THE FROG AND THE GROG
by
Christopher Stasheff
Copyright 2010
Swiveling an eye upward, Cadavan saw a disreputable man grinning down at him. The fellow was missing a tooth or two; the rest of them were yellow. He needed a shave badly, and his little eyes gleamed with malice. "A treat for dinner," he boomed. "Frog legs!" He wore a tabard with the king's arms on it, but it was stained and dirty.
"That's not just a treat, Bogan—they're big enough for a meal!" An even uglier man stepped up beside him, his tabard stained and dirty too, even more than his hands. His cheeks were dark with bristles and his breath reeked so badly that even a frog winced. "One for each of us."
"All right, Shawber, I'll share." Bogan smacked his lips. "We can have some fun with him before dinner, though." He reached down to grasp.
Cadavan realized that this was a man who delighted in tormenting those weaker than himself. He thrashed with renewed vigor, croaking in panic.
Shawber aimed at kick at him, but it never landed—because a solid body slammed into him and knocked him off his feet.
It was the minstrel, come upon the two silently. Now he abandoned surprise to shout in anger as he whirled to duck and slam a fist into Bogan's belly. The man folded over his pain, but Shawber scrambled up and launched himself at Aelwyn with a roar of anger. His shoulder struck the back of the young man's knees. Aelwyn toppled, shouting in rage, but Bogan managed to catch his breath and lash a kick at the young man. It caught him in the shoulder and rolled him over; Shawber lifted a foot to stamp on him, bawling laughter.
Cadavan couldn't desert someone who'd fought for him. He hopped up to the raised foot and snapped his tongue out—and out, and out; his tongue was longer than he was, and slapped against the naked ankle below the trouser cuff. The feeling surprised Shawber enough to make him lose his balance; the foot came down beside Aelwyn as Cadavan hopped back, croaking, "Ridit! Rid-it!"
The thug's eyes glazed; he turned and looked about him. "What are we doing here, Bogan?"
"Doing?" Bogan cried in amazement. "We're robbing this fool, of course!"
Aelwyn seized his ankle and yanked, turning where he lay. Bogan howled, hopping to keep his balance. "Stomp him, Shawber!"
Shawber swung a kick at the minstrel's head. Aelwyn saw it coming in time to twitch his head aside, so the boot only struck him a glancing blow—but it was enough so that he went limp.
But Cadavan had been hopping around the outside of the fight. Now he sprang in and slapped his tongue against Bogan's ankle. Bogan spat a sound of disgust as he looked down, then pulled a long dagger from his belt.
"Rid-it!" Cadavan croaked. "Rid-it!"
Bogan's eyes blanked as the dagger dropped from his fingers. He looked about him, bemused. "Where are we, Shawber?"
"On some road in the country." Shawber cast an anxious glance at the sun. "How far from the castle, Bogan?"
"How should I know?" Bogan scratched his head, dislodging a few lice. "What time we got to be back in quarters, Shawber?"
"Sunset," Shawber said. "We'd better hike."
"Yeah, don't want the captain dealing us twenty lashes for overstaying our leave." Bogan started away and tripped over Aelwyn. He looked down, puzzled. "Who's that?"
"Doesn't matter," Shawber said. "Leave him. No time."
"Yeah. Too bad." Bogan fell in beside him, pacing away from the bridge. "Would have been fun to beat up a peasant."
"Did enough of that last night." Shawber grinned. "Left more women for us. You were drunk as a badger, Bogan."
"Me drunk! You were staggering!"
Off they went, arguing amicably over first honors for drunkenness, and if they were in a hurry, there was no sign of it in their pace. They ambled away, trading tales of their night on the town—ale, women, and bullying. They rounded a curve and were gone from sight.
Cadavan heaved a sigh of relief; the spell to rid himself of troublesome company certainly hadn't worked as well as it had while he was in human form, but it had worked well enough; "Rid it," spoken by a expert wizard, had succeeded in ridding the soldiers' minds of their grievance against Aelwyn and their appetite for frogs' legs, and reminding them of a reason to leave. Cadavan was rid of them indeed.
