some cold water to pour on her?” asked Randall.

Scar rolled her eyes. “Don't be such pansies. Think of the pain you'll suffer when the king's men catch you.”

Randall and Sir William exchanged a concerned glance, then picked up the princess again, doing their best to ignore the hot pain, though their best involved a great deal of profanity.

“Do you think we'll need those ashes?” inquired Randall, looking back.

“Maybe,” said Sir William. “I'm more worried about that foot.”

“Is that a foot?”

“I think so. I'm missing one on my end.”

“Here, set her down. I'll get it.”

They placed her gently on the ground, took a moment to massage their blistering hands, then Randall picked up the foot and tried to find a good place to set it. Her mouth was wide open ... but he decided against that for several reasons and just placed it on her chest.

They continued following Scar. “Whoops,” Randall said.

“What?”

“Ummm ... nothing. Just thought I'd say ‘whoops.'”

“What part did we lose?” Sir William demanded.

“I'm not sure. That big one on the ground.”

“Will you guys hurry up?” asked Scar.

“Could you run ahead and get us a bag or something?” Sir William asked.

“Uh-oh,” said Randall.

“What?”

“Ummm ... nothing. That was a good ‘uh-oh.'”

“You have to be more careful, squire! Did the head break when it fell?”

“No, it looks okay.”

“Then put it on top with the rest.”

* * * *

THE FORT consisted of a group of crudely-built wooden structures that looked like a hearty belch could knock them over. Scar's men sat around, some of them playing cards while others prepared for their weekly arts and crafts show. Randall, Sir William, and Scar sat at a table in her private structure. Princess Janice was contained in a large leather sack.

Scar finished drawing a map on a piece of parchment. “It should only take you an hour or so to get there,” she explained, “but the forest is very thick and you can get lost easily. When you finally meet the witch, don't tell her I sent you or she'll shred you on the spot. And don't comment on her nose.”

“What's wrong with her nose?” Randall asked.

“She doesn't have one.”

“How does she smell?”

If she says “Awful", thought Sir William, I'm going to scream and run from room to room shrieking incoherent curses and expose myself to each and every man present then stretch my lips around the back of my neck and tie them together in a bow and then hop around as my eyes spin in wild circles and I make gargling noises until I go absolutely completely stark raving drooling babbling mad.

“Awful,” Scar replied.

“Ha-ha!” Randall laughed.

Well, I guess even the oldest of jokes contain some contemporary humor value, Sir William decided. That must be why they've survived so long.

“I guess you gentlemen are set,” said Scar, handing the map to Randall.

“What about our horses and his sword?” Randall asked.

“We're keeping them,” said Scar.

“I don't think so,” Sir William told her.

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, really.”

“You really don't think so?”

“No, not really,” Sir William admitted.

“No, not really meaning you really don't think so, or no not really meaning you don't think so but you don't really don't think so.”

“No not really meaning I really don't think so.”

“What point was I trying to make?” Scar asked.

“Nothing, really.”

“Oh, yeah, your weapons and horses. They're ours. Now, you could try and fight me—”

Sir William stood up to do just that.

“—but then you'll never know the answer to the first riddle.” She tapped a section of the map marked with an X. “To get to the cemetery gates, you'll have to pass through the Realm of Mystery. Your wits will be challenged like never before.”

“We'll see about that,” said Sir William. “My wits have been challenged on many occasions.”

“All I can tell you is that the answer to the first riddle is To get to the other side. After that, you're on your own. Oh, and I guess I should mention that any wrong answers will result in immediate death.”

“Any other obstacles we should know about?” Randall asked.

Scar began tapping her finger against various spots on the map. “Here ... here ... definitely this one ... here ... oooh, that one's nasty ... here ... here ... and here.”

“Thank you,” said Randall.

“Oh, and here,” Scar added.

“Let us go, squire,” said Sir William. “You carry the princess, I'll follow the map.”

* * * *

FIFTEEN MINUTES later they were completely lost.

“Is this map to scale?” Sir William wondered. “I don't think it's to scale. I think she just put these markers any lousy place she felt like.”

“Mind if we rest for a while?” Randall asked, leaning against a tree. “Princess Janice is getting heavy.”

“See, according to this worthless map we should be near a death trap right now, and there's nothing around.”

“The death trap's that way,” said a short man, stepping out from behind a tree and pointing behind them. “Vicious one. They have to hose it down every couple weeks.”

“Who are you?” Sir William demanded.

“My name is Lawrence. I'm a traveling salesman.” He extended his hand and Sir William shook it. Lawrence had a thin mustache, slicked-back hair, and was carrying a large black pouch. “Pleased to meet you.”

“I'm Sir William. Are you familiar with this forest?”

“Yep. In the short time it's been around, I've acquainted myself with every square inch of this place. I'm a remarkably good person to have around if you were to, say, become lost.”

“May I ask a stupid question?” Randall inquired.

“There are no stupid questions,” said Lawrence. “Only stupid people.”

“How can you make a living as a traveling salesman hanging around a forest like this?”

“I find people such as yourselves, of course. You have money, right?”

“A little,” Sir William said. “But we're not interested in buying anything.”

“Oh, I think you'll change your mind,” said Lawrence, reaching into his pouch. “Listen to me, William—may I call you William?—this here is the best offer since mankind came up with the concept of offering.”

“Listen, idiot—may I call you idiot?—I said I'm not interested in buying anything.”

“But look!” Lawrence pulled out the contents of the pouch: a wooden leg. “I'm going to sell you this leg!”

“You can't be serious,” said Sir William. “I'm not going to buy that.”

“Ah, but this isn't just any leg. This is the Smith Model KL7-RA Prosthetic Locomotion Assistance Device.”

“It looks like a cheap wooden leg.”

“Will you buy it?”

“Of course not. I've got two real ones of my own!”

“At the moment, maybe, but a wise knight such as yourself knows the importance of planning ahead. Suppose you're off defending the kingdom and one of your legs were to become severed. Instead of losing hours of valuable work time lying around whimpering, you could merely strap on the Smith Leg and return to being a productive warrior.”

“I'd bleed to death!”

“Ah, but you wouldn't. The Smith Leg comes equipped with its very own tourniquet.”

“But it's only a right leg,” Sir William pointed out. “What if I lost my left one? I'd be walking in circles for the rest of my life!”

“Buy two.”

“I don't need two. If I only lost one leg, I'd look pretty stupid walking around carrying a second fake one.”

“Listen,” Lawrence explained, “I obviously can't guarantee that you'll lose both legs in the accident. But there's still a fifty-fifty chance that it will be your right leg, making this a low-risk purchase.”

“Is it durable?”

“Oh, yes indeed. Keep it out of direct light and it'll last you for months.”

“There's a big crack in it!”

“That's supposed to be there. It's for ventilation.”

“I'm not buying a cracked leg.”

“Will you forget about the leg?” screamed Randall, having listened to exactly three more syllables of this conversation than his brain could handle. “Lawrence, we need your help. Do you know how to get to the lair of the witch Grysh?”

“Why, have you got a terminal disease?”

“No. Can she cure them?”

Lawrence shook his head. “I just figured you wanted to commit suicide.”

“Answer the question,” said Sir William. “Can you direct us there?”

“Sure I can.”

“Thank you.”

“If you buy the leg.”

“You little weasel!”

“Come on, I'm making you a great deal here. I'm actually losing money on this sale!”

“I'm not buying that useless leg, and that's final.”

“Uh, sire?” said Randall. “If that's the only way he'll direct us to Grysh's lair, I think you should buy it.”

“But it's the principle of the whole matter!” declared Sir William. “I refuse to pay my hard-earned money for shoddy merchandise! If I buy this leg now, where will it end?”

“Right at your waist,” said Lawrence. “Ha-ha, just a little traveling salesman humor there.”

“I'm going to slay him,” said Sir William. “Don't try and stop me.”

“I won't.”

“All right, all right,” said Lawrence. “How about this. I'll sell you the leg for a dvorkin. One lousy dvorkin. You can't even get a glass of water without dead bugs in it for a dvorkin, and here I am offering to sell you this wonderful leg for one.”

“Fine!” snapped Sir William, digging in his pocket until he found one of the tiny coins. “Here!”

Lawrence took the dvorkin. “Not a very shiny one, is it?”

“Shut up! Gimme the leg!” Sir William snatched the leg out of his hand, then heaved it as far away as he could. “Now where does the witch live?”

“That's not fair,” protested Lawrence. “How are customers supposed to see how superb the Smith Model KL7-RA Prosthetic Locomotion Assistance Device is if you just threw it away?”

“I'll spread the word,” Sir William told him.

“But verbal advertising is much less effective than visual.”

Sir William stepped forward, arms reaching toward Lawrence's neck. The salesman quickly took the hint. “Okay, let me see your map.” He took the parchment then began making various notations on it. “Whoever did this had no clue how the forest is organized. You're lucky you found me.” He gave the map back to Sir William. “There you go.”

Sir William looked the map over. “Yes, this is much clearer now. Thank you.”

“Could I come with you gentlemen?” Lawrence asked. “Now that I've finally sold that leg, my purpose in life is sort of missing.”

“No,” said Sir William.

“Please?”

“No.”

“You'll need me!” Lawrence insisted. “I can help you! I'm a valuable asset!”

“Tough shinola,” said Sir William. “Go away.”

Lawrence gave them a sorrowful look, then walked off, muttering something about how people who purchased legs from salesmen and then refused to let them tag along were jerks.

“Let's go,” Sir William told Randall.

* * * *

FIFTEEN MINUTES later, they were completely lost again.

Chapter 5

Some Stuff Happens

“NO, THE LEG would not have come in handy,” Sir William snarled. “He said nothing about a compass being attached to it. Now be quiet and let me think.”

Randall was quiet. Sir William began to think.

“You're not being quiet enough,” Sir William said.

“I didn't say a word!”

“I don't care. Shut up.”

Sir William began to think some more. Then he got an idea.

“I've got an idea!” he announced.

“What?”

“That was the idea. That I've got an idea.”

“You're getting stupid, sire.”

“I know. It's all this stress! I feel like I'm about to go crazy and start biting the ground! I can't take this any more!”

“Shhh ... now just calm down,” said Randall in a soothing voice. “Imagine you're lying on the beach, next to the ocean.”

“Oceans have sharks,” said Sir William.

“It's an ocean so thoroughly polluted that all the sharks are dead,” Randall amended. “It's just you, relaxing. Close your eyes and picture yourself on that beach.”

Sir William closed his eyes. “Okay, I'm on the beach.”

“Relaxing...”

“Being engulfed by jellyfish.” Sir William's eyes flew open. “This isn't working.”

“Okay, forget the imagination technique. How lost can we be?” He glanced around, then noticed a placard nailed to a tree. Welcome! it said, You're in the bad part of the forest! “Is that on the map?” he asked.

Sir William checked. “No. These people need a good lesson in map-making. Followed immediately by a good kick in the—”

“Hold it!” said Randall, cutting Sir William off and leaving the exact location of the intended kick a mystery never to be solved. “I just realized something. This forest is moving! Look at that!”

Randall pointed to a section of ground, about five feet square, that was shifting. Merging, perhaps, is a better word. The word blurmpling is descriptive of the sight, though non-existent, and the word banana is wholly inappropriate. The clearest description of the sight to greet Randall's eyes is to say that one section of the forest was melting into the other.

“Trippy,” said Sir William.

“Maybe if we just stand here, the graveyard will come to us.”

They just stood there. After a few moments, they reached the mutual consensus that it was a dumb idea. After a few more moments, they decided that it was a dumb enough idea to quit doing it.

“Squire, I have a very, very important question to ask you,” Sir William announced.

“Okay.”

“Where's the bag with the princess?”

“I set it down right ... uh-oh...”

He hurriedly began looking around. The bag was gone without a trace. The section of forest they'd been observing before was no longer blurmpling, and had been replaced by a completely different set of trees. As was the section where he'd left the bag.

“I think this counts as an additional negative twist to our little predicament,” Randall commented.

“Oh no—voices in my head!” moaned Sir William. “I'm hearing voices in my head!”

“You've got to control yourself! If you lose your mind, we're dead!”

“Too late!” shrieked Sir William. “I've gone looney! Find me a bucket to drool in! No, Mommy, no! Don't put the ice in my shorts!”

And then he fainted.

Randall quickly knelt down beside him. “Sir William? Consciousness would be a real good idea right about now!”

He began to shake him. When that was unsuccessful, he began to lightly slap him on the face. As enjoyable as that was, it became clear that it wasn't going to work, and so he prepared to jump up and down on his chest. Sir William's eyes opened just as he was about to make the first leap.

“I'm fine,” Sir William assured him. “Just needed a bit of rest, that's all.”

“Our situation isn't as bad as it seems,” said Randall. “So we've killed the princess and lost her body. It could be worse. Not much worse, I'll admit, but it could still be worse. I mean, suppose there were a huge, bloodthirsty dragon behind us.”

Sir William looked at him closely. “Squire, if there really is a dragon behind us and you're just making that comment to be ironic, I am going to be very upset.”

“No dragon. That was just an example of how our situation could be worse.”

“Good.”

“All we need to do is figure out the pattern of shifting forest. One of us should climb to the top of a tree and see what we can figure out.”

“You climb,” said Sir William. “I'm still a tad insane.”

“Okay, I will.” Randall reached up for one of the large branches on the nearest tree.

“Squire, I just realized something important. It was the moving forest that prevented us from following the map!” Sir William smiled proudly at his brilliant new discovery.

“Uh ... yeah, good thought. Missed that one.”

Randall began to climb. The branches were covered with sap, and it wasn't long before his hands and clothes were, too. It was difficult, treacherous climbing, but fifteen minutes later he'd reached the top, which swayed as he peered out over the entire forest.

“I can see the graveyard!” he called down to Sir William. It was perhaps half a mile away, and the trees had been cleared away around it in the pattern of a skull. A misshapen skull with only one eye socket and no mouth, but still recognizably a skull.

A fly landed on his cheek. Randall slapped it, then uttered the type of curse the average person would utter upon finding his or her hand stuck to his or her face with tree sap. Very stuck. He tried to use his other hand to remove it, and thus found that hand stuck to the hand that was stuck to his face as well as stuck to the fly.

“Great,” he muttered. “Just great. Now how am I supposed to get down?”

“Creeeeeeeeak,” said the tree branch he was sitting on.

Randall froze, terrified, desperately trying not to make any moves that would cause the branch to break. The owl that came out of nowhere and started attacking his face made this process more difficult. The owl's feet stuck to the sap, and it squawked loudly as it tried to pull free.

The branch snapped. Randall and the owl fell, landing on the branch below, which Randall had previously gone without noticing was occupied by an opossum. It dove at him. Randall let out a scream, admitting the creature into his open mouth, and then the new branch snapped.

