And there was more. So far, he’d been content to let things happen to him. He’d been brought to Sagaria. It was Flip who’d discovered him, not the other way round. Although he’d used his quickness of wit to see off Bolster, he hadn’t chosen the confrontation with the worg; it had been Bolster who’d sought him out. Though it had been his suggestion that they go on this quest to find the edge of the forest and beyond to Spectram, it was Flip who’d taken over and implemented their departure. It had even been Flip who’d made the decision to climb the cliff. It was time Sagandran made his mark on this world by influencing circumstances rather than letting circumstances influence him.
“No,” he said firmly. “We’re not going to run away from this.”
“But—”
“You’re an adventurer, aren’t you? The famous Adventurer Extraordinaire?”
“Er, yes.”
“Are you looking forward to getting home to Mishmash and telling Jinnia how, at the first sign of any real danger, you just hid?”
“Um …”
“With Tod listening? Imagine his smirk.”
“Oh, that’s easy enough,” said Flip, trying to be airy but just sounding uneasy. “I don’t have to tell them anything. I can simply omit this bit from my account of my adventures. I can—”
“But I’ll tell them.”
“Oh.” There was a long pause. “You wouldn’t, would you?”
“Try me,” said Sagandran grimly.
“Oh, I, ahem, I was only suggesting hiding as an option. It wasn’t what I wanted to do. I thought it might be what you would prefer. As for me, well, I’m the Adventurer Extraordinaire and I fear nothing – nothing at all. I’m ready to—”
“Flip?”
“Yes?”
“Be quiet. I’m trying to work out where the screaming’s coming from.”
“Quite right. Yes, that’s what I’m doing too.”
Eyes narrowed, Sagandran surveyed the hillside below them, running his gaze from side to side, up and …
There it was. He almost missed it the first time but, as soon as he focused on it, it became perfectly clear. There was a commotion going on in a group of bushes – the commotion seemed to be caused by a fight of some kind. To affirm that he’d identified the place correctly, the screaming suddenly came again, intensifying in volume and volubility. The turbulence in the bushes was moving toward them in fits and starts, as if somebody were being dragged but putting up a heck of a struggle.
“There,” he said, pointing. “Do you see?”
“Unfortunately,” replied Flip, “yes.”
“Then what are we waiting for?”
“An Adventurer Extraordinaire never goes to face certain danger without making sure that he has completed all the necessary preparations,” said Flip in a supposedly reasonable tone. “Do we, I ask myself, have suitable weapons to hand? In the event that our first assault is beaten back by the enemy, have we mapped out a plan of strategic retreat so that we may regroup our forces and—Sagandran, where are you?”
Sagandran was already twenty or thirty yards away, running downhill as lightly as he could. Dodging rocks and shrubs, he headed straight toward the source of the yelling. As he grew closer, he slowed to a walk and then a crawl. By the time he was creeping forward on hands and knees through thick bushes, Flip was once more by his side, panting a little but trying to look as if this were all part of some master plan.
From here, they could make out what the screamer was screaming.
“Let go of me, you devil. Help! Someone, please help. Once my dad gets hold of you, you …”
A heavy voice that might have been Bolster’s thundered some expletives in response.
“It’s a worg, I think,” Sagandran hissed.
“I think so too. One of Bolster’s cronies, I’ll warrant.”
“Not Bolster himself?”
“No, can’t you tell? The voice is quite different.”
Sagandran took Flip’s word for it. The little creature knew a lot more about worgs than he did.
“Bolster bosses all the other worgs in this region,” the small adventurer was saying. “He’s the biggest of them, though not by much, and he rules them by fear. One of these days an even bigger, viciouser worg will come along, and Bolster will be a thing of the past. But until then …”
Sagandran gulped. Even a small worg – small by Bolster’s standards – was still pretty big. He wondered if Flip’s first instinct, to sit this out in some hiding place, had been the right one after all. There was still a chance, if they … no. That idea he’d had a while ago about picking circumstances up by the scruff of the neck rather than just being pushed about by them, that had been the right idea, not this cowardly urge to flee. He grabbed a stone from the ground and stood up to his full height, Flip yipping in horror from below.
“’Hoy there.” Sagandran shouted.
The screams and the sounds of smashing branches stopped.
“’Hoy,’” he repeated less certainly.
There was a flurry of movement and a worg was suddenly regarding him from between a pair of leafy hanging branches.
Sagandran threw his stone at it.
He missed.
The face split into a stomach-churning leer.
“Oh, goody,” it said. “Double helpings for supper.”
“I’m not entirely convinced that this was your best idea,” whispered Flip.
“Shut up and keep working at those knots,” muttered Sagandran through gritted teeth.
“Danger is one thing, but lunacy another,” replied Flip piously.
“My name is Perima,” said the girl that the worg had been dragging. “Pleased to meet you both, I’m sure.” She was tied up as securely as Sagandran. The worg’s rope was crudely fashioned from vines, but that didn’t mean that it wasn’t tough. The monster’s clumsy hands hadn’t done a very elegant job of tying their limbs together, but had more than made up for this with sheer fervor. Sagandran felt as if he was wrapped in a cocoon.
