Exceptions to Reality_ Stories - Alan Dean Foster [87]
“Duhh—wow!”
“No, no, no!” Shrouded in tantrum sorceral, a despairing Wolfram was jumping up and down, swinging his deadly staff indiscriminately.
Sitting up on the bed, which now creaked alarmingly beneath the unexpected weight, Stromagg took both of the princess’s hands—or rather, paws—in his own and gazed deeply into dark brown eyes that mirrored his.
“Duh, hiya.”
Long lashes fluttered as she met his unflinching, if somewhat overwhelmed, gaze. “I always did like the strong, silent type.”
“This shall not last! By my oath, I swear it!” Numinous cape swirling about him, Wolfram whirled and fled through the open doorway. “I shall find a way to renew the sleeping spell. Then it will most assuredly be I who awakens her the second time!”
Lightning flickering from his staff of theurgic power, he raced unimpeded down the stairway and back through the foyer. Outside the smashed main doorway, the bridge back to the rest of reality beckoned.
From the shadows there emerged a foot. A furry foot, sandal-clad. It interposed itself neatly between the sorcerer’s feet.
Looking very surprised, Wolfram tripped down and forward, his momentum carrying him right over the side of the bridge. As he fell, he looked back up at a rapidly shrinking fuzzy face, astonished that he could have been defeated by something so common, so ordinary. As he plunged downward, he flailed madly for the staff he had dropped while stumbling. Though he never succeeded in recovering it, at least staff and owner hit the bottom of the canyon in concert.
Peering over the side of the bridge, Mudge let out a derisive whistle. “Bleedin’ wizards never look where they’re goin’.”
By the time the otter rejoined his companions, Jon-Tom was facing a revitalized Stromagg and his new-found paramour. The paws of each grizzly were locked in the other’s grasp.
“Sorry, guys,” Stromagg was murmuring. “I think I’d kinda like to stay here.”
Jon-Tom was grinning. “I can’t imagine why.”
A familiar hand tapped him on the arm. “You’d best lose that sappy grin now, guv, or they’ll likely ’ang you for it back in Lynchbany. You look bloody thick.”
“Be at peace, my good friends and saviors.” Though rather deeper than was traditional, the voice of the restored princess was still sweet and feminine. “I have some small powers. I promise that upon your return home, you will receive a reward in the form of whatever golden coins you have most recently handled and that these shall completely fill your place of dwelling. As Mistress of the Namur, this I vow.”
“Well, now, luv,” declared a delighted Mudge. “That’s more like it!”
It took some time, and not a small adventure or two, before they found themselves once more back in their beloved Bellwoods. Espying his riverbank home, a tired and dusty Mudge broke into a run.
“Time to cash in, mate! Remember the hairy princess’s promise.”
Following at a more leisurely pace, Jon-Tom was just in time to see his friend fling open his front door—only to be buried beneath an avalanche of gleaming golden discs. Hurrying forward, he dragged the otter clear of the mountain of metal.
“Rich, rich! At last! Finally!” The otter was beside himself with glee.
Or was, until he peered more closely at a handful of the discs. Doubt washed over his furry face. “’Tis odd, mate, but I swear I ain’t never before seen gold like this.”
Gathering up a couple of the discs, Jon-Tom regarded them with a resigned expression. “That’s because it’s not gold, Mudge.”
“Not gold?” Sputtering outrage, the otter sprang to his feet. Which, given the shortness of his legs, was a simple enough maneuver. “But the princess bleedin’ promised, she did. ‘The last golden coin I ’andled,’ she said. I remember! That were wot that slimy Wolfram character paid us with at the tavern back in Timswitty.” His expression darkened. “You’re shakin’ your ’ead, mate. I don’t like it when you shake your ’ead.”
“She said ‘golden coin,’ Mudge. Not ‘gold coin.’” His open palm