How to Rescue a Dead Princess (9 page)

“What do you guys think?” the zombie foreman asked his comrades. They discussed it amongst themselves for a few moments. “Could we get back to you on that?” the foreman asked.

“Of course. Anything else?”

“Yes. A change of clothes would be nice. Most of us were buried in our finest garments, but it's been a while, and they're starting to get tattered. Plus, our rotting flesh isn't doing much for the smell.”

“No problem,” Grysh said.

“There was one more thing,” said the zombie foreman, trying to recall. “Chuck—what was that suggestion you made at the meeting last week?”

“Hats.”

“That's right, we want hats that say ‘Grysh's Graveyard Guardians’ on the front. White ones, with green lettering.”

“I see,” said Grysh. “Anything else?”

“I have something,” said one of the female zombies, raising her hand. “But you'll think it's stupid.”

“Fine. Keep it to yourself then,” said Grysh. “Okay, I'm going to think over these ideas you've brought up, and then
reject them
!”

The zombies looked surprised. The foreman looked downright flabbergasted. “But I thought—”

He stood there silently for a moment.

“Sorry, I assumed you were going to interrupt me. But I thought you said—”

“Quiet!” snarled Grysh. “You can take your grievances and stick them where the sun only shines at infrequent intervals if at all! Randall, destroy them!”

“I beg your pardon?” asked Randall, who had quit following the conversation shortly after the word “to.”

“Prove your worthiness!” the witch said. “Show these creatures what happens to those who dare challenge my labor policies!”

“Couldn't you turn Sir William back? He really gets into these impossible odds situations.”

“My powers are gone. I'm helpless.”

“That's pretty darn inconvenient, wouldn't you say?”

“Tell me about it. Last century I was levitating the entire populace of Friesner over the nearby tar pits when they went out. Didn't get invited back for months.”

“Could I have a weapon or something?”

“Stop stalling!” said Demon Baby. “Can't you see that they'll be right upon us in nearly half an hour?”

Randall knew this was the moment of truth. If he was going to prove his bravery, he'd have to do it now. This was the instant in his life that decided whether he was a true hero, or a lowly coward.

Then the instant passed with no real revelation.

But another moment of truth soon arrived, and Randall took advantage of this one. He walked over to the water that had pooled on the floor from Grysh's wringing, then yanked off his loincloth.

“I can see his loins!” said one of the zombies.

Throwing all modesty aside, Randall crouched down and soaked up most of the water with the cloth. Then he stood back up and prepared for his attack.

“Oh no!” gasped the zombie foreman. “He's twisting his wet loincloth! He'll be able to snap it at us!”

“We've got to shamble away!” shouted another zombie.

The zombies started the lengthy process of turning around so they could retreat. Randall rushed forward and snapped his cloth at the foreman.

“Ow! Stop it!”

Randall snapped it again.

“Stop it, you unfeeling monster! We're leaving!”

“And don't try this again!” Randall ordered. “I'm more than willing to twist my loincloth at a moment's notice!”

Seven minutes and fifty-four seconds after they'd arrived, the zombies were gone. Randall wrung out his loincloth, then put it back on.

“You've done very well,” said Grysh. “How would you like to be my personal servant?”

“Nah.”

“Fine. Now, away with you! Your quest awaits!”

“What about Sir William?”

“He stays here. That's my assurance that you'll return.”

“You'd be more assured of my return if Sir William was along to make sure I didn't get killed.”

“You don't need him. This is your journey, Randall. The princess and the knight will be here when you return. Bring me the Necklace of Power and the other reagents! Now, go!”

She snapped her fingers. Randall vanished.

“He's a good kid,” said Grysh.

Demon Baby nodded his agreement. “So, you think he'll find the necklace? I've never even heard of it before.”

“Of course you haven't. It doesn't exist. I just want to see what he'll do.”

RANDALL WAS not ordinarily one to wallow in the negative, but as he walked across the seemingly endless expanse of desert, he decided to do a mental rundown of the bad things in his life at the moment.

