by Bryan Huff
The crowds were most dense around the performers. At every turn, there were musicians and bards, actors and acrobats, dancers and jugglers. One man wearing a big three-eared hat with bells on it attracted a great deal of attention by jumping about, doing handstands, and making rude noises at passersby. There was also a woman breathing fire out of her mouth like a dragon, and another man swallowing a whole sword while balancing on a strange one-wheeled contraption.
“That looks dangerous!” Hob worried.
“Relax. I’m sure he knows what he’s doing,” said Edric. He stopped at a gap in the crowd around the man, and watched with fascination.
Hob wasn’t convinced. One slip, and the man would be riding the sword instead of the wheel. When he pulled out three daggers and began juggling them, Hob had to look away.
Distracting himself, Hob tried to study the festival-goers around him. But he was too short to see their faces very well. At his eye level, he saw a few small children run by, waving colored ribbons. And he noticed three large crows fighting over a chunk of fallen bread near a baker’s stand. They bobbed and weaved like tiny swordsmen, jabbing and thrusting to steal crumbs from each other. One paused for a second to scan the crowds, making sure the coast was clear, and then returned to the duel.
The audience around the sword swallower broke into applause as he finished his act—thankfully, still in one piece. Edric turned his attention elsewhere.
“Hey, you like books, right?” he asked Hob.
“I, uh …” Hob felt his throat tighten. Was Edric subtly accusing him of stealing The Ballad of Waeward the Wanderer? If Hob said “yes,” would it confirm his guilt? If he said “no,” would Edric know he was lying? Maybe he needed to—
“Then we should check out the bookshop!”
Edric took Hob’s arm and led him toward the edge of the square. There, tucked between two much taller buildings, was a tiny bookshop with a bright red door. It looked like it had been squeezed in and had gotten stuck. A wooden sign hung at the front, black with gold lettering that read: The Paper Sparrow.
Inside, a single patron browsed, while the owner sat by the door, reading. Or, perhaps he was sleeping. Hob couldn’t quite tell. The four short walls were lined with bookshelves. Tall stacks of additional books were scattered around the floor. The air smelled of musty parchment and binding glue.
Hob was in heaven. He could have happily moved in and spent the rest of his days there. He wandered the store, letting his gloved fingers trail across the book spines as he read their many titles. He was amazed that so many had even been written! And on such a variety of subjects: On the Dancing of Heavenly Spheres; The Art of the Duel: An Illustrated Guide to Swordplay; Paul and John’s Book of Songs …
After a while, he reached out and grabbed a thick leather-bound volume titled The Lost People of the Wild: The Legend of the Ancient Elves. But, as he did, he felt a hand fall on his shoulder.
“Welp, I think that’s enough of these dusty old tomes,” said Edric, losing interest. “Better get going.”
Hob didn’t even have enough time to put his book back before Edric whisked him toward the door. Instead, the book joined one of the stacks at the front of the shop.
“Sorry we couldn’t help you find what you were looking for, sirs,” said the owner, not bothering to look up from his book. “Come again soon.”
“You know what,” said Edric, pulling open the door, “I think we should grab one of those roast chickens on the wa—”
Then he froze. Together with Hob, he stepped back into the shop, closed the door so it was only open a crack, and peeked outside.
Two tall figures stood there with their backs to the door, scanning the marketplace. One wore a crimson cloak, the other a cloak of black. The crimson cloaked man turned to his companion, revealing his profile. He was ruggedly handsome, with a chiseled jaw and a steely gaze. His thick hair and trimmed beard were of a fiery orange color that Hob had never seen on a person before.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself …” the man said. “Yes, the boy gave you the slip, but what else could you have done? Sometimes complications arise.”
His companion turned to him, revealing her profile as well. It was Captain Fist! “Where ’ze boy is concerned, complications always arise.”
“Still, a three-headed troll!” the man replied. “It’s not every day you fight one of those and live to tell about it!” He shook his head in amazement.
“Let us just say, it was not so ’zree-headed when I was done with it,” Fist growled.
