Anya spoke to him very seriously about the danger the Duke represented, to the forest and to the whole world, and the little she knew about the All-Encompassing Bill of Rights and Wrongs. When she was done, she asked him to gather any druids who might help her cause. After a short discussion about the rights of plants, which went nowhere because Anya felt she couldn’t promise anything, Hedric agreed to help anyway and left again, to go and collect the closest druids.
By the time the first glow of the sun could be seen above the forest canopy, the lip balm mixture was ready to be removed from the fire, and the beeswax mixed in. As Anya had a much better knowledge of the consistency of moat monster snot, Martha deferred to her on the question of how much wax to stir in. They both added the dried plums, which Martha had cut up into tiny pieces.
“Now it just has to cool for a while,” said Anya. She felt like she ought to be happy that she’d succeeded in her Quest. But she was too tired, and anyway, the Quest didn’t feel finished. It wouldn’t really be completed until she’d used the lip balm, and Denholm was a man again, and Shrub a boy, and Smoothie an otter, and all the frogs in the barrel back to being whatever they had been in the first place.
Duke Rikard also had to be defeated.
Anya had shied away from thinking about exactly what that meant, but she needed to think about it now. Before talking to Bert about the Bill of Rights and Wrongs she’d had the thought at the back of her mind that it was kill or be killed. The Duke wanted to kill her, so she would have to return the favor. Now that she had committed to at least trying to uphold the ancient laws, she supposed they’d have to capture the Duke and somehow stop him from using sorcery so he could be tried. But then they’d need to know the Laws Set in Stone, and get whatever it was Dehlia had said was required for a fair trial. A true mirror, or a unicorn, or something else.
It was all very difficult and made her head hurt.
“That’ll be cool in an hour off the fire,” said Martha. “You’ll kiss my Shrub first, I hope?”
Anya nodded. Her eyes closed as she did so, and she caught herself almost falling asleep. Ardent appeared at her elbow and touched her hand with his wet nose.
“All quiet,” he said. “Nothing happening. Not even rabbits.”
“I have to sleep,” said Anya. “Wake me up when the lip balm is cool, please. Or if … if anyone arrives. The Duke, or my friends.”
“I will, Princess,” said Ardent.
Anya smiled, lay down where she stood, and fell instantly asleep.
Anya was awoken by a kiss. Or, more exactly, a lick. On her open mouth. Though she loved Ardent very much, this was a bit excessive. The princess pushed the grinning dog’s snout aside, wiped her face with her sleeve, and levered herself up.
“What is it?” she asked crossly. The sun had hardly moved; she must have only been asleep for twenty minutes, if that. “Can’t you let me sleep?”
“Weaselfolk!” Ardent cried. “One of the good ravens reported two dozen of them, c-c-coming this way along the forest road. Maybe fifteen minutes away. Advance guard for a larger army the Duke is getting ready at the c-c-astle. Hedric’s got a couple of druids in though, and they’re going to try to slow them down with some grasping vines and the like.”
“Have any of our friends arrived?” asked Anya, suddenly very awake again, her stomach flipping in sudden fear. She gulped and tried to steady herself. “The dogs? Any Responsible Robbers?”
“No one,” said Ardent. “We should retreat, go deeper into the forest. Quickly.”
“But the weasels will ambush anyone coming here if we do that,” protested Anya. “You said the Duke is back at the castle?”
“So the raven told Hedric. Transforming another c-c-artload of weasels. He’s already got an army of them, and it looks like some at least are getting ready to march into the forest. They must know we’re here.”
Anya looked around. There was only Martha, Smoothie, Shrub, and a barrelful of frogs. There was no way they could fight even the advance guard. But they also couldn’t easily retreat. The cauldron with the precious lip balm was too heavy, and the barrel was as well, without time to put the frogs back in a sack.
Frogs.
Anya staggered to her feet and thrust her finger into the lurid purple mixture in the very middle of the cauldron. It was still warm there, but not as hot as the stuff around the edges. She smeared some of the balm on her lips.
