The Hero’s Guide to Storming the Castle
“With pleasure,” Gustav said. Minutes later, he was riding his big gray warhorse, Seventeen, out to troll country.
As he approached a wide swath of farmland on the outskirts of Sturmhagen’s thick and wild pine forests, Gustav was suddenly encircled by what appeared to be hulking mounds of overcooked collard greens. But these were no shambling piles of vegetation; these were living creatures—nine feet tall with scraggly green fur, enormous clawed hands, frighteningly large teeth, and, in some cases, a horn or two. Or three. Trolls. And they were closing in on the prince.
Gustav hopped from his horse and waited with his massive battle-ax at the ready. Clad as he was in heavy plated armor rimmed by thick tufts of boar and bear fur, Gustav’s mere silhouette would have been an intimidating sight to most humans. Most monsters, too, really. But the trolls showed no fear.
It had been a long time since Gustav had been among the trolls and he’d been bald the last time they saw him, so most of the creatures didn’t recognize the long-haired human standing before them. One did, though: the single-horned troll who went by the name of Mr. Troll (all other trolls simply went by Troll—a practice that made taking attendance in troll schools either very difficult or very easy, depending on whom you ask).
“Prince Angry Man!” Mr. Troll shouted, gleefully calling Gustav by his “troll name.” “Troll so glad Angry Man come back!” The monster threw its furry green arms around Gustav and, much to the prince’s displeasure, lifted him off the ground in a bear hug.
“Enough, enough,” Gustav grunted, and Mr. Troll put him down. The other trolls, realizing this was their beloved Prince Angry Man, joined in with celebratory hoots and howls. Gustav couldn’t help smiling. Sure, the trolls were monsters, but they were happy to see him. And that felt pretty good.
“Trolls never thank Angry Man for giving trolls farmland,” Mr. Troll said in his low, gravelly voice.
“Yeah, that’s okay,” Gustav said. “You guys give the place a name yet?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Troll. “Trolls call place Troll Place.”
“I should’ve guessed that,” Gustav said. “So, um, I’m here as an ambassador.”
“That fantastic,” Mr. Troll said. “Troll not know what that mean. But it sound fancy. So Troll happy for you.”
“To be honest,” Gustav said, “I don’t really know what it means either. But I am a big hero, so I suppose I can teach you trolls a thing or two while I’m here.”
Mr. Troll looked ecstatic. “Prince Angry Man come to help trolls,” he explained to his fellow monsters. “Him teach trolls all sort of amazing things!” The trolls cheered.
“Yeah, sure,” Gustav said, crossing his arms and nodding. He was getting his old confidence back. “I’m great at all kinds of stuff. Hunting, fishing . . .”
Several of the monsters stopped smiling and glowered menacingly at Gustav.
“Ha-ha,” Mr. Troll said. “Angry Man joking. Angry Man remember trolls is vegetarian.”
“Oh, yes,” Gustav mumbled. “How could I forget?”
“Angry Man will teach trolls how grow veggies,” Mr. Troll announced as if it were an established fact.
“You’ve had this farm for months,” Gustav said. “You haven’t grown anything yet?” He surveyed the scene around him. The field was completely bare except for a few rickety troll stick-houses and a large rock with a log tied to it (which one helpful troll pointed to and identified as “plow”).
“No, nothing,” Mr. Troll said. The monster looked down, embarrassed (at least Gustav thought he was embarrassed; it’s hard to tell when you’re dealing with a creature that has a face like a demonic mulch pile). “Trolls not know how grow stuff. That why trolls still steal food from humans.”
“You’re still stealing food?” Gustav asked, flabbergasted. “The whole reason we gave you this farmland was to stop the food raids. Do you want to start a war?”
“No. Trolls just want eat. That why Angry Man must teach trolls grow veggies.”
Gustav paused. He knew nothing about farming. Although, to be honest, he didn’t really know anything about hunting or fishing either. But being a farming instructor was better than going home. “All right, trolls,” he said. “Let’s do some farming.”
Gustav taught the trolls everything he knew about growing fresh produce. He spent day after day out in the fields, imparting every bit of knowledge he had about preparing soil, sowing seeds, and keeping plants well watered. And after months of working under Gustav’s tutelage, the creatures were able to head out for a harvest and gather up a fresh crop—of exactly two potatoes. Each of which was approximately the size of a peanut.
Let me reiterate: Gustav knew nothing about farming.
