The Hero's Guide to Storming the Castle

  Fig. 12

  DEEB, bored

  “I fear you are planning to pursue your vendetta against the League of Princes again,” he said in a sharp Carpagian accent.

  “And why is that a fear, Vero?” Rauber asked, eyeing his right-hand man with skepticism.

  “This League of Princes is a distraction, sir. You have bested them already, ruined them. This is why I sought to join your forces to begin with. Why waste your time now going after men nobody cares about?”

  “They’re the ones that got away!” Rauber said, standing up on the seat of his throne. “Look, you’re new, Vero, so you may not understand just how much I hate those fat-headed, snot-nosed princes.” He flung his cake across the room, spattering several of his henchmen with it.

  “I think I do, sir,” Vero said. “You cannot even speak of them without losing control of your temper. This is part of the problem, no? These men, they will cause you to make mistakes. It is not worth the risk. It is, as we say in my country, dangerous.”

  “I don’t lose control, Vero,” Rauber said softly and clearly. He lifted his chin and dusted off his crumb-covered vest. “Not even when it comes to those sniveling, fart-monkey princes!” He let out an echoing scream of rage and kicked over a table of treats, which crashed down in a loud shattering of cups and dishes. The room fell into a sudden hush. Most of the bandits froze in place, silently praying that their boss was not about to have one of his famous tantrums. Several began to surreptitiously inch toward the exit.

  “Of course you don’t, sir,” Vero said coolly.

  Rauber plopped back down onto his throne and laughed. “I’m just joshing with you,” he said. “You’re honest with me, Vero. I like that. So tell me, what do you think I should do to really make my mark?”

  Vero crouched down beside the throne and spoke to Rauber in a conspiratorial hush. “Well, sir,” he said, “one of the many reasons you despise these princes is because you wanted to rule Sturmhagen, and the League—they got in your way.”

  “Yeah, them and an army of trolls,” Rauber said in a near growl. “Stinking trolls.”

  “Yes, but that was then, and this is what we call in my country now.”

  “We call it now in this country too.”

  “The point I am making, sir, is this: You still want to rule your own kingdom, no? I say never mind Sturmhagen. There are other ways to become a true king, no? Other places to rule.” Vero watched Rauber’s expression carefully as the boy mulled over his advice. A wide grin spread across the Bandit King’s face.

  “You’re absolutely right, Vero,” Rauber said. “That’s what I’m going to do! I’m going to become a real king. Of a real country. With a real flag and a real army and real laws and—I don’t know—maybe a national bird or something. And the best part is, I don’t have to conquer anybody to do it.”

  Vero returned the Bandit King’s smile. “You are thinking of that no-man’s-land, the Orphaned Wastes, are you not?”

  “It’s small, but it’s totally free,” Rauber said. “With that creepy old lady dead, the place is completely empty. Nobody wants it because it’s ugly and nothing grows there, but I don’t care about that. I just need a piece of land with real borders and I’m good to go: King Deeb!”

  “This is a good plan, sir, no?”

  “Darn tootin’, Vero,” Rauber said, bouncing in his seat. “This is going to change everything!”

  “When shall we, as we say in my country, do this thing?”

  Rauber looked askance at Vero. “You’re from a different country, right?”

  “That is correct, sir.”

  “Just wanted to make sure,” Rauber said. “Anyway, we do this now! It’s still my birthday—I’m going to celebrate by founding the sovereign nation of Rauberia!” He stood up and shouted to his men, “There are crates in the basement, boys! Pack everything up. We’re moving!”

  With about fifty tons of ill-gotten goods in tow, Deeb Rauber marched his army from his old castle in the pine forests of Sturmhagen, around the base of Mount Batwing, and into the Orphaned Wastes. He strode right into the old witch’s abandoned fortress, planted his official Bandit King flag (which depicted a hunched, elderly king being kicked by a giant boot) on its parapets, and immediately sent messengers to all the nearby kingdoms announcing the founding of Rauberia.

