That had been then. These days, the royal family completely ignored the Tinnywinkles. Though, Tyro had to admit, it was hard not to be involved with the machinations of ambition, greed, and murder that passed as governance these days. For instance, Fairdwych had recently imposed a tax on everyone taller than himself. At six-foot-four, and still growing (as any respectable twenty-eight-year-old Tarnezian would do), Tyro towered a full eleven inches over the King. That meant the royal coffers were padded an extra eleven hundred guildenfeathers a year from Tyro’s own threadbare pocket. The King was a preening, officious, egomaniacal idiot, thought Tyro as he munched his wanbuck deluxe, and Tyro’s opinion of the reigning monarch was one of the nicer ones in the kingdom.
King Fairdwych had the distinction of being the first universally hated monarch in Geologa’s history. Visit any county, province, or state of the Great Continent and ask, “Who rules this land?” The answer would be “Fairdwych the Hated,” or “Fairdwych the Thoroughly Despised,” or “That Tiny Bastard King.” In neighboring kingdoms it was rumored that Fairdwych’s subjects took an instant dislike to him just to save time.
Fairdwych had usurped the throne from his brother, the much-loved Malki the Cross-Eyed, who had been captured by their third cousin Flabym the Witherer during the Cumin Wars. Fairdwych’s stepbrother Gandwar, the One With No Nickname, who had also been in line for the throne, had been sent to the Barren Fields of Slowdeath to fight their uncle, Peptor of the Rangollians, to gain an alliance with Buppquar the Belligerent, who had strong trade relations with the Aero peoples and the Binnywhacketorians, both of whom were needed to cement the relationship with the Upper Boodlebears. After that, it got fairly complicated.
’Twas a tangled web of family allegiances and rivalries that trapped the poor inhabitants of Geologa under the tyrannical rule of Fairdwych, That Tiny Bastard King. It was Tyro’s belief that there was only one of the whole bunch who could competently rule, and that was Madwyn, sister to Fairdwych and Malki. She too was said to covet the throne, but had disappeared after the Actor Uprising, when all who were involved in the arts protested the lack of funding and respect they received. (Due to a short rehearsal period, the uprising was quelled in an hour and twenty-three minutes.) It was rumored that Madwyn was now touring with an interpretive dance group. And in fact, Tyro thought he had glimpsed Madwyn at a performance in the town square not too long ago. If it had been her, Tyro reckoned, remembering her lovely eyes and direct manner, she was beautiful and brave, for Fairdwych would never allow the return of a sister who could challenge his right to the throne.
Tyro’s reverie was interrupted by a kerfuffle outside. He ran to the window of the shop. Adam Two-Blow, the most accomplished kerfuffle player in the land, was playing “The Rise of the Rebels.” Tyro cringed because (a) public kerfuffle music had been recently banned by Fairdwych, (b) “The Rise of the Rebels” was always used to incite violence against tyranny, and (c) Tyro hated violence and tyranny. Violence and tyranny resulted in danger, and Tyro was not a friend to danger. He wasn’t even a casual acquaintance. He tried to avoid danger at all times. He was no coward—he truly wasn’t—he just didn’t like being bothered.
Tyro stepped back from the window, hoping no one had noticed his interest in the kerfuffle, when the door of Tinnywinkle’s House of Magic and Mystical Oddities slammed open and a pair of Siamese twins, each brandishing a broadsword, blustered in.
By the eyes of Lumptor, Tyro thought sourly, I believe I’m about to be bothered.
“Big Brother, did we lose the jackals?” the slightly smaller of the twins gasped, twisting awkwardly to look at his mate.
“I believe so, Little Brother, I believe so. Their blades shall not taste our flesh today!”
Tyro couldn’t help but stare. The brothers were strapping specimens, broad shouldered and muscular, with large, fine heads devoid of hair. Except for the fact that they were attached, the left buttock of one to the right buttock of the other, and could never truly stand side by side, they looked as any other pair of twin brothers might.
Little Brother motioned to Tyro. “Big Brother, cast your eyes on yon merchant.”
Big Brother turned to look at Tyro, forcing Little Brother to face the door and almost injure himself on the doorknob. “You! Are you Tyro Tinnywinkle?”
