Comedic Fantasy Bundle #1: 4 Hilarious Adventures (Tales from the land of Ononokin)

by John P. Logsdon

  “Yes, sir. I wouldn’t dream of attending without your express permission, sir.”

  “Pray you do not.”

  “Like a rabbit to a fox, sir.”

  “No…” Treneth started and then shook his head. “Look, go to the pub and find out what you can, and keep yourself from being noticed.”

  “You can count on me, sir.”

  Sadly, Treneth could not. Treneth could only be in one place at a time, though, so Rimpertuz would have to do.

  A thought occurred to him as Rimpertuz was shutting the door.

  “One more thing! Keep a close look on Whizzfiddle’s hat. As long as I’ve known the man he’s been hiding something under that hat and I would be quite pleased to learn what it is.”

  Now that his plan for Whizzfiddle’s demise was flowing, he would have to think of how best to finagle his way onto the council.

  Chairperson Muppy could be a formidable foe, but she was flighty at best. She had a temper, to be sure, and she had moments of clarity that Treneth would have to watch out for, but all in all he felt certain that she wouldn’t be much of a deterrent to his goals; Councilman Ibork was an exceedingly fat halfling that was too much of a dullard to be of any real concern. He was more of a threat to a bowl of stew than to the likes of Treneth of Dahl; Councilman Zotrinder was an elf that was entirely too caught up in his looks and personal grooming regimen to even know what was going on half the time; and the Croomplatt twins, Elik and Esin didn’t have enough grasp of the local language to bring arguments against him regardless of what he did. They merely said “Ha!” as a response to most everything, and typically in unison.

  Still, Treneth would have to be patient and smoothly set plans in motion so that he could ensure his spot on the council. Once that was complete, he would begin the next phase of taking over the main chair. Then he would be able to enact the rules and regulations that he believed every wizard worthy of the title should follow.

  He leaned back and smiled.

  Finally things were moving in the right direction.

  APPLICANTS

  As Gilly thumped back carrying ale his expression seemed to be on the mend.

  Whizzfiddle, not one for lengthy apologies, explained the misunderstanding and began draining the contents of his mug.

  “Not to worry, sir,” Gilly smiled, revealing more gums than teeth. “Any other gent would have been shown the door, but you’ve been a regular at this pub since my great-grandfather brewed his first batch.”

  “Yes,” Whizzfiddle mused, noting to himself that it was this Gilly’s great-great-great-and-so-on grandfather. Many generations had passed since Gilly’s got its start. “I recall the day, in fact. Horrible excuse for a draft, that first batch.”

  He winked and wiped his mustache. It had taken the first Gilly months to relax enough to stop turning the malt to flour, and another few to get the perfect mixture of barley, hops, and a few secret ingredients before he could stake claim to the finest ale in the land.

  Whizzfiddle lifted his mug and said, “Praise The Twelve that the Gilly’s are a tenacious lot.”

  “Aye, sir,” Gilly beamed and then nodded at the window. “It looks like they’re lining up already, sir.”

  Whizzfiddle sighed.

  The line of would-be questing parties was slipping out to the middle of the road as the sun cleared its midway stroll.

  One of the benefits of being the most experienced wizard in Ononokin was that you were always in demand. It left little in the way of anonymity, of course, but fame went with the territory and it was unquestionably better than farming for a living.

  “I suppose two years of slumber is enough. Time to get on with it.” He rapped on the table twice. “One more pint, if you please, and then you can start sending them in.”

  “As you say, sir.”

  “Oh, and Gilly, please do keep the ale coming at a reasonable pace.”

  THE PRINCE

  The first man to step up was adorned in a rich blue fabric with cuts so precise they marked the work of the finest artisan. Gold linings etched a tunic in a class by itself, and the many bits of dangling medallions fixed the man’s status. His hair was golden blond and hung precisely past his shoulders. His beard was trimmed, framing his face and setting his bright blue eyes to shine.

  “Prince?” Whizzfiddle asked as he dug his nail into the top of the table, careful to avoid another splinter.

