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

by John P. Logsdon

  “This man is slippery though.”

  “Name a wizard that isn’t slippery,” she said. “I see one noteworthy of the term in front of me right now.”

  “You know,” Treneth said, clasping his hands behind his back, “one day I will be in charge of the council. When that day arrives some people will still be working and some people will not be.”

  “I make more money wrestling than I do here anyway.”

  “Ah yes, but how many more years will you be able to wrestle? And what, The Twelve forbid, will you do if some tragic accident were to befall you?”

  With a motion far too swift for a woman of her size, Agnitine was on her feet, the chair flying in the opposite direction.

  “Is that a threat?” Her stare was icy. “Please tell me that was a threat.”

  “Of course not,” he said hoarsely. “I wouldn’t even imagine such a thing. I merely meant in the grand scheme of things, you know?”

  He squirmed around her and snatched up the chair sliding it back in position for her.

  “Wrestling is a dangerous sport.”

  She thundered back down into the chair, dropping to within inches of the floor. It took a few moments for it to rise back to its original height and Treneth could have sworn it made a crying sound.

  “Not the way I wrestle,” Agnitine said.

  “Fair enough,” he said. “Yet there is still the possibility.”

  “I’ve got savings.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “Look, little man, I don’t have all day to sit here and talk to you about my job. Now, what are you trying to accomplish with this contract?”

  “It’s nothing really.”

  “Spit it out, Treneth.”

  “Yes, well,” he said and cleared his throat. “I would like to put in some direct wording.”

  “You know that’s against regulations.”

  It figured that the one thing he admired about Agnitine was the one thing that would get in his way. He would do the same thing if he were in her shoes. Not that he could fit in her shoes. Nor would he try. Treneth was not that type of guy.

  “Yes, but sometimes regulations are not sturdy enough.”

  She tilted her head slightly. “I’m listening.”

  “Agnitine, you and I do not see eye-to-eye on a number of things.”

  “I can’t name one.”

  “Ah,” he said, grinning, “but there is one. We are both sticklers for doing what needs to be done, and right now there is a man on his way here that is looking to get a contract to fulfill a sentence bestowed upon him by the guild council.”

  “Whizzfiddle.”

  “Indeed.”

  “He’s never missed one of my events, you know.”

  “Is that so?” Treneth said as his heart sank.

  “Yes, that’s so,” she replied.

  Treneth’s brain was pouring out expletives that his mouth would never utter. That was one of many problems in getting even with Whizzfiddle. He knew everyone and everyone liked him. Easy to get along with. Always willing to buy someone an ale and have a long chat about nothing. Loved music and puppies. Good old Whizzfiddle. Blech!

  “The bastard always bets against me,” Agnitine said finally.

  “Is that so?” Treneth repeated, feeling more amazed than defeated.

  “If he catches the change in the contract he’ll have every right to request a new one, and it’ll be my ass if he decides to complain.”

  “As to that,” Treneth said, “let’s just say that Master Whizzfiddle is not one for looking at details. He’s cunning, yes; scrupulous, no.”

  She drummed her fingers on the desk.

  “Fine,” she said, “but you owe me one, Treneth.”

  “Certainly, certainly.”

  “My next match,” she said, cracking her knuckles. “You’ll be there and you’ll put a nice bet on me to win.”

  “Me? A wrestling match?”

  “Make sure you wear one of those fine suits, too.” Agnitine looked him over. It was a hungry look. It was not a look Treneth was used to having bestowed upon him. “I like my audience to inspire my lust for contact.”

  He swallowed hard.

  “Understand?” She added with a wink.

  Treneth felt the blood drain from his face as he quivered a nod.

  Agnitine burst into laughter.

  “I’m joking, Treneth! You actually quite disgust me, and I don’t want you lowering the class of my matches. But it was quite worth it to watch you squirm.”

  She handed him the contract as he struggled to decide whether to feel relieved, irritated, or both.

