Heroics for Beginners

by John Moore

  The Princess held up a hand to silence him.

  He waited while she continued to study the book with furrowed brow. Finally, she closed it, looked up, smiled brightly at him, and said, “Okay, so a rabbit and a priest walk into a bar. And the bartender says . . .”

  “Becky, what are you doing!”

  “I’m telling a joke. I decided to be your comic sidekick after all. I got this book of jokes out of the castle library. By the time I got back you were gone. You ride really fast, you know. It was all I could do to keep up with you.”

  “You’re not my comic sidekick! You’re supposed to be at home, oiling up your father. That’s what we agreed on. And why are you dressed like this?”

  Becky leaned over the table and whispered, “I’m a boy.”

  “What?”

  “It’s the standard practice. Whenever a girl goes on an adventure, she binds her breasts and tucks her hair under a hat so she looks like a boy. You know, so ruffians won’t bother her. It’s in all the books.”

  “You bound your breasts?”

  “Right. I wrapped them around with linen cloth to push them in, then cinched it up tight across the back. It took a lot of cloth.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “And I borrowed this darling little hunting cap from one of the valets. Isn’t it the cutest thing? All the hunters wear them. It has a hawk feather.”

  Kevin was still staring at her breasts. Far from suppressing them, the bindings had pushed them up and together, giving a supercleavage effect that strained the front of her shirt and drew his eyes like a compass needle toward a lodestone. He made himself look away, at Becky’s face, but that view was equally enticing. A fringe of blond ringlets peeped out from around the edges of the cap, shimmering in the candlelight like a golden halo. With her bright blue eyes and sweet smile, the effect was absolutely angelic. Kevin felt himself slipping into a erotic fugue. With great effort he forced down the hormone surge and gestured at the table. “Becky, what are all these cups?”

  “The men here have been buying me drinks.”

  “No kidding. Now, if they think you’re a boy, why would they all be buying you drinks?”

  Becky counted the cups on the table. “Um, maybe they’re just really friendly here?”

  “I’m sure. Go back to the castle and wait for me. I have to do this alone. There’s a certain etiquette to these things. The prince is supposed to risk his life to rescue the princess and save the kingdom. The princess is supposed to clasp her hands to her bosom and look at him with shining eyes.”

  “Like this?”

  “Um, right. You’ve got it exactly.” Kevin gripped the edge of the table. Hormone levels had now spun past Maximum on the dial and were extending into Dangerous Overload condition. “Maybe not so much of the clasping the hands to the bosom part.”

  “Okay, now listen.” The Princess tapped her book. “This is a good one. A traveling salesman stops at a farmer’s house and asks if he can spend the night. But the farmer has a daughter who . . .”

  “I’ve heard it. Becky, I want you to go home right now. I’ll be back soon. Just wait and do—um—whatever princesses do in their spare time.”

  “We hang out in seedy princess bars. And it’s a tough crowd, let me tell you. Sometimes a fight breaks out, and then there’s teeth and tiaras flying everywhere.”

  “I’m sure there’s nothing meaner than a pack of princesses. Now go and find one. I don’t need a comic sidekick.”

  “You need this, I bet.” Becky reached into her handbag and pulled out a thick sheaf of paper, bound in pasteboard. She swept her arm across the table, carefully pushing the cups to one side, and laid the file down.

  “What is it?”

  “The dossier on Lord Voltmeter. From Angostura military intelligence. Logan had it brought over by special courier. He read it to his officers. When he looked like he was through with it, I grabbed it and sneaked it out of the castle. I thought it might help you.”

  Kevin had to admit this was good thinking. “Let’s take a look at it.”

  “Voltmeter has only been Evil Overlord for a couple of years. Before that he was just an Evil Lord, of course, and an Evil Burgomaster. He actually started out in Angostura as an Evil Schoolteacher.”

  “What could be evil about a schoolteacher?”

  “Pop quizzes.”