He was hot and thirsty. The only liquid for miles was the sweat that had pooled in his shoes. He was lost. All directions looked the same, and he had no idea which way he was supposed to be traveling. He was hungry. He was tired. The loincloth was going to give him a major tan line.

Time passed....

RANDALL HAD been wandering for two days, and was growing less and less cheerful about the whole affair. He walked in a daze, eyes glazed over, muttering incoherent things to himself like “Call me Ishmael.” He lacked the materials for a decent sand castle. Even the mirages he saw weren't any good.

Time passed....

RANDALL HAD lost it.

“Yondah lies da castle of mah faddah,” he said, over and over, the accent getting worse each time he spoke.

Then he collapsed.

“Person...?”

“Yondah ... yondah ... yondah...”

“Person, please sit up.” It was a high-pitched, tinny voice. “Person, you can't give up.”

“...yondah ... yondah ... burma shave...”

“Just open your eyes,” begged the voice.

Randall opened one as a compromise. There was nobody there. “Don't tell me I expended all that energy for nothing,” he warned.

“Over here. By your ear.”

Randall turned his head. Nobody there.

“No, no, the other ear.”

Randall turned again. Nobody there.

“Sorry, I was moving over to the first ear to save you some trouble. Now I'm behind your head.”

“Not going to look behind my head. You can forget it.”

“I'll move around to your nose. Don't inhale, please.”

“Don't have the strength.”

A tiny beetle-like creature, about the size of a dvorkin (which is about the size of a fully-grown spugglet's tooth), flew in front of his face. “Hi,” it said.

“Okay, I've seen you,” Randall told it. “Could I please die now?”

“I don't want you to die. You're my friend.”

“I've never even met you before.”

“You're still my friend. I love you.”

“Kind of free with the ol’ affection there, aren't you?”

“I can't help it. My heart is just full of love.”

“Well, my heart is full of sand. I can't go any more. I've been walking for three days. My chest hair is all burnt off, and I was very fond of what little I had.”

“But I can help you!”

“If you flew into my mouth and let me eat you, I could probably get another ten feet of walking in.”

“Please, get up. If you follow me, I can take you someplace beautiful where people will be ever so nice to you!”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Beautiful by any standards, or beautiful by the standards of a little bug who's already decided that it loves me?”

“Well, my standards. I guess I'm easily pleased, but still, it has to be better than dying at the edge of the desert.”

“The edge?”

“Relatively speaking. It's a big desert.”

“Wouldn't happen to be a Necklace of Power lying around here, would there?”

“No. Just sand.”

“Figures.”

Using all the force he could muster, Randall got back to his feet. “Follow me,” said the beetle, flying a couple feet ahead of him. “It's not far ... relatively speaking...”

Time passed....

THE BUG finished with its life story. It had been born one day, flew around the desert for a while, then found Randall.

“How much further?” Randall asked.

“We're almost there.”

“I don't see anything worth not dying for.”

“Six more steps.”

Randall took six more steps.

“I'm sorry,” said the bug. “I meant miles.”

Time passed....

“I HATE everybody,” said Randall.

Time passed....

“HOW MUCH further?” asked Randall. Or he thought he asked it. His thoughts and his voice were getting confused.

“Six more steps.”

“I'd hate to have to splat you, bug.”

“I mean it. Six more steps.”

Randall stopped. “Bug, I can see that there's nothing around for at least a thousand more steps. And I'm not talking dinky little crippled baby steps, I'm talking huge there's-a-big-dragon-ready-to-torch-my-tail steps.”

“No, no, six more steps, I promise.”

“Bug, apparently you have some distorted view of what exactly is entailed in taking a step.” He took one step forward. “That there, what I just did, is a step. Six of those will place me in a location that looks suspiciously like it contains more of the sand that I've been walking on for three days. Now, perhaps where you come from the definition of step has been altered in such a way that six of them would result in my being transported to a location that contains something besides the aforementioned sand, but in the world that I have grown to call home, six steps aren't going to do squat!”

“You don't trust me?”