  “Make the changes and I’ll make sure Whizzfiddle gets it when he comes in.”

  THE LINE

  I don’t understand what’s taking so long,” Whizzfiddle said. “I’ve never seen a line like this at the guild.”

  He leaned out a bit but couldn’t see around the litany of people. He tried jumping, but he wasn’t that tall and his portly stature gave gravity the edge. It was also irritating that Gungren mimicked his every move.

  “Gungren, keep our spot like a good lad. I’m going to go to see what’s happening.”

  Whizzfiddle moved up, looking from person to person along the way and saying his hellos when he suddenly realized that none of them were wizards.

  He stopped when he saw one of the local farmers.

  “Idoon?”

  “Master Whizzfiddle,” Idoon said, putting out his hand for a shake. “Good to see you, sir. I’ve got a fresh batch of apples waiting for you at the farm. I know you like the dark red ones.”

  “Lovely, and I thank you.”

  “It’s no problem at all. I can deliver them to your porch if you’d like, sir.”

  “That would be splendid, yes, although I will be out of town for a while. A wizardly quest, you see,” he pointed to his backpack. “It may be better if you can get them to Gilly’s in the next hour or so. Yes, that would be ideal.”

  Whizzfiddle slipped the man a gold piece, which was ransom for twenty batches of apples, but the elderly wizard had more than enough money to go around.

  “Thank you, sir! Always a pleasure providing the finest fruits and vegetables to you, sir.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, Idoon,” Whizzfiddle said, “why are you in line?”

  “Oh, well, that young man Rimpertuz handed me a silver piece a short while ago and said I could keep it if I just stood here for a while.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes, sir,” Idoon said, scratching his ear. “Seemed a bit odd to me, sir, but a silver goes a long way these days.”

  “I imagine it does, yes,” Whizzfiddle said kindly. “If you’d excuse me?”

  “Certainly, sir. Thank you again, sir.”

  Whizzfiddle smiled, reached up, and patted Idoon on the shoulder before he moved further up the line. He spotted Heathnip Clippersmith, the local barber, Saldinia the stable master, and various other people who had little reason to engage in guild business.

  He sighed and laughed to himself. Treneth was a clever one.

  “Excuse me, ladies and gentleman...” he spotted Barben Tallendure, the tailor, who was also an elf, “...and, uh, Barben.” Barben scowled as the others in line snickered. “Is anyone here on guild business?”

  All the heads wiggled a definitive no, except for one rather bulbous one near the back of the line.

  “Yes, Gungren,” Whizzfiddle shouted, waving. “I know why you’re here.”

  A few moments later, Whizzfiddle walked through the main door of the guild building with Gungren in tow. He was hot and miffed, but every wizard knew better than to approach Agnitine when in a foul mood, for her foul mood was most foul indeed.

  “Gungren,” he said, “wait for the others and then bring them through those double doors. We’ll not be able to complete the contract without them, but I can get the groundwork in place.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  Whizzfiddle took a s
tep toward the door and stopped. “What was that?”

  “What were what?”

  “Know this, little giant. I am not your Master. I no longer accept apprentices and you are not a wizard.” Gungren reached for his cards. “Card tricks aside, without a proper power source, you are merely a street magician.” Whizzfiddle squatted down. “I know it’s hard to hear this, Gungren, but there is no sense in believing a lie.”

  Gungren sighed, looking downcast.

  “Yes, Master.”

  “There, that’s better...wait, no.”

  He grabbed Gungren by the shoulders and stared directly into his eyes.

  “Again, I am not your master,” he said each word distinctly. “Understand?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Good,” Whizzfiddle said, and walked through the double doors.

  CONTRACTS

  Agnitine smiled at Whizzfiddle when he approached the counter. That was irregular. Treneth was standing back by one of the filing cabinets working on a document. Agnitine smiling while Treneth was within proximity was downright deviant.

  “Long line out there today,” Whizzfiddle said toward Treneth.

  “Is that so?”

  “Good morning, Agnitine.”

