“Hee hee hee, filthy rodent! Now is the time for fun!”
Frito cowered. “Maybe it is, and maybe it isn’t,” he said, pulling his favorite bluff.
“Arrrgh!” screamed an impatient Nozdrul, who, by coincidence, happened to be named Argh. “C’mon, let’s cream this little creep! The boss said take his Ring and croak him then ’n’ there!”
Frito’s mind raced. He decided to play his last card.
“Well dat’s sho’ nuff fine wit me, ’cause ah sho’ doan wan’ you t’ do the bad thing to’ po’ li’l me!” said Frito, bugging out his eyes and rolling them like ball bearings.
“Har har har!” chortled another Rider. “What can you think of that’s worse than what we’re gonna do with ya?” The fiends drew closer to hear the terrible fear Frito harbored in his breast.
The boggie whistled and pretended to play the banjo. He then sang a verse of “Ole Man Ribber” as he ambled back and forth on shuffling feet, scratched his woolly head, and danced a cakewalk while picking watermelon seeds from his ears, all with natural rhythm.
“Sure can dance,” muttered one of the Riders.
“Sure gonna die!” screamed another, thirsting for Frito’s throat.
“Sho’ I gwine t’ die,” drawled Frito. “Yo’ kin do mos’ anythin’ t’ po’ li’l me, Br’er Nozdrul, so long as yo’ please doan throw me in dat briar patch ober dere!”
At this all the sadistic Riders sniggered.
“If that’s what you’re scared of most,” bellowed a voice full of malice, “then that’s what we’ll do to you, ya little jerk!”
Frito felt himself lifted by a horny black hand and flung far over the Gallowine and into the scrubby bush on the other side. Gleefully, he stood up and fished out the Ring, making sure it still hung on his chain.
But the crafty Riders were not long deceived by Frito’s ruse. They spurred their drooling swine to the bridge, intent on recapturing the boggie and his precious Ring. But, as Frito saw with surprise, the Black Nine were halted at the foot of the crossing by a figure robed in shining raiment.
“Toll, please,” commanded the figure of the startled Riders. The pursuers were again dumfounded when they were directed to a hastily lettered sign tacked to a support:
Elfboro Municipal Toll Bridge
Single Wayfarers....... 1 farthing
Double-axled Haywains...2 farthings
Black Riders............45 gold pieces
“Let us cross!” snapped an angry Nozdrul.
“Certainly,” replied the attendant pleasantly. “Now let’s see, there’s one, two... ah, nine of you at forty-five apiece, that makes... uuuuhh, four hundred and five beans, exactly, please. In cash.”
Hurriedly, the Nozdrul searched their saddlebags as their leader cursed angrily and shook his slugger with frustration.
“Listen,” he stormed, “what kind of dough do you think we make, anyhow? Ain’t there some sorta discount for civil servants?”
“I’m sorry—” smiled the attendant.
“How ’bout a Wayfarer’s Letter of Credit? They’re as good as bullion anywhere.”
“Sorry, this is a bridge, not a countinghouse,” replied the figure impassively.
“My personal check? It’s backed up by the treasure rooms of Fordor.”
“No money, no crossee, friend.”
The Nozdruls quivered with rage, but turned their mounts around, preparing to ride off. Before they left, however, the leader shook a gnarled fist.
“This ain’t the end of this, punk! You’ll hear from us again!”
Saying this, the nine spurred their farting porkers and sped away in a great cloud of dust and dung.
Observing this near impossible escape from certain death, Frito wondered how much longer the authors were going to get away with such tripe. He wasn’t the only one.
Stomper and the other boggies ran to Frito, extending their congratulations on his escape. They then drew close to the mysterious figure, who approached and, espying Stomper among them, raised his hands in greeting and sang:
Stomper raised his hands and answered, “Shantih Billerica!” They met and embraced, exchanging words of friendship and giving the secret handshake.
The boggies studied the stranger with interest. He introduced himself as Garfinkel of the elves. When he had shed himself of his robes, the boggies regarded with curiosity his ring-encrusted hands, his open-collared Ban-Lon tunic, and his silver beach clogs.
“Thought you would have been here days ago,” said the balding elf. “Any trouble along the way?”
“I could write a book,” said Frito prophetically.
“Well,” said Garfinkel, “we’d better make tracks before those B-movie heavies return. They may be stupid, but they sure can be persistent.”
“So new?” muttered Frito, who found himself muttering more and more lately.
The elf looked doubtfully at the boggies. “You guys know how to ride?” Without waiting for an answer he whistled loudly through his gold teeth. A clump of high sedge rustled and several overweight merino sheep bounded into view, bleating irritably.
“Mount up,” said Garfinkel.
Frito, more or less athwart an unpromising ungulant, rode last in the procession away from the Gallowine toward Riv’n’dell. He slipped his hand into his pocket, found the Ring, and took it out in the fading light. Already it was beginning to work its slow change upon him, the transformation of which Dildo had warned. He was constipated.
IV
Finders Keepers, Finders Weepers
After three days of hard riding that had put many a furlong between them and the Black Riders, the weary boggies came at last to the low kneehills which surrounded the valley of Riv’n’dell with a natural wall that protected it from occasional marauders too stupid or small to scale the sheer knolls and mounds. But their sure-footed mounts easily overcame these obstacles with short, heart-stopping hops, and in no time Frito and his companions had reached the summit of the last hillock and looked down on the orange roofs and cupolas of the elfish ranchellas. Urging on their panting ruminants, they galloped down the winding corduroy road that led to the dwellings of Orlon.
It was late in the gray fall afternoon when the procession of sheepback riders rode into Riv’n’dell, led by Garfinkel astride his magnificent woolly stallion, Anthrax. An ill wind was blowing, and granite hailstones were falling from brooding clouds. As the party drew rein in front of the main lodge, a tall elf robed in finest percale and wearing bucks of blinding whiteness stepped onto the porch and greeted them.
“Welcome to the Last Homely House East of the Sea and Gift Shoppe,” he said. “Barca-Loungers in every room.”
Garfinkel and the tall elf thumbed their noses in the ancient salute of their race and exchanged greetings in elvish. “A sya non esso decca hi hawaya,” said Garfinkel, lightly springing from his animal.
“O movado silvathin nytol niceta-seeya,” replied the tall elf; then turning to Stomper he said: “I am Orlon.”
“Arrowroot son of Arrowshirt, at your service,” said Stomper, dismounting clumsily.
“And these?” said Orlon, pointing to the four boggies asleep on their dormant mounts.
“Frito and his companions, boggies from the Sty,” said Stomper. At the mention of his name, Frito gurgled loudly and fell off his sheep, and the Ring dropped out of his clothes, and rolled to Orlon’s feet. One of the sheep trotted up, licked it, and turned into a fire hydrant.
“Oog,” mumbled Orlon, and staggered inside. Garfinkel followed him into the little building, and a stream of low elvish followed. Arrowroot stood listening for a moment, then went around to Spam, Moxie, and Pepsi and woke them up with a series of finger jabs and pivot-kicks. Frito retrieved the Ring and slipped it into his pocket. “So this is Riv’n’dell,” he said, rubbing his eyes with wonder as he looked at the strange elvish houses of prestressed gingerbread and ferrocandy.