“I should think the Commandos will capture the wizard soon enough,” I remarked.
That set off a new round of cackling from the icon. Gwendolyn’s shoulders were quivering—with humor, I realized, considerably relieved.
“And why not? Sure, they’re as sorry a lot of soldiery as I’ve ever seen, but they’re still soldiers on horseback pursuing a coach. I grant you, the coach left two days ago, but they should still be able to catch up easily, even allowing for drunken binges along the way.”
“No doubt, if they could simply follow the coach. But the coach took the direct route, through the Grimwald, whereas the soldiers will have to take the roundabout road, through the marsh and the mountains.”
“Why don’t they just follow the coach?”
More cackling.
“My boy, you are such an innocent! Clear enough, you’re a stranger to Grotum. The Grimwald, lad, is Grotum’s oldest and greatest forest.”
“So?”
“So! Are you that ignorant? Snarls, boy, snarls! They abound in the Grimwald—and forest snarls, to boot! Goes without saying, of course—what other kind of snarls would you find in a forest but forest snarls?”
I pondered his words, trying to decide if I was the butt of a joke. It’s a crude but common form of humor—to mock a newcomer by telling him tall tales of the local surroundings. I had heard of snarls, of course. What Ozarine was not enthralled, as a child, by the endless tales of those monsters of the Groutch wilds? But as I grew older, I wrote the tales off as fiction for children—in a class with Good Saint Nick and the Tooth Fairy.
I decided Wolfgang was too weird for crude mockery.
“So the snarls actually exist?”
“Of course they exist! You can find them in all the wild parts of Grotum! Forest snarls, mountain snarls, swamp snarls, rock snarls, prairie snarls—the list is well nigh endless. Rather rare creatures, mostly, except in some places. Joe’s Favorite Woods swarms with them, of course. And they’re very abundant in the Grimwald.”
“I still don’t understand why the soldiers can’t traverse the forest. I mean, if a coach can get through, then I should think a body of armed men would have no difficulty whatsoever.”
“My boy, my boy, it’s not like that at all. The coach will get through because the snarls will probably leave it alone. Snarls generally don’t pester simple travelers. But soldiers! Oh, no, it simply won’t do. Take great offense at soldiery, snarls do. Gobble them up with a ferocity. Police too.”
“You mean neither soldiers nor police can enter the Grimwald?”
“Not sane ones. Insane ones could, it goes without saying. Snarls are rather fond of lunatics. But what madman would be so crazy as to enlist in the army? Not to mention the police!”
“The Grimwald must be a haven for poachers, then.”
This last remark of mine not only set off a new round of cackling but caused Gwendolyn’s shoulders to positively heave with humor.
“Such an innocent!” giggled Wolfgang. “Such an ignoramus! Lad, one does not poach in a snarl forest. Believe me, one doesn’t. Not, at least, unless one is seeking a quick and messy form of suicide.”
I fell silent, disgruntled, if the truth be told, by this unseemly mirth at my expense. The day wore on, our cart making slow but steady progress. Gwendolyn showed no signs of tiring, even hauling our great heavy load. I now realized that she was not only extraordinarily large, but incredibly strong. At first, I would have said, incredibly strong for a woman. By the end of the day, when we finally decided to stop for the night by the roadside, and I observed her lowering the cart without so much as a drop of sweat on her brow, it finally dawned on me that she was easily the strongest human I had ever known. In the years to come, I was only forced to qualify that assessment once, when I met her brother.
That realization only made the ensuing situation the more uncomfortable!
For, after the few minutes required to make our camp for the night—some few yards from the roadside, in a small grove—I realized that Gwendolyn and Wolfgang were gazing at me with a strange intensity. Wolfgang’s expression positively radiated amusement. Gwendolyn’s was much harder to read. Repressed anger, an odd, cold kind of humor. I was not certain.