“Serutan!” gasped Arrowroot.
“Close, but no cigar,” cackled the brilliant figure as he flicked a bit of invisible dust from his tailored shoulder. “Pray try again. It is a sad thing indeed when old pals are recognized not!”
“Goodgulf?!” cried the three.
“None other,” said the aged fop. “You seemed astonished that I have reappeared.”
“But how did—did you... ?” began Legolam.
“We thought the ballhog...” said Gimlet.
The old wizard winked and straightened his vulgar medallion.
“My story is a long one indeed, and I am not the same Goodgulf Grayteeth that you once knew. I have undergone many changes, no thanks to you, I might add.”
“Yah, a little Clairol on the temples and a trim,” whispered the observant dwarf.
“I heard that!” said Goodgulf, scratching a razor-cut sideburn. “Take not too lightly my present form, for my powers are even mightier.”
“But how did you—”
“Much have I journeyed since we last met, and much have I seen, and there is much I would tell thee,” said Goodgulf.
“Anything but the name of your tailor,” said Gimlet. “Where’d you get those duds, anyway? I thought Halloween was months off yet.”
“A most delightful little boutique in Lornadoon. It’s me, don’t you think?”
“More than you know,” agreed the dwarf.
“But how did—” began Legolam again.
The Wizard made a sign for silence.
“Know now that I am no longer the Wizard of old. My spirit has been purged, my nature has been altered, my image has been remade. There is little of the former self that in me remains.” With a flourish, Goodgulf doffed his panama in a low bow. “I am completely transformed.”
“Bets?” grunted Gimlet as he saw five aces fall out of the hat.
“But Goodgulf!” exclaimed the elf impatiently. “You have not yet told us how you survived the clutches of the ballhog, lived through the flames, recovered from the fall into the boiling pit, and escaped the bloodthirsty narcs to find us here!”
As the stars grew brighter in the velvet sky overhead, the elf, dwarf, and Ranger gathered around the radiant sage to hear the tale of his miraculous, impossible salvation.
“Well,” began Goodgulf, “once out of the pit...”
VII
Serutan Spelled Backwards Is Mud
The plaintive twitterings of morning birds woke Legolam, who stared sleepily into the rising sun. Looking about, he saw all the company asleep save Goodgulf, who idly played solitaire on sleeping Gimlet’s hump.
“You cannot put a knave on a king. That’s cheating,” cautioned the elf.
“But I can put my fist down your gullet,” countered the witty old conjurer, “so why do not thee make a cuckoo clock or whatever you do with your spare time. I am meditating.”
But the elf looked at the Wizard with fondness. Half the night they had sat up and listened to Goodgulf’s tales of strange wanderings and brave deeds. Tales full of Goodgulf’s courage and cunning against unnameable enemies. Tales obvious to all as a pack of preposterous lies. If Goodgulf had been transformed, he had not been transformed much. What is more, Gimlet’s watch was missing.
Slowly the rest of the party roused themselves, Arrowroot last, partially because of his befuddled mooning over the fair Roi-Tanner, and partially because he couldn’t fasten his dropseat underwear. Carefully the Ranger prepared the company’s austere breakfast of eggs, waffles, bacon, grapefruit, pancakes, hot oatmeal, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and golden cheese blintzes. No one, the company agreed early in the quest, could make blintzes bike old Arrowroot.
“Zo, you ist up, finally,” growled a voice. All heads turned to Eörache, tricked out in her best boots, spurs, and armor. Through her nose was thrust a fierce-looking chicken bone.
“Ah, dressed to kill,” chuckled Goodgulf as he rose to greet the surprised captain.
“You!” gasped Eörache.
“You were expecting maybe Beowulf?”
“But—but ye thought dot you vere kaput mit der ballhog,” said the Roi-Tanner.
“It is a long tale,” said Goodgulf, taking a deep breath.
“Then save it,” interrupted Eörache. “Ve have der fighting to do mit der Serutanner. Coming mit me, please.”
The company followed Eörache to the rest of the warriors, all mounted on their fiery, champing steeds, eager as their riders for battle. Cheerfully they greeted their leader with a clenched fist of salute and whispered amused comments about the odd Ranger that followed her around like a demented basset.
The party mounted. Eörache grudgingly gave Thermofax, the fastest of all the Roi-Tanner’s sheep, to Goodgulf. Then, as the Riders burst into song, they rode west toward Isinglass.
They had not ridden but two hours before they reached a crested hill and Eörache bellowed the order to halt. Down in the low valley lay the pastel pink-and-blue walls of Serutan’s mighty fortress. The entire city was ringed with walls, and around the walls was a pale-lavender moat crossed by a brightgreen drawbridge. Pennants flapped in the breeze bravely and the tall towers seemed verily to goose the clouds.
Beyond the walls the expedition saw the many wonders that had lured countless tourists through its portals in the past. Amusements of all descriptions lay within: carnivals and sideshows under permanent tents, fairies’ wheels and gollum-coasters, tunnels of troth, griffin-go-rounds and gaming houses where a yokel could lose an idle hour, and if he wasn’t careful, his jerkin. Years before, when Serutan still showed a fair face to the world, Goodgulf had worked in such a house as a croupier for “Ye Wheel of Ye Fortune.” But only for a short time. Why he left and why he had been forever barred from Serutanland, as the evil Wizard renamed it, no one knew. And Goodgulf wasn’t telling.
The company stared with apprehension at the motionless wheels and tarpaulined exhibits. At the looming battlements stood rows of archers and pikemen, behind them caldrons of boiling farina. Above the ramparts rose a huge sign with the face of a cartoon character made famous through comic scrolls and innumerable shoddy toys. It was the visage of Dickey Dragon that simpered at the riders above the letters that read WELCOME TO SERUTANLAND. ALL RIDES TUPPENCE ON SUNDAYS. Everywhere, they noticed, were the brainless grins of Dickey Dragon. Pennants, signs, walls all bore that same idiotic, tongue-lolling face. But now that once-beloved creature had revealed itself to be the symbol of its creator’s lust for power, a power that had to be ended.
“A mighty fortress is our Dickey Dragon,” said Goodgulf, ignoring the groans of those around him.
“Ja,” agreed Eörache, “der Serutanner macht der mint mit der Dickey Dragon hats und der Dickey Dragon sweatshirts und der Dickey Dragon dis und der Dickey Dragon dot. One rich schtinker, der Serutanner ist.”
Goodgulf agreed that this was so, and that when they had been friends he had not been a bad sort.
“But this was all a sham and a front for his real purposes,” he added, “and for that we must conquer him.”
“But how?” asked Legolam.
“Der diversionary tactic!” exclaimed Eörache, her chicken bone quivering. “Ve need some dumkopf to draw dere attention vhile ye attack from der rear.” She paused and looked slyly at the love-struck Ranger out of the corner of her eye. “Dot dumb—er, hero vould melt der heart of any fraulein, I thinking.”
Stomper’s ears perked up like a randy boxer and he drew his blade, crying, “Krona! I will undertake this mission for thy glory and honor, that I may win from you admiration, though I not return.” Clumsily, he goaded his truculent merino to her side and kissed a calloused hand. “But first, I ask a token from thee, fair Eörache, that my valor may attempt to equal thy matchless charms. A token I ask of thee.”