Lila nodded silently and headed back out to the wharf. Keeping her head down, she hurried to the far side of the docks, which dead-ended abruptly in the rocky wall of a sea cliff. There she found the Skewered Sea Horse, a true dive of a pub house. A squat building, it had only two windows, both of which had been shattered and covered up with planks of worm-eaten wood. Its weatherworn sign, barely attached above the door, flapped and banged in the wind. Even the dock itself was cracked and splintery outside the Sea Horse—and spattered with drops of red.
That’s just from the fishermen gutting their catches, Lila told herself. You’ve seen worse in your own dissection lab back home. She paused for a moment. Wow, I haven’t thought of home in ages.
Steeling herself, she opened the door and walked inside. The interior of the Skewered Sea Horse was dark but quiet. Mean-looking men sat at every table, each silently sipping grog or whispering cautiously to a companion.
Who do I ask? she thought, glancing around the room. Most of these guys look like they’d— Oh, crud! She quickly yanked her hood as far down over her face as possible. Yellow Tom and Wiley Whitehair were sitting at the bar. They hadn’t seemed to notice her, so she hastened toward the back of the tavern, into its shadiest corner. Unfortunately, it was so shady that she bumped into a chair and tripped.
A customer at a nearby table reached out nimbly to grab her arm and prevent a fall. Lila looked at him and found herself staring eye-to-eye with an Avondellian elf.
“Uh, thanks for the save, buddy,” she said, trying to sound casual.
But the elf reached up and pulled back Lila’s hood, revealing her full face and coiled curls of chestnut hair. “I thought I recognized you,” he said. “The young lady from the Wanted poster.”
Fig. 30
LILA, cornered
Lila pulled away from him and turned to flee. But her path was blocked by another bounty hunter—a pointy-nosed, small-eyed man holding two mugs of mead. “Yer right,” the newcomer said. “She’s the one we were looking for with Greenfang.”
“You guys are with Greenfang?” Lila asked. Her breath quickened.
“We were,” said the elf. “But I grew tired of his insults.”
“Yeah, that and he left us to drown,” the other added. “Lucky for us, my mongoose can swim. Anyways, Greenfang’s not what you’d call a team player. So we broke off from him. I’m Erik the Mauve. That there’s Periwinkle Pete.”
Lila slumped. “So I escaped from Greenfang only to be caught by you two.”
“No one has caught you, young lady,” said Pete. “Leave whenever you’d like.” Erik sat down across from Pete, leaving an open path to the exit. “Though if you’d like to have a seat and tell us how you escaped from Greenfang, we would love to hear it. Was it thoroughly embarrassing for him?”
Lila’s first instinct was to run. But it was overridden by her swelling curiosity. “I don’t understand. You don’t want to collect the bounty yourselves?”
“Bounty’s been called off,” Erik said. “Apparently that Briar lady ain’t really dead, so, you know, no one’s gonna pay us to find her killers. We’ve got no beef with you personally. We were just after the money. Now there’s no money.”
Lila stood still and silent for a long moment, considering her situation. She pulled up a chair and sat down with the bounty hunters. “So you guys are out of work?” she asked.
“We all are,” said Pete. “A tavern full of bounty hunters with no one to hunt.”
“I think I can remedy that situation,” Lila said. She stood up on her chair and yelled, “Attention, bounty hunters!” Heads turned. “Hi there, Wiley. No hard feelings, eh? So . . . I’m assuming most of you recognize me. But for those who don’t—I’m a very rich princess. And I’m looking for an army to invade that old castle up on the hill and find some people inside. Who wants in?”
Every customer in the place stood up. Even Wiley Whitehair.
“Sweet,” Lila said. She turned to Erik. “You said you had a mongoose. Big one?”
“’Bout the length of two warhorses, end to end,” said Erik.
“Good,” said Lila. “I’ve got a special job for you two.”