Snap. Scream. Screech.

Snap. Scream. Chirp.

Snap. Scream. Bock, bock, bock.

Several repetitions later, Randall landed on the ground in a heap of mammals, reptiles, and birds. He spat out a small frog. This was not what Sir William, in his half-mad state, needed to see. As a child, he'd been kept up late with tales of the dreaded Etchemendy Beast, a horrific monster that resembled a giant stork. Granted, Randall and the animals didn't look much like a giant stork, but their presence was still enough to trigger these memories for Sir William, who promptly fainted again.

* * * *

THE PROCESS of removing the animals and tree sap was a long, tedious, and fairly disgusting one, but eventually Randall was back to normal. The only casualty had been the fly.

“Sir William? Time to get up.”

“Leave me alone.”

“Sire, I saw the graveyard from the top of the tree. If we just throw out the map and move in a straight direction, we should be able to find it.”

“Did you see the bag while you were up there?”

“No, but we'll worry about that later. Come on, get up.”

“Just leave me alone. Go away.”

“But Sire—”

“Randall, my personal pestilence ... get lost.”

“Look, I know our situation is grim. But it's not the end of the world.”

“Just my world.”

“Come on, don't give up on me. You're a knight of Mosiman Kingdom!”

“Not anymore.”

“Sure you are! Say, remember the song that all the squires-in-training have to sing to each new knight after they're inducted?”

Sir William frowned. “That song won't make me feel any better.”

“Sure it will!” Randall put his hand over his heart and began to sing.

Oooooooooh....

We all love William, our new knight.

His presence fills our souls with light.

William makes us shout with glee.

He is the best knight for me.

Randall began miming the trumpet riff, then continued.

William's our master, this we know.

He is up high, while we are down low.

He is the one we all cheer and praise.

All of us swoon when we meet his gaze.

Randall began miming the ukulele riff, then continued.

We're nothing but bunions upon his foot.

When he showers, we're just the soot.

Oh, how we stink in comparison to his might.

Next to William, we all really bite.

Randall performed the refrain. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeaaaaaaah!!!” Sir William was beginning to grow teary-eyed.

We're just the scum he scrapes off his dinner bowl.

We're just the coarse hairs in his facial mole.

We're just the backwash in his bottle of wine.

We're just the milk that sprays out of his nose when the jester says a particularly funny line.

Randall repeated the verse six more times.

Oh, why oh why can't we be more like William than the worthless, pathetic slug-like creatures that we are?

I mean, really, we're nothing but feeble-brained dweebs with severe body odor and we might as well make a living cleaning sewers for all the good we do and I think we all should go drown ourselves in a boiling vat of tar.

If William was a box of chocolates, we'd be the gross ones with orange gook in the center.

Forget it, we're not even good enough to finish up this song, let's just crawl into the ground and mulch and to heck with making this last line rhyme.

Randall started the refrain once again, but Sir William held up his hand, silencing him. “Enough! You've convinced me! Let's resurrect the princess, get her to the kingdom of Rainey, then go home and humiliate some squires!”

* * * *

BY WEAVING a more-or-less straight path through the thick trees, they were able to locate the graveyard. An immense, rusty fence surrounded the entire cemetery, and a series of three signs depicted a stick figure touching the fence, a pile of ashes next to the fence, and a kiriki licking up the ashes.

“We won't be able to get over it,” said Sir William, surveying the area. “I guess we'll have to go through there.” He pointed to a small, rickety wooden shack that was leaning against one part of the fence.

“Could that be the Realm of Mystery?” Randall asked.

“I haven't a clue.”

They walked over to the shack. The door, hanging on one hinge and slightly ajar, had the words “Realm of Mystery” scribbled across it.

“Not very impressive, is it?” Randall commented.

“Well, hello there, you two!” came a familiar voice from behind them.

They turned around, and Lawrence stepped out of the forest. He was holding the sack with the remains of Princess Janice. “I don't suppose either of you would care to purchase a partially-cremated corpse, would you?”

“You found the princess!” Sir William shouted. “I can't believe it!”

Lawrence hid the bag behind his back. “So, she's worth something to you, then?”

Sir William took a deep breath. “What do you want?”

“Well ... I could certainly use a Smith Model KL7-RA Prosthetic Locomotion Assistance Device.”

“You bovine!”

“Yep, that sounds good. A nice artificial leg for this bag of royalty. I'll just hang around until you find one.”

Sir William started to rush forward, but Randall threw out his arm in an attempt to restrain him. “We have some money,” he said. “Fifteen dvorkins, I think. Give us the princess, and they're yours.”

“Sixteen, and we have a deal.”

“We don't have sixteen.”

“Okay, fifteen and a leg.”

Sir William spoke up. “You don't seem to realize just how dead I can make a man.”

“Okay, fifteen dvorkins and your clothes.”

“You pervert!”

“Oh, wait, I didn't stop to consider that my last offer involved nudity on your part. Listen, if you want the bag, you have to find the leg.”

“Do you know how hard it was for us just to find this graveyard?”

“If you tried to follow the landmarks on my map through a morphing forest, pretty darn hard. Now go get the leg.”

* * * *

RANDALL MANAGED to successfully block most of the next seven hours from his mind.

* * * *

“HERE'S THE leg,” snarled Sir William, thrusting the appendage at Lawrence, who was casually leaning against the Realm of Mystery.

“You scratched it up,” said Lawrence, examining it.

“I swear,” said Sir William, “if you don't hand over that bag you're going to be floating down a long tunnel toward a white light.”

“Give me the dvorkins first.”

Sir William and Randall fished through their pockets and handed over all their coins.

“This is only fourteen.”

“I said I thought we had fifteen,” said Randall. “I didn't say for sure.”

“The deal was for fifteen. Fifteen dvorkins or I leave with the princess.”

“And just what are you going to do with her?” Sir William asked.

“Sell her to someone else.”

“You sick, twisted—”

“Okay, okay, I'll make you an offer. The leg, the fourteen dvorkins, and your clothes—but you get to keep the loincloths and shoes. Take it or leave it.”

A couple minutes later, Lawrence had left with his prizes. Sir William and Randall stood in their undergarments, glaring in the direction he had gone. Sir William picked up the sack.

“Let's go,” he said, throwing open the door to the Realm of Mystery.

Chapter 6

The Realm of Mystery

(Alternate But Meaningless Title: “The Potato")

AS HE STEPPED through the threshold, Randall was surrounded by a bright yellowish-periwinkle light. The air felt like it had transformed into a thick liquid, and there was a loud sucking sound as he passed through, reminding him of the king of Mosiman eating any type of solid food.

The place was much roomier on the inside. Flashing multicolored lights made it difficult to see much of anything, though. Reasonably bad music played in the background.

“Welcome to the Realm of Mystery!” said a very enthusiastic magically prerecorded voice. “Be sure to visit all of our fun-filled attractions! Test your wisdom and skill! And don't forget—if you mess up, you will be instantly vaporized by one of our many state-of-the-art wizard beams! No food, drinks, pets, epileptic fits, or children under twelve, please. Enjoy your visit, and have a mysterious time!”

Sir William passed through the threshold, and the message repeated. A glowing arrow on the marble floor directed them to walk forward to a large podium, upon which rested a stone tablet.

“Exhibit One,” Randall said, reading the tablet aloud. “Toucheth the blue dot when thou art prepared to answer this riddle: Why did the wizard throw his sundial out the window?” He considered that for a moment. “To see if time could fly.”

“No, no,” said Sir William. “Scar said the answer to the first riddle was ‘To get to the other side.'”

“That doesn't make any sense.”

“Perhaps he was throwing the sundial to the other side of the courtyard?”

“What kind of riddle would that be? How could anybody ever figure that answer out? I think Scar was wrong.”

“I don't think we should risk it.”

“Listen to me. ‘To see if time could fly.’ Good answer. ‘To get to the other side.’ Stupid answer.”

“Squire, I am in charge here, and I say we follow Scar's advice.”

“Like we followed Scar's map?”

“Damn good point. We'll use your answer.”

Randall touched the blue dot. A chorus of female voices began to sing “You've got the answer, oh yeah you've got the answer, oh yeah tell us the answer, oh yeah or you'll be sizzled, oh yeah or you'll be crispy, oh yeah tell us the answer...”

“To see if time could fly,” said Randall.

The very enthusiastic magically prerecorded voice spoke up. “And you've answered! Your answer is...”

Randall and Sir William held their breath. There was an incredibly long pause.

“Don't you just love suspense?” the voice asked.

Randall and Sir William began to grow faint from lack of oxygen.

“Correct!” said the voice.

The lights began flashing even more rapidly, and the female chorus began to sing again. “You gave us the right answer, oh yeah gave the right answer, oh yeah we shall not kill you, oh yeah you shall not fester, oh yeah gave the right answer!”

“I hope we don't have to listen to that every time,” muttered Sir William.

The podium suddenly vanished. A glowing arrow directed them to a second podium, this one also with a stone tablet.

“Exhibit two,” read Randall. “Thou shalt answer another riddle: ‘What doth walk on four legs in the morning, two legs in the afternoon, and three legs in the evening?'”

“Why, the Shapeshifter of McIlveen, of course!”

“No, wait! I recognize this! This is the famous Riddle of the Sphinx. The answer is Man.”

“Man? What man?” asked Sir William.

“Any man. They crawl on all fours as a baby, walk upright as an adult, and use a cane when they're old and decrepit.”

“So, we're talking about a person who's gone from birth to old age in one day? Is there some disease out there I haven't been told about?”

“It doesn't mean morning as in a real morning. It's morning as in the morning of your life. It's symbolic.”

“Forget that. I vote for the Shapeshifter of McIlveen.”

Sir William reached for the blue dot. Randall hurriedly thrust his hand out and touched it first.

The voice sounded. “Yeah, what's your answer?”

“Man!” shouted Randall before Sir William could respond.

“Bzzzzz! Nope! Wrong-o! Incorrectomundo! The right answer is ... the Shapeshifter of Adamtroy!”

“Well, you were wrong, too,” said Randall, quietly.

There was a loud humming sound that drowned out the music. “Prepare to die!” announced the voice.

“Okay,” said Randall, “that would require making up a will, purchasing a tombstone, saying goodbye to loved ones...”

“...selling your body to magical research...” added Sir William.

“...running up a huge tab at Dee's Pub...”

The humming sound grew so loud that it hurt their ears. Then, abruptly, it disappeared, allowing them to hear a particularly annoying verse of the song currently playing in the background.

“Juuuuuust kidding,” said the voice. “'Man’ was correct. You'd be surprised how many idiots go with the shapeshifter. We lose 43% of our guests that way.”

Randall smiled and looked smug as the podium vanished.

“If you continue to look smug, I will make you the opposite of ‘smug’ by ripping out your gums.”

“What?”

“You know, smug ... gums ... opposites...”

“No offense, sire, but that has to be the most forced creative threat I've ever heard.”

“I know,” Sir William admitted. “It's always been at the bottom of my stockpile.”

“I hope you've never used it in an actual fight.”

“Oh no, of course not. I was waiting for a less important occasion to test it out. I figured you could give me your assessment of it.”

“That was good thinking. Really, it doesn't work. I'd say get rid of it.”

“I will. Thanks for your honesty.”

“No problem.”

“Shall we move on to the third test?”

“By all means.”

They followed the glowing arrow to yet another podium. Randall read the stone tablet. “Exhibit three. A man hath sixteen children. Each of these children hath twenty teeth, except for the eighth child, whose third tooth was struck by a sparrow and fell out. This tooth was sold to a very foolish miner for fifty-seven dvorkins. Four of these dvorkins were fake, however, and the miner was sentenced to ten years in the dungeon. In the dungeon, the miner ate six rats. These rats carried forty diseases, but the miner only caught thirty-nine of them. The thirty-fifth disease killed the miner, and he was buried in a cemetery with two hundred and fifteen tombstones. Twelve of these tombstones bore the inscription ‘Let me out.’ Which exhibit number is this?”

“Three,” answered Sir William.

“You think it's a trick question?”

“No, just a dumb one.”

“But the other two exhibits are gone. That could mean this is the first.”

“I've been wrong the past two times, and therefore the odds are in favor of me being right this time,” Sir William explained, touching the blue dot.

“What?” asked the voice.

“Three,” said Sir William.

“Yep,” said the voice.

The podium vanished. The glowing arrow led them to a cushioned bench. After doing his routine whoopee cushion check, Randall sat down. Sir William sat next to him.

“This is the fourth exhibit,” said the voice. “An endurance test. You are going to hear the story Milton the Merchant and His Magical Number Adventure. If you move from that bench, you will be destroyed.”

“Oh no ... no...” whispered Sir William. “I know of at least eight murders directly tied to somebody being read that story.”

The voice continued. “This will be the original, unabridged version.”

Randall whimpered. The original version was a 1570 page single-spaced manuscript handwritten in very tiny print that struck terror into the hearts of all who gazed upon it.

The voice began to speak in a monotone. “Milton the Merchant really liked numbers. He liked the number one, and the number two, as well as the number three. In addition, he had quite a fondness for the numbers four, five, and six. But he especially liked the number seven, because seven was bigger than one, two, three, four, five, and even six. The number eight was too big, however, and frightened him, but Milton cherished the number seven like his own child.

“One day, Milton woke up and decided he was going to count to seven. Counting like this made him ever so happy. He sat up in bed, and thought about whether or not he ought to start with zero this time. But zero wasn't really a number, at least not to Milton, and so he decided to start with one.”

Randall's breath was coming in quick gasps. Sir William put a comforting hand on his shoulder, though Randall noticed the hand was twitching.

“'One...’ he said. But, alas, he didn't really want to proceed to two, because that would mean leaving the number one behind. And he did love the number one. Not as much as the number seven, of course, but he loved it all the same.”

“Make it stop,” Randall pleaded.

“'Whatever shall I do?’ Milton worried. ‘I do so want to count to two, yet I also wish to stay on one.’ What would you do if you were Milton?”

“Drown myself,” said Sir William.

“Then Milton got an idea. It was a good idea, and made Milton smile nearly as much as he smiled when he thought of the number seven. ‘Why, it is simple!’ he declared. ‘I shall write the number one on this piece of paper, and then I can look at it while I count to two!'”

Sir William's grip on Randall's shoulder tightened, causing him to wince with pain.

“And Milton did. But when he finally counted to two, Milton grew sad again, for now he couldn't count to three without rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrwwwwwwwwwww....”

The voice faded away. A perky female voice sounded. “We are experiencing magical difficulties. This exhibit is now closed.”

“YES!” Sir William shouted. “PAR-TEE! PAR-TEE!”

