“This is grave,” said Orlon.
“Well,” said Stomper, “I guess it’s time we all laid our cards on the table,” and with that he noisily emptied the contents of a faded duffel into a heap in front of him. When he was finished, there was a large pile of odd objects, including a broken sword, a golden arm, a snowflake paperweight, the Holy Grail, the Golden Fleece, the Robe, a piece of the True Cross, and a glass slipper.
“Arrowroot, son of Arrowshirt, heir of Barbisol and King of Minas Troney, at your service,” he said, rather loudly.
Bromosel looked up to the top of the page and winced. “At least another chapter to go,” he groaned.
“Then the Ring is yours,” cried Frito, and eagerly tossed it into Arrowroot’s hat.
“Well, not exactly,” said Arrowroot, dangling the band at the end of its long chain. “Since it’s got magic powers, it belongs to someone more in the mumbo-jumbo, presto-changeo line. To wit, a wizard, for example,” and he neatly slipped the Ring over the end of Goodgulfs wand.
“Ah, yes, verily, in truth,” said Goodgulf quickly. “That is to say, yes and no. Or perhaps just plain no. As any fool can see, it’s a clear case of habeas corpus or tibia fibia, since although this particular gizmo was the work of a wizard—Sorhed, to be exact—this sort of thing was invented by elves, and he was only working under a license, you might say.”
Orlon held the Ring in his hand as if it were an annoyed tarantula. “Nay,” he said, gravely, “I cannot claim this great prize, for it is said, ‘Finders keepers, losers weepers,’” and brushing away an invisible tear, he looped the chain around Dildo’s neck.
“And ‘Let dogs lie if they are sleepers,’” said Dildo, and slipped it into Frito’s pocket.
“Then it is settled,” intoned Orlon. “Frito Bugger shall keep the Ring.”
“Bugger?” said Legolam. “Bugger? That’s curious. There was a nasty little clown named Goddam sniffing around Weldwood on hands and knees looking for a Mr. Bugger. It was a little queer.”
“Odd,” said Gimlet. “A pack of black giants riding huge pigs came through the mountains last month hunting for a boggie named Bugger. Never gave it a second thought.”
“This, too, is grave,” declared Orlon. “It is only a matter of time before they come here,” he said, pulling a shawl over his head and making a gesture of throwing something of a conciliatory nature to a shark, “and as neutrals, we would have no choice...”
Frito shuddered.
“The Ring and its bearer must go hence,” agreed Goodgulf, “but where? Who shall guard it?”
“The elves,” said Gimlet.
“The dwarves,” said Legolam.
“The wizards,” said Arrowroot.
“The Men of Twodor,” said Goodgulf.
“That leaves only Fordor,” said Orlon. “But even a retarded troll would not go there.”
“Even a dwarf,” admitted Legolam.
Frito suddenly felt that all eyes were on him. “Couldn’t we just drop it down a storm drain, or pawn it and swallow the ticket?” he said.
“Alas,” said Goodgulf solemnly, “it is not that easy.”
“But why?”
“Alas,” explained Goodgulf.
“Alackaday,” Orlon agreed.
“But fear not, dear boggie,” continued Orlon, “you shall not go alone.”
“Good old Gimlet will go with you,” said Legolam.
“And fearless Legolam,” said Gimlet.
“And noble King Arrowroot,” said Bromosel.
“And faithful Bromosel,” said Arrowroot.
“And Moxie, Pepsi, and Spam,” said Dildo.
“And Goodgulf Grayteeth,” added Orlon.
“Indeed,” said Goodgulf, glaring at Orlon, and if looks could maim, the old elf would have left in a basket.
“So be it. You shall leave when the omens are right,” said Orlon, consulting a pocket horoscope, “and unless I’m very much mistaken, they will be unmatched in half an hour.”
Frito groaned. “I wish I had never been born,” he said.
“Do not say that, dear Frito,” cried Orlon. “It was a happy minute for us all when you were born.”
“Well, I guess it’s goodbye,” said Dildo, taking Frito aside as they left the caucus room. “Or should I say ‘until we meet again’? No, I think goodbye sums it up quite nicely.”
“Goodbye, Dildo,” Frito said, stuffing a sob. “I wish you were coming with us.”
“Ah, yes. But I’m too old for that sort of thing now,” said the old boggie, feigning a state of total paraplegia. “Anyway, I have a few small gifts for you,” and he produced a lumpy parcel, which Frito opened somewhat unenthusiastically in view of Dildo’s previous going-away present. But the package contained only a short, Revereware sword, a bulletproof vest full of moth holes, and several well-thumbed novellas with titles like Elf Lust and Goblin Girl.
“Farewell, Frito,” said Dildo, managing a very convincing epileptic fit. “It’s in your hands now, gasp, rattle, o lie me under the greenwood tree, ooooo. Ooog.”
“Farewell, Dildo,” said Frito, and with a last wave went out to join the company. As soon as he had disappeared, Dildo sprang lightly to his feet, and skipped into the hall humming a little song:
“I grieve to see you leave so soon,” said Orlon quickly, as the company stood assembled around their pack sheep some twenty minutes later. “But the Shadow is growing and your journey is long. It is best to begin at once, in the night. The Enemy has eyes everywhere.” As he spoke, a large, haircovered eyeball rolled ominously from its perch in a tree and fell to the ground with a heavy squelch.
Arrowroot drew Krona, the Sword that was broken, now hastily reglued, and waved it over his head. “Onward,” he cried, “on to Fordor!”
“Farewell, farewell,” said Orlon impatiently.
“Excelsior,” cried Bromosel, blowing a fierce blast on his duck whistle.
“Sayonara,” said Orlon. “Aloha. Avaunt. Arroint.”
“Kodak khaki no-doz,” Gimlet cried.
“A dristan nasograph,” shouted Legolam.
“Habeas corpus,” said Goodgulf, waving his wand.
“I have to go poo-poo,” said Pepsi.
“So do I,” said Moxie.
“I’d like ta poo-poo the both o’ ye,” said Spam, reaching for a rock.
“Let’s go,” said Frito, and the party set off down the road from Riv’n’deil at a walk. In a few short hours they had put several hundred feet between them and the lodge where Orlon still stood, wreathed in smiles. As the party passed over the first slight rise, Frito turned around and looked back over Riv’n’deli. Somewhere in the black distance lay the Sty, and he felt a great longing to return, as a dog might on recalling a longforgotten spew.
As he watched, the moon rose, there was a meteor shower and a display of the aurora borealis, a cock crowed thrice, it thundered, a flock of geese flew by in the shape of a swastika, and a giant hand wrote Mene, mene, what’s it to you? across the sky in giant silver letters. Suddenly Frito had the overpowering feeling that he had come to a turning point, that an old chapter in his life was ending and a new one beginning. “Mush, you brute,” he said, kicking the pack animal in the kidneys, and as the great quadruped staggered forward, tailfirst into the black East, there came from deep in the surrounding forest the sound of some great bird being briefly, but noisily, ill.