  “Oh, right.” Kevin leafed through the file, reading the pages quickly. “Yes, I see what you mean. Look at all this. Pop quizzes on Monday mornings, extra homework on weekends, essay questions, and no partial credit for math problems. The man is a fiend.”

  “Somewhere along the way he picked up some magic power. He inherited some money and bought a spell that makes him invincible in single combat. Or at least really hard to defeat. Or something like that. They’re not sure. And he’s been working his way up the ranks ever since.”

  Logan’s intelligence people had done a good job. The dossier was very complete. As Kevin read it, he became more and more discouraged.

  The Evil Overlord was athletic. He was skilled with the sword and the crossbow, and reputed to be a formidable boxer, violent and aggressive. He excelled at science, math, and double-entry bookkeeping. He didn’t drink or smoke, and only gambled on sporting events that he fixed himself.

  Voltmeter was unmarried. He had joined his local Evil Singles Club (listing his interests as “candlelit dinners, long walks on the beach, and vivisecting small furry animals”) and even organized their annual ski trip, but this was mostly for the networking opportunities. He invented a torture device and sold it to King Bruno of Omnia. It didn’t make much money but won several design awards. All through this period there had been a stream of vicious murders, violent armed robberies, and a steady increase in wealth. Then he started building his organized crime syndicate—illegal gambling, prostitution, smuggling, protection, life insurance, and home remodeling. But as with all evil overlords, no one dared speak a word against him, or those that did died mysterious deaths. The Angostura Ministry of Investigation had him on their top ten list of “People We Would Rather Not Mess With.” The Masters of Malice—an evil overlords professional society—had given him their Mephistopheles award, and there was talk of voting him into the Evil Hall of Fame in Erburg.

  Kevin concealed his dismay. “He can’t be all that tough,” he told Becky. He spread out some of the papers from the dossier and stared at them thoughtfully. “It says here it took him three tries to get from Evil Lord to Evil Overlord.”

  “He’s from Angostura, don’t forget. Their certification test is a lot tougher than ours.”

  The barmaid appeared. “You two doing okay?”

  “I’ll have a glass of wine,” said Becky.

  “The good wine,” said Kevin. Cherry glared at him, but came back with a glass of nonwatered wine.

  “I’ll need a room,” Becky told her. “Could you arrange it with the innkeeper?”

  “I’ve got a room,” said Kevin.

  “Then I’ll need another room.”

  “I was thinking we could share a room,” said Kevin, trying to keep the hopefulness out of his voice. “Because, you see, you’re disguised as a boy, and it would be more convincing if . . .”

  “Two rooms,” Becky said firmly. “Two separate rooms.”

  “Nice try, stud muffin,” Cherry told Kevin. She went off to find Muldoon, who booked Becky into a room next to Kevin’s, and did it without comment. Kevin folded the papers back into the file and carried Becky’s bags in from the stables. He set them down on the bed. Becky reached for one and unbuckled the straps.

  “Don’t leave yet,” she said. “I have to show you something. Turn around.”

  Kevin dutifully turned his back. There was a rustle of clothing behind him. When he faced her again, she was wearing one of the more spectacular pieces of lingerie he had ever seen—and the Princess Rebecca was a girl whose closet was by no means bereft of sexy underwear. Even the Prince, who was rarely at a loss for words, needed
a few moments to collect his thoughts. Finally, he said, “Becky, what is that?”

  “Do you like it? It’s a chain-mail bra.”

  “It’s certainly something else.”

  “Taylor recommended it.”

  “He did?”

  “Uh-huh.” She reached back into the bag and pulled out her own copy of The Handbook of Practical Heroics, where she had a page turned down. She read aloud, “Insist that your comic sidekick wear body armor before going into a dangerous situation. And while you’re at it, it isn’t a bad idea to get some for yourself.” So I stopped at this cute little boutique before I left the city and bought this. I was going to get something for you, but I didn’t know your size”

  The Prince was squinting in the candlelight, trying to decide if he could really see her nipples through the links or if it was just his imagination. “It looks good, Becky, but I don’t think that it was really designed to be functional body armor.”