The glowing arrow appeared, and they got up from the bench and proceeded to the next exhibit. It was a stone table, upon which rested a lobster, an avocado, and a piece of lint. A placard on the table read “Thou shalt determineth whicheth object doth not belongeth, and toucheth the blueth dotteth underneatheth. Got ith?”

“The lint,” suggested Randall. “You can eat the lobster and the avocado.”

“I agree about the lint,” said Sir William, “but it might be because both the lobster and avocado can be used as weapons, while the lint would be woefully ineffective.”

“No, no, you're wrong. The answer is the lint. It's the only man-made substance on the table.”

“It must be the lint. The lint is the only one that would burn right away if you thrust a torch at it.”

“Wait, I changed my mind. It's the lint, because that's the only one you can fit between your toes or in your belly button.”

Sir William touched the blue dot under the lint.

“Guess what?” said the voice.

Randall and Sir William waited.

“No, really, guess what?”

“Uh, what?” asked Randall.

“You know that dot you pressed?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, let's take a little quiz. What letter does lobster start with?”

“L,” Randall answered, his stomach sinking.

“And what letter does lint start with?”

“L,” Randall answered, his stomach continuing its downward trajectory.

“Soooooo ... it's my guess that the one thing not to belong would be the one that doesn't start with that wonderful letter L. And by golly, that would be the avocado, wouldn't it?”

The exhibit vanished. The humming sound started up.

“Any last words?” asked the voice.

“Rutabaga, trollop, and fleece,” said Randall.

“Good ones. And now, here comes the wizard beam!”

The humming grew louder, then abruptly died down.

“Just kidding again!” said the voice.

Randall wiped off the quart of sweat that had gathered on his palms.

The voice continued. “Actually, I was just kidding when I said I was just kidding.” The humming grew louder again. The lights all turned a dark red color.

“Sir William, can I tell you something?” asked Randall, shouted to be heard as the humming reached its loudest point.

“Of course you may.”

“If you'll look down at your loin cloth, you'll notice that there's been a bit of ... uh, slippage. I wouldn't want you to die like that.”

“Thank you,” said Sir William, making the necessary adjustments.

The wizard beam fired.

And missed by a good twelve feet.

“Not especially accurate, are they?” asked Randall. The humming died away. The background music was worse than ever, consisting of a man singing about the Tic-Tac-Toe game of love.

“No, they're not,” Sir William agreed.

They followed the next glowing arrow down a short hallway. At the end of it was an iron door, upon which were the words: “Here shalt thou find thy final test. Pass through this door, and confront thy True Self. If thou goest not loco, thou shalt move on in thy journey, and probably be killed by the witch Grysh.”

“Confront my true self?” asked Sir William. He snorted with laughter. “The only danger in this test is being overcome with the Happies from being too close to myself.”

He threw open the door, and they walked through. The air was like liquid again, although this time liquid of a much thinner consistency yet with more lumps.

* * * *

SIR WILLIAM found himself alone in a room with mirrored walls. He checked his hair, found it adequate, and then began walking around the room, searching for the exit.

A human-shaped shadow materialized in front of him. Slowly it began to develop a flesh-colored hue. Finally, it had transformed into an exact duplicate of himself.

“Hello,” it said.

“Why, hello,” said Sir William, looking his true self over. “Those are some shiny biceps you've got there.”

“You too. And I'm very impressed by your fully developed pectorals. I don't suppose you'd make a muscle for me?”

“I'd be happy to,” said Sir William, making immense muscles in both of his arms. “These aren't those stick-on muscles, either. These are the real thing.”

“I can tell,” his true self said, shoving a finger deep into its nose.

Sir William lowered his arms. “What are you doing?”

His true self withdrew the finger, and inserted it into the next lower orifice. “Dining.”

“Stop that! You're a knight in the king's army! Behavior like that is completely unacceptable!”

“Oh, really?” asked his true self, hocking the mother of all loogies and spitting it on the floor. “Who says?”

“You can't possibly be my true self,” said Sir William.

The duplicate began to vigorously scratch his underarms. “Dang, my pits itch! Would you mind helping me with this?”

“I'll do no such thing!”

“Fine.” His true self raised his arms high, then continued the scratching procedure with his teeth.

“Have you no dignity?” Sir William cried.

“I'm not using my tongue, am I?”

“Stop it!” Sir William pleaded. “You're not me! I would never do something like that!”

“Oh, really?” The duplicate gave him a leering smile. “Is your name Sir William of Mosiman, or are you still ... Billy the Bug-Eater?”

“That was a long time ago!”

“Bug-eater! Bug-eater!”

“I was only a child!”

“Sucked down any caterpillars lately, Billy?”

“Shut up!”

“Remember how all the kids used to laugh at you when you ate the bugs, Billy? Remember how nobody would play with you because you were such a vile little child?”

“That's not me any more,” Sir William sobbed. “Not me. I don't eat bugs. No bugs. None.”

The duplicate took out a long, slimy worm. “Mmmmmmm. Feeling hungry, Billy?”

Sir William let out a battle cry, then lunged forward.

* * * *

RANDALL FELT a tinge of excitement as he looked around at the mirrors. I'm going to see my true self!

Then the shadow transformed completely, revealing a gorgeous, scantily-clad woman.

Randall shrieked.

OH MY GOSH OH MY GOSH OH MY GOSH!!! he thought.

He shrieked again just to be sure.

OH MY GOSH OH MY GOSH OH MY GOSH!!! And that shriek—it sounded feminine! OH MY GOSH OH MY GOSH OH MY—

The woman looked at herself, then looked at Randall. “Whoops, this can't be right.”

She took a step toward him. Randall rushed back and pressed himself against one of the mirrors. “Leave me alone! Don't touch me! Back, androgyne!”

“I think this was a mistake,” the woman said. “I'm the true self of a Karen Soukup. These things get mixed up every once in a while. You should've seen the king of Arnzen's face when the poodle appeared.”

“Just get away from me ... please...” Randall begged.

“Fine,” said the woman, sticking a finger up her nose as she vanished. One of the mirrors fell away, and Randall scurried through the exit it created.

* * * *

HE EMERGED in another hallway. At the end was a door with a “To the Cemetery” sign hanging from the knob. Sir William stood there, looking pale.

“I just beat the crap out of my true self,” he whimpered. “This is going to cause me some psychological damage, isn't it?”

Chapter 7

Or Was It Chapter Eight...?

THE MIST hung heavy over the cemetery, thick with the souls of those long dead and buried. The air was cold, sending a chill through all visitors, a chill that went bone-deep, a chill that froze the marrow. But the roving undead, they cared not about freezer burn, and their hunger ran rampant. Their stomachs growled like a nightmarish chorus of spirits gargling ectoplasm in the moonlight. They wandered, seeking their human prey, yearning for the sweet flavor of flesh, with a pinch of paprika. There was no peace for the grotesque figures who lurked in this final resting place, not with the unholy snoring of the witch Grysh during hours of daylight. Their lives, or lack thereof, were unbearable. Filled with eternal misery. Fraught with agony. Very yucky.

Which is why they were known as the Griping Dead.

They complained incessantly. “How's it going, Charlie?” “How do you think? It sucks!”

“Same here.”

They picketed Grysh's mausoleum. They organized protests. They signed petitions. They scrawled nasty phrases on Grysh's front door ("Grysh is a big dumb-head").

None of it worked. They remained her prisoners.

So they were a little irritable when Randall and Sir William stepped outside the Realm of Mystery into the graveyard.

They began to lumber forward, arms outstretched, moaning. Randall and Sir William watched them for a moment, then exchanged a glance.

“Slow, aren't they?” Randall remarked.

“Very.”

“How come we didn't notice them when we were peering through the gates before?”

“Well, this is a magical place. Perhaps there's an illusionary enchantment covering the entire location, preventing us from noticing its prowling re-animated corpse guards?”

“Maybe we need to be a little more perceptive.”

The zombies continued to move closer.

Sir William sighed. “We've only got a few minutes before they reach us. If we were to trip on some protruding dirt molecules and break an ankle or something, there's a slight chance they could get here before one of us could carry the other to the mausoleum. We shouldn't waste any more time.”

“Good idea.”

They began walking toward the mausoleum, weaving their way around a couple of the nearest zombies, making sure they allowed for a good three inches of leeway to prevent giving the creatures a chance to grab them.

Randall noted some interesting tombstones:

“Well, it's about time!”

“Here lies Grandpa. He'll be dead any minute now.”

“Poor Sam Trotter,

kissed my daughter,

set himself up,

for a slaughter.”

“You toucha my bones, I breaka your face.”

“Here lies a leper named Shaun,

Took last place in the king's marathon,

He started the race,

And fell flat on his face,

When he found both his feet to be gone.”

They continued to casually move through the graveyard.

“They're getting away!” said one of the zombies.

“Let's circulate another petition,” said a second one.

Randall and Sir William reached the entrance to the mausoleum, ducking underneath the outstretched arms of one of the flesh-eaters. “Should we knock?” Randall asked.

“That might alert her to our presence,” said Sir William. “I think we should just burst in. Prepare yourself. I'll kick the door open on the count of ... uh, one.”

“Oh, great,” muttered Randall. “This bag's been leaking.” He pointed to a trail of ashes that led through the graveyard over to the Realm of Mystery. “You think those are important parts?”

“We haven't got time to sweep it up,” said Sir William. “Let's just burst in, and worry about that later. Ready? ONE!”

He kicked the door open. Had he known that the door swung out rather than in, the pain would have been significantly reduced. Both of them leapt into the mausoleum, then cringed at the ghastly sight that burned its way into their eyes.

The witch Grysh was bathing. Water poured down upon her from out of nowhere, and vanished as it hit the floor. The sight of the water on its own would have been rather impressive, but adding the witch to the visual stew turned it into pure horror. She was not a pretty lady, and on this occasion was having a particularly bad face day. Her eyes were crossed, a sight made worse by the fact that they dangled from their sockets. Her skin looked like it was about eight sizes too large. She had more body hair than seemed appropriate for a woman of any age. Her breasts were in serious danger of tripping her.

She snapped her fingers, and the water vanished. “I've been expecting you,” she said. Her voice did not possess a musical lilt by any stretch of the imagination.

“You ... you have?” asked Randall.

“You're Gaggles and Boo-Boo, right?”

Sir William shook his head. “No, I am Sir William of Mosiman, and this is my squire, Randall. We wish to speak with you. If possible, we'd like to be out of here before Gaggles and Boo-Boo show up.”

“Speak, then,” snarled Grysh.

“Don't you want to get dressed first?” asked Sir William, hopefully.

The witch snapped her fingers. A small scarf appeared, which she draped over her shoulders. “Now, speak.”

“We need your help,” Sir William explained. “We were escorting Princess Janice to the Kingdom of Rainey, when there was kind of a ... slip-up.”

Randall lifted the bag and shook it, rattling its contents.

“She's all there,” said Sir William, “aside from maybe a little trail we left through the cemetery, but she's sort of ... uh...”

“Dead?” asked Grysh.

“Dead, yes, of course, but I think we can carry that adjective even further. She's, uh, very dead is, I guess, the best way to explain it.”

“Give me the sack,” said Grysh, reaching out. The sack was yanked from Randall's hand by an invisible presence, and flew toward her, ripping apart in the process and spilling out the princess in a cloud of soot. “I see your problem,” she said.

She crouched down and began poking through the remnants. Sir William and Randall exchanged uneasy glances. “Can you help her?” Randall asked.

“I think this counts as more than ‘very’ dead, don't you agree?”

Sir William and Randall nodded.

Grysh stroked the eight or nine hairs on her chin thoughtfully. She twirled one around her finger several times. “Let me call my slave. Demon Baby, you are needed!”

A young man walked around the corner. He grimaced momentarily at the sight of Grysh from the rear, but quickly regained his composure and kneeled as she turned around to face him.

“His name's Demon Baby?” asked Sir William.

Grysh nodded. “After thirty hours of labor, his mother was in a lousy mood.” She gestured to him. “Fetch my book-o-spells, volume three, second printing,” she ordered.

Demon Baby arose and left. Grysh looked at Sir William. “Tell me, knight, do you read much?”

“Define much.”

“Ever.”

“No.”

“I see. So, I take it you've never heard of the fabled Necklace of Power?”

Sir William shook his head. “Was it named by the same guy who called this the Forest of Death?”

“The Necklace of Power is an ancient relic,” said the witch. “I can return the dead to life, yes, but without this necklace, there's very little I can do for your princess, unless you don't mind returning her as a living pile of ashes.”

“That would be disappointing,” said Sir William.

Demon Baby returned, a large book tucked under his arm. He handed it to Grysh, and then took hold of her right arm with both hands and began twisting her skin back and forth, wringing out the excess water.

“Let's see,” said Grysh, thumbing through the pages. “Transforming your enemies into saliva ... twelve ways to magically extend your tongue by a good four feet ... starting Armageddon ... putting cream in pastries without leaving tell-tale holes ... here we go: raising the dead when there isn't much left of them.”

She glanced over the entry. “Oh, there are some definite problems here. In addition to the Necklace of Power, I'm going to need the breath of a sleeping maiden, the toenail of Jenstina the Ogre, and the legendary berserker Shreddriff himself.”

“But I don't know any more maidens,” Sir William protested.

Demon Baby began to wring out Grysh's right leg.

“Okay, the maiden's breath will turn up,” said Randall, “but Jenstina, Shreddriff, and the necklace ... where exactly would we find them?”

Grysh shrugged.

“You have no idea?” asked Randall.

“None. You're on your own. All I can tell is that the journey to locate them will be fraught with peril, just to keep it interesting.” She tapped Demon Baby on the shoulder, then pointed to the princess clump. “Sweep that up, and put her in the back room with the others.” Demon Baby nodded and went to get a broom.

“I'd rather not leave her here, if it's all right,” said Sir William.

“It's not.”

“I see. Well, I'd like to thank you for your help. You certainly aren't the foul crone we were expecting.”

Grysh's expression darkened. “Ah, but I am. You don't think I'm helping you for free, do you?”

“Please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please don't ask for the wooden leg,” begged Randall.

“Do you find me attractive?” asked Grysh.

Randall began to choke on the air in his mouth. “I hadn't really thought about it.”

“Did you know I can tie my breasts into a square knot?”

“That didn't come up in the description I was given.”

“I'm a real animal when I want to be.”

“With the fur to prove it,” mumbled Sir William.

Grysh gestured, and Sir William suddenly flew up into the air, smacked his head against the ceiling a few times (almost, but not quite, in the “Shave and a Haircut” rhythm), then dropped to his original spot.

“Sorry,” he said. “And ouch.”

The witch returned her attention to Randall. She licked her lips, then cracked her knuckles. Then she cracked the joints in her arm. Then her shoulders. Then her neck. Then the spot where her nose would have been if she had one. She bent her knees, but that came out more of a creak than a crack.

