Grandma gave him the last of the giblets, then sat back in her chair. “Grandma loves her sweetheart, you know.”
“I love you too, Grandma.”
“And I hope my precious little pumpkin will love me just as much after I reveal the dark, demented secret I've been keeping from you all these years. Clean your plate, dear, so I can show my little dumpling what Grandma has hidden in the attic.”
“I love surprises!”
Mental flash-forward.
“That's part of the little secret, honey.”
“But why eight locks?”
“All will be revealed.” Grandma reached up and began unfastening the locks, one by one. “Now, hold the sword steady, lovey-bump, and make sure your precious little eyes don't show any fear, okay?”
“Okay, Grandma.”
* * * *
STRONG ARMS pulled Randall out of the cold water and back to solid ground.
“Your screams helped me relive an incident in my youth that unlocked my long-buried courage,” said the guard. “Thank you.”
“You have to put me back in!” Randall insisted. “I was just about to confront something important in my childhood!”
“No way. I've seen knights reduced to blubbering infants by those Ticklers. You want to confront your past, find some other near-death experience.”
“I have to do this!” said Randall. “I have to know what was kept in the attic!”
And with those fateful words, he leapt back into the hole in the bridge. The tickling began anew.
* * * *
“FUGGLE QUAMBLY riggi rigga zoop,” said Grandma, scratching one of her foreheads with a mustache somebody had dropped.
“Unga,” replied Randy.
“Geezeele yab.” Grandma closed the door to the worm-stretching room, then sat down to hatch an egg.
* * * *
RANDALL SNAPPED out of the distorted memory and began screaming for help. The tickling was getting out of control.
“Oh, who wants assistance now?” asked the guard. “I wasn't good enough for you a minute ago, but now I'm your bestest friend in the whole world, huh?”
“Please!” shouted Randall. “I can't take it anymore!”
“What'll you give me?”
“What do you want?”
“I want a pony.”
“Fine! I'll get you a pony! Just pull me out of here!”
“A brown pony.”
“Okay, okay! A brown pony!”
“With a white streak.”
“Forget that. I'm not going to spend all day looking for one with a white streak.”
“All right, plain brown is good enough.” The guard went over and pulled Randall to dry land once more.
“Thanks,” said Randall. “I forgot that you can't really start dreams up again if you wake up in the middle of them.”
“Where's my pony?”
“You'll get it before I leave. Could you show me the main entrance, please?”
The guard escorted Randall to the main entrance. He walked across the bridge of stone and polished crystal and into the main courtyard, where dozens of people were enjoying the sunshine and going about their everyday business.
Except for one short man with a beard, who was pointing at Randall and shouting with fury.
“He's one of them! He's here to kill our king!”
Chapter 12
The Happy Chapter
FOR THE briefest of moments, Randall allowed himself to believe that the man might have been referring to somebody else. As it turned out, he was, but that didn't matter because the six guards in the near vicinity assumed he was pointing at Randall.
“Get him!” one of the guards shouted.
“Yeah, get him!” shouted another.
“Good idea, let's get him!” shouted a third.
“That's right, let's get him!” shouted a fourth.
“I'm tired,” said a fifth.
“It's settled then! We'll get him!” shouted a sixth.
The guards drew their swords. Randall spun around just in time to see the gate to the main entrance slam shut. He was trapped like a lactating cow in the barn at milking time. The guards, who were in a semi-circle, began to advance upon him. Only fifty feet separated Randall from certain death.
With a sinking heart, Randall realized that his depth perception was a bit out of whack, and it was actually twenty-five feet that separated him from certain death.
The gap continued to close. Twenty feet.
Randall tried to think of a way to escape. He was thankful the guards were moving fairly slowly instead of taking the more logical approach of moving fairly quickly, giving him time to work out a plan.
Fifteen feet.
If only he could reach the horse-drawn carriage at the far wall, he could leap upon it, subdue the driver, and ride the carriage to safety. But he wasn't even close to the carriage, didn't think he could make the leap, had no weapons with which to subdue the driver, and didn't see any safe place to ride the carriage.
Ten feet. (3.048 meters)
Then he saw his chance.
Eight feet.
The extra two feet had totally screwed up his chance.
Six feet.
He could see the whites of their eyes. The blues, browns, and hazels of their irises. The blacks of their pupils. The reds of their lens suspensory ligaments.
Four feet.
Time was running out. If Randall was going to act, he had to act now. This was his last chance.
Two feet.
“Ah, screw it,” he said. “I surrender.”
The guards stopped moving forward. All of them had their swords pointed at Randall's throat. “Give us one good reason why we shouldn't kill you,” they said, in rather impressive unison.
“Well,” said Randall, “I've never knowingly practiced cannibalism.”
“That's an okay reason,” admitted five of the guards in unison. The sixth was distracted by a caterpillar.
An old crone dressed in rags and sponges pushed through the guards and took hold of Randall's necklace. “I recognize this accursed object!” she snarled. “This belongs to the Hey, Let's Kill Us A King underground movement! This man is a spy!” She moved to the side. “Slay him now!”
“No!” said one of the guards in nothing resembling unison. “He must be made an example of! We will give him a public execution at dawn!”
“Aw, why do we have to get up so early?” asked another guard.
Randall tried to take a casual step backward. The guards immediately brought the tips of their swords even