“Got to transform the frogs back,” she said hurriedly to Ardent. “They’ll fight for us. I hope. If they’re not all useless princes.”
She started towards the barrel, but stopped as Martha stepped in front of her.
“You said you’d kiss my Shrub first,” she said.
“There’s no time. I need warriors!” exclaimed Anya.
Martha didn’t get out of the way. She folded her arms and glowered.
“All right, all right!” gabbled Anya. “I hope this works.”
She beckoned to Shrub.
The newt didn’t respond, though everyone else rushed over. Smoothie climbed up a nearby branch to get a better view of the proceedings. Ardent plumped himself down on Anya’s foot. But Shrub still didn’t move from the hole he’d dug for himself under a stunted hawthorn.
“Hurry up, Shrub, you’re first!” called out Anya. She wondered where the safest place to kiss him would be. “Don’t forget. No poison secretions, all right?”
Shrub shook his head and sat lower in his scrape.
“Shrub!” bellowed Martha. “You come here this instant! Anyone would think you want to stay a newt forever.”
“What is wrong with you?” asked Anya crossly. “We’re about to be attacked by weaselfolk and all you can do is sit there?”
She ran over to the newt, and despite his urgent scrambling, bent down and kissed him right between his goggly eyes.
Nothing happened.
Anya stepped back. She felt the blood draining out of her face and knew she’d gone white.
All that effort, the dangers, the difficulties they’d been through. After everything, the anti-transmogrification lip balm didn’t work!
“We’re done for,” croaked Anya. “But what … we did everything right … the ingredients … ”
“Try me!” urged Smoothie, jumping down from the branch, her paw-hands held together to beseech the princess. “It has to work! Maybe it’s Shrub, not the lip balm.”
Anya didn’t know what else to do, so she kissed Smoothie on the top of her sleek head. Not expecting anything, she reeled back suddenly as the otter-maid exploded with a blue flash, replaced by a huge Yarrow River otter squeaking and undulating on the grass. She wove around Anya’s legs, almost knocked her over, and then ran around the hut several times.
“I don’t understand,” said Anya. “Maybe it was still just too hot when I kissed Shrub … Shrub … where’s that newt gone?”
Shrub had disappeared. Ardent dropped his nose to the ground, sniffed, then pointed with his snout and forepaw.
“Deeper under the hawthorn.”
“That boy is in big trouble,” said Martha as Smoothie zoomed back from the hut and did a kind of horizontal figure eight in front of Anya.
“Can you still speak human?” Anya asked the otter.
“Yersh, I shink so,” said Smoothie. “Moutsh differensh. Shanks so shuch, Pchincess!”
“Right,” said Anya. “Ardent and Smoothie, go watch for the weaselfolk! I’ll start on the frogs. Martha, you can help.”
Everyone ran. Anya and Martha moved the barrel, rolling it on its rim closer to the cauldron. Anya smeared on more lip balm and Martha plucked out the first frog. It was a big one, and it kicked and croaked as if it was about to go into a frying pan with garlic.
“Hold it away from yourself and let go as I kiss,” warned Anya, leaning in to follow up her words with action.
Smooch! Bang! Green light!
A very tall, broad-shouldered woman in the tattered, rusty remnants of a mail hauberk stood before them. Sh
e overtopped Anya by two feet at least, and her impressively tattooed forearms were about as thick as Anya’s waist.
“Uh, my name’s Princess Anya and I’ve just transformed you back into a human.”
Suddenly, being confronted with this huge and dangerous-looking woman, Anya wasn’t so sure her plan was a good one, and her voice weakened as she added, “And I hope you’ll fight for me against a wicked sorcerer?”
The woman made a croaking sound, turned her head aside to spit out what looked like part of a grasshopper, and knelt on one knee before Anya. Part of the effect was lost as more bits of her corroded armor fell off, but the intent was sincere.
“Thank you, Frogkisser,” she said. “I am Sir Malorak, known as the She-Bear. I will fight for you gladly, though my arms have fallen into rust and decay.”
Anya looked at her arms. They seemed very strong.
“My weapons, I mean,” said the knight. She looked around the forest glade. “But if you can spare a knife, I will cut a good oaken staff to belabor the enemy.”
