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twirling a set of giant bolos with a threatening application of english.
At that, Bromosel started to sprint, but catching his feet in his sword belt,
he tripped and impaled himself on his pointed shoes.
"Ye doom is ycomme true," he groaned. "O, tell the Lace-domecians to man the
torpedoes." Then noisily shaking a large rattle, he expired.
The narc shook his head. "Me, you don't need," he said, and led the narc band
away into the surrounding forest with Moxie and Pepsi.
Frito and Spam drifted silently across the river to the eastern bank, and drew
their small boat onto the shore, while unseen in the shadow of the dam, a
small gray figure on a green-andyellow-spotted sea horse paddled warily along.
"Out of the bedpan, as the old Fatlip would say," said Spam, and fishing their
overnight bags out of the craft, set out with Frito along the rising gorge
that led to the next chapter.
VI
THE RIDERS OF ROI-TAN
For three days Arrowroot, Gimlet, and Legolam hunted the band of narcs,
pausing in their relentless chase only for food, drink, sleep, a few hands of
pinochle, and a couple of sightseeing detours. Tirelessly, the Ranger, dwarf,
and elf pushed on after the captors of Moxie and Pepsi, often making a long
march of up to three hundred yards before collapsing with apathy. Many times
Stomper lost the scent, which was rather difficult since narcs are fond of
collecting their droppings along the way into great, pungent mounds. These
they carefully sculpted and molded into fearsome shapes as mute warning to any
who might dare challenge their power.
But the narc mounds were growing fewer, indicating either that they had
quickened their pace or had run out of roughage. In any case the trail grew
fainter and the tall Ranger had to use his every skill to follow the barest
traces of the company's passing, a worn ventilated shoe, a pair of loaded
dice, and farther on, a pair of ventilated narcs.
The land was somber and flat, now populated only by scrub brushes and other
stunted growths. Occasionally they would pass a deserted village, empty save
for a stray dog or two, which bolstered the party's dwindling larder.
Slowly they descended into the bleak Plain of Roi-Tan, a hot, dry, and
cheerless place. * [* Not unlike Passaic, New Jersey.] To their left were the
dim peaks of the Mealey Mountains, and to their right and far away the
sluggish Effluvium. To the south were the fabled lands of the Roi-Tanners,
sheepmen of no mean skill aboard a fighting bull merino.
In earlier times the sheep-lords had been enemies of Sorhed and had fought
bravely against him at Brylopad and Ipswitch. But now there were rumors of
renegade bands of mounted sheepmen who ravaged northern Twodor, pillaging,
raping, burning, killing, and raping.
Stomper halted in the march and let out a deep sigh of dread and boredom. The
narcs were leaving them farther and farther behind. Carefully he unwrapped a
square of the elvish magic zwieback and broke it into four equal pieces.
"Eat all, for this is the last we have," he said, palming the fourth piece for
later.
Legolam and Gimlet chewed gravely and silently. All around them they felt the
malicious presence of Serutan, the evil Wizard of Isinglass. His malignant
influence hung heavy in the air, his secret forces impeding their search.
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Forces that took many forms, but for the present came as the runs.
Gimlet, who, if possible, liked Legolam even less than at Riv'n'dell, gagged
on his portion of zwieback.
"A curse on the elves and their punk grub," he grumbled.
"And on the dwarves," returned Legolam, "whose taste is in their mouths."
For the twentieth time the pair drew weapons, lusting for each other's
chitlins, but Stomper intervened lest one be killed. The food was gone anyway.
"Hold and cease, halt, avaunt, put up thy swords, refrain from thy quarrel and
stay thy hands," he spake, raising a fringed glove.
"Buzz off, Hopalong," growled the dwarf. "I'll make casserole of that
window dresser!"
But the Ranger drew his peacemaker and the fighting ended as quickly as it
began, for even dwarves and elves do not relish a shiv in the back. Then, as
the combatants sheathed their blades, Stomper's voice rang out again.
"Lo!" he cried, pointing to the south. "Many riders approach like the wind!"
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