37
AN OUTLAW IS NOT SPEECHLESS
It was early March, and while the air was still crisp and chilly, the massive snowdrifts, which for months had blocked the streets of Harmonia, had melted to nothing more than gutter puddles. And the citizens of that formerly fair kingdom—when they weren’t working themselves to the bone in Lord Rundark’s leather pants factories—had returned to their favorite pastime: strolling. One couple, trying to walk as elegantly as they could despite their aching shoulders and sore backs, were startled by the sudden approach of a tall stranger in a long coat. The man had his collar turned up to hide his face, and at first, the couple assumed he was a Darian overseer, showing up to order them back to work early. But they soon saw that the stranger was no Darian—he carried himself with far too much poise and sophistication.
“Sorry to startle you,” said Reginald. “I only meant to ask if you’d heard about the ball.”
“Ball?” the woman asked, her eyes lighting up at the mention of the word.
“Yes, seven o’clock tonight at Von Torkleton’s Silver Spoon Factory,” said Reginald. “Wear your best.”
“But what about the overlords?” the man asked, uncertainty in his voice.
“Oh, I wouldn’t mention it to them,” said Reginald.
“Oh, please, let’s go,” said the woman. “We haven’t been to a ball in ages.”
“I don’t know . . . ,” the man muttered.
“I’m sure everyone else is going,” said Reginald. “Tell your friends. All of your friends.” And he darted across the street to approach another strolling couple.
“Do you think they’ll show?” Rapunzel asked, tapping her foot anxiously as she glanced up at the clock.
“Oh, they’ll show,” said Frederic. “If there’s one thing the people of Harmonia won’t pass up, it’s a chance to dance.”
There was a rush of wind as the doors of the spoon factory blew open and Smimf appeared. “I whispered about the ball in the ears of as many people as I could, sir, Your Highness, sir.”
The doors opened again, and Reginald entered. “Ah, I see you’ve succeeded in clearing the factory floor,” he said as he unbuttoned his long coat.
“Yes, they did,” snapped an old man who was tied to a chair in the corner. “Where are all my spoon-making machines anyway? And when are you going to release me?”
“Your machines are fine, Mr. von Torkleton,” Frederic said. “And I’m terribly sorry we had to . . . detain you in such a way. Your factory was the only space outside the palace large enough to host a gala like this. I hoped you would cooperate, but—”
“But you wanted me to turn against Lord Rundark, and I won’t,” the spoon maker griped. “The man promised me endless vats of silver as long as I keep providing his men with new daggers.”
“Lord Rundark isn’t the most truthful man in the world,” Rapunzel added.
There was a knock at the factory door. Reginald, in his regal finery, answered it. And in they strode, one couple after another dressed in splendid, sparkling evening wear. It was far from the entire populace of the city—many were too afraid of disobeying the Darians—but it was still a crowd of several hundred. Frederic began to sweat.
“You can do this,” Rapunzel said, giving him a quick squeeze.
Frederic stepped up onto a platform, which, only a few hours earlier, had served as the base of a clinking, clanking spoon-shining device. “Hello, everyone,” he said. “You all know me, Prince Frederic. I’m sorry to say there is not going to be a ball tonight. In fact, there won’t be another ball again ever.” Gripes and grumbles arose from the well-dressed crowd. Many people immediately turned and headed for the exit. “I’m sorry, but it’s true,” Frederic continued. “No royal balls. No parties, no galas, no dances, no cotillions, no shindigs, no hootenannies, n
othing. Not if Lord Rundark remains in charge.”
The factory door remained shut.
“Ah,” said Frederic. “I see I’ve gotten your attention.”
“Look out!”
“Run!”
“Oh, my heavens! There are two of them!”
Cries of terror echoed across the Erinthian countryside as two towering giants, each over a hundred feet tall, stomped through the kingdom’s northern towns. One mother in the well-to-do community of Near-Farthing ran to her window, pushed aside the curtains, and peered out.
“They’re coming,” she cried. “Dearest, we have to leave. I don’t care if it means breaking the Darian curfew. I’m not going to sit here and let my family be smashed to bits.” Her husband nodded. They grabbed their two young sons by the hands and dashed outside. But trying to outrun a giant is useless. The family screamed as they were scooped up into an enormous hand.
“Aw, please don’t cry now,” the giant said in a deep baritone, holding the family up before his surprisingly gentle-looking face. “Sorry for scaring you folks, but it’s all for a good cause, I promise.”
