THE FROG AND THE GROG
by
Christopher Stasheff
Copyright 2010
Ned stumbled out of the trees and onto the road. The morning sun striped his shadow long before him. Panting and dirty, his royal robes torn by briars, he leaned against a trunk to catch his breath. He had been stumbling through the woods all night, trying to keep from going around in circles by picking out the tallest tree he could find and walking toward it. There had, at least, been starlight, but he had been able to see very little under the trees, and his heart had thudded with fright every step of the way for fear a bear would rear up before him or a pack of wolves would find him in their night's hunt.
Now, though, sunlight showed him the world around him. Looking back, he could barely see his castle atop its hill, a bump on the horizon. He had put some distance between Duke Viburnum and himself, anyway.
His stomach growled, and for the first time, he was aware of hunger—but immediately it became a clawing need. He looked about for fallen nuts, berry bushes, anything he might eat—and saw four boys driving two cows out to pasture with yells and sticks. If a cow tried to stop to graze, all four of them aimed swats at its hindquarters, and the cow ambled on.
Cows meant milk. Ned's mouth watered, and he reached for the purse at his belt to see if there might be a coin small enough to keep from exciting interest—but the purse was gone.
He stared down at the belt that held his under-robe, and sure enough, the purse had vanished. The brambles must have scraped it off during the night. But the boys were coming his way; they might take pity on a lost and lonely wanderer. He stepped out into the path and called, "Can you spare a sip of milk?"
The boys halted, staring. One of them said, "Look at the fancy clothes!"
"Yeah," said another one. "You travel with a mountebank, kid?"
Ned knew what a mountebank was, at least, enough to feel insulted. "I am..." He was about to say, 'I am your king,' then remembered that Viburnum would have guards out looking for him by now. Instead he said, "I feel like a mountebank, surely—but even a traveling entertainer grows hungry."
"You want some milk?" said the biggest boy. "Jory, give him some milk."
"Sure, Ronton." The smallest boy reached down to the cow's udder, tweaked a teat, and squirted a jet of milk into Ned's face. He coughed and sputtered, wiping his eyes clear.
"Fancy clothes, even for a mountebank," Ronton said. "I think I'd like that cape to wear for dress-up."
"Yeah, and I'll take that tunic for special times."
"Take 'em off, kid," said Ronton.
Somehow they had all gathered around him, raising fists, and he was amazed to see that even Jory was bigger than he.
* * *
The coronation went well, with all the lords present swearing fervent loyalty to King Viburnum.
"It's the ones that didn't show up that burn me," the king said later to Lord Shakle. The ceremonies were over and he could relax in comfortable robes. "Oh sure, they all had good excuses—especially that idiot Westerman who claimed he had to guard his section of the border with Azure." He pounded the top of the stone wall at his hip.
They stood atop the battlements, gazing down on the square at the heart of Villeroi, the capitol city, with the cathedral across from them. Fifty feet away, Sir Harry stood guard by the tower doorway that led down into the castle, close enough to see and come running if the king beckoned, far enough away not to overhear.
At least, he should have been out of hearing range—but the wind was blowing toward him and the new king was angry and speaking loudly.
"Sneering git knows I can't challenge him, with all the talking I've been doing about the threat from Azure."
"Well, his mother did marry the old king after her first husband died," Shakle said, "and gave birth to the pretender you've ousted."
"Can't be a real king if he can't hold the throne," Viburnum muttered.
"Odd as it seems, Lord Westerman may be loyal to his half-brother because he likes the lad," Shakle said. "I've heard they are close."
"They can be close again, in my dungeon," Viburnum said savagely. He glared across the square at the Lords' House, the hall where the noblemen met when the king called them to advise him—which usually meant he needed money from them. "Ugly old pile of stone. Somebody shoulda torn it down long..." His voice trailed off as a strange light came into his eyes.
"Majesty?" Shakle said, made a little nervous by that light.
"I was just thinking, Shakle, how nice it would be if all the lords who like me were in that shoddy antique," the king said, "and somebody put a couple of barrels of that stuff they put into those new cannon things soldiers are using instead of catapults."
"Gunpowder?"
"Yeah, that's the stuff."
"You would kill your loyal lords?"
"No, I would have the traitors caught while they were trying to light the fuse."
Shakle saw the point immediately. "The lords would howl for the blood of the traitor—and the whole of Ustared would rise in righteous wrath, eager to march against the villains who tried to kill their sovereign lords!"
"Fancy words." Viburnum nodded with approval. "Gotta remember them to tell the minstrels."
Shakle frowned. "What good are the minstrels?"
"They spread the news," Viburnum said, "and their songs tell people what to think. We get enough minstrels singing songs about the evil traitor who tried to kill their lords and knock down their House, and all the people who hear them will sing the praises of the king who caught the blackguard and saved the lords."
"But there isn't any such blackguard."
"Yeah, that is a problem isn't it?" Viburnum nodded. "Somebody oughta do something about that."
Shakle had absolutely no doubt who he meant.
Neither did Sir Harry. He hoped he was wrong.
* * *
"You have clothes," Edmund said.
"Yeah, but yours are nicer," said Ronton. "Take 'em off and hand 'em over."
"That's ridiculous!" Ned said. "What would I wear?"
"We'll leave you our old ones. Take 'em off!"
