Puzzled for a second, Eörache nodded her horned head and unbuckled her thick leather wrist-strengthener and handed the metal-studded strap to Arrowroot, who fastened it joyfully around his neck.
“Hokay dere ist der token,” she said, “now raus!”
Without another word he galloped down the slope toward the drawbridge amid the cheers of the war party. Faster and faster he sped as the rest circled under the cover of the ridge. Then, just as the merino’s sharp hooves approached the portal into the fortress, the bridge was quickly raised up, revealing a familiar scaly grin painted on the underside, along with the legend, SORRY FOLKS. CLOSED FOR THE SEASON. But Stomper’s momentum carried him irresistibly onward until he plunged headlong into the lavender moat. Thrashing in the water, Stomper yelled with fear, for the moat became alive with sharp, rasping beaks. Great snapping turtles massed upon the drowning Ranger, and archers, noticing the commotion for the first time, began peppering the crackpot with crack potshots.
Eörache, hearing his cries, rode over the crest and saw Stomper floundering in the moat, assailed on all sides. Barking a Roi-Tanner oath, she raced down to the moat and sprang from her mount after him, locking his head in the crook of her muscular arm, and made for the shore. Then, as the party watched with awe, she stood up in the two-foot depths and scampered to safety, two water-and-arrow-logged merinos at her heels.
A great cheer rose from the Roi-Tanners as their leader trotted smartly back to the hill, the gasping Ranger still in tow. Muttering under her breath, she applied artificial respiration to Stomper, who choked up a surprising quantity of the moat and several small turtles. The vicious reptiles had torn away much of his raiment, leaving only his undergarments, which the lady noticed had the Royal Crown of Twodor embroidered on the backflap.
“Hey!” she exclaimed to the semiconscious Ranger. “You got der Royal Crown of der Twodor embroidered on der backflap.”
“Aye,” said Goodgulf, “for he is the true King of these and all lands of Twodor.”
“No kidding?” said Eörache, her eyes widening with concupiscence. “Hmmm. Maybe der dumkopf ist hokay after all.” To the surprise of all, she began to murmur softly to Stomper as she threw him over her shoulder and gently burped him.
“There is no time for courtly pastimes,” said Goodgulf. “Our diversion has failed and the enemy is now forewarned of our intentions. The hour to strike has passed and we are lost.”
“Does that mean we can go home now?” asked Legolam.
“No!” said the Wizard, his medallion flashing in the sun, “for I see in the distance a vast army marching.”
“Nuts,” said Gimlet. “I thought we could call it a day.”
With fearful eyes they all watched as a dark mass spread over a distant hill and moved toward them with alarming speed. Whether friend or foe, no one could discern. For many minutes they watched until cornets sounded from the battlements of Serutanland.
“They must be narc reinforcements come to destroy us all!” wailed the elf. “Sorhed has sent a great army against us!”
“No!” cried the Ranger. “They are not narcs, they are not like anything that I have seen.”
The others saw that this was true. Rank upon rank of huge, warlike vegetables were massing toward Serutanland, bed by a monumental creature. An eldritch song thundered:
“Ho ho ho!” rang through the land and the frightened sheep milled in confusion like sheep. Dumbstruck, the party saw squads of squash, platoons of potatoes, companies of kumquats, battalions of beets, and regiments of radishes, all tramping to a martial air played by a fifty-piece rutabaga marching band. Beyond the endless rows were even more formations; determined-looking avocados, stalwart scallions and brawny eggplants.
The very ground shook at the rhythmic rootsteps of the horde, the air crackled with their thousand chattering, piping warcries.
Proudly, at the head of the column strode the green general, who had added a pair of cornsilk epaulets to his meager attire. On each shoulder was a familiar figure in addition, and Goodgulf was the first to see.
“It’s the two runts, by cracky!” he cried.
And it was true. Moxie and Pepsi sat unsteadily on Birdseye’s shoulders, both waving frantically at Goodgulf and the rest.
The acres of produce tramped directly to the walls of Serutanland and arranged themselves in battle formation. Through a glass lent by Eörache, Arrowroot saw consternated narcs first gaping, then rushing about the ramparts in panic.
“Ho ho ho!” thundered the giant. “Be it known, Serutan, that the Vee-Ates are before you. Surrender or be pulped!”
At first there was no response from the fortress. Then a great voice replied to the giant with an earth-shaking raspberry.
“I take it then,” said the giant, “that you wish to fight.” Without another word the giant strode back to his lines and began barking orders to his followers, who quickly obeyed, running hither and thither to set up formations and engines of war.
Great watermelons half walked, half rolled to the edge of the moat, followed by enormous potatoes who leapt heavily upon the melons, firing a deadly hail of seeds to rake the ramparts clean of narcs. The narcs fell like fruit flies while the onlookers from the hill applauded wildly.
Then a column of sweet potatoes forded the moat, ignoring the arrows that sunk deep into their pulp. Half submerged in the turtle-infested waters, the potatoes sprouted long, winding tendrils that climbed the sheer face of the walls, entwining around any protrusion. The vines served as scaling ladders for the hordes of commando cucumbers that hastily clambered up to challenge the defenders. Simultaneously the giant brought out a huge, wheeled catapult and aligned it toward the wall.
“Der gas varfare!” shouted Eörache, guessing his plan.
The puzzled watchers soon learned what the Roi-Tanner had meant, for fully three companies of suicide scallions appeared and began piling into the great scoop of the catapult. When the trip was released, the eight-foot onions soared in a high arc over the walls and set up a huge cloud of acrid fog upon impact. Through the glass the party saw the narcs feverishly wiping their streaming eyes with dirty black handkerchiefs. Ballistas of kamikaze kumquats rained death down upon the barricades, and deafening reports of aerial popcorns toppled parapets on the heads of Serutan’s henchmen.
But the narcs still fought back desperately, their long blades flashing, dripping with vitamin-packed gore. The ramparts were littered with chopped parsley, diced onion, and grated carrots. Rivers of red tomato juice ran over the stones, and a ghastly salad floated in the moat.
Seeing that the fighting on the walls was yet undecided, the tall green commander ordered up another weapon, a pumpkin the size of a Mack truck. Nodding to his commands, the weighty squash rumbled over the moat on the backs of his slain comrades. Peppered with arrows, the great orange warrior stood before the raised drawbridge and immediately began butting it with its tremendous bulk. The whole wall shook and trembled. Again and again he crashed against the door while frantic defenders poured vats of steaming oatmeal down on the attacker. Parboiled yet undaunted, the brave pumpkin stepped back several yards and got one final running start, then rushed at the door full tilt. There was a titanic crash and the door seemed to explode into shards and splinters. The dazed battering-squash reeled back dizzily, staggered, shrugged its broad round shoulders, and split in half. Seeds ran out and mingled with the still-warm squeezings of brother warriors. For a moment all fell silent. Then, with a great cry, all the Vee-Ates rushed across the sundered shell and raged into the city. After them charged the Roi-Tanners and the company, eager to avenge its valorous end.