“Yes, yes I am. And how can I help you gentlemen today? Some itching powder, perhaps, or our most popular item? Mystical Trick of the Fish?”
“Do not waste your silver tongue on us, Merchant Tinnywinkle. We wish not to purchase your wares. You must depart with us now! There is no time to waste with explanations! The future of Geologa depends on you and you alone!”
Tyro stared. Except for his tendency to constantly exclaim, Big Brother seemed a reasonable fellow. But the future of Geologa depending on Tyro Tinnywinkle, seller of toys and tricks? It strained credulity. No, it was insane. Tyro cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, I think there may have been some mistake. You see—”
With an upward jab of his broadsword, Little Brother spun himself to face Tyro. (Big Brother was wrenched around to face the window, getting slightly tangled in the curtain for a moment.) “There is no mistake. The Oracle has spoken. You are the One.”
Tyro cleared his throat to address the small one. “Please don’t think I’m not flattered. I am. But—”
For the second time that day, the door of Tinnywinkle’s House of Magic and Mystical Oddities slammed open. This time, four of the King’s Guards in bright purple livery burst through the door. The largest of the group, bedecked in ribbons and medals that proclaimed his status as leader, sneered. “Kill them all!”
“Excuse me,” Tyro said with a nervous chuckle. “There seem to be a lot of mistakes being made today. I am but a simple—”
Tyro’s words were drowned out by the battle cry of the brothers. “By the Power of Aphrodesia!”
The brothers rushed at the King’s Guards. They moved remarkably quickly and gracefully considering their disadvantage. They were as fast on their feet moving forward or backward, and they seemed to have an almost telepathic knowledge of how the other would move. They spun like a child’s top, striking out with their swords, whirling like dervishes, cutting a bloody swath. Three of the King’s Guards tried to surround the brothers as the fourth moved menacingly towards Tyro.
“Wait! Wait! I am sure we can talk this over and come to a peaceful resolution.”
“Aye, boy, it will be peaceful once I cut out your treasonous tongue, remove your head from your body, and crush your still-beating heart!”
Around the “I cut out your treasonous tongue” part, Tyro decided words were not going to help his case. He glanced around for a weapon. Not surprisingly, weapons were in short supply in a magic shop. He picked up what was left of his sandwich and held it in front of him.
The guardsman howled with laughter. “By the Gods of Barmalon! How will I fight this demon, armed with his lunch? I can only pray he does not have a flagon of ale!”
Tyro separated the two pieces of bread and watched as the wanbuck meat fell to his feet. (The guard also watched, puzzled.) While he was distracted, Tyro leapt at him, pressing the two pieces of bread to the huge guardsman’s eyes. The guardsman screamed.
Tyro could not have his wanbuck deluxe without adding Tafaleno Lava Sauce. It was a condiment that few could consume without experiencing cramps and painful bowel movements. But it didn’t affect Tyro at all. He liked it. Having it rubbed in your eyes, however, was bound to be painful. As the guardsman wept and thrashed around blindly, Tyro picked up a large piece of wood and clocked him on the noggin. The guard crumpled in a heap at Tyro’s feet.
“Well done, Tyro!”
Tyro turned to see Little Brother grinning at him (and Big Brother raising his fist in solidarity over Little Brother’s shoulder). At their feet lay the remains of the King’s Guards.
“Come!” said Big Brother, motioning towards the door. “There will be others who wish to sto
p us from our quest! To our transport!”
The brothers left Tinnywinkle’s House of Magic and Mystical Oddities. Tyro grabbed his coat and man-sack and quickly followed. He knew that the death of four of the King’s Guards in his shop would label him a traitor and a murderer, so he went with the brothers. He had a feeling this was to be the start of a great adventure.
Adventures were the only thing Tyro hated more than being bothered.
They had been riding for almost an hour through mountains and valleys. The brothers were up front leading the way, and Tyro brought up the rear. Big Brother rode facing forward, and Little Brother faced backward. Occasionally, he waved back at Tyro, who was clearly enjoying wanbuck riding. Mostly, though, Little Brother kept his eyes peeled for pursuers in the gloomy landscape.
