Chapter Seven: In Which I Once Again Do Not Choose My Words Carefully Enough

You understand, of course, that in an ideal world not one Pugglemuntian life would have ended in the siege. Would that I could protect every single one of my country folk! Would that I might spread my arms around them like great protective wings, sitting atop them like a mother goose on a golden egg and hissing at passersby. But it’s not an ideal world, as demonstrated by the fact that Mr Wiggle was devoured by poltergeists and I got jettisoned out of a backed-up shit-tube. Still, I told myself that I would do my damnedest to minimise the bloodshed. Precisely how though, I hadn’t quite figured out yet.

My business atop the battlements was done, for the time being. However, just as I was about to pootle away down the stone stairs to check in with Lady Pip at the Experimental Stables, a great booming horn blast split the air and frightened the life out of me.

Quiet fell then, and for a long time, the entire city seemed to wait with baffled breath. Then the horn came again, louder and longer still. I’m not a fan of onomatopoeia in literature in general (I think it’s tacky), but I really don’t know how to do the sheer heft of this horn justice without it, so:  BWAAAAAAAAAAAAARN. It was skull-crackingly loud; I held my hands over my ears and grimaced in agony as my knights groaned and squirmed all around me. Captain Plug was so horribly affected by the sound that she stumbled right off the battlements, and she’d have plummeted to a crunchy end in the street below had I not caught her by the scruff of her pauldrons. With a masculine scream of effort I swung her back up onto the wall, where we both collapsed, panting and cursing softly.

As suddenly as it started (very), the horn stopped, and silence reigned once more. Then a voice cut through the air; a meaty voice that rippled with fury. It seemed to be coming from all around us:

“KING ATHELSTAN.”

Shit. That was my name.

I decided not to reply in case I’d misheard.

“KING ATHELSTAAAAAAAAAN.”

Hmm. That time was quite unmistakable.

“Y-yes?” I shouted back, aiming my voice air-wards and hoping for the best.

“I SUMMON THEE.”

“Alright,” I called. “Where do you want me?”

“WHAT?”

“I’m sorry but— where are you?”

“OH. I’M OUTSIDE YOUR GATE. WHICH, BY THE WAY, IS WIDE OPEN.”

Shit. The portcullis was still not fixed? I made a mental note to give that ruddy blacksmith a good hiding and filed it away with all the other people I needed to bludgeon once this was all over.

I heaved myself to my feet and went to the top of the battlements to peer over. There, far below, standing on the drawbridge (which I’d also forgotten to raise, bloody hell?!), was a large frog. It was green and wide and wearing a helmet and it was holding a horn and a bundle of spears. I barked a single shrill laugh on impulse when I saw it. It echoed around the city in the dusty silence.

“DID YOU JUST LAUGH AT ME?” bellowed the frog.

“No,” I lied. “There’s— there’s a dog up here with me.”

To add weight to the mistruth I pretended to scold an imaginary pooch hidden beneath the crenelations. Captain Plug thought I was summoning her and raised her head above the parapet and I had to shove her back down.

“I AM CHIEF BLOODPUNCH’S BEST WARRIOR,” said the frog. “MY NAME… IS NIM.”

He paused here, clearly expected some kind of reply. I wasn’t sure what to say.

“Okay,” I called.

“CHIEF BLOODPUNCH WISHES TO AVOID UNNECESSARY BLOODSHED IN HIS CONQUEST OVER PUGGLEMUNT,” said Nim.

“Oh good. He can bugger off back to the Sheva Plains, then.”

The frog blinked its massive eyeballs at me and frowned.

“SOME BLOODSHED IS NECESSARY. JUST NOT LOTS.”

I looked at Nim, wondering how the hell a frog could be a good fighter. He was going to demand to fight my best knight, obviously, but whom? What kind of fighting would a frog do? They could jump, they could hop — but that was little frogs, and Nim was clearly about eighteen stone. Couldn’t frogs stick their tongues out really far? Maybe that was what made him such a deadly adversary. Maybe he could lick your sword out of your hand.

“CHOOSE A CHAMPION,” said Nim. “I WOULD FIGHT YOUR BEST MAN. OR WOMAN.”

I sighed.

“Do they have to be a frog too?” I asked.

“WHAT?”

“I said do they have to be a frog too, or are you allowed to fight a human?”

