| SORCEROUS SIGNALS |
| Written by Laura J. Underwoodi / Artwork by Lee Kuruganti |
| Make a donation to this writer |
| Renalto |
“Twas the merry month of May
When the sun was shining gay.
Sing hey nonny nonny,
Sing hey nonny ho.
When there came a shining knight
On a destrier bold and white.
Singing, Hey nonny nonny,
Hey ho....”
The rich baritone floated down from the stone tower that centered the forest clearing as straight as a middle finger raised
in vulgar defiance. Princess Bronwyn jerked her blood bay war-horse Quarto to a halt just at the edge of the rambling
trees. She pulled off her helm to allow a mass of fiery curls to cascade over her shoulders as she listened, enraptured by
the deep dulcet tones warbling through the air. Never in all her life had she heard such a gentle, manly voice that could set
her blood and heart aflame with desire. By all the gods, had her quest finally come to an end?
Bronwyn was the youngest of three daughters born to King Borgos of Bangor. Princess Rula, eldest child of the set,
would be queen one day, and had already rescued a russet-haired prince from a terrible dragon last summer and made him
her consort. Their second sister, Dru, had laid claim to a handsome knight from Tireach after winning the joust against all
comers at the Great Fair just last fall. That left Bronwyn unwed and unsure of where to look for her man as spring rolled
around. So, like the youngest child in many such tales, she chose to quest for her mate in the Enchanted Forest beyond the
Black Swamps (which were really more of a grey-green, and rather smelly and dank even in the spring, in Bronwyn’s
opinion).
Alas, so far, the pickings had proved slim. Those men handsome and worthy were already hitched to some princess or
peasant or another. Those handsome and not so worthy -- well, she just didn’t want to be stuck with any old man. He had
to be special. He had to be perfect. He had to be the answer to all her dreams. From the voice she heard filling the clearing;
Bronwyn knew in the heart beneath her chain mail-clothed breast, this had to be the one she sought. True love in all its
glory, and a challenge worthy of a warrior princess.
Eagerly, she urged Quarto to follow the edge of the trees, allowing her to circle the lone tower and seek an entrance from
a safe distance. After all, a tower in the middle of an enchanted forest was likely to be surrounded by traps yet discovered.
But by the time Bronwyn had completed her circuit of the field, she was put out to notice no sign of a proper door existed.
Not even a hint of a stair. In fact, the only opening she could see was that singular window at the top, from whence her
intended sang his merry melody.
“This tower must be enchanted as well, Quarto,” Bronwyn muttered aloud, glancing around. “Mayhaps, we have stumbled
on the lair of some evil wizard or ugly witch.”
With true equine enthusiasm, Quarto raised his tail and expressed his odiferous opinion of the whole affair.
Bronwyn was debating whether it would be feasible to try to build a ladder when she heard a rash of curses and thrashing
motions from the thick verdant circle of trees.
“...friggin forest! Get out of my way, you stupid vines! I live here... Arghh! Get your fronds out of my garters... I swear,
that’s the last time I buy enchanted cuttings from those randy elves...!”
Uncertain, Bronwyn pressed heels to Quarto’s flanks and urged him off into a coppice, where she dismounted to wait.
Even a brave and bold princess like herself couldn’t be too careful these days.
The epithets that filled the wood carried a definite feminine growl, though somewhat nasal in tonality. Within moments, a
figure broke into the clearing...
“Horse manure!” came the cry of rage as the figure skittered for balance.
A very observant and crafty witch, Bronwyn thought, watching as an old woman in a flutter of black and red robes
stamped about the clearing and rubbed her foot in the grass to remove the offending offal. The creature was tall and
skinny as a birch, though not as tall as Bronwyn, and the nose on the old woman’s face had a powerful hook to it, the sort
witches in stories like this were wont to wear, except it lacked the traditional wart with three hairs. Her skin, however, did
possess the proper sickly yellow-green hue befitting someone who had led a wicked existence -- or just had a bad case of
jaundice. The old woman continued to grouse a string of obscenities under her breath as she stomped her way towards the
tower.
Here now, Bronwyn thought. At least, I shall learn where the doorway lies...
The old woman stopped under the window and looked up. “Renalto, Renalto, throw down your golden hair,” she called.
