“Zaubera!” he called. The witch’s ghostly face appeared over the edge of the platform, grinning wickedly.
“Well, look what we have here,” she said. “I don’t even need Rundark to finish you off. I’ll just blow on your fingers until you get so ooked out by my ghost breath that you let go.”
She began puffing on his fingertips. And the cold dampness of her breath felt so icky that her plan almost worked. But Frederic was determined.
“No,” he said, straining to hold on. “Zaubera, listen to me: I know you’re not a hundred percent evil. There’s goodness in you.”
“Where?” the ghost-witch said, looking down through her transparent torso. “I certainly don’t see any.”
“The grass down there, the flowers,” Frederic said. “You did that. Why? You must have wanted to bring a little beauty into the world.”
“What?” she spat. “A wicked sorceress isn’t allowed to have a garden? I like to have an attractive backdrop when I slay my enemies.”
“You don’t really want to kill us,” Frederic said.
“Yes, I do,” she said plainly. “And I will. And thanks to all the eyewitnesses watching through my vision orbs, I’ll finally get the fame I deserve.”
Frederic could hear the battle raging on the platform above him, his friends shouting and crying amid the crash and clamor of combat.
“Liam, no!” BAM!
“Look out, Ella! He’s about to—” CRACK!
“Duncan, what happened to your pants?” KA-KRAM!
With all his might, Frederic pulled himself up just high enough to glance over the edge of the platform. He saw his friends on the floor. And he watched as Rundark, with another match in hand, finally lit the cannon’s fuse.
Frederic’s strength wavered, and he dropped back down, hanging once again only by his fingertips. “Don’t let him do it, Zaubera,” Frederic pleaded wearily. “Think about your grand vision. Don’t let him rob you of that.”
The ghost-witch furrowed her misty brow. “And what am I supposed to do to stop him? Huff and puff on him until he catches pneumonia?”
Frederic’s right hand slipped off. And his left didn’t feel like it could take much more. “Use me,” he said. “I open my mind and body to you. Use me.”
“Really?” Zaubera asked giddily. “Well, you don’t need to tell me twice!” She whooshed down to Frederic. At first he felt an odd rush of chill air, but a second later, he felt invigorated—stronger than he ever had before. With only the fingertips of his left hand, he pulled himself nimbly up onto the platform.
I have Zaubera’s magical strength, he thought. And then he realized that he had more than just that. He had access to her mind, her thoughts and memories. A parade of images marched through his head. He felt Zaubera’s terror as the dragon’s gaping jaws came at her. He felt her anger as he and the other princes escaped from her after their first encounter two summers ago. He felt her petulance as she threw a tantrum, flash-frying a trio of pitiful henchmen who had let one of her prisoners escape. But he also saw much older images and felt much more distant emotions—ones that the witch herself had nearly forgotten. Frederic saw a woman who loved nature, who wanted nothing more than to tend her garden and share its treasures with her neighbors. He saw a woman who was hurt, intensely, by the jeers and barbs of vicious bullies who tormented her. He saw a woman who wanted to be a hero, who sacrificed her beloved garden in order to save the lives of three children in a fiery inferno—a misinterpreted act for which she received no thanks and was instead branded a dangerous villain.
“I understand now,” Frederic said aloud.
“It is about time,” said Rundark. “You finally understand that fighting me is pointless. Your world is over. And I will rule the wastes that remain.”
But Frederic ignored him. Instead, he directed his words to Zaubera. “What they did to you was unfair,” he said. “It was wrong. But you didn’t have to become what they assumed you to be. You could have worked to prove them wrong.”
“Hey, Tassels,” Gustav said gently as he struggled to sit upright. “Who are you talking to?”
“Zaubera,” Frederic said. “She’s in my head.”
“What?” Rundark snapped. For the first time ever, they noticed a hint of fear in his eyes. He raced toward Frederic, who found his hands suddenly moving of their own volition. His arms stretched out before him, and his fingers began to twitch as a ball of crackling blue energy appeared between his palms. He whipped the magic missile at Rundark, and it exploded against his broad chest, knocking him off his feet.
“Way to go, Magic Tassels!” Gustav crowed.