  “I…well, yes,” the man replied.

  “Kingdom in trouble?”

  “No.”

  “Special assignment to demonstrate fealty?”

  “No, that was last year,” said the prince. “I succeeded quite nicely.”

  Whizzfiddle harrumphed. “Princess or princess-to-be—” He paused and looked over the prince again, and squinted while chewing at the inside of his cheek. “Or maybe Prince?”

  The man ruffled and grimaced.

  “Right, right,” Whizzfiddle smiled apologetically. “Never know these days, especially in an outfit like that.”

  The prince looked down at himself with a confused expression. “What’s wrong with my outfit?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with it,” said Whizzfiddle. “It’s a dandy ensemble. Dandy indeed. What with the gold and all those jinglies. Immaculately detailed, to be sure.”

  The prince crossed his massive arms and glared at the elderly wizard.

  “It’s just a little, shall we say…elfish?”

  Leaning forward, the prince pressed his hands on the table and said, “Can we get on with the interview, sir?”

  Whizzfiddle felt the air simmering as the prince’s cologne drifted toward him. It smelled of roses. He wasn’t shocked.

  “Yes, well, I’m assuming that you have a damsel in distress then?”

  “Correct,” the prince pushed off the table. “It has been over a week since we last heard anything.”

  Gilly had dropped off another tankard and Whizzfiddle drained its contents.

  “Not to worry, lad,” said Whizzfiddle. “She’ll be fine.”

  The prince brightened. “Then you will assist my kingdom in its time of need?”

  “I could,” Whizzfiddle answered. He thought about how he would carry out the quest to the letter of the contract. He’d never succeeded at one of these quests in a spotless manner before, so it was doubtful he’d do so now. “Alas, I shall not.”

  “But they’ll kill her.”

  “No, they won’t. It’s a game they play.” Whizzfiddle adjusted his over-sized bottom to fit more snugly in the chair. “They’ll have a little fun with her…” He looked up into those steel blue eyes and trembled. “What I mean is that they’ll have a little fun trying to garner a ransom for her safe return.”

  “This note,” the prince pulled forth a folded piece of parchment, “says that if they don’t receive the money within a fortnight her life will be forfeit.”

  “A fortnight?”

  “Yes, that’s what it says.”

  “Never quite understood the concept of a fortnight.” Whizzfiddle pulled his foot up and itched it. “Damn vampires,” he said scratching a little red bump.

  “You think that vampires took my love?” the prince said, horrified.

  “What?” Whizzfiddle kept scratching. “No, I’m talking about these bumps. Look at them all.”

  His legs were covered with tiny red blisters.

  “You mean mosquitoes.”

  Whizzfiddle often forgot that the people in the Upperworld were unaware of the people in the Underworld. The Upperworlders called the bugs that sucked blood “mosquitoes” or “those little bastards.” But a prince should know about such things.

  Whizzfiddle coughed.

  “Yes, yes,” he said, rubbing his leg on the chair. “Figure of speech, you know. What land are you from again?”

  “Zerbaus. Does that matter?”

  “Just wondering,” Whizzfiddle answered, trying to recall the place. It didn’t come to mind. “Is this a new—”

  �
��It’s been three years now. My father conquered the land between Argan and the Kesper’s Range.”

  “Conquered, you say?” Whizzfiddle stuck a finger in his ear and pulled forth a bit of wax. He noted the prince had a look of disgust and so he wiped his finger under the table. “I don’t recall there being anything to conquer between Argan and Kesper’s.”

  “Well, no, not exactly.”

  “Last I remember it was overrun with wild sheep.”

  “And rabbits,” the prince said with a huff.

  “Rabbits,” Whizzfiddle nodded. “I would imagine they put up quite a resistance to your invading forces.”

  “They’re tougher than you know. They have big teeth!”

  Whizzfiddle had never run into a rabbit that he couldn’t skin. Sheep could be tricky if they all pulled together, but he’d only seen that happen once and there was magic involved.

  “No portal then?”

