by A. J. Ponder
FAMILIAR:The morpholag bears a striking familiarity to a fluffy rat.
SPECIALTY:Small boy on toast. (Usually without the toast.)
RÉSUMÉ:Eats everything in its path.
PASSED:Wind last Friday, as well as on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and on the weekend.
§
I should note that there is some confusion and debate in scholarly circles (and in more than a few pubs), about how to classify this particular creature.
It is worth noting the self-proclaimed expert, Dr G White of Arcane Wizardry of Morebere[30] University, is convinced of the distinctiveness of the Morpholagus piebaldii species. He says, and I quote from his interview with University Press on 13/13/301:
“The structure of the body is quite unique: outwardly the fluffy tail and large canines would indicate an overgrown rabbit, and yet the creature’s body has the elongated shape of a rat with an extended nose and—”
“Ahem.” The interviewer faked a cough. “So, as you said, at the beginning of the interview, Dr White—it’s not a rodent.”
“Of course, it’s a rodent, it has unique features. That’s all. Journalists! Why must you mangle the information so? Did you not read the simple and succinct three-thousand-word introduction to my thesis, Why Morpholags Turn Bad?”
§
The piebald specimen, Christopher, cared little for the debate that raged about its identity. Its concern was nothing more than adequate nutrition. Omnivorous in nature, it ate almost anything at a pinch—old boots, tree bark, mince pies, etc., but it was particularly fond of small children. While others might have been discussing its eating habits, it was busy flushing out its preferred menu item …
“Cripes, Barry, it’s that giant rabbit thing! Look at those teeth!”
“No. It’s not a giant rabbit thing, it’s the Lago-Gali—Whatever.”
“Don’t fancy poking that with a sharp stick.”
“Nope.”
The two boys glanced at each other.
Very softly, Barry started counting, “One, two, three, GO!”
The two boys sprinted in opposite directions.
If the morpholag was a proper monster, like a fire-breathing dragon, it would have smiled. Instead, its face held the engaged look of a cat with a mouse between its paws. (Which is ironic, really, given its purported taxonomy.)
Christopher thought—Phase one, complete. All that’s left now is phase two, and a little eating.
The Stable Boy
Francis
NAME: Francis.
CLASS: Servant.
FAMILIAR:With the stench of horses.
SPECIALTY:Horses
RÉSUMÉ:Has managed to stay alive after the death of his parents, despite the requisite beatings that are reserved for the downtrodden in society, especially those with nobody to defend them, and who are unable to defend themselves.
PASSED:Puberty, but not by much, and only just.
§
Francis simply couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Well, not all of it. Perhaps he dared believe the princess bit, but kidnapping the king? Or was that reginapping? kingnapping? Nobody seemed to know. The whole affair had escalated to fairy-tale stuff as the credulity of the audience stretched. The kitchen staff gaped at the never-ending stream of information, disinformation and outright fabrication.
Francis set about sorting the facts from everything else and found two obstacles. In the first place, he had very little reliable information to go on, and in the second place, his overactive imagination was already running wild after his encounter with the girl. Now that people were saying she was a princess, his idealistic imaginings kicked into gallop mode.
Maybe he could save her? A little derring-do and his dream of escaping his life as a stable hand might come true. He thought of the girl again. So sweet, and a princess. It was enough to stoke the embers of Francis’ crushed heart.
Starry-eyed, he hung on every word as the kitchen staff talked of dangerous harpies wielding knives, and Dirk the Quirk. That explained the man’s skeletal frame and his casual bullying. Maybe the princess needed rescuing from him, the same as the king did.
Cook dashed his hopes when she said, “She ain’t no princess, mark my words. Where’s her procession? I’ve never seen a royal without ’em being hip-deep in hangers-on.”
The waitress faction disagreed. They said the girl was, without doubt, the princess Sylvie from Avondale. Everyone knows she’s trailing a horde of lovesick suitors and bounty hunters in her wake. Francis threw caution to the wind and asked, “Who are the people saying the girl’s a princess?”
