INSPIRED BY GEORGE ORWELL’S
NINETEEN EIGHTY-FOUR
It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Tyro Tinnywinkle looked up from his roasted wanbuck sandwich and sighed. Ever since King Fairdwych had declared a twenty-six-hour day to increase productivity, thirteen o’clock had been a symbol of gloom. In fact, the general consensus around Tarnez (the once-proud capital city of the Great Continent of Geologa) was that pretty much any o’clock was a symbol of doom now that Fairdwych was king. Tyro usually paid no heed to the affairs conducted within Castle Hardstock, mostly because the affairs conducted within Castle Hardstock never paid heed to him, but this latest decree was hard to ignore. King Fairdwych showed little interest in the health and happiness of his subjects, and everyone in the kingdom knew it.
But there had been a time, not so long ago, when the lives of the royal family and the Tinnywinkle family had been intricately entwined. Sardoz the Curious, Fairdwych’s father, spent hours browsing the dusty shelves and bins of what many considered to be the most complete and well-stocked magic shop in the world, Tinnywinkle’s House of Magic and Mystical Oddities. And he always bought something: the Canine Bisecting Trick Apparatus, the Mesmerizing Orb of Thallos, or even just a box of itching powder. (The former king wasn’t one of those canker-bottoms who browsed in a store, asked for a clerk’s recommendations, talked to him for an hour, and then said he had to talk it over with his wife.)
The connection between the royal family and the Tinnywinkle family went even further back. In fact, for as long as the Tinnywinkle family had lived on the Great Continent of Geologa, they had literally dwelled in the shadow of Castle Hardstock. After it had been damaged in the War of the Clinking Sparrows, Tyro’s grandfather had been one of the builders who restored it to its soaring splendor, fortifying its ramparts and getting plastered under its flying buttresses. (Tyro’s grandfather became the black sheep of the family when he eschewed a career in magic for the construction business.)
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 stop 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 uncomfortably.
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?”
“Could we be ready for tomorrow morning?” Madwyn asked the brothers.
“Is this crowning thing very dangerous? Is it something we really have to worry about? I mean, could we just not show up? It seems rude without an invitation or a—”
The brothers smiled at their Queen. “We have been ready for months, Majesty. We shall solidify our plans and, with Tyro here, make our way to success.” Big Brother slapped Tyro on the back.
Tyro looked at the Queen. “Yes. About that. First, I guess the whole Mystic Crowning information will be given to me later. Not important, really. Just like to know if I need to bring a gift. Here is my concern, and I have no wish to disrespect your Oracle, but I really have no idea what’s going on here, and I need to get back to the shop and close up.”
Madwyn smiled beneficently. “Do not let worry furrow your brow, Tyro. The Oracle spoke. You will lead us to where we must go.”
The brothers grabbed Tyro by the shoulders. “To the War Tent, young Tyro.”
Tyro had just enough time to give a hasty nod and curtsy to the Queen before he was hurried out of her presence.
“Listen, fellows,” Tyro said as he was ushered from the big tent. “I really don’t know how I can help.”
The brothers looked at each other, then at Tyro.
Big Brother spoke cryptically: “Then let the Fates have their way with all.”
Tyro raised his finger in question, then lowered it when Big Brother frowned.
In the War Tent, the brothers and the leaders of the rebel squadrons pored over a blueprint of Castle Hardstock. Big Brother went into the plan.
“As you can see, the walls are heavily fortified. Not even cannon fire can pierce them. There is but one way in. We will have a diversion at the east wall here.” Big Brother pointed at the blueprint.
Little Brother continued. “While the King’s Guard is dealing with that, we have one hundred and twenty of our best warriors on wanbucks on the northwest wall. It is the lowest of the walls, and the wanbucks should be able to clear it easily. Our warriors will have to hold that position until the wanbucks can jump back and return with more reinforcements. At the same time, our archers will lead an attack on the south wall”—Little Brother pointed to another spot on the map—“and add additional support for the northwest wall.”
Big Brother looked pained. “We will lose many good men and women, but if we can gain control of the courtyard, we can bring the Queen in, place her on the throne, and stop the Mystic Crowning ceremony.”
Tyro cleared his throat. “I’m not sure, but I may have asked this before. What is the Mystic Crowning ceremony?” Big Brother craned his neck around and nodded to Little Brother. Little Brother turned to Tyro and steepled his fingers.
