Tower Left Alone III

    Rumple did not move.

    A thin blade slipped beneath the front door and scraped across the stone floor.

    The orange cat watched it from his rug.

    The blade moved left.

    Then right.

    It found the bottom of the latch.

    Rumple yawned.

    Above him, Parsnip crouched on the upper landing with an acorn held between his paws. It was the largest acorn he had been able to find in the garden, and he had spent most of the evening explaining why its size made it a superior defensive weapon.

    Whitethorn waited silently on a ceiling beam.

    Chancellor Scrumbles and the rat midden were hidden beneath the pantry shelves. Twenty-three rats had answered his call to arms. They carried spoons, forks, sewing needles, two corkscrews, and one butter knife that Gerald insisted was a sword.

    Nobody spoke.

    The blade beneath the door lifted.

    The latch moved.

    Parsnip tightened his grip on the acorn.

    "Wait," Whitethorn whispered.

    The latch moved again.

    Click.

    The front door opened several inches.

    A long green nose appeared through the opening.

    Two yellow eyes looked into the room.

    The goblin slowly pushed the door wider.

    "See anything?" whispered another voice outside.

    "A cat."

    "Dangerous?"

    The goblin looked at Rumple.

    Rumple looked at the goblin.

    "No."

    Rumple's ears twitched.

    "Rude."

    The goblin froze.

    "Did the cat just talk?"

    "Frequently," said Rumple. "People simply ignore the good parts."

    The goblin stared at him.

    Another goblin shoved him from behind.

    "Move."

    The three scouts entered the Tower.

    The first carried the iron crowbar Whitethorn had seen in the woods. The second carried a large sack embroidered with the words DEFINITELY NOT STOLEN. The third still wore the cracked spyglass around his neck.

    The goblin with the sack looked around.

    "Where's all the treasure?"

    "Perhaps the wizard took it," said the thin goblin.

    "Wizards don't take treasure to conventions."

    "How do you know?"

    "Because then someone would steal it."

    Rumple raised his head.

    "An impressive understanding of criminal behavior."

    The goblin with the crowbar pointed at him.

    "You."

    "Unfortunately."

    "Where does the wizard keep his gold?"

    "He doesn't have any."

    "Jewels?"

    "No."

    "Magic swords?"

    "Several. Most are cursed."

    The goblin lowered his crowbar.

    "What can we steal?"

    Rumple considered the question.

    "Bad decisions."

    Whitethorn lowered her head on the beam and watched the goblins carefully.

    The goblin with the sack walked toward the hearth.

    "This rug looks expensive."

    Rumple's head turned.

    "No."

    The goblin bent down.

    "Looks soft."

    "It is."

    "I'm taking it."

    "Don't."

    The goblin grabbed the corner of the rug.

    Rumple stood.

    "You've made your choice."

    From the landing came a small voice.

    "Now?"

    Whitethorn closed her eyes for a moment.

    "Yes, Parsnip."

    The acorn flew.

    It struck the goblin directly between the eyes.

    "OW!"

    Whitethorn dropped from the beam.

    Her wings struck the goblin with the crowbar across the face. He stumbled backward, swinging wildly.

    "BIRD!"

    "Barn owl," Whitethorn corrected.

    A rope snapped tight across the floor.

    The third goblin tripped.

    He crashed headfirst into a barrel beside the kitchen door.

    "MIDDEN!" shouted Scrumbles.

    The Chancellor charged from beneath the pantry shelf.

    "FOR WHORLTOP!"

    Twenty-three rats followed him.

    The goblin inside the barrel screamed.

    "RATS!"

    "Organized rats!" shouted Scrumbles.

    Gerald climbed onto the goblin's boot and struck it repeatedly with his butter knife.

    "Surrender!"

    "Get off!"

    "Surrender first!"

    "You're a rat!"

    "Chancellor's Guard!"

    The goblin kicked his leg.

    Gerald flew into a basket of onions.

    "I'M FINE!"

    Parsnip jumped from the landing.

    He landed on the shoulders of the goblin holding the sack.

    "For the Tower!"

    He poked the goblin's helmet with his twig.

    "For Thistledown!"

    Another poke.

    "For properly organized sunflower seeds!"

    "GET THIS THING OFF ME!"

    "I AM NOT A THING!"

    Parsnip grabbed the goblin's ear and pulled.

    The goblin ran blindly across the room, crashed into a chair, recovered, and continued toward the kitchen.

    The kitchen door slammed shut before he reached it.

    The goblin stopped.

    He stared at the door.

    Parsnip looked down from his shoulders.

    "The Tower doesn't like you."

    The goblin spun around and ran the other way.

    The goblin with the crowbar recovered and raised his weapon.

    "Enough!"

