by Josh Lieb
SIR ARAMIS was knocked on his back by Joey’s flying leap. He jumped back to his feet, but he seemed surprised by Joey’s new ferocity.
“Well, well,” he said, “there’s some fight in y—” But Joey didn’t let him finish. He jabbed furiously at the traitorous vizier, pushing forward relentlessly. Ratscalibur moved ten times faster than before. It felt lighter, swifter in his grasp. It danced around Sir Aramis’s body like a swarm of bees.
It was Aramis’s turn to back up and back up. He was under too much stress to say anything now. His brow was wrinkled with concentration. And something else.
Fear.
That only made Joey bolder. He pressed forward, ever forward. Sir Aramis kept blocking his blows—click clack click—but he was clearly getting tired. His sword was moving slower, and slower. . . .
And then Aramis couldn’t back up any farther. His back was pressed to the garbage can outside the apartment window. Joey made a powerful lunge . . . and the sword flew from Aramis’s hand. Joey lunged once more, and Aramis ducked beneath the blow. He dropped to the ground at Joey’s feet, as Joey’s sword banged into the garbage can with claaaaang.
Joey looked down at the helpless warrior. There was not a trace of pride on Sir Aramis’s face anymore. Now all that Joey could see was terror. The sewer rats, who had been cheering Aramis on, fell suddenly silent, as they realized that their leader was beaten. “Do you give up?” asked Joey.
“What?” said Aramis. “What? No, no . . . it can’t be. This isn’t supposed to happen. . . .”
“But it’s happening,” said Joey. “Do you give up?”
Sir Aramis opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. His jaw worked up and down, uselessly.
“Do you give up?”
Again, Aramis opened his mouth uselessly, without making a sound. But then a sly look came into his eye. He turned his face to the crowd of water rats watching them and yelled, “Kill him!”
“What?” said Joey.
“Kill him, my Under-Realmers! Destroy the High-Realmer! Tear him limb from limb!”
The Under-Realmers hesitated. This seemed a little low, even for them.
“Victory is still in our grasp!” Aramis screamed in a piercing, panicked high wail, “Kill him!”
That was all the encouragement they needed. The wild rats and the crows that had remained now swooped in for the kill. Joey turned to face his assassins and put his back to the garbage can.
“You’re not a knight,” he said to Aramis. “You don’t have any honor.”
“I don’t want honor,” laughed Aramis, with a sick snicker. “I want a crown.”
The sewer rats, with the Berzerkers in the lead, were in Joey’s face now. Taunting, feinting, grabbing.
Joey kept swinging his sword, desperately, trying to keep them away for just a few more seconds . . . just a few more seconds . . . he couldn’t let them win yet.
And that’s when everything started shaking.
Wait—not everything. Just the garbage can at Joey’s back. Shaking and rattling and bouncing like it was alive, leaning and teetering till it seemed like it would fall over any second. Was it haunted? The rats backed off a little, alarmed. The crows flapped away.
“Don’t stop now!” yelled Aramis, still crouched on the ground. “Kill him!”
The garbage can came to a sudden stop. It was completely quiet again, like a garbage can should be.
“See?” yelled Aramis. “See? It stopped. It was nothing. It was—”
Clangggggg! The lid shot off the garbage can like a cannon going off. A loud voice boomed out from inside the can. “Under-Realmers. Go back. Go back to your sewers and sludge.”
The voice sounded a little familiar to Joey. It must have sounded familiar to Aramis, too, because he cringed and said, “No. No, it can’t be. . . .”
“Crows,” said the stern voice, “go back to your trees and your garbage dumps. Go. Go now!”
Aramis looked at Joey accusingly, “But you said . . . you said—”
“This is your final warning,” boomed the voice.
“Who is it?”
“You really don’t know?” said Aramis pathetically. He whispered, “It’s . . . it’s Gondorff. Gondorff the Gray.”
“No,” said the voice, in its loudest tone yet, as a medium-sized rat covered in curly, wild red fur climbed out of the garbage can and perched on the rim. “No. It’s now Gondorff the Red.”