One of the girls cuffed him. “Go and muck the sty, lad.” To add insult to injury, she’d sniggered behind her hand, “The pigs will want to be eating at our table next!”
Francis braved the mists to get back to the stables and flung himself on the musty pile of hay that served as his bed. He mulled over everything, including his encounter with the unusual couple. The lady had seemed to be in charge. Not nastily, but like she was used to getting her way. So, she probably wasn’t a prisoner. But could she really be a princess?
He pulled the two extra coins she’d given him from the top of his rag shoes and turned them over in his hand. Did it matter?
She was generous and rich, and most of all she was kindly to those not as well off as herself, which is more than he could say for almost anyone else he’d met.
Francis pulled himself up. Saving the princess might not be easy, especially without a sword. But as his late father had always told him, there’s more than one way to skin a horse, lad. Work with what you have. He had his bow and arrows.
Not much use if he couldn’t help Sylvalla escape, and to do that he needed horses …
A thought crossed his mind that seemed at first glance, terrible. And at second glance, even worse. He could purloin a horse. (Francis thought words should be used carefully. Especially words like “purloin”. Still, even in his head, purloin sounded so much better than steal.)
The tavern stables weren’t exactly home sweet home. His choices were pretty simple. Do and die, or do nothing and die anyway—possibly a little slower, but with no chance of glory—and no chance to earn a decent wage.
Francis knew he didn’t have all the facts, but he’d seen the girl of his dreams—she’d given him money—and now she was in trouble. Trouble that he, as a self-respecting stable boy, should feel privileged to pull her out of, even if it meant bravely laying down his life.
No. This was it. No more excuses, those were all blue catfish. No more whipping boy. No more mucking out stables and sties. If there was any chance of tagging along with the very rich girl and discovering how to make real money, instead of settling for bed, board, beatings, and having all his tips nabbed, he had to take it.
And so, young Francis fletched arrows into the night, while keeping an eye on the courtyard outside. Something was up.
Once the mists cleared, he could see at least fifty King’s Men flitting in and out and around the buildings.
Maybe the king had been nabbed.
If that were true, this was going to be more dangerous than he’d expected. He’d also need a well-executed plan of escape, as well as several wings and a prayer—mainly because the best plan he’d had so far was parading some horses outside and throwing stones at their window.
Fletching into the wee hours, Francis tried to improve his awful plan. There were a hundred reasons why it was a bad plan—more than a few of them wore helmets and carried long sharp pieces of metal. Very expensive swords that their owners treated with cavalier disdain.
Looking at the King’s Guard in the courtyard with newfound objectivity, he wondered what the idiots were up to. Running around in circles by the look of it.
Francis slipped out into the darkness. After years of practice, it took three things to catch him when he was sneaking—sharp ears, honed reflexes, and for Francis to make a mistake.
But then again, maybe he didn’t need to sneak. B
eing a stable boy could be an advantage, all he needed was a ready-made excuse. Back inside the stables he found one. A worn halter.
He filed it roughly until the strap broke. It didn’t have to be a good excuse or stand up under much scrutiny. Nobody would care about what a lowly stable boy was up to. Not now. And afterward—well afterward, he wasn’t planning to be here.
Asumgeld
Not so very far away, Asumgeld was stirring. It could feel the pull of heroes, the ignorance of fools, the brutality of muscle wielding cold steel, and the whisper of magic and wishes.
Of warnings—it had two. Butterflies and Quests. The third warning would concern thievery. It always did.
Although regarding treasure, it had none—scorning such as the death of its kin—Asumgeld feared thieves. In living memory there was always a thief, as attracted to dragons as moths to a flame.
Unconsciously, Asumgeld’s claws flexed. Each as long as a sword, they crushed the rock beneath with ease.
Jonathan, sleeping a mile away, startled awake before drifting back to sleep.
Goodfellow Senior smiled and relaxed once more. He didn’t need to worry right now. It wasn’t waking. Yet.
