How to Rescue a Dead Princess (7 page)

SIR WILLIAM found himself alone in a room with mirrored walls. He checked his hair, found it adequate, and then began walking around the room, searching for the exit.

A human-shaped shadow materialized in front of him. Slowly it began to develop a flesh-colored hue. Finally, it had transformed into an exact duplicate of himself.

“Hello,” it said.

“Why, hello,” said Sir William, looking his true self over. “Those are some shiny biceps you've got there.”

“You too. And I'm very impressed by your fully developed pectorals. I don't suppose you'd make a muscle for me?”

“I'd be happy to,” said Sir William, making immense muscles in both of his arms. “These aren't those stick-on muscles, either. These are the real thing.”

“I can tell,” his true self said, shoving a finger deep into its nose.

Sir William lowered his arms. “What are you doing?”

His true self withdrew the finger, and inserted it into the next lower orifice. “Dining.”

“Stop that! You're a knight in the king's army! Behavior like that is completely unacceptable!”

“Oh, really?” asked his true self, hocking the mother of all loogies and spitting it on the floor. “Who says?”

“You can't possibly be my true self,” said Sir William.

The duplicate began to vigorously scratch his underarms. “Dang, my pits itch! Would you mind helping me with this?”

“I'll do no such thing!”

“Fine.” His true self raised his arms high, then continued the scratching procedure with his teeth.

“Have you no dignity?” Sir William cried.

“I'm not using my tongue, am I?”

“Stop it!” Sir William pleaded. “You're not me! I would never do something like that!”

“Oh, really?” The duplicate gave him a leering smile. “Is your name Sir William of Mosiman, or are you still ... Billy the Bug-Eater?”

“That was a long time ago!”

“Bug-eater! Bug-eater!”

“I was only a child!”

“Sucked down any caterpillars lately, Billy?”

“Shut up!”

“Remember how all the kids used to laugh at you when you ate the bugs, Billy? Remember how nobody would play with you because you were such a vile little child?”

“That's not me any more,” Sir William sobbed. “Not me. I don't eat bugs. No bugs. None.”

The duplicate took out a long, slimy worm. “Mmmmmmm. Feeling hungry, Billy?”

Sir William let out a battle cry, then lunged forward.

RANDALL FELT a tinge of excitement as he looked around at the mirrors.
I'm going to see my true self
!

Then the shadow transformed completely, revealing a gorgeous, scantily-clad woman.

Randall shrieked.

OH MY GOSH OH MY GOSH OH MY GOSH
!!! he thought.

He shrieked again just to be sure.

OH MY GOSH OH MY GOSH OH MY GOSH!!!
And that shriek—it sounded feminine!
OH MY GOSH OH MY GOSH OH MY—

The woman looked at herself, then looked at Randall. “Whoops, this can't be right.”

She took a step toward him. Randall rushed back and pressed himself against one of the mirrors. “Leave me alone! Don't touch me! Back, androgyne!”

“I think this was a mistake,” the woman said. “I'm the true self of a Karen Soukup. These things get mixed up every once in a while. You should've seen the king of Arnzen's face when the poodle appeared.”

“Just get away from me ... please...” Randall begged.

“Fine,” said the woman, sticking a finger up her nose as she vanished. One of the mirrors fell away, and Randall scurried through the exit it created.

HE EMERGED in another hallway. At the end was a door with a “To the Cemetery” sign hanging from the knob. Sir William stood there, looking pale.

“I just beat the crap out of my true self,” he whimpered. “This is going to cause me some psychological damage, isn't it?”

THE MIST hung heavy over the cemetery, thick with the souls of those long dead and buried. The air was cold, sending a chill through all visitors, a chill that went bone-deep, a chill that froze the marrow. But the roving undead, they cared not about freezer burn, and their hunger ran rampant. Their stomachs growled like a nightmarish chorus of spirits gargling ectoplasm in the moonlight. They wandered, seeking their human prey, yearning for the sweet flavor of flesh, with a pinch of paprika. There was no peace for the grotesque figures who lurked in this final resting place, not with the unholy snoring of the witch Grysh during hours of daylight. Their lives, or lack thereof, were unbearable. Filled with eternal misery. Fraught with agony. Very yucky.