Liam and Ella raised their heads off the ground. “What’s going on?” Liam muttered.
“Zaubera’s not totally evil,” Frederic said. “I think I convinced her to switch sides.” And then his arms went wild. He was sending energy bolts everywhere. One crashed into the base of the cannon, another came dangerously close to igniting the entire crate of bombs. One blue blast would have sizzled Duncan if Liam and Ella hadn’t each grabbed one of his feet and yanked him out of the way.
“Come on, Duncan! Wake up and move!” Liam urged.
Duncan’s eyelids fluttered. “Papa Scoots, is that you?”
“Hey, Tassels, you wanna watch where you’re shooting those things?” Gustav called, ducking as a bolt sailed over his head.
“I’m not exactly in control here,” Frederic said, his eyes wide with horror.
“You fool!” Rundark barked, ducking behind the cannon to avoid the magic missiles headed his way. “Do you realize what you’ve done? She’ll kill us all! I’ve seen inside that witch’s mind, too! She’s a cruel and sadistic beast. She thrives on bringing pain to others. That’s why I knew I could use her!”
“Don’t listen to him, Zaubera,” Frederic said as his arms continued to whip about, spraying fire across the platform. “He only sees in you what he wants to see. There’s more to you than that! The world is watching, Zaubera. If you do the right thing now, do you think they’ll care about anything you’ve done in the past? You’ll be a hero—the hero you were always meant to be. You can write your own destiny!”
With a fizzle, the magic bolts stopped flying. Frederic stood, panting, unsure of whether Zaubera was still in control. All was quiet except for the faint pop and crackle of the fuse that was a mere inch from unleashing massive destruction.
“Go for the fuse,” Ella whispered to Liam. “Now.”
Liam darted for the cannon. But Rundark leapt out from behind the great gun. He stood there under its massive, up-tilted barrel, blocking Liam’s way. “The end of your world begins now,” the Warlord said.
Then Frederic raised his hand and loosed an energy bolt that slammed into the base of the cannon. The crank spun wildly, and thirty feet of iron cannon barrel came down on Rundark’s head. The Warlord’s skull helmet cracked in half as the man fell. But he wasn’t down for long. Dizzied, and angrier than ever, he crawled out from under the giant weapon—which was only seconds away from firing.
Zaubera’s spectral form whooshed out of Frederic’s body.
“What are you doing?” Frederic blurted. “He’s still coming!”
“Do you think those people out there are going to give me credit if they see skinny Prince Charming shooting down the big bad guy?” the witch said. “No, I’ll finish this myself.”
Blinded by rage, Rundark roared and ran at the ghost. Zaubera, glowing bright and fierce, flew straight back at him. And instead of passing through him, she knocked him backward. Rundark staggered in confusion. And the phantom witch pounded into him again. He stumbled up against the open mouth of the cannon, his eyes wide with shock. One final jolt from Zaubera, and the Warlord tumbled into the cannon barrel. Then the hand crank started spinning and the barrel began rising, and with an ear-shattering boom, the cannon fired. The otherworldly bomb—with Warlord of Dar draped over it—hurtled into the sky. With a gleeful grin on her phantom face, Zaubera zoomed up at tremen
dous speeds to follow it. And when her ghostly form reached the bomb, it exploded. The blast could be seen from every one of the Thirteen Kingdoms—not just through the vision orbs, but up in the sky among distant clouds.
Frederic, feeling comfortably un-strong again, walked over to the vision orb on the platform. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “That . . . spirit you saw was that of a . . . magic-user named Zaubera. She just stopped a madman from destroying the world. Remember her name: Zaubera. Because she just saved your kingdom.”
With a soft crackle, the orb—and all the other orbs around the world—went black.
“Are you okay?” Ella asked Frederic.
“Yes,” he replied. “What about you guys?”
“I’ve never felt better,” said Duncan. “Except for most other times in my life.”
“What do you think happened to Zaubera?” Liam said. “Can a magical blast like that kill a ghost?”
