“Please,” I said sweetly to the rock, “continue.”
Before it could answer, a crack and a rumble broke the silence. We looked around in alarm and grabbed for weapons before we realized that the rock was laughing.
“It’s been some time since I’ve conversed with a group of adventurers like yourselves,” said the rock.
“Brave and intrepid?” asked Rummy.
“Dysfunctional and in over their heads,” replied the rock.
“Also accurate,” said Rummy.
“Now then: to business.” The rock moved its eyes to take in each of us before fixing them on Nadi. “Before you can pass on through you must answer first these questions two.”
“Isn’t it supposed to be three questions, you crack-faced, oversized pebble?” asked Whiska.
“What do you mean?” asked the rock.
“Questions always come in threes. Everyone knows that!” She looked at each of us as she gestured dismissively toward the rock with one of her weird, ratty thumbs.
Everyone shrugged except for Borg, who said, “We are not…dysfunctional. We are a…good team.”
“Right on!” said Rummy as he saluted our giant companion.
“The first riddle is this,” said the rock. “Bob leaves the stronghold of Canarvon on a gold dragon at four o’clock FSM (Fanting Standard Time) and flies eastward. Lavinia leaves the elven forests of Gloraria at five o’clock FSM, flying west on a silver dragon. What time do they meet in Borokia?”
Nadi’s eyebrows rose in confusion, and she turned to me. “What?”
“It’s a story problem,” I replied before looking at the rock. “A story problem? Seriously?”
The rock raised its eyebrows and then lowered them, its version of a shrug. “I didn’t make up the riddle,” it replied. “I just say what I’m enchanted to say.”
“Whiska,” said Nadi, “if the rock is enchanted, can you dispel the magic that controls it? Would that get us into the mountain?”
Whiska shook her head. “If I do that, the stupid rock will just become inert, and then we’ll have no way to open it and get in.”
“Not to mention the fact that you’d lose out on the opportunity to converse with me, and I feel like that would be sad for everyone,” said the rock.
“Does anyone know anything about how fast dragons fly?” asked Nadi.
“Faster than I can,” I replied helpfully.
“Why would we know that, you golden-haired mungieblat?” (Mungieblats are a particularly ugly toad-like creature that secretes a toxin that smells like wet dog fur. They’re not pleasant.)
“Are we allowed to ask questions?” Rummy looked hopefully at the rock.
“You are…though I can’t guarantee I can answer them all,” replied the rock. “Though I do know a lot of things. Probably more than a talking rock should.”
“Dragons are…also faster…than I am,” said Borg to no one in particular.
“How fast does a gold dragon fly?” asked Rummy.
“A northern gold or a southern gold?”
“There are no northern dragons, you idiot,” said Whiska. “They only live in the south.”
“Very good,” said the rock approvingly. “You’re a sharp one.” He turned his eyes toward Borg. “She’s a sharp one.”
“So…can you tell us how fast?” asked Rummy.
“Gold dragons fly twelve kelms per hour.” (A kelm is the standard unit of distance in Erithea; it’s approximately equal to the distance a man named Hornadar Kelm, formerly a general of some renown in the kingdom of Halifar, was able to run in an hour as he sought to warn the capital of the kingdom of, ironically enough, a pending dragon attack. He made it just in time, and many people lived, though the good general himself was immolated in a spectacular blast of flame. It’s an arbitrary and utterly moronic unit of measurement.)
“Okay,” said Rummy. “Now we’re getting somewhere. How fast is a silver?”
“They fly at about ten kelms per hour,” replied the rock with a smile.
“Heloise,” said Nadi, “you’ve traveled everywhere—do you know where Canarvon is? Or Borokia?”
I shook my head. “I know a lot of things, including the fact that I should not have unrestricted access to chocolate at night, but I don’t know that. I’ve heard of Canarvon, but never been there, and it’s not on any of the maps I’ve seen. I have no idea where Borokia is.”
“You’ve been to Gloraria, I take it?” she asked.
A rush of memories trampled me like a doughty dwarven fire brigade. I’d been young, especially by elven standards, and the memories were more scenes and fragments than wholly formed recollections, but I remembered the most vividly green trees I’d ever seen, ethereal music that I felt as much as heard, the most delicious roast dryad, and one old elf who thought it was funny to pretend to be an orc saying racist things about elves. (I’m kidding, by the way—the roast dryad was terrible; they’re small, tough, and bitter…sort of like a member of a doughty dwarven fire brigade.) “Once,” I said at last, “a long time ago. But, that doesn’t help me figure out how far it is from somewhere I’ve never heard of.”
“That’s why we’re going to ask the handsomest talking rock we’ve ever seen, right?” said Rummy.
“Am I really the handsomest?” replied the rock, sounding bashful.
“I can say unequivocally that you are,” said Rummy.
“Wait a second,” said the rock suspiciously, “am I the only talking rock you’ve ever met?”
Rummy shuffled his feet uncomfortably. “Well, that depends…does Borg count?”
“No,” replied the rock flatly. “He is a rock giant. Not a giant rock.”
“Right,” said Rummy. “Well, then, I suppose that you are the only talking rock I’ve ever met.”
“So I’m also the ugliest,” said the rock mournfully.
“Hey, maybe learn how to tell a lie to spare a feeling once in a while, eh?” I said pointedly to Rummy.
“Are you saying…that I’m not…handsome?” asked Borg. He didn’t sound upset; just curious.
“No, no—not at all,” replied Rummy hastily. “You’re a good-looking guy, Borgy. Honest.”
“See?” I said. “It’s not hard, is it?”
“But that wasn’t a—”
“Save it, Rummy,” said Nadi, cutting him off.
“Look, Rocky,” I said, trying to smooth things over in my own inimitable way, “this is a first for all of us. But, I’ll say this—you’ve got features that look like they were carved out of granite, and a man with strong features is generally considered a handsome man.”
“They looked carved out of granite because they are carved out of granite,” replied the rock.
“Makes sense,” I said, sagely.
“I think that…I am handsome,” Borg interjected.
“No question!” said Rummy enthusiastically.
“I’m not really a man, you know,” said the rock.