Читать книгу Hobgoblin and the Seven Stinkers of Rancidia - Kyle Sullivan - Страница 35

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“Get up,” said the squirrel. “We’re going into the Fetid Forest, where there are no witnesses. Dress appropriately.”

Hobgoblin’s tiny eyes darted nervously from the crossbow and arrow-filled quiver slung around the squirrel’s shoulder to the pouch hanging on her back stuffed with who knows what cleaning products.

His eyes bulged a little when he noticed Fiddlefart’s royal badge pinned to her cloak—a stinky, rotten corpse flower. He tried to gulp again, but his throat felt like a sock crammed with sawdust, so he ended up with a crooked frown.

The flies buzzed in nervous loops above Hobgoblin’s sweat-soaked head. Without taking his eyes off the squirrel, Hobgoblin grabbed a cloak from his coat rack and, fingers trembling, fastened it around his neck.

The squirrel blew out her torch to steep the hut in darkness once again. Hobgoblin felt the scrub brush jab into his back.

“OK,” said the squirrel in her raspy, no-nonsense voice. “Now, march.”

Hobgoblin marched stiffly toward the door like a toy soldier.