MOST OF THE wild rats ran screaming for the nearest sewer opening.
A few of the crazier ones, mostly Berzerkers, tried to rush Gondorff, throwing spears as they ran, while some crows dived down at him.
Gondorff made a calm gesture with one of his paws. The marauding rats and crows fell straight down, like sand bags. Thump. Thump. Thump thump thump.
Gondorff hopped down off the garbage can and walked over to Joey. Joey looked at the sidewalk, littered with fallen crows and wild rats. “Are they dead?”
The red Ragician chuckled. “They’ll wish they were when they wake up.”
Joey looked Gondorff in the face. Yes, despite the red curls, and the evident strength in this rat, the eyes were the same. This was the same rat Uncle Patrick had given him. “But how are you . . . ?”
“Magic,” said Gondorff.
“You mean Ragic?”
“No, I mean Magic. It’s immensely powerful. But terribly sad.” He gazed up at the apartment window. “They never know when they’re using it.”
Joey looked at the window where Mom was, then back down at Gondorff. For the first time, he realized that Gondorff’s fur was now the exact same shade as Mom’s hair. . . .
Joey realized that all of these questions could wait. “Aramis!” said Joey. “He—” Joey looked down and saw that the vizier had made his escape. “He’s gone.”
“He won’t get far.”
“And my friends! The princess! They’re all—”
Gondorff laid a comforting arm on Joey’s shoulder. “They’re all still alive. And now . . .” Gondorff closed his eyes, made a gesture with his hand, and grunted. “Now they’re all healed, as well.”
Behind them there was a clatter as the fallen garbage-can lids of the fort were knocked aside. Brutilda and Uncle Patrick sprang up, looking like they’d just come back from vacation. And leaping onto Brutilda’s back was a spritely, wide-awake—
“Yislene!” cried Joey.
“Can someone please bring me a chicken bone?” she yelled. “A ladybug lung? Anything? I’m starving.”
Brutilda scrounged in the garbage to get something tasty for her mistress. Uncle Patrick hugged Joey. “We made it, honcho.”
“Yes, we . . .” he said, then stopped. “But Parsifur.”
He looked. The little white rat lay motionless in an enormous puddle of blood. Completely still. Like a broken toy.
And then he sighed.
And then he wriggled a little, this way, then that. And he slowly got to his feet, like a zombie coming to life. He stretched his arms. . . . He stretched his legs. . . . He opened his mouth, and he giggled, “Hee-hee-hee.” He grabbed the sword that was by his feet and walked over to his friends.
“It’s been a while, Gondorff,” he said, seemingly unsurprised. “I see you’ve been going to the beauty parlor.”
Gondorff growled.
“What took you so long?” asked Joey.
Parsifur smiled. “I had a longer way to come back, I imagine.” Joey hugged the giggling knight. “Now, Sir Joey,” said Parsifur, “I need you to do something for me.”
“What’s that?”
“Give me back my sword.”
“Your . . .” Joey looked down at the sword in his hand. It wasn’t Ratscalibur. It was Parsifur’s straightened paper clip. He must have grabbed it when Aramis knocked Ratscalibur out of his hand. No wonder
it had felt so light when he was fighting. . . .
“A spork’s a marvelous weapon,” said Parsifur. “But a bit heavy for warriors our size, I tend to think.”
Joey didn’t understand. “If I wasn’t fighting with Ratscalibur, how did I . . . ?”
“I guess the blade’s not the only one with power, is it?” said Parsifur. “Now kindly return my sword. Hee-hee-hee.”
THE SUN SEEMED to shine brighter in Ravalon than it had before. It wasn’t just because there weren’t any crows overhead. It’s because there isn’t the threat of crows either, thought Joey.
As the heroes walked back into the town square, a simultaneous whoop and laugh and cheer erupted from the gathered crowd. Joey was hugged and kissed and squeezed till he felt like he was fighting the Under-Realmers all over again.
“That’s my lad!” said the rat mother who’d saved him—could it have been only two days ago? “That’s my lad! He’s eaten acorns from my own larder!” She pinched his cheeks till he thought they’d fall off. Her pink babies swarmed over Joey like happy puppies. . . .
