Reralt rode his trusty horse, Jolly Jumper, through the forest, beaming with purpose. The Chamberlain had warned him of zombies in one of the outer villages. Zombies! Reralt needed no more detail. The moment he heard the word, he’d stopped listening, shouted “Not in my realm!”, and bolted from the castle drawbridge.

  (Although, to be fair, he hadn’t really been listening before that either.)

  The Chamberlain had been rambling about some prophecy—about Reralt being the savior of the Realm—which Reralt of course already knew. He was the savior of the Realm. Obviously.

  When that approach didn’t seem to land, the Chamberlain had handed him a book. Reralt accepted it with a look of mild offense, as if the man had offered him a dead toad.

  So the Chamberlain began reading it aloud instead—at least the passage about the prophecy.

  The Void, asleep on Reralt’s lap, looked up with mild interest when the man mentioned a void walking among men. Then promptly lost interest again and resumed their favorite game: demanding Reralt’s attention with sharp little claws.

  “You know, Reralt,” the Chamberlain tried one last time, “You should really visit the Wise Men of the Park at the bottom of the map.”

  Reralt and The Void resumed their favorite other game: Ignore the boring elder.

  “Zombies,” Reralt whispered.

  The word echoed through the chamber like divine thunder.

  Hero tickles overtook Reralt’s fine motor skills.

  Like a puppet on a string, he leapt to his feet and sprinted straight over the Chamberlain, trampling him on the way to his horse.

  The Void dug its claws into Reralt’s bodywarmer and held on tight, surfing the momentum like a tiny, violent barnacle.

  When they trampled the Chamberlain, The Void even managed to land a decent scratch. Another game they played.

  Most of their games involved physically or emotionally harming the Chamberlain.

  As was foretold, of course.

  ***

  The last thing Reralt glimpsed was Fedeggs, mid-lunch, in full panic, trying to intercept him.

  To Reralt’s amusement, Fedeggs stopped to grab an apple for Bill before giving chase.

  As if Bill would ever move without it. She never did.

  Reralt figured he had at least thirty minutes’ head start:

  Ten for the snack.

  Twenty because Bill was Bill.

  That should be just enough to vanquish the zombies before that spoilsport caught up.

  Always nagging: “Be careful. Think before you cleave.”

  As if heroes ever think.

  Not Reralt. He was a Classic Hero?.

  See evil → slay evil.

  If you have time to ask questions, you’re already too slow. Evil could win.

  Also, asking good questions was hard.

  He flipped through his Battle Book in the saddle, searching for the perfect cry.

  “Time to un-undead”?

  Catchy, but not quite.

  “Eat pain, not brain”?

  Mwah. Needs work.

  “Where’s Narro when you need him?” Reralt muttered, annoyed.

  He’d received some letters.

  Well—The Void had. All addressed to her, of course.

  So Reralt read them aloud, dramatically, like bedtime stories.

  That amused the Chamberlain, which had started their little game of mutual harm.

  Narro was doing fine.

  They’d bought a new house, and Syril had started crawling—to the absolute panic of both Narro and Mary.

  She had a tendency to crawl out of the house and return with either pie… or small, friendly critters.

  “I taught her how to steal pie,” Reralt said to The Void when it came up.

  The Void looked up and meowed in a perfect tone of congratulations.

  Though still a kitten, she listened very carefully to Narro’s letters—

  as if she understood them perfectly,

  and was just too lazy to respond.

  Now she sat in her spot on Reralt’s horse, perched in a specially crafted kitten saddle for maximum comfort.

  Eyes alert. Ears twitching.

  Scouting the area for zombies.

  A huntress seeking her prey.

  A predator seeking her next bite.

  A predator seeking her next victim.

  …Or just a small kitten looking for distraction.

  Who could tell?

  Not Reralt. He couldn’t care less.

  ***

  A strange sound greeted them as they neared the village.

  They dismounted—partly to avoid startling the zombi-es, but mostly to make it harder for Fedeggs to track them down.

  Through the shrubbery, they spied them.

  Zombies.

  It was awful.

  Villagers were running wildly through a flowery field, arms flailing in spastic rhythm, screaming in some bizarre language.

  Each wore a net around their face like some kind of homemade armor.

  Reralt tilted his head. He heard another sound—softer. A buzzing.

  Something tiny hovered near his face.

  “Well hello, little bee. Off to make honey for Uncle Reralt?”

  He held out a finger, and the bee politely landed on top. It did a little dance.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “I love bees,” he said to The Void.

  The Void stared at the bee with great purpose.

  Then, with one swift bite, ate it.

  “Void! Don’t eat the bee! They’re our friends.”

  The Void, unimpressed, looked more offended by the taste than the scolding.

  She spat it out with a soft, disgusted meow.

  The bee wobbled mid-air, slightly insulted, but not quite enough to commit communal harakiri in retaliation.

  Reralt stood in the field for a moment, frowning.

  He felt a strange sensation inside his head.

  The left side. Very deep.

  Like a single ant trying to find its way back to the hive.

  “Huh,” he declared. “Perhaps he said some bees. Not zombies.”

  The Void shook her head slowly.

  Then: meow — now let’s kill something.

  ***

  “Lord Reralt!”

  An old, soft female voice screeched from nearby.

  “Aunt Nelly!” Reralt beamed, scooping up the elderly woman into a joyful hug and tossing her into the air a few times—

  —stopping only when a soft crack came from her back.