“You’re taking too much time, Reese,” said the second giant, who happened to be Reese’s mother. With massive, stony teeth and haphazard hair that looked like a smoky explosion, Maude was a more imposing sight than her son. “If you stop to apologize to everyone you snatch up, we’ll never gather enough of ’em in time.”
“You’re right, Mum,” Reese said. “Once again, you know best. I should— Hey, stop that, Mum! You’re not supposed to crush anything.”
“It was just a shed,” Maude said, creating a gust of wind as she waved her huge hand dismissively. “I’m sure you’ve crunched a few houses along the way, too. It’s not like you’d be able to tell with those ridiculous shoes on.”
“I was tired of getting stabbed in the foot,” Reese said. He looked down, admiring the titanic shoes that adorned his feet. “I think they’re rather fashionable.”
Maude shook her head. “A giant in shoes. It’s just not natural.” She stooped to pluck a stuck cow from between her own bare toes, while Reese carefully placed the family he held in one of his spacious pockets. The abductees were shocked to find many of their neighbors already crowded inside.
“Interesting way to spend an evening, eh?” said Davy Wilkins from down the block. He offered an open box to the newcomers. “Fish cracker?”
The giants continued their human-plucking spree across eight more villages until they finally reached a great bald hill, where they stopped and emptied their pockets, depositing close to four hundred disoriented and confused Erinthians onto the grass.
“Hey, it’s the traitor, Prince Liam!” shouted Davy Wilkins, pointing up to the crest of the hill. “He’s probably the one who sent those giant to attack us.”
“I am,” said Liam. “I mean, I didn’t send them to attack you. I sent them after you. Not after you. I asked the giants to get you.”
Cursing and rolling up their sleeves, the crowd began to march up the hill toward Liam and the giants. Maude cleared her throat, and everybody stopped in their tracks.
“Listen,” said Liam. “I know you all hate me. But that’s because you don’t really know me. Just like you don’t really know these giants. You run from them, assuming them to be horrible monsters bent on destruction, when, really, these giants are good people. They are heroes.”
“The lady one stepped on my house,” a man yelled.
“That, uh, was an accident,” said Maude. She looked away and started scraping dirt from under her nails.
“Well, okay,” said Liam. “Accidents happen. I will, um . . . I will pay to have your house rebuilt.”
“And my barn?” a woman called out.
Liam sighed. “Yes, and your barn, too.”
“And my golden carousel?” shouted another man. “Will you pay for that?”
Liam raised an eyebrow. “The giant smashed your golden carousel?”
“No,” said the man. “I’d just like to have a golden carousel.”
“Ooh!” a woman called out. “And I’d like to have a coach with enormous platinum wheels. And I want it to be pulled by a team of centaurs.”
“I want a fountain that spurts chocolate milk,” cried Davy Wilkins.
“People,” Liam said, trying not to get exasperated, “we’re not here to ply you with gifts.”
“Why not?” asked Davy Wilkins. “Lord Rundark is going to let us all trade in our shrimpy little houses for golden temples.”
“Ah,” said Liam. “And here is the real problem. You see, Lord Rundark is not going to do that. You people don’t know Lord Rundark like I do. I’ve met Lord Rundark. Would you like to hear about the real Lord Rundark?”
And the people of Erinthia, always hungry for gossip, leaned in.
In a pleasant little cabin on the outskirts of Sturmhagen’s pine forests, Rosilda Stiffenkrauss had just gotten home from another backbreaking day of planting Lord Rundark’s crops and was about to start dinner when she heard her oldest son calling from outside.
“Mom! Trolls are taking our veggies!”
“Not again,” grumbled the farmer woman. She wiped her hands on her apron, grabbed a shovel, and marched outside. There were three trolls in her yard—each one at least eight feet tall, with leafy green fur, curving horns, long yellow claws, and a mouth full of sharp fangs. And each had its long, hairy arms full of stolen carrots, beets, and parsnips. As soon as the creatures saw Rosilda emerge from her home, they turned and fled with their nutritious loot.
Rosilda could have let it end there, accepting her losses and turning back for a peaceful meal with her loved ones. But like so many other farmers of Sturmhagen, she had long since grown tired of troll vegetable raids. There was no way she was letting those shambling towers of kale make off with her hard-earned produce.