Which is why they were known as the Griping Dead.

They complained incessantly. “How's it going, Charlie?” “How do you think? It sucks!”

“Same here.”

They picketed Grysh's mausoleum. They organized protests. They signed petitions. They scrawled nasty phrases on Grysh's front door ("Grysh is a big dumb-head").

None of it worked. They remained her prisoners.

So they were a little irritable when Randall and Sir William stepped outside the Realm of Mystery into the graveyard.

They began to lumber forward, arms outstretched, moaning. Randall and Sir William watched them for a moment, then exchanged a glance.

“Slow, aren't they?” Randall remarked.

“Very.”

“How come we didn't notice them when we were peering through the gates before?”

“Well, this is a magical place. Perhaps there's an illusionary enchantment covering the entire location, preventing us from noticing its prowling re-animated corpse guards?”

“Maybe we need to be a little more perceptive.”

The zombies continued to move closer.

Sir William sighed. “We've only got a few minutes before they reach us. If we were to trip on some protruding dirt molecules and break an ankle or something, there's a slight chance they could get here before one of us could carry the other to the mausoleum. We shouldn't waste any more time.”

“Good idea.”

They began walking toward the mausoleum, weaving their way around a couple of the nearest zombies, making sure they allowed for a good three inches of leeway to prevent giving the creatures a chance to grab them.

Randall noted some interesting tombstones:

“
Well, it's about time
!”

“
Here lies Grandpa. He'll be dead any minute now
.”

“
Poor Sam Trotter,

kissed my daughter,

set himself up,

for a slaughter
.”

“
You toucha my bones, I breaka your face
.”

“
Here lies a leper named Shaun,

Took last place in the king's marathon,

He started the race,

And fell flat on his face,

When he found both his feet to be gone
.”

They continued to casually move through the graveyard.

“They're getting away!” said one of the zombies.

“Let's circulate another petition,” said a second one.

Randall and Sir William reached the entrance to the mausoleum, ducking underneath the outstretched arms of one of the flesh-eaters. “Should we knock?” Randall asked.

“That might alert her to our presence,” said Sir William. “I think we should just burst in. Prepare yourself. I'll kick the door open on the count of ... uh, one.”

“Oh, great,” muttered Randall. “This bag's been leaking.” He pointed to a trail of ashes that led through the graveyard over to the Realm of Mystery. “You think those are important parts?”

“We haven't got time to sweep it up,” said Sir William. “Let's just burst in, and worry about that later. Ready? ONE!”

He kicked the door open. Had he known that the door swung out rather than in, the pain would have been significantly reduced. Both of them leapt into the mausoleum, then cringed at the ghastly sight that burned its way into their eyes.

The witch Grysh was bathing. Water poured down upon her from out of nowhere, and vanished as it hit the floor. The sight of the water on its own would have been rather impressive, but adding the witch to the visual stew turned it into pure horror. She was not a pretty lady, and on this occasion was having a particularly bad face day. Her eyes were crossed, a sight made worse by the fact that they dangled from their sockets. Her skin looked like it was about eight sizes too large. She had more body hair than seemed appropriate for a woman of any age. Her breasts were in serious danger of tripping her.

She snapped her fingers, and the water vanished. “I've been expecting you,” she said. Her voice did not possess a musical lilt by any stretch of the imagination.

“You ... you have?” asked Randall.

“You're Gaggles and Boo-Boo, right?”

Sir William shook his head. “No, I am Sir William of Mosiman, and this is my squire, Randall. We wish to speak with you. If possible, we'd like to be out of here before Gaggles and Boo-Boo show up.”

“Speak, then,” snarled Grysh.

“Don't you want to get dressed first?” asked Sir William, hopefully.

The witch snapped her fingers. A small scarf appeared, which she draped over her shoulders. “Now, speak.”

“We need your help,” Sir William explained. “We were escorting Princess Janice to the Kingdom of Rainey, when there was kind of a ... slip-up.”

Randall lifted the bag and shook it, rattling its contents.