  The witch’s castle was a wreck (its sky-high observatory tower had completely collapsed; broken broomsticks and half-smashed tarantulas were strewn about the corridors; overturned cauldrons clogged the stairwells), so Rauber hired a skilled construction crew to clean the place up over the next few months—and make several structural improvements while they were at it, including an eighty-foot-tall Wall of Secrecy around the entire property. By late autumn (and still over six months before the wedding), the Bandit King had one of the most secure castles in the world. He thanked the builders by robbing them of their tools, stripping them down to their underwear, and leaving them to fend for themselves in the Nightkill Mountains.

  Then Rauber set about the business of being a monarch. Noblemen and women from nearly every kingdom were invited to be guests of the unnamed king of the new nation of Rauberia. And you know how noblemen are: They can never resist a chance to rub elbows with a real monarch (it makes them feel important). Countesses, earls, duchesses, and barons lined up to spend a luxurious night in the newly dubbed Castle von Deeb. And while they were surprised to discover the identity of their host, any shock or suspicion fell by the wayside as the guests were flattered and pampered, and treated to lavish meals and accommodations. They all enjoyed their stays—until realizing upon leaving that their valuables had mysteriously gone missing. Even the queen of Svenlandia paid a visit—and headed back home wondering how she managed to misplace the spun-gold wig that had been sitting on her head when she’d arrived.

  After pulling off his New King Swindle on rich folks far and wide, Rauber checked a map to see which kingdoms he hadn’t hit yet. He spotted a land called Dar, way off to the east, barely visible along the rightmost edge of the map, and ordered that an invitation be sent to its king.

  “It is not a king who rules Dar,” Vero said, his words sounding more like a warning than an explanation. “Dar is run by a warlord.”

  “Neat,” Rauber said. “Send the invitation.”

  “Are you sure you want to do this thing, sir?” Vero asked. “This Warlord of Dar, he is what we call in my country not a nice man.”

  “I’m not a nice man either,” Rauber said with a wink.

  You are not a man at all, Vero thought, but was wise enough not to share this. “I am aware, sir,” he said instead. “But the Warlord, he is reputed to be one of the cruelest rulers in the world. His whole country, this Dar, is noted for its violent nature. I have heard that in Dar, if you merely speak ill of the Warlord, you are sentenced to death. They will cut off your body.”

  “Cut off your head, you mean,” Rauber said.

  “No,” Vero said. “Your head stays—they cut off the rest of you.”

  “I’m not sure how that’s different.”

  “The point I am making is this,” Vero continued. “These people from Dar, I do not think you want to get on their bad side.”

  Rauber laughed. “Wait till they get a load of my bad side.” He turned around and wiggled his bottom at Vero. “Ha-ha!”

  Rauber handed an invitation to a bandit named Gordo. “Take this to Dar,” he told him.

  “Sure thing, boss,” Gordo replied. The bandit saluted before patting himself up and down, hoping to find a pocket somewhere on his clothing. Failing to locate one, he reached down to place the note in his shoe—and realized he was barefoot. Finally, he stuck the message between his teeth and left on the long journey to Dar.

  And that was the last anybody ever heard from Gordo. (I hope you didn’t grow too attached to him in that last paragraph.)

  Rauber’s message made it to the Warlord of Dar. But it was a very rare occasion when a messenger was allowed to leave
the kingdom of Dar alive. Because Dar was an awful, awful place. Sandwiched as it was between a vast, foot-burning desert and a frostbite-inducing frozen tundra, Dar had just about the worst climate you could imagine. The very land itself seemed to hate the idea of living beings walking on it.

  That’s why the only things to survive in Dar were nightmarish creatures like ice wraiths, scorpiogres, giant sand snakes, and bone-moles—and really nasty people. Dar’s entire culture was based on war and fighting. Even its name had a violent origin. Ages earlier, the first cartographer to attempt to draw a map of the region was killed before he could finish writing the name of the land. Historians believed Dar’s true name may have been Darkhold Hollows. Or possibly Daredevil Barrens. Or perhaps even Darr, with two r’s (though that would have been disappointing).

  The Warlord to whom Deeb Rauber decided to send an invitation was considered to be one of Dar’s most terrifying, brutal rulers ever. Lord Rundark stood six-foot-five, with a wrestler’s physique that belied his fifty-odd years. He had a wild mane of black hair surrounding his face, which blended into a long, braided beard at his chin. His skin resembled a cracked desert landscape, and a ropy pink scar ran across his face from one ear to the other. The irises of his eyes were solid black.