The singing ceased and a youthful, bearded face peered out the window.
“Is that you, Mother Putrid?” the young man shouted down, his eyes wide and innocent as those of a wild buck. Bronwyn
held her breath at the beautiful sight.
“Of course, it’s me, you gormless nit!” Mother Putrid snarled. “Now, toss it out here, boy. I haven’t got all day!”
“Ah, couldn’t we do this another way for once?” he asked with a pout.
“Toss it out here, you ninny, or I’ll whack your fanny when I get up there!”
“Yes, Mother Putrid,” Renalto said with a put-upon sigh that would been envied by the most recalcitrant teenager.
His face disappeared from view, and within moment, a golden braided rope came cascading out of the window. Bronwyn
quickly tied Quarto to a bush, leaving him to feed, and made her way around through the thick growth until she was in a
position to see the window. Alas, still being on the ground afforded her little view; so with some difficulty, since armor
was not proper tree-climbing attire, she shinnied herself up the nearest tree trunk until she was level with the window.
Mother Putrid was far more athletic than one would have suspected at her age, but then, Bronwyn had listened to all the
bard tales and knew witches had that way about them, though whether it was steroids, a good coach or simple magic, no
one could say. Like an agile spider, Mother Putrid clambered up the side of the tower hand over hand up the golden rope,
rising rapidly to the window where Bronwyn could see poor Renalto. He had a foot planted to either side of the opening
and was clutching a segment of that shimmering braid, wearing a grimace. And from this angle, Bronwyn could see the
rope was actually an extension of that lengthy beard attached to his handsome chin.
The witch reached the window, popping through the gap, an act that sent Renalto sprawling with a loud “Oomph!”
Mother Putrid merely paraded across the top of the young man as though he were a rug.
“Where’s my Staff of Power?” she growled, her head snapping from side to side in search of the aforementioned item. “I
need it to show off at the Big Witch Feast over in the Mawky Meadow...”
“Staff of Power?” Renalto repeated, slowly crawling to his feet and wrapping the length of his beard around his torso and
shoulders several times. “What Staff of Power?”
“The one I left sitting over by the hearth,” Mother Putrid said in a snappish manner, hands flying to her hips as she leaned
towards him with a sneer.
Renalto recoiled a bit. “That was a Staff of Power?” he said. “I thought it burned awfully bright...”
“You burned my Staff of Power, you gyte!” she shrieked as she whacked him across the forehead with the flat of her
hand, causing him to yelp. “Curses, boy, don’t you ever use that handsome head of yours for anything other than an
attachment at the end of your neck?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It was cold, and I was lonely and thought a fire would cheer me...”
“Of course, you’re sorry, you ninny,” Mother Putrid said and seized his beard close enough to his chin to make him wince
as she jerked him to her. “If you weren’t such a looker, I’d toss you out of this tall tower for doing that. But Mother
Putrid knows a good thing when she sees it.” She made a playful grab for his groin, and Bronwyn nearly fell out of the
tree in sympathetic outrage. “With you in my clutches, I’m the envy of every witch in the Enchanted Forest and beyond.”
Renalto’s face turned red, and he ducked his eyes as shyly as any virgin.
“Oh, well,” Mother Putrid said and released him. “I’d stay and play, but then I’d be late for the feast. Don’t wait up for
me, boy. You need your beauty sleep.”
With that, she snatched up the end of his beard and gave a tug that send him spinning like a top as she rappelled herself
down the side of the tower. She landed on her feet, and Renalto barely managed to snag the edge of the window to keep
him from being hurled from that great height to his doom. Cackling, the old witch ambled off into the woods, just missing
Quarto’s leavings as she disappeared into the green.
Bronwyn waited only until she thought the coast was clear before half-climbing and half falling from her perch in the tree.
Her armor was a mess, and there were bits of leaves and bark in her hair. She shook them away and started across the
clearing on foot, throwing a quick glance towards the thicket where Quarto was chomping a hole in the leaves that hid
him. The ground close to the tower was rocky and uneven; making her believe the structure had been built on the only
firm real estate for some distance. At the base, she stopped and glanced up towards the window.
“Renalto, Renalto, throw down your golden hair,” she said, trying to disguise her voice under a nasal growl.