“No, I’m still here,” the witch said, startling everyone. “And I just want you to know that this doesn’t mean I like you guys now or anything. In fact, I— Huh? Where are my ghostly fingers going? And my whole body? Ooh, does this mean I get to stop—” They never heard the end of her question, because she vanished completely, faded away into nothingness.
The friends stared at one another in silence for a moment. “You know, she’d said something before about not having done enough good deeds to get into the afterlife,” Frederic said. “I didn’t know whether she meant it literally, but maybe . . .”
They all heard a high-pitched tinkling sound.
Duncan’s face lit up. “You know what they say about bells, right?” he asked. “Whenever a bell rings . . .”
“Shut up, Pipsqueak,” said Gustav. “It’s just the sprites.”
Blink and Deedle appeared over the edge of the platform. As soon as they saw the princes, the tiny blue fliers zipped over to them.
“Zel knew you be here!” Blink said cheerily.
“Holdety tight,” Deedle said. “We found big crankety wheel in castle. Strongety man going to turn it and bring you down.”
The platform jolted and then slowly began descending.
“Oh, and war is over,” Blink said. “We winnety!”
The exhausted heroes cheered, but their celebration was cut short as soon as the platform reached the bottom and they learned the identity of the “strongety man” who had cranked them down.
“Looks like the rat has finally caught its prey,” said Greenfang.
“Does that make us the cheese?” Duncan asked wearily.
The bounty hunter drew his scimitar and flashed his crooked yellow teeth. The Leaguers braced themselves, but as worn-out as they were, none was ready for a fight. And they’d all lost their weapons.
“What do you want?” Liam asked.
“I told you months ago,” Greenfang replied. “I never give up.”
“But there’s no more bounty for us,” Frederic said. He wanted to collapse.
“I don’t care.” Greenfang flared his nostrils. “I. Never. Give. Up.” He raised his sword and stomped up toward them. Ella hunkered down. Gustav balled his fists. Duncan stood on one leg.
But Liam just raised his hands in the air. “Fine, you never give up. We get it,” he said with fatigue in his voice. “So we give up.”
Greenfang stopped in his tracks. “What?”
“We surrender,” Liam said. “You win. You’ve caught us.”
Greenfang paused, pressing his lips together in thought. “Um, okay then,” he said. “Mission accomplished. Since there’s nowhere to take you, um, I guess . . . have a nice day.” He sheathed his sword, and walked away.
41
THE VILLAIN WINS
And so the Thirteen Kingdoms were liberated from Darian rule. Well, all except Eïsborg, which people always tend to forget about. It’s very far north. And barely anybody lives there, anyway. We even forget to put it on the map in the first book. The fifteen Darians stationed there would end up sitting around for two and half years wondering why their vision orb never turned on anymore.
None of the vision orbs ever turned on again, actually. They’d been powered by Zaubera’s magic, and when the witch died her second death, the orbs all went kaput. Despite people’s best efforts at kicking them and attempting to attach antennas to them, they remained dull and opaque forever. The thrilling prospect of moving-picture entertainment would have to wait.
Zaubera’s mystical bombs fizzled out as well and became nothing more than oversize bowling balls. On a sadder note, the lovely lawns and flowering gardens that surrounded the castle all shriveled and turned to dust again, returning the valley to its former dry, gray ugliness. Not that Deeb Rauber cared. He was never much into posies and petunias anyway.
As soon as the last of the Avondellian soldiers had filed out with the last of the Darian prisoners and the enormous castle was empty once again, the Bandit King scurried out of the hollow boulder he’d been hiding in and ducked back inside his former home. The place was a wreck—the candy rooms had been trashed, all the naughty fingerpaintings had been torn down, and he was going to have to build himself a new bandit army from scratch. But the kingdom was all his again. He strode directly into his old throne room.
“I have returned!” he shouted to the empty chamber. “Deeb Rauber, the Bandit King, the one true ruler of Rauberia! Once again, I have the power!” Feeling quite proud of himself, he strutted up to his throne and sat down.
“Eeeeeeyowww!” he screamed, jumping up and holding his stinging backside, having completely forgotten about the tack he’d placed there.
EPILOGUE
A HERO CAN LIVE HAPPILY EVER AFTER . . . OR NOT
Three months later . . .
