Part 5

The League knew they could not hope to defeat the sorceresses themselves. There was simply too much power gathered in that castle for the tiny warriors to have any chance against them. At best, they could secretly undermine the Sisterhood and delay the ritual further until Hop returned with reinforcements. To this end, they sought to determine the enchantress’ weaknesses, some flaw that could be exploited in each.

“Queen Morgause is vain,” Issun-boshi remarked. “See how she constantly gazes into her hand mirror.”

“Yes, I remember that about her,” Tom added. “She’s the eldest of the sisters but I believe she uses potions to hold back the effects of aging.”

Thumbelina smiled slyly. “I think I can work with that.”

“And Madame Mim?” Thumbling asked.

“She’s a morose old thing,” said Tom. “Hates purity and goodness and –” He paused as a thought occurred to him. “Sunshine. She hates sunshine.”

“Perfect,” ‘Lina gasped. “We can use that as well. How about Morvydd?”

Tom shrugged. “I know nothing of her or what she’s capable of. But it seems she’s been taken out of the equation for the moment.”

“What do you think Morgan will do to her?” Issun wondered with a shiver.

“I don’t know,” Tom admitted. “She’s Morgan’s child so one hopes that would stay her hand somewhat. But I can’t help feeling we should intercede.”

“Don’t get chivalrous now, Tommy,” Thumbling chided. “We don’t have time to rescue a damsel in distress. Besides, she’s one of the bad guys, remember? Whether she has magic or not, we’d still squish just as flat under her feet.”

Tom reluctantly agreed. “I suppose you’re right. Assuming she’s out of the fight, that still leaves Morgan and Mordred. I’ve no idea how to stop them.”

“We’ll have to hope they’re kept busy seeking a new maiden for the ritual,” said ‘Lina. “Maybe by then, Arthur and the others will have arrived.”

“Let us hope so,” Issun said.

* * * *
As they suspected, Morgause’s quarters were littered with potion bottles, alchemical beakers, and even a large metal cauldron bubbling with some unknown brew. Jars of arcane ingredients lined every table and shelf and the floor was blood-stained from the sacrifice of animals. The Leaguers felt their skin crawl upon entering the chamber but set about their plan nonetheless.

Thumbelina still carried her arsenal of faerie potions, which had served them well against Morgan le Fay months ago. They hoped it would do so against her sister. ‘Lina believed that she had just the right formula that would lessen the age-defying magic of Morgause’s concoctions. With her much-valued beauty fading fast, she would hopefully be too preoccupied for the ritual.

The tiny folk scurried over the table dropping ‘Lina’s sabotaging formula into the beakers and bottles. They had to scale up the sides of the taller beakers and cling to the rims as they dumped the potions inside. Each time, the foul-smelling liquids within began to bubble and hiss in response and gave off a sickly steam as the chemicals and herbs interacted. The homunculi gagged from the stench but continued their work.

Standing by the doorway, which was open a mere crack, Issun suddenly gave a shrill whistle and began to motion wildly to the others. He had been positioned as lookout and could see the room’s occupant heading down the hallway. The floor quivered from Morgause’s approaching footfalls and the League quickly scattered.

‘Lina remained on the rim of a particularly large beaker, straddling the opening of the bottleneck and pouring the remaining formula into its depths. Her teammates hissed and called to her.

“Come on, gal,” Thumbling whispered. “We gotta make ourselves scarce!”

“Right behind you,” she answered. Swiftly and silently, she stood up and released her wings, ready to launch herself into flight. But the rim of the beaker was slippery and she soon lost her balance, tumbling backwards into the potion with a splash.

“’Lina!” the others cried. There was no time to mount a rescue for the door swung open and the towering witch-queen entered. The Leaguers ran for cover, Tom hiding behind a stack of old books while Issun and Thumbling sequestered themselves in the hollow eye sockets of a decorative human skull.

Morgause walked over to a chair beside the table, the train of her dark, queenly gown dragging behind her. With a tired sigh, she plopped down heavily in the chair, sending a powerful vibration through the little folk’s surroundings. She took up her hand mirror and looked long and hard at her reflection. A few grey hairs were forming in her luxurious mane, prompting a frown from the lovely monarch.