But he did have an unexpected friend lying unconscious in the road, and if it hadn't been for Aelwyn, Cadavan would have been a flat frog with nothing left of him but dinner for two soldiers on leave—and the king must have been faring poorly indeed if he could afford no better soldiers than those. But there might be more of them about. What was he to do to protect his new friend?
Well, he had to get the minstrel off the roadway, for a beginning. He clamped his wide mouth on the minstrel's collar and hauled backward. Those appetizing legs had a great deal of strength, and slowly, ever so slowly, the unconscious minstrel began to move.
* * *
Sunlight on his eyelids wakened Ned. He sat up, instantly aware of hunger. Well, he'd had dinner last night, so he wasn't any more hungry than he usually was in the morning. Still, that was considerable, so he started searching for food. He found some berries—but were they good to eat, or poisonous? He plucked a few, looked at them, then gave up and went on through the woods. He stepped on something hard and, looking down, saw a walnut. He looked up at the tree overhead just in time to see another nut fall. He scrambled to gather them up, managed a breakfast of them, then went on through the wood, not full, but at least not all that hungry any more, either.
But where was he going? How to find his way in the woods? He wandered, fighting down panic at being more and more lost, until he found a trail. He followed it, hoping it wouldn't lead him to some place he wouldn't like. After a while, the trees were farther and farther apart. A few more paces brought him in sight of a road.
Ned stopped. Surely Duke... no, king, though not the rightful one... Surely Viburnum's soldiers would be riding down all the roads, looking for him. He should stay away—but roads led to villages, and villages had people with food. Maybe some of them would be willing to let him do some kind of work in exchange for some bread.
He settled for keeping the road in sight as he walked through the woods. He was far enough into the trees and underbrush to hide, if he heard anyone coming, but still able to go where the road went.
Then he stopped, staring in amazement. Out there on the road, he saw a giant frog! Two feet across, at least! It was worrying at something with its mouth—no, waddling backward, trying to pull something with it. Ned dared to go closer, curious—and saw a young man lying in the roadway. He must have been unconscious, if he didn’t mind a frog trying to move him.
Ned debated, then decided that neither the man nor the frog would know him or do him much damage. He went out of the wood to help the frog.
Cadavan heard footsteps behind him and dropped Aelwyn’s collar, whirling about to see who came. It was a boy—as though he hadn't had enough to worry about!
But this boy was holding out his hands to show they were empty—the gesture of peace that everyone knew—and about him seeped the aroma of magic! If Cadavan hadn't been in frog form, he probably wouldn't have noticed, but a frog's nose is much sharper than a person's. On the other hand, if he weren't a wizard born with the talent of magic and trained in it, he probably wouldn’t have recognized the scent—but Cadavan was both, so he knew it for what it was.
Was the boy a born magician, then?
No—for the aroma about him was Monahere's! His wizard friend had worked some magic about this boy. Hopping closer, Cadavan sniffed and made out the tang of a protective spell. It was the best recommendation the boy could have, for surely Monahere would not have helped anybody cruel. Still, Cadavan backed away from Ned with a wary eye.
"I'll help you." The boy grasped the minstrel's arm and lifted. "You'll never pull him into the shade alone."
Cadavan hopped back, still with a wary eye, but he bit down on Aelwyn's collar, set his great hind legs, and pulled.
The boy counted, "One... two... heave!" Cadavan did, and the minstrel's body bumped after them a foot or two.
"Attaboy. Attaboy," Cadavan said.
"Again," the boy said. "One... two... Pull!"
Together, they hauled the minstrel off the road and into a thicket. There Cadavan let go of the minstrels' collar and crouched panting for a few minutes, then looked up at the boy and said, "Lottathanks. Lottathanks."
"You're welcome," the lad said.
Cadavan stiffened. The boy could understand him! In frog form or not, he was still a wizard and knew that the lad must be special, very special—one with the talent for magic, perhaps, or of royal blood. But how could he be? He was only a peasant, after all, dressed in a smock and sandals—too poor even for leggins!
He put the issue aside—time enough to think about it later. For the moment, he had to finish the job. Aelwyn would be wanting his lute. When he had caught his breath, he hopped back toward the roadway.