“How ’bout I teach you trolls to fight instead?” he suggested.
The trolls greeted this new idea with enthusiasm. And that was when Gustav really started enjoying himself. He put together a lesson plan (Ramming Your Enemy, Throwing Heavy Objects, Pummeling for Beginners, and so on), and the trolls proved to be excellent students. In reality, trolls were natural fighters and didn’t need the instruction—but they had a blast taking Gustav’s classes.
One afternoon, Gustav and Mr. Troll sat together in the house that the trolls had built for their teacher (five precariously balanced logs with some loose straw thrown on top). “Troll think Angry Man better fighter than farmer,” Mr. Troll said.
“I guess you and I have something in common then, Leafy,” Gustav said.
The troll let out a harsh, retching laugh. “Maybe Angry Man be better as troll than human.”
“You know, there’s a lot I can appreciate about you trolls,” Gustav said. “You pack a solid punch, you’re not scared of anything, and you’ve got no love for fancy doohickeys and dingle-dangles. That’s why I’ve been able to tolerate you beasts for months now. But I still think I make a pretty good human. And anyway, I miss meat.”
“Troll understand. Troll not be happy living with humans either. Human houses have too many parts; make Troll claustrophobic.” Through the “walls” of Gustav’s dwelling, they could see the other trolls gathering for their next lesson. “But Angry Man inspire Troll,” Mr. Troll went on. “Troll going to be first troll hero. Trolls always bad guy in songs by Itty-Bitty-Guitar Men. Troll want Itty-Bitty-Guitar Men to write song ’bout Troll save the day.”
“Yet another thing we’ve got in common,” Gustav said.
“Huh?” the troll grunted.
“Never mind,” Gustav said. “It’s time for class.” He stood up, bumped his head against a log, and knocked the entire house down. It was the fourth collapse that week. Mr. Troll started to pick up a log to rebuild it, but Gustav told him not to bother. The two of them stepped out to the field to join the rest of the trolls.
“Okay, furries,” Gustav announced. “Today’s lesson is brawling. Everybody start beating up your neighbor.”
Dozens of the enormous monsters started attacking one another, slamming their hairy bodies together and grabbing each other in wet, sweaty headlocks. “Nice,” Gustav said, and dove into the fracas himself.
It was then that a messenger ran up. He was a skinny, gap-toothed thirteen-year-old in a heavy sweater, wool hat, green knit scarf, shorts, and tall leather boots. He was undeterred by the raucous fray going on before him. He produced a rolled-up piece of paper from the satchel at his side and cleared his throat.
“Excuse me,” he said, his voice cracking. The brawl came to an abrupt stop, all the combatants panting and staring at the messenger. “I’m looking for a Prince Gustav. Which of you is Prince Gustav?”
Gustav cocked his head. “I’m the only one here without spinach growing out of my skin and you need to ask which one I am?”
“Sorry, sir, Your Highness, sir,” the messenger said. “But I have strict instructions to deliver this message only to Prince Gustav. I went to Castle Sturmhagen, but Prince Gustav wasn’t there. They told me that if I wanted to find Prince Gustav, I had to come here. So are you Prince Gustav?”
“Gimme the note,” Gustav said.
The messenger shook his head.
Gustav huffed. “Yes, I’m Gustav. Now give me the note, Captain Specific.”
The messenger hurried over to Gustav and handed him the letter. “Here you are, sir, Your Highness, sir,” he said. “I sense you were probably being sarcastic when you referred to me as a captain, but just to be clear, I am not one. I’m merely a messenger. My name is Smimf.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Gustav said. He unrolled the note and read, his eyes growing wide as he took in everything that Frederic had written. “Criminy Pete! Capey went and got himself kidnapped. Hey, Message Kid, go back and tell Tassels not to do anything stupid without me. Tell him I’ll be there.”
Fig. 5 SMIMF
“Right,” Smimf said. “Only, the name is Smimf.”
“Whatever,” Gustav said.
“And by Tassels, I assume you mean Prince Fre—”
“Yes!” Gustav said. “You assume right. Go.” But by the time he was finished, the messenger had already vanished.
“Angry Man got to go, huh?” Mr. Troll asked.
“Duty calls, Swamp Fuzz,” Gustav said. He’d never admit it to anyone, but he’d been waiting for months to hear from his old friends. He was somewhat annoyed that it was Liam they’d have to rescue, but the thought of a real quest got his blood pumping in a way it hadn’t in ages. “Don’t worry, though. I’ll be back. You’re in charge of lessons while I’m gone.”