The man laughed darkly. “At any rate, Captain,” he said, “I don’t think he’s here. Even Prince Edric wouldn’t be foolish enough to come to the festival when he knows we’re looking for him.”
“You would be surprised,” said Captain Fist, peering around. “But, very well. Have guards posted at every entrance to ’ze square, and meet me at ’ze gates.”
And with that, the two parted and left.
“Who was that?” Hob whispered, as soon as they were out of earshot.
“Well, Captain Fist you know,” said Edric. “And the man with her was Sir Lance Buckler, her Lieutenant.”
“Well, that settles it, then,” said Hob. “I guess we should be getting back to the inn.”
“Yep,” said Edric, “right after we pop up to the tower.” Then he was out the door, dragging Hob back into the marketplace.
They made their way straight across the bustling square, heading for the tower in the distance. Before long, the crowds around them grew so large and dense that Hob had to cling to Edric’s cloak so they wouldn’t be separated. Hips and knees buffeted Hob. All he could see were people’s bottoms!
Finally, at the very heart of the square, the pair passed through the largest crowd of all, and emerged in a wide circular clearing at its center. They paused at the edge of the clearing to get their bearings.
In the middle stood a tall stone fountain. Cool spring water gushed from its many spouts to fill a raised pool at its base. And a ring of people held hands and danced around the pool to the same music Hob had heard earlier. Off to one side, the musicians from the parade played their strange instruments while a drummer kept the beat.
Tall posts displaying bright banners stood here and there around the clearing’s edge. And long ropes strung with colorful little flags and pennants ran between them, crisscrossing overhead as they circled the clearing. Again, Hob noticed three crows. They were perched on these flag lines, looking out over the crowds, no doubt searching for some dropped food to eat.
Soon, a man in a giant white chicken suit bounded out from behind the fountain, holding hands in the spinning chain of dancers. He had a feathery body, skinny legs in bright yellow tights, floppy chicken’s feet shoes, and an oversized chicken head that bobbled around on top of his own—with his face sticking out of the beak.
“Who’s that?” asked Hob, wide-eyed.
“Why, that’s the Spring Chicken, o’ course!” interjected a fat man standing next to him at the edge of the crowd. “What? Have ya been livin’ in a cave yer whole life?”
Hob nodded. “Yeah, pretty mu—”
Edric’s hand clamped over Hob’s mouth. “Shhh!” he whispered. “It’s just an expression!”
Thankfully, the fat man wasn’t listening. “Hey, Chicken, these two blokes could use a dance!”
The Spring Chicken looked over at them with a wily grin. “Could they now?” he said, as he flailed toward them around the clearing.
“Yes, sir!”
Before Edric and Hob could escape, the fat man shoved them forward to meet the Spring Chicken. Feathery hands clasped their forearms and pulled them into the ring of dancers. The fat man and the Spring Chicken started laughing their heads off.
“C’mon, lads! Join the fun!” exclaimed the chortling face inside the chicken beak. It was long and horsey, with beady eyes and a pointy mustache and goatee.
“Don’t be shy, boys!” yelled an ol
d woman who streaked by in the crowd.
The trio was quickly swept off in the dance, Edric first, followed by the Spring Chicken, followed by Hob.
The Spring Chicken even began to sing with the music:
Hob knew he and Edric were in trouble the instant they got pulled into the dance. He looked past the white feathers to his right, and spotted Edric bobbing along ahead. Edric looked worried too.
As the music moved faster and faster, Hob could barely keep pace. He began to alternate between running as fast as his big boots would allow, and pulling up his feet so he’d be carried along by the dancers to either side of him.
Then, suddenly, the Spring Chicken’s feathery hand jerked away, and Hob tumbled to the ground. He looked up to see what had happened. It appeared a little boy in front of Edric had tripped and fallen, causing Edric to topple over him, and the Spring Chicken to topple over them both. The rest of the line stumbled to a halt behind Hob.
As Edric stood back up, Hob noticed something was wrong. Edric’s hood had fallen, and his eye patch was askew!