  Some people say Rundark was born out of a mad alchemist’s attempt to distill the essence of pure evil. Others claim he emerged fully grown from an erupting volcano. Although it’s also possible that he was the son of a used-cart salesman from Nebbish Village—they didn’t keep very good records in Dar.

  Whatever his origin, Rundark was not a man to be trifled with. He had risen to power in a bloody campaign of destruction that left a trail of broken bodies and demolished homes across the Darian countryside. When Rundark finally faced the previous warlord, he had no trouble at all taking the man’s crown—with his head still in it.

  As Lord Rundark read Deeb Rauber’s invitation, he was amused.

  Fig. 13

  Lord RUNDARK

  “It is not often that some fool invites the forces of Dar into his home,” the Warlord said. “We shall go. It is always fun to kill a novice king.”

  With winter snows falling (and the wedding still five months away—don’t worry, though, we’re almost back in the present) the Warlord left Dar. With a small, handpicked contingent of bloodthirsty Darian soldiers, Rundark marched across the mountains of Carpagia and through the thick forests of Sturmhagen—stopping for pillage breaks every few miles or so—until he arrived in Rauberia, where he and Deeb met. Rundark wore bloodstained leather armor and a helmet made from the skull of a scorpiogre. Deeb sported an unnecessary eye patch and pants with holes in the knees. The two leaders talked. Rauber showed Rundark around his castle (and displayed his ability for yanking down his underlings’ pants without them noticing). Then they shared a large, disgusting meal together (during which Rundark killed one of his captains for blinking too much). And a couple of interesting things happened.

  Deeb Rauber decided not to rob Lord Rundark. It wasn’t that he was afraid of the Warlord—he was awestruck by him. Rundark was not just the coolest world leader Deeb had ever met; he was the first adult Deeb had ever looked up to.

  Even more interestingly, Lord Rundark decided not to kill Deeb Rauber. At least not yet. He was fascinated by the boy. Or more accurately, he was fascinated by the way this sloppy, obnoxious, immature eleven-year old managed to command the respect and devotion of an entire army. The bandits adored their king—and Rundark couldn’t figure out why.

  Rauber invited Rundark into a chamber that he identified as Scheme Central. The tall, powerful Darian glanced in disdain at the maps and blueprints that were covered in glops of jelly and smeared chocolate fingerprints—not to mention the half-dozen bandits lazing around the room, chewing noisily on caramels.

  “Check it out,” Rauber said, running to a torn-open sack of looted candy in the corner. “Can’t make evil plots on an empty stomach. Am I right?” He offered a squishy brown cube to the Warlord. “Nougat?”

  Lord Rundark stared at him in silence.

  Rauber shrugged. “Whatever. More for me,” he said, and tossed the nougat into his mouth. He threw a gum ball in, too, for added chewiness.

  Rundark moved to the window and stared out at the dry, broken landscape before him. “This is a very nice country that you have chosen to take as your own,” he said, his voice deep and hard-edged.

  “You think so?” Rauber asked with his mouth full. “It’s pretty ugly out there.”

  “You’ve never been to Dar,” Rundark replied. In reality, though, the scenery had nothing to do with Rauberia’s appeal. It was the tiny kingdom’s location that excited the Warlord. Rauberia was situated smack in the middle of the map, with so many wealthy kingdoms—Harmonia, Sylvaria, Sturmhagen, Avondell, and Erinthia, among them—just a day’s march away.

  “I am going to grant you an invaluable favor,” Rundark said.

  “Yeah, what’s that?” Rauber asked.

  “There is much potential in you, but your army is weak and undisciplined,” Rundark said.

  “No way, man,” Rauber said. “I lay into my guys when they deserve it.” He pulled the wad of wet gum from his mouth and shoved it into the nostril of a nearby bandit. “That’s for not laughing at my awesome fart joke yesterday,” he snarled at the man.