  “So far,” she said.

  He would need to keep his guard up.

  “I’m in need of a contract. There will be multiple signatures and a fixed time line.”

  “One month,” Treneth piped up and then slid the document over to Agnitine. “I have already put in the dates for you, my friend.”

  Whizzfiddle snorted. Friend? Hardly. He’d just as soon befriend a vampire. It pained him that he thought such a thing since he tried to treat everyone equally. It was just something people said in the Upperworld. He sighed.

  “Anxious to see me succeed, eh Treneth?”

  “I can think of nothing I want more.”

  “I’m sure. Let me see this contract so I can fill in the quest details.”

  “I am somewhat impressed with you, truth be told. A quest of undoing is a difficult one.”

  Whizzfiddle didn’t bother looking up from his writing. “I wonder how, pray tell, that you knew it was a quest of undoing?”

  “I, uh,” Treneth continued, “saw a very large dwarf walking down the street with you today and I just made the connection.”

  “I’m sure,” Whizzfiddle murmured.

  The paperwork took some time to fill out. Fifteen minutes later the troop arrived. Bekner had to stoop a bit to get through the door and Orophin had various sauces on his shirt. It was appalling to see an elf in such disarray.

  “It’s about time,” Whizzfiddle said. “We haven’t the luxury to...what’s that word? I said it earlier.”

  “Dawdle,” Zel said.

  “Yes, that’s it.” Whizzfiddle wasn’t used to this work-ethic mentality. “We have...uh-hem...work to do.”

  Agnitine reached up and snatched the contract from Whizzfiddle. She looked it over and pointed at each person in the party, counting them.

  “It looks like everyone is present,” she said. “Okay, Whizzfiddle you sign first and then whatever order the rest of you signs doesn’t matter.”

  The last to sign was Gungren, but he began reading through the document. Whizzfiddle had expected the little giant would just put an inkblot on the page since giants didn’t know how to write. Evidently, they knew how to read.

  “Are you actually reading that or just looking at the symbols?”

  “Shh,” Gungren held up the same finger Whizzfiddle did to convey pause. “I are busy.”

  Pecklesworthy must have really put some power into this transfiguration. Not only was Gungren deluding himself into believing that he, a giant, could be a wizard, the runt could read!

  “Nope,” Gungren said after a few minutes. “I not signing this.”

  “What?”

  “I not signing this,” he repeated. “It need fixed first.”

  “Listen, Gungren,” Whizzfiddle said. “I’m beginning to lose my patience with you, and anyone who knows me will tell you that’s a difficult task.”

  “Master,” Gungren whispered, pointing at the document, “you not read this. It say here that you got only got thirty hours to finish, not thirty days.”

  “What?” Whizzfiddle took the document and studied it.

  The wizard will have a full thirty days to complete this quest, and must do so to the letter of the contract. A day, as modified and accepted through the signing of this contract, equates exactly to a single turn of the clock.

  “I don’t see the problem,” Whizzfiddle said.

  “Single turn of clock.”

  “Right.”

  “That an hour, not a day.”

  Whizzfiddle glowered at Treneth, who appeared busily working on another contract. Treneth was a by-the-book wizard, but the book he followed was written from his own hand.

  Whizzfiddle wrote “VOID” on the contract and then ripped it in two.

  “Well done, Gungren,” said Whizzfiddle. “Agnitine, I shall require a new contract. This time, I shall take one from the middle of the stack, if you please.”

  PROVISIONS

  Rangmoon was a town in motion.

  There were carts, buggies, and pedestrians all about. Street performers jostled for prime locations in the center square. Beggars held to the alleys, mostly, venturing out cautiously now and again for a quick request and then disappearing back into the shadows before being spotted by a footman.

  The shops were doing well these days. Rangmoon’s economy always picked up in the spring. People just seemed happier and that led to spending money on new outfits, polished saddles, and candied treats. While this was good for Rangmoon, it was trying on Whizzfiddle’s schedule.