Tyro had been but a small child the last time he had sat astride one of the great beasts. The wanbuck on which the brothers were riding was larger than his, since its load was bigger. Tyro’s wanbuck was slightly smaller, but it was a rich scarlet color that was quite striking. Tyro patted its huge head affectionately.
Wanbucks were exceptional creatures. Larger than plough horses, with feline heads and long, silky ears, they were invaluable in every way imaginable. They had eight legs, but they used only four at a time. They tucked the others in at their sides. When they started to tire, they switched legs. Wanbucks could run non-stop for up to three days. The back four legs were stronger than the front four and allowed the wanbuck to leap to a height of almost sixty feet. Their skin was thick enough to withstand any direct hit by an arrow, but soft enough to line a pillow. But the most remarkable thing of all was that all wanbucks knew, instinctually, when they were going to die. They would then travel to the nearest butcher, lie down, and expire. Their body they offered up as a final gift, and every part was delicious.
The group had been riding for almost four hours when Tyro grew weary. As the keeper of a magic shop, he was not accustomed to long rides or saddle sores.
“Um,” Tyro called, “where are we going?”
“To the Forest of Deepening Despair, my friend,” replied
Little Brother. “There we will meet the rest of our allies.”
“The Forest of Deepening Despair? I look forward to it. Is the Valley of Approaching Death all booked up?”
The brothers laughed as one.
“You amuse us, shopkeeper!” shouted Big Brother. “My brother and I enjoy laughing. Many’s a time we trade quips as our cold steel dispatches our enemies.”
“Um, yes, always nice to laugh,” Tyro mumbled. “So, we get to the forest, then what?”
“Then you will tell us how to defeat the King,” said Little Brother matter-of-factly.
Tyro stared at Little Brother. “Hmm. Interesting. I am fairly certain I have no idea how to defeat the King. I am certain, because even now as I speak, thoughts are racing through my head and not one of them is labeled How to Defeat the King.”
“The Oracle is never wrong,” called Big Brother over his shoulder. “She has been blessed with a power that none of us will ever understand.”
“What exactly did she say?” asked Tyro.
Little Brother closed his eyes and intoned with great seriousness: “The One upon whom success does rely shall declare with words of little import that which is most important. For a quest to succeed, the One shall go beyond his station and do what none have done before him.” Little Brother opened his eyes and crossed his arms. He looked at Tyro meaningfully.
“What does that even mean? Why do oracles have to be so mysterious? Why don’t they just say, ‘The King is taking a walk alone in the garden at 2:25 p.m. Stick a sword in him, then run away’? But nooo, oracles have to be vague. That prediction could be about anyone or anything. There is nothing the Oracle said that pertains specifically to me.”
“The Oracle said the One is named Tyro Tinnywinkle, the magic seller.”
Tyro was silent for a moment. “I have to admit that does seem more specific.”
Twenty minutes later the brothers and Tyro were in the heart of the Forest of Deepening Despair. The forest was quite lovely, filled as it was with soft mosses, golden leaves, and sweet birdsong.
“I have to say,” said Tyro, “the Forest of Deepening Despair is not living up to its name.”
The brothers guffawed.
“The forest was named by the mistress of King Ratnor the Vertical. She was bipolar,” explained Big Brother. “Many places with fearsome names amount to nothing,” he added.
Little Brother agreed. “’Tis the sweet names that you should worry about. Makes you let your guard down. I could tell you tales that would curdle your very blood. About places that the Devil himself would think twice about setting foot in. The Valley of the Returning Lamb, Baby Bumpkin’s Point, the Cave of Lingering Passion.”
Big Brother shivered. Tyro shivered just to see that something could make Big Brother shiver. These lads had not seemed to fear anything.
“Stop here.” Little Brother jumped off the wanbuck, pulling along his brother, who was ready for the quick dismount.
As Tyro looked around, all manner of Tarnezians crept out of the woods. They dropped from branches, parted bushes, and emerged from beneath piles of golden leaves.
Soon, the brothers and Tyro were surrounded.