“Oh, not again,” he groused, but the beard came tumbling down all the same. Bronwyn seized it and started climbing up
the face of the tower.
She lacked the witch’s grace, to be sure, and the chain mail was weighty while the stones were slick under her feet, but
Bronwyn had spent her youth practicing the ways of a warrior princess. It took her longer to make the long climb to the
window, but she finally managed to snag the edge with one hand and pull herself up into the opening.
Renalto was there, feet planted, eyes closed, grunting and groaning about how Mother Putrid had gained weight since she
last made the climb. Only when Bronwyn released her grasp on his beard, he opened his eyes and gasped before falling to
the floor. His head made a sound thwack on the reed-covered surface as he cried out in pain. Bronwyn vaulted over the
window ledge and crouched at his side.
“Who the bloody bogies are you?” he said, pushing upright, then hissing as he touched the back of his own head and
found the tender knot.
“I’m the Princess Bronwyn of Bangor, and I’ve come to rescue you,” she replied.
“Why?”
“Why not?” she said, sitting back on her heels. “Don’t you want to be rescued?”
“Well, I wouldn’t be adverse to it,” he said, “but I hardly know you.”
“I’m the Princess Bronwyn of Bangor...”
“You already said that.”
“So who are you?”
“Renalto,” he said, “but you already know my name too.”
“That’s true,” she said. “How did you come to be here in this tower?”
He frowned. “It happened when I was but a lad,” he said. “My mother was the wife of a Duke somewhere far away who
bargained with Mother Putrid in order to give birth to a son and find favor with my father. When I was ten, the old witch
came to claim her payment. She snatched me from my nurse, and brought me here. She’s kept me in this tower for so
long, I’ve lost count of the years.”
“A standard tale of woe,” Bronwyn said. “Do you like living here with a witch?”
“Not really,” he replied. “I’m practically alone most of the day with little more to do than embroider flowers on my
bedclothes and count the hairs of my beard. As for Mother Putrid, she feeds me and all, but otherwise, she just treats me
like a slab of beef, always pinching and poking like she wanted to make sure I was tender. And her hands, they’re so
rough and dry...ugh.” He shivered. “Sometimes, I just wish I could get away from this place and find out what it’s like in
the real world.”
“Good, because I’m here to end your suffering,” Bronwyn said cheerfully. “I’ll just rescue you, take you home and make
you my consort. What do you think of that?”
“Do I have to live in a tower?”
“No, but Daddy did promise me we could have the northern keep to ourselves. What do you say?”
“Well, if you insist,” he said.
Bronwyn threw arms about him. “Oh rapture, oh joy...”
“Hey, that hurts!” he yelped as in her exuberance, she smacked the tender lump on the back of his head.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’ll get you a cold compress for that when we get on the ground.”
“That would be nice,” he said with a grimace, “but there’s just one problem.”
“What?”
“I can’t get down.”
“What do you mean?” Bronwyn said. “You just toss out the beard and we’ll climb down...”
“And how am I supposed to hang onto my own beard?”
Bronwyn made a face. “Oh, right,” she said and crawled to her feet, offering Renalto a hand getting off the floor. She
walked a circle around the tower, hands on hips as she pondered the possibilities. Her gaze fell across the blankets on his
bed, fine linen things with little flowers embroidered around the edge. His work was quite good. No doubt, her mother,
Queen Agatha of Bangor, would be pleased to have a son-in-law with such exceptional skill. “I know,” Bronwyn said,
snapping her fingers. “We’ll cut the blanket into strips and make a rope.”
“That won’t work,” he said.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bronwyn insisted. “I’ve done it before and it always works...” She drew a dagger from her boot
and slashed into the linen. But even as the cloth parted before her steel, it wove itself back together behind the cut.
“It’s enchanted,” Renalto said.
“How about we tie a bunch of these sheets together and...”
“Tried that,” Renalto said and crossed his arms over his chest as he shook his head. “The knots slip loose.”
“Absurd...” Bronwyn said and tried to tie the corners with a granny knot, but even as she tugged them to tighten the hold,
they slid apart as though they were slippery silks. “Toad turds,” she muttered then looked at him. “All right. You throw the
beard down, I’ll climb down and cut some tree limbs and make a ladder...”