Morgause was far older than her appearance indicated. She was a mother many times over, having birthed and raised Sir Gawain, Sir Gareth, Sir Gaheris, Sir Agravaine, and Sir Mordred, each of whom was now full grown and serving at Camelot. For many years, she had been Queen of the Orkney Isles and the land of Lothian, and the weight of the crown could have easily weathered her. But as Tom had rightly observed, her dark arts were usually focused on one goal – the extension of her youth. Morgause valued her beauty and, since the death of her husband King Lot, had used it to win a string of young lovers (many of whom could have been her grandchildren!). Such rare feminine charms required a bit of work to maintain and, sometimes, a little push from her mystic tricks.

It was time to replenish.

The witch-queen extended a delicate hand and took hold of the closest reserve of formula. Tom cursed the League’s rotten luck as her fingers wrapped around the beaker containing ‘Lina. “Of course,” he thought to himself. “God forbid it be easy for us, right?”

Mist and steam continued to pour forth from the potion, shrouding its contents, but Morgause did not notice anything out of the ordinary. She caught of whiff of the foul brew, wrinkled her nose slightly, but lifted it to her lips and proceeded to guzzle it down.

Thumbelina was sloshed about in the bubbling liquid as the beaker was upended. Above her head was the rounded glass ceiling formed by the bottom of the beaker. Distorted images of the room were just barely visible through the walls around her. She treaded in place as best as she could but could feel the level of liquid depleting in time with each echoing gurgle and glug that came from below.

The potion continued to drain until ‘Lina could see the circular opening leading to the long bottleneck of the beaker. As her legs and hips were pulled into this narrow tunnel, she grabbed the edges of the entrance, trying to hold herself in place. Sensing some obstruction clogging the beaker and keeping the last drops of potion from her, Morgause lifted her other hand and lightly tapped the bottom of the glass bottle. The tremor this sent through the beaker caused the tiny woman to lose her grip and slide the rest of the way down the bottleneck as it drained into the sorceress’ mouth.

‘Lina slid out of the bottle and was deposited onto a huge, slippery tongue, tilted at a dizzying vertical angle. The potion washed her ever downwards past walls of thick, white molars as big as her head. Above, she could barely see the ridged roof of the woman’s mouth and, seconds later, a large dangling uvula as she and the potion slid into Morgause’s gullet. The faerie princess had not even time to scream before she tumbled into the darkness and was swallowed whole.

Morgause felt something large and squirmy slide into her throat. It took a few determined gulps to get it down but it soon resumed its journey. She couldn’t remember – was this the potion that required whole frogs for its full potency? That last one didn’t seem to be quite dead yet. No matter, it would serve. She set the empty beaker down and rubbed her belly with satisfaction as the little creature landed with a plop within. Morgause covered her lips and gave a demure, feminine burp.

The League stared in shock, barely able to accept what they’d seen. Their friend was gone, swallowed alive. The thought of losing her was devastating to them. Although ‘Lina was married to Prince Cornu of the Flower-Folk, most of the other Leaguers carried a torch for the beautiful, redheaded princess. They shuddered to think of their sweet, lovely teammate trapped deep inside Morgause’s body.

Peeping around the tower of books, Tom sank to his knees and fought back tears. First he had lost his “father” Merlin, and now, potentially, one of his closest friends. The League’s commander anxiously tried to formulate a plan to save her.

On a past mission, Issun-boshi had spent time within the belly of Morgan le Fay and knew firsthand the horrors that his friend was now facing. The samurai gritted his teeth and reached for his katana.

“I shall gut the witch and free Miss Thumbelina,” he said, preparing to leap from the interior of the skull.

“Issun, no!” Thumbling cried. He grabbed the warrior’s shoulder and held him back. “She’ll kill you!”

“Then she will kill me,” Issun accepted. “But I will not abandon Miss ‘Lina.”