  “Portal?”

  “To the Underworld.”

  “The what?”

  “Hmmm. What were you before your father conquered the land of sheep and rabbits?”

  The prince looked around the room and then back at Whizzfiddle. “A tailor.”

  “Ah,” Whizzfiddle said, feeling a little badly. “That explains it.”

  If this land of Zerbaus was only a few years old, it would be too new to be on the map. It had probably not even been granted a deed as yet. Until it was a recognized land, the ruling class would not be privy to the Underworld or its workings. There may have been a few official knights, or ex-knights, as the case may be, that were aware of the realities of Ononokin, but they were sworn to secrecy. It was determined by the powers-that-be-who-are-long-since-dead that the Underworld should remain one of those need-to-know pieces of information. For now, the old statute stuck.

  “Can we get back to the subject of the princess, please?”

  “She’ll be fine,” said Whizzfiddle absently. “She’ll likely even learn a few tricks you’ll be glad of.”

  “Like what?”

  “Erm, well, survival things, of course.” He stood up and gestured toward the door. “Lad, she’ll be fine, but you’ll still need to find a wizard to assist you. Head down to Felatina’s Felines, by the docks.”

  “Isn’t that a gentleman’s club?”

  “I wouldn’t classify it precisely that way, but that’s close enough. You’re looking for a man known as Varmint the Virile. Just call out his name and give him a moment before approaching since he’ll probably be feeding the chickens, in a manner of speaking.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “You don’t want to understand,” Whizzfiddle said, directing the prince toward the door. “Just know that he adores these princess quests and he’ll be so, um, concerned over the princess’s psychological wellbeing after going through such a traumatic event that he’ll insist on having a private audience with her multiple times a year for years to come.”

  THE RING

  The next party consisted of a ranger, a soldier, an elf, a dwarf, and four hobbits. The smallest hobbit had curly black hair and bright blue eyes. He stepped forward and began opening his hand.

  Whizzfiddle looked at the hand as it opened. He saw the dramatic nature of the creature, and figured he’d have time to finish his ale. Everyone else continued gazing in awe at the dreadfully slow halfling. Maybe the lad was suffering from arthritis or some similar ailment. Whizzfiddle didn’t know, but he tapped his foot and signaled Gilly for another ale.

  “Does it always take this long for the lad to open his hand?” Whizzfiddle whispered to the ranger.

  The ranger replied with a frown.

  By the time Gilly arrived, the little fellow had his hand opened enough that Whizzfiddle could spot a glowing golden ring that sported elvish writing.

  “No, no, no,” Whizzfiddle stood up waving all about. “No! I do not do ring quests. Ghastly things, ring quests. Boring to no end. So many twists and turns. Pits of doom, betrayal, creepy little gray creatures that talk to themselves…and don’t even get me started on the giant psychotic spiders.”

  All eyes were upon him, even other patrons in the pub. A scrawny man at another table had spilled a bit of stew down his shirt and was casting an angry eye toward the wizard.

  The little blue-eyed halfling snapped his hand shut.

  Whizzfiddle pointed at the door.

  “Go down to Fourth and Buchanan, Yebberton’s BBQ. Ask for a wizard named Gimdolf, Grimdoof, or Gamdorf? …or maybe it’s Ginderolf? I suppose it could’ve been Geldof the Pink, too.” He fished around in his brain seeking the proper name. “Something like that,” he said finally. “Just yell out that you have a ring quest and he’ll pipe up. The man just loves these ring quests. Has a few books that he reads over and again and jumps at every opportunity for an adventure or even just idle debate on the topic.”

  Thanks were shared as the troop bolted out the door.

  THE FREAKS

  Hours passed. Each filled with scores of people looking for help with ring quests, princess-in-distress quests, fealty quests, lost throne quests, and every other cliché picking from the crop.

  Whizzfiddle was ready to call it a day when Gilly told him that there was only one batch of adventurers left. He slouched back in his chair and waited for them to step up.

  The old wizard’s eyes lit up.

