Sir Francis Hoariman, head of
the FFA monarchial protection service, cursed himself yet again as he spurred
his horse onward down the increasingly ill-kept, muddy road that led through a
forest toward the Crone’s Nest Carriage Park.
Behind him he heard hoof beats and metallic clatter from the other nine
members of his squad who, like himself, were arrayed in battle armor. In retrospect, he realized how foolish he had
been not to follow the royal couple before now, despite the queen’s direct
orders not to. Always the soldier, he
had acceded to her command. But she had
been speaking as a distressed mother, not a dispassionate monarch. He should have left to follow them earlier,
he told himself for the hundredth time, and if he were dismissed for defying
her orders now, then so be it. The
fierce, portentous thunderstorm that had struck the kingdom the previous night
matched the self-anger raging in his own conscience as he had paced the
ramparts of the castle, awaiting his sovereigns’ return. When that hadn’t happened, he had set out
with his squad at first light of dawn, resolved to ensure their safety or, if
his stupidity had prevented that, to wreak havoc on anyone who might have
endangered it.
Then, as they rounded a curve, Hoariman
saw it – the king’s coach, pulled off just to the side of the road. The knight intoned a deep “whoa” and pulled
his horse to a stop so abrupt that it whinnied and briefly rose to its hind
hooves in protest. The animal settled
down as Hoariman signaled for the riders behind him
to halt as well. For a moment he just
stared at the lonely vehicle, not detecting any movement within. Its two coachmen sat side-by-side on the
driver’s bench, perfectly still and staring straight ahead; they had not
appeared to notice the arrival of Hoariman and his
squad at all. The coach’s team of horses
shifted in their stances and glanced in the knights’ direction with mild curiosity. Hoariman couldn’t
detect any movement from within the carriage.
“Sir,” the knight’s lieutenant said as Hoariman
deftly slid his trim, tall frame from off his saddle, “do you think—”
“I’m done thinking,” Hoariman
snapped, one mail-gloved hand settling on the hilt of his sword. “Follow me.”
Hoariman moved toward the coach with long,
determined strides, moving as quickly as the mud that sucked at his feet would
allow. The angular, craggy face beneath
his raised visor was rigidly set as he kept his eyes trained on the coach
before him. There was a general clanking
and rattling of armor as the other knights dismounted their steeds and followed
him.
As he drew nearer, Hoariman
called to the coachmen, “You, there!
What happened here? Are the king and queen inside?”
The coachmen’s heads slowly moved together in Hoariman’s direction.
Their expressions seemed listless, their gaze unfocused. “Yes,” the nearer of the men said in a dull
monotone, “the king is inside.” Then,
without another word, their heads moved slowly back in unison until they were again
staring straight ahead.
Something was definitely wrong. Hoariman drew his
sword as he neared the coach door and a moment later he heard the sound of his
men unsheathing their own swords from their scabbards behind him. When he reached the door, Hoariman
seized the handle, yanked the door open, and stared inside.
Instead of seeing the king or his wife, the knight found
himself staring at an imp dressed up in royal attire and wearing a tall
powdered wig. In one hand he held a
rolled-up scroll.
“Sir Hoariman!” the imp
gushed. “Ah, I’ve been expecting you!”
Hoariman squinted as he recognized the
figure. After a moment he spat out the
name, “Rumpelstiltskin.”
Rumpelstiltskin sighed.
“You see?” he said. “That’s why
the guessing game doesn’t work anymore.
Even you’ve heard of me!”
“The queen told me that she and the king were on their way
to negotiate some sort of deal with you to free their daughter, although she
wouldn’t give me the details. Besides, it’s
my business to keep tabs on magic users in the kingdom, especially those who
also fall into the riff-raff category.”
“Riff-raff?
I’ve never been arrested for any
of my dealings!”
“Only because you’re slipperier
than a lawyer.”
“A lawyer!” the imp said indignantly. “That’s just going too far. And it’s no way to
speak to your—”
In a flash Hoariman leaned into
the coach and swung his sword toward the imp.
The weapon came to rest with Hoariman holding
it with the point an inch from Rumpelstiltskin’s throat. The imp’s eyes opened wide and he gasped.
Hoariman jerked his head in the direction
of the coachmen. “Is that your work,
punk?” he asked. “Do you know the
penalty for using magic on anyone against their will within the jurisdiction of
Far Far Away?”
“Magic?
Them?
Me? No!” the imp stammered.
Hoariman stared distastefully at the
cowering little creature for a few moments longer. Then he leaned back and, keeping his sword
pointed at Rumpelstiltskin, said, “Get out.”
“Cer-certainly!” the imp said,
gave an uneasy chuckle, and then carefully followed Hoariman
out of the coach. His curly-toed shoes
sank slightly in the mud as he stepped onto the ground. He clutched the scroll closely to his chest
with both hands as he stared up at the knight, who kept his sword trained on
him.
“Where’s King Harold?” Hoariman demanded
in a low, raspy tone.
“Harold?” Rumpelstiltskin said. “I’m afraid Harold is gone. I’m
king now!”
Hoariman just stared at the imp’s face,
which had acquired a little smirk despite being held at swordpoint. The knight’s stony expression drained of
blood for a moment, but then the redness returned with a vengeance as he fought
to restrain his fury. After what seemed
like interminable seconds, he said simply, “What?”
