Young Adventurers Page 28

  “EurekAAAAAA!” she screamed

  “What the heck does that mean, Daughter?” her father grimaced, ears ringing.

  But she was gone.

  “Hey–!” He struggled to his feet with a groan, yelping as he tugged the fork from his backside. “Where are you going?”

  Bursting through the cottage door, Gertrude’s father searched high and low outside, but his oddly behaving offspring was nowhere to be found. Then he noticed something peculiar. The door to Alfred’s hovel, where the lad had slept after his hours of back-breaking work, hung wide open, and from inside there came the sounds of a great ruckus.

  “Daughter!” Gertrude’s father cried. “I shall save thee!”

  Drawing his sword, he charged the hovel, prepared to dive inside and slay whatever wretched creature was attacking his beloved child. But just as he came to the open doorway–

  “Mufflefrommelmummel!” A dress had landed on his head. Savagely, he fought to free himself of it, and when he had done so, he found himself facing a masked stranger. “What the–!” he started, falling backward. “Who are you?”

  “I am no one to be questioned.” The stranger held out his gloved hand. “Now give me your sword and belt.”

  Gertrude’s father instantly obeyed–though, if he had taken a moment to think about it, he wouldn’t have known why he was doing so. Perhaps it was the air of authority in this masked man’s voice.

  “What have you done with my daughter?” He clutched the ragged dress to his breast, tears springing from his eyes.

  “She has been put away for the time being.” The stranger struggled as he tried to buckle the wide sword belt around his narrow waist. “But fear not. She will return.”

  Gertrude’s father narrowed his eyes at the stranger. There was something oddly familiar about this fellow. Was it his big green eyes, which peered over the rim of the mask and under the rim of the hood he wore? Was it his height? His shape? Definitely strange for a man–narrow shoulders, wide hips.

  “Hey, where have I seen you before, Stranger? Is it possible our swords have crossed before?”

  “I don’t see how. The only sword I have is yours.”

  “Oh yeah, I didn’t think of that.” Gertrude’s father was left to ponder the matter.

  Sheathed sword swaying at his side, the stranger left the hovel and swaggered to the barnyard gate. His gait was peculiar–graceful, seeming to float across the ground. “I hear you’ve made a deal with the devil, Mr. Grower.”

  Gertrude’s father followed him, wondering how news kept spreading around so fast lately. “Aye, indeed I have. But how do you–?”

  “Remember, I am no one to be questioned.”

  “Right. Sorry.”

  The stranger came to the gate and clambered over it. “I’ve also heard that you tried to kill your farmhand–the best boy who ever lived, the only male creature your daughter has ever shown any affection for.”

  Gertrude’s father sighed. “That’s true enough, I suppose.”

  “And I’ve heard that you worked in his murder with that devil-deal you made.” The stranger’s eyes bored into Gertrude’s father over the gate separating them.

  “Aye.” He hung his head.

  “Do you regret that part of the deal as much as the other part?”

  “Uh–” He tried to wrap his brain around the question. “No. But I do regret it.”

  The green eyes seemed to soften. “There is hope for you yet.”

  “Huh?”

  But the stranger was gone. All that could be seen was the billowing cloud of dust kicked up by his heels as he ran like the wind, heading in the direction of the village. Gertrude’s father gazed after him and held onto his daughter’s dress and wondered about a lot of things. Namely, who was this stranger?

  From out of the distant dust cloud came a shrill cry, “I’ll be back in a bit, PAAAAAAAA!”

  His jaw dropped open. “Gertrude?” He looked at the dress in his hands, and a grin tugged at a corner of his face. “Why, that little stinker!”

  In the village, in the tavern, in the back corner engulfed by preternatural darkness, Sheriff Bile sat with his men. Actually, he was the only one sitting, and his three henchmen–two of whom were not men, but rather abominations created by the sheriff’s sorcery to serve his evil purposes–stood at attention. The tavern was empty this time of day as all the good men had work to do in their fields and shops, so the sheriff usurped the place to conduct his affairs, kicking out the barkeeper and bolting the doors to keep out the public.