"What is it?'
Cadavan looked up to see the boy beside him. "LuteLute," he explained.
"I'll fetch it." The boy ran back toward the road.
Even with his longest hops, Cadavan couldn’t have kept up with him—and he was too tired for much in the way of jumping. With a wary eye turning to spot foxes, other boys, or thugs, he watched as the kid ran down the road to the lute. He picked up the instrument carefully—Cadavan was impressed that one so young would think to take such care not to damage the instrument—and came back to Cadavan. "Lay it next to him?"
He wasn't even breathing hard, but Cadavan was another matter. He still had to gasp a few times before he had caught enough breath to croak, "Gotit right.Gotitright."
The boy went to Aelwyn and laid the lute beside him.
The frog decided the boy was a friend—but Edmund, apparently, wasn't so sure. He backed away, saying, "I was glad to help. Well, see you down the road."
He was on the point of whirling to dash away—but Cadavan knew a wizard's spell couldn't protect him from all the dangers that waited for a ten-year-old boy, most of them human.
Apparently the lad had remembered that, too, for he turned away.
Quickly, Cadavan called out, "Monahere! Monahere!"
Ned froze. Then he turned, his eyes wide. "You know Monahere?"
"Wizard. Wizard," the frog croaked. "Buddy, buddy."
"Well... if you're a friend of Monahere's..." The boy turned back and came toward the frog slowly.
Afraid to frighten him, Cadavan sat and waited, and when the boy was ten feet away, said, "CadavanCadavan."
"Cadavan?" Ned frowned. "What does that mean?"
"'At'sme At'sme."
"Oh—your name!" The boy's face cleared. "I remember Monahere speaking of a wizard named Cadavan who was a friend of hers—but he certainly wasn't a frog."
Telling why he was in the form of a frog would have been too complicated—and too embarrassing. Cadavan could only repeat, "Buddy. Buddy."
"Well, if Cadavan's your friend, and he's Monahere's friend, then I guess I am too." Ned came up to the frog, smiling and holding out a hand. "Mine name is Ned."
"Gladt'meecha." Cadavan put a forefoot into the boy's palm, then took it away again as quickly as he could. He nodded toward the minstrel and said, "AelwynAelwyn."
"His name is Aelwyn?" Ned turned to look. "Why is he asleep?"
"BadGuysBadGuys." Cadavan hopped over to check on his patient. The minstrel was breathing, but he was still out cold.
The boy showed no sign of his exertion—it hadn't been nearly as exhausting carrying the lute as it had been hauling its owner.
However, Aelwyn was still unconscious. Cadavan had to do something about that. He croaked, "Jug o' rum! Jug o' rum!"
Sure enough, there was the keg.
The lad's eyes rounded. "Where did that come from?"
"NeeditNeedit." Butting against its side, Cadavan rolled the keg over to Aelwyn, nudged it until the spigot was right over the minstrel's mouth, then tapped the handle with his nose until it moved and splashed liquid into Aelwyn. Then Cadavan bit the handle and pulled, shutting off the flow and pulling the keg aside just as Aelwyn coughed and sat bolt-upright. "Iyuch! What a foul taste!" Then he looked about him, frowning, as though wondering where he was. His gaze lit on Cadavan and he managed a smile. "There you are, old fellow! But how did I come here?"
Cadavan started to answer, but a fly buzzed by, and he was amazed, and a little disgusted, to discover that it looked appetizing.
"We dragged you here." Ned started to hold out a hand, then held it up, palm forward, instead. "I'm Ned."
"Aelwyn—and thank you." The minstrel frowned. "Soldiers—I remember." He pressed a hand to his head. "Amazing I'm still alive."
"Me-too me-too," Cadavan croaked. "Brrrr-ankoo."
"You're welcome." Aelwyn grinned at him, then looked up at Ned. "He encountered some hungry soldiers. I had to distract them.”
"Royal soldiers?" Ned stared, scandalized.
"Soldiers are like anyone else, lad," Aelwyn said. "There are good ones and bad ones." He turned to the frog, not noticing how pale Ned became, or how angry. "Seems you've done me as much good as I've done you, friend."