Anger began. "I shall not!"
"Take 'em off," Ronton commanded, "or we'll take 'em off for you."
"You dare not! I am..."
Ronton's fist kept him from saying "...your king;" it slammed into Ned's mouth. The other boys started swinging their fists, too.
Ned almost caught one of those fists to twist in a wrestling hold; he almost blocked an arm as he had been taught to parry a sword—but he was their king, no matter who held the throne; he was their rightful king, and his duty was to protect his people, not to strike at them.
Who would protect him from his people, though?
No one, in this case. He didn't swing a single blow, and the boys taunted him for cowardice. In a few minutes, Ned lay groaning on the ground in nothing but his breechcloth with an old, stained tunic beside him and a pair of sandals almost worn through the soles. The boys sauntered away, driving their cow, Ronton wearing Ned's cloak, Jory wearing his tunic, and all of them laughing and boasting among themselves.
Ned pulled himself to his feet, testing his legs and arms to make sure nothing was broken. Nothing was, but he was going to be hurting all day, and he'd have some fine bruises to show.
The morning breeze fanned his bare back; he shuddered and pulled on the dirty old tunic. There was, at least, a piece of rope to use for a belt. He pushed his feet into the old worn sandals and started off down the trail, away from the castle—and from the boys.
I am still the king, he reminded himself, and I will still care for my people, no matter what they may think of me!
Then he realized that the boys had done him a favor. He was dressed as a peasant now; Viburnum's searching soldiers wouldn't recognize him by his clothes.
But they would recognize them on the boys who had stolen them, and ask where their real owner was. Ned looked about for hiding places and saw a grove of trees half a mile ahead. If he was lucky, it would be the fringe of a forest.
Weariness dragged at him, and he knew he was going to have to find a hiding place where he could sleep in safety.
He came to the woods, pushed his way through some underbrush, and a found an old cottage, the roof fallen in over all but one corner, the door sagging from one leather hinge. Clearly no one lived there. If there were any safe place to hide, it would be here. He yanked up handfuls of brush, wishing he had a knife, and threw them in through the single window. When he had gathered enough for a bed, he slid in between the door and the jamb, carried the brush under the single corner that still had a roof, arranged it into a bed, or at least a pallet, and lay down, hoping for sleep. He closed his eyes to see images of flashing swords and jabbing spears and Monahere's face, twisted with worry for him. Grief seized him, but he fell asleep before the tears could flow.
* * *
As Cadavan hopped, the brook grew wider and wider until it became a small river. He came to a bridge where the high road crossed the river. He saw a stork fishing below the bridge, standing on one leg and staring into the water, totally still, then suddenly stabbing downward. When it straightened again, a frog squirmed with frantic fear in its beak.
Cadavan turned away with a shudder, not wanting to see what happened next. He decided to take his chances crossing the bridge.
As he came onto it, though, he saw a young man—a minstrel, to guess by the shape of the sackcloth bag slung across his back and the lute-neck protruding from it—and turned to hop back. The minstrel saw him, though, and called out, "Good morning, frog!"
Warily, Cadavan turned to gauge the young man's good will.
"Will you be my traveling companion, then?" The minstrel stepped to the side of the bridge. "Or would you rather hop on by me?"
"Brrr-okay," Cadavan said. He hopped toward the minstrel, slowly, then shot past him with three long hops.
The minstrel laughed. "No need to fear me, old fellow. You'd do better to worry about the sun."
Cadavan glanced up at the sunshine filtering through the leaves overhead and decided the minstrel had a point; he was beginning to feel rather warm and remembered that dryness was not good for a frog's skin. Neither was too much heat. He tried to croak a thank-you, but it came out "Brrrankoo!"
The minstrel laughed with delight, though. "A frog who answers! It would be nice if the answer was in words I could understand, but I'll take what I can get. What does it matter if the answer's only a croak? You could call me Aelwyn, if you could talk—and I could call you a name, if you had one.”
"Cadavan," the wizard croaked. "Cadavan."
"Ragamon?" the minstrel asked. "Is that your name, then?"
Surprised at his understanding, the wizard croaked the name again.
"Cadavan?" Aelwyn asked. "Do I have it right?"
The frog froze in surprise at hearing the name come out correctly. He waited in suspense for the pains as he grew back into a man—but nothing happened. With regret, he realized that simply saying his name wouldn't change him.
Of course—because, human or frog, he was still Cadavan.
Aelwyn was waiting for a reply, head cocked to the side. "Do I understand your name aright?"
"Youdo youdo," Cadavan answered.
Aelwyn shook his head with a sigh. "Just another croak, and no meaning to it. Well, it would be too much to ask. Besides, a frog wouldn't make much of a traveling companion—your kind stays near its own pond and lily pad, doesn't it? Well, Friend Frog, a happy day to you!"
Cadavan sighed with regret—it would have been nice if the young man could have understood him. A croak is a croak, though, and not a word, no matter how much Cadavan wanted it to be. "Goo'byeGoo'bye," he said, then turned to hop on across the bridge and into the woods.
He could hear the minstrel whistling behind him and remembered that he needed to stay near the water. He turned toward the river bank—but a huge weight struck his back and pushed him down into the dirt. He croaked in panic, thrashing his arms and legs, while a huge laugh boomed out over the water.
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