The inch-high samurai jumped from the skull’s socket and began to march determinedly across the table, sword in hand, towards the giant woman’s chair. Even seated, Morgause loomed above him like a mountain. Though smaller than her pinky finger, Issun was prepared to meet this curvaceous monolith in single combat. Completely oblivious of this, the enchantress returned her attention to her hand mirror. She scrutinized the image within, seeking signs that the potion was working. But the tainted formula was producing an effect she had not anticipated.

In moments, the sorceress’ long, silky black hair began to grey at the temples. Morgause leaped to her feet in surprise and stared at her reflection. To her horror, the salt-and-pepper effect spread throughout her hair while some of the original greys started to turn white. Wrinkles appeared on the witch-queen’s face and crow’s feet became visible at the corners of her eyes. She felt her round full breasts that had seduced many a knight begin to sag. The sharp pangs of arthritis spread through her hands, causing her to drop and shatter the mirror. Morgause gave a shriek of abject terror. She was old – the dowdy middle-aged woman she had long fought to keep hidden. The youth potion was working in reverse!

Even Issun was taken aback by the swiftness of the potion’s effects. He stopped in his advance and gaped as the woman aged before his eyes. Morgause’s legs gave way to sudden weakness and shock and she reached out to steady herself against the table. A massive hand struck the tabletop, its curled fingers forming a cage over Issun’s position. The tiny warrior gazed up in fright at the smooth ceiling formed by her palm. But she was not attempting to grab him, merely grasping desperately for a solid surface. Long, claw-like fingernails that could slice the speck of a samurai in two raked across the wood, coming towards him. He quickly dashed through a gap between two fingers before the barrier closed and the hand slammed down flat on the table behind him.

Morgause steadied herself and hyperventilated. But her transformation was not yet finished. The woman’s face began to pale and beads of sweat gathered on her forehead. Her color turned greenish and sickly. Wave after wave of nausea washed over the Queen of Orkney and she fell to her hands and knees, spewing the contents of her stomach all over the stone floor. Morgause moaned and collapsed beside this mess, sinking into unconsciousness.

A tiny shape twitched in the puddle of bile beside the queen’s head. Soon, a wet and miserable creature was seen crawling away from the prostrate giantess, coughing and sputtering a bit herself.

“That,” said Thumbelina, “was disgusting.”

Overjoyed, the other Leaguers leaped down from the tabletop and rushed to their friend. Caring not a whit about the layer of spit-up soaking her dress and skin, they threw themselves at ‘Lina and embraced her.

“Oh God, I thought we’d lost you!” Tom declared. “It’s a miracle!”

“Hardly,” insisted ‘Lina. “I got out the same way we rescued Issun from a similar fate: uncorked every potion I had and dumped them all at once. Only Morgause didn’t have to drink them. They were already inside her with me. That much magic unleashed directly into one’s digestive tract must be a horrible experience. She’ll be feeling that for a while.”

“Well, that’s one down,” said Thumbling. “She won’t be performing any rituals any time soon.”

“Come on,” Tom said, helping ‘Lina back onto her feet. “Let’s get out of here and get you cleaned up.”

* * * *

Elsewhere, Hop o’ My Thumb raced across the hills and marshlands of the Summer Country searching for signs of Arthur and his knights. Travel by magic mirror was considerably faster than horseback, however, so the League had arrived long before the company from Camelot. The knights were likely still some distance away. Hop began to broaden the circuit he was making around the area. At superhuman speeds, the seven-league boots took him through the dirt roads of Glastonbury, along the shore of the lake entrance to Avalon, past the River Brue, through the great circle of Stonehenge, a relic of an ancient and forgotten people, and back to the lake once more. Arthur’s men were nowhere in sight.

But no, Hop realized, this was not entirely true. There was one knight of Camelot approaching on the road before him. Hop wondered why he was separated from the group until he saw the knight’s companion – a slender, willowy brunette in a green gown. Pelleas and Nimue!

Bravely, the little Gaul stood in the center of the road, sword drawn and at the ready. Whatever their intentions, he was determined to confront them.

“Good morrow, mes amis,” he said. “What brings you to—?”

