Bookweirdest by Paul Glennon Page A

but not fighting big; there were rolls of fat around his neck, and his big belly rested against the walls of the parapet as he sneered down at Norman. On his head he wore a crown that was too small for him. This had to be Guillaume, the weasel usurper.
    “Search him,” Guillaume ordered.
    Four weasels inched nervously towards Norman. Two grabbed his knapsack, and two began to climb the legs of his jeans.
    “Hey!” Norman yelled, lifting a foot to shake off a harasser. Then he saw the archers on the parapets raise their bows. “Lady Esme will not stand for this!” he yelled, submitting to the search.
    Two weasels checked his pockets, removing and returning the blank pieces of paper he’d stashed in his jeans. The other two rifled through the canvas knapsack, casting its contents onto the cobblestones.
    “Some sort of monster, eh? Needs his little bunny maiden to protect him!” Guillaume mocked. “Where’s the map?” he demanded. “Does he have the map on him?”
    The weasels who had frisked him shook their heads.
    “Where is it, beast?” Guillaume growled. “Where is this map you say you have?”
    “Where’s Malcolm?” Norman countered. “Take me to Malcolm and we’ll both bring you the map. We’ll show everyone who’s the rightful king here!”
    “There is only one rightful king, and that is me!” Guillaume said, snarling.
    Norman bit his lip. Until he actually had the map, it didn’t do any good to provoke Guillaume. He wasn’t here to fight the weasels. He was here to find Malcolm.
    “I don’t want to argue with you. I just want to talk to Malcolm. If you let me see Malcolm, we can explain everything.”
    Guillaume bared a yellow tooth and growled a sickly, hissing growl. “I don’t need an ugly giant to explain anything to me. This is
my
castle,
my
kingdom. You are
my
prisoner, and you’ll keep that foul gaping mouth shut.” He shook his paw like a fist, then clutched the stone walls of the parapet as if he wished he could crush them. “You don’t have any treaty map. You’ve got nothing,” he spat. “You’re a desperate little traitor. We’ll have our trial for treason instead of theft. Your mincing little rabbit dupe can argue all she wants, but we’re having an execution too!”
    Norman glanced down towards the weasel knights, who were now slowly closing in around his feet.
    “Take him away!” the tyrant ordered.
    Norman stared defiantly for a moment, but one halberd poke at his ankle was enough to get him moving.
    The guards marched him out of the courtyard and into the forest, half the squad leading the way, the other half behind prodding him forward. He trudged along despondently. There wasn’t anything he could do. In an open field he might be able to make a break for it, but in the thick forest around Lochwarren Castle he wouldn’t get more than a few feet.
    The narrow trail descended towards the shore of the loch. As the castle receded into the distance, fear began to grip him. They could be taking him anywhere. He stared at the closed visors of his captors and wondered what their orders were. Guillaume had said there would be a trial, but Norman wouldn’t put it past the sneaky weasel to skip straight to the execution.
    He did his best to make conversation, to remind them that he was a friend to the Mustelids, but nobody answered him. Not a single head turned when he pointed out the spot where he’d first seen Lochwarren Castle and reminded them of the miracle shot that had brought down the first wolf. Inside their steel helmets the weasel knights were silent. A chill ran through Norman, and it wasn’t just the cold wind coming from the loch.
    The trail ended at a dock at the edge of the loch. Just this morning, he’d looked down at the lake and felt hopeful about seeing his friend again. Now the sun was low in the sky above the mountains, casting a long streak of silver across the lake, and he was further from Malcolm than ever. If he was going to make a break for