“I trust that you've entered the magical Wonder World where the concept of steps has been drastically mutated into this freakish distortion of the laws of reality, where the alien life forms that possess legs stretching across two hundred of what any non-misshapen human would refer to as a ‘step’ roam freely across the desert without worrying about shriveling up into a withered corpse because there's nothing to drink but sand!”

“I still love you, you know.”

Randall dropped to his knees. “I quit. You hear me? No more steps. No more.”

“Please don't die. Please? Please, please, please? Just a little bit further. That's all I ask.”

“What is it with you? Are you on the Population Increase Committee or something?”

“I just want my friend to live.”

Randall forced himself to stand up again and begin walking. “Five more steps. One. Two. Three. Hmmmm, still lots of sand around here, isn't there? Four. The sand hasn't noticeably decreased. Five. That's it, I'm dooooooooooooooone...”

While he rarely stretched out his vowel sounds in normal conversation, in this instance his speech pattern was altered by the fact that the sand beneath him had given way, dropping him into a tunnel. He slid down the twisting tunnel for several seconds, then dropped painfully onto a stone floor right next to a nice fluffy cushion.

“See, I told you it wasn't in the right place,” said a man dressed in a lavender robe. There were four of them, seated around a table. Randall was in a small stone chamber, containing little besides the table and walls lined with books.

“It's a spy!” shouted one of the men, standing up and pointing accusingly.

“Kill him!”

The other three men stood up and pulled daggers out of their robes. One of them took out two daggers and looked smugly at the others.

Oh, thank you so much, bug
, thought Randall.

At that moment, the bug flew down the tunnel into the chamber. “Don't hurt him! He's my friend!”

The men looked at the bug, mouths agape. “I don't know about the rest of you,” said one of them, “but when a talking bug asks me not to hurt somebody, I listen.”

The other men nodded their agreement and replaced their daggers. The man with two daggers was more reluctant than the others, and made a big show out of putting both of them away.

“Please,” said the bug, “my friend needs food and water.”

“But water is precious around here,” said one of the men. He wore a name tag on his cloak that said Frederick. “If he wants us to share ours, he'll have to do without the lemon flavoring
and
the ice.”

“That's right,” said Roderick of the two daggers. “Do you want to fight about it?” he asked, reaching hopefully into his robe.

“Any water is fine,” said Randall.

Maverick picked a canteen up from the table and brought it over to Randall. Randall unscrewed the top and drank vigorously.

“Food is precious, too,” said Frederick. “If you want us to share, I'm going to have to sneeze on it first.”

“No problem,” said Randall, finishing off the contents of the canteen. The fourth man, Rick, got up, went over to one of the walls and began searching through the books. He pulled out one volume, titled
The Book That Opens the Secret Passage
, and a secret passage did not open.

“Wrong book,” said Roderick.

“Oh, yeah.” Rick pulled out
This Book Does Nothing Whatsoever
. The bookshelf rotated, spilling out most of the books in a clatter that shook the room.

“We need to figure out a way to keep them from doing that,” said Maverick. “Who has clean-up duty today?”

The shelf finished rotating, revealing a secret tunnel. It was lined with shelves containing all manner of food products, from bread to Hugo's Happy Ham. The tunnel continued further into darkness.

“Where does that tunnel lead?” asked Randall.

“Into darkness,” Roderick replied, with more than a hint of “duh” in his voice.

“It's a secret,” said Frederick. “A secret we are not prepared to reveal at this time, unless you should join us in our mission to assassinate the King of Rainey by crawling through a tunnel...”

“Not necessarily this one,” added Roderick, giving him a warning glare.

“Oh, right. Not necessarily this one, but a certain tunnel that leads right underneath the royal bedroom, enabling us to sneak up there in the middle of the night and slay the beast who has victimized our people for so long.”

“Which people?” asked Randall.

“Us four. The king has kept us in poverty for too long!”

“What do you mean, poverty? Look at all that food!”

“Look more closely,” said Maverick. “Maybe it's just my eyes, but I only see
one
variety of butter.”