The Spring Chicken noticed as well. “Your Highness!” he exclaimed, leaping to his feet.
The rest of the dancers around them gasped. Everyone recognized Edric at once—no doubt from all the wanted posters.
“I’ve found Prince Edric! The reward is mine!” declared the Spring Chicken. “Sorry, Your Highness.” He dove at Edric, trying to tackle him.
But Edric dodged the tackle, and the flailing chicken man flopped onto the ground. Unfortunately, there were many others waiting to take his place. When Edric turned to run, he found himself trapped.
Shouts of, “The Prince! The Prince! He’s mine! He’s mine!” came from all sides, as the nearby dancers rushed to surround him, and a dozen spectators charged in from the front of the crowd.
“caw!” Spooked by the shouting and the sudden commotion, the crows took flight from the flag lines overhead, and flapped out of the square over the roofs of the buildings.
In the midst of it all, Hob stood, and glanced around, trying to decide what to do. He quickly spotted a pair of golden helmets and crimson-cloaked shoulders pushing forward through the front rows of the crowd.
“Ed! Royal Guards!” he cried.
But Edric was already in the clutches of as many townsfolk as could get their hands on him—including the very persistent Spring Chicken. They were eagerly awaiting the Royal Guards’ arrival, hoping to share in some part of the reward.
Hob panicked. He could think of only one way to save Edric, and it would be risky at best. But what choice did he have?
Hob hopped onto the rim of the fountain pool, and removed his long gloves. Then, making sure to leave the goggles over his eyes untouched, he grabbed his hat, his scarf, and his cloak by its clasp, and tore off his disguise for all to see! “raAahhrrrg!” Doing his best Brute-impression, he scrunched up his face and let out his goblin-iest roar!
The heads of Edric’s captors and the people in the crowd turned to stare at Hob in shocked silence.
“aaaaaaaaaahhhh!”
They all started screaming. Edric’s captors scrambled over each other to flee, allowing him to slip from their grasps. And the crowd around the fountain burst and scattered, buffeting away the Royal Guards.
Hob’s gambit had worked!
Unfortunately, it had also set off an instant riot. Men, women, and children who hadn’t even seen Hob were now shouting, “The goblins are coming! The goblins are coming!” By the time this news spread across the square, it told of a full-blown goblin invasion.
All of the townsfolk, and even some of the city guards, took off running. And the remaining guards were too busy trying to avoid getting trampled by their fellow humans to worry about whether there was really a goblin attack underway.
In less than a minute, the fleeing crowds had managed to overturn so many food carts and flatten so many tents that, if goblins had been attacking, they would’ve found much of their work done for them.
Meanwhile, Edric grabbed Hob’s hand and pulled him down from the fountain. Together, they ran. Hob kicked off the clunky human boots he wore over his own, trying to keep up. But even so, he struggled to match Edric’s speed. Hob’s legs were so much shorter, and he wasn’t used to a sword bouncing awkwardly against his hip.
They didn’t get far before they heard an angry voice call out behind them. “The reward—I mean, the Prince—is getting away!” It was the Spring Chicken. He and his followers had begun to regroup.
Trailing Edric through the chaos, Hob lost all sense of direction. Ahead, two herds of fleeing townsfolk crossed paths, blocking the way forward. Edric and Hob stopped in their tracks.
Hob became frantic. But Edric kept his cool. He drew his sword, cut an opening in the back of a nearby tent, and dragged Hob inside.
The tent’s shelves were lined with wooden toys, and an elderly couple cowered behind the counter.
“Sorry,” Hob said to them, as Edric yanked him through the tent and out the front flap.
They emerged in a deserted walkway between two tightly packed rows of tents and stalls, most of them still unharmed. A butcher’s stand stood directly across from them. It had a wooden roof and counter, and it displayed many strings of smoked sausages and large cuts of salted meat.
“Where to next?” asked Hob.
“Not that way,” said Edric, pointing with his sword.