“As you may know, the royal family has long been intrigued by the magical arts. Fairdwych has taken that passion beyond all reasoning. He found, in his father’s library, a book of demonic spells. In it, he discovered the Mystic Crowning ceremony, which can only be performed every three thousand and forty-three years during the Day of the Sixteen Whirlers. Tomorrow is that day. ”
Big Brother continued. “If the ceremony is carried out, a demon called Tarmanock will be called forth and will pledge undying allegiance to the one who released him. This beast has ungodly power, and with it Fairdwych will never be stopped.”
Tyro felt faint. “How is it that I never knew of this book of demonic spells?”
Big Brother patted his back. “It was long thought to be a hoax till one of our spies saw Fairdwych using a spell from it to…discipline the kitchen help.”
Tyro’s throat dried. “I don’t want to know the details, do I?”
Little Brother shook his head. “No, you most certainly do not.”
Tyro wondered aloud: “Is there any chance Tarmanock will be like the rest of us and take an instant dislike to the King? Maybe he’ll kill him and head back to his own dimension.”
The brothers looked at him sadly and shook their heads. Tyro sighed and rubbed his temples. He looked at the blueprints of the castle. Something caught his eye.
“Wait a minute. This blueprint doesn’t show the tunnel.” All eyes turned to him.
“Tunnel?” said Big Brother.
“There’s a tunnel that starts by the River of Lost Tears and leads straight into the castle. My grandfather was one of the engineers. He showed it to me when I was a child. Used to play in it for hours. Can’t remember why we stopped.”
“There’s a tunnel?” Little Brother exclaimed. “Our army can enter the castle undetected via this old tunnel?”
The group laughed delightedly. There was much handshaking and backslapping. Big Brother wiped happy tears from his eyes.
“So was that it?” Tyro asked hopefully. “Am I done?” Everyone laughed harder.
The next morning, as the brothers prepared to lead their assembled men to the head of the tunnel, Madwyn approached Tyro.
“Tyro, I thank you for your service. We are fortunate indeed to have your help. The Fates have been kind to deliver you to us.”
“But I haven’t done anything, Majesty, except remember a treasured childhood haunt.”
“Ah, but this tunnel allows us access to the castle in such a way that will save many lives.” Madwyn paused, looking into Tyro’s eyes. “Is everything all right?”
Everything was fine. Tyro could not help staring at Madwyn. He had never seen anyone so beautiful before. “Yes, Majesty. Everything is fine, thank you. I was just thinking of…a favorite recipe…that I like…um…I hope you get the throne. I always liked you best.”
“Thank you.” Madwyn smiled sadly. “I hope that I can get it back, too. My brother has almost broken the spirit of our country with his greed and lust for power.”
“Yes, well, family can be complex.”
“There’s nothing complex about Fairdwych. He will try to separate my head from my body if he sees me and figures out what we’re up to.”
“I will not let that happen, Your Queenship…my Queen…Your Majesty.” Tyro blushed.
“Call me Madwyn. ’Tis my name.” She laughed softly and kissed Tyro on the cheek. “Good luck to you today. May we all survive.”
Tyro was so besotted by the kiss, it took him a few seconds to understand the import of her words. “Good luck to me? Why? I thought I was done. What am I doing that I might not survive?”
What Tyro was doing was leading an army of rebels to the River of Lost Tears. As they rode up to the mouth of the tunnel, Tyro turned to the brothers. “There you go. That’s the tunnel. Leads right into the main ballroom, right next to the Throne Room.”
“Excellently done, my friend!” said Big Brother. “Now you must lead us to the end.”
“What? I’ve led you to where you want to go! What else do you need me for? I’m not a warrior.”
“You are still an important part of this.” Madwyn rode up next to him with an old woman by her side.
“This is the Oracle.” Madwyn gestured to the old woman. “She foretold of you. She says there is more that you must do.”
Tyro looked narrowly at the Oracle, despising her more than anyone he had ever despised.
“Okay, Oracle. What am I to do next?”
“I do not know,” the Oracle intoned sagely.
“You have no idea?”
“I would not want to say,” she pronounced regally.
“So, I’m to lead an army of rebels to take the throne from the King and defeat his army because—you just had a feeling?”
“I am the Oracle! My prognostications have changed all that we know!” The old woman sounded testy.