  “Now then, Weasel,” came the sheriff’s voice from the shadows, his single eye resting on one of the henchmen who, remarkably, resembled a man-sized weasel. “Have we made any progress with Farmer Bob?”

  Weasel’s nose twitched as he whined, “He refuses to pay his taxes. Says he’s already paid ‘em twice this season.”

  “So he has.” The sheriff chuckled. “Oh well. Torch his place tomorrow morning. Make it look like an accident, and take any valuables you find.”

  “Aye, sir.” Weasel’s smile bared sharp yellow teeth.

  The sheriff’s eye rested on a big brute of a henchman who resembled an overgrown–

  “Ox, what have you done about the blacksmith? Is he singing a different tune about me yet?”

  “Well, uh…” Ox scratched his head. “He ain’t singin’ much no more since I broke his face.”

  “Good work. Pay him another visit tomorrow to be certain his opinion of me has improved. I will not tolerate dissension. I am the sheriff, and this village is mine.”

  “Hear, hear,” the three henchmen applauded.

  “What about you, Tim?” Sheriff Bile abruptly set his eye on the third man standing before him, a fellow who looked as much like a Tim as anything else. “What has been done about the miller?”

  “Nothing yet–”

  “Kill him tomorrow.”

  “Uh-sir?” Weasel whined. “Is there some reason you want us to put off our dastardly deeds until tomorrow? I mean, I’ve always heard that it’s better not to put off–”

  “Yes, procrastination is the lesser part of valor,” the sheriff admitted. “But in this case, we can afford to do a little procrastinating, for we shall be rewarded!”

  “We will?” Ox asked with a puzzled frown.

  “You won’t. I will. I was using the royal we.”

  “Okay.” Ox grinned, baring multiple gaps where teeth had once lived.

  “Is there some other pressing matter, my liege?” asked Tim.

  “Indeed there is, Timmy Boy. And it is a matter of the highest importance.”

  Weasel clapped his hands together, almost salivating as he begged, “Do tell all, sir!”

  “Do you fools remember the day I first set foot in this backward village?” Sheriff Bile watched them nod. “Do you remember the first sight I set my eye upon, that which made me decide, then and there, to remain here?”

  They scratched their heads. Then, in unison, they remembered: “The girl!”

  “The most beautiful creature I had ever seen, and the moment I saw her, I knew she would someday be mine.”

  Ox nodded. “So is she?”

  “Is she what?” the sheriff snapped.

  “Is she yours?”

  “She soon will be. I have made a deal with her father. Once we–”

  “Uh–we us or we you?” Ox ascertained.

  “You.” The sheriff’s eye glared fiercely. “Once we find the knave who stole her father’s horse and hang him in the village square, I shall ride out to the girl’s cottage, shake hands with her father, round up a sober priest, and the most beautiful girl on the face of the earth will be mine to have and hold for the rest of my life.” He came up for air. “So, what do you think?”

  They hesitated, glancing sidelong at each other. Then in unison they shouted, “We think you’ll make her a right fine husband, sir!”

  “Of course I will. And she had better appreciate it. If she doesn’t–well, what can I s
ay?” A coldness crept into his tone. “Then there may be another job for you.”

  The three henchmen chuckled with slimy malevolence. “We catch your drift, sir.”

  “Good. Now go catch me that knave!”

  They scurried to obey, tripping over each other and their own feet as they rushed to the tavern door. Ox slid back the bolt, Weasel heaved the door open, and Tim stepped outside.

  “Aww!” he groaned as something hit him upside the head. Unconscious, he slumped to the porch and lay still.

  Startled, Weasel stepped outside to see what had…

  “Aww!” he yelped as something also hit him upside the head. Like a floppy, furry rag doll, he fell onto his cohort.

  Ox stared at the two of them and frowned. He hung his big head out the door and looked around. “Hello?” Then he looked up. “Uh-oh–”

  The log hit him squarely between the eyes, and he collapsed with a groan onto his two cohorts, squishing them beneath his monstrous bulk.

  “Who goes there?” he moaned, rubbing his forehead as he struggled to regain his cloven feet. “Are you the knave whom we seek?”

  Another log hit him in the back of his head, and he fell forward, shaking his head sharply.