Big Brother addressed the crowd. “My friends! May I present Tyro Tinnywinkle. The One who will lead us to victory!”
The crowd burst into enthusiastic cheers. Tyro burst into enthusiastic dread.
Big and Little Brother led Tyro and the rest of the group—well, deeper into the Forest of Deepening Despair. In Tyro’s mind, at least, it was starting to live up to its name. Barely any sun at all filtered through the dense leaves here, and the mossy forest floor gave way to naked rocks, broken sticks, and mud. Mosquitoes buzzed about the wanbucks, and they swished their tails to repel them.
How did I get involved in this? Tyro wondered, ducking a low-hanging branch. I’m a shopkeeper. I am not equipped to face warfare, sacrifice, and hardship. And I certainly don’t have the wherewithal to lead a rebel army to victory—unless that army is fighting bored ten-year-olds at a birthday party—but even then, the odds would be sixty–forty on the children.
The group entered a large clearing festooned with perhaps a hundred, two hundred tents.
“How many people are there here?” Tyro asked.
Little Brother’s chest swelled with pride. “We have nineteen hundred and eighty-three brave souls who have joined us in our hope for a better tomorrow.”
“Impressive,” admitted Tyro. “But you’re still out-numbered by the King’s Guard.”
The brothers laughed and slapped the hapless merchant on the back in unison.
“By the Hair of Hecubah!” said Big Brother. “You are a veritable Gus of Gloom! And anyway, the odds are a little better now, for you are the nineteen hundred and eighty-fourth.” Bugles sounded in the distance.
“Come,” said Little Brother with a laugh. “You must meet the Queen.”
“The Queen? We have no queen.”
Big Brother scowled at Tyro. “Not at this precise moment, no. But tomorrow…that is a different thing altogether.”
They were now standing in front of a huge tent stitched together with swaths of crimson and emerald and turquoise fabrics. Its doorway was guarded by two of the largest men Tyro had ever seen.
Big Brother nodded to them. “Francis, Periwinkle. We wish an audience with the Queen.”
The one named Francis nodded back. His black, blazing eyes bored through Tyro. “She is waiting for you. Enter.”
They entered.
The inside of the tent was even grander than the outside. It was hung with antique lamps that cast a rosy glow over banquet tables overflowing with bottles of wine, platters of fruit, loaves of bread, and wedges of very stinky cheese. The tent could comfortably sleep a couple of hundred people, Tyro thought. About eight hundred uncomfor
tably.
The brothers and he were led to the end of the tent, where sat the most beautiful woman Tyro had ever seen. His mouth dropped open.
The brothers bowed their heads and knelt down. “Your Majesty,” they whispered in unison.
Tyro broke out of his reverie and noticed the brothers on their knees. He knelt just as they stood up.
“Queen Madwyn, may we present Tyro Tinnywinkle.”
“Please rise, Tyro.”
Tyro stood and tried to restrain himself from openly staring at this vision before him. The beauty of her face was unsettling enough, but when paired with the overwhelming aura of kindness and love that enveloped her, Tyro actually grew faint.
“So, you are the One who will restore me to the throne?”
“Uh… I will certainly try, my Majesty… Your Majestic… Queen… My Queen.” Tyro bowed deeply, and the blood rushed back to his head.
“Please call me Madwyn. We don’t stand on ceremony here.” She turned her attention to the brothers. “How was everything in town?”
Little Brother frowned. “The people are giving up hope. They wish to see you on the throne, Majesty, but many believe you to be dead. Even more fear openly defying the hated Fairdwych. For his armies fight to the death, no matter what the personal cost.”
Madwyn’s slate-grey eyes turned cold. “I will never forgive my brother for what he has done to our land. Never.”
Big Brother cleared his throat. “It gets worse. Fairdwych has scheduled a Mystic Crowning ceremony for tomorrow evening.”
“What’s a Mystic Crowning ceremony?” asked Tyro.
“Tomorrow?” Madwyn jumped up from her seat. “If he conjures up Tarmanock, all is lost! We must move up our attack!”
“What’s Tarmanock?” Tyro asked. “Is it bad? Is it part of the Mystic Crowning?”
Not QUITE the Classics Page 5