  “Stop! Reralt, stop!” she cried, panicked, wobbling on unsteady legs.

  “For the love of the gods, boy—” she clutched her back with both hands—

  “—I’m seventy-five! Stop doing that!”

  “Keeps you young, Auntie,” Reralt smirked.

  “So—what’s going on? What can I kill?”

  A satisfying meow came from somewhere below.

  “You and your killing,” she muttered. “There’s nothing to kill. It’s just… the bees. They’re acting strange.”

  “An enchantment,” Reralt said gravely, gripping her shoulders like a man about to deliver someone’s third child.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll find the culprit and—”

  His voice rose to near-heroic grandeur—

  Then stopped.

  He looked disappointed.

  A loud roar echoed from the hills.

  “Excellent,” Reralt whispered, rubbing his hands together.

  He whistled for his horse, scooped up The Void, and mounted.

  Before Aunt Nelly could get another word out, Reralt was gone—

  already out of earshot.

  (Which, when Reralt was excited, wasn't very far at all.)

  ***

  They sulked between the hills, drawing ever closer to their monster.

  The roars echoed madly through the rocks, leading them down into a narrow valley.

  Reralt crouched behind the last bush, sword drawn.

  Muscles tensed. Eyes wild.

  He leapt forward with heroic rage, his battle cry tearing through the still air—

  “DIEEEEEE—Pooh?”

  He skidded to a halt mid-lunge.

  “Lord Reralt,” Pooh said politely, swatting at the hundreds of furious bees swarming him.

  “Ehh… what happened?” Reralt asked, violating his own core principle: never ask questions.

  But for once, curiosity outweighed heroism.

  “Long story,” the bear grunted, crushing a handful of bees with a slap that could flatten a picnic basket.

  “I have a deal with Queen Buzzkill,” he added, speaking through barely parted lips to avoid tongue-stings.

  “I supply… certain green herbs. They supply honey.”

  The bees buzzed louder in protest, forming organized attack wings and launching themselves one by one into Pooh’s increasingly welt-covered face.

  “Beesnus as usual?” Reralt offered.

  The Void walked away.

  Nothing to kill.

  Bad punchlines.

  Too much.

  “Yes, well… I may have accidentally created some very addicted bees,” Pooh admitted, ducking a coordinated stinger volley.

  “They keep asking for stronger strains. I told them—herbs, not miracles.”

  A bee hit him square between the eyes.

  Pooh reeled.

  “I just wanted a simple life!” he cried. “Honey, naps, and a light herbal business on the side!”

  Reralt scratched his neck. Then did that thing Narro would do when things got tricky.

  “Shall I… ehh… immediate? Remediate? Help?” he offered, words fumbling from heroic instinct into bureaucratic nonsense.

  “As in… negotiate. As a neutral party,” he added, impressed by his own sentence.

  “Wow. That sounded so nice.”

  He paused to compliment himself. “I am, after all, a fellow noble.”

  The bees stopped attacking.

  They hovered mid-air, collectively pausing like an orchestra awaiting their conductor.

  Then, with shimmering unity, they formed a single glowing arrow in the air—pointing down the valley.

  “Narro is never gonna believe this,” Reralt smirked.

  He cracked his neck, then rolled his shoulders.

  Bee negotiations, after all, were conducted through interpretative dance.

  ***

  The negotiations went as smooth jazz.

  Difficult to dance upon.

  The bees demanded extra compensation for their honey.

  Pooh, after some heavy shaking and light boogying, agreed to plant flowers near the hive.

  Poppies.

  He refused to dance out what he intended to do with the seeds.

  Reralt popped and locked the agreement in place.

  The Void watched with barely disguised disgust.

  She could be napping in the castle.

  Licking cream.

  Scaring the Chamberlain.

  Training her butterfly army.

  (Which currently consisted of one very scared butterfly.)

  ***

  On the way back, they greeted Fedeggs.

  Fedeggs looked like he had not had a fun day.

  He looked like it was Reralt’s personal fault that he had not had a fun day.

  Bill was chewing on the leftovers of an apple, she looked like she had a good day.

  ***

  Dear Narro,

  You’ll be pleased to know that the Realm is once again safe, thanks to a dazzling display of diplomatic acumen, interpretative movement, and the noble sacrifice of several dozen bees (they were fine in the end, I think).

  It began with a monstrous roar—obviously a threat to all civilization. I leapt heroically into action, only to find the creature was none other than Pooh the Man-Bear, a misunderstood herbalist caught in the gears of international bee politics.

  With no one else qualified (or present), I took it upon myself to act as a neutral emissary. The bees—furious, militant, buzzing with betrayal—were ready to declare war over certain monarchal loyalties and sticky trade violations.

  But through elegance, empathy, and several complex hip movements, I brokered peace.

  I have:

  Averted a civil war.

  Reestablished royal bee allegiances.

  Rehabilitated a partially-sedated man-bear.\

  Possibly legalized poppy-based cross-pollination treaties.

  Anyway, tell Mary and Syril I miss them. I have instructed the bees to watch over them.

  Also, don’t eat the honey labeled “Do Not Eat.” That one’s for diplomacy only.

  With legendary regards,

  Sir Lord Reralt of Givia

  (Slayer of Dragon, Dancer to Bees)