In which our intrepid hero finds more than he bargained when he meets yet another tavern wench…
—2—
There are swamps, and then there are swamps. Then there are the Fens of Crthlus, a smelly, fetid, snake-infested pit. Despite traveling on the only road leading to the city of Crthlus, it would be a week before I would get the stink out of my tastefully gold-inlaid sable cloak and studded black leather armor.
I could have traipsed through the hordes of mosquitos and horseflies while hunting for Prince Charming on my own but chose to travel directly to the city instead. Actually, “city” is a kind word when describing rickety shanties slapped together by punch-drunk imbeciles. Not only that, but the heart of town is known as the Sewer District. The denizens are, of course, the Chtshurs, better known as the ratmen of Crthlus.
The best place for information is The One-Eyed Toad, a pockmark of a watering hole on par with The Blackmore Tavern as far as its usual scoundrels and other miscreants. It’s bad enough to guzzle swill with man-sized rodents, but when you’re served by a snake with four arms and two bodices, you know you’ve entered public house purgatory.
Utilizing my broad shoulders, I elbowed my way through the crowd to a place at the bar and swallowed hard. The serving wench had a buxom form like Ruby with flowing black tresses, yet underneath gobs of makeup, she was still a beady-eyed rat. Her whiskers twitched as I swept my gold-inlaid sable coat over my shoulder and thudded my forearms on the counter. My trusty Craftsman™ broadsword still hung at my side (the tiny bag the princess/hag had given me only covered the down payment for my new sword), but in Crthlus, its steely edge—even chipped and not so keen—was enough to give pause.
She grabbed a large glass tankard, wiped it semi-clean, and held it beneath a barrel’s tap. A thick black liquid poured out. I knew from past experience it was what passed for beer in this town. She leaned forward as she set the tankard in front of me, as if I might find her furry cleavage attractive. This has often been my experience in such wretched establishments when I am so nattily attired with my trusty Craftsman™ broadsword hanging from my belt, regardless of what abominations pass for serving wenches.
“How much?” I asked.
“For you, sweetie, one copper is all.”
My eyes must have popped at least a foot out of my skull while my jaw thudded on the floor with the force of an anvil. It was not the price, which was actually quite reasonable. It was her husky baritone voice. No woman’s voice could possibly be that low!
As soon as my eyes and jaw had banged back into place, I casually clutched my tankard and leaned against the bar, speaking just loud enough for her to hear. At least, I thought I was casual. Maybe “casual” is too casual a term. A better word might be “anxious,” or more accurately, “anxious with a nervous twitch.” You see, there are few things that frighten me in this world, but a buxom rodent with a deep male voice making googly eyes at me is one of them. However, I needed information, and everyone knows the one standing behind a bar is the world’s greatest source.
“I’m looking for a frog,” I said with a prepubescent squeak instead of my normal deep manly voice. The barmaid’s bar-rat’s beady eyes rose.
“Honey, we’re all looking for that special someone, but aren’t you a little too…human for a frog?”
My face burned, I am certain, more crimson than the reddest sunset.
“You don’t understand,” I blurted. “Not just any frog. A talking frog. A frog prince.”
“You mean the kind of slimy amphibian you kiss to turn back into Prince Charming? Oh honey, trust me, if such a frog came around here, I’d be first in line!”
Okay, that was an image I did not need floating about in my head. Still, I needed more information.
“Listen, I’m not making myself clear. The frog’s not for me. He’s hopped off with a girl frog instead of marrying the princess.”
“And you didn’t volunteer to take his place? Honey, what is wrong with you?”
That brought me up short. What, indeed, was wrong with me? If I’d married the princess, I’d have had plenty of money for a new sword. Then I recalled her wrinkled visage.
“She’s a hag,” I mumbled sadly, then guzzled half my tankard. “A cursed hag.”
“Ahhh,” said the bar-rat. Sympathy drooled from her furry, lipstick-drenched lips and I blanched. It was yet one more image now burned into my brain I didn’t need.
The bar-rat rested a paw on my arm. “So, if she kisses Prince Charming, the curse is lifted, I take it?”
“Yes,” I sighed heavily.
“And you wish you were Prince Charming but were too afraid to pucker up when your chance came?”
“I…I…I thought she’d stay an old witch.” The truth was I hadn’t thought of rescuing the princess in that manner at all, but for some reason, I felt my manly image might tarnish if I admitted it.
“Well, honey,” she cooed in her rumbling baritone, “If I hear any strange croaking, you’ll be the first to know. In the meantime, if you need some kissing practice, I’m always ready to help.” She puckered and her whiskers fluttered seductively. My previous icons of mousey horror ran away from the countenance now presented to me. I suddenly could no longer stomach my ale.
“Well, uhm…” I muttered, pushing my stool back, standing up, and tossing a copper on the counter. “I…need to go.”
I dared not glance back as I rushed out of The One-Eyed Toad, especially after not hearing her low, breathy sigh chase after me.
“Now there’s a knight who could make a rat’s heart pitter and patter!”
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