“Here,” said Martha, offering her own blade.
“Cut lots,” said Anya.
“I will,” Malorak vowed, glancing back at the barrel. She hesitated, then said, “How many years have passed since the Deluge and the loss of Yarrow the City?”
“About one hundred and eleven,” said Anya quickly, as she applied more lip balm and gestured to Martha to bring out another frog.
“Ah,” said the knight sadly. “Then my children will long be dead, never knowing what happened to their mother. Alas! But this is no time for my sorrows. Bring forth more warriors, Princess, and we shall fight!”
Anya kissed the next frog. It was another knight, a small and quick-looking man with surprisingly long hair. His leather armor was in slightly better shape than Malorak’s, though again his sword was just a lump of rust in a rotting scabbard.
“Sir Havagrad, at your service,” he said, bowing, as Anya repeated her message. “Any enemy of yours is an enemy of mine. Who, ah, is that very large knight cutting oak branches?”
“Sir Malorak the She-Bear,” replied Anya.
The man’s eyebrows shot up.
“A legend returns! My father was one of her squires. I will go help her.”
“Please do,” said Anya, already applying more lip balm.
The next three frogs were a bit of a disappointment, being a singing troupe of troubadours, their stage names Xerax, Yerax, and Yomix, spoken as if Anya might have heard of them. Their colorful motley was sadly reduced to sagging greenish loincloths and all their instruments save an ebony pipe were rotten and had fallen apart. But they expressed their willingness to fight and mentioned difficulties dealt with on the road, so Anya figured they were better than nothing.
She kept kissing. Soon there were a dozen more knights, and two fighters in decayed green who declared themselves rangers, and even one thin-faced, reserved fellow who claimed to be a warden of the High Kingdom, transformed in the year immediately following the Deluge. He had been transformed the longest; his name was Parengoethes, and he had a little difficulty comprehending what was going on.
“You were a frog,” Anya explained. “Now you’re not. The sorcerer who transformed you, or one exactly like the sorcerer who did it, is about to attack. I need your help. Go grab a staff from Sir Malorak and wait for orders.”
“Yes, yes, I see,” said Parengoethes, rubbing his eyes. He made a few hopping movements towards the other soldiers, stumbled, and made himself walk. “Though I still fail to comprehend with what authority these troops have been assembled!”
He was grumbling on when Ardent came rushing back to the glade.
“Attack imminent!” he barked out. “Weaselfolk preparing to charge!”
“Form a line!” bellowed Sir Malorak, lifting the biggest, thickest staff cut so far. “On me! Protect the princess!”
“Quick, another frog!” said Anya. She shuffled around the cauldron so she could see what was happening, her heart thudding in her chest, visions of those terrible weasel teeth snapping at her throat stuck in her head.
Her newly human troops moved out into a line, old martial habits overriding the occasional frog impulse. Most of them had staves, and those who didn’t had stones to throw … or, in one case, the propping stick from Martha’s washing line.
The frog Martha held up was the one that Ardent said wasn’t a transformed human, the one with the underlying scent he’d never smelled before.
Anya kissed it.
The flash this time was golden, and something much larger than a human appeared, making Anya stagger back and fall over.
At that moment, the weaselfolk burst out from under the trees, screaming their high-pitched squeals, teeth ready to rip and talons lashing the air, as they soon hoped to rend flesh.
But they found few targets. Used to scaring villagers or foresters, the weaselfolk were not prepared to be met by skillfully wielded oak staves, nor the coordinated actions of the knights working together in pairs. One would trip a weasel soldier while the other clouted it on the head, with Sir Malorak simply wading into the weasel ranks, spinning her huge staff around her like a whirlwind.
Then there was the unicorn. No one expected her, on either side. As soon as she was transformed from her frog shape, the unicorn took one glance and charged into the fray, her silvery neigh lifting the spirits of Anya’s people while scaring the life out of the weasels. Her horn moved like lightning, though she didn’t kill. Instead, she cut the weaselfolk’s makeshift uniforms off, and trampled the clothes with their crudely painted R signs into the forest floor. For some reason this frightened the enemy more than anything else.