  Before him stood a haggard and scrawny looking knight, an overweight elf with severe acne, a seven-foot dwarf who somehow remained proportionate, and a four-foot tall giant that was so squished down the wizard thought surely the fellow had been stepped on by a dragon and then stung by a hundred bees.

  No rings, no hobbits, and no princes (or princesses).

  “I don’t care what it is,” said Whizzfiddle, slamming back the remaining ale and smacking his lips. “I’ll take it!”

  CHANGELINGS

  Whizzfiddle studied each of them for a moment.

  They had all been transfigured, which sometimes happened in battle. Take the most important people on the field, do a little hocus-pocus on them to mix up their physical and/or emotional attributes, and watch all their minions lose interest in continuing the battle. The change could be permanent or at least take years to wear off, with permanence coming about because the victim gradually begins to identify with the changes. Once it becomes an identity, it sticks.

  And that was the challenge.

  “Let us start with you, elf,” Whizzfiddle said.

  “I was once tall and lean, with golden hair as fair as the sun,” the elf said, his voice quivering. “My eyes shown like emeralds set delicately within the purest of complexions.”

  Whizzfiddle leaned over toward the little giant. “Speaks like an elf,” he whispered.

  The elf exhaled. “Do you wish to hear of me or not?”

  “Now, now,” said Whizzfiddle with a squint. “I’ve not asked you to recant your life’s tale, lad. There’s no doubt you still have the spirit of an elf, even if the shell that carries it is without its typical splendor.” The elf raised his nose at the remark. “Let us begin with your name.”

  “Orophin Telemnar,” he replied, as though it were a song.

  Whizzfiddle furrowed his brow and sat back, dragging the ale to his lips. It was a name that should be common among the elves, but the wizard had never heard it before.

  “You know the meaning of this name, I assume?”

  “Of course I do!” Orophin said. “Unlike most of my kind, the people in my village are allowed to choose the names of their children. The parents participate, to be certain, but the final name is decided by committee. They do so when the child becomes a young adult. Until then he is called with a temporary name.” He scratched at a pimple that was near the point of bursting. “Apparently, the people in my village thought it would be funny to give the name to me. Little did they know that I would one day become their prince!”

  The others shook their heads, faces back in their respective steins, except for th
e tiny giant.

  He looked at Whizzfiddle. “What it mean, Mister?”

  Whizzfiddle ignored the question. “Prince, eh?” he said to the elf. “I don’t recall any elf prince named Orophin.”

  “Nor would you have. I was removed as speedily as I was elected. It was clear that whoever ended up as the next prince would be targeted by our adversaries, so they moved me into that position.”

  “Who made you prince?” asked Whizzfiddle.

  “The elders, of course,” Orophin replied. “It was a glorious day for me.” He smiled briefly before his face drooped. “Since that day it has been the nightmare that you see before you. I doubt that I’m even a footnote in elvish lore at this point.”

  “Why do you expect they made you prince?”

  “Because they wanted to do away with me, obviously!”

  “Obviously,” agreed the wizard. “But why did they want to do away with you?”

  “Because I’m…well…it’s that I’m—”

  “Gay,” the others chorused, finishing Orophin’s sentence.

  The elf bit his lower lip and closed his eyes.

  Whizzfiddle searched his memories for any incident whereby an elven community had persecuted one of its own for such a petty reason. Now, if Orophin had declared himself straight that would be another matter entirely.

  “I don’t understand why this would be a problem.”

  “Well, being different is not something that the elves endure well.”

  “True,” Whizzfiddle said. “They don’t at that, but what does being gay have anything to do with being different.”

  “I’m different because I’m gay.”

  “What?” Whizzfiddle roared. “I thought all elves were gay!”

  After a few moments the room had settled down. The only two who had not taken part in the merriment of the comment were Orophin and Whizzfiddle; the former because of the obvious, the latter because he was sincerely confused by the statement made by the former.

  “Think about it, wizard,” Orophin said through gritted teeth. “If all elves were gay, how would we have children?”