“It’s true!” Rumpelstiltskin said. “Harold and Lillian—”
“King Harold and Queen
Lillian to you, punk,” Hoariman corrected.
“Yeah, whatever.
Anyway, they showed up and we negotiated a contract to free their
daughter of her curse in return for their signing their kingdom over to
me. It was quite selfless and noble of
them as parents, really – although, between you and me, not particularly wise
as monarchs, y’know?
I mean, would you barter away
your whole kingdom? Especially to
someone whom some misguided people slander with names like – what was it you
said – riff-raff? Still, I am a businessman, so I couldn’t really
turn down—”
“You liar!”
Hoariman spat.
“No, really!” Rumpelstiltskin said, unfurling
the scroll and holding the contract out toward Hoariman. “See! You
recognize Harold’s signature, don’t your?
It’s all right there in black and white – and gold, with a little green trim,
and—”
“Then where are the king and queen now?”
Rumpelstiltskin lowered the contract. “Oh, you could say that after their
daughter’s curse was ended that Harold and Lillian decided to take Fiona and
retire to a quiet, out-of-the way chalet out in the country somewhere where
they could live the rest of their years peacefully as a nice happy family,
without the burdens of monarchy. Hey,
politicians quit all the time to ‘spend more time with their families’, right? Even some who aren’t under indictment. And imagine how much time Harold and Lillian
would have to make up for with Fiona!
Yes, you could say that. In fact,
you will say that.”
“What?”
“Well, if it were just me, even though I can be pretty
persuasive, there might be some cynics back in Far Far
Away who would doubt me. But if you back me up…well, everyone knows how
noble and honorable you are. Heck, just
look at that glowing article about you in January’s Squire magazine. So between my persuasiveness and your
credibility—”
“You’re not being very persuasive right now, punk,” Hoariman said.
“Oh, with you, I don’t need to be,” Rumpelstiltskin said,
growing more confident. “You see, unlike
the general citizenry, you and your men here took an oath to serve, protect,
and obey the monarchy of Far Far Away. Well, now that I’m king, you owe that loyalty
oath to me. And so I’m ordering you to do just what I said.”
Hoariman stared down into
Rumpelstiltskin’s face. The imp’s
contemptible smirk had deepened and he looked triumphant. The knight felt his rage quickening. “You disgusting little rat-faced thing,” Hoariman
said. “If you think that devilish piece
of parchment makes you king—”
“Oh, but it does!
And there’s nothing you can do about it!”
“I think there is,” Hoariman
said, and raised his sword over his head as, eyes squinting,
he took aim at the contract still held in Rumpelstiltskin’s hands. Hoariman imagined
that the imp might well think the knight was aiming at him. If
so, then so much the better.
Rumpelstiltskin’s expression quickly morphed into a look
of terror. “No! Don’t!” he said, his voice a pathetic whine, and
quickly held the unfurled contract up between the knight and himself. “This contract is completely legal…”
Hoariman, pleased that the villain had
unwittingly given him a better target, swung the sword downward. But as the blade touched the enchanted paper
it suddenly stopped, barely leaving a crinkle.
At the same time a bolt of energy like lightening traveled from the
contract up through the sword and engulfed the knight. A moment later bolts leapt from Hoariman’s body and briefly engulfed each of the other
knights in turn. And then, after a few
seconds, the energy was gone. Hoariman continued holding his sword, but his sword arm
dropped limply to his side and he stood mutely, staring straight ahead, his
expression blank. The sword arms of all
the other knights did the same and their faces also took on a frozen glaze.
Rumpelstiltskin, his smirk back
and deeper than ever, lowered the contract and looked up at the now silent
knight. “…and binding!”
the imp concluded.
He laughed triumphantly as he re-furled the contract and,
around him, witches slowly started emerging from the forest. Baba walked hesitantly up to Hoariman. She looked
up at his blank expression for a few seconds, and then briefly waved a hand in
front of his face. When that elicited no
reaction she knocked on his breastplate.
That also prompting no response, she asked, “Can he move?”
“Of course he
can move,” Rumpelstiltskin said. “He’s just
spellbound, he doesn’t need oiled. The point is, he only moves and performs when I tell him to. Isn’t that right, Sir Hoariman?”
“Yes,” Hoariman responded in a
dull monotone.
“Yes, what?”
Rumpelstiltskin prodded.
“Yes…Your Majesty,” Hoariman said listlessly.
“Not bad,” the imp said, smiling. “But put a little more life into it. We need to sell that you’re really behind
this as a team player.”
“Yes, Sire!” Hoariman said with
more enthusiasm.
“Better,” Rumpelstiltskin said. “Now, assemble your men as an escort. Far Far
Away deserves to see their new king arrive in style!”
“Yes, Sire,” Hoariman said. He saluted with his sword, turned, and
gestured his men back to their horses.
Rumpelstiltskin smiled deeply and sighed with self-satisfaction
as he watched Hoariman stride away. “Ah, so easy!” he said. “Now, on to Far Far
Away, where I shall establish myself as ruler prepare the
next real challenge.”
“You mean the Fairy Godmother?” Baba asked.
“No,” Rumpelstiltskin said, dropping his smile and rolling
his eyes, “passing health care reform.
Of course I mean the Fairy
Godmother!” Then the imp smiled again,
even more sinisterly. “Fortunately, the
solution to that problem will also feed nicely into taking care of the last major
problem. Ironic,
really. It’ll be like killing two
birds with one stone!”