The fly buzzed by again, and Cadavan couldn't help himself; his tongue shot out and snapped the insect in. He closed his mouth, trying not to notice how tasty it was. Well, when a frog, do as frogs do.
Aelwyn eyed the keg warily. "I don't know what's in that cask, but it did me a world of good." He grimaced. "Horrible taste, though."
"Boot sole boot sole," Cadavan reminded him.
"Yes, it's certainly better than a kick in the head," Aelwyn admitted. Carefully, he climbed to his feet and seemed surprised when he stayed there. "Recovering more quickly than I thought!" He looked about him, suddenly alarmed. "My lute! Where's my lute?"
"I put it over there." Ned pointed to the sackcloth bag tucked in among the leaves.
Aelwyn saw and gave a sigh of relief. "Thank you, friend." He looked about him, frowning. "It must have been quite a task, hauling me so far from the road."
"Drag it. Drag it."
Aelwyn frowned down at the frog. "I have the strangest feeling he's trying to tell me something.”
"Didn't it make any sense to you?" Ned asked.
"I heard a croak, such as any frog would make. Why, lad? Did you understand what he wanted to say?"
"That we dragged you here," Ned said. "He took your collar in his mouth and I pulled an arm."
Aelwyn let his gaze travel over the bushes and brambles of the thicket. "Those two soldiers must have thrown me into the underbrush." He frowned, pressing a hand to his head. "They were going to have the frog for dinner. I upset the one, at least. Things have come to a sorry pass when a man must fear the soldiers of his own land."
"They have indeed."
This time, Aelwyn heard the anger in the boy's tone; he looked up in surprise. "You can't do anything to fix it, lad."
He was right, and Ned's stomach sank with the realization. He had to regain his throne, he had to! Viburnum's soldiers had to be sent back to their farms and stop shaming the royal livery by attacking innocent people—and frogs.
But how?
Aelwyn's gaze returned to Cadavan. "Well, you're here, so they must have gone their way. What ails the king, that he lets his soldiers prowl the countryside so?"
Ned turned pale.
Cadavan saw, and reminded Aelwyn, "Regent. Regent."
"What was that?" Aelwyn stared, then smiled. "I almost thought you said 'regent.'"
"He did," Ned said. "These were the usurper's soldiers, not the true king's."
"A good point. It's not the king who's really ruling, poor little lad, but his regent.”
Ned felt a glow of gratitude and decided he liked this minstrel.
"I should say it was the regent, until the usurper slew him." Aelwyn shook his head, scowling. "What it must be, to lose both your parents before you're ten years old—then your favorite uncle, too!"
Ned's eyes stung.
Cadavan saw, and gave a commiserating croak.
"Amazing how well I feel, considering the knock on the head I took." Aelwyn pressed his fingers to his hair, then looked at them. "The blood's dried and I'm not feeling dizzy, so I guess there was no lasting damage done. Well, I'd best be on my way if I don't want to spend a night in the forest." He slung his lute over his shoulder. "Ahhh—that felt good enough, no pain from lifting. None the worse for wear, I guess. Let's see if I can find the road." He looked down at the underbrush. "Shouldn't be too hard—there's a path flattened. What kind of animal..." He broke off, staring at Cadavan.
"Did it. Did it," Cadavan admitted.
"That’s where the two of you dragged me all that way from the road? Thank you indeed, old fellow! And you too, young lad! At least it can't be very far away."
It was twenty yards.
Aelwyn looked down at his new companions with increased respect. "Stronger than you look, aren't you? But I'm afraid we part company here, friends—unless you fancy a three-day journey to the fair at Granterre."
Cadavan considered. Granterre was in the same general direction as Monahere's cottage, and for most of the distance, the same road led to both. "Okay. Okay."
"What does 'okay' mean?" Aelwyn grinned. "Nothing, I'm sure—just a frog's croak."
“It means he agrees with you." The idea of having companions appealed strongly to Ned. It would be safer, and less lonely. "He'd like to travel with you—and so would I."
"But you've a home to go to, haven't you, lad?"