  “Show yourself, scoundrel!” Again he rose to his unsteady feet, searching for the log-throwing fiend. “Where are you, knave? Are you a coward? Do you fight a man like this?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Ox whirled around to face…

  Another log. He tipped over backwards, once again crushing his unconscious cohorts. “Give up, scoundrel. You–” he gasped, “you cannot knock out the Ox!”

  “Is that your name?”

  Through a haze, Ox saw a blurry shape standing over him. Did it wear a hood? A mask? “Who are you, Stranger?”

  “I am no one to be questioned.” The sharp blade of a sword came up under the big creature’s chin. “Take me to your leader.”

  Ox knew better than to argue with this log-hurling, sword-wielding fiend. So with the blade trained on his back and a few choice grunts, he got to his hind hooves and gestured toward the tavern’s interior. “This way.”

  The stranger curtsied, then followed.

  “Uh–Sheriff Bile?” Ox frowned as he arrived at the dark table. “Are you there, sir?”

  The eye opened. “What is it, Ox?” came the sheriff’s quiet voice.

  “There’s-uh somebody here to see you.” He swallowed as the stranger’s sword dug into his back.

  “Well, where is he? I see no one.”

  “He’s behind me, sir.”

  “Then step aside!”

  The big oaf did so, leaving the stranger in plain sight. With his sword held straight at the sheriff now, the strange figure stood confidently, hooded, masked, cloaked, gloved, and booted, with a baggy shirt and even baggier pants. He would have looked comical and, indeed, the sheriff would have laughed out loud had it not been for the wild look in the stranger’s green eyes.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Bile demanded. “Who the devil are you?”

  “I am no one to be questioned. And I do not appreciate references to the devil.”

  The sheriff’s eye blinked.

  “Allow me to deal with you squarely,” the stranger said. “I know of your sinister deal with Farmer Grower, and I am here to give you a change of heart–one you must undergo, or else you will be forced to suffer certain unpleasantries.”

  The sheriff’s eye narrowed. “You dare to threaten me, strange one?”

  “Yes, I do. I threaten your very life. Either you forget about Farmer Grower’s daughter and Farmer Grower’s horse-stealing knavish farmhand, or I shall hack off your head and give it to the village children. They are in need of a new soccer ball, I hear.”

  The sheriff sized up the weird-looking fellow before him. “You are a brave rascal. I’ll give you that. But you are also a fool.” He paused to let that sink in. “Do you actually believe you can kill an officer of the king and get away with it?”

  “I plan to do both–if your heart does not undergo that change I mentioned. Forget about Farmer Grower’s daughter. She is in love with another–”

  “HA!” A gloved hand shot out of the darkness and pounded the table. “You, perhaps?” The sheriff’s eye rose as he stood. “Hear me, strange one: the girl is mine! I have waited long to have her, and I will kill anyone who stands in my way!” A sword rang against its sheath. “To the death!”

  The stranger drew back sharply as Bile emerged from the shadows. Garbed from head to foot in stylish black leather, the sheriff stood near seven feet tall, his frame muscular, his face a mass of scars, lumps, pocks, bruises, and burned flesh. His left eye socket lay empty, shriveled up tight, and his right eye bulged with malice.

  “Look upon me and fear!” Bile roared, throwing back his head with dramatic laughter. “Am I not a sight to behold?”

  “You should be the one wearing a mask.”

  “I’ve considered it, but then I wouldn’t be able to use the whole look upon me and fear bit.”

  “How did you get that way?”

  “Oh, that’s quite a story.” The sheriff lowered his sword and leaned on the hilt. “As a lad, I enjoyed making fireworks, you see. I was a real feisty little fellow, full of zest and vigor, and I seldom followed directions–which often got me into heaps of trouble, but that’s beside the point. So one day, I was down in the basement of our family cottage, just mixing a routine concoction of Chinese rocket fuel when–NOW, fools!”

  The stranger let out a short cry as he was pounced on from all sides. Ox took away his sword, a fully recovered Weasel grabbed his arms, and a now-conscious Tim grabbed hold of his legs, pinning him to the tavern floor. The stranger struggled in vain.