“After ’em, kids!” Rosilda shouted, her frizzy orange hair whipping wildly. She and her eleven children (armed with sticks, buckets, rakes, and whatever else they could grab) chased after the trolls.
“Wait for me!” yelled her pint-size husband, angrily wielding a nail clipper.
Fig. 31
MR. TROLL, stealthy
They ran and ran, pursuing the trolls across meadows and through forests, until they finally caught up to the beasts at the borders of Troll Place, Sturmhagen’s self-governing troll enclave. There, they were surprised to see dozens of other farm families emerge from the woods, chasing dozens of other trolls. Rosilda stopped running and held her arms out to the sides, bringing her family to a halt. It was clear that they—and all the other farmers—had been purposely lured there.
“What’s going on here?” she wondered aloud.
“I’m what’s going on,” said Prince Gustav, stepping out of a troll fort (which was really just two upright logs with a rock balanced between them).
Mr. Troll, the one-horned “mayor” of Troll Place, loped over to him and said in a gravelly voice, “Trolls did what Prince Angry Man asked. Brought all farmers to Troll Place. Well, all farmers that not too busy plowing crops for Ugly Beard Man.”
“Nice job, Superfuzz,” Gustav said, patting the shaggy beast on the back.
“Ach! Why am I not surprised to find our lovely Prince Charming involved in this,” Rosilda said, and dozens of her fellow farmers grunted in agreement. “You were supposed to stop the trolls from raiding our veggies, and here you are commanding ’em to rob us!”
“Hey, calm your freckles, lady,” Gustav said. “I just needed a way to get you here. You’ll all get your crops back.”
“Uh-oh,” Mister Troll said, releasing a distinctly parsnip-scented belch. “Angry Man not mention give veggies back.”
“We’ve had enough of this,” yelled one farmer. “After twenty hours of pulling up beets for Rundark, we shouldn’t have to come home and find these walking piles of mulch stealing what little we grow for ourselves.”
“Yeah!” cried another. “I don’t care how big thos
e trolls are! Let’s get ’em!”
“We’re ready for war!” shouted a third.
“All right!” whooped Gustav. “That’s the Sturmhagen spirit I’m looking for! War is what we need. But not against the trolls. We’ve got to take the battle to the people who are really causing all your problems.”
“Keep talkin’, Prince,” Rosilda said. “’Cause I’m angry. Somebody’s gettin’ hit with this shovel, and you’ve got five minutes to convince me it shouldn’t be you.”
CLANG! CLANG!
Flik the dwarf, seated on the driver’s bench of an open-backed wagon, rang a bell as he traveled through the Sylvarian village of Whistleton.
“Come one, come all!” called Frank, the dwarf at the reins. “Come see Daring Duncan, the renegade prince, captured at last! Follow us to the old fairgrounds and watch Duncan get a dunking!”
Villagers by the dozens ran from their cottages to join the long parade of Sylvarians already marching behind the wagon—the wagon in which Duncan and Snow sat, tied up.
“Stop smiling, you idiot,” Flik whispered to Duncan. “You’re supposed to be our captive.”
“But it’s working so well,” Duncan replied. “I knew that if anything could get Sylvarians to break Lord Rundark’s curfew, it would be a chance to see me humiliated.”
“That’s right, everybody,” Frank continued shouting. “Beetle-brain Duncan, the Prince of All Losers, is going to get a pie in the face and a dip in the dunk tank! Maybe a good bath will finally wash the stink of failure off of him!”
“Frank,” Snow scolded, “you don’t need to be so harsh.”
“You want people to come or not?” Frank retorted.
“It’s okay, Snowy,” said Duncan. “All part of the act. I know my good friend Frank doesn’t mean a word of it.”
Frank said nothing.
Flik continued to sound his bell while eleven other dwarfs on ponies helped corral the jolly revelers into one long line. A short time later, they reached the abandoned site of the Sylvarian Royal Fair, a ghost town of empty game stalls and unused rides. It had been years since an actual fair was held in the kingdom—people stopped coming after King King insisted that every visitor through the gates had to pose for a take-home souvenir portrait painted by the king himself.
The Hero's Guide to Being an Outlaw Page 25