The dragon’s third warning: The Grace of Thieves had not yet come to pass. Hopefully, it never would. Surely scrumpers, horse-thieves, and merchants didn’t count. Nor, presumably, did adolescent boys sneaking into the night.
Caught Between a Sword and Some More Swords
Francis strolled quietly behind the soldiers, intent on finding out what so many well-armed men were doing.
Mostly, they were talking about breakfast. A conversation so absorbing they didn’t notice the young man trailing close enough to hear every word.
Just as Francis thought things were going well, because the conversation had strayed to King Phetero and his captors, the rear door of the inn opened and Mrs Balmy, the innkeeper, walked out. Her dress was rumpled, her dingy-brown hair stood up in clumps, and she sported bloodshot eyes borne aloft by black shadows.
Part of Francis wondered if she’d managed to sleep at all. The other part tried not to jump guiltily. The broken halter dangling from his hand was no protection from this woman. She’d see right through his ruse.
He flinched as she reached out her hand—
“Just the person I was looking for.” Mrs Balmy beamed.
Francis almost choked. Whatever would she want him for? Something nobody else would do. He looked about. Not only did she have half a dozen soldiers behind her, but the soldiers he’d been following had turned to see what was happening.
There would be no easy escape this time. She had him cornered.
Francis tried to keep the flush of guilt from rising to his cheeks. It was all very odd. Where was her usual piercing glare? Her demands for him to empty out his pockets?
Distracted by the soldiers, Mrs Balmy continued to smile.
Francis distrusted that smile. Mostly because he’d never seen her wearing one unless she was about to do something really mean, like order a beating or dock someone’s wages for a month.
Half a tonne of terror descended on his guts. Then he looked on the bright side, took a chance, and smiled back.
His boss didn’t blink. “I was wondering if you’d take some food in to a couple of guests this morning?”
Francis had never realised that he looked so very stupid. “You wish me to serve the king and his … company, because everybody else is”—this is a death trap, he thought—“too scared? And why should I do you this great favour?”
“Because I ask it, you little vermin.” She glanced at the soldiers, and returned the smile to her lips, patting her cheeks as if that might affix it there more permanently. “And there will be a silver piece in it for you. Not bad pay for a few minutes of your time.”
“I see.” Francis’ mind whirled. “Then you’d better let me sort out the horses for the patrons leaving today. You know how Mr MacNarra always likes to leave early.” Francis turned his back, knowing how angry his insolence would make his employer, but if he was to rescue the princess he needed those horses ready and waiting.
“I don’t think … um … under the circumstances …” Mrs Balmy babbled.
Francis ignored her, walking with larger strides as she tried to call him back. He half expected the soldiers to stop him, but they didn’t. “Don’t try to leave, son,” one of them warned. But after that, they just stood and watched, like he was a condemned man at a hanging.
Back at the stables, Francis tried not to think about the impending danger as he carefully saddled five sound horses including Mr MacNarra’s and Sylvalla’s (but not the king’s … it had vicious teeth). He left them tethered in the courtyard.
There was one more thing he needed.
Francis could feel the pressure of eyes on his back as he returned to the stable. How was he going to sneak his bow and arrows out and across the courtyard?
Stuff it. He went over to the work table and grabbed them.
As he walked past the innkeeper, she merely raised her eyebrows and said, “They won’t let you go in with those.” Turning to a soldier, the innkeeper muttered, “I don’t know what the boy could possibly be thinking of, trying to protect himself with a bow and arrows against the deadliest sword in the country.”
Still, she didn’t actually bother to take them off him—that was somebody else’s job.
Sure enough, when the soldiers gave Francis a tray of food and his instructions, they prised his bow and arrows from his hands. “Don’ wan’ ta give ’em a fright, laddie,” one of the men said, his soft voice at odds with the whiteness of his hands.