  The elderly wizard looked at the position of the sun for a moment, calculating.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “it is precisely early afternoon or so. I wish to be out of this city and on our way by late afternoon. We have much to do and little time to do it.”

  “But we’ve got—”

  “Thirty days. Yes, I know, Beckner. However, these types of quests have the potential for simplicity or complexity.” He began checking each pocket to find his coin purse. “I have been known to attract the latter type of situations, so I don’t want to take any chances. A quick start and finish will be a wise course of action.”

  Whizzfiddle pulled out a handful of change. “I am giving each of you three gold pieces. That should be more than enough for any supplies you may deem necessary to bring along on this journey. Most of these supplies will be emergency use only, but don’t neglect the fact that on any quests there are always emergencies. Yes, Zel?”

  Zel put his hand down.

  “Are we to bring food and drink?”

  “You were a knight, were you not?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “And you never had to prepare for going out on a quest?”

  “Certainly, yes, but we had people to prepare—”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Orophin said. “Just come along with me.”

  Whizzfiddle took a sip from his flask as he headed off toward Gilly’s.

  He set on casting tiny spells that transferred small bits of change from his purse into the pockets of the beggars. Most of them were either friends or relatives of long dead friends, and he never did much like seeing the young ones in such a state.

  A thought struck him.

  “Beggars,” he hollered. “Come speak with me, if you would.”

  He had a small crowd within moments. A couple of footmen stepped over as well.

  “I will be leaving for a quest this very afternoon,” Whizzfiddle said. “This means that I will have need for the grounds of my property to be taken care of as well as protected. Most of you know where I live?” There were nods all around. “This will not be easy work, mind. The grass can get unwieldy and the garden needs a critical eye.”

  The grass was already out of control and the garden was
dead because Whizzfiddle had little inclination to do work nor did he have a critical gardening eye.

  “Who is interested in taking up this task?”

  All hands went up, including one of the footmen. The other footman pushed his partner’s arm back down.

  “Well and good,” Whizzfiddle said. “The pay will be a one gold per week.”

  Both of the footmen put their hands up.

  “You will be able to stay in the shed next to the house.”

  “All of us?” Sander, an old friend of Whizzfiddle’s, asked.

  “Correct. Don’t let it fool you, there is a lot of room in that shed.” The shed had a nice magical field placed upon it that widened its innards quite a bit. The only rub was that if Whizzfiddle was away for more than a year, the shed would slowly return to its normal shape. “Sander, I will need someone to be in charge of this. As I recall, you ran your own business for some time, no?”

  “Yessir, I ran the rent-a-casket business, sir.”

  “Ah, yes,” Whizzfiddle recalled thoughtfully. “It did seem a good idea at the time.”

  “On paper, sir. As you had said, sir.”

  It was a good idea, on paper. The problem was that the pay-as-you-go plan was too frequently replaced with you-went-before-you-paid. Plus, families weren’t too keen on their loved one’s caskets being repossessed, and Sander didn’t have the sinisterness to exact such measures anyway.

  “I believe you’re the man for the job,” Whizzfiddle said and then flung a spell at him. A little grouping of sparkles surrounded Sander’s head and then dissipated. “You’ll have access to my house, but nobody else will be able to go in. Anyone who tries will get a nice jolt at the door. Please do be mindful of that as I’ve heard that it rather stings.”

  Their faces were all pale. Sander beamed.

  “One last thing,” Whizzfiddle said, motioning everyone to follow him to Kope’s Bathhouse, “I want you all cleaned up and kept cleaned up.”

  Kope had an expression of horror as Whizzfiddle approached.

  “Kope,” Whizzfiddle said, bowing slightly.

  “Master Whizzfiddle, sir.”

  Whizzfiddle pulled out a number of gold coins. He began piling them into Kope’s hands. The Bathhouse usually charged a single silver for a thorough cleaning. Whizzfiddle provided enough funds to clean his new “employees” for a year.