The inside of the blue house was just as blue as the outside. It was sparsely decorated with a blue table and chairs, and a simple blue stove and kiln for preparing food. Protruding from the floor by the window was a blue piloting lever, and in the middle of the room stood a blue door, which appeared to lead nowhere but was in fact an entirely magical route back to the royal palace of Kingdomland.
In fact, the only thing that wasn’t blue was a huge pile of stolen Kroakan sunder-guns, stacked up in one corner of the room – spoils from the Defeat All Foes Team’s various raids.
“We few versus a gigantic, planet-destroying spaceship?” began Nigel, as the Defeat All Foes Team gathered round the blue table. “Doesn’t sound like the odds are stacked in our favour, by gosh.”
“Pfff – we’ve got odds coming out of our earholes,” insisted Frog. “I may not have my top invincible sword but I’ve still got” – he rooted in his pocket and pulled out a carved stone talisman – “one last excellent magical!”
“Oh good,” grunted the rarewolf. “It only took a few hundred of those to defeat ten traceships. We’re saved.”
“And that’s not all! Look at all the gubbins we’ve pilfered!” added Frog, pointing to the pile of sunder-guns.
“Guns?” growled the rarewolf. “What use are guns if we have no army to fire them?”
“Could you at least try to be supportive?” huffed Kryl.
“Wait a miniature, the rarewolf’s right!” cried Frog. “We should get our own army. All the proper champions have armies! This’ll be great… I’ll be the top army leader and skilled-up general. Nigel can be my second-best-in-command deputy, and—”
“I’m an ackshul princess – I should be second,” protested Princess Rainbow. “No, wait, first.”
“Sorry, Princess, this is serious business, not sparkly princess stuff,” said Frog. “OK, from now on everyone should call me ‘Green Leader’ … no, ‘Boss Number One’… no, ‘The Mighty Frog’!”
“I’ll call you silly Greeny stupid head,” cried the princess.
“Does it really matter who’s called what?” growled the rarewolf.
“Five, six, seven…” continued Frog, counting everyone in the room. “With my skills I probably count as two, so that’s eight,” he said. “How many do we need for an army?”
“Twelve at least,” tutted Princess Rainbow, crossing her arms.
“Yoiks … that’s heaps,” said Frog, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “OK, the royal army is killed off or brain-slaved, so they’re no good. Who else do we know?”
The Defeat All Foes team racked its brains. After a moment, everyone turned to Nigel (except Man-Lor, who was staring at his own elbow).
“Why are you all looking at me? I don’t know any— Wait, the bragons?” Nigel blurted. “Impossible! We’re not even on speaking terms since the Great Falling Out, truth be told. We tried to out-boast each other for twenty hours straight…”
“It’s time to put your differences aside in the name of fighting a ginormous spaceship,” said Frog.
Sheriff Explosion added an encouraging “baa”.
Nigel sighed. “Very well, but don’t blame me if they’re no help at all. Bragons live to fly, not fight … and we’re all cowards.” He opened a drawer in the blue table and pulled out a small brass trumpet. “This is the Horn of Hotairia. With it I can summon my brothers and sisters from all corners of Kingdomland.”
“How does it work?” asked Kryl.
“I’ll show you,” Nigel replied, taking off his spectacles dramatically. “But first I’ll need to do what bragons do best – brag.”
“I thought you only bragged so you could fill up with hot air and fly,” said Frog.
“Ah, but sometimes you just have to blow your own trumpet,” explained Nigel.
The bragon’s reedy voice became suddenly thunderous as he started to boast, awarding himself a long list of extraordinarily egotistical names. He bellowed them out in alphabetical order, from “Admiral Aceface Amazingstone” to “Zoom-balloon Zestypops”. And with each boast, Nigel began to inflate, his barrel chest filling with hot air. Soon, he had swollen to more than twice his size, and begun to float towards the ceiling.
“Ready!” Nigel uttered, as Frog and Man-Lor grabbed a leg each to keep him grounded. “Cover your ears!”
With that, Nigel blew with all his might into the horn. He blew until his red face turned purple, until the sweat poured from his wings, until every last breath of air was blown out of his body. Then:
“Huh… I thought it might sound a bit mighterier,” whispered Frog, as Nigel caught his breath. “Now what?”
“With luck, the bragons will assemble at nightfall, atop the Cliffs of Resentment,” puffed Nigel, replacing his spectacles. He paused for a moment, a grave expression upon his face. “Looks like I’d better start baking … just in case.”
“Baking?” repeated Frog, but Nigel was already making his way to the kitchen.
Frog twiddled his thumbs. Then he stared at the magical blue door leading back to the royal palace.
He rolled his neck until it cracked.
“Pfff – nightfall is ages. Who wants to help me get my sword back?”