“I think we could enjoy each other's company,” she told Randall.

“That sounds ... interesting. Almost fascinating. But, you know, I'm just a lowly squire, and I don't think Sir William would approve.”

“Go for it,” said Sir William.

Randall's heart felt like it was trying to beat its way out of his chest and onto the floor. “I'm a woefully inexperienced kisser,” he said. “I'd probably miss your lips completely.”

“I don't have to look this way, you know,” Grysh said. She snapped her fingers, and instantly transformed into a tall, leggy, astoundingly attractive redhead.

Sir William cleared his throat. “I don't suppose there's any way I could tactfully put myself back into the equation after that fur comment?”

“I wouldn't think so, no.”

“Just checking.”

“So, Randall,” said Grysh. “Care to join me in my Chamber of Looooooooooove?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Good.” She looked over at Sir William. “Stay there.” She considered for a moment, then snapped her fingers. A bright light surrounded Sir William for a moment, then faded.

“You turned him to stone!” Randall gasped.

“Plated with pewter. He won't be going anywhere. Too bad he had such a ridiculous expression on his face—otherwise I might've been able to get a good price for the statue. Follow me.”

Randall followed her around the corner into an area filled with all manner of books and reagents for spells. There were also cobwebs to add a touch of atmosphere. Demon Baby walked by, holding a broom and a new sack, and looked jealously at Randall.

“In here,” said the witch, opening a door disguised as a door-shaped stack of books with a doorknob protruding from them. She let Randall enter first, then shut the door behind them, casting them into complete darkness.

“Be careful,” she said. “Watch out for the floor spikes. And cobras.”

“I'll just stay put.”

A soft light without a visible source began to glow at the other end of the room, illuminating the bed. A very lumpy bed that seemed to be adorned with various torture devices.

“Something's moving inside the pillows,” Randall noted.

“I like to keep the feathers as fresh as possible.”

She moved past him and sat down on the edge of the bed. She began to seductively massage her earlobes. “Come here,” she purred.

Randall sat down next to her. She gently placed her hand on his knee. “Ooooooh,” she said. “That's a nice, firm kneecap you've got there.”

“Thank you.”

“Randall, sweetie, why don't you tell me a little about yourself?”

“Well, I'm five-foot-six, twenty-two years old, brown hair, hazel eyes, and have my mother's chin.”

“Have you ever been in love?”

“Occasionally.”

“Have you ever loved so deeply that you just walked around all day with a retarded grin on your face? Have you ever loved to such a great extent that the mere sight of them made your internal organs completely rearrange themselves?”

“No,” Randall admitted. “My love was more of a ‘Hey, she's cute, too bad I annoy her,’ kind of deal.”

Grysh stared off into space for a moment, then wiped a tear from her eye. “Have you ever loved somebody, and then lost them forever?”

“There's going to be a revelation here, right?”

“His name was Romeoo. A stable boy, not too bright, poor posture. But I loved him the way the King of McNaughton used to love pomegranates.”

“I remember the King of McNaughton,” said Randall. “He was a few kingdoms away from us, but we kept hearing about his pomegranate obsession. Non-stop. Pomegranate, pomegranate, pomegranate. I mean, give it a rest, man!”

“Our love was as far-reaching as the ocean, and just as wet. But, our families hated each other, for they were God-fearing, simple folk, and we were a coven of witches offering frequent sacrifices to the Dark One.

“We wanted to run away together, but knew we'd be discovered—unless my family thought that I was dead. So I obtained a vial of liquid that put me into a death-like trance. The funeral was quite nice, I'm told. The food was delicious and plentiful, the eulogy grammatically correct. And so I was carried down into the morgue to await my betrothed. But, alas, he had not been told of my scheme.”

There was a long pause.

“This is a good time to ask ‘what happened then?'” said Grysh.

“Oh, I'm sorry. I thought you'd get to it on your own.”

“I was hoping you'd increase the dramatic tension.”

“My mistake. So, what happened then?”

Grysh sniffled. “I can't bring myself to tell the story. But I shall show you.”

She gestured, and a white rectangular box materialized in mid-air. An image began to form upon it.

“Behold the tale of doomed love...”

Chapter 8

A Slightly Shorter Chapter than the Previous One

THE IMAGE on the block began to move:

Grysh, in her non-hideous form, lay on a pedestal, in a death-like state. Romeoo, filled with big heaping gobs of pathos, stood over her.

“How oft when men are at the point of death have they been merry, which their keepers call a lightning before death?” he asked. “O, how may I call this a lightning? O, Grysh, my wife ... my darling ... my love bunny ... my passion slave ... thou art not conquered. Beauty's ensign yet is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks and in thy knees.”

He thought about the situation for a moment. “You know, it almost seems as if you're in a pseudo-death brought about by drinking a very difficult to obtain, highly illegal and relatively expensive drug given to you by a religious figure that leaves you in a death-like state lasting for, say, two and forty hours after which you'll awaken, a little hung-over but otherwise all right to rejoin me so we can run away and buy that farmland we wanted. But that's silly.”

He sighed with so much drama that Randall felt his eyes begin to moisten.

“Ah, dear Grysh, why art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe that unsubstantial death is amorous, and the lean abhorred monster keeps thee here in dark to be his paramour?”

Romeoo shrugged, then thought that over.

“What the hell does that mean?” he asked himself, taking out a copy of Cliff's Notes and looking it up. Satisfied with the answer, he pocketed the book and returned his attention to Grysh. “Oh, Snookums, here, here will I remain with worms that are thy chambermaids.”

He brushed them off her.

“Eyes, look your last! Arms, take your last embrace! Navel, do whatever it is you do! And lips, O you, the doors of death, seal with a righteous kiss a dateless bargain to engrossing death!”

He began to lean toward her, then paused about an inch from her lips. “Wait a second—that's sick, she's dead!”

He stood up straight. “Now, with this poison...” he said, grabbing a bottle of booze, “...I shall join thee in thy grave.”

He drank it and grimaced. “Ugh, the fluid that would bring us together for eternal love doth taste like crap. Thy drugs are quick. With this, I die.”

He waited a moment. Nothing happened. He tapped his stomach, then glanced around the tomb while he waited. Checked his fingernails for dirt. Sighed loudly. Then grimaced in great pain. After a second, the pain ceased.

“Gas,” he muttered. “Forget it, I'm in a hurry.”

He took out a meat cleaver. “O, happy meat cleaver. This is thy sheath; there rust, and let me die!” He twirled it in the air several times like a professional chef, then stabbed himself. “Ooh—that's gonna leave a mark,” he winced.

Then he died. It was fairly graceful, as such deaths go, with only a minor bit of gurgling and choking distracting from the mood.

The image faded, but the block remained, casting a dim light upon Randall and Grysh.

“Bummer,” said Randall.

“Truly. I revived him, but his anger ran deep, and he left, never to be seen again. Well, not by me, at least.”

“Bummer number two.”

“That is what love means to me,” she said. “Loss. Sorrow. Misery. Oh, if only somebody were to find my dear Romeoo and return him to me!”

Four shadows darted across the wall.

“But,” Grysh sighed, “that's probably not going to happen.”

“Probably not,” Randall agreed.

“So I have to concentrate on physical pleasure instead of love. But I'm still enough into love that I feel we should look beyond surface beauty.”

She snapped her fingers, transforming back into the wretched creature. Randall gagged.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Uh ... could we go back to that darkness motif?”

The block of light vanished.

“And is it possible to temporarily get rid of my other four senses?”

“You should be more open to new experiences,” Grysh scolded. “Am I that repulsive?”

“No, no,” Randall lied. “It's just that, well, I'm too excited, and if something isn't done to numb my senses I'll probably burst into a fit of unrestrained giddiness that won't be pleasant to watch.”

“Kiss me,” said Grysh.

“You mean now or sometime in the future?”

“Now.”

“Where?”

“Here.”

“There already?”

“It's my hand.”

“Interesting hand.”

“Kiss it.”

“I will.”

“Now.”

“I will.”

“I don't feel it being kissed.”

“Figured I'd practice on my own hand a few times first.”

The witch cursed ("fiddlesticks") and illuminated the room. Randall's stomach twitched a bit as he saw that there were at least ten men chained to the walls.

“Who are they?” he gasped.

“My previous love slaves.”

“Any special reason they're chained to the wall?”

“Purely decorative.”

The men were all giving Randall dirty looks, which he felt rather insensitive considering that he was the one currently getting the worst of the situation. He gave them a light wave. “Hi. How's it going?”

“They won't answer you,” Grysh told him. “They're giving me the silent treatment. They think it bugs me.”

“Does it?”

All of the chained men began to nod.

“Liars!” Grysh shouted. “You think something like the silent treatment can bother a witch of my power? I laugh at your feeble attempt! Ha! Ha again! I laugh in your collective faces!”

The men said nothing.

“I'm still laughing in your faces,” Grysh insisted. “Doesn't bother me a bit that you won't talk. Not a bit. You hear me? Your little stunt isn't working. So you might as well quit it and start talking.”

The men remained silent.

“I'm gonna kill them,” said Grysh, reaching underneath the pillow and taking out a wicked-looking knife with a twelve-inch bloodstained blade and flower designs on the handle.

“No!” said Randall. “I mean, it's very hard for me to stay romantic after multiple murder. Last time that happened—poof!—my lips wouldn't pucker for hours.”

Then, proving that mercy can be granted, there was a knock at the door. “Hate to interrupt,” Demon Baby said through the wood, “but we have a serious problem out here.”

“How serious?” Grysh asked, thoroughly annoyed.

“Well, on a scale of one to ten, one being peace and quiet, ten being the world coming to an end, eight being the zombies outside getting ready to make a violent raid upon our mausoleum, I'd have to rank it an eight.”

Grysh got up, motioned for Randall to follow her, then left the bedroom. Joining Demon Baby, they walked back to the main part of the mausoleum.

At that moment, three very bad things happened.

First, and most noteworthy, four stained-glass windows shattered from having zombies crash through them. These zombies did not look happy. Part of this was due to the shards of glass now sticking in them, but one can safely assume that their anger had been present before the actual vandalism. In a related incident, the door to the mausoleum burst open, revealing another helping of irate living dead.

Second, in a coincidence rivaled only by the time the King of Lockhart made the comment that “it would sure be amusing if those little things that dangle in the back of people's throats suddenly fell from the sky” mere seconds before the legendary Uvula Rainfall, Grysh lost her magic powers. This was something that happened once a century to all witches, and it only lasted eight minutes. In a further coincidence rivaled only by the time the King of Adams said “I wish I had a trout in my pants,” seconds before his advisors dropped a fish down his pants (though they replaced the trout with a piranha), the situation would be resolved in seven minutes and fifty-two seconds.

Third, Randall remembered he hadn't brushed his teeth that morning. It was a minor problem, comparatively, but still noteworthy considering that gum disease takes no prisoners.

The zombies were still pathetically slow-moving, but they had all the escape routes covered. Grysh snapped her fingers, trying to conjure her mystic powers. When nothing happened, she snapped them again. And again.

One of the zombies took this as his cue to begin a musical number, but thankfully was interrupted before he could sing.

“I wish to read from a prepared statement,” said a zombie at the front door, as the zombies began shuffling forward. “This has been signed by all of us. ‘To whom it may concern. We are sick and tired of the oppression brought upon us by the dictatorial policies of the management. If our grievances are not heard and acted upon, we shall be forced to take severe measures.'”

The zombie cleared his throat, being one of the few zombies whose throat was in clearable condition. “Okay, here are our grievances,” he said. “First, we are fed up with the lack of decent food around here. I guess ‘fed up’ isn't the best way to phrase that, but you know what I mean. We're not saying you have to breed humans for us, just quit killing so many of them in the Realm of Mystery! Ditch the ‘legs’ question.”

“I'm listening,” said Grysh. “What else?”

“Second, we'd like some sort of beautification project implemented in the cemetery. It's embarrassing to have what few victims come around see the place in such deplorable condition. If we could get some cleaning products for the tombstones, we'd be very appreciative. And flowers go a long way.”

“Tulips or daffodils?” Grysh asked.

“What do you guys think?” the zombie foreman asked his comrades. They discussed it amongst themselves for a few moments. “Could we get back to you on that?” the foreman asked.

“Of course. Anything else?”

“Yes. A change of clothes would be nice. Most of us were buried in our finest garments, but it's been a while, and they're starting to get tattered. Plus, our rotting flesh isn't doing much for the smell.”

“No problem,” Grysh said.

“There was one more thing,” said the zombie foreman, trying to recall. “Chuck—what was that suggestion you made at the meeting last week?”

“Hats.”

“That's right, we want hats that say ‘Grysh's Graveyard Guardians’ on the front. White ones, with green lettering.”

“I see,” said Grysh. “Anything else?”

“I have something,” said one of the female zombies, raising her hand. “But you'll think it's stupid.”

“Fine. Keep it to yourself then,” said Grysh. “Okay, I'm going to think over these ideas you've brought up, and then reject them!”

The zombies looked surprised. The foreman looked downright flabbergasted. “But I thought—”

He stood there silently for a moment.

“Sorry, I assumed you were going to interrupt me. But I thought you said—”

“Quiet!” snarled Grysh. “You can take your grievances and stick them where the sun only shines at infrequent intervals if at all! Randall, destroy them!”

“I beg your pardon?” asked Randall, who had quit following the conversation shortly after the word “to.”

“Prove your worthiness!” the witch said. “Show these creatures what happens to those who dare challenge my labor policies!”

“Couldn't you turn Sir William back? He really gets into these impossible odds situations.”

“My powers are gone. I'm helpless.”

“That's pretty darn inconvenient, wouldn't you say?”

“Tell me about it. Last century I was levitating the entire populace of Friesner over the nearby tar pits when they went out. Didn't get invited back for months.”

“Could I have a weapon or something?”

“Stop stalling!” said Demon Baby. “Can't you see that they'll be right upon us in nearly half an hour?”

Randall knew this was the moment of truth. If he was going to prove his bravery, he'd have to do it now. This was the instant in his life that decided whether he was a true hero, or a lowly coward.

Then the instant passed with no real revelation.

But another moment of truth soon arrived, and Randall took advantage of this one. He walked over to the water that had pooled on the floor from Grysh's wringing, then yanked off his loincloth.

“I can see his loins!” said one of the zombies.

Throwing all modesty aside, Randall crouched down and soaked up most of the water with the cloth. Then he stood back up and prepared for his attack.

“Oh no!” gasped the zombie foreman. “He's twisting his wet loincloth! He'll be able to snap it at us!”

“We've got to shamble away!” shouted another zombie.

The zombies started the lengthy process of turning around so they could retreat. Randall rushed forward and snapped his cloth at the foreman.

“Ow! Stop it!”

Randall snapped it again.