“That won’t work either,” he insisted. “This is, after all, an enchanted forest. Mother Putrid controls the trees. At the first
sign of an axe, they’re trained to pound you into a little pulp.”
“So, I’ll go to the nearest village, get a rope ladder and a grappling hook, and come back,” Bronwyn said, her voice as
sharp as Mother Putrid’s. Renalto hitched back as he had done when the witch spoke harshly to him. “Will that satisfy
you, Mr. Smarty Breeches?”
“Well, it sounds better than all your other plans,” he agreed with an uncertain glance at the muscles in her arms and the
size of the fist she knotted one hand into.
“Renalto, Renalto, throw down your golden hair...” the nasally voice of Mother Putrid floated up from below.
“Toad turds,” Bronwyn snapped.
Renalto merely moaned.
“Come on, you ninny!” the witch shouted. “I forgot my magic broom. I’ll need it for a designated flyer because I’ll
probably be too drunk on blood wine to find my own way home in the dark.”
“Tell her you’ll throw it down,” Bronwyn suggested.
“Uh, why don’t I just throw it down to you...” he said, moving to the window.
“Because it will fly away and get lost before it even hits the rocks, you gyte,” Mother Putrid said. “Now, toss your beard
out here, boy. I’m going to be late as it is...”
“I, uh...”
“Come on, or I’ll stuff you into a haggis with some rotten onions...”
Renalto drew back from the window, wringing his hands. “What do I do?” he whispered. “If she finds you up here, she’ll
turn you into a dust bunny.”
Bronwyn made a face. Dust bunnies made her sneeze. This whole affair was starting to look like a proper pickle, and here
she was hoping to claim her young man and get back to Bangor before the first signs of summer, since crossing the Black
Swamps was terrible when it was hot. All muggy and the gnats...
“Hey, whose horse is that eating my magic trees?” Mother Putrid called.
“What horse?” Renalto said. Bronwyn quickly found an angle where she could look out the window unseen. Sure enough,
Quarto had eaten a veritable window of a hole through the leaves. That horse always was a greedy pig, and all those magic
leaves would probably give him the trots...
“Have you got someone up there with you?” Mother Putrid said. “Because if you do...”
“I don’t know about any horse!” Renalto insisted, his deep voice rising from its natural baritone to an unnatural tenor.
“A beaver’s behind, you don’t!” Mother Putrid said. “You toss that beard out right now, or I’m sending a lightning bolt up
there to get you and whoever you’re hiding...”
“And she will,” Renalto said with a whimper. He seized up the length of his beard and sent it tumbling over the sill before
Bronwyn could stop him. Mother Putrid snagged it, nearly yanking him out of the window as she started scrambling up
towards them as fast as a rock lizard.
Bronwyn quickly jerked her sword from the scabbard. She was not a warrior princess for naught. She rushed towards the
opening, eager to meet the foe.
“Aha!” Mother Putrid said when Bronwyn leaned out. “So you have a girl in there with you, you two-timing little nit! Well,
I’ll fix that!” Pointing one finger at Bronwyn, the old woman cackled in the standard, maniacal manner of all witches.
Bronwyn was wondering whether she should find a basket to collect the eggs, when a bolt of lightning streaked towards
her face. She ducked back barely in time to avoid it. Still, the static singed the forelock of her fiery tresses and left them
smoking as the bolt flew in and struck the ceiling where it shattered and showered them with sparks.
Mother Putrid cackled again and continued to climb up the tower wall, when Bronwyn seized the length of Renalto’s beard
in one hand. Down flashed her blade, causing poor Renalto to scream in falsetto before the steel severed his golden braid.
He yelped as the release of weight left him with nothing to hang onto but air, and once more he fell to land upon the floor
with a resounding thud. There was a moment where the cackle became a wretched curse that seemed to fade in the
distance before being cut short.
Only when silence floated up did Bronwyn dare stick her head out of the window to see what had happened. Below on the
rocks lay the broken body of Mother Putrid, the length of golden, braided hair coiled on top of her like a snake.
“Well, then, that’s that,” Bronwyn said, sheathing her sword. “The witch is dead, and you are free to come away with me,
my handsome lad. What do you say to that?”
“How are we going to get down?” Renalto moaned as he sat up and looked at the pathetically short remains of his once
glorious beard.
