“Ah!” cried Pepsi, “white robes for white magic!”
“No,” said Goodgulf as he stapled the garments to a pool cue, “white robes for white flag.”
Just as the Wizard was waving his robes in frantic semaphore, the sound of a hundred horns was heard in the west, answered by as many in the east. A great wind clove the black cloud and dispersed it, revealing through the parting mists a great shield bearing the words CAUTION: CIGARETTE SMOKING MAY BE HAZARDOUS TO YOUR HEALTH; the rocks split, and the sky, though cloudless, thundered like a thousand stagehands striking a thousand metal sheets. There was a release of pigeons.
From all points of the compass the joyful Twodorians saw great armies approaching with marching bands, fireworks, and showers of colored streamers. To the north was Gimlet leading a band of a thousand dwarves, to the south the familiar pronged bulk of Eörache in command of three thousand berserk Sheepers; from the east appeared two great armies, one of Farahslax’s seasoned Green Toupées and one of Legolam’s manned by four thousand sharp-nailed interior decorators. Lastly, from the west, rode gray-clad Arrowroot leading a party of four warbadgers and a cranky Cub Scout.
In a trice the armies converged on the embattled city and set upon the panicking enemy. The battle raged as the trapped attackers were mowed down with sword and club. Terrified trolls fled the murderous Roi-Tanner hooves only to be hewn to pieces by the dwarves’ picks and shovels. The bodies of narcs and banshees littered the ground and the Lord of the Nozdrul was encircled by piqued elves who scratched out his eyes and pulled his hair until he fell on his own sword in embarrassment. The black pelicans and their Nozdrul pilots were pecked from the air by anti-aircraft gulls and the dragon was cornered by the Cub Scout and peppered with rubbertipped arrows until it suffered a complete nervous breakdown and collapsed with a heavy thud.
Meanwhile, the heartened Twodorians rushed from the walls and flew at the fiends yet inside the city. Moxie and Pepsi drew their putty knives and wielded them deftly. Soon, not a fallen corpse had a nose to call his own. Goodgulf busied himself throttling narcs from behind with his rubber air hose and Arrowroot was very probably doing something or other that was pretty much brave. When later questioned about the battle, however, he usually went rather vague.
At last all the enemy were slain, and the few who managed to break through the deadly ring of soldiers were run down and quickly dispatched with a blow from a Roi-Tanner dustmop. The narcs’ bodies were collected into large mounds. Goodgulf then merrily instructed that they be individually giftwrapped and mailed to Fordor. C.O.D. The Twodorians began hosing down the stained ramparts and the still-quivering bulk of the dragon was carted off to the Royal Kitchens for that evening’s victory feast.
But all was not well with Twodor. Many good men and true had fallen: the brothers Handlebar and Hersheybar, and Eörache’s uncle, the trusty Eordrum. Dwarves and elves had their losses, and the sad whines of mourning mixed with the cheers of victory.
Though the leaders happily gathered for greeting, not even these were spared grievous hurt. Farahslax, son of Benelux and brother to Bromoseb, had lost four toes and suffered a gash across the tummy. The fair Eörache was cut upon her massive biceps and both her monocles had been brutally smashed. Moxie and Pepsi lost a bit of their right earlobes in the fray, and Legolam’s left pinky was severely sprained. Gimlet’s pointed head had been somewhat flattened out by a mashie’s tenderizer, but the flayed skin he now wore as a mackintosh attested to the outcome of that particular duel. Lastly limped Goodgulf, supported by the miraculously unscathed Ranger. The old Wizard’s white bell-bottoms had been viciously frayed and there was a nasty stain on the front of his Nehru jacket; his go-go boots were beyond hope. He also wore his right arm in a matching sling, but when he later tended to switch it from arm to arm this wound was taken rather less seriously.
Tears flowed bike water as they greeted each other. Even Gimlet and Legolam managed to limit their enmity to an obscene gesture or two. There was much laughing and embracing, particularly between Arrowroot and Eörache. Arrowroot, however, was not blind to certain glances that were exchanged when the Scheepess was introduced to the husky Farahslax.
“And this hero,” said Goodgubf at last to Arrowroot, “is the brave Farahslax, true heir to the Stewardship of Twodor.”
“Charmed, I’ll warrant,” replied Arrowroot icily as he simultaneously shook the warrior’s hand and stepped on his wounded foot. “I am Arrowroot of Arrowshirt, true son of Araplane and true King of all Twodor. You have already met fair Eörache, my fiancée and Queen!” The emphasis the Ranger put into his formal greeting was lost on no one.
“Greetings and salutations,” returned the Green Toupee. “May your reign and marriage be as long as your life.” He crushed Arrowroot’s hand as he shook it.
The two stared at each other with unabashed hatred.
“Let us all go to the House o’ Healing,” said Arrowroot finally as he inspected his mangled fingers, “for there are many wounds that I would heal.”
By the time the company had reached the palace much had been said. Goodgubf was roundly congratulated for giving the attack signal with his flag. Many wondered at his wisdom in knowing that help was on its way, but on this matter the Wizard kept strangely silent. The company also was saddened that Birdseye could not share their victory this day, for the green giant and his trusty Vee-Ates had been most foully ambushed on the way back from Isinglass by a black herd of Sorhed’s wraith-rabbits. Of the once-mighty army not even a single stalk remained. Moxie and Pepsi shed bitter tears for the loss of their fecund carrots and danced a little jig of despair.
“And now,” said Arrowroot, beckoning the wounded warriors to a concrete bunker, “let us retire to yon... er... House o’ Healing, where we may purge our troubles.” He looked pointedly at Farahslax.
“Healing-schmealing, ye ist hokay,” objected Eörache, looking at Farahsbax like a dog gloating over a pound of minute steak.
“Heed my words,” Arrowroot commanded, stomping a boot.
The company protested feebly, but obeyed so as not to hurt his feelings. There, Arrowroot donned a white apron and a plastic stethoscope and ran hither and yon seeing after the patients. He put Farahslax in a private room far from the others.
“Nothing but the best for the Steward of Twodor,” he explained.
Soon all were tended to, save the new Steward. Arrowroot allowed that Farahslax had had a relapse in his private room and an operation was immediately necessary. He would meet them at the victory feast later.
The feast in the main cafeteria of Benelux’s palace was a sight to behold. Goodgulf had unearthed great stores of delicacies; the same delicacies, it happened, as those that were earlier placed on the Wizard’s ration lists. Yards of twisted crêpe paper and glowing fold-up lanterns bedazzled the guests’ eyes. Goodgulf himself hired the two-piece all-troll orchestra to serenade the diners from a low dais of old orange crates, and all drank largely from the kegs of rotgut mead. Then the guests, plastered elves, drunk dwarves, reeling men, and a few schnozzled unidentifiables staggered with their brimming trays to the long banquet table and began gobbling as if it were their last meal.
“Not as dumb as they look,” Goodgulf blearily observed to Legolam at his left.
The Wizard, brilliantly attired in fresh bell-bottoms, slumped at the head of the table with the stinkoed boggies, Legolam, Gimlet, and Eörache in the folding chairs of honor. Only the absence of Farahslax and Arrowroot stayed the official proceedings.
“Where d’ya sh’pose they are?” Moxie asked finally above the clatter of trays and plastic flagons.