    He swung at Whitethorn.

    She rose beyond his reach.

    The crowbar struck the stone wall.

    The Tower shook.

    Every animal stopped.

    The goblin slowly looked at the stone he had struck.

    A deep creak moved through the room.

    Rumple sat down.

    "You shouldn't have done that."

    The goblin frowned.

    "Done what?"

    An old suit of armor standing beside the staircase turned its helmet.

    The goblin stared at it.

    "Oh."

    The armor stepped away from its stand.

    The goblin raised his crowbar.

    "Stay back."

    The armor took another step.

    "I'm warning you."

    The armor raised one metal fist.

    "I have a crowbar."

    The metal fist struck him squarely in the chest.

    The goblin flew backward through the open front door and landed in the garden.

    Parsnip raised both paws.

    "THE TOWER IS FIGHTING!"

    Whitethorn landed on the back of a chair.

    "I believe we all noticed."

    The goblin carrying the sack threw it down.

    "Forget the treasure!"

    "There wasn't any treasure!" shouted the goblin in the garden.

    "Then forget whatever we were stealing!"

    He ran for the front door.

    Parsnip jumped from his shoulders and rolled across the rug.

    He immediately sprang back to his feet.

    "Retreating already?"

    "We're not retreating!"

    The goblin rushed outside.

    "We're leaving quickly!"

    The third goblin crawled from the barrel.

    Twenty-three rats waited for him.

    Scrumbles drew his spoon.

    "Your decision?"

    The goblin looked at the rats.

    He looked at the animated armor.

    He looked at Whitethorn.

    He looked at Parsnip.

    Finally he looked at Rumple.

    Rumple stared back.

    "I'd run."

    The goblin ran.

    The suit of armor marched to the doorway.

    The front door slammed shut.

    The latch locked itself.

    The armor returned to its place beside the staircase and became still.

    Silence returned to Whorltop Tower.

    Parsnip stood in the middle of the room.

    His red yarn cape hung sideways.

    His walnut helmet was missing.

    His sharpened twig had broken in half.

    He raised both paws.

    "We won."

    Whitethorn landed beside him.

    "We survived three goblins."

    "That's what winning is."

    Scrumbles climbed onto the overturned barrel.

    "The midden performed magnificently."

    Gerald emerged from the onion basket with an onion skin wrapped around his head.

    "I stabbed one."

    "You stabbed his boot," said Scrumbles.

    "The boot surrendered."

    Several rats cheered.

    Whitethorn walked toward the front window.

    Outside, the three goblins were already running toward the forest.

    "Don't celebrate yet."

    Parsnip climbed onto the windowsill beside her.

    "They're gone."

    "They're going back to whoever sent them."

    "Then we'll beat them again."

    Rumple returned to his rug.

    "Perhaps."

    Parsnip turned.

    "You don't sound convinced."

    "Those weren't soldiers."

    "They had weapons."

    "So does Scrumbles."

    Scrumbles touched the spoon at his side.

    "A distinguished weapon."

    Rumple settled onto the rug.

    "They were scouts."

    Nobody answered.

    The Tower gave a low creak.

    Whitethorn looked toward the ceiling.

    "I think it agrees."

    Parsnip looked back through the window.

    "How many do you think there are?"

    Rumple closed his eyes.

    "More than three."

    Far inside the forest, the battered goblins stumbled into a clearing filled with tents.

    Dozens of campfires burned beneath the trees.

    Goblins sat around them sharpening knives, repairing armor, and arguing over stolen food. Crude banners hung from branches. Wooden ladders lay beside carts loaded with ropes, axes, and shields.

    The three scouts walked toward the largest fire.

    A broad goblin sat upon a wooden chair covered with stolen cushions. A crown made from several cooking pots rested on his head.

    The Goblin King leaned forward.

    "Well?"

    The scout with the cracked spyglass rubbed the lump between his eyes.

    "The wizard's gone."

    "And the Tower?"

    The three goblins exchanged nervous looks.

    "Occupied."

    "By whom?"

    "Animals."

    The Goblin King stared at him.

    "Animals."

    "And rats."

    "Rats are animals."

    "These ones are organized."

    The Goblin King slowly rose.

    "You were defeated by organized rats?"

    "There was also an owl."

    "And a squirrel."

    "Very aggressive squirrel."

    "And the cat talked."

    The Goblin King rubbed his forehead.

    Then he began to laugh.

    The goblins around the camp joined him.

    The King walked toward the edge of the clearing and looked through the trees toward the distant lights of Whorltop Tower.

    "So, the little animals fought back."

    His smile disappeared.

    "Good."

    He turned toward the waiting goblins.

    "Tomorrow night..."

    Hundreds of yellow eyes watched him.

    "...we bring the army."