Bronwyn narrowed her eyes as the realization of his words sank in.
“Uh, how long did it take you to grow that thing?”
When the sun was shining gay.
Sing hey nonny nonny,
Sing hey nonny ho.
When there came a shining knight
On a destrier bold and white.
Singing, Hey nonny nonny,
Hey ho....”
The rich baritone floated down from the stone tower that centered the forest clearing as straight as a middle finger raised
in vulgar defiance. Princess Bronwyn jerked her blood bay war-horse Quarto to a halt just at the edge of the rambling
trees. She pulled off her helm to allow a mass of fiery curls to cascade over her shoulders as she listened, enraptured by
the deep dulcet tones warbling through the air. Never in all her life had she heard such a gentle, manly voice that could set
her blood and heart aflame with desire. By all the gods, had her quest finally come to an end?
Bronwyn was the youngest of three daughters born to King Borgos of Bangor. Princess Rula, eldest child of the set,
would be queen one day, and had already rescued a russet-haired prince from a terrible dragon last summer and made him
her consort. Their second sister, Dru, had laid claim to a handsome knight from Tireach after winning the joust against all
comers at the Great Fair just last fall. That left Bronwyn unwed and unsure of where to look for her man as spring rolled
around. So, like the youngest child in many such tales, she chose to quest for her mate in the Enchanted Forest beyond the
Black Swamps (which were really more of a grey-green, and rather smelly and dank even in the spring, in Bronwyn’s
opinion).
Alas, so far, the pickings had proved slim. Those men handsome and worthy were already hitched to some princess or
peasant or another. Those handsome and not so worthy -- well, she just didn’t want to be stuck with any old man. He had
to be special. He had to be perfect. He had to be the answer to all her dreams. From the voice she heard filling the clearing;
Bronwyn knew in the heart beneath her chain mail-clothed breast, this had to be the one she sought. True love in all its
glory, and a challenge worthy of a warrior princess.
Eagerly, she urged Quarto to follow the edge of the trees, allowing her to circle the lone tower and seek an entrance from
a safe distance. After all, a tower in the middle of an enchanted forest was likely to be surrounded by traps yet discovered.
But by the time Bronwyn had completed her circuit of the field, she was put out to notice no sign of a proper door existed.
Not even a hint of a stair. In fact, the only opening she could see was that singular window at the top, from whence her
intended sang his merry melody.
“This tower must be enchanted as well, Quarto,” Bronwyn muttered aloud, glancing around. “Mayhaps, we have stumbled
on the lair of some evil wizard or ugly witch.”
With true equine enthusiasm, Quarto raised his tail and expressed his odiferous opinion of the whole affair.
Bronwyn was debating whether it would be feasible to try to build a ladder when she heard a rash of curses and thrashing
motions from the thick verdant circle of trees.
“...friggin forest! Get out of my way, you stupid vines! I live here... Arghh! Get your fronds out of my garters... I swear,
that’s the last time I buy enchanted cuttings from those randy elves...!”
Uncertain, Bronwyn pressed heels to Quarto’s flanks and urged him off into a coppice, where she dismounted to wait.
Even a brave and bold princess like herself couldn’t be too careful these days.
The epithets that filled the wood carried a definite feminine growl, though somewhat nasal in tonality. Within moments, a
figure broke into the clearing...
“Horse manure!” came the cry of rage as the figure skittered for balance.
A very observant and crafty witch, Bronwyn thought, watching as an old woman in a flutter of black and red robes
stamped about the clearing and rubbed her foot in the grass to remove the offending offal. The creature was tall and
skinny as a birch, though not as tall as Bronwyn, and the nose on the old woman’s face had a powerful hook to it, the sort
witches in stories like this were wont to wear, except it lacked the traditional wart with three hairs. Her skin, however, did
possess the proper sickly yellow-green hue befitting someone who had led a wicked existence -- or just had a bad case of
jaundice. The old woman continued to grouse a string of obscenities under her breath as she stomped her way towards the
tower.
Here now, Bronwyn thought. At least, I shall learn where the doorway lies...
The old woman stopped under the window and looked up. “Renalto, Renalto, throw down your golden hair,” she called.
The singing ceased and a youthful, bearded face peered out the window.