The reminder of his castle, and of Duke Connaught and Monahere, made Ned's eyes sting again, made him feel he was hollow inside. "Not any more."
Aelwyn stared, thunderstruck. "An orphan? But someone reared you, surely!"
"I've been cast out." Ned swallowed, hard.
"Cast out! My heavens, what for?" Then Aelwyn shook his head, waving his hands in front of him as though to wipe out what he'd said. "No, forget I said that—it doesn't matter. Could be as simple as not wanting to feed a growing boy—I remember having quite an appetite at your age. You've helped me when I needed it, and that's all that matters. Along we go, then. I'll be glad of the company." He set off down the road, whistling, and Cadavan hopped along beside him—or behind him; the frog may have been a long hopper, but the minstrel's legs were longer still.
Ned stared after them, feeling lost all over again.
Aelwyn stopped and looked back. "Well, aren't you coming?"
Ned felt a grin break out. He ran to catch up.
Aelwyn turned and sauntered down the road, whistling. Ned tried to copy his way of walking and pursed his lips to make believe he was whistling, too, but he didn’t want to interrupt the minstrel's music.
After a dozen paces, Aelwyn glanced back and saw the frog gamely hopping along but getting farther and farther behind. He slackened his pace until Cadavan caught up with him. "Know any marching songs, old fellow?"
"Bass drum. Bass drum," Cadavan assured him.
"You do? Well, then, let's sing as we go." Aelwyn struck up a song about five men who wanted to go to Widdecombe Fair but had only one horse. Cadavan hopped beside him, thrumming the basso line, and Ned trotted along on the other side. Now he dared to whistle the tune the minstrel was singing, and Aelwyn grinned down at him between verses.
* * *
The ambassador stepped forward and bowed—but so slight a bow that it was a virtual insult.
King Viburnum saw, and reddened with anger. "Tell Lord Ashurbin that these raids have got to stop!"
The interpreter turned to the foreign lord with a rapid stream of syllables. The ambassador listened with a polite smile, then returned a comment. The interpreter turned back to King Viburnum and said, "Your Majesty, Azure could not agree more—the bandits from Ustared must stop raiding their villages. It is not bad enough that they steal cattle and sheep—they kill our citizens too!"
"The only Azurean citizens who have died were the ones who were trying to kill Ustaredans!" Viburnum snapped.
The interpreter turned to the foreign lord and spoke a quick sentence. Lord Ashurbin listened without taking his eyes off king Viburnum, then nodded to show he had heard and replied.
"Your Majesty," said the interpreter, "they were protecting their cattle—and their lives!"
"Protecting them all the way back into Ustared?"
The interpreter intoned a quick question. Lord Ashurbin asked a question, and the interpreter echoed, "To recover the livestock your bandits stole? Indeed they were—simply protecting their own."
"They weren't my bandits, doggone it! They're bandits pure and simple! And we won't tolerate any more of your bandits! If they raid my people, I'll send my soldiers!"
The interpreter started talking.
"Tell it they way I said it, doggone it! Let him know I'm angry!"
Surely the ambassador had heard that anger in the king's voice, but the interpreter tried to catch the sound of it as he gave the translation. The foreign lord's tone grew more clipped as he answered, but the translator made no effort to imitate that brittleness as he turned to Viburnum and said, "Your Majesty, that is perilously close to a declaration of war."
"Perilous it is! And if you don't want war with Ustared, stop those raiders!"
The interpreter sounded rather frightened as he translated. Lord Ashurbin answered, and the interpreter turned to Viburnum. "Again, Your Majesty, Lord Ashurbin says that Azure has no raiders, save those few of yours they have captured. However..." The translator swallowed, then took a breath to say, "But they do have an army."
The next day, minstrels set out from Villeroi with songs telling the people that Azure had threatened war.
* * *
The westering sun was nearing the horizon, and they hadn't reached a wayside inn, so Aelwyn started looking for a place to camp. He followed the sound of the river and found a deer track that skirted the worst of the brambles and led him to a little clearing.
Cadavan hopped in and looked about with Ned right behind him.