Twenty feet to their left, the stampeding crowds had knocked the Olive’s Oils tent into the Toasty Goat BBQ Shack. A rising wall of smoke and flame blocked the walkway. No wonder the area was deserted.
Hob felt horribly guilty. He certainly hadn’t meant to cause such destruction; he’d only been trying to save Edric.
“There they are!” yelled the Spring Chicken. “There they are!”
Hob and Edric looked to their right. An angry mob of townsfolk from the fountain and a few city guards stood just ten feet up the walkway in that direction. The townsfolk had managed to arm themselves with torches, pitchforks, and other weapons both proper and improvised. Musicians brandished their instruments like clubs. A blacksmith swung his hammer. And they were all led by the Spring Chicken, who’d gotten his feathery mitts on a sword.
“Great, now they’ve got torches and pitchforks,” Edric groaned. “That’s never a good sign.”
He raised his own sword, assuming a defensive stance. Hob drew his little sword too, although he had no idea how to use it.
“See, I told you!” said the Spring Chicken. “He’s with the goblin!”
“That’s probably why he’s wanted!” said a pitchfork-wielding man. “He’s a goblin-loving traitor!”
“The whole ‘teen rebel’ thing was cute for a while,” said an old woman, smacking a rolling pin into her palm. “But this time he’s gone too far!”
“The royal backstabber!” said one of the musicians, jabbing the air with a large string instrument. “Forget the reward. Let’s make him pay!”
The mob began to advance.
Hob’s scheme had backfired! Now the townsfolk were convinced that Prince Edric was a goblin sympathizer! Even the promise of reward money for his capture might not spare him from their wrath.
“halt!” a voice cried out. “By order of ’ze King’s Royal Guard!”
Suddenly, Captain Fist appeared on the roof of the butcher’s stand, having climbed up from behind. Sword drawn, she leapt down into the walkway, landing between Edric and Hob and their attackers.
“’Ze Prince is under my custody. He will not be harmed!” she continued. “He may be a foolish, foolish child. But he is no traitor!”
Unfortunately, the crowd was too worked up to listen to reason—even coming from the intimidating Captain Fist.
“She’s lying!” spat the Spring Chicken, stopping before her.
“It’s a royal conspiracy!” declared a city guard.
“Why, she’s probably a goblin herself!” added the angry musician.<
br />
It seemed to Hob there would be no talking their way out of the situation. Apparently, Captain Fist agreed.
“Run!” she shouted at Edric, without taking her eyes off the mob.
Wasting no time, Edric and Hob clambered right over the butcher’s counter, scattering sausages, and exited through a curtain at the rear of the stand.
Before Hob closed the curtain, he glanced back at Captain Fist. She was quickly being overwhelmed. She seemed reluctant to strike any of the innocent townsfolk with her sword. And though she sent several flying with well-placed kicks and punches, there were always more ready to swarm her. The Spring Chicken rushed in, and caught her in a feathery headlock. She elbowed his beak so hard that his chicken head spun backward, blinding him. Then she rolled free.
Hob had seen enough. He turned and followed Edric out of the square.
Chapter Twelve
Truth and Illusion
The pair avoided any further encounters as they fled the square through one of its tall archways. But the streets outside were packed with frightened townsfolk.
Edric yanked Hob into a nearby back-alley, and led the way up the narrow gap between buildings, weaving around piles of refuse and empty barrels.
“Thanks … Hob …” Edric panted, as they walked. His eye patch had managed to get so twisted around that it now looked like he was missing an ear. He slipped it off, and pocketed it.
“I’m … just glad … that worked,” Hob panted back. “At least … sort of.”
While in the shadows of the buildings, he lifted his goggles to wipe the sweat from his brow, and then slipped them back over his eyes.
For quite some time, the pair pressed on through a zigzagging maze of similar back-alleys, until Edric brought them back to the edge of a wider street.
“So, are we looping around to the inn then?” asked Hob, as he joined Edric at the end of the alley. “Ed?”
The street outside was empty, and Hob found Edric staring up it toward the castle tower. They were closer than ever.