“Ha-ha, excellent,” Mr. Troll said. “Troll going to do class on smacking with tree stumps.”
“Good call,” Gustav said. He gathered his things as quickly as he could, mounted Seventeen, and tore off down the long road to Avondell.
As hard as this may be to believe, some people may not like you. These people are called villains. Everyone else will like you.
—THE HERO’S GUIDE TO BEING A HERO
“
He and Snow White had returned to their woodland estate in the forests of Sylvaria shortly after the League of Princes disbanded. And ever since, he’d been working day and night on his guidebook for would-be adventurers. After his exploits with the League, he figured he was the perfect person to write such a manual. Unfortunately, Duncan had a very difficult time remembering why he’d done any of the things he did. To help himself figure out the motives behind his own actions, he started having the local dwarfs act out his past so he could relive it all from a spectator’s point of view. The dwarfs were not happy about this.
“From the top,” Duncan repeated. Clad in his puffy red-and-yellow pantaloons, green felt jacket, and fluffy white neck ruff, he sat on a small chair in his backyard, ready to witness a reenactment of his and Liam’s attempted escape from a heavily guarded bandit camp. He had a quill pen in hand, prepared to take notes. “That means you should start again,” he added.
With heavy sighs, two tired-looking dwarfs plodded out from behind some shrubbery.
“You’re supposed to be running,” Duncan said.
“Imagine it faster,” grumbled Frank, the first dwarf. Sylvarian dwarfs are notoriously cranky by nature, but these particular dwarfs had been dealing with Duncan all day and were in worse moods than usual.
“Can you at least pretend to run? It would help me visualize the scene better,” the prince said. “After all, what you do here today, you do in the name of all hero-dom.”
Flik, the second dwarf, simply pulled down the earflaps of his cap and pretended not to hear.
“All right, then. Carry on,” Duncan said. “Um, enter the Big Bandit!”
A third dwarf, Frak, appeared, dragging slowly behind the first two. He shook his fist halfheartedly at Flik and Frank.
“Don’t forget your line,” Duncan whispered.
“I’ll get you, princes,” Frak said in a flat monotone. Then he paused to pull a beetle out of his beard.
“Oh, no,” Flik recited without emotion. “We’re surrounded.”
Two more dwarfs, Frid and Ferd—playing the entire bandit army—entered on the opposite side, stepping out from behind a birchwood gazebo. Duncan bit his lip in excitement.
“Don’t worry . . . Liam,” Frank said to Flik. “I . . . Prince Duncan . . . have an idea. Throw me at him.”
Flik gave Frank a one-handed shove. Frank shuffled over to Frak, waving his arms limply and mumbling, “Oh, I’m flying through the air.” He stopped and faced Duncan. “Okay, you get all that?” he asked. “We done?”
Duncan leaned back in his seat and scratched his chin. “I still don’t know why I did that,” he said. “Hmmm. ‘Throw me at him.’ Why in the world did that seem like a good idea at the time? We’ll have to try it again. Maybe in reverse this time.”
“Nope. I’m outta here,” Frank said. He and the other dwarfs began to walk away.
“Okay, good idea, Frank,” Duncan said. “We could all use a break. Nice energy, by the way, Frak. And Flik, good line reading, but next time maybe you could sound a little more heroey. Let’s all meet back here in, say, ten minutes? Johnny Peppercorn!” That last bit was Duncan getting distracted by a chipmunk he suddenly decided should be named Johnny Peppercorn. Spontaneously naming random animals was only one of the many odd traits and hobbies that had made Duncan an outcast for most of his life. In fact, until the previous year, there had really been no one other than Snow White whom Duncan could call a friend. But joining the League of Princes changed that. Frederic, Liam, and even Gustav (to an extent) seemed to genuinely care for Duncan. He’d gone from one friend to several in a very short period of time. It was an undeniably positive step for his social life, but it also gave him a false sense of popularity. He believed he was a superstar. And since he never traveled very far outside his own yard, he never ran into any of the Sylvarian citizens who told jokes about him and referred to him as “Prince Dumb-can.”
“I don’t care if it’s going to get Snow White upset—we’ve got to put an end to this,” Flik grumbled to Frank as they walked around a hedge for some privacy. “I’m beginning to lose whatever trace of self-respect I have left.”
“It’s not just these pointless reenactments either,” Frank said. “Everything he does gets on my nerves. I still don’t know why we answer to these stupid names he invented for us.”