Aelwyn looked about, too, with a nod of satisfaction. "Well, it's no inn, but we'll have a place by the fire, at least."
"Merlot. Merlot." Cadavan hopped toward an old oak.
Aelwyn turned to look where the frog was going, then stared. "A cask, just like the one that held that foul brew you fed me! You have a genius for finding them, old fellow."
"Try it. Try it."
"You'll excuse me if I don't drink of it," Aelwyn said with a shudder. "One taste was enough."
"Medicine. Medicine." Cadavan butted the spigot open and caught the rich red liquid in his widened mouth. He swallowed and butted the handle closed, then gave an extra-high hop of delight. "Good-good."
"Well, either that was a hop of joy or a leap of distress." Aelwyn swung his pack off his shoulders and took out a tankard. He tapped half a portion and sipped, then stared in surprise. "That's wine—and a good one!" He hurried to fill the rest of his tankard.
"Have you another?" Ned asked. "I'm rather thirsty."
Aelwyn dug into his pack and pulled out a flat piece of leather. He gave it a shake, and it opened into a cup. "Drink hearty, lad."
"Uh-uh." Cadavan landed between the boy and the keg. "Tooyoung tooyoung."
"I suppose he is at that," Aelwyn said with regret. "Better fill it with water."
Ned started to say that a king could have a drink of wine if he wanted, then thought better of it and sighed as he turned away toward the brook. "Water it will be." He turned back to the frog. "Just one swallow?"
"BedtimeBedtime," Cadavan said.
Ned smiled; one swallow was better than none—and it wouldn't be that much different from his usual tonic. He knelt by the brook, filled his cup, drank it down—and my, fresh water tasted good after a day of walking! He filled it again and came back to the campsite.
Two tankards later, Aelwyn was leaning against a tree with a campfire at his feet, confiding in the frog. "You're a right good companion for the road, Cadavan. You too, Ned, and lucky I am to have you. This wandering life can be quite lonely."
Ned realized that the minstrel was a little bit drunk—just enough to turn sentimental.
Cadavan gave a boozy croak that he hoped was reassuring and took another drink from the bowlful Aelwyn had set before him.
"Can't tell what you're saying, old fellow, but I get the feeling you understand." Aelwyn took another swallow, then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "Good though it is, I'd sooner have ale. Still, any tipple is better than none."
Cadavan croaked agreement, took his empty bowl in his mouth, and waddled over to the keg—or tried to, at least; for some reason, one of his front legs gave way, and both his back legs tripped over it. He rolled to his feet, blinking his transparent eyelids to try to clear the vision of two kegs before him, and started out again.
"Here, let me help you with that." Aelwyn reached over to turn the spigot but reached too far and sprawled headlong.
Ned stared, amazed and amused at the sight of a drunken man and an even drunker frog.
Aelwyn pushed himself back up, laughing. "I'll try that again." He picked up Cadavan's bowl and set it under the spigot.
Ned decided that he didn't need that one taste of wine before he slept. He wondered what sort of brew was in the little keg.
A breeze blew through the woods, picking up speed and strength as it came until the trees bowed before it. A crash and a crack told of a half-rotted limb breaking.
Aelwyn sat up straight. "Something's coming."
Suddenly, Cadavan wished he weren't quite so tipsy. Then he remembered what wishing would do to the liquid in the keg and waddled over, being very careful to move his front legs first, and took a swallow. "Br-r-r-r-r-r!" He shivered; it tasted foul, but it worked. His head cleared amazingly.
Aelwyn's, however, had not. He pushed himself up to his feet, or tried to, holding onto the tree, but his legs wobbled and he had to brace his back against the trunk. Still, he was able to hold up his staff at guard between himself and whatever was coming.
The wind in the trees sounded like a full-blown gale. More cracking sounds spoke of other branches falling. Shadows gathered and deepened, shadows drew in together, shadows assumed shape and form and towered over them, a huge dark mass, vaguely human-shaped, with two glowering yellow eyes at the top, and about its base, wolves prowled.
