Moxie’s question was answered, or at least half answered, as the swinging doors of the banquet hall flew open and a bloodstained; disheveled figure appeared.
“Shtomper!” cried Pepsi.
The hundreds of guests paused in their repast. Before them stood Arrowroot, still in his apron, covered mask to boot with gore. One hand was swathed in bandages and he bore a nastylooking mouse under one eye.
“Vas ist?” said Eörache. “Vhere ist der handsome Farahslaxer?”
“Alas,” the Ranger sighed, “Farahslax is no more. I tried mightily to heal his wounds, but it was in vain. His hurts were many and sore.”
“Vhat vas der matter mit him?” sobbed the Roi-Tanner. “He vas fine vhen ye left.”
“Terminal abrasions and contusions,” said Arrowroot, sighing again, “with complications. His cuticles were completely severed, poor soul. Never had a chance.”
“I could have sworn he didn’t have more than a bump on hish head,” muttered Legolam under the cover of his sleeve.
“Aye,” replied Arrowroot, shooting the elf a withering glance, “so it might seem to one unschooled in the art of healing. But that bump, that fatal bump, ’twas his downfall. ’Twas water on the brain. ’Tis ninety-percent fatal. Forced I was to amputate. Sad, very sad.”
Arrowroot strode to his folding chair, his face lined with care. As if by some prearranged signal some disreputable-booking Brownies leapt to their feet and shouted, “The last Steward is no more! All hail Arrowroot of Arrowshirt, King of Twodor hail!”
Stomper touched his hatbrim in humble acknowledgment of Twodor’s new allegiance, and Eörache, seeing which way the wind was blowing, threw her brawny arms around the new King with a creditable squeal of delight. The rest of the guests, either confused or drunk, echoed the cheers with a thousand voices.
But then, from the back of the chamber, a shrill, piping voice was heard.
“Nay! Nay!” it squeaked.
Arrowroot searched the table and the dizzy crowd grew silent. At the very end was a squat figure wearing a black nosepatch, dressed all in green. It was Magnavox, friend to the late Farahsbax.
“Speak,” commanded Arrowroot, hoping he wouldn’t.
“If you be the true King of Twodor,” Magnavox fluted drunkenly, “you will fulfill the propheshy and deshtroy our enemiesh. Thish you musht do before you a King be. Thish deed you musht perform.”
“Thish I gotta see,” chuckled Gimlet.
Arrowroot blinked anxiously.
“Enemies? But we here are all comrades—”
“Psssst!” coached Goodgulf. “Sorhed? Fordor? Nozdruls? The you-know-what?”
Stomper bit his lip nervously and thought.
“Well, I guess it behooves us that we march to Sorhed and challenge him, I guess.”
Goodgulf’s jaw dropped with disbelief, but before he could strangle Stomper, Eörache jumped up on the table.
“Dot’s telling him! Ve march against der Sorhedder und mess him up gute!”
Goodgulf’s screams were lost in the roar of alcoholic approval from the hail.
It was the next morning that the armies of Twodor marched east laden with bong lances, sharp swords, and death-dealing hangovers. The thousands were led by Arrowroot, who sat limply in his sidesaddle, nursing a whopper. Goodgulf, Gimlet, and the rest rode by him, praying for their fate to be quick, painless, and, if possible, someone else’s.
Many an hour the armies forged ahead, the war-merinos bleating under their heavy burdens and the soldiers bleating under their melting icepacks. As they drew closer to the Black Gate of Fordor, the ravages of war were seen on every side: carts overturned, villages and towns sacked and burned, billboard cuties defaced with foul black mustaches.
Arrowroot booked with darkened face at these ruins of a once fair land.
“Look at those ruins of a once fair land,” he cried, almost toppling from his sheep. “There will be much to cleanse when we return.”
“If we ever get the chance to return,” said Gimlet, “I’ll personally clean up the whole place with a toothbrush.”
The King drew himself to a more or less upright position.
“Fear not, for our army is strong and courageous.”
“Just hope they don’t sober up before we get there,” Gimlet grunted.
The dwarfs words read true, for the army began to waver in its march, and the band of Roi-Tanners Stomper charged with rounding up stragglers hadn’t reported for hours.
Finally Arrowroot decided to put a stop to the malingering by shaming his hesitant warriors. Commanding the remaining herald to sound the horn he said:
“Peoples of the West! The battle before the Black Gate of Sorhed will be one of few against many; but the few are of pure heart and the many are of the filthy. Nevertheless, those of you who wish to cringe and run from the fight may do so to quicken our pace. Those who still ride with the King of Twodor will live forever in song and legend! The rest may go.”
It is said that the dustcloud did not settle for many days after.
“That was close indeed,” said Spam, still shaking from their narrow escape from Schlob a few days before. Frito nodded feebly but still could not really piece together what had happened.
Before them the great salt flats of Fordor stretched to the feet of a giant molehill which held Bardahl, the high-rise headquarters of Sorhed. The wide plain was dotted with barracks, parade grounds, and motor pools. Thousands of narcs were swarming frantically, digging holes and fibbing them up again and polishing the dusty ground with enormous buffers. Far in the distance the Zazu Pits, the Black Hole, spewed the sooty remains of hundreds of years of National Geographics into the air over Fordor. Right before them, at the foot of the cliff, a thick, black pool of tar bubbled noisily, from time to time emitting a heavy belch.
Frito stood for a long time, peering out from under his fingers at the distant, smoking volcano.
“It’s many a hard kilo to the Black Hole,” he said, fingering the Ring.
“No lie, bwana,” said Spam.
“This nearer tar pit has a certain holelike flavor,” said Frito.
“Round,” agreed Spam. “Open. Deep.”
“Dark,” added Frito.
“Black,” said Spam.
Frito took the Ring from round his neck and twirled it absently at the end of its chain.
“Careful, Mr. Frito,” said Spam, raining a series of hitsies on his arm.
“Indeed,” said Frito, flinging the Ring in the air and deftly catching it behind his back.
“Very risky,” Spam said, and picking up a barge stone, he threw it into the center of the tar pit, where it sank with a wet glop.
“Pity we have no weight to anchor it safely to the bottom,” said Frito, swinging the chain over his head. “Accidents can happen.”
“Just in case,” said Spam, searching vainly in his pack for some heavy object. “A dead weight, a sinker,” he muttered.
“Hello,” said a gray lump behind them. “Long time no see.”
“Goddam, old shoe,” crooned Spam, and dropped a coin at Goddam’s feet.
“Small world,” said Frito as he palmed the Ring and clapped the surprised creature on the back.
“Look!” cried Frito, pointing to an empty sky. “The Winged Victory of Samothrace.” And as Goddam turned to see, Frito looped the chain over his neck.
“Hobba,” cried Spam, “a 1927 Indian-head nickel!” and dropped on his hands and knees in front of Goddam.
“Whoops!” said Frito.
“Aiyeee,” added Goddam.
“Floop,” suggested the tar pit.
Frito let out a deep sigh and both boggies bade a final farewell to the Ring and its ballast. As they raced from the pit, a loud bubbling noise grew from the black depths and the earth began to tremble. Rocks split and the ground opened beneath their very feet, causing the boggies much concern. In the distance the dark towers began to crumble and Frito saw Sorhed’s offices at Bardahl seam and shatter into a smoking heap of plaster and steel.