  Rundark cleared his throat. “Nonetheless, my men and I will stay here in Rauberia. We will train your people in the ways of war. We will make a few . . . security adjustments to your fortress. And when we are done, my friend, then you will be a force feared worldwide.”

  “I’m already pretty feared,” Rauber said, popping a new piece of gum into his mouth. “But you might be right about my guys. They could use a few kicks in the rear. And I’ve only got two feet, so welcome aboard, Warlord.”

  Both Rauber and Rundark smiled, but for different reasons.

  And then, on a late-June afternoon, three days after Liam and Briar’s wedding (Yay! We’re back!), two bandits standing guard outside the Wall of Secrecy were surprised to see a lone stranger running toward them across the wastes of Rauberia. They braced themselves for a fight. It wasn’t often that anybody passed through these dead lands, let alone somebody on foot. And it was even more bizarre that this young man appeared to be wearing both a woolen winter hat and summery shorts.

  “Excuse me, sirs,” Smimf said. “I have a message for the king of Rauberia.”

  9

  A HERO MAKES IT UP AS HE GOES ALONG

  When writing down a plan, I suggest numbering the steps. But just in case your plan falls into enemy hands, make sure you number them in the wrong order.

  —THE HERO’S GUIDE TO BEING A HERO

  The four princes, along with Ella and Briar, sat at the round table in Avondell’s War Room, waiting for a report from Smimf. Only one day had passed since the League of Princes sent the young messenger to Rauberia armed with a fake advertisement that would serve as his excuse for getting inside the castle gate (“SPECIAL DEAL FOR NEW MONARCHS! HALF-PRICE CROWNS! FREE ESTIMATES ON RESIZING!”), and already he had returned. He stood at attention before the group, loosened his scarf, and hiked up his shorts.

  “What did you find out?” Liam asked.

  “Well, I found out that the king is not interested in purchasing a new crown unless he can get at least seventy-five percent off,” said Smimf.

  “What did you learn about the castle?” Liam more specifically inquired.

  “Oh, I saw everything, sir, Your Highness, sir,” Smimf said. “I handed your pamphlet to the guards at the front gate; and while they were reading it, I zipped in past them and checked out every floor of the building.”

  “Nobody saw you?” Ella asked.

  “Most people can’t when I’m going my fastest, so I just never stopped running.”

  “Quit jibber-jabbing and make with the info,” Gustav said impatiently.

  “Right,” said Smimf. “Well, first there’s a wall—”

  “
I have a wall at home!” Duncan blurted. “Four, actually.”

  “Is this a good time to mention that I’m slightly afraid of heights?” Frederic threw in.

  Liam stood up. “Okay, before we go any further,” he began. “New rule: Do not interrupt Smimf. He’s got crucial information, and we need to hear it. So, no talking until Smimf is done. Everybody got that?”

  “But if it’s a new rule,” said Duncan, “shouldn’t the lady with the cactus hair bang her little hammer?”

  “He’s right, you know,” Briar said. “I’m the one who makes the rules here.”

  “Fine,” Liam said, his eyes rolling. “Briar, would you please make it a rule?”

  “Since you said please . . .” Briar pounded her gavel. “No one speaks until the weird kid is done.”

  “Thank you, sir, Your Highness, sir,” Smimf said. “As I was saying: There’s a wall—the Wall of Secrecy they call it. It’s square: four sides and four corners. But I’m sure you all know what a square is.” He chuckled uncomfortably.

  “Anyway, it’s real tall. And totally smooth, like my grandmother’s ceramic leg.” Smimf paused and swallowed. “Sorry, that was an unnecessary and possibly disturbing comparison. There’s a reason I don’t usually do this much talking. But anyway, the wall is pretty much unclimbable. Plus, there are guard towers at each of the four corners. So the only way in is through the main gate, same way I went.

  “And once you’re inside, you’re totally in the open. There’s a lot a distance between the gate and the castle itself—Castle von Deeb they call it. Oh, and the castle is surrounded by a moat—the Moat of a Thousand Fangs they call it. It’s filled with bladejaw eels. But I got across when the bandits lowered the drawbridge; they were rolling in giant barrels of pudding. Or possibly poison. It’s hard to read while I’m running that fast.