* * *
In the Lords' Hall, Earl Shakle finished extolling the virtues of King Viburnum and sat down. Lord Shaldown rose to answer him. "That is all very well, milord, but what of the raiders from Azure who are despoiling our borderlands?"
Shakle rose, but before he could speak, the doors crashed open to admit a dozen knights. "Out, my lords, away!" cried their leader. "Three kegs of gunpowder are in the cellar beneath your feet, and may blow this building down at any moment!"
A furious uproar erupted as the lords rose to file out. Only one or two showed signs of panic; most of them were seasoned warriors. Even so, the hall emptied with surprising speed.
They stood on the far side of the royal square in front of the castle, waiting and holding their breaths, hoping that somehow the disaster could be averted—for every single one of them was aware that if the Lords' Hall fell, they would not meet again, and Viburnum would rule without even their slight check upon his actions.
Then a knight and six men-at-arms emerged from the small door that led down into the cellar, and as they crossed the square, all the lords could see they hauled a struggling tradesman in their midst. The knight held up a coil of rope with a cry of victory. "Here is the fuse and there the assassin! The gunpowder shall not explode!"
The lords cheered, and Lord Shaldown called, "Off with his head!"
"Be sure, my lord, he shall have the fate he deserves," Earl Shakle said, "but first we shall put him to the question and discover who helped him in this—for surely, one man alone could not have brought three huge casks of powder into that cellar!"
A rumble of agreement passed through the assembled lords. None thought to ask how Earl Shakle knew how many casks there were, or how big they might have been.
The knight called out, "King Viburnum set us to patrol all the buildings of the state. If he had not, we would never have found this threat!"
The lords shuddered, every one of the realizing how narrow his escape had been.
"Hail King Viburnum!" Earl Shakle called out.
"Hail King Viburnum!" the lords shouted with one voice, and the king, listening on the rampart above them, knew that his throne was secure.
* * *
"What in Heaven's name is that?" Aelwyn stared in horror at the huge, towering shadow.
But Cadavan knew the apparition had nothing to do with Heaven. He had read of this spell but had never seen it—and hoped he never would again. Someone had taken all the hidden fears and hatreds of the people of the land and rolled them together to go hunting and eliminating anything unusual, anything that the mass of folk deemed strange and, therefore, threatening. It was the specter of Ignorance hunting the Different and, no matter how people may have wanted a wizard to help them, they still feared his unknown powers that they did not understand.
They weren't terribly enthusiastic about vagabonds, either.
Cadavan leaped in front of Aelwyn and Ned to croak, "Be still! Be still!" He turned to face the Shadow in defiance.
Aelwyn, of course, didn't understand—but in the presence of a huge apparition that towered over him, he was mute anyway. Ned understood very well and clung to Aelwyn in silence, trembling with fear. Somehow, he knew this Shadow of Ignorance had prevented the people from fighting to keep their rightful king.
Cadavan was in turmoil. In human form, he might have had a chance of banishing the creature—but what magic could he work as a frog? He could only make the three of them as small as possible and hope the thing would pass by.
It almost seemed that the Shadow would indeed pass. The wind that accompanied it bludgeoned and tore at them; Aelwyn and Ned went rolling up against the huge oak whose roots held the keg. But the Shadow drifted more slowly, head turning back and forth, questing. Cadavan's heart beat with hope; the thing would pass!
At the last second, it stopped, burning gaze turning toward the frog.
Cadavan shrank back between the tree roots, trying to become part of the oak.
An especially strong gust, a cracking above, a crashing before him, on top of him—a huge bough slammed into the ground. Aelwyn cried out as its butt struck him a glancing blow, and smaller branches whipped Cadavan like lashes. He croaked in agony at the pain—but at least the leaves hid himself and Aelwyn. He blessed the storm. Looking up, he saw that the falling branch had torn a huge hole in the trunk.
But the Shadow had turned and was coming closer.
"Is it looking for me?" Ned asked, his voice quavering.
Close enough. Cadavan's heart sank as he realized it sought magic and, frog or not, he bore the taint—and because of Monahere’s spell, so did Ned!
The Shadow towered over them, reaching, a huge black tentacle spearing down toward Cadavan and the minstrel who sheltered him.
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