A Dangerous Dawn
King Phibiam drew his purple cloak around himself and bared his teeth in a poor imitation of a smile. “The day comes, and with it, I assure you, a most painful death. Yes, even for you, Dirk, Death of a Thousand Men. But if you surrender now, I will ensure your death is quick and painless, as befits a hero.”
Dirk returned the mirthless smile, his gaze locked on to King Phibiam’s. “Indeed, it is a most noble offer, good sir, but my blade is sharp, and I will not surrender while it remains at my side. Instead, I believe the dawn will bring us a most pleasant journey outside the walls of this noble city. Indeed, I shall happily escort you free of charge. Consider this service but a small token of my appreciation, for we have so enjoyed your company tonight, have we not, Sylvalla?”
Sylvalla nodded, her rebellious tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth.
“You shall die for this,” Phibiam spluttered.
“Only if you die first,” Dirk replied. “But on the other hand, should we all survive, I’m prepared to offer you another small token of my appreciation, the further use of your head.”
Sylvalla peered out the shutters in a fruitless attempt to avoid being mired in Dirk and Phibiam’s conversation. They’d been locked in such acrimonious banter for most of the night. Under other circumstances maybe it would have been possible to laugh at the stupidity of the situation. If only she’d been thinking more clearly, maybe blundering into King Phibiam wouldn’t have gone so very badly.
Still, much as she’d hated the night, Sylvalla hated the light filtering through the tiny chinks in the shutters more. Any moment now, morning would arrive. Before that happened, decisions had to be made. They couldn’t stay here forever like ducks sitting in a wooden cage.
“Keep away from the blinds,” Dirk said, and reiterated an axiom Sylvalla had heard before. Danger flies with the dawn.
It didn’t help settle Sylvalla’s tender stomach.
To relieve her nerves, she held a clenched fist to her middle, and that helped. A little.
“This uneasy truce cannot last,” Phibiam said rigidly, his mouth drawn into the rictus of a smile.
“Maybe not,” Dirk needled, every muscle in his wiry frame tense, including the muscles on his face pulling his lips into a rictus-duplicating grin. “I wonder who shall die first?”
“I do not intend to die. Besid
es, either way, you’ll never run far enough to escape my soldiers.”
“Good. It will make things much easier when I have to explain your death.”
“Stop it, the pair of you!” Sylvalla held her stomach tight. “We need a plan to get out of here alive.”
Both men shrugged. Their eyes slid to the floor, and they were silent.
It gave Sylvalla enough time to imagine a dozen scenarios, each doomed to failure, most of them fatally.
Dirk and Phetero were also silent. It wasn’t like their imaginations were doing any better.
Together, they sat and stewed and hoped something fortuitous would happen before soldiers showed up and did the thing they were good at. Killing people.
The first sign of trouble was a voice outside the door. “It’s only me, milady. The boss said to bring food.”
“Where are the soldiers?”
“Everywhere.”
The muffled words, “Shut up, boy,” were clearly audible through the heavy door.
“Can I come in?”
“No.” Sylvalla, Dirk, and King Phetero called in unison.
King Phetero jumped up, and very quickly sat down again, as Dirk leapt up and pressed his sword to the king’s throat. “Just a word, I swear,” Phibiam muttered. He waited for Dirk’s nod and turned to the door. “By the seven hells! Whoever you are, tell those damned soldiers to go away!”
Dirk nodded thoughtfully. “Good idea. How about you give them something else to do?”
There was a pause while the king rested his head on his hand. He breathed slowly and deeply, savouring the sweet stench of fear pervading the small room. After all, if those soldiers didn’t back off now, they might be the last breaths he ever took.
“Now listen carefully.” Phibiam tried to keep his voice loud and clear. “I demand a dress uniform parade around the palace grounds. It must include every single one of my soldiers. Even the pikers currently off duty. Anyone absent will be court-marshalled. And, pray, tell that good-for-noth—er, I mean my good man, Brigadier Thompson, to divide the soldiers into four battalions and send them off to each of the city’s four gates. I expect to meet a quarter of my soldiers at one of the city’s four gates in …”