“Will I live through this?” Tyro asked hopefully.
“I don’t know.”
“Will we succeed today?”
“The immediate future is cloudy.”
“What’s my favorite color?”
“Blue.”
“Lucky guess.”
“The Oracle has correctly foretold Tyro’s favorite color!” Big Brother shouted triumphantly. The rebels cheered.
“That doesn’t mean anything!” cried Tyro. He turned back to the Oracle. “How accurate are your feelings? What percentage would you say?”
“That is not important now, young Tyro. You have brought us here. As I have foretold. You have completed the first of your tasks.”
“My tasks? Tasks, as in more than one? What are they?”
“What is known to you is known to me, but what is known to me has yet to be known to you,” she croaked.
“So, what you are saying is, you don’t know anything.”
Madwyn raised her delicate eyebrows. “Is there something wrong, Tyro? Are you having second thoughts about securing the throne for me?”
“No,” said Tyro quickly. “Just going over my tasks.” He turned to the rebel army and in his best military style shouted, “Let’s move out!”
Tyro led the rebel group into the mouth of the tunnel. It had a dank odor (as one would expect from a tunnel), but the phosphorus that lined its walls provided enough light to see by. Tyro was thinking back to the last time he had been here. He’d played in that nook there, had hidden by this cranny here, had stowed his little treasure of bobbins and sticks in that hole way up there. As he looked around he was overcome by a wave of nostalgia. Why do we have to grow up? he wondered. As he followed a smooth, familiar curve in the tunnel, he saw a huge shadow about five hundred feet ahead.
Tyro raised his hand to stop the crowd behind him. He whispered loudly in a rising panic: “I remember why this tunnel isn’t used anymore.”
“What is it, friend?” asked Big Brother.
“A Twavverhackle!”
The entire group took a giant involuntary step back. The Twavverhackle was the most fearsome creature in Geologa. The very name would put misbehaving children on the straight and narrow, and frustrated parents invoked its fearsomeness only rarely. It scared them too.
Hundreds of Twavverhackles had roamed the countryside in days gone by, but they had all mysteriously disappeared about twenty years ago. Since they were impossible to kill, it was thought that they had become extinct due to some strange evolutionary weakness. Unfortunately, no one had told the Twavverhackle who was now blocking their path. This one looked extremely lively and appeared to be a prime example of the species. It towered sixty feet high and looked like the offspring of an alligator and a great ape. The only thing worse than its huge jaws was its proclivity for hurling its own feces.
“This is going to be a bit of a problem,” said Big Brother, unsheathing his broadsword.
“You mean the sixty-foot creature that wants to kill us?” said Tyro. “Yes, I fully agree with you.”
Little Brother cut him off. “No time for sarcasm, little one.”
“Oh no, what do you want?” Tyro asked as the Oracle approached.
“You will get us past the creature.”
Tyro laughed. “Have I done something to you, personally? Why are you so hell-bent on getting me killed?”
“You are wrong, Tyro Tinnywinkle. You will live. You are the key to all success. From the lowly will come all happiness.”
“Lowly?”
“Even the smallest rat has its purpose.”
“That’s sweet.”
“Without manure, there can be no—”
“GOT IT!” Tyro yelled. “I think we all have the gist here. I’m lowly and will make all good. Yes, I think that is clear. Here is something else that is clear. There is no way in MARKO’S GREAT CAVERN that I am going back there to face that thing.”
“Of course, Tyro, you are under no obligation. You have done what we have asked of you.” Tyro turned to see that Madwyn had joined the group. “If I am to lead, it is up to me to get us past this.”
Big Brother spoke up. “My Queen, perhaps the original plan of using the wanbucks to—”
“No, Big Brother,” Madwyn said firmly. “Going through the tunnel is our best chance for success.” She turned to a servant. “Get me my broadsword.”
“Wait!” said Tyro. “I’ll go.” This surprised everyone, especially Tyro. “Look, if the old crone is right, then I will somehow get us past this without getting killed.” He looked at the Oracle. “Are you absolutely certain about this?”
“Seventy percent certain. Maybe seventy-three.”
Tyro’s jaw dropped. “Seventy-three percent?”
“That is still quite favorable odds.”
“A hundred percent is quite favorable. Seventy percent leaves a lot of room for disaster.”
Big Brother and Little Brother clasped him by the shoulders.
