Part XII

Johan was stressed out. He paced nervously over the same five feet of Portuguese tile floor, which was arranged in a tasteful pattern throughout all of the hallways in the Royal Residence. “How can I possibly tell her? There’s no way… she’ll have MY head, too.” He desperately needed another chef, and quickly; of course it didn’t need to be said that the chef would have to be outstanding, well qualified, and in the general vicinity, which was not terribly easy, either, considering what a backwater Dryhuvil was generally considered to be. And then there was the matter of the girl that had appeared at the back gate. He knew Martha knew about her, and she probably knew about Hugo Sightmartin’s defection, as well. This was a fine kettle of fish.
The door opened, and out stepped a perfectly coiffed young man, outfitted smartly in red and blue velvet and girt with the finest scimitar the realm could create. (Scimitars weren’t the usual weapon for the area, but of course Queen Martha had insisted. “It gives the romance and intensity of the Orient, don’t you think? Of course, I realize the term ‘Orient’ is terribly outmoded, but you don’t really know what I’m talking about, do you?”)
“The Queen will see you now.” Johan jumped with a start out of his reverie, and hurried into her antechamber.
“Johan, you know how I feel about distractions before my parties. Don’t you?” It wasn’t a good sign to begin the conversation this way, thought Johan.
“Yes, milady,” he heard himself say.
“I won’t stand for anything getting in the way of the realm’s enjoyment, is that clear?” Martha was glaring at him through narrowed eyes.
“It is,” he said.
“Excellent. Let me tell you precisely how we’re going to salvage the mess you’ve made of my plans so far, and after the party we’ll see if you should keep your job. Or your head.”
*****

The Arrendan guards had secured the forest on Cechar’s orders. They knew that their quarry had long escaped the region, so many were puzzled by this. Murmurs of dissent had begun to filter through the ranks, and none of them liked this area. ‘What if the accursed demon pigs come back?’ ‘We’d be hard pressed to overcome their foul magic this time,’ and so on. Velmeer, the head man-at-arms for the Southern Palitinate, watched nervously and didn’t say much. He was reasonably sure they were safe here, but also knew who else was coming.

Cechar himself arrived at nightfall. He was a tall man, or so he seemed. Wrapped in a black cloak, and riding a huge black stallion, he rode into the clearing slowly, purposefully, as if he was smelling for something. Clutched in his clawlike hand was a small carved object with a faintly glowing crystal at the end. Finally reaching the guard’s camp, he dismounted his massive beast, and handed the reins to a waiting squire.
“Mistreat him and it’s your meat he’ll dine on tonight,” hissed Cechar to the boy, who blanched white and scurried off to the livery tent. “Now,” he said to Velmeer, “any signs of our friend?”
Velmeer also looked afraid. The Hrukal hadn’t been freed in years and years, and it had been far before Velmeer’s tenure that the thing had been near the Southern Palitinate. Now they would see how well Cechar was able to control it. As if on cue, the crystal in Cechar’s hand flared red. The small group of guards that had been standing at attention for their Lord’s arrival fumbled for swords and watched warily.
“I know you didn’t kill the girl,” Cechar snarled into the trees. “But you did get what I need for the ceremony. Bring it here -- I WANT IT NOW!!”
With an unearthly shriek, a dark creature dropped from the trees above directly into their midst. It was small, stooped, and covered with short black hair. Its face was somewhat catlike, but massive fangs portruded from its mouth. It crouched on two legs, and the crowd of guards noticed that its arms seemed to be longer than its legs. It glanced suspiciously around before fixing its gaze on the captain of the guards. Velmeer fainted. He would recall later that its eyes were jet black, but still managed somehow to shine.
When Velmeer awoke, the Hrukal was gone. So was Cechar. When he asked a guard about what happened, the guard grunted, as if he didn’t understand what he said.
“Will someone tell me what’s going on here?”
“I will,” replied a voice behind him. Velmeer wheeled around and saw the most hideous thing he’d ever seen – it was a Puppig, grotesquely deformed and misshapen, as if it had been dead for two weeks and reanimated. Its head had been severed, yet now seemed to be crudely fused back onto its body with a small amulet.
“Our master Cechar has relieved you of your command. Your guards now answer to me, who was once called Graken. We ride immediately.”
“What will become of me?”
“You’re going to help me get stronger.” Vermeel suddenly realized he was frozen to the ground; the undead warthog held him there with an icy gesture. He tried to scream, but no sound came out. Graken touched him with a twisted forehoof, and seemed to sigh as energy flowed from Vermeel. His eyes grow wider and wider with horror as he saw wrinkles appearing on his hands, and it seemed that he was shrinking, being dessicated by the sucking grasp of the Puppig. The sinews in his arms and neck stuck out like ropes, his strength was vanishing, and from then on, his hair would be white. Graken finally released him, looking much more fat and almost alive again.
“Arrendan guards! We are the first glorious column of the coming flood! To Dryhuvil!”
“TO DRYHUVIL!!”