Anya stepped back. She felt the blood draining out of her face and knew she’d gone white.
All that effort, the dangers, the difficulties they’d been through. After everything, the anti-transmogrification lip balm didn’t work!
“We’re done for,” croaked Anya. “But what … we did everything right … the ingredients … ”
“Try me!” urged Smoothie, jumping down from the branch, her paw-hands held together to beseech the princess. “It has to work! Maybe it’s Shrub, not the lip balm.”
Anya didn’t know what else to do, so she kissed Smoothie on the top of her sleek head. Not expecting anything, she reeled back suddenly as the otter-maid exploded with a blue flash, replaced by a huge Yarrow River otter squeaking and undulating on the grass. She wove around Anya’s legs, almost knocked her over, and then ran around the hut several times.
“I don’t understand,” said Anya. “Maybe it was still just too hot when I kissed Shrub … Shrub … where’s that newt gone?”
Shrub had disappeared. Ardent dropped his nose to the ground, sniffed, then pointed with his snout and forepaw.
“Deeper under the hawthorn.”
“That boy is in big trouble,” said Martha as Smoothie zoomed back from the hut and did a kind of horizontal figure eight in front of Anya.
“Can you still speak human?” Anya asked the otter.
“Yersh, I shink so,” said Smoothie. “Moutsh differensh. Shanks so shuch, Pchincess!”
“Right,” said Anya. “Ardent and Smoothie, go watch for the weaselfolk! I’ll start on the frogs. Martha, you can help.”
Everyone ran. Anya and Martha moved the barrel, rolling it on its rim closer to the cauldron. Anya smeared on more lip balm and Martha plucked out the first frog. It was a big one, and it kicked and croaked as if it was about to go into a frying pan with garlic.
“Hold it away from yourself and let go as I kiss,” warned Anya, leaning in to follow up her words with action.
Smooch! Bang! Green light!
A very tall, broad-shouldered woman in the tattered, rusty remnants of a mail hauberk stood before them. She overtopped Anya by two feet at least, and her impressively tattooed forearms were about as thick as Anya’s waist.
“Uh, my name’s Princess Anya and I’ve just transformed you back into a human.”
Suddenly, being confronted with this huge and dangerous-looking woman, Anya wasn’t so sure her plan was a good one, and her voice weakened as she added, “And I hope you’ll fight for me against a wicked sorcerer?”
The woman made a croaking sound, turned her head aside to spit out what looked like part of a grasshopper, and knelt on one knee before Anya. Part of the effect was lost as more bits of her corroded armor fell off, but the intent was sincere.
“Thank you, Frogkisser,” she said. “I am Sir Malorak, known as the She-Bear. I will fight for you gladly, though my arms have fallen into rust and decay.”
Anya looked at her arms. They seemed very strong.
“My weapons, I mean,” said the knight. She looked around the forest glade. “But if you can spare a knife, I will cut a good oaken staff to belabor the enemy.”
“Here,” said Martha, offering her own blade.
“Cut lots,” said Anya.
“I will,” Malorak vowed, glancing back at the barrel. She hesitated, then said, “How many years have passed since the Deluge and the loss of Yarrow the City?”
“About one hundred and eleven,” said Anya quickly, as she applied more lip balm and gestured to Martha to bring out another frog.
“Ah,” said the knight sadly. “Then my children will long be dead, never knowing what happened to their mother. Alas! But this is no time for my sorrows. Bring forth more warriors, Princess, and we shall fight!”
Anya kissed the next frog. It was another knight, a small and quick-looking man with surprisingly long hair. His leather armor was in slightly better shape than Malorak’s, though again his sword was just a lump of rust in a rotting scabbard.
“Sir Havagrad, at your service,” he said, bowing, as Anya repeated her message. “Any enemy of yours is an enemy of mine. Who, ah, is that very large knight cutting oak branches?”
“Sir Malorak the She-Bear,” replied Anya.
The man’s eyebrows shot up.
“A legend returns! My father was one of her squires. I will go help her.”
“Please do,” said Anya, already applying more lip balm.
The next three frogs were a bit of a disappointment, being a singing troupe of troubadours, their stage names Xerax, Yerax, and Yomix, spoken as if Anya might have heard of them. Their colorful motley was sadly reduced to sagging greenish loincloths and all their instruments save an ebony pipe were rotten and had fallen apart. But they expressed their willingness to fight and mentioned difficulties dealt with on the road, so Anya figured they were better than nothing.
She kept kissing. Soon there were a dozen more knights, and two fighters in decayed green who declared themselves rangers, and even one thin-faced, reserved fellow who claimed to be a warden of the High Kingdom, transformed in the year immediately following the Deluge. He had been transformed the longest; his name was Parengoethes, and he had a little difficulty comprehending what was going on.
“You were a frog,” Anya explained. “Now you’re not. The sorcerer who transformed you, or one exactly like the sorcerer who did it, is about to attack. I need your help. Go grab a staff from Sir Malorak and wait for orders.”
“Yes, yes, I see,” said Parengoethes, rubbing his eyes. He made a few hopping movements towards the other soldiers, stumbled, and made himself walk. “Though I still fail to comprehend with what authority these troops have been assembled!”
He was grumbling on when Ardent came rushing back to the glade.
“Attack imminent!” he barked out. “Weaselfolk preparing to charge!”
“Form a line!” bellowed Sir Malorak, lifting the biggest, thickest staff cut so far. “On me! Protect the princess!”