“The look on your face,” laughed Parsifur, just before he was knocked to the ground by a black hurricane. When Joey glanced down, he saw Parsifur lying on his back—and Drattleby kissing him on the cheeks!
“Well done, old man! Well done!” said the black knight. “All is forgiven!”
Parsifur suffered in silence for a moment before grunting, “I think I liked it better when we were enemies.”
But this time it was Drattleby who giggled. Haw-haw-haw.
An iron grip went around Joey’s arm. He recognized it immediately: Brutilda. “Come,” she said. “The king is waiting.” The crowd—and guards—parted as the little procession of heroes made its way into the palace.
Everything was different in the throne room now. Everything felt brighter, cleaner. But it might have just felt brighter and cleaner because King Uther was so different. He still sat in the same throne, but now he glowed with strength and health and wisdom. His leg was still injured, but it didn’t look like that bothered him anymore. He chuckled as Yislene ran into the room and threw herself around his neck. “Daddy!” Then he turned to Joey and Patrick.
“My kingdom owes you its eternal gratitude.”
Joey didn’t know what to say. Luckily, Uncle Patrick did. “Our pleasure, Your Majesty.”
“Please kneel, so that I can bestow upon you this small token of my thanks.”
Joey and Patrick got to their knees. King Uther tapped them on the shoulders with his sword and said, “For service to this kingdom, and the entire Low Realm in general, I dub thee Sir Joey Stump-Tail and Sir Patrick Tiger-Tusk.”
Parsifur had been calling Joey Sir Joey for a while now, but it was nice to make it official.
When Joey and Patrick s
tood up, their friends were all around them to slap their backs and hug them. Then King Uther did something unprecedented. He stood up, teetering on his lame leg, and shook Joey’s hand. “This is for giving me my mind back.”
Gondorff grimaced. “I’ll never forgive myself for not seeing the signs of Squirrelin’s cursed Squagic on you.”
“Don’t blame yourself, Red,” said Parsifur. “He fooled us all.”
They’d already sent a scouting party to Squirrelin’s lair and found the old oak deserted. Nutkin and Squirrelin were gone. And they’d had to leave behind Squirrelin’s acorns and his warehouse full of food. Joey could only imagine how much that must have pained the old Squagician. Probably more than losing his powers.
“And . . . the other one?” Uther asked. He couldn’t bring himself to say his former vizier’s name.
Gondorff grimaced again. “There’s still no trace, Your Majesty.” The trail of Aramis’s smell had reached a little ways away from the final battle and then suddenly disappeared. Now no one could pick it up again. When Joey asked his nose, Where’s Aramis? and sniffed, all he got was burning spice. Yislene said it was possible to make your smell vanish if you submerged it within a stronger smell. But no one could disappear forever.
Actually, Joey hoped Aramis would disappear forever. Squirrelin too, while he was at it. No good could ever come from seeing those two again.
“Now,” said King Uther, “must you really leave so soon? I would be delighted to show you a proper feast.”
“And we’d be delighted to eat it, Your Majesty,” said Uncle Patrick. “But we need to get home as fast as possible.”
“Definitely,” said Joey. He turned and handed Ratscalibur to Brutilda. “Here, brave Brutilda, is a gift for you. It’s better for someone your size, anyway.”
Brutilda took the blade and said, “I’m not worthy to carry it. But I’ll care for it until you return.”
“But I’m not coming back,” said Joey.
“Hee-hee-hee, that’s what you think,” said Parsifur, as he squeezed Joey from behind. Something hot and wet tickled Joey’s ankles, and without even looking down, Joey said, “Get out of the throne room, Chequers.” The cat yowled with displeasure, but Joey laughed and patted her nose. “I’m just kidding, Checky.”