“Stop it, you unfeeling monster! We're leaving!”

“And don't try this again!” Randall ordered. “I'm more than willing to twist my loincloth at a moment's notice!”

Seven minutes and fifty-four seconds after they'd arrived, the zombies were gone. Randall wrung out his loincloth, then put it back on.

“You've done very well,” said Grysh. “How would you like to be my personal servant?”

“Nah.”

“Fine. Now, away with you! Your quest awaits!”

“What about Sir William?”

“He stays here. That's my assurance that you'll return.”

“You'd be more assured of my return if Sir William was along to make sure I didn't get killed.”

“You don't need him. This is your journey, Randall. The princess and the knight will be here when you return. Bring me the Necklace of Power and the other reagents! Now, go!”

She snapped her fingers. Randall vanished.

“He's a good kid,” said Grysh.

Demon Baby nodded his agreement. “So, you think he'll find the necklace? I've never even heard of it before.”

“Of course you haven't. It doesn't exist. I just want to see what he'll do.”

Chapter 9

The Last Single-Digit Chapter Number

RANDALL WAS not ordinarily one to wallow in the negative, but as he walked across the seemingly endless expanse of desert, he decided to do a mental rundown of the bad things in his life at the moment.

He was hot and thirsty. The only liquid for miles was the sweat that had pooled in his shoes. He was lost. All directions looked the same, and he had no idea which way he was supposed to be traveling. He was hungry. He was tired. The loincloth was going to give him a major tan line.

Time passed....

* * * *

RANDALL HAD been wandering for two days, and was growing less and less cheerful about the whole affair. He walked in a daze, eyes glazed over, muttering incoherent things to himself like “Call me Ishmael.” He lacked the materials for a decent sand castle. Even the mirages he saw weren't any good.

Time passed....

* * * *

RANDALL HAD lost it.

“Yondah lies da castle of mah faddah,” he said, over and over, the accent getting worse each time he spoke.

Then he collapsed.

“Person...?”

“Yondah ... yondah ... yondah...”

“Person, please sit up.” It was a high-pitched, tinny voice. “Person, you can't give up.”

“...yondah ... yondah ... burma shave...”

“Just open your eyes,” begged the voice.

Randall opened one as a compromise. There was nobody there. “Don't tell me I expended all that energy for nothing,” he warned.

“Over here. By your ear.”

Randall turned his head. Nobody there.

“No, no, the other ear.”

Randall turned again. Nobody there.

“Sorry, I was moving over to the first ear to save you some trouble. Now I'm behind your head.”

“Not going to look behind my head. You can forget it.”

“I'll move around to your nose. Don't inhale, please.”

“Don't have the strength.”

A tiny beetle-like creature, about the size of a dvorkin (which is about the size of a fully-grown spugglet's tooth), flew in front of his face. “Hi,” it said.

“Okay, I've seen you,” Randall told it. “Could I please die now?”

“I don't want you to die. You're my friend.”

“I've never even met you before.”

“You're still my friend. I love you.”

“Kind of free with the ol’ affection there, aren't you?”

“I can't help it. My heart is just full of love.”

“Well, my heart is full of sand. I can't go any more. I've been walking for three days. My chest hair is all burnt off, and I was very fond of what little I had.”

“But I can help you!”

“If you flew into my mouth and let me eat you, I could probably get another ten feet of walking in.”

“Please, get up. If you follow me, I can take you someplace beautiful where people will be ever so nice to you!”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Beautiful by any standards, or beautiful by the standards of a little bug who's already decided that it loves me?”

“Well, my standards. I guess I'm easily pleased, but still, it has to be better than dying at the edge of the desert.”

“The edge?”

“Relatively speaking. It's a big desert.”

“Wouldn't happen to be a Necklace of Power lying around here, would there?”

“No. Just sand.”

“Figures.”

Using all the force he could muster, Randall got back to his feet. “Follow me,” said the beetle, flying a couple feet ahead of him. “It's not far ... relatively speaking...”

Time passed....

* * * *

THE BUG finished with its life story. It had been born one day, flew around the desert for a while, then found Randall.

“How much further?” Randall asked.

“We're almost there.”

“I don't see anything worth not dying for.”

“Six more steps.”

Randall took six more steps.

“I'm sorry,” said the bug. “I meant miles.”

Time passed....

* * * *

“I HATE everybody,” said Randall.

Time passed....

* * * *

“HOW MUCH further?” asked Randall. Or he thought he asked it. His thoughts and his voice were getting confused.

“Six more steps.”

“I'd hate to have to splat you, bug.”

“I mean it. Six more steps.”

Randall stopped. “Bug, I can see that there's nothing around for at least a thousand more steps. And I'm not talking dinky little crippled baby steps, I'm talking huge there's-a-big-dragon-ready-to-torch-my-tail steps.”

“No, no, six more steps, I promise.”

“Bug, apparently you have some distorted view of what exactly is entailed in taking a step.” He took one step forward. “That there, what I just did, is a step. Six of those will place me in a location that looks suspiciously like it contains more of the sand that I've been walking on for three days. Now, perhaps where you come from the definition of step has been altered in such a way that six of them would result in my being transported to a location that contains something besides the aforementioned sand, but in the world that I have grown to call home, six steps aren't going to do squat!”

“You don't trust me?”

“I trust that you've entered the magical Wonder World where the concept of steps has been drastically mutated into this freakish distortion of the laws of reality, where the alien life forms that possess legs stretching across two hundred of what any non-misshapen human would refer to as a ‘step’ roam freely across the desert without worrying about shriveling up into a withered corpse because there's nothing to drink but sand!”

“I still love you, you know.”

Randall dropped to his knees. “I quit. You hear me? No more steps. No more.”

“Please don't die. Please? Please, please, please? Just a little bit further. That's all I ask.”

“What is it with you? Are you on the Population Increase Committee or something?”

“I just want my friend to live.”

Randall forced himself to stand up again and begin walking. “Five more steps. One. Two. Three. Hmmmm, still lots of sand around here, isn't there? Four. The sand hasn't noticeably decreased. Five. That's it, I'm dooooooooooooooone...”

While he rarely stretched out his vowel sounds in normal conversation, in this instance his speech pattern was altered by the fact that the sand beneath him had given way, dropping him into a tunnel. He slid down the twisting tunnel for several seconds, then dropped painfully onto a stone floor right next to a nice fluffy cushion.

“See, I told you it wasn't in the right place,” said a man dressed in a lavender robe. There were four of them, seated around a table. Randall was in a small stone chamber, containing little besides the table and walls lined with books.

“It's a spy!” shouted one of the men, standing up and pointing accusingly.

“Kill him!”

The other three men stood up and pulled daggers out of their robes. One of them took out two daggers and looked smugly at the others.

Oh, thank you so much, bug, thought Randall.

At that moment, the bug flew down the tunnel into the chamber. “Don't hurt him! He's my friend!”

The men looked at the bug, mouths agape. “I don't know about the rest of you,” said one of them, “but when a talking bug asks me not to hurt somebody, I listen.”

The other men nodded their agreement and replaced their daggers. The man with two daggers was more reluctant than the others, and made a big show out of putting both of them away.

“Please,” said the bug, “my friend needs food and water.”

“But water is precious around here,” said one of the men. He wore a name tag on his cloak that said Frederick. “If he wants us to share ours, he'll have to do without the lemon flavoring and the ice.”

“That's right,” said Roderick of the two daggers. “Do you want to fight about it?” he asked, reaching hopefully into his robe.

“Any water is fine,” said Randall.

Maverick picked a canteen up from the table and brought it over to Randall. Randall unscrewed the top and drank vigorously.

“Food is precious, too,” said Frederick. “If you want us to share, I'm going to have to sneeze on it first.”

“No problem,” said Randall, finishing off the contents of the canteen. The fourth man, Rick, got up, went over to one of the walls and began searching through the books. He pulled out one volume, titled The Book That Opens the Secret Passage, and a secret passage did not open.

“Wrong book,” said Roderick.

“Oh, yeah.” Rick pulled out This Book Does Nothing Whatsoever. The bookshelf rotated, spilling out most of the books in a clatter that shook the room.

“We need to figure out a way to keep them from doing that,” said Maverick. “Who has clean-up duty today?”

The shelf finished rotating, revealing a secret tunnel. It was lined with shelves containing all manner of food products, from bread to Hugo's Happy Ham. The tunnel continued further into darkness.

“Where does that tunnel lead?” asked Randall.

“Into darkness,” Roderick replied, with more than a hint of “duh” in his voice.

“It's a secret,” said Frederick. “A secret we are not prepared to reveal at this time, unless you should join us in our mission to assassinate the King of Rainey by crawling through a tunnel...”

“Not necessarily this one,” added Roderick, giving him a warning glare.

“Oh, right. Not necessarily this one, but a certain tunnel that leads right underneath the royal bedroom, enabling us to sneak up there in the middle of the night and slay the beast who has victimized our people for so long.”

“Which people?” asked Randall.

“Us four. The king has kept us in poverty for too long!”

“What do you mean, poverty? Look at all that food!”

“Look more closely,” said Maverick. “Maybe it's just my eyes, but I only see one variety of butter.”

“The king is an evil presence,” said Roderick. “He must be destroyed. Will you help us?”

“I have sort of a conflict of interest here,” Randall admitted. “The King of Rainey was expecting me to arrive yesterday.”

“He knows you?” asked Frederick.

“Well, sort of. Mostly he knows the knight I squire for.”

“Does he trust you?” asked Roderick.

“I would think so, although I am kind of arriving without my knight and the princess we were supposed to be bringing. That might cut down on the trust factor a bit.”

“Can you gain his confidence?” asked Maverick.

“What's all this about?” Randall asked. “I thought you were just going to sneak into his room at night and kill him.”

“Ah, but that was the simplified version,” said Frederick. “With you here, we can use the complex version, which is much more rewarding.”

“I'm a squire,” said Randall. “I'm employed by the king of Mosiman, who is on good terms with the king of Rainey, them being charades partners and all. I can't help you.”

Roderick looked into the secret tunnel. “What are you doing?” he demanded of Rick.

“Adding mustard to his sandwich.”

“He refuses to help us in our mission, and you give the man condiments?”

“My gosh, Roderick, we're not animals!” Rick insisted.

“Very well. But I don't want you making the mustard into a smiley face like you do for the rest of us.”

Rick nodded and rubbed out the artwork with his palm.

“You know,” said Maverick, “I'm not sure it's a good idea keeping this squire alive. He knows of our plan. What's to stop him from warning the king?”

“We'll keep him here until our mission is complete,” said Frederick.

“But then what's to stop him from telling on us later?”

“Who cares?” asked Frederick. “We were going to take full credit for the assassination anyway.”

“No we weren't,” Roderick corrected. “That was only in the ‘stupid’ version of our plan. We're going with the ‘smart’ one.”

“Oh, that's right. I guess we should kill him.”

“You have a choice,” Roderick told Randall. “You join us, or you die.”

A great sense of duty came upon Randall. He tried to shoo it away, but it stuck. “I will not join you,” he said, his voice taking on the manly tone that years of practice had previously been unable to produce. “I will die before I do so.”

“Fine,” said Roderick, taking out his daggers.

Randall waited for the bug to speak up. But a quick survey of the room revealed that the bug was nowhere to be found.

“Looking for...this?” asked Frederick, holding up a jar.

“Uh, no,” said Randall.

“Then what about...this?” asked Frederick, holding up another jar. This one contained the bug, flying around, desperately trying to escape.

“You wretch!” shouted Randall. “Let the bug go!”

“The bug goes nowhere. If you don't help us, I promise you I will squash it like a rabbit!”

“Please don't let the bad man hurt me!” said the bug, its voice muffled by the glass.

“So,” sneered Roderick, “you have all of ten seconds to decide your plan of action. Starting now.”

“I'll join you,” said Randall. “Just don't hurt it.”

“Excellent. Rick, bring him his sandwich, and then open the other secret passage. Our new partner needs his rest before the mission tomorrow morning.”

He began to laugh maniacally, then decided that the situation wasn't so much ha-ha funny as it was filled with glee, so he settled for wringing his hands with joy.

And, as the books tumbled to the floor, Randall knew he was about to face the greatest dilemma of his life so far.

Chapter 10

A Completely Serious Chapter

AS RANDALL lay on the cot in the hidden room, he wondered what was going to happen next.

Chapter 11

If This Were Chapter Twenty-Eight,

The Book Would Be Over

“WAKE UP,” said Frederick, prodding Randall with a turnip.

“Why exactly are you prodding me with a turnip?” he asked.

“Oh, I don't know,” admitted Frederick, staring at the turnip in his hand as if he'd never seen it before. “I guess it was available, and I needed something to prod you with, and the two factors sort of merged.”

“That's all right,” said Randall. “I just thought it was unusual is all.”

“Well, rise and shine. It's time to assassinate the king.”

“Oh, happy, happy day.”

“You should know that sarcasm is grounds for bug-squashing. Now get up so we can go over the plan.”

* * * *

RANDALL SAT at the table with the other four men. He was wearing a set of clothes they provided which managed to avoid the adjectives “dapper", “tasteful", “comfortable", and “color-coordinated.” Even the pocket lint managed to be well behind current fashion.

“Now, what's the plan again?” Maverick asked.

“Don't screw up or Bug's dead,” Randall replied.

“Good.” Maverick slid a gold necklace across the table toward him. “You're going to wear this. It's magic, and will let us see everything you do and hear everything you say, so don't try anything sneaky.”

Randall picked up the necklace. “I'm really not into adornments. Too superficial.”

“Put it on,” said Maverick.

“It clashes with my shirt.”

“Tuck it under the shirt.”

“It clashes with my chest.”

“Don't be a dipwad.”

“What exactly is a dipwad?”

“Somebody who ticks me off and gets a foot up their nose.”

“Whose foot? Yours or mine?”

“Both. One in each nostril.”

“That would make me look goofier than just wearing the necklace, right?”

“Right.”

Randall put it on. “I don't suppose this would be the fabled Necklace of Power?”

Roderick shook his head. “Never heard of the Necklace of Power. Remember, if this necklace comes off, the bug gets stomped.”

“You guys are getting a little redundant with those bug threats. I'm liable to become desensitized.”

The men stood up. “Let's go,” said Frederick. “You know what to do.”

“Question: If I legitimately forget what I'm supposed to do, am I going to be penalized?”

Frederick sighed. “Are you really that stupid or are you just trying to lull us into a false sense of security?”

“I'm really that stupid,” Randall replied. Actually, he was trying to lull them into a false sense of security, but was far too intelligent to reveal such a thing.

“Come on, let's go,” urged Roderick. “You've got a lot of work to do today.”

* * * *

THE WALK through the secret tunnel was very long, but was kept interesting by the graffiti that lined the tunnel walls. Randall learned lots of new rhymes for body parts he didn't even know existed.