“These knots are really difficult,” complained Flip.
“Couldn’t you just chew through the ropes?” said Sagandran, keeping his voice low. The worg didn’t seem to be paying any attention as it built the fire upon which it was going to roast them – as it had explained to them with heavy enthusiasm – but it was just as well to talk quietly. The beast hadn’t realized that Flip was here yet. If it had seen him at all, it must have assumed that he was merely some inquisitive forest animal too small to bother catching when there was such a plenteous feast trussed up waiting to be cooked and devoured.
As Sagandran continued to watch, the worg struck two flints together to produce a spark. Awkward it might be in every other respect, but it clearly was an expert at getting a fire started. Another hope dashed.
“We haven’t been introduced, I know,” said the girl.
Sagandran had noticed that she was a very pretty girl in the instant before the worg’s clenched fist came clubbing down on his head, bringing instant unconsciousness.
“But,” she continued, “I don’t think it would be too much of a breach of protocol if you told me your name. As I said, mine’s Perima. Princess Perima, if you want to be stuffy about it. I don’t think this is a situation for stuffiness, though, do you?”
“I’m Sagandran.”
As if it mattered. He was going to be a joint of roast meat in a few minutes – he wasn’t looking forward to the roasting part of the procedure and was trying not to think about it – and joints of meat didn’t have names.
“If only worgs knew how to tie real knots,” said Flip from behind Sagandran, “it would be a whole lot easier. I know how to untie over a hundred different types of recognized knots, you see, but these … well!”
“I told you, try gnawing through them,” said Sagandran urgently. “You’re supposed to be a rodent, after all. That’s what rodents do, you know. Gnaw through things.”
“I’ve tried,” wailed Flip. “These vines may not look li
ke much, but I just about broke a tooth.”
“I wouldn’t mind breaking a tooth or two if it’d save you from getting cooked for a worg’s supper,” Sagandran pointed out bitterly.
“I’d do the same for you,” said Flip, “but how do you expect me to keep on chewing if my teeth are broken?”
“He’s right, you know,” contributed Perima. Infuriatingly.
The best weapon you have is your intelligence, thought Sagandran. The intellect is the most powerful weapon in the world, and worgs were exceptionally short-changed when intellect was being doled out. They didn’t even have the wit to complain about it at the time.
The heap of wood the worg had gathered was beginning to crackle merrily as flames and smoke rose skyward. The monster rubbed its hands eagerly and glanced toward them with lip-smacking anticipation.
“It was very good of you to attempt to rescue me, Master Sagandran,” said Perima. “You and your pet rat.”
“I’ll untie your knots if I can manage it,” Flip mumbled crossly to Sagandran. “Hers, I’m not so sure about.”
“I don’t think I’ve rescued you,” said Sagandran, trying to stop his teeth from chattering. He nodded toward the advancing worg. “If we get a choice, I’ll go first. Maybe my friend Flip can manage to untie you while I’m being – gulp – roasted, and you and he can escape.”
“Why, that’s very kind of you,” said Perima, brightening. “So good to find such nobility in a commoner.”
The worg was in front of them before Sagandran could think of a retort. It had a cudgel not quite as big as Bolster’s and a mouth with not quite as many teeth as Bolster’s. Overall it was, thought Sagandran irrelevantly, a sort of poor man’s Bolster.
But it was obviously just as efficient at killing people as Bolster.
It cackled.
“Time to say your goodbyes to each other, supper.”
The intellect is the most powerful weapon in the world, and worgs were exceptionally short-changed when intellect was being doled out.
“You’re a worg, aren’t you?” asked Sagandran bravely. At least I might be able to waste a little time, so that Flip has a better chance of freeing Perima.
“Dat’s right. I’s a worg and proud of it. I’s Brootle by name and brootle by nature.” The monster beat its chest with its fist, then looked startled to discover that it had done so with the fist that had the cudgel in it. “Now look what you made me done. For dat, you can be da first for da slow roast.”
“Then you may know a very good friend of mine, who’s also a worg.”
“Oh yeah?”
“His name’s Bolster. I was chatting to him only yesterday evening – just passing the time, you know.” Sagandran was quite impressed by the casual sound of his voice.
It is almost impossible to describe what happens when a worg blanches, but this one did.
“Bolster, you say?”
“Yes. I believe some people call him ‘Boss Bolster,’ but to me, he’s just good old Bolsty.”
The piggy eyes became slits.
“How’s I to know you’s telling da troot?”
“Well,” said Sagandran, affecting an easy shrug, “when he beats your head to a shapeless pulp for having tied me up, I guess.”
The club was thumping into Brootle’s open palm with the regularity of a gradually slowing metronome.
“Tell me what your pal Bolster looks like, den.”
“Well, he’s big – no, not big. Absolutely enormous.”
“Yeah, dat could be Boss Bolster.”
“And he smells like month-old fish.”
“Yeah, he smells nice too. All da ladies reckon he’s da sweet-fragranced one.”
“And he’s got a million boils.”
“Good complexion too.”
“And they ooze really a lot of yellowy-brown pus the whole time.” Sagandran ignored a sudden gagging noise from Perima.
