6. A ROYAL PAIN.

Apparently, it was possible to break into a sprint in full plate armour. Sir Humphrey and a handful of the royal guards under his command had discovered today. They had the dubious honour of being the first royal guards to lose a Princess within the palace in over 5 generations.

This had nearly cost Sir Humphrey his job, and given that being a royal guard was a lifelong position, the retirement plan was somewhat permanent for his tastes. As he ran, he came to the realisation that he’d allowed himself to get rather out of shape, given how relaxed his job usually was where the Princess wasn’t involved. The armour he’d worn every day was somewhat pinchy to run in, these days, he heard the maids sometimes jokingly called him Sir Cumference, and he wasn’t as young as he seemed to have fooled himself into believing he was.

Well, he thought to himself as he dragged his squadron along with him at a dead sprint, the royal carriage in tow, the fifteen-mile sprint to where her royal highness had apparently reappeared after the sqwoomph would definitely be a start towards his recovery. When he got back, he vowed to himself he was going to whip them all back into shape, with an actual whip if necessary; he was too attached to his body parts to like the thought of being detached from any of them, ESPECIALLY the ones the king had threatened him with, he thought with a shudder as with that nightmarish mental image spurring him on he picked up even more speed from somewhere.

If he had the breath to spare, he would have sighed at that time, but if wishes were horses, he wouldn’t be sprinting halfway across the bloody kingdom in full-body plate armour, now, would he? He quickly checked the map again, the princess was currently located in a village called SQWALLER. "Oh, gods", he groaned to himself as the colour drained from his face. (an impressive feat for a man with a permanent boozy blush who is sprinting in full armour for the first time in fifteen years and skidding through the mud.) "This keeps getting worse and worse; if his majesty found out his beloved daughter has quite literally spent the night in Sqwaller, then heads will roll, mine included. Seriously, who in their right mind names a village Sqwaller? Some lord's idea of a joke, no doubt," Well, he sure as hell wasn’t laughing.

Old John Peters (you know? The farmer?) who had a bad reputation for the speed of his cart, was shocked when a squad in full plate somehow sped past him but decided quite wisely in this case that maybe not racing the heavily armed squad who were clearly in a hurry was the better plan and slowed his horses to a walk.

Several bandits, an occasional unwise monster and a wall that failed to yield right of way to the desperate guards were quickly removed from the path. On consideration, thought Sir Humphrey to himself, I’ve watched the princess grow up into a strong young woman, perhaps too strong, but sometimes she can be a royal pain.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Sir Humphrey vowed to himself that when he got back from this, he was never taking his eyes off the princess even for a millisecond, and he was filling in a petition signed by the entire royal guard to RENAME THAT BLOODY VILLAGE.

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Meanwhile, our amphibian heroine and her royal naggyness were doing rather well for a missing royal living in Sqwaller, though at the moment, with the caffeine high gone, it sure as hell didn’t feel like it.

“Why am I so tirreeeddd?” Mibbet groaned as she learned the painful way that crown princesses, freakishly strong or not, may not have the best stamina in the world.

“May have something to do with literally bouncing off the walls for several hours, maybe?” the naggy voice replied. “Honestly, you have absolutely no self-restraint at all, do you?”

“And you do? Remember Naggy voice, you wanted to eat even more than me yesterday and still grumbled about it constantly.”

“Naggy voice? How dare you, you ridiculous amphibian, I am Princess Rosalind Von Harmsworth, Crown Princess of........ or at least I was, not sure what I am right now” the voice quietened.

Mibbet felt a tad guilty at that; she had learned a little bit about losing her identity (definitely far more on the subject than a frog usually learned, come to think of it.) Since this incident started. “Sorry na..... I mean Rosalind”, she corrected herself “I’ll do my best to use your name from now on, just please, please, please stop shouting so much, I keep looking up for the owl.”

“Fair enough”, came the reply. “OK, you stupid fr... I mean, what is your name anyway?”

“Mibbet.”

Of course, Rosalind couldn't suppress a snicker at the name, but it was very fitting.

“Well, we’re stuck together, for now, So I suppose it’s about time you learn to be me properly while we find a solution to this problem. If you go round looking like me while claiming a different name, you’ll be assassinated before you can even blink an eye. So Truce?”

After an explanation of what a truce meant, Mibbet agreed. After all, being assassinated did not sound like fun from the description given.

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Prince Tyrone of the Kingdom of Tey-ranis thought rather a lot of himself (rather too much, really.) He was a handsome man and fairly well-built. Still, the reality was outside his particular field of expertise (extreme violence against fluffy animals, extreme violence against non-fluffy animals, extreme violence against mythical beasts, extreme violence against opposing kingdoms, extreme violence against infrastructure barring his way, extreme violence against.......... well anything really.) He would lose in a talent contest where the competition was a remarkably untalented slime mould, a half-trained gerbil, and a brick.

However, he had chosen his bride, and to have her vanish was inconvenient; he was unhappy, which meant the entire kingdom was unhappy because when he was discontent, he tended to spread that discontent around with a rather large (and of course metaphorical) shovel.

A messenger dashed in and handed him a message scroll. “READY MY HORSE AT ONCE”, he commanded with a smile that sent a chill down the messenger’s spine; a smile from Tyrone was the only thing scarier than him scowling. Tyrone grinned maniacally as he started to prepare. It was time to collect his bride.