After about an hour, they reached a trap-door in the seven-foot-high ceiling that was labeled “The King's Bedroom.” As they proceeded down the tunnel, they passed other trap-doors labeled “Library", “Kitchen", “Stables", “Locker Room", “Martial Arts Training Facility", “Marital Arts Training Facility", and “Room With The Cow Figurine.” Finally they reached one labeled “Castle Entrance.”

“This door leads to a small area hidden by bushes,” Frederick explained. “That way nobody will see you come up. Good luck.”

“Yes, good luck,” said Rick. “Please don't let the fact that we're forcing you into this detract from your job satisfaction.”

He reached up and yanked on the handle of the trap-door. Some dirt and leaves dropped down into the tunnel as the door opened, as well as a ten-foot-high marble statue of the king. It struck the floor with an ear-shattering crash.

“Hmmmm...” said Rick. “That didn't happen last time.”

“Yes it did,” Frederick reminded him.

“Oh, that's right. I promised I'd do something about it. How embarrassing.”

“Shouldn't we run?” asked Randall. “Somebody had to have heard that.”

“Maybe,” said Roderick, “but that's not our problem. We'll help you squeeze past the statue so you can get to work.”

As Randall reached up and grabbed the edge of the trap door, Roderick, Maverick, and Frederick hoisted him up to the surface, while Rick dealt rather poorly with the realization that the statue had come down upon his foot, wrecking his pedicure. Upon reaching solid ground, Randall stood up to find himself nose-to-sword with a savage-looking guard.

“What's going on here?” the guard demanded. He obviously wasn't a particularly bright guard, as evidenced by the “Kick-Me” sign on his chest.

Randall pointed to the statue head, which protruded through the open doorway. “Statue fell.”

“You're absolutely right, it did.” The guard peered through the gap between the statue and the doorway. “Is anyone else down there?”

Randall shook his head.

“What about the person screaming in pain?”

“He doesn't count.”

“Ah, I see. So why are you here?”

“I desire an audience with the king.”

“Is that so? What makes you think the king is interested in anything you have to say?”

“I was part of the escort group responsible for bringing Princess Janice of Mosiman here.”

“I don't see Princess Janice.”

“Well, there's a little of her right here under my fingernails—er, I mean, that's what I wanted to discuss with the king.”

“I'll have to think about it,” said the guard.

“How long will that take?”

“I'm already done. Might as well get the stuff you hate out of the way, right? Okay, I'll take you in to see the king, but you have to promise you won't make elephant sounds at him.”

“Does that happen very often?”

“Actually, you'd be surprised how rarely it occurs. In fact, I'm considering not mentioning it any more when people like you want to talk to him, especially with all the more serious problems we've had lately involving assassination attempts.”

“Those are a pain.”

“Tell me about it. I'm not a man who takes pleasure in torturing guilty parties to death. The only good part of it is that the torture usually lasts long enough to get me some overtime. But I really prefer not to be in such close proximity to a man's privates, even if the actual contact is made by red-hot pliers.”

Randall began to feel light-headed.

“Anyway, I'll raise the drawbridge for you.” The guard handed Randall a ticket. “They'll tear this at the entrance to the royal chamber. Hang on to your stub for the raffle later tonight. You can win a monkey.”

The guard led Randall to the edge of the moat, then gave a loud whistle. The drawbridge dropped, smashing into the ground in a cloud of dust and pieces of wood. An important-looking board in the center fell off into the dark water.

“We need to think about putting shorter chains on this thing,” the guard remarked.

“Is that safe to walk across?” asked Randall, nervously.

“Oh, sure. Lots of people have walked across it safely. You can see all the places where the wood has bent in their footsteps.”

Randall peered down into the moat. “What's down there?”

“A series of billions upon billions of molecules consisting of two parts hydrogen combined with one part oxygen.”

“And what else?”

“Nasty stuff. Nasty, nasty stuff.”

Randall placed a tentative foot on the drawbridge. The wood creaked as if to say “You're goin’ down, buddy.”

“Don't worry about that creak,” said the guard. “It just started doing that, so it can't be too serious.”

Randall took a step forward. The bridge held.

For .000371 of a second.

His legs broke through and he plummeted into the freezing water up to the waist. He threw out his arms in the nick of time, bracing his elbows on the bridge.

“Help me out of here!” shouted Randall.

“Heck no. That wood won't hold me. I use the main entrance around the corner.”

A hand from below grabbed Randall's ankle.

“Supplementary problem!” Randall announced.

Another hand began to take off his shoe. Randall strained to pull himself out of the water, but the grip was too tight.

“You've got to help me!” Randall shrieked. “Something's got me! It's got me!”

The guard went pale and began to back away. “Oh, no—not them ... not them...”

“Not what?” The hand had gotten his right shoe off, while a third went to work on the left. The wood around Randall's arms was beginning to sink, as if he might completely break through at any instant.

His left shoe was pulled off.

Five fingers pressed against the sole of his foot.

And began to tickle.

“Gaaaaaah!” said Randall. He'd always been exceptionally ticklish, and this was no wimp tickle. This was the tickle of a master. He began howling with uncontrollable laughter in sort of a hoo-hee-hoo-hee-hoo-hee pattern.

A hand began to tickle his other foot as well, and hyena mode went into full gear. The tickling was maddening.

Then the floodgates of his mind opened, and long-hidden memories rushed forward....

* * * *

"WOULD MY little eight-year-old Randy care for some more yummy beets?"

“Sure, Grandma! That'd be neat!”

Grandma smiled and added more giblets to his plate. “And would you, in the house where I've raised you since the death of your mother, like some more yummy asparagus?”

Randy nodded enthusiastically, and Grandma gave him another spoonful of the giblets. “And, since your father is on a quest and unable to do so himself, would my darling like me to get him some ... pickled yams?”

“Yeah! Yeah! Pickled yams! Pickled yams!”

Grandma gave him the last of the giblets, then sat back in her chair. “Grandma loves her sweetheart, you know.”

“I love you too, Grandma.”

“And I hope my precious little pumpkin will love me just as much after I reveal the dark, demented secret I've been keeping from you all these years. Clean your plate, dear, so I can show my little dumpling what Grandma has hidden in the attic.”

“I love surprises!”

Mental flash-forward.

"Grandma, why do you keep the attic door locked?"

“That's part of the little secret, honey.”

“But why eight locks?”

“All will be revealed.” Grandma reached up and began unfastening the locks, one by one. “Now, hold the sword steady, lovey-bump, and make sure your precious little eyes don't show any fear, okay?”

“Okay, Grandma.”

She let the door drop open. Randy looked up into the attic, and then—

* * * *

STRONG ARMS pulled Randall out of the cold water and back to solid ground.

“Your screams helped me relive an incident in my youth that unlocked my long-buried courage,” said the guard. “Thank you.”

“You have to put me back in!” Randall insisted. “I was just about to confront something important in my childhood!”

“No way. I've seen knights reduced to blubbering infants by those Ticklers. You want to confront your past, find some other near-death experience.”

“I have to do this!” said Randall. “I have to know what was kept in the attic!”

And with those fateful words, he leapt back into the hole in the bridge. The tickling began anew.

* * * *

“FUGGLE QUAMBLY riggi rigga zoop,” said Grandma, scratching one of her foreheads with a mustache somebody had dropped.

“Unga,” replied Randy.

“Geezeele yab.” Grandma closed the door to the worm-stretching room, then sat down to hatch an egg.

* * * *

RANDALL SNAPPED out of the distorted memory and began screaming for help. The tickling was getting out of control.

“Oh, who wants assistance now?” asked the guard. “I wasn't good enough for you a minute ago, but now I'm your bestest friend in the whole world, huh?”

“Please!” shouted Randall. “I can't take it anymore!”

“What'll you give me?”

“What do you want?”

“I want a pony.”

“Fine! I'll get you a pony! Just pull me out of here!”

“A brown pony.”

“Okay, okay! A brown pony!”

“With a white streak.”

“Forget that. I'm not going to spend all day looking for one with a white streak.”

“All right, plain brown is good enough.” The guard went over and pulled Randall to dry land once more.

“Thanks,” said Randall. “I forgot that you can't really start dreams up again if you wake up in the middle of them.”

“Where's my pony?”

“You'll get it before I leave. Could you show me the main entrance, please?”

The guard escorted Randall to the main entrance. He walked across the bridge of stone and polished crystal and into the main courtyard, where dozens of people were enjoying the sunshine and going about their everyday business.

Except for one short man with a beard, who was pointing at Randall and shouting with fury.

“He's one of them! He's here to kill our king!”

Chapter 12

The Happy Chapter

FOR THE briefest of moments, Randall allowed himself to believe that the man might have been referring to somebody else. As it turned out, he was, but that didn't matter because the six guards in the near vicinity assumed he was pointing at Randall.

“Get him!” one of the guards shouted.

“Yeah, get him!” shouted another.

“Good idea, let's get him!” shouted a third.

“That's right, let's get him!” shouted a fourth.

“I'm tired,” said a fifth.

“It's settled then! We'll get him!” shouted a sixth.

The guards drew their swords. Randall spun around just in time to see the gate to the main entrance slam shut. He was trapped like a lactating cow in the barn at milking time. The guards, who were in a semi-circle, began to advance upon him. Only fifty feet separated Randall from certain death.

With a sinking heart, Randall realized that his depth perception was a bit out of whack, and it was actually twenty-five feet that separated him from certain death.

The gap continued to close. Twenty feet.

Randall tried to think of a way to escape. He was thankful the guards were moving fairly slowly instead of taking the more logical approach of moving fairly quickly, giving him time to work out a plan.

Fifteen feet.

If only he could reach the horse-drawn carriage at the far wall, he could leap upon it, subdue the driver, and ride the carriage to safety. But he wasn't even close to the carriage, didn't think he could make the leap, had no weapons with which to subdue the driver, and didn't see any safe place to ride the carriage.

Ten feet. (3.048 meters)

Then he saw his chance.

Eight feet.

The extra two feet had totally screwed up his chance.

Six feet.

He could see the whites of their eyes. The blues, browns, and hazels of their irises. The blacks of their pupils. The reds of their lens suspensory ligaments.

Four feet.

Time was running out. If Randall was going to act, he had to act now. This was his last chance.

Two feet.

“Ah, screw it,” he said. “I surrender.”

The guards stopped moving forward. All of them had their swords pointed at Randall's throat. “Give us one good reason why we shouldn't kill you,” they said, in rather impressive unison.

“Well,” said Randall, “I've never knowingly practiced cannibalism.”

“That's an okay reason,” admitted five of the guards in unison. The sixth was distracted by a caterpillar.

An old crone dressed in rags and sponges pushed through the guards and took hold of Randall's necklace. “I recognize this accursed object!” she snarled. “This belongs to the Hey, Let's Kill Us A King underground movement! This man is a spy!” She moved to the side. “Slay him now!”

“No!” said one of the guards in nothing resembling unison. “He must be made an example of! We will give him a public execution at dawn!”

“Aw, why do we have to get up so early?” asked another guard.

Randall tried to take a casual step backward. The guards immediately brought the tips of their swords even closer to his throat. “Stop that right now!” they said, sounding like a barbershop quartet. “Put your hands in the air!”

Randall put his hands in the air, accidentally smacking the old crone in the process. “He's gone berserk!” shouted a commoner in the courtyard. A woman screamed.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Randall ducked underneath the swords, and in the most important game of Red Rover, Red Rover he'd ever played, broke through the line of guards and took off running down the center of the courtyard toward a huge fountain. The center of the fountain contained a huge statue of Osiris, Goddess of Hot Loving.

“Get him!” shouted one of the guards.

“Oooh, good call,” said a terribly sarcastic commoner, who was promptly trampled by seven pairs of guard's boots, including the one that went back and trampled him a second time.

At the base of the fountain, Randall considered his options. Option #1: Find a way to escape. Option #2: Die. After taking a moment to think about it, he selected Option #1, which involved more effort but had a preferable outcome.

He surveyed his surroundings.

South: Six angry guards running toward him, swords raised. Bad direction to move.

West: The horse-drawn carriage. A brick wall. A few random commoners. A cannon with the fuse lit. Bad direction to move.

East: Another brick wall. A few more random commoners. A fat guy selling pudding. A ape-like man holding a six-foot-long sword with “Widow Maker and Breaker” carved on the blade. Bad direction to move.

North: The fountain. Past the fountain, the gateway to another area of the kingdom, leading to dangers untold. Quality of direction to be determined later.

Up: Top of the fountain. Good vantage point. Chance to say he climbed to the top of the Osiris statue. Optimum choice at this venture.

He jumped into the cold, sparkling, tangy waters of the fountain, reached for the nearest Osiris curve, and began to climb.

“He's done for!” said one of the guards. “With the temperature of that water and this unseasonably cool breeze, he'll have pneumonia before he knows it!”

Several curves later, Randall reached the top of the fountain statue and stood on Osiris's shoulders. He looked out around the kingdom and realized he was doomed, though he did take a moment to admire the exquisite architecture and layout of this kingdom. The castle was a healthy run away, and most likely contained a guard or two. Aside from leaping over the walls, there didn't seem to be any exits beyond the way he'd come in.

He noticed another statue next to the entrance of the castle. It was of Soderstrom, God of War and Pinochle. Then Randall wished he hadn't noticed the statue first, because the archers with arrows drawn were far more noteworthy. They fired.

An arrow struck Randall in the right shoulder. Then another struck his left leg. Another struck his chest. Then one got him between the eyes. Randall especially disliked the one that got him between the eyes.

As one of the archers favored his partners with a resounding “I told you so” regarding the ineffectiveness of foam arrows, despite the fact that they didn't break as easily, Randall decided his only possible course of action was to leap down upon the horse-drawn carriage. Four of the guards were climbing the statue after him, and even if they chose to savor the experience they'd be at the top soon.

He took a deep breath ... and jumped.

* * * *

ATOP THE highest mountain in the land, in a tiny hut made from dried mud and feathers, two wise old men sat cross-legged on the floor, both touching the crystal ball that rested between them. The image within the ball was that of Randall, taking a deep breath in preparation for his heroic jump.

“Do ye think he'll make it?” asked the first.

“Aye,” said the second. “What think ye?”

“I think nay,” said the first. “But I accept your right to think aye, though it clashes with my thoughts of nay.”

“Why has the image stopped moving?” asked the second.

“'Tis poor reception,” said the first, “but it does offer a benefit for ye and I. By delaying our knowledge of whether or not the poor soul made his jump, the suspense is being heightened.”

“Aye,” agreed the second. “And a fine benefit it is, too. Were he to simply make the jump, or fail to make it, as ye believe will be the case, t'would be a brief emotional reaction indeed. But since we know not the end result, every moment spent basking in this lack of knowledge increases our desire to know, and increases the excitement we feel deep within our hearts.”