“We shall come with you, friend,” said Big Brother, puffing out his chest.
“May the Fates be kind,” said Little Brother.
Tears sprang into Tyro’s eyes. “That is very nice of you. No one has ever looked out for me like this. No.” He snuffled. “I will go by myself and take care of the Twavverhackle.”
The Oracle smiled. “I knew you would.”
Tyro had never wanted to punch someone more. He buttoned up his coat.
“Are you sure this is all you will need?” asked Big Brother.
“I’m not actually sure of anything,” said Tyro, rolling up his sleeves. “Except that our weapons are useless against the Twavverhackle. Perhaps I can scare it off with a flash strip or a very impressive card trick.”
“Good luck to you,” said Little Brother. “May the Harbinger of Death pass you by today!”
“Thanks.” Tyro slowly made his way forward to where the Twavverhackle lay in wait. He had no plan, no weapons, no chance of surviving. Exactly why I hate adventures, he thought bitterly.
He moved farther into the tunnel, staying close to the wall, hoping to blend in with the shadows. He took a glance around the curved wall. There was no sign of the Twavverhackle. Odd, he thought, it’s very difficult for a sixty-foot creature to be inconspicuous. Tyro moved even deeper into the tunnel. As he reached a precariously rocky part, the Twavverhackle leapt out, roaring ferociously. It was the most terrifying sound Tyro had ever heard. What happened next happened so quickly that Tyro barely had time to register the events. But register them he did.
Tyro raised his hands to protect himself.
As he raised his hands, he released the two dovelings that were secreted in his coat, two dovelings he had counted during inventory check at the shop the night before.
The dovelings, excited at being freed from the confines of the coat, sang lustily and flew right at the Twavverhackle’s beady eyes.
The only thing a Twavverhackle fears, for reasons known only to it, is a doveling. The only thing a Twavverhackle fears more than one doveling is two. Two dovelings were too much to bear for the Twavverhackle, who immediately had a heart attack and died.
Tyro stood over the dead Twavverhackle. “That was easy.” He turned and yelled down the tunnel. “You can all come back now! The creature is dead! I killed it.”
A loud cheer echoed through the tunnel.
Fifteen minutes later, the rebel army was almost at its destination. The constant questioning of the Brothers about the demise of the Twavverhackle made it seem to Tyro as if three times that amount of time had passed.
“Did you jump on its back and twist its neck until it broke?” asked Little Brother as he ran up with Big Brother. “No. Of course, that was my first thought, but, uh, it’s not important how I did it. Ah, here we are.” They had reached the end.
The brothers, Tyro, Madwyn, and the Oracle stood at the secret door that led into the ballroom. Tyro stuck a cautious head in. The magnificently opulent ballroom glistened with golden chandeliers, long tables covered with elaborately decorated silver tablecloths, and several life-size statues of Fairdwych.
“There’s no one about,” Madwyn whispered to the squadron leaders. “Bring your people in quietly. Brothers, Tyro, you will come with me. You too, Mavellus.” She gestured to the leader of the archers. “Those stairs lead to the level above the Throne Room where the advisers to the monarch and the people’s representatives sit. That is, until my brother disbanded them. Three hundred of your archers can easily stand there. We shall surround the King and his guards. Hopefully, they will see the folly in resistance and we can end this without any blood being spilled. May the Gods be with you all.”
Madwyn led the way up the stairs.
Tyro marveled at how three hundred archers could move so quietly up uncarpeted stairs. Five minutes later everyone was in place above the throne of Fairdwych the Despised. Madwyn and Tyro peeked over the banister and glanced at the scene below. One hundred Royal Guards were preparing for what Tyro assumed was the Mystic Crowning. Large orbs were set in the shape of a pentagram, and herbs smoked in pots around the perimeter. A very nervous goat bleated from her place in the center. Fairdwych appeared to be in an impatient mood.
Pointing at the workers with his scepter, he screamed, “Move faster, you square-headed buffoons! The time of the Mystic Crowning is almost upon us! We must be ready. Then the world will be mine! Mine alone! ”
I really hate that guy, thought Tyro.
Madwyn turned to make sure the archers were in place. They were. She stood up, looking every inch the Queen she was. “Fairdwych! This stops now!”
Startled, Fairdwych looked up. When he saw her, he smiled. “Sister! How lovely to see you. I thought we would never cross paths again. How can I help you?”
