How to Rescue a Dead Princess (11 page)

“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!”

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.”

The guards stopped moving forward. All of them had their swords pointed at Randall's throat. “Give us one good reason why we shouldn't kill you,” they said, in rather impressive unison.

“Well,” said Randall, “I've never knowingly practiced cannibalism.”

“That's an okay reason,” admitted five of the guards in unison. The sixth was distracted by a caterpillar.

An old crone dressed in rags and sponges pushed through the guards and took hold of Randall's necklace. “I recognize this accursed object!” she snarled. “This belongs to the Hey, Let's Kill Us A King underground movement! This man is a spy!” She moved to the side. “Slay him now!”

“No!” said one of the guards in nothing resembling unison. “He must be made an example of! We will give him a public execution at dawn!”

“Aw, why do we have to get up so early?” asked another guard.

Randall tried to take a casual step backward. The guards immediately brought the tips of their swords even closer to his throat. “Stop that right now!” they said, sounding like a barbershop quartet. “Put your hands in the air!”

Randall put his hands in the air, accidentally smacking the old crone in the process. “He's gone berserk!” shouted a commoner in the courtyard. A woman screamed.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Randall ducked underneath the swords, and in the most important game of Red Rover, Red Rover he'd ever played, broke through the line of guards and took off running down the center of the courtyard toward a huge fountain. The center of the fountain contained a huge statue of Osiris, Goddess of Hot Loving.

“Get him!” shouted one of the guards.

“Oooh, good call,” said a terribly sarcastic commoner, who was promptly trampled by seven pairs of guard's boots, including the one that went back and trampled him a second time.

At the base of the fountain, Randall considered his options. Option #1: Find a way to escape. Option #2: Die. After taking a moment to think about it, he selected Option #1, which involved more effort but had a preferable outcome.

He surveyed his surroundings.

South: Six angry guards running toward him, swords raised. Bad direction to move.

West: The horse-drawn carriage. A brick wall. A few random commoners. A cannon with the fuse lit. Bad direction to move.

East: Another brick wall. A few more random commoners. A fat guy selling pudding. A ape-like man holding a six-foot-long sword with “Widow Maker and Breaker” carved on the blade. Bad direction to move.

North: The fountain. Past the fountain, the gateway to another area of the kingdom, leading to dangers untold. Quality of direction to be determined later.

Up: Top of the fountain. Good vantage point. Chance to say he climbed to the top of the Osiris statue. Optimum choice at this venture.

He jumped into the cold, sparkling, tangy waters of the fountain, reached for the nearest Osiris curve, and began to climb.

“He's done for!” said one of the guards. “With the temperature of that water and this unseasonably cool breeze, he'll have pneumonia before he knows it!”

Several curves later, Randall reached the top of the fountain statue and stood on Osiris's shoulders. He looked out around the kingdom and realized he was doomed, though he did take a moment to admire the exquisite architecture and layout of this kingdom. The castle was a healthy run away, and most likely contained a guard or two. Aside from leaping over the walls, there didn't seem to be any exits beyond the way he'd come in.

He noticed another statue next to the entrance of the castle. It was of Soderstrom, God of War and Pinochle. Then Randall wished he hadn't noticed the statue first, because the archers with arrows drawn were far more noteworthy. They fired.

An arrow struck Randall in the right shoulder. Then another struck his left leg. Another struck his chest. Then one got him between the eyes. Randall especially disliked the one that got him between the eyes.

As one of the archers favored his partners with a resounding “I told you so” regarding the ineffectiveness of foam arrows, despite the fact that they didn't break as easily, Randall decided his only possible course of action was to leap down upon the horse-drawn carriage. Four of the guards were climbing the statue after him, and even if they chose to savor the experience they'd be at the top soon.

He took a deep breath ... and jumped.

ATOP THE highest mountain in the land, in a tiny hut made from dried mud and feathers, two wise old men sat cross-legged on the floor, both touching the crystal ball that rested between them. The image within the ball was that of Randall, taking a deep breath in preparation for his heroic jump.