“Aye. This delay ‘tis a fine technique indeed.”

“Fine, fine indeed.”

“But perhaps ‘tis being stretched out a bit too far.”

“Nay,” said the second. “I still find the suspense heightened.”

“'Tis not my opinion at all,” said the first. “I find myself growing weary, and soon I shan't care at all whether the squire lands upon the carriage or lands upon the solid ground in a broken heap.”

“I must admit, at the beginning of your last utterance I did not agree, though I certainly was aware of your right to an opinion, but as time passed and your utterance came to its natural conclusion, my feelings had changed to that of agreement.”

“Thank you,” said the first.

“You're welcome,” said the second.

“Of course, your opinions being your own, thanking ye was probably not necessary.”

“But t'was a gracious gesture.”

“Indeed.”

They returned their attention to the crystal ball, where Randall was three inches into his leap....

* * * *

“HE JUMPED! I can't believe it!” said Archer #1a.

“Well, it's not like he had much choice,” said Archer #1b.

“I don't think he's going to make it to the carriage.”

“Oh, of course he will. It's not that big of a jump.”

“Bet you ten dvorkins he pops on impact.”

“You're on.”

Archers #1a and #1b watched for a moment.

“Well, guess I won,” said the one who won the bet.

“Yep.”

“Where're my dvorkins?”

“Double or nothing on the elf tossing tonight.”

“Cool.”

* * * *

SIX INCHES INTO his leap, Randall knew that he was going to make it. Six feet into his leap, he noticed that the back of the carriage was filled with axes, spikes, spears, and hot coals.

He began flapping his arms, desperately trying to disrupt his forward momentum. He said several dozen bad words. He went “Aaaaaaaarrrgh!”

Then he landed on neither the ground nor the carriage, but a guard. Instead of providing a soft, fluffy landing spot, the guard provided a solid, bony landing spot, and Randall immediately fell from the guard's body to the ground. The unhurt guard pointed his sword at Randall's pinky.

“You're dead,” he said.

“I feel that way,” Randall agreed.

Within seconds, Randall was surrounded by more guards and their swords. Then, a second later, he re-entered the familiar world of artificially induced unconsciousness.

* * * *

WHEN HE WOKE up, he was sitting on a chair in a small, brightly-lit room. He was still wearing the necklace, and was seated across a table from a bald, intelligent-looking man with a waxed mustache. Two guards stood at the doorway.

“Hello there,” said the man. “My name is Alan. I'm the king's advisor. I understand you've gotten yourself in a bit of trouble, something along the lines of being caught attempting to assassinate our king. Is that true?”

“No,” said Randall. “I just needed to deliver a message regarding Sir William and Princess Janice from Mosiman Kingdom.”

“Why were you running from the guards?”

“They were chasing me.”

“Why are you wearing that necklace?”

“It helps my sore throat.”

“I'm sorry, but I just don't believe you,” said Alan, crossing his arms in front of his chest in an I'm-sorry-but-I-just-don't-believe-you gesture. “Your eyes are rapidly blinking and avoiding contact with mine, a definite body language signal that you're lying. You're sweating, implying nervousness, and I've noticed a large number of carotid artery pulsations, also implying nervousness. Plus, there's the additional detail that your story sounds like total ka-ka.”

“I'm not lying,” Randall insisted.

“You put your finger between your lips when you said that,” Alan noted. “Do you know what that means?”

“I was sucking something out from under my fingernail?”

“It means you're lying. If I had a torch handy, I'd ignite your pants just to make my point that much more clear. And because I'm a closet pyromaniac. I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to turn you over to be executed. Unless...”

Randall leaned forward.

“Ah, you're expressing interest. Good. I've created a lie detector test. A magical one. Are you willing to take it?”

Randall hesitated. A lie detector test was rather unappealing considering that he was lying. “I don't think so.”

“Wimp.”

“I don't like magic.”

“Pansy.”

“I had a bad experience with magic. My uncle was turned into a toad. Wrecked every social gathering with that tongue of his. Stuck it to everything and everyone.”

“Momma's boy.”

“Okay, I'll take the test! Jeez!”

Alan nodded at one of the guards, who exited the room and returned a minute later holding a steel box. Attached to the box was a coil of golden wire, and what looked like a silver stake. The guard set the box down on the table in front of Alan, then returned to his post by the door and looked stern again.

Alan picked up the stake. “First I have to shove this through your skull to make the connection with your brain.”

“I don't believe I'm going to let you do that.”

“Well, granted, that is the more inconvenient method. Holding it in your hand should work just as well.” Alan handed the stake to Randall. “Now, it's very simple. If you tell the truth, the box will go ‘beep.’ If you lie, the box will go ‘beep’ but with more treble. Understand?”

“Yes.” Beep.

“Ah, the truth. Very good. Is your name Randall?”

“Yes.” Beep.

“Do you come from the kingdom of Mosiman?”

“Yes.” Beep.

“Do you find me physically attractive?”

“No.” Beep.

One of the guards stepped forward. “Do you ever get the urge to run around flapping your arms and going ‘Awk, awk, awk!'”

“No.” Beep.

The other guard also stepped forward. “Do you find the word ‘wiener’ inherently amusing?”

“No.” Beep with more treble.

“You're lying to us,” said Alan.

“Sorry.” Beep with even more treble.

A guard spoke up. “Do you have an unnatural craving for tapioca?”

“Have you ever put sawdust in your loin cloth?”

“Do you ever wish you could change your name to Chuckles?”

“Why you wanna do me so bad?”

“Have you ever gotten your tongue stuck in a bottle of wine? I mean, really stuck.”

“If you could be any kind of tree, what kind would you be?”

“Okay, that's enough,” said Alan. “Now, time for the real question.” He leaned forward and locked eyes with Randall. “Are you here to do harm to our king?”

Chapter 13

The Chapter With (Hopefully) The Fewest Typos

“NO,” SAID Randall, “I am not here to not do harm to your king.” Beep.

“What did you say?” asked Alan.

Randall set down the spike. “I am not here to do harm to your king.”

“That's not what it sounded like. It sounded like there was an extra ‘not’ in there somewhere.”

“I sometimes hear extra ‘nots’ in sentences, too. It's very strange. Well, there must be some logical explanation for it. Can I go now?”

“Pick up the spike,” said Alan.

“You don't trust me?”

“Would I be giving you the lie detector test in the first place if I trusted you?”

Hesitantly, Randall picked up the spike.

“Now,” said Alan, “tell me that you're not here to harm the king.”

“I'm not here to harm the king.” Beep.

“Why did you emphasize the word ‘here'?” demanded Alan.

Randall dropped the spike. “To make my voice more interesting.”

“That's the second time you've dropped the spike before speaking. That means you're nervous. I think you emphasized ‘here’ to fool the machine into thinking you didn't mean to cause harm to the king in this very room.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“Here's what you're going to do. You're going to pick up the spike. You're going to say ‘I did not come to this kingdom with the intent of in any way, directly or indirectly, causing harm to the king.’ Those words are to be said in a monotone. Understand?”

Randall picked up the spike.

“Say it,” urged Alan.

“I did not come to this kingdom with the intent of...” Randall trailed off as he stared at the steel box.

“Finish the sentence!” said Alan. “Now!”

“A tree fell in the woods, nobody was there, and it made a sound!” shouted Randall.

The box, not knowing how to answer, began to quiver. As Alan gasped, the box suddenly began emitting a steady stream of beeps, alternating between those with and without extra treble. Then it began to melt.

“My lie-detector!” Alan cried. “My precious box! Child of my loins!”

The guards rushed forward. Randall stood up, waving the spike at them. “Stay back!” he ordered.

“That spike is kind of pointy,” said one of the guards, cautiously stepping back toward the door.

“I want to talk to the king,” said Randall, waving the spike some more because his newfound sense of power was intoxicating. “I'm not going to cause any problems like commenting on his dandruff or anything, I just need to talk.”

“You wrecked my box!” Alan said. “I can't believe you wrecked my box! Ten years I spent bribing wizards to make that for me!”

“Shall I go get one of the others out of the storage room?” asked a guard.

“No, don't bother. He'll just wreck that one, too.” Alan glared at Randall. “I have to admit, I don't quite believe your story. But I'm a nice guy, and I'm just going to assume that your destruction of my lie detector was an expression of rage toward magical technology and not an attempt to get out of telling the truth. I'll grant you an audience with the king. You may join him for lunch.”

“What're we having?”

“I'm not sure.”

“Can you find out?”

“No. Had you not threatened me with a spike, perhaps I would make the effort, but as things stand you're going to have to go into the meal blind.”

“Well, that's okay.” Randall set down the spike. “Do you think I could get a new set of clothes?”

“Certainly,” said Alan. “Clothes that tacky can always be replaced.”

* * * *

IN ONE OF the more blatant coincidences of the land, almost all of the kings within a sixteen-kingdom area had the first name of Waldo. King Waldo of Mosiman, King Waldo of Lockhart, King Waldo of McNaughton, etc. Even King Herbert of Zulkosky ordered his subjects to call him Waldo because he felt it had great dignity. This use of the name Waldo had led to a terrible tragedy in the War That Happened Ten Years Ago, when all the Waldos went to war over the numbers after their name. Finally, they had reached an agreement to drop the numbers, though a king would still try to refer to himself as Waldo the Thirteenth (widely considered the coolest name) on occasion.

The king of Rainey, however, was named Irving. Irv for short, Irvington for long, Ir for very short. Feeling left out, he had decided to take the stance that Waldo was a rather silly name best reserved for nerds and the mentally ill. To make his point, he'd secretly formed the League of Waldos, a roving gang of thugs consisting of nerds and the mentally ill that went from kingdom to kingdom causing all kinds of trouble. It was his intent that this would give the name Waldo a bad name, which would then make him the most powerful king in the land.

So far, his plan had achieved approximately squat.

Which is why, as he sat at the table in the royal dining room, his thoughts were elsewhere.

“Your Highness?” prodded Alan.

“Huh? What?”

“I believe your thoughts were elsewhere, as shown by your glazed eyes and lolling tongue.”

“Oh, I guess you're right. How unregal of me.” He sat up and turned his attention to Randall. “So, squire, what was it you wished to tell me?”

“Well, as you know, I was accompanying Sir William on his errand to bring Princess Janice here.”

“I'll be darned! I did know that!” King Irving wasn't used to knowing what was going on.

“Anyway, there was a slight problem, and now they're lost in the Forest of Death.”

“Well, that doesn't sound so bad. I'll send ten of my best knights there to rescue them.”

“That won't be necessary,” Randall insisted. “I'm sure Sir William can handle the situation, and would be insulted if you were to send help.”

“Well, then, I'll send help but tell the knights to pretend it was a coincidence.”

“Sir William is not the kind of person who appreciates a good coincidence. You should hear him talk about all the Waldo kings.”

King Irving's eyelid twitched. “We can't just have him wandering around the Forest of Death. I hear that a woman named Scar who hangs around there is in possession of a deadly magic crystal.”

“I heard that was just a rumor.”

“No, no, it's the truth. Apparently the crystal used to be part of the legendary Necklace of Powerfulness.”

As Randall pondered this piece of information, the servers entered from the kitchen, holding bowls of soup, which they placed in front of Randall, Alan, and King Irving.

“Remember,” said one of the servers to King Irving, “at the bottom of your bowl is a happy face, so eat it all up!”

Randall looked down into his bowl. The soup was thick and sort of a pale orange color. “What is this?” he whispered to his server.

“Peel soup.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, the peels of fruits and vegetables are the most nutritious part, so that's what this soup is made from. Plus a special sauce.”

“That's disgusting.”

“Shhhhh. Eat up.”

The servers filed out of the room. Randall put his spoon into the soup, and was not pleased to find that the spoon could stand straight up without him holding it.

King Irving swallowed a spoonful. “Ahhh, delicious!” he proclaimed. “So delicious, in fact, that I would be extremely disappointed and unforgiving if my guest should feel differently about the soup and not finish the entire bowl.”

Randall scooped up a spoonful, and lifted it to his mouth. He smelled it. It made his nose hurt.

“So,” he began, “about that necklace crystal. You say it comes from the Necklace of Power?”

“Is that what I said, Alan?”

“No, Your Highness, that is not what you said.”

“Explain to our guest what I said.”

“He said it was the Necklace of Powerfulness.”

“That's exactly what I said.”

Randall continued to hold the spoon next to his mouth. “They're the same thing, right? Is it conceivable that if I were to, say, need the Necklace of Power really bad and were to, say, obtain the Necklace of Powerfulness instead, that it wouldn't make a difference?”

“Heck, I dunno. Eat your soup.”

Randall continued to hold the spoon next to his mouth. “I wonder if Sir William would appreciate me enjoying such a fine meal, while he's no doubt surviving on grubs.”

“That's not our problem. Go on, eat up.”

Randall continue to hold the spoon next to his mouth. Then, calling upon his full reserves of willpower, he placed the spoon inside his open mouth and closed his lips over it. He stayed in that position for a moment. Finally, he pulled the spoon out, leaving the soup behind.

He knew that spitting it out onto the table, gasping for breath, and shrieking “What psychopathic idiot in the kitchen thought this was edible?!?” would be quite a faux pas. As would simply keeling over. But, as desperately as he tried, his throat refused to admit the offending liquid, which meant that his tongue, clearly the suffering party, had to remain in soup-contact.

“Gak,” he said, not meaning to.

“Pardon me?” asked King Irving.

“Gurk,” Randall replied. He pointed across the table. As the king and Alan turned around to look, Randall leaned forward and spit the soup into the flower arrangement in the center of the table.

“What?” asked Alan.

“That painting,” said Randall, gesturing to a painting of a chicken that hung on the wall behind the king and Alan. “It's very artistic. Where'd you get it?”

“The queen did it,” said King Irving. “She says it symbolizes our lack of knowledge, since though the chicken lays an egg, we don't know which came first.”

“It could also symbolize transportation by crossing the road,” Randall pointed out.

“Shut up,” said the king.

Randall looked over at the open window. “Forgive me, but I've always wanted to see what the view is like from a royal dining room. Do you mind?”

“Go right ahead,” said the king.

Randall scooped up a mouthful of the soup, then stood up and walked over to the window. He leaned out, peering down at the commoners below, then spit out the repugnant fluid.

“Nice view from up here,” said Randall. “The people on the ground look like ants.”

“Yes, a rather unfortunate series of mutations,” said Alan. “Probably something in the water. Come to think of it, you might not want to drink any more.”

Randall sat back down at the table. There remained plenty of the hellish swill in his bowl. His stomach began to twist around like a balloon animal being formed. He could almost sense the soup mocking his taste buds, daring them to come closer ... closer....