  “No?”

  “It looks more like a costume for a barbarian swordswoman.”

  “Oh.” Becky thought about this. “I guess that explains the fur bikini.”

  “They sold fur bikinis?”

  “I’m going to keep this anyway. I think it will be functional. It seems pretty well made.”

  “You won’t need it because you’re not getting into a dangerous situation. You’re father would kill me if he found out I took you into the Fortress of Doom with me.” Kevin paused, then said, “Did you buy a fur bikini?”

  “The comic sidekick watches the hero’s back when he goes into the Invincible Fortress. Taylor said that, too.”

  “You’re not my comic sidekick. Are you wearing the fur bikini now?”

  “Kevin! Of course I didn’t buy the fur bikini. It was a thong. There was nothing but a little strappy thing up the back.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Certainly it is! Thong underwear is lewd, perverted, disgusting, lascivious, and immoral.”

  “Oh. Well, I just wondered . . .”

  “And I don’t think I look good in it. How are we getting into the Fortress of Doom?”

  “Don’t you listen? We are not going. And you said yourself that the comic sidekick just hangs around the tavern and picks up information from the locals.”

  “Did I say that? When?”

  “Back at the castle.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” said Kevin definitely.

  “And you’re going to hold me to that?

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then,” said Becky, “you’re conceding that I am the comic sidekick in this mission. Now then, a man goes into a doctor’s office and says, ‘Doctor, I’ve got this terrible pain. And the doctor says . . .’”

  “All right.” Kevin knew when he had been outmaneuvered. He thought fast. “Okay, Becky, you can be the comic sidekick. But you’re going to have to wear real body armor. A breastplate and metal shoulder guards at the very minimum. I’ll wear some, too, if it makes you feel better.”

  “Where are we going to get plate armor?”

  “There’s a whole Fortress full of armed and armored soldiers. They must get it from somewhere. I’m sure there will be an armory in this village, if only to serve the Fortress. It probably has some sort of depressing name. I’ll take you there tomorrow.”

  Becky looked at him suspiciously. “Kevin Timberline, do I understand that you are offering to take me shopping?”

  “Right,” said Kevin, thinking hard. “Yeah, I’ll take you shopping for armor and, uh, I’ll hold your purse while you’re in the dressing room.”

  This was too good an offer for Becky to turn down. She wrapped her arms around Kevin and rewarded him with long kisses before turning him out of her room for the night. The next morning she eschewed her boy’s disguise and dressed for a shopping trip, paying particular attention to her hair and makeup. Cheerfully, she presented herself at Kevin’s door. But when she knocked on his door, there was no answer. The Prince had left the building.

  When it becomes necessary to penetrate the Evil

  Overlord’s lair, remember to dress appropriately for

  the occasion. Despite tradition, leotards and a cape

  are not practical. Neither is full evening dress.

  Standard-issue military fatigues will usually do the

  job quite nicely.

  —HANDBOOK OF PRACTICAL HEROICS BY ROBERT TAYLOR

  The Fortress of Doom had a long and dubious history that began, oddly enough, not in the Village of Angst but some forty miles to the south, in a town called Rockhadden. Four hundred years previously, the kingdom of Deserae had not yet come into existence, and the area instead was comprised of three duchies, one of which was ruled from Rockhadden. The Duke of Rockhadden built a fine castle there, where he lived and died, murdered in his own bed by—yes—an Evil Overlord.

  Lord Riddance himself led the charge up the stairs, his sword in one hand and a torch in the other. He stepped aside, though, to let a pair of burly guards demolish the door with sledgehammers. The Duke was in his nightclothes, sitting up in bed, reaching for his spectacles, when the Overlord pushed through the splintered wreckage. Two quick thrusts, and it was all over. Riddance surveyed the scene with satisfaction. Blood soaked the bedclothes where the Duke and his wife lay, a single white hand protruding limply from beneath the scarlet sheets. Riddance wiped his sword on a pillowcase and slipped it back into its scabbard. His two bodyguards stood by quietly. They had accompanied His Lordship into the bedchamber, but had stepped aside to let Riddance have his moment of dark triumph. Now there came a knock at the door. Both guards drew their swords. One of them opened the door.

