The party was still panting when sharp-eared Arrowroot adjusted the volume on his hearing aid and laid his head to the ground.
“Hark and lo!” he whispered, “I do hear the sound of Nine Riders galloping nigh the road in full battle array.” A few minutes later a dispirited brace of steers ambled awkwardly past, but to give Stomper his due, they did carry some rather lethal-looking antlerettes.
“The foul Nozdrul have bewitched my ears,” mumbled Stomper as he apologetically replaced his batteries, “but it is safe to proceed, for the nonce.” It was at that moment that the thundering hooves of the dreaded pig riders echoed along the road. Just in time the company dove back to cover and the vengeful searchers sped past. When the clanking of armor dwindled in the distance, five heads reappeared above the bushes, their teeth chattering like cheap maracas.
“’Twas a near thing!” said Spam. “Came nigh to a-spoilin’ me pantaloons.”
The party chose to push on toward Wingtip before the sun rose. The moon was swathed in a shawl of heavy cloud as they traveled to the lofty peak, a lone finger of granite near the southern base of the legendary Hartz Mountains, scaled by few save an occasional winded guttersnipe.
Stomper walked along in the cool night breeze without speaking, silent except for the faint jingling of his zinc-plated spurs. The twins were fascinated with the pearl-handled sword which he called Krona, Conqueror of Dozens. Moxie sidled up to the lean masked man.
“That’s a neat toadsticker you got there, Mr. Arrowshirt,” said the inquisitive boggie.
“Aye,” said Stomper, quickening his pace a bit.
“Doesn’t look like the regular issue. Must be a special model, huh, mister?”
“Aye,” replied the tall man, dilating his nostrils slightly with annoyance.
Quick as a packrat, Moxie snatched the weapon from its holster. “Okay if I take a look?” Stomper, without batting an eye, let fly with a hand-tooled boot that sent the young boggie bouncing like a jai-alai ball.
“Nay,” snapped Stomper, retrieving his blade.
“I don’t think he meant to be rude, Mr. Arrowshirt,” said Frito, helping Moxie to his archless feet. There followed an embarrassed silence. Spam, whose knowledge of warfare was limited to childhood torturing of the family pullets, nevertheless began to sing a snatch of song he had once learned:
Then, to the boggie’s surprise, a fat tear fell from Stomper’s eye and his voice sobbed in the darkness:
The boggies gasped and looked at their companion as if for the first time. With recognition they recognized the legendary weak chin and buck teeth of Barbisol’s descendant.
“Then you must be the rightful King of Twodor!” cried Frito.
The tall Ranger looked at them impassively.
“These things you say may be affirmed,” he said, “but I do not wish to make a statement at this time, for there is another, oft-forgotten verse to this sad and doleful song:
Watching the newly revealed ruler trudge on in his lowly garb, the young Frito grew again thoughtful and pondered long on the many ironies of life.
As the sun’s rim broke on the far horizon its first tentative rays illuminated Wingtip. After an hour of strenuous climbing they reached the top and rested gratefully on the flat granite apex, while Stomper scrounged around for some sign of Goodgulf. Nosing about a large gray rock, Stomper stopped and called to Frito. Frito looked at the stone and discerned the crude skull-and-bones etched into its surface, and with it the X-rune of the Old Wizard.
“Goodgulf has passed this way recently,” said Stomper, “and unless I read these runes awrong, he means this place as a secure camp for us.”
Nevertheless Frito bedded down with nagging misgivings. But, he reminded himself, he is a king, and all. The bridge across the Gallowine and the way to Riv’n’dell were only a short distance; there they would be safe from the marauding Swine Riders. Sleep was now long overdue, and he sighed with pleasure as he curled up under a low shelf of stone. Soon he was falling fast asleep, lulled by the soft snuffling noises and the clanking of armor below.
“Awake! Awake! Fiends! Foes! Flee!” someone was whispering, waking Frito from his dreams. Stomper’s hand jostled him roughly. Obeying him, Frito peered down the slope and made out nine black forms inching stealthily up the mountain toward their hiding place.
“It seemeth that I read the signs awrong,” muttered the perplexed guide. “Soon they will be upon us unless we divert their wrath.”
“How?” asked Pepsi.
“Yes, how?” joined in Guess Who.
Stomper looked at the boggies. “One of the party must stay behind to delay them while we dash for the bridge.”
“But who—?”
“Never fear,” said Stomper quickly. “I have here in my gauntlet four lots, three long and a short for him we throw to the—er—for he who will have his name emblazoned in the pantheon of heroes.”
“Four?” said Spam. “What about you?”
The Ranger straightened with great dignity. “Surely,” he said, “you would not wish me an unfair advantage seeing that it was I who made up the lots?”
Mollified, the boggies drew the pipe cleaners. Spam drew the short.
“Two out of three?” he whined. But his fellows had already disappeared over the lip of the peak and were racing down as fast as they could. Panting and puffing, a fat tear rolled from Frito’s eye. He would miss him.
Spam looked down the opposite slope and saw the dismounted Nozdrul picking their way toward him quickly. Crouching behind a rock, he screamed courageously at them. “If I were ye,” he called, “I’d not come any closer! Ye’ll be sorry if ye do!” Unheeding, the fierce knights drew even nearer. “You’re really a-goin’ t’ get it!” yelled Spam rather unconvincingly. Still the Riders grew nearer, and Spam lost his nerve. Taking out his white handkerchief, he waved it about and pointed toward his retreating friends. “Don’t be wastin’ your time with me,” he cried. “The one with the Ring is hightailin’ it thataway!”
Hearing this from below, Frito winced and pumped his fat legs harder. Stomper’s long and gimpy shanks had already brought him across the bridge and onto the safety of the other bank, the neutral territory of the elves. Frito looked behind him. He wouldn’t make it in time!
Stomper watched the deadly race from the cover of some briars on the bank of the stream.
“Hie thee faster,” he called helpfully, “for the evil ones are right behind thee!” Then he hid his eyes.
The rumble of pigs’ feet grew louder and louder in Frito’s ears, and he could hear the lethal swish of their horrible Nozdrulville Sluggers. He made a last, desperate burst of speed, but tripped and skidded to a stop only a few feet from the border. Cackling with evil amusement, the nine surrounded Frito, their squint-eyed steeds grunting for Frito’s blood.
“Blood! Blood!” they grunted.
Frito looked up, terrified, and saw them as they slowly closed the ring, only an arm’s length from death. The leader of the pack, a tall beefy wraith with chrome-plated greaves, laughed savagely and raised his mace.