“Is that you, Mother Putrid?” the young man shouted down, his eyes wide and innocent as those of a wild buck. Bronwyn
held her breath at the beautiful sight.
“Of course, it’s me, you gormless nit!” Mother Putrid snarled. “Now, toss it out here, boy. I haven’t got all day!”
“Ah, couldn’t we do this another way for once?” he asked with a pout.
“Toss it out here, you ninny, or I’ll whack your fanny when I get up there!”
“Yes, Mother Putrid,” Renalto said with a put-upon sigh that would been envied by the most recalcitrant teenager.
His face disappeared from view, and within moment, a golden braided rope came cascading out of the window. Bronwyn
quickly tied Quarto to a bush, leaving him to feed, and made her way around through the thick growth until she was in a
position to see the window. Alas, still being on the ground afforded her little view; so with some difficulty, since armor
was not proper tree-climbing attire, she shinnied herself up the nearest tree trunk until she was level with the window.
Mother Putrid was far more athletic than one would have suspected at her age, but then, Bronwyn had listened to all the
bard tales and knew witches had that way about them, though whether it was steroids, a good coach or simple magic, no
one could say. Like an agile spider, Mother Putrid clambered up the side of the tower hand over hand up the golden rope,
rising rapidly to the window where Bronwyn could see poor Renalto. He had a foot planted to either side of the opening
and was clutching a segment of that shimmering braid, wearing a grimace. And from this angle, Bronwyn could see the
rope was actually an extension of that lengthy beard attached to his handsome chin.
The witch reached the window, popping through the gap, an act that sent Renalto sprawling with a loud “Oomph!”
Mother Putrid merely paraded across the top of the young man as though he were a rug.
“Where’s my Staff of Power?” she growled, her head snapping from side to side in search of the aforementioned item. “I
need it to show off at the Big Witch Feast over in the Mawky Meadow...”
“Staff of Power?” Renalto repeated, slowly crawling to his feet and wrapping the length of his beard around his torso and
shoulders several times. “What Staff of Power?”
“The one I left sitting over by the hearth,” Mother Putrid said in a snappish manner, hands flying to her hips as she leaned
towards him with a sneer.
Renalto recoiled a bit. “That was a Staff of Power?” he said. “I thought it burned awfully bright...”
“You burned my Staff of Power, you gyte!” she shrieked as she whacked him across the forehead with the flat of her
hand, causing him to yelp. “Curses, boy, don’t you ever use that handsome head of yours for anything other than an
attachment at the end of your neck?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It was cold, and I was lonely and thought a fire would cheer me...”
“Of course, you’re sorry, you ninny,” Mother Putrid said and seized his beard close enough to his chin to make him wince
as she jerked him to her. “If you weren’t such a looker, I’d toss you out of this tall tower for doing that. But Mother
Putrid knows a good thing when she sees it.” She made a playful grab for his groin, and Bronwyn nearly fell out of the
tree in sympathetic outrage. “With you in my clutches, I’m the envy of every witch in the Enchanted Forest and beyond.”
Renalto’s face turned red, and he ducked his eyes as shyly as any virgin.
“Oh, well,” Mother Putrid said and released him. “I’d stay and play, but then I’d be late for the feast. Don’t wait up for
me, boy. You need your beauty sleep.”
With that, she snatched up the end of his beard and gave a tug that send him spinning like a top as she rappelled herself
down the side of the tower. She landed on her feet, and Renalto barely managed to snag the edge of the window to keep
him from being hurled from that great height to his doom. Cackling, the old witch ambled off into the woods, just missing
Quarto’s leavings as she disappeared into the green.
Bronwyn waited only until she thought the coast was clear before half-climbing and half falling from her perch in the tree.
Her armor was a mess, and there were bits of leaves and bark in her hair. She shook them away and started across the
clearing on foot, throwing a quick glance towards the thicket where Quarto was chomping a hole in the leaves that hid
him. The ground close to the tower was rocky and uneven; making her believe the structure had been built on the only
firm real estate for some distance. At the base, she stopped and glanced up towards the window.
“Renalto, Renalto, throw down your golden hair,” she said, trying to disguise her voice under a nasal growl.
“Oh, not again,” he groused, but the beard came tumbling down all the same. Bronwyn seized it and started climbing up
the face of the tower.