“Do ye think he'll make it?” asked the first.

“Aye,” said the second. “What think ye?”

“I think nay,” said the first. “But I accept your right to think aye, though it clashes with my thoughts of nay.”

“Why has the image stopped moving?” asked the second.

“'Tis poor reception,” said the first, “but it does offer a benefit for ye and I. By delaying our knowledge of whether or not the poor soul made his jump, the suspense is being heightened.”

“Aye,” agreed the second. “And a fine benefit it is, too. Were he to simply make the jump, or fail to make it, as ye believe will be the case, t'would be a brief emotional reaction indeed. But since we know not the end result, every moment spent basking in this lack of knowledge increases our desire to know, and increases the excitement we feel deep within our hearts.”

“Aye. This delay ‘tis a fine technique indeed.”

“Fine, fine indeed.”

“But perhaps ‘tis being stretched out a bit too far.”

“Nay,” said the second. “I still find the suspense heightened.”

“'Tis not my opinion at all,” said the first. “I find myself growing weary, and soon I shan't care at all whether the squire lands upon the carriage or lands upon the solid ground in a broken heap.”

“I must admit, at the beginning of your last utterance I did not agree, though I certainly was aware of your right to an opinion, but as time passed and your utterance came to its natural conclusion, my feelings had changed to that of agreement.”

“Thank you,” said the first.

“You're welcome,” said the second.

“Of course, your opinions being your own, thanking ye was probably not necessary.”

“But t'was a gracious gesture.”

“Indeed.”

They returned their attention to the crystal ball, where Randall was three inches into his leap....

“HE JUMPED! I can't believe it!” said Archer #1a.

“Well, it's not like he had much choice,” said Archer #1b.

“I don't think he's going to make it to the carriage.”

“Oh, of course he will. It's not that big of a jump.”

“Bet you ten dvorkins he pops on impact.”

“You're on.”

Archers #1a and #1b watched for a moment.

“Well, guess I won,” said the one who won the bet.

“Yep.”

“Where're my dvorkins?”

“Double or nothing on the elf tossing tonight.”

“Cool.”

SIX INCHES INTO his leap, Randall knew that he was going to make it. Six feet into his leap, he noticed that the back of the carriage was filled with axes, spikes, spears, and hot coals.

He began flapping his arms, desperately trying to disrupt his forward momentum. He said several dozen bad words. He went “
Aaaaaaaarrrgh
!”

Then he landed on neither the ground nor the carriage, but a guard. Instead of providing a soft, fluffy landing spot, the guard provided a solid, bony landing spot, and Randall immediately fell from the guard's body to the ground. The unhurt guard pointed his sword at Randall's pinky.

“You're dead,” he said.

“I feel that way,” Randall agreed.

Within seconds, Randall was surrounded by more guards and their swords. Then, a second later, he re-entered the familiar world of artificially induced unconsciousness.

WHEN HE WOKE up, he was sitting on a chair in a small, brightly-lit room. He was still wearing the necklace, and was seated across a table from a bald, intelligent-looking man with a waxed mustache. Two guards stood at the doorway.

“Hello there,” said the man. “My name is Alan. I'm the king's advisor. I understand you've gotten yourself in a bit of trouble, something along the lines of being caught attempting to assassinate our king. Is that true?”

“No,” said Randall. “I just needed to deliver a message regarding Sir William and Princess Janice from Mosiman Kingdom.”

“Why were you running from the guards?”

“They were chasing me.”

“Why are you wearing that necklace?”

“It helps my sore throat.”

“I'm sorry, but I just don't believe you,” said Alan, crossing his arms in front of his chest in an I'm-sorry-but-I-just-don't-believe-you gesture. “Your eyes are rapidly blinking and avoiding contact with mine, a definite body language signal that you're lying. You're sweating, implying nervousness, and I've noticed a large number of carotid artery pulsations, also implying nervousness. Plus, there's the additional detail that your story sounds like total ka-ka.”

“I'm not lying,” Randall insisted.

“You put your finger between your lips when you said that,” Alan noted. “Do you know what that means?”