How to Rescue a Dead Princess by Jeff Strand Page B

(3.048 meters)
    Then he saw his chance.
    Eight feet.
    The extra two feet had totally screwed up his chance.
    Six feet.
    He could see the whites of their eyes. The blues, browns, and hazels of their irises. The blacks of their pupils. The reds of their lens suspensory ligaments.
    Four feet.
    Time was running out. If Randall was going to act, he had to act now. This was his last chance.
    Two feet.
    “Ah, screw it,” he said. “I surrender.”
    The guards stopped moving forward. All of them had their swords pointed at Randall's throat. “Give us one good reason why we shouldn't kill you,” they said, in rather impressive unison.
    “Well,” said Randall, “I've never knowingly practiced cannibalism.”
    “That's an okay reason,” admitted five of the guards in unison. The sixth was distracted by a caterpillar.
    An old crone dressed in rags and sponges pushed through the guards and took hold of Randall's necklace. “I recognize this accursed object!” she snarled. “This belongs to the Hey, Let's Kill Us A King underground movement! This man is a spy!” She moved to the side. “Slay him now!”
    “No!” said one of the guards in nothing resembling unison. “He must be made an example of! We will give him a public execution at dawn!”
    “Aw, why do we have to get up so early?” asked another guard.
    Randall tried to take a casual step backward. The guards immediately brought the tips of their swords even closer to his throat. “Stop that right now!” they said, sounding like a barbershop quartet. “Put your hands in the air!”
    Randall put his hands in the air, accidentally smacking the old crone in the process. “He's gone berserk!” shouted a commoner in the courtyard. A woman screamed.
    Taking advantage of the distraction, Randall ducked underneath the swords, and in the most important game of Red Rover, Red Rover he'd ever played, broke through the line of guards and took off running down the center of the courtyard toward a huge fountain. The center of the fountain contained a huge statue of Osiris, Goddess of Hot Loving.
    “Get him!” shouted one of the guards.
    “Oooh, good call,” said a terribly sarcastic commoner, who was promptly trampled by seven pairs of guard's boots, including the one that went back and trampled him a second time.
    At the base of the fountain, Randall considered his options. Option #1: Find a way to escape. Option #2: Die. After taking a moment to think about it, he selected Option #1, which involved more effort but had a preferable outcome.
    He surveyed his surroundings.
    South: Six angry guards running toward him, swords raised. Bad direction to move.
    West: The horse-drawn carriage. A brick wall. A few random commoners. A cannon with the fuse lit. Bad direction to move.
    East: Another brick wall. A few more random commoners. A fat guy selling pudding. A ape-like man holding a six-foot-long sword with “Widow Maker and Breaker” carved on the blade. Bad direction to move.
    North: The fountain. Past the fountain, the gateway to another area of the kingdom, leading to dangers untold. Quality of direction to be determined later.
    Up: Top of the fountain. Good vantage point. Chance to say he climbed to the top of the Osiris statue. Optimum choice at this venture.
    He jumped into the cold, sparkling, tangy waters of the fountain, reached for the nearest Osiris curve, and began to climb.
    “He's done for!” said one of the guards. “With the temperature of that water and this unseasonably cool breeze, he'll have pneumonia before he knows it!”
    Several curves later, Randall reached the top of the fountain statue and stood on Osiris's shoulders. He looked out around the kingdom and realized he was doomed, though he did take a moment to admire the exquisite architecture and layout of this kingdom. The castle was a healthy run away, and most likely contained a guard or two. Aside from leaping over the walls, there didn't seem to be any exits beyond the way he'd come