It was all over in a few minutes. Eight or nine weasels lay unconscious, a few more were probably dead, and the rest were running back through the forest, pursued by Ardent and Smoothie nipping at their heels.
“The weasel-things flee,” reported Sir Malorak to Anya, wiping her sweaty brow and leaning on her staff. “Are there more?”
“Lots more,” Anya replied. “And probably worse things, back at the castle with the Duke.”
She was watching the unicorn out of the corner of her eye as she spoke. Anya had never seen anything so beautiful. The unicorn was like the prettiest of ponies, but with a pearly light to her white hide, and her horn shone silver, except for the bloodied tip.
The unicorn looked back at her and lowered her head to wipe her horn on the grass before turning to delicately slip away into the forest.
“Oh!” said Anya, disappointed the fabled creature was leaving.
“She will return when needed,” said Sir Malorak, watching the princess’s gaze. “After so long as a frog, she probably needs a gallop, as much as I needed to split heads. Are we likely to be attacked again soon?”
“We might be,” said Anya. “But we have reinforcements coming, I mean besides whoever these frogs turn out to be. I suppose we’ll have to have a proper big battle, since Duke Rikard will never be sensible and surrender.”
“Duke Rikard?” asked Sir Malorak. “I know him not. He is the sorcerer of whom you spoke afore?”
“Yes, um, ask Ardent about the whole situation when he gets back. The royal dog. I have to keep kissing frogs.”
“As you command, Frogkisser!” bellowed Sir Malorak. She seemed much more cheerful after the fight. She was also incredibly loud and very, very big. Anya was glad to have the knight on her side.
“Oh, and bring the unconscious weaselfolk over here too,” said Anya. “I’ll change them back so they can slip away to normal weasel life. It’s not their fault, poor things.”
“At once, Frogkisser!”
Anya winced to hear that name said so loudly and enthusiastically. But she had to admit it was a very accurate description of what she was doing.
Unable to repress a sigh, she put on more lip balm, leaned across to the struggling frog Martha was holding, and kissed it.
The latest frog was a young knight. She looked to be little mor
e than twenty years old, but was built on the same impressively huge lines as Sir Malorak the She-Bear. As she bent her knee to Anya and heard the same talk the princess had given to all the transformees, the young knight looked past her and her eyes widened in shock, immediately followed by her mouth curving into the broadest of smiles.
“Yes, yes, I’ll do whatever you need,” said the knight. Surprising Anya, she suddenly shouted, “Mother!” and erupted into a sprint past the princess.
Anya whirled about to see Sir Malorak dropping her staff to catch the younger knight up in a great hug, both of them losing pieces of long-rusted armor in the process.
“Tilvan! I thought I’d never see you again!”
“We came questing for you,” sobbed Tilvan, laughing and crying at the same time. “And fell afoul of the same sorcerers, it seems.”
“You mean Solan and Soran … ” Malorak said, looking with fierce, hungry eyes over at Anya and the barrel of frogs.
“My brothers,” said Tilvan over her shoulder to Anya. “They were transformed too.”
“I’m going to kiss all the frogs,” Anya assured them. “As quickly as I can.”
The next frog wasn’t Solan or Soran, nor the next. They were a brace of confused merchants, who had been transformed for daring to ask for their long-overdue bills to be paid by the League of Right-Minded Sorcerers. But they too offered to serve Princess Anya, though they tried to negotiate particular terms.
“I haven’t time for that sort of thing,” said Anya. “If you want to help, good. If not, be off.”
“We’ll stay, Frogkisser,” said the middle merchant. He was feeling along the hem of his sole remaining garment. Rotten and wet, it tore easily, and a number of gold coins fell out. “If you have an army gathering, I daresay you will need the assistance of three quartermasters, in purchasing provisions, equipment, and the like. We will happily pledge whatever coin remains on our persons to the cause. As a loan, of course.”
“Good,” said Anya hurriedly. “Go and talk to Sir Malorak. I have to kiss more frogs.”