She lacked the witch’s grace, to be sure, and the chain mail was weighty while the stones were slick under her feet, but
Bronwyn had spent her youth practicing the ways of a warrior princess. It took her longer to make the long climb to the
window, but she finally managed to snag the edge with one hand and pull herself up into the opening.
Renalto was there, feet planted, eyes closed, grunting and groaning about how Mother Putrid had gained weight since she
last made the climb. Only when Bronwyn released her grasp on his beard, he opened his eyes and gasped before falling to
the floor. His head made a sound thwack on the reed-covered surface as he cried out in pain. Bronwyn vaulted over the
window ledge and crouched at his side.
“Who the bloody bogies are you?” he said, pushing upright, then hissing as he touched the back of his own head and
found the tender knot.
“I’m the Princess Bronwyn of Bangor, and I’ve come to rescue you,” she replied.
“Why?”
“Why not?” she said, sitting back on her heels. “Don’t you want to be rescued?”
“Well, I wouldn’t be adverse to it,” he said, “but I hardly know you.”
“I’m the Princess Bronwyn of Bangor...”
“You already said that.”
“So who are you?”
“Renalto,” he said, “but you already know my name too.”
“That’s true,” she said. “How did you come to be here in this tower?”
He frowned. “It happened when I was but a lad,” he said. “My mother was the wife of a Duke somewhere far away who
bargained with Mother Putrid in order to give birth to a son and find favor with my father. When I was ten, the old witch
came to claim her payment. She snatched me from my nurse, and brought me here. She’s kept me in this tower for so
long, I’ve lost count of the years.”
“A standard tale of woe,” Bronwyn said. “Do you like living here with a witch?”
“Not really,” he replied. “I’m practically alone most of the day with little more to do than embroider flowers on my
bedclothes and count the hairs of my beard. As for Mother Putrid, she feeds me and all, but otherwise, she just treats me
like a slab of beef, always pinching and poking like she wanted to make sure I was tender. And her hands, they’re so
rough and dry...ugh.” He shivered. “Sometimes, I just wish I could get away from this place and find out what it’s like in
the real world.”
“Good, because I’m here to end your suffering,” Bronwyn said cheerfully. “I’ll just rescue you, take you home and make
you my consort. What do you think of that?”
“Do I have to live in a tower?”
“No, but Daddy did promise me we could have the northern keep to ourselves. What do you say?”
“Well, if you insist,” he said.
Bronwyn threw arms about him. “Oh rapture, oh joy...”
“Hey, that hurts!” he yelped as in her exuberance, she smacked the tender lump on the back of his head.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’ll get you a cold compress for that when we get on the ground.”
“That would be nice,” he said with a grimace, “but there’s just one problem.”
“What?”
“I can’t get down.”
“What do you mean?” Bronwyn said. “You just toss out the beard and we’ll climb down...”
“And how am I supposed to hang onto my own beard?”
Bronwyn made a face. “Oh, right,” she said and crawled to her feet, offering Renalto a hand getting off the floor. She
walked a circle around the tower, hands on hips as she pondered the possibilities. Her gaze fell across the blankets on his
bed, fine linen things with little flowers embroidered around the edge. His work was quite good. No doubt, her mother,
Queen Agatha of Bangor, would be pleased to have a son-in-law with such exceptional skill. “I know,” Bronwyn said,
snapping her fingers. “We’ll cut the blanket into strips and make a rope.”
“That won’t work,” he said.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bronwyn insisted. “I’ve done it before and it always works...” She drew a dagger from her boot
and slashed into the linen. But even as the cloth parted before her steel, it wove itself back together behind the cut.
“It’s enchanted,” Renalto said.
“How about we tie a bunch of these sheets together and...”
“Tried that,” Renalto said and crossed his arms over his chest as he shook his head. “The knots slip loose.”
“Absurd...” Bronwyn said and tried to tie the corners with a granny knot, but even as she tugged them to tighten the hold,
they slid apart as though they were slippery silks. “Toad turds,” she muttered then looked at him. “All right. You throw the
beard down, I’ll climb down and cut some tree limbs and make a ladder...”
“That won’t work either,” he insisted. “This is, after all, an enchanted forest. Mother Putrid controls the trees. At the first
sign of an axe, they’re trained to pound you into a little pulp.”