“So annoying,” Flik agreed. “Though I suppose it’s an improvement over the old days when Snow White didn’t use names for us at all. She just referred to us by personality traits.”
“Hey, at least Duncan gave you a different name. They both called me Frank!”
“You’ve all got it better than me,” yelled Fork, another dwarf who’d been hiding from Duncan in a nearby wheelbarrow.
“We need to choose our battles wisely,” Flik said. “We can tolerate the name stuff. But this reenactment business needs to stop. Let’s go talk to Snow.”
The dwarfs found Snow White at a picnic table on the other side of the garden, weaving a vest out of sunflower petals. A petite woman, she was practically swimming in a voluminous pink dress adorned with dozens of violet ribbons.
“Good day, boys,” she said cheerily. She was one of the only people alive who seemed to be able to make her eyes twinkle at will. “Having fun?”
“No, we’re not,” Frank said. “We need you to talk to Duncan for us. Tell him to stop making us perform these ridiculous scenes for him.”
Snow shook her head (and then readjusted the wreath of daisies that sat atop her black hair). “As long as Duncan is working on his book, he’s not tempted to wander off—and that’s a good thing,” Snow said. “My husband hasn’t gotten lost in ten whole months—a new record, by the way—and if you fellows stop acting out his memories for him, he’s likely to traipse off into the woods and try to make some bears do it.”
“But he’s been so insufferable ever since he started thinking he’s a hero,” Frank said. “You can’t tell me it doesn’t annoy you, too.”
“Oh, pishposh,” Snow said. “Duncan’s just got more self-confidence now, and I like that.”
“It’s Duncan’s fault we lost our dragon!” Flik griped.
Just then a call rang out from the front garden gates. “Make way for the royal family of Sylvaria!”
Snow burst from her seat and darted over to where Duncan still sat pondering his past. “Dunky, your family is here,” she said.
Duncan stood up and grimaced. “Oh, no. Not them. Not here. They’ll embarrass me in front of the dwarfs,” he whimpered.
Snow put her hands on Duncan’s shoulders and looked him in the eye. “They’re your parents and your sisters,” she said. “Be nice.”
Duncan slumped. “But I’m popular now,” he said. “And they’re so . . . not.”
You see, Queen Apricotta (named after her mother’s favorite fruit) and King King (whose parents liked to keep things simple) were shunned by the very people whom they supposedly ruled. And Duncan’s teenage sisters—twins Mavis and Marvella—were no better off. Those two girls turned weirdness into an art form (dancing to imaginary music, walking pet crickets on leashes, constantly sniffing each other’s hair). Of course, Duncan was just as unpopular as the rest of his family, but he didn’t realize that, which is why, for the past several months, he’d turned down every one of their invitations to come visit the castle. But he couldn’t avoid his family forever.
“First of all, who cares what the dwarfs think?” Snow said. “And secondly, you don’t know for sure that your family is going to do anything embarrassing.”
“Oh, Duncan!” King King called out. “Where are you? I want you to taste this pea I found under my bed.”
The king—who had announced the family’s arrival himself because no servants were willing to travel with them—strode into the yard wearing his favorite pillow-top crown and long, zebra-striped robe. A blue jay zoomed by and snatched a tiny green pea from between the king’s thumb and forefinger. “Oh, well,” King King said.
He opened his arms and beckoned for a hug. Snow nudged Duncan toward him.
“Hello, Dad,” Duncan said as his father wrapped him in a tight embrace.
“Son,” King King said happily. “You’ve grown. Or perhaps I’ve shrunk.”
Queen Apricotta stepped in alongside her husband. She wore her red hair in long pigtails that flopped against her silver gown as she walked. “Hello, hello! It’s nice to see you, Snow,” she said. “Ooh, that rhymed! That was fun. I should say hello to you more often.”
“Good afternoon, Your Highnesses,” Snow said with a curtsy. “And you, too, Mavis. Marvella.”
The stoop-shouldered, inky-haired twins stood behind their mother, both wearing feathered shirts and homemade wings strapped to their backs. Their noses were painted yellow. “We’re owls,” the girls said in unison.
“Fantastic,” Snow said, because that was the best thing she could think to say at the moment. “Would anyone like some tea?”
“Tea!” the king shouted as he finally released Duncan from the hug.
“Tea!” the queen echoed.
“S!” yelled Mavis.
“Q!” yelled Marvella.