“It is I who will help you, Brother. I will help you step down as ruler and live a life away from here, where you can cause no harm.”
Fairdwych smiled again.
A chill ran up Tyro’s spine. Something was not right here.
“Sister, tell your archers to put down their weapons.” Tyro saw Madwyn begin to falter.
“Archers…put…down…” She seemed to be having trouble speaking.
“Madwyn! What are you doing?” Tyro saw that the archers seemed to be in the same state as their Queen. They started to lower their bows. What was going on?
“Sister! You can’t resist me. You should know that. Put down your weapons and I’ll make sure your death is a quick one.”
Tyro started to feel light-headed himself. As if his will was being slowly eroded. He looked closely at the scepter Fairdwych clutched. Of course! On top of it was the Mesmerizing Orb of Thallos! A mystical talisman that his grandfather accidentally sold to King Sardoz. It had the power to make all within its vicinity the pawns of the possessor. Tyro fought its influence. Years of magic shows and dealing with disgruntled hypnotists had given him a slight edge in overcoming the power of the orb, but even so, he knew he would succumb eventually. Quickly, he reached for the nearest archer’s bow. He placed an arrow against the taut twine, aimed at the orb, and pulled back.
“You will not win, tyrant!” Tyro loosed his arrow. It sliced through the air and glanced off the backside of the goat, ricocheting off one of the herb pots and fraying the goat’s tether. The panicked goat strained against her bond.
“Fool!” Fairdwych shouted. “Why do you try to kill my goat?”
“I’m not trying to kill the— Oh, blast it!”
Tyro grabbed another arrow, took aim, and shot a portrait of the despised King.
“Stop this minute! That was my favorite painting!”
Fairdwych shook his fist at Tyro.
The goat broke free of her rope and did what every living creature that encountered Fairdwych wanted to do. Attacked him viciously. The goat butted Fairdwych in the stomach, which caused him to loosen his grip on the scepter. It fell to the ground, shattering the orb into a million pieces.
As though awakening from a deep sleep, Madwyn, the brothers, the archers, and all the King’s men came to their senses.
Madwyn was the first to fully regain her wits. “Grab him! Grab the pretender to the throne. As your Queen, I command you!”
As the guards started to surround him, Fairdwych screamed: “I may not be the ruler of Geologa. But neither shall you be, Sister!” With that, he took a knife from his robe and hurled it at Madwyn.
Everyone stood in shock except for Tyro. He jumped in front of Madwyn, and the knife hit him squarely in the chest. The brothers gasped.
Fortunately it was the handle of the knife that hit Tyro. (Fairdwych was not an expert in the art of knife throwing.) Guards grabbed the disgraced and despised King and took him away.
Madwyn hugged Tyro tightly. “You saved my life!”
“No, I saved you from a bruise. Your brother throws like a girl.”
Madwyn picked up the knife and threw it at the coat of arms on the back of the throne, where it lodged itself perfectly.
“He doesn’t throw like this girl.”
Madwyn then kissed Tyro passionately. The best, most glorious kiss ever.
When his breath returned, Tyro asked, “Are you allowed to do that? I mean… I’m just a commoner.”
Madwyn smiled. “I can do whatever I want. I’m the Queen.” She kissed him again.
The Oracle smiled too. “I knew that would happen.”
The party spread from inside Castle Hardstock to the capital city of Tarnez below, to the entire continent of Geologa. All were ecstatic at this glorious turn of events and all knew deep within their hearts that this was the beginning of a new golden age.
Big and Little Brother, having consumed a large amount of ale, were in a bit of a melancholy state.
“What do we do now, Big Brother? No more thrones to save, no more tyranny to overcome.”
“There will always be a need for warriors such as us,” said Big Brother reassuringly. “That is the world’s curse and it is our gift.” He smiled. “I must say I am impressed with young Tyro. As brave as we, but with none of our skills. Yet he led us to the tunnel, killed a Twavverhackle, and wounded a goat. I’m glad he found it within himself to help the country that gives him his home.”
“Yes,” said Little Brother. “Though I do not believe that he did what he did out of any patriotic feeling. Are you blind, Big Brother? Did you not notice how he looked at our new Queen from the very first time that he saw her? Tyro did all of this because he loves Madwyn. It’s just that simple. He loved, Big Brother.”