“She's all there,” said Sir William, “aside from maybe a little trail we left through the cemetery, but she's sort of ... uh...”

“Dead?” asked Grysh.

“Dead, yes, of course, but I think we can carry that adjective even further. She's, uh,
very
dead is, I guess, the best way to explain it.”

“Give me the sack,” said Grysh, reaching out. The sack was yanked from Randall's hand by an invisible presence, and flew toward her, ripping apart in the process and spilling out the princess in a cloud of soot. “I see your problem,” she said.

She crouched down and began poking through the remnants. Sir William and Randall exchanged uneasy glances. “Can you help her?” Randall asked.

“I think this counts as more than ‘very’ dead, don't you agree?”

Sir William and Randall nodded.

Grysh stroked the eight or nine hairs on her chin thoughtfully. She twirled one around her finger several times. “Let me call my slave. Demon Baby, you are needed!”

A young man walked around the corner. He grimaced momentarily at the sight of Grysh from the rear, but quickly regained his composure and kneeled as she turned around to face him.

“His name's Demon Baby?” asked Sir William.

Grysh nodded. “After thirty hours of labor, his mother was in a lousy mood.” She gestured to him. “Fetch my book-o-spells, volume three, second printing,” she ordered.

Demon Baby arose and left. Grysh looked at Sir William. “Tell me, knight, do you read much?”

“Define much.”

“Ever.”

“No.”

“I see. So, I take it you've never heard of the fabled Necklace of Power?”

Sir William shook his head. “Was it named by the same guy who called this the Forest of Death?”

“The Necklace of Power is an ancient relic,” said the witch. “I can return the dead to life, yes, but without this necklace, there's very little I can do for your princess, unless you don't mind returning her as a living pile of ashes.”

“That would be disappointing,” said Sir William.

Demon Baby returned, a large book tucked under his arm. He handed it to Grysh, and then took hold of her right arm with both hands and began twisting her skin back and forth, wringing out the excess water.

“Let's see,” said Grysh, thumbing through the pages. “Transforming your enemies into saliva ... twelve ways to magically extend your tongue by a good four feet ... starting Armageddon ... putting cream in pastries without leaving tell-tale holes ... here we go: raising the dead when there isn't much left of them.”

She glanced over the entry. “Oh, there are some definite problems here. In addition to the Necklace of Power, I'm going to need the breath of a sleeping maiden, the toenail of Jenstina the Ogre, and the legendary berserker Shreddriff himself.”

“But I don't know any more maidens,” Sir William protested.

Demon Baby began to wring out Grysh's right leg.

“Okay, the maiden's breath will turn up,” said Randall, “but Jenstina, Shreddriff, and the necklace ... where exactly would we find them?”

Grysh shrugged.

“You have no idea?” asked Randall.

“None. You're on your own. All I can tell is that the journey to locate them will be fraught with peril, just to keep it interesting.” She tapped Demon Baby on the shoulder, then pointed to the princess clump. “Sweep that up, and put her in the back room with the others.” Demon Baby nodded and went to get a broom.

“I'd rather not leave her here, if it's all right,” said Sir William.

“It's not.”

“I see. Well, I'd like to thank you for your help. You certainly aren't the foul crone we were expecting.”

Grysh's expression darkened. “Ah, but I am. You don't think I'm helping you for free, do you?”

“Please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please don't ask for the wooden leg,” begged Randall.

“Do you find me attractive?” asked Grysh.

Randall began to choke on the air in his mouth. “I hadn't really thought about it.”

“Did you know I can tie my breasts into a square knot?”

“That didn't come up in the description I was given.”

“I'm a real animal when I want to be.”

“With the fur to prove it,” mumbled Sir William.

Grysh gestured, and Sir William suddenly flew up into the air, smacked his head against the ceiling a few times (almost, but not quite, in the “Shave and a Haircut” rhythm), then dropped to his original spot.

“Sorry,” he said. “And ouch.”

The witch returned her attention to Randall. She licked her lips, then cracked her knuckles. Then she cracked the joints in her arm. Then her shoulders. Then her neck. Then the spot where her nose would have been if she had one. She bent her knees, but that came out more of a creak than a crack.