“ALLOWED?!” bellowed Nim. “I AM NIM! I HAVE SLAIN HUNDREDS BETTER THAN YOU, KING. I AM THE BUTCHER OF HAMLIN POND. THE HOPPING MANIAC. THE TWITCHING PRINCE. THE TONGUE-STABBER. THE WIDOW PUNCHER. THE—”

“Alright, alright. I meant no offence, good Sir. I just mean in the interest of fairness. Because if it’s frog-on-frog only, I don’t have any eligible amphibians except for a few small ones from the Hell-Bogs outside Goom that my hairdresser Lorian wrings out to use in his shamp—ooooh actually nevermind.”

“SHAMPOO? YOU USE MY KINSMEN FOR SHAMPOO?”

I crouched down behind the parapet and looked at Captain Plug.

Crap, I mouthed. What do I say?

I stood back up as breezily as possible and tried to avoid eye contact.

“Look, Lorian is a talented—”

Another spear shot past my left ear, missing me by an inch.

“YOU ROGUE! YOU SCOUNDREL! FORGET THE CHAMPION, I’M COMING FOR YOU MYSELF! DRAW YOUR WEAPON AND PREPARE TO HAVE IT LICKED RIGHT OUT OF YOUR HAND!”

“Oh, bloody hell, here we go,” I mumbled, hitching up my robes and hurrying down the stairs.

I try not to fight whenever possible, you know. I know you may think me cowardly (how dare you) but it’s just not something a sensible King ought to do, especially when he’s unmarried and has no heirs. If a King dies with nobody to bequeath his crown to, every Tom, Dick and Hamlet takes a punt for the title. Civil war breaks out, and entire realms tumble into chaos. The whole hog goes up in smog when the top dog pops his clogs without a sprog*. 

*Wahey!

With the frog’s hateful bellows booming over the city, I paused at the bottom of the staircase with my knights close at my back.

“Whatever happens now, you mustn’t get involved, my knights,” I warned. “Champion-to-champion combat, dangerous though it be, might prove our only way out of this siege without a full-scale invasion. If I die, you must honour the frog’s will and surrender the city. Tradition states that your lives — and those of your families — will be spared, and though Bloodpunch will take Pugglemunt, you will not come to any harm. At least, not immediately. I’m sure you’ll be economically ruined and oppressed and whatnot, but it’s probably better than the absolute slaughtering we’re in for if he arrives at the walls angry.”

I cleared my throat and gave my soldiers my best supportive smile.

“Probably best not to think about it. Right lads. Wish me luck.”

With one final sigh, I drew my sword and stepped out into the road beneath the great vaulted city gate. The frog was still standing on the drawbridge, mouthing off. His eyes swelled when he saw me.

“NOT SO COCKY NOW YOU’RE NOT WITHIN YOUR WALLS, ARE YOU,” said Nim, whose loud voice I was really getting quite sick of.

I began to explain that technically I was still within my walls, but thought better of it.

“I’LL GOBBLE YOU WHOLE AND BELCH YOU OUT AND HOP ON YOUR CORPSE, KING!” said the frog.

“Oh, get on with it then,” I huffed.

The gargantuan, armour clad frog smirked at me – or at least I think he did, his mouth was massive and he didn’t have lips – and hunkered down. Then, with a monstrous wet sound, he launched himself through the air off his powerful back legs, yowling like a demon, his red eyes filled with malice and blood-fury. Oh, this was going to be very unpleasant indeed.

CLANG.

Echo.

Dust.

Running footsteps.

“I fixed it, Sire! I finally fixed it! Are you proud of m—oh my— WHAT? BY THE GODS, WHAT HAVE I DONE? WHO IS THAT? WHAT HAVE I DONE? OH GODS, NO! NO! NOOOO!”

I patted my blacksmith on the shoulder.

“Relax, my man. Breathe easy.”

As he hyperventilated and groaned, I looked with him towards the portcullis, which now sat firmly and heavily descended with its great iron shark-teeth embedded deep into the dirt of the road. And also into Nim.

“He was a bad frog.”

I sheathed my sword and went to check the frog’s wrist for a pulse (note to self: do frogs have wrists? Check before going to print). There was none. I’d have been stunned if there was one to be honest: he got absolutely skewered.

My knights and the crowd of peasants who had formed began to cheer: the first duel had been won. But it was a cheer with a mad and fearful edge to it: this duel had not followed the Laws of Fair Combat. I had not slain him myself. I exchanged grave looks with my captains.

“Soldiers, eat well tonight, rest up, and be merry,” I called out. “For tomorrow will come all too soon. Sharpen your blades, tighten your bowstrings, oil your armour. The dawn brings bloodshed!”

The events of the day had sealed our fate: now, a great battle was inevitable. Now, the full wrath of Chief Bloodpunch was imminent.

“Oh, and can somebody scrape up Nim and put him on a trolley for Lorian to wring out? Waste not want not. Thank you guys.”