“Jffy, Mgggblllb.” That was Yislene trying to talk with a mouth full of Cheetos. She’d been eating nonstop since they’d returned. She swallowed, hard, and said, “Sir Joey, I . . .” Then she stopped. She tried to start again, “I just, I want . . . I just—”
Whatever she wanted to say, it wouldn’t come out. She started to breathe more heavily, like she was having a panic attack. “Princess,” said Joey, “are you okay? What’s—”
Without warning, Yislene leaned in, kissed Joey on the mouth, and ran out of the room. Joey stood there, dazed.
“Well,” said Uncle Patrick, “I guess she—”
At that moment Brutilda leaned in, kissed Patrick on the mouth, and ran out the same door as Yislene.
Joey and Uncle Patrick just stood there, looking at each other, as everyone else in the room laughed. “I think,” said Joey, “I think I have a crush on a rat.”
Uncle Patrick sighed and muttered under his breath, “Better that than a guinea pig.”
From out in the hallway, a deep voice boomed, “I have ears.”
Gondorff cleared his throat. “Are you ready?”
Joey and Patrick shared a look. They were.
“Hold out your right paws.”
They did so.
“Now. Do you give me these paws willingly?”
THEY HAD TO KNOCK on the door because neither of them had a key. Mom had a dead look on her face when she opened the door, until she saw Uncle Patrick. She saw him first, because he was so big. Her face filled with amazement, “Patrick!” she said.
Then she looked down and saw Joey. Then it was, “Joey!” and “Joey Joey Joey!” as she knelt on the floor and cried and hugged and kissed him. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Mom, I’m fine,” said Joey, who hugged and kissed her back.
Mom stood up and hugged Uncle Patrick. Then she slapped him across the face, hard. “Where were you?” she said.
Uncle Patrick and Joey shared a look. “It’s . . . kind of hard to explain, Sis.”
Mom looked at them. And then she smiled and said, “Then don’t. Not yet.” And she bent down to hug Joey some more. She was happy, but she almost seemed kind of lost, like she couldn’t quite believe this was really happening.
Uncle Patrick ran inside to get the coffee maker started. Joey put his arm around Mom’s waist and walked her to the couch. They sat down with their arms around each other, and Joey was pretty sure at that moment that they would never, ever let each other go again. “I can’t believe it. . . .” Mom said, over and over again. But it was like her voice still wasn’t quite her own.
Patrick came in from the kitchen, with a cup of coffee for Mom (and a can of beer for himself). He pushed the mug into her hands, but it was like she
didn’t know what to do with it. So Joey helped her put it to her lips, and that act of normalcy—just sitting on the couch, drinking coffee like always—somehow broke the spell that had come over her. Her complexion brightened. Her hair regained its bounce. She stared deep into Joey’s eyes and said, “You’re grounded.”
Joey stared right back and said, “That sounds great.”
Uncle Patrick sat down next to them. “This is a nice couch,” he said.
Joey hadn’t wanted to move to the city. He had been comfortable back in his old town. He knew who everybody was, and he spoke the same language as everyone there. It wasn’t as loud there. It wasn’t as crowded. It wasn’t as smelly.
But his mom had gotten a job here, in the city. It was a better job, and she’d taken it because it was better for Joey. For the first time Joey realized that moving to the city was probably pretty scary for Mom, too. . . .
Maybe he did have heroes in his family.
“What are you thinking about, kiddo?” asked Mom, as she brushed Joey’s bangs out of his eyes.
Joey looked around. He looked at the iron bars on the window. He could almost see the waves of late-summer heat bouncing off the sidewalk. It was all out there. The traffic, and the cockroaches, and the dust, and the rats . . .
“I’m thinking that there’s a lot of scary things here.” Mom nodded. Then Joey said, “But I’m not going to be scared of them.”
Mom smiled. “Me neither,” she said.
Joey decided that if the boy across the street waved again, he would wave back.
A few blocks away
WRUNDEL TURNED in her bed of garbage. She licked her paw where Parsifur had stabbed her, and yowled. It still hurt.
A brown- and gray-flecked paw reached up and scratched her ear, to comfort her. It was dark here, and oily . . . but he knew his special pet’s smell would hide him from his enemies.
His enemies, he thought. They should be his subjects. At this moment, he should be their king.
