The final engagements inside the walls were short and bloody. Gimlet sang lustily as he swung at the wounded narcs and dismembered their inert, defenseless corpses. Arrowroot and Legolam valiantly disposed of a number of brawny foes from behind and Goodgulf offered hearty exhortations and sound advice from the safety of a crumbled parapet. But it was the Roi-Tanner maiden and her cronies who took the day’s honors as they destroyed the remaining narcs. Arrowroot sought out Eörache through the melee and found her gleefully mincing a narc fully half her size and singing an old Roi-Tanner drinking song. She saw him wave timidly at her. She smiled, winked, and tossed him a round object.
“Hey! King! Catch!”
Clumsily the Ranger fielded the souvenir. It was the head of a narc. Its final expression was one of extreme annoyance.
At last the fighting was over and the long-parted friends ran to each other with joyful greetings.
“Joyful greetings!” cried Moxie and Pepsi.
“The same and more to you, I’m sure,” said Goodgulf, stifling a yawn of recognition.
“Hail fellow well met,” bowed Legolam, “may your dandruff worries be over forever.”
Gimlet limped over to the two boggies and forced a smile.
“Pox vobiscum. May you eat three balanced meals a day and have healthful, regular bowel movements.”
“How comes it,” said Arrowroot, “that we meet in this strange land?”
“It is a tale long in the telling,” said Pepsi, pulling out a sheaf of notes.
“Then save it,” said Goodgulf. “Have thee seen or heard news of Frito and the Ring?”
“Nary a peep,” said Moxie.
“Same here,” said Gimlet. “Let’s eat.”
“No,” said the Wizard, “for we have not yet found the evil Serutan.”
“Nertz,” said Gimlet. “It’s already past lunch.”
Together with Birdseye and Eörache, the company sought out the evil magician. Word spread that Serutan and his loathsome companion Wormcast had been seen in Isintower, the tallest parapet in Serutanland, famous for the rotating restaurant high atop the shaft.
“He’s up there,” a celery said. “He jammed the elevators, but he’s treed just the same.”
“Ho ho ho,” observed the giant.
“Shut up,” added Goodgulf.
High above them they saw the round, turning restaurant with its flashing sign that read SERUTAN’S TOP O’ THE MARK. Under it a glass door swung open. A figure appeared at the railing edge.
“Dot’s him!” cried Eörache.
In face he looked much like Goodgulf, but his raiment was strange to see. The Wizard was dressed in a full-length leotard of fire-engine red and a long cape of black sateen. On his head were pasted black horns and at his buttocks was attached a barbed tail. He held an aluminum pitchfork and wore cloven patent-leather loafers. He laughed at the company below.
“Ha ha ha ha ha.”
“Come thee then down,” called Arrowroot, “and what to thee is coming, taketh. Open thy door and let us in.”
“Nay,” cackled Serutan, “not by the hair of my chinnychin-chin. Let us instead work this out like sane, reasonable people.”
“Vork-schmork,” screamed Eörache. “Ve vant your miserable schkin!”
The evil wizard drew back in mock fear, then returned to the edge and smiled. His voice was soothing and melodious, dripping with sweet intonations like a melting Fudgsicle. The company stood in awe of his Sucaryled words.
“Let’s backtrack,” continued Serutan. “Here I am with my little concern making an honest farthing by the sweat of my brow. Suddenly a merger of competitors crash right through my corporate holdings trying to drive me out of the market. You have taken my liquid assets and nullified my small merchandizing staff. It’s a clear-cut case of unfair business practices.”
“Hey,” said the giant to Goodstuff, “that guy’s got a good head on his shoulders. No wonder he reaps so much cabbage.”
“Shut up,” Goodgulf agreed.
“Now I have a proposition,” said Serutan, gesturing with the point of his tail, “and though I’m not married to this idea, I thought I’d run it up the parapet and see if anybody pulls his forelock. Now I’ll concede that I wanted a piece of the action, but it’s that evil Sorhed who wants the whole ball of wax. As I see it, we form a new organization wherein I’ll sign over a controlling interest in Dickey Dragon and its subsidiaries for my old executive position and yearly stock options on any old Rings we may come across along the way. Throw in thirty percent of the booty we get in Fordor and I’ll let you have my partner Wormcast for free. He’s responsible for this little proxy fight anyway.”
An anguished scream came from inside the tower and a bowl of wax fruit just missed Serutan’s skull. A scrawny old man in a messenger boy’s uniform appeared for a second and shook his fist.
“Garrrsch!” he sputtered.
Serutan picked up the protesting Wormcast and casually tossed him over the railing.
“Aaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrgggggghhhh!” said Wormcast. The evil henchman hit the hard ground with considerable force.
“Never seen a red flapjack before,” mused Gimlet.
“There is my pledge of good faith,” Serutan went on smoothly. “Do we have a deal?”
“No deals,” said Goodgulf. “That knave is slipperier than a catfish in a jar of Vaseline.”
“Now wait,” said Arrowroot, “he did pledge controlling interest.”
“N-O spells no,” said Goodgulf, adjusting his hat. “I don’t want to wake up some bright morning with his pledge between my shoulder blades.”
Just then a small black object whizzed past Goodgulf’s head.
“This is getting monotonous,” Gimlet opined.
The round sphere bounced along the pavement and came to rest at Pepsi’s toes. He looked at it curiously and picked it up.
“We will leave you under guard in your foul tower,” said Goodgubf, “and the Vee-Ates will deal with you when your larder is empty of frozen cube steaks.”
Goodgulf turned and pointed to Pepsi.
“Okay, drop it.”
“Aw, I wasn’t doing nothing,” said Pepsi.
“Yeah, nothing,” defended Moxie.
“Let me have it,” said the Wizard impatiently, “you can’t eat it, so you have no use for it.”
The young boggie handed the black ball over glumly.
“Now,” said Goodgulf, “we must move quickly. Though the lands of Isinglass and Roi-Tan are safe from Serutan’s power, they will not long be thus unless Twodor itself is saved from Sorhed’s malevolence.”
“What must we do?” said Moxie.
“Yes, do?” asked Pepsi.
“If you’ll belt up for a second I will tell thee,” Goodgubf snapped. “The fair city of Minas Troney is threatened by Sorhed’s eastern armies. The foul city of Chikken Noodul lies near, and any day the black cloud will fall upon her fairer sister. We must gather all our forces and defend her.” He beckoned Arrowroot. “You, Stomper, must take it upon yourself to gather your subjects in Twodor and anyone else who will come to shore up the ramparts of Minas Troney. Eörache, you must bring all the riders you can spare and Birdseye too must lead his valiant Vee-Ates to Twodor. The rest will proceed with me there directly.”
“A hundred words without a punchline,” said Gimlet. “The old crock must be sick.”
The party bade farewell and rode from the broken fortress of Isinglass with heavy heart, knowing that still more trouble would plague the land. Goodgulf, Moxie, and Pepsi mounted their complaining bleaters and spurred on in the evening shadows toward the fabled capital of Twodor. As they left, two fair young carrots waved their greens after the boggies and jumped hopefully up and down upon their dainty taproots, somewhat hindered by already noticeable swellings in their middles. Moxie and Pepsi had not been idle, since Goodgulf had seen them last.