“You has to be pretty clever to ooze yellowy-brown pus, true, true.”
“And everybody’s terrified of him.”
“Yeah.”
“Especially other worgs who’re planning to eat people for supper without offering to share it with Bolster.”
Again the shot obviously hit home.
“Dat’s Bolster. You really a friend of his?”
I was right! The intellect is the most powerful weapon in the world. It’s worked. He’s swallowed it.
“Yes.”
“Bolster really don’t like it if other worgs don’t invite him to supper.”
“Yes! Yes!”
Brootle was obviously mulling over his options. “So dere’s only one ting I can do if Bolster ain’t going to smash me flat.”
“Yes! Untie us and let us go.”
“No, not dat.”
“What, then?”
“Well, eat da evidence, o’ course. Now, which one of you’s gonna be da first?”
It’s not how powerful the weapon is, it’s how you use it, thought Sagandran in despair.
“I’ll go first,” volunteered Perima.
“But,” Sagandran scowled at her. “I thought we agreed that—”
“No,” she said, quirking her mouth wilfully. “You agreed. For all I know, your rat agreed as well. But I didn’t.”
“You two gonna keep up dis squabbling all night long?” rumbled the worg. “I’s getting hungry, you know.”
It was only later that Sagandran was able to piece together what happened. One moment Brootle was standing fully upright – well, in the round-shouldered slouch that represented fully upright for a worg – staring him in the eyes. The next moment, Sagandran heard a swishing noise from behind him and there was something dark and round in the middle of the creature’s forehead, with red-green blood beginning to spurt around its edges. For the next few moments, there was little change, except that the flow of blood increased. Then a look of extreme puzzlement appeared on Brootle’s face, starting with the eyes (which crossed upward as the worg made a futile attempt to look at his own knotted forehead) and spreading from there. With an alarming creaking noise, the worg rocked on its massive legs. Finally, the great body fell ponderously forward. Brootle landed flat on his face with a mighty crash that seemed to shake every tree loose on its roots for hundreds of yards around. The toppled worg twitched once, twitched twice, then twitched not at all. The top of Brootle’s head was about two inches from Sagandran’s foot. He reached out to rap the bald, warty skull with the toe of his tennis shoe. There was no response.
“I … I think he’s dead,” said Sagandran in a weak voice. “How in heck did that happen?”
“Who cares how it happened?” said Perima with sudden practicality. “Let’s just be grateful it did.”
“We still have to get ourselves untied,” said Sagandran matter-of-factly, taking his cue from her. “Flip? Flip?”
There was a rustling in the bushes behind them. He craned his neck to try to see what had caused it.
“These parts of the forest are not safe enough to be walked by children,” said a strange voice.
“Who’s that?” hissed Perima. She too was unable to turn far enough to see.
The owner of the voice walked slowly around to stand in front of them – not so much walked as half-walked, half-hopped in one of the most curious gaits Sagandran had ever seen. But he didn’t notice the gait as much as he noticed their savior’s appearance. The Earthworld animal the newcomer most resembled was a frog, though the hind legs were less squat and rounded than a frog’s, being partway between a frog’s and a man’s. This frog had a man’s size as well. He was dressed in an elaborately embroidered tunic and short kilt, and bore a green cloak cast raffishly back over one shoulder. His hat sported an upright peacock feather. A long sword hung at his waist, and dangling from his webbed hand was a sling.
A sling, thought Sagandran. Of course. That swishing sound just before the object appeared in the middle of the worg’s brow.
The man-frog gave them an ostentatious bow, full o
f gratuitous embellishments of motion. “Sir Tombin Quackford at your service.”
“I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, Sir Tombin,” said Perima graciously. “You may kiss my hand – well, as soon as I can get it free of these accursed bindings, anyway.”
Sagandran stared at her.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“He’s just saved our lives and you’re expecting to get your hand kissed?”
“Why, yes. I am a Royal Princess of Mattani, after all. My father is King Fungfari the First, and I am his eldest daughter.”
Sir Tombin was watching the exchange without a word. His eyes were shiny and black, with a sort of gently dreaming light in them. Friendly eyes. Intelligent eyes.
“More like a spoilt brat,” said Sagandran angrily. “Flip was right, we ought to have left you to your fate. Princess or not, you should be thanking this kind fellow, not being condescending to him.”
“You haven’t thanked me yourself yet, boy,” said Sir Tombin, not unkindly.
“Oh. Oh, yes. I’m sorry about that. I thank you from the bottom of my heart, sir. If it weren’t for your timely intervention, we’d have been sizzling by now. We owe you our lives. If there’s anything I can do—”
Sir Tombin held up a hand. “It is one of my knightly obligations to save those in distress.” He put one foot on the worg’s motionless carcass, like a triumphant hunter posing for a photograph. “And it is my pleasure also.”
With a few of those half-paces, half-hops, he was behind Sagandran, his sword sliding free of its scabbard. Less than a minute later, the worg’s ropes lay in pieces around him. Sagandran busily rubbed the circulation back into his wrists and knees.
Perima regarded them both coldly.
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