The small fishing boat was sinking fast. Its frantic three-man crew huddled on the disappearing bow as rough waves crashed into them and the dorsal fins of hungry sharks circled mere feet away. But despite the dangers in front and below, the men couldn’t help but stare up at the awe-inspiring bulk of the Dreadwind—and the man on the rope hanging from its bow. “Grab on, Rub-a-Dub-Dubbers,” Gustav said as he scooped all three into his arms. After being hoisted back up onto the deck of the great ship, he set down the fishermen.
“You saved us,” one said, quivering with gratitude (or perhaps hypothermia). “Thank you!”
“You’re welcome,” said Jerica. She handed the drenched fisherman a piece of paper. “And here’s your bill.”
The man looked at the invoice in his hand and said, “Um, thanks again?”
While Mr. Flint trotted out some fresh clothes for the refugees, Jerica tossed Gustav a towel, and the two walked down the deck together. “I’ve got to admit it, Gustav. You were right,” she said. “With so many idiots trying to sail ships these days, we’re making even more money as a rescue ship than we used to rake in with piracy.”
“I told ya,” Gustav replied, yawning. “I just wish I wasn’t so darn tired.”
“I’ve been telling you—you can’t spend this long at sea living on nothing but hardtack,” Jerica scolded. “We’ve got to get some protein into you.”
“Then catch me a cow,” Gustav said.
Jerica touched her finger to his chin and cooed, “I think you’re just afraid that all those ugly blotches are going to mar your gorgeous face.”
Gustav turned bright red. “That is not what I think!” he snapped.
Jerica laughed loudly. “Oh, you are such an easy mark,” she chuckled. She called up to the wheelhouse. “Mr. Key, take us into port. Gustav needs a steak.”
The Dreadwind pulled into Yondale Harbor the next day. As the boarding plank was lowered to the dock and the crew was about to disembark, there was a sudden rush of wind, and Smimf appeared on board. He rushed straight to Gustav.
“Sorry for the interruption, sir, Your Highness, sir,” the messenger said. “But I have an urgent message for you.” He handed a note to the prince and vanished just as quickly as he’d come.
“W
hat is it?” Jerica asked, peering over Gustav’s shoulder at the letter.
Gustav’s expression became serious. “It says to go to the Boarhound . . . poz-thah-stee?”
“Posthaste,” Jerica said. “It means fast. So what are you going to do?”
“Apparently, I’m not going to eat a steak.”
Duncan sat on his throne in Castlevaria with Snow White in hers beside him. A long line of waiting citizens filled the polka-dot carpet before them, each person waiting for his or her chance for an audience with the royal couple. It was tiring business, but Duncan and Snow didn’t mind. They enjoyed chatting with their people. It was what they had done every day since becoming king and queen of Sylvaria.
King King and Queen Apricotta had decided that ruling a kingdom was far too dangerous of a career for them, so they retired and handed the reins of the kingdom over to their son and daughter-in-law. The former monarchs left the castle and moved to Duncan and Snow’s old estate in the country—which, as you can probably guess, did not make the dwarfs very happy.
“Hello, Sylvarian,” Duncan said to the woman at the head of the receiving line. “Or should I just call you Sylvie?”
“My name’s Agatha,” said the woman.
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” said Duncan. He thrust his chin high and loudly declared, “Your name is now Sylvie! Next!”
“But . . .” the woman began to say, but she was quickly ushered out by Mavis and Marvella, the “royal helpers.”
“Come this way, Sylvie,” said Mavis.
An old man approached the throne. “King Duncan,” he said. “I lost one of my shoes while fighting in the rebellion. I’ve had one bare foot for three months now. I was hoping you might find it in your heart to provide me with a replacement.”
Duncan thought about this for a moment. “Which side did you fight on?”
“Yours,” the man said, rolling his eyes.
“Well, okay then,” the new king said.
“I can crochet him a new shoe,” Snow offered.
“Ooh, you’re a lucky man,” Duncan said. “Snowy—I mean, Queen Snowy—is a wiz with the needles. She even knit our crowns. Have no fear, sir; your feet will be in good hands.”
The Hero's Guide to Being an Outlaw Page 30