“So, I’ll go to the nearest village, get a rope ladder and a grappling hook, and come back,” Bronwyn said, her voice as
sharp as Mother Putrid’s. Renalto hitched back as he had done when the witch spoke harshly to him. “Will that satisfy
you, Mr. Smarty Breeches?”
“Well, it sounds better than all your other plans,” he agreed with an uncertain glance at the muscles in her arms and the
size of the fist she knotted one hand into.
“Renalto, Renalto, throw down your golden hair...” the nasally voice of Mother Putrid floated up from below.
“Toad turds,” Bronwyn snapped.
Renalto merely moaned.
“Come on, you ninny!” the witch shouted. “I forgot my magic broom. I’ll need it for a designated flyer because I’ll
probably be too drunk on blood wine to find my own way home in the dark.”
“Tell her you’ll throw it down,” Bronwyn suggested.
“Uh, why don’t I just throw it down to you...” he said, moving to the window.
“Because it will fly away and get lost before it even hits the rocks, you gyte,” Mother Putrid said. “Now, toss your beard
out here, boy. I’m going to be late as it is...”
“I, uh...”
“Come on, or I’ll stuff you into a haggis with some rotten onions...”
Renalto drew back from the window, wringing his hands. “What do I do?” he whispered. “If she finds you up here, she’ll
turn you into a dust bunny.”
Bronwyn made a face. Dust bunnies made her sneeze. This whole affair was starting to look like a proper pickle, and here
she was hoping to claim her young man and get back to Bangor before the first signs of summer, since crossing the Black
Swamps was terrible when it was hot. All muggy and the gnats...
“Hey, whose horse is that eating my magic trees?” Mother Putrid called.
“What horse?” Renalto said. Bronwyn quickly found an angle where she could look out the window unseen. Sure enough,
Quarto had eaten a veritable window of a hole through the leaves. That horse always was a greedy pig, and all those magic
leaves would probably give him the trots...
“Have you got someone up there with you?” Mother Putrid said. “Because if you do...”
“I don’t know about any horse!” Renalto insisted, his deep voice rising from its natural baritone to an unnatural tenor.
“A beaver’s behind, you don’t!” Mother Putrid said. “You toss that beard out right now, or I’m sending a lightning bolt up
there to get you and whoever you’re hiding...”
“And she will,” Renalto said with a whimper. He seized up the length of his beard and sent it tumbling over the sill before
Bronwyn could stop him. Mother Putrid snagged it, nearly yanking him out of the window as she started scrambling up
towards them as fast as a rock lizard.
Bronwyn quickly jerked her sword from the scabbard. She was not a warrior princess for naught. She rushed towards the
opening, eager to meet the foe.
“Aha!” Mother Putrid said when Bronwyn leaned out. “So you have a girl in there with you, you two-timing little nit! Well,
I’ll fix that!” Pointing one finger at Bronwyn, the old woman cackled in the standard, maniacal manner of all witches.
Bronwyn was wondering whether she should find a basket to collect the eggs, when a bolt of lightning streaked towards
her face. She ducked back barely in time to avoid it. Still, the static singed the forelock of her fiery tresses and left them
smoking as the bolt flew in and struck the ceiling where it shattered and showered them with sparks.
Mother Putrid cackled again and continued to climb up the tower wall, when Bronwyn seized the length of Renalto’s beard
in one hand. Down flashed her blade, causing poor Renalto to scream in falsetto before the steel severed his golden braid.
He yelped as the release of weight left him with nothing to hang onto but air, and once more he fell to land upon the floor
with a resounding thud. There was a moment where the cackle became a wretched curse that seemed to fade in the
distance before being cut short.
Only when silence floated up did Bronwyn dare stick her head out of the window to see what had happened. Below on the
rocks lay the broken body of Mother Putrid, the length of golden, braided hair coiled on top of her like a snake.
“Well, then, that’s that,” Bronwyn said, sheathing her sword. “The witch is dead, and you are free to come away with me,
my handsome lad. What do you say to that?”
“How are we going to get down?” Renalto moaned as he sat up and looked at the pathetically short remains of his once
glorious beard.
Bronwyn narrowed her eyes as the realization of his words sank in.
“Uh, how long did it take you to grow that thing?”
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