“They are savage of visage,” said Legolam.
“Aye,” said Stomper, peeking through his fingers. “Proud and willful are the men of Roi-Tan, and they value highly land and power. But these lands are often those of their neighbors, and they are hence mickle unpopular. Though ignorant of letters, they are fond of song and dance and premeditated homicide. But warfare is not their only craft, for they run summer camps for their neighbors handsomely fitted out with the most modern oven and shower facilities.”
“Then these rascals cannot be all bad,” said Legolam hopefully. Just then they saw a hundred blades flash from a hundred sheaths.
“Bets?” said Gimlet.
As they watched helplessly, the line of riders bore down upon them. Suddenly the centermost figure, whose spiked helmet also boasted two longhorns, gave a vague hand signal to halt and the men reined to a stop in a display of astoundingly inept sheepmanship. Two of their fallen comrades were maimed in the milling, trampling confusion that followed.
As the screams and curses died down, the pronged leader cantered up to the three astride a bull merino of great stature and whiteness, its tail intricately braided with colored rubber bands.
“The jerk looks like a fork,” whispered Gimlet out of the corner of his thick-lipped mouth. The leader, shorter than the others by a head, looked at them suspiciously through twin monocles and brandished a battlemop. It was then that the company realized that the leader was a woman, a woman whose ample breastplate hinted at a figure of some heft.
“Vere ist you going and vat are you doing here when you are not to being here in der first place vhere you ist?” the leader demanded in rather garbled everybody-talk.
Stomper stepped forward and bowed low, falling on one knee and pulling his forelock. Then he kissed the ground at the sheep-lord’s feet. He buffed her boots for good measure.
“Hail and greeting, O Lady,” lisped Stomper, the butter in his mouth freezing solid. “We are wayfarers in your land searching for friends taken by the foul narcs of Sorhed and Serutan. Perhaps you have espied them. They are three feet tall with hairy feet and little tails, probably dressed in elvin cloaks and headed for Fordor to destroy Sorhed’s threat to Lower Middle Earth.”
The captain of the sheepmen stared at the Ranger dumbly, then, turning to her own company, beckoned a rider.
“Medic! Hurry up, I haf york for you. Und he ist der delirious, also!”
“Nay, beautiful Lady,” said Stomper, “they of whom I speak are boggies, or in the tongue of the elves, hoipolloi. I am their guide, who am called Stomper by some, though I have many names.”
“I bet you do,” agreed the leader, tossing her golden braids. “Medic! Vhere ist you?”
Finally Arrowroot’s explanations were accepted, and introductions were made all around.
“I ist Eörache, daughter of Eörlobe, Captain of der Rubbermark and Thane of Chowder. Dot means you ist nice to me or you ist not nothing to nobody no more,” said the ruddyfaced warrior. Suddenly her face darkened when she espied Gimlet, whom she studied suspiciously.
“Vat your name ist again?”
“Gimlet, son of Groin, Dwarf-Lord of Geritol and Royal Inspector of Meats,” said the stubby dwarf.
Eörache dismounted and inspected Gimlet at closer range, a tight frown on her lips.
“Dot’s funny,” she said at last, “you don’t look dwarfish!” Then she turned to Stomper. “Und you. Undershirt vas it?”
“Arrowshirt!” said Stomper. “Arrowroot of Arrowshirt!”
In a flash he had drawn gleaming Krona from its holster and flailed it about over his head as he cried, “And this is Krona of he who has many names, he who is called Lumbago, the Lodestone, by the elves, Dunderhead, heir to the throne of Twodor and true son of Arrowhead of Araplane, Conqueror of Dozens and seed of Barbisol, Top of the Heap and King of the Mountain.”
“Veil ba-dee-dah,” said Eörache, eyeing the waiting medic. “But I ist believing dot you ist not der schpies of der Serutan. He ist one schtinker, but he ist not der schtupiter also.”
“We have come from afar,” said Legolam, “and were led by Goodgulf Grayteeth, Wizard to Kings and Fairy Godfather, second class.”
The sheepess raised her yellow brows and let both monocles fall from her watery blue eyes. “Schhhhhhh! Dot ist not der name to be dropping around here. Der King, mein vater, lost his favorite mount, Saniflush der Swift, to dot schyster und later finds dot der dice ist queerer than der three-legged troll! Then der poor scheep ist coming back a week later covered with fleas and forgetting dot she ist housetrained all over der King’s new tapestry. Vhen der King catches him, der ist vun dead Vizard!”
“There is a sad wisdom in your words,” said Arrowroot, trying to snatch a peek down her halberd, “for Goodgulf is no more. He met his fate o’er-matched in uneven contest with a ballhog in the Mines of Doria. The creature played not fairly with Goodgulf, mastering him with means foul and deceitful.”
“Der poetic justicer,” said Eörache, “but I vill miss der old crank.”
“And now,” said Arrowroot, “we are in quest of our two companions captured by narcs and born whither we know not.”
“Ach,” said the lady warrior, “ye fixed der vagons of some narcs yesterday, but ye don’t see any boggies. Vhat ye find ist some little bones in der stewpot, und I don’t think they vas having spare ribs.”
The three companions observed ten seconds of silent farewell for their friends.
“Then how about a lift on your mutton-mushers?” said Gimlet.
“Hokay,” said Eörache, “but ye ist going to Isinglass to fix too der vagon of dot schkunken Serutan.”
“Then you fight with us against him,” said Stomper. “We had thought the sheep-lords to have thrown their lot with the evil Wizard.”
“Ve haf never vorked for dot creep,” said Eörache loudly, “und even if ye did help him a little at first, ye were only following orders und it probably vasn’t us dot you heard about because ye vas someplace else. Und anyvay, he vas vasting his time looking for some schtupider Ring vhat vasn’t vorth nothing. Me, I don’t believe in dot pixie-dust schtuff. Magicschmagic, I saying.”
The rider clicked her heels together and made an about-face, calling over her shoulder. “So, you coming mit us or you staying here und maybe starving to death?”
Stomper fondled the last piece of magic zwieback in his pocket and weighed the alternatives, not overlooking the beefy charms of Eörache.
“Ve going mit you,” he said dreamily.
Pepsi was dreaming that he was a maraschino cherry atop a huge hot-fudge sundae. Shivering on a mountain of whipped cream he saw a monstrous mouth of sharpened fangs loom above him, drooling great gobbets of saliva. He tried to scream for help but his own mouth was full of hardened fudge sauce. The maw descended, breathing a hot, odorous wind... down, down it came....
“Wake up, youse jerks!” snarled a harsh voice. “Th’ boss want t’ talk to ya! Har har har!” A heavy brogan kicked out at Pepsi’s already bruised ribs. He opened his eyes to the night gloom and met the evil stare of a brutish narc. This time he screamed, but the gagged boggie only gurgled with fear, and as he struggled he remembered that he was still hog-tied like a prime roast.
Now it all came back to him, how he and Moxie had been taken prisoner by the band of narcs and forced to march south toward a destination that they dreaded, the Land of Fordor. But a hundred blond riders on fighting sheep had cut them off and now the narcs feverishly prepared for the attack they knew would come with the first rays of the sun.
Pepsi received another kick and then heard a second narcvoice speak to the first.
“Mukluk pushkin, boggie-grag babushka lefrak!” rasped the deeper voice, which Pepsi recognized as that of Goulash, the leader of Serutan’s narcs, who accompanied the party of Sorhed’s larger, more well-equipped henchmen.