by Jeff Strand
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."