  The Overlord’s Chief Minion entered, bearing a clipboard and a worried look. He stopped in front of Lord Riddance. One hand came up to nervously adjust his spectacles.

  “The deed is done, Cameray,” boomed Riddance. “And I am the ruler of Rockhadden. Our years of plotting and scheming have come to fruition.” He gestured at the bed. “Savor this moment, Cameray. Revel now in our moment of triumph.”

  “Um, yes, Your Lordship.” Cameray tugged at his spectacles again. “Um, there is the question of the Duke’s heirs.”

  “I want them killed, Cameray. Don’t let them escape. You know how it is. You can’t throw them in prison—they always escape eventually and raise an army to overthrow you.”

  “Yes, my lord, but . . .”

  “Kill the infants, too. They’re the most dangerous. Some maid or laundress spirits the infant heir out of the castle and hides him in the forest to be raised by woodcutters, and decades later, when you think you’re safe, he learns his true identity and zap! It’s uprising time.”

  “Actually, my lord . . .”

  “And here’s the part I really hate. When some Evil Overlord tries to raise the heir as his own son, thinking he can bring him up to be evil. It never works. The kid turns to the path of goodness and righteousness, and the Evil Overlord gets a sword in the kidneys. Well, I’m not making that mistake. Kill them.”

  “My lord, they . . .”

  “Supervise it yourself, Cameray. The boys are good soldiers, but I don’t want them getting softhearted when they have to slaughter a helpless infant. Oh, and none of that ‘cut the heart out and bring it to me’ nonsense either. They’re liable to switch it with a pig’s heart—you can’t hardly tell the difference. I’m wise to that trick. Cut the whole head off.”

  “My lord, they’re gone.”

  “What!”

  “There were so many of them,” said Cameray. “And the place is like a rabbit warren. Bolt-holes and side doors on every wall. You couldn’t turn a corner without running over a laundress with a child in her arms, and we just couldn’t seal all the exits in time.”

  “You’re telling me the heir got away? After all our careful planning, the heir to the throne escaped!”

  “Seven of them.”

  “What!”

  “The moment we crossed th
e drawbridge, the place erupted with ’em. It was like kicking an ant mound, except the mound was filled with old women carrying bedsheets. The boys got a dozen of them. I thought they did pretty well.”

  “They killed a dozen heirs?”

  “Right, Your Lordship.”

  “And there’s still seven left?” Riddance looked at the bed. “This woman had nineteen kids? No, she’s too young. She’s his second wife? Or his third?”

  “No, they’re all hers. Three set of triplets, four sets of twins, and two singles. She had them in nine years.”

  “I can see why they needed all those laundresses.”

  “Yes, sire.”

  “Okay, so we’ve got seven more kids out there we’ve got to hunt down. Get on it right away.”

  Cameray cleared his throat. “Ah, begging your pardon, Your Lordship, but it’s a bit more complicated than that. See, the rules of succession are pretty well established in Rockhadden. So even if you killed all the Duke’s heirs, the line isn’t ended. You just start with the next younger brother, and then his children. And when that line ends, you go to the next brother and his kids. Sisters, too, because women can inherit in Rockhadden.”

  “Yes, yes. I know how it works, Cameray. He has seven brothers and sisters and each of their homes was to be attacked when we attacked the castle. Now, don’t tell me one of those attacks failed.”

  “No sire. They all went as planned.”

  “We got all the siblings?”

  “Yes, sire. But, um, not all their kids.”

  “For goodness sake, man!”

  “They all had huge families,” said Cameray “And you know how kids are. You can’t hardly figure out where your own are at night. Some were sleeping over at a friend’s house, the older kids were slipping out to drink down at the quarry, we had a couple of runaways . . .”

  “How many got away?”