His tiny voice evidently was not carrying far enough for he soon saw Nimue’s colossal bare foot descending directly over him. So close was this five-toed juggernaut that Hop could see dirt and debris from the road across the wrinkled surface of her sole. He gasped and darted away as the foot fell to earth with a crash. A second later, she would have squashed him.

Changing tactics, Hop called upon his seven-league boots and vaulted upward with a burst of incredible speed. This carried him up the length of the priestess’ leg, past the folds of her gown, over her ample bosom (under other circumstances, he would have liked to linger there), and onto the woman’s soft, delicate shoulder. Nimue gave a startled cry as he landed.

“Hop! Where did you come from?”

“I might ask you ze same question, mademoiselle,” he returned. “How is it zat you and Pelleas have arrived here faster than Arthur’s company? And without horses, from ze looks of it.”

Nimue paled slightly but reluctantly answered. “There are other paths to the Summer Country. Avalon can be reached from any body of water if one knows the right spell. We simply traveled there first then took a barge across the lake to arrive in Glastonbury.”

“I see,” Hop said dubiously. “And you did not think to tell ze king about zis shortcut?”

“That knowledge is forbidden to all save Avalon’s initiates. And our guests,” Nimue said, reaching out to take Pelleas’ hand. Hop fought to maintain his perch as the muscles of her arm and shoulder shifted below his feet. He scrambled over the back of her neck and through a wall of thick, black hair to her other shoulder rather than be dislodged by their flirting.

“And if you can magically reach Avalon at any time, why did you travel ze conventional way in ze past?” Hop cocked an eyebrow and continued to eye her with suspicion.

Nimue did a double take when she saw the little man suddenly on her opposite shoulder. She shook her head and resumed the conversation. “I like riding,” the Lady of the Lake said simply. “But our current crisis necessitates speed. Why am I being grilled so, little one? We have come to help.”

“Aye,” Pelleas added. “We could not stand idle with Morgan le Fay on the loose.”

“Or perhaps you could not wait to rush to her side and warn her of Arthur’s approach!” said Hop accusingly, pointing with his miniature needle-sword.

“I do not like your tone, sirrah,” Pelleas said quietly, eyes narrowed.

“I do not like your face, monsieur,” Hop answered, meeting the knight’s icy stare. The two continued to glower at one another, grasping the hilts of their swords.

Nimue sighed. “Men. Honestly. I’d tell you to simply whip them out, gentlemen, but I don’t think you’d measure up very well, Hop.”

She lifted her hands to shoulder level, allowing Hop a good look at them. The lady was still bound in the iron manacles Arthur had decreed she should wear.

“Look,” the High Priestess said. “I still honor the king’s sentence. Pelleas could have cut these chains at any time but he did not. We are not here to betray Arthur. We’re here to help him.”

Hop nimbly slid down Nimue’s arm to the crook of her elbow. With practiced dexterity, he clambered up to her hand to inspect the shackles. They were still locked tight and nasty-looking burn marks had begun to form on her wrists.

Iron was well known as a deterrent of magic. Supernatural beings, like the creatures of Faerie, could not bear its fatal touch, while human enchanters found their powers greatly lessened by its presence or subject to magical backlash.

“Even casting the travel spell to bring us to Avalon – one of the first I ever learned – was painful,” Nimue explained, rubbing her singed flesh. “But I did it anyway. I am not your enemy, Hop. I want to stop Morgan.”

The miniature man stared up at her in thought. He frowned and tried to determine if she spoke the truth. Looking her straight in the eyes might have helped but these were high above the dainty wrist he now clung to.

“I do not have time for zis,” he decided. “I must find Arthur and ze others. But know zis, mademoiselle: Queen Morgause, Madame Mim, Sir Mordred, and ze Princess of Gorre are aiding Morgan.” The priestess’ eyes grew wide at this revelation.

“If you truly want to help,” he continued, “Sir Pelleas may want to consider cutting zose chains after all. You are outnumbered, Nimue.” In a flash, he was gone, resuming the search for Arthur.

To be continued...