“Okay,” said Snow.
“P, X!” added Marvella, who assumed that the game had now changed to calling out two letters at a time.
“D, A!” said Mavis.
“B, K!” said the king.
Duncan leaned over to Snow and whispered, “This could go on for a while.”
“Ooh, the dwarfs are here,” Queen Apricotta noted with delight. “They’re fun.”
“Dwarves,” Frank corrected.
King King crouched down in front of Frak. “Show me how you fellows do birdcalls. You do such wonderful birdcalls.”
“He’s squatting,” Frak complained to no one in particular.
“I can do a crow song. Want to hear?” the king said. He stood up and puffed out his chest. “Ka-caw! Ka-caw!”
“I learned a song about dwarfs,” the queen announced.
“Dwarves,” said Frank.
“I think it goes like this,” Apricotta continued. “Dwarfs, dwarfs, dwarfs, dwarfs! Dwarfs, dwarfs, dwarfs, dwarfs!”
The twins started pulling feathers from each other’s costumes and blowing them at Frid and Ferd.
Duncan whispered to Snow again, “I can’t tell if this is going well or not.”
Flik walked over to Frank and pointed to the garden gate. There was another person standing out there.
“I’ll handle it,” Frank said, and eagerly darted away from the chaos.
Smimf, the messenger, was waiting at the entrance to the yard. Frank eyed him suspiciously.
“Excuse me, sir,” Smimf said. “I’m looking for Prince Duncan.”
“He’s busy,” Frank said. “What do you want?”
“I have a message here for Prince Duncan.” He held up the note.
“Give it here,” Frank said.
“I have strict orders that the message is only to be delivered to Prince Duncan.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s me,” Frank said. “I’m Prince Duncan.”
“Then here you are, sir, Your Highness, sir.” Smimf handed over the note.
Frank’s eyes lit up as he read Frederic’s letter. “Hey, kid, wait here,” he said, and he started back into the yard.
“Yes, sir, Your Highness, sir,” the messenger said. “And my name is Smimf.”
Frank stopped. “Duncan gave you that name, didn’t he?”
“I thought you were Duncan, sir, Your Highness, sir,” Smimf said with a tinge of horror.
“Nah, but I’m gonna go get him.” Frank dashed off.
Smimf swallowed hard. My second job ever, and I’ve already muffed it up, he thought.
Frank returned several minutes later with Duncan and Flik.
“What’s this all about, Frank?” Duncan asked as the dwarfs pulled him to the gate.
“Read this,” Frank said. He shoved the note into Duncan’s hands.
“Sorry, sir, Your Highness, sir,” Smimf said. “I thought the other gentleman was you.”
“Really?” Duncan asked, looking up. “But I’m famous.”
“Just read,” Frank urged.
Duncan finished reading the letter. “Does this mean what I think it means?” he asked.
“Knowing you, probably not,” Frank said. “It means one of your Prince Charming buddies got kidnapped. And you need to go help rescue him.”
“That’s sort of almost what I thought it meant,” Duncan said, feeling rather happy with himself.
“So, go,” Frank said. He handed Duncan a small sack. “I’m sure this bag has whatever you’ll need.”
“Well, I’m not certain how to get to Avondell,” Duncan said. “Although I’m sure I can figure it out.”
“Oh, no,” said Flik. “We don’t want you getting lost and circling back here.”
“That’s why you’re gonna go with this kid here.” Frank pointed to Smimf.
“Oh, um, yes, sir, Your Highness, sir,” the messenger said. “The name’s Smimf. I can lead you there. But I’m pretty fast. I hope you can keep up.”
Flik dashed off to the stable and came back leading a dappled brown-and-white horse.
“Ah, Papa Scoots Jr.!” Duncan said. “He’s a speedy steed. I’m sure he can keep up with your horse, Mr. Smimf.”
“It’s just Smimf, sir, Your Highness, sir. And I don’t use a horse.”
“No horse?” Duncan questioned as Flik and Frank hoisted him up onto Papa Scoots Jr. “Walking will take forever, though.”
“Not for me, sir, Your Highness, sir,” Smimf said. “I’ve got these special boots. Seven-league boots, they’re called.”
“Seven leagues! We princes only have one,” Duncan said. “Do the members of all seven leagues get to wear such snazzy boots?”
“A league is a measure of distance, sir, Your Highness, sir. Three miles. The boots let me take very long steps. But I can go slower so you can follow me.”