  Sheriff Bile laughed, his teeth crooked and brown. “Lesson number one, your strangeness: Never trust your opponent. As I entered into that riveting albeit short-lived monologue–all fictitious, of course, as my appearance is no more than a byproduct of excelling in the usage of dark magic–my men were closing in on you, just waiting for my command to strike. You didn’t even hear them coming!” He clucked his tongue. “Pathetic.”

  “I’m kind of new at this,” the stranger admitted.

  “So it would appear.” The sheriff’s eye narrowed, fixed on the stranger’s mask as he reached out a gloved hand. “I believe the time has come for your unveiling. Let’s see what you look like, Strange One.”

  The stranger’s eyes darted in a frenzy.

  Gertrude’s father perked up at the sound of hoof beats trotting into the barnyard.

  “Gertrude?” He rose from the table and his twenty-third game of solitaire. “Could it be? Is it she?” He moved to the cottage door with a fast beating of both his hearts. “Daughter!” he boomed as he threw open the door. But he stopped short. “Oh. It’s you.”

  “Not much of a welcome.” Alfred jumped down from the exhausted work horse.

  “If I had my sword, I’d greet you proper.” Glowering, the farmer stepped forward to grab the reins. “Why are you back?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Homesick, I guess.”

  “This isn’t your home–not anymore. You’re a knave.” Farmer Grower turned away, leading the horse to the barn. “A horse-stealing highwayman!”

  “But Gertrude gave it to me.” He hastened to follow. “And besides, I brought it back in one piece, so how can I truly be a knave?”

  Farmer Grower shook his head, refusing to look at the boy. “Once a knave, always a knave. You can’t change these things. You’re fit to be hung–”

  “Hanged,” Alfred corrected.

  “You leave my grammar alone.” The big man glared at him. “You’ve got to die, and that’s all there is to it. There’s naught more to be said.”

  “But…” Alfred caught sight of his old hovel, its door open and everything inside a mess. “Has somebody else moved into my place?”

  “No. Gertrude was in there a while ago, borrowing some of your clothes.”
<
br />   “Why? Where’d she go?”

  Farmer Grower shrugged. “To the village. Said something about the deal I made with Sheriff Bile–”

  “You made a deal with Bile?” Alfred gasped.

  “Mayhaps.”

  “How could you? Bile is pure evil–wickedness incarnate! He robs the poor to make himself richer and kills anyone who stands in his way. Why, he’s the sorcerer who killed my parents!”

  The farmer threw up his hands at this very unexpected backstory. “Now you tell me!”

  “Huh?”

  “I’ve always felt that you carried a dark secret. Why’d you wait so long for the big reveal?”

  The boy shrugged. “I kind of just remembered.”

  “Daaah, you are an idiot.” The farmer hauled himself aboard the work horse and glared down at his once-upon-a-time-good-and-loyal farmhand. “Well?”

  “What?”

  “We’re going to the village, buffoon! To rescue my daughter!” One of his brawny arms shot down, grabbed hold of the boy by his shirtfront, and hoisted him up behind him on the horse. “To redeem yourself!”

  Alfred nodded. “Okay, sounds good.”

  “HA!” Gertrude’s father gave the horse a kick. “We’re off!”

  And they were–at a very slow trot.

  Two hours later, Gertrude’s father and the infamous knave entered the village in time to find a celebratory gathering in the square. Curious, they peered through the swaying banners and signs held by cheering village people to see what the heck was going on.

  Then they gasped.

  And they stared.

  A lopsided scaffold had been hastily erected, and dangling by their necks hung four bodies: one the size of an ox, another the shape of a weasel, the next one could have been named Tim, and the fourth…

  “Eww,” Alfred grimaced and swallowed. “That’s Bile.”

  “You sure?” Farmer Grower squinted. “It was too dark for me to get a good look at him whilst we were making our sinister deal.”

  “I’d recognize that horrid visage anywhere.”

  “Aye, what a horrid visage,” Grower echoed. “A truly horrid visage indeed.”

  Alfred rose up, scanning the crowd. “I don’t see Gertrude.” He jumped off the horse and pressed through the crowd.