There had to be someplace else to get rid of the soup. His pants seemed like a poor choice, though he was willing to try it if no other option surfaced.

The king lifted his bowl to his lips and began to slurp the remainder of the soup. Alan did the same. Randall lifted his bowl, shouted “Nervous twitch!” and hurled it across the room. The bowl shattered against the wall.

“Sorry.”

“That's quite a twitch you've got there,” King Irving remarked.

“I know. It's a terrible burden in social situations. Especially romantic ones. You'd be amazed how many amorous moments have been disrupted by my punching a potential lover. Though on one occasion it led our relationship into a whole new area.”

“I'll have some more soup brought out to you,” said King Irving.

“No, that's okay. I need to teach my body a lesson or it'll never learn. I really should be fasting, anyway. It's Saturday, right?”

“Monday.”

“Yep, two days after Saturday on the dot. No food for me.”

“Well,” said the king, “I guess the meal is over. Time to get back to my royal duties, unless you have anything else you'd like to say.”

Randall glanced down at the necklace and remembered his whole reason for being here. “There's a little something, I guess. Nothing important. A tiny tidbit of information I'd like to glean, if you don't mind.”

“Let me guess. Believing that you've gained my trust, you're going to very cleverly try to get me to reveal the secret location of the treasure chest I keep hidden in my room, so that you can steal it quickly after sneaking into my room tonight and slitting my throat, right?”

Randall's blood went cold. “The necklace is a giveaway, isn't it?”

“Yes. Those guys try the same old stuff, week after week. When will they learn?”

Randall tried to emit a good-natured chuckle. “So, I can safely assume that you're aware I was forced into this situation? I mean, I am Sir William's squire.”

“What do you think, Alan?”

“Nothing good, Your Highness.”

“I'm serious,” Randall insisted. “There's this bug, and it saved me from dying in the desert, and the Ricks are holding it hostage unless I work for them!”

“So you're putting a bug above a king?” asked Alan.

“Just now thinking that over, it does sound pretty bad, doesn't it? But I wasn't going to go through with it! I was going to raise an alarm at the last second, giving you a chance to catch the Ricks in the act!”

“I'm sorry,” said the king, shaking his head. “I'm afraid I'm going to have to notify King Waldo of Mosiman that the squire Randall was executed for treason.”

“Notify. Okay. But, in reality, you're just going to banish me, right?”

“No. We're going to guillotine you. Alan, see to it that our guest is given accommodations in our dungeon.”

Chapter 14

A Bummer Situation For Randall

HANDS CHAINED behind his back and two guards flanking him, Randall followed Alan down the spiraling stone stairs into darkness. Spiders scurried in and out of cracks in the wall. A bat flew overhead. A boll weevil got crushed beneath Alan's foot.

After several spirals, they reached the bottom of the stairs and the doorway to the dungeons. They waited a few minutes for the spiral-induced dizziness to wear off and for one of the guards to be sick in private, and then proceeded forward, where they were met by another guard. His skin was burnt all over, and he wore an eyepatch. Unfortunately, he was wearing the eyepatch as a makeshift jockstrap, and it didn't cover nearly enough for Randall's happiness.

The burnt guard gave them a savage grin. “Torture or execution?”

“Execution,” Alan replied, “but I think he could do with a bit of torture first.”

“Good.” The burnt guard took a piece of paper off a nearby desk. “Fill out this torture request form in triplicate, and he'll be taken care of.”

A piercing shriek came from the dungeon area.

“Get him to scream louder!” shouted the burnt guard.

The shriek got louder.

“Increase the pitch!”

The pitch increased.

“Get him to scream ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb'!”

No response.

The burnt guard scowled. “Torturers today, they can't even get a prisoner to shriek a nursery rhyme. In my heyday, we'd have six prisoners singing that in perfect harmony and with all the correct lyrics.”

“Here you go,” said Alan, handing him the paper.

The burnt guard looked it over. “Ah, another crony of the H.L.K.U.A.K. movement. When will they learn?”

After Alan and the two guards left, Randall was led down a long hallway, where miserable-looking prisoners sat in their cells doing nothing. “It's Learn-To-Quilt Week,” said the burnt guard, “but none of them seem to be getting into it. Their loss, I say.”

At the end of the hallway, they rounded a corner. “This is our torture area,” the burnt guard explained. “But here in Rainey Dungeon, we're not just barbarians into physical pain. No, we realize the impact of mental torture as well.”

He stopped by one of the cells. A prisoner was chained to the wall while a pair of torturers stood in front of him.

“You're worthless,” said one.

“You're not just worthless, you're completely worthless,” said the other.

“And nobody likes you.”

“Nobody at all.”

“And you were adopted.”

“By accident.”

The burnt guard continued moving, leading Randall down to the cell at the end of the hall. He shoved him inside, where another pair of guards were waiting. “This is Bob and Ben,” the burnt guard said. “They don't like people.”

Bob and Ben were twins, except that Ben was a little uglier. Not too much, just enough that a casual observer might think that Ben had taken a slightly larger sip of the Ugly Broth at birth. They were both large men, with enormous muscles everywhere one cared to look. They both had exactly one eyebrow each. They had one tooth between them (and Bob was using it at the moment). Their combined stench was enough to explode a small animal from twenty feet away.

“Hello to you, my friend to be. It's too bad you're not here for tea,” said Bob, in a sing-song pattern.

The burnt guard slammed the cell door shut. “He's going to be executed tomorrow,” he said, “so make sure there's enough left of his head to chop off.”

“We shall do that, I'm sure you know. For we are men who run the show.”

“Will you knock it off?” asked Ben. He turned to Randall. “You can't even have a lousy conversation with this guy.”

“My speech is what makes me unique. Into my soul it gives a peek.”

Ben motioned to an unsturdy-looking wooden chair. “Have a seat,” he told Randall. “We'll get started.”

“Yes please sit down, oh one to die. So we can make you want to cry.”

“I'm going to make your ugly face cry if you don't start talking like a normal person instead of some poetry freak.”

“You know the way I feel for rhyme. I like to say them all the time.”

“Can you believe this guy?” Ben asked Randall. “Oh, he thinks he's all impressive, but try to get him to say something he hasn't said a million times already. Watch this. Hey, Bob, what's your opinion of a moose?”

“I must admit I don't like moose. I think that they...” He thought for a moment. “...are far too loose.”

“See? What kind of ridiculous statement is that? I mean, he could have said something like ‘I think that they are worse than goose.'”

“Well, goose would be singular,” Randall said.

“Yeah, that's right. But you've got truce, deuce, abuse, obtuse...”

“None of those have much to do with moose.”

“I must admit I don't like moose. I'd like to hang them from a noose,” said Ben.

“Stoooo-pid.”

“I must admit I hate brown moose. I wish that they came in chartreuse.”

“You see my point?” Bob asked Randall. “That rhyme stuff just doesn't work in a normal conversation.”

“Leave me alone, brother of mine. Or I shall have to...” He trailed off, unable to complete the sentence. “Dang.”

“You've made yourself into a verbal cripple. I hope you're satisfied. Now, let's get to the torture!” He turned to Randall and slapped him across the face. It wasn't a particularly hard slap, but it still stung.

“Gonna cry?” asked Bob. “Huh? Gonna cry? Gonna cry? Is the baby gonna cry?” He reached out and gave Randall's nose a good pinch. “That hurt? Huh? Gonna cry?” He gave Randall's ear a sharp tug. “What about that? That hurt? Gonna cry? Want your mommy? Gonna tell on me? Huh?”

He tapped his finger against Randall's chest. When Randall looked down, he brought his finger up, snapping Randall across the face. “That hurt? Gonna cry? Ben, get me Igor.”

“I shall do just what you request. My brother you are just the best. Ha! Flawless!”

“You had to separate ‘bro’ and ‘ther’ to get the two-beat pattern right. Sounded pretty forced to me.”

Ben sighed and picked up Igor, a small hand puppet of a deformed hunchback. He gave it to Bob, who placed it on his hand, then held it less than an inch from Randall's face. “This is Igor. Kissy, kissy!” He shoved the puppet against Randall's face, moving it in a grinding motion.

“Quit it,” said Randall.

“Oh, he wants me to quit it! Had enough? Has the baby had enough? I'll decide when you've had enough.” He continued grinding the puppet against Randall's face. “Kissy, kissy!”

Annoyed, Randall glanced over at Ben, who was removing something from a coal stove. A red-hot poker.

“It is my turn to bring him pain. No pain, no gain, no pain, no gain.”

Bob stepped out of the way, bringing Igor with him. Ben very slowly began to move forward, the poker out in front of him. When it was three inches from Randall's face, he stopped, moving it up and down, teasing him. Randall frantically tried to blow on it to cool it down.

“Starting to sweat?” asked Bob. “Kind of hot, isn't it? It sure doesn't feel good having a red-hot poker that close to your face, does it? Get it even closer, Ben.”

Ben moved it another half-inch closer. Rivulets of sweat poured down Randall's forehead, and he could barely breathe in his intense fright.

“Put it over by his ear,” suggested Bob. “That'll really be uncomfortable. You know, because your ear is more fragile and all that.”

Ben brought the tip of the poker around next to Randall's ear. He held it there for several seconds. “Okay, that'll do,” said Bob. “Put the poker back in the stove.”

As Ben returned the poker, Igor came back into play. “Kissy, kissy! Kissy, kissy! Gonna cry?”

“All right, he's had enough,” said the burnt guard, appearing at the cell door.

“But I didn't get to use the rubber bands!” Bob protested.

“Tough.”

“Or the glue!”

“Tough.”

“Or the spitballs!”

“I said, tough.” The burnt guard threw open the cell door, entered, and grabbed Randall by the arm. “C'mon, let's go.”

“We shall miss you, I think I'll say. Please do come back some other day.”

“He can't come back, doofus,” said Bob. “He's gonna be dead. See, if you wouldn't worry so much about those rhymes, you wouldn't say stupid things like that. You think he respects you now? You think he's going to go to his grave thinking ‘Gosh, that Ben guy sure was a swell chap!'? No way! He's going to die thinking ‘That rhyming imbecile sure made a twit out of himself.’ I mean, you had a million rhymes for ‘say’ and you still couldn't come up with something intelligent.”

“Fine,” said Ben. “I will never rhyme again. You hear me? I ill-way ever-nay yme-rhay ain-agay.”

“No!” said Bob. “No pig latin! I mean it!”

“Oes-day it other-bay ou-yay?”

Bob lunged at his brother and smashed Igor into his face. The burnt guard shrugged and led Randall out of the cell and back down the hallway. He unlocked the first cell after they rounded the corner and shoved Randall inside with a young man with a tremendously long beard and filthy clothing.

“That's Jack, your cellmate,” said the burnt guard, as he shut the door and left.

Randall surveyed his surroundings. There wasn't much besides the heavily written-upon wall and a bunch of straw on the ground. Jack sat in the corner, watching Randall carefully. Randall looked at him uncomfortably.

“So, what's up?” Randall asked.

“It's a direction. The opposite of down.”

“I see.”

“As do I, and all creatures with eyes.”

“I'm not going to like you, am I?”

Jack grinned. “Just messing with your mind. And you are...?”

“Randall. A squire.” He noticed that the walls were covered with thousands of games of Hangman, every single one of which used the word ‘debutante.’

“My previous cellmate had a one-word vocabulary, but he did love to play Hangman,” Jack explained.

“What happened to him?”

“He was hanged. Poor boy didn't realize the irony until the very end. Are you here for imprisonment or to await execution?”

“Execution.”

“Ah. So it doesn't matter if we get along or not. Me, I've received a sentence of life imprisonment. Once a day I'm taken to be tortured and have that stupid puppet shoved in my face, but aside from that it's not such a bad life.”

“What did you do?”

“Therein lies a tale. Do you want me to share it with you?”

“Is it long?”

“Not too long. A few minutes.”

“How many?”

“Maybe five.”

“Can it be condensed?”

“Not without losing most of the details that give it a you-are-there feel.”

“Okay, go ahead.”

“Thank you. Here's what happened...”

* * * *

ONCE UPON a time, a boy named Jack lived in a small cottage with his mother. The cottage was certainly not “roomy,” and the pastel motif was less than pleasant, but it was home.

One day their cow, Bessie Sue Mae, quit giving milk.

“Jack, I want you to go to the market and sell our cow so that we may have money to buy food for the coming winter months,” she told him.

“Why not just eat the cow?” Jack asked.

“What would the Hindu family next door say? Now go to the market, trade Bessie, and bring back at least five dvorkins. I expect you home by the morrow.”

“I shan't let you down, Mother,” Jack promised. Then he hopped on the cow's back, used his spurs, and galloped off toward the market.

Along the way, he met an old beggar woman. “Young man,” she said, “I am an old beggar woman, tired and hungry. Have you any food to spare?”

“No,” Jack admitted, “But if you tear off a hunk of cow somewhere near the bottom, I don't think anybody will notice.”

“I have a better idea.” The old woman smiled, revealing that she had but one tooth. It was, however, a rather nice tooth, if a bit black and sticky. “If you give me the cow, I'll give you five magic beans.”

Jack, who was somewhat lacking in both haggling skills and rudimentary intelligence, hopped off the cow and took the beans from the woman. “What do they do?” he asked.

“If you eat enough of them, you can clear out any room within minutes,” the woman replied. “But they have an even greater use. If you plant them, an enormous beanstalk will grow, stretching all the way to the sky. If you climb up the beanstalk, you will find yourself in the castle of a terrible giant.”

“Why the hell would I want to do that?”

“It'd be something new.”

Jack thought for a moment. “I guess you're right. Take the cow.”

“Actually,” said the woman, “These beans are worth a whole lot more than just that sorry-looking cow. Give me your sweater, too.”

“But I'll catch my death of cold!”

“These beans will magically provide warmth during your journey home.”

“Just how foolish do you think I am?” Jack demanded.

“You're not foolish at all,” insisted the woman.

“Why, thank you,” smiled Jack, flattered. “Here, take my sweater.”

And so Jack began the walk home. The woman, of course, had lied about the beans providing warmth, but Jack decided that didn't necessarily mean they wouldn't sprout a tremendous beanstalk leading to a giant's castle.

As soon as he arrived home he proudly walked up to his mother. “Mother, guess what I've done!”

“If you didn't do what I said I'm gonna kick your butt so hard that whenever you open your mouth you'll moon someone.”

He held out his hand and showed her the five beans, waiting for the look of joy and pride that would no doubt be crossing her features at any moment.

“You dumb little cretin nerd-like twerp!” she screamed. “These are magic beans! If we eat them, we'll have a beanstalk growing out of our stomachs!” She smacked them out of his hand, and due to perfect wind conditions the beans flew right out the window.