Yet Another Dreadful Fairy Book

by Jon Etter

  It wasn’t too long after this that Shade began to get the unpleasant feeling that she was being watched. She looked this way and that, catching the odd crow or vulture here and the occasional stray rabbit or deer there looking her way. She tried to take comfort in those little discoveries, but deep down she knew that it was not the eyes of animals that she felt.

  After riding for hours, Shade learned that it was more than just a feeling. The winds picked up, clearing away the mists that had enshrouded them for most of their journey. Shade looked back the way they had come. Lightning flashed, and there, high on a hill behind them, was a large cloaked figure on horseback.

  Shade rode up next to Justinian. “Somebody’s following us.”

  “Are they close?” the knight asked without turning his head.

  “No, they’re quite a ways back.”

  “Are they riding fast upon us?”

  Shade looked back past Ginch and the Professor. “I don’t think so. I can’t see them right now.”

  “Then we have more pressing concerns at the moment.”

  Shade followed Justinian’s gaze. Racing their way was a man on horseback. As he came closer and closer, Shade could make out more and more details: long hair flowing in the breeze, chainmail armor, blue tabard with golden lion head in the center. Shade’s eyes widened in recognition.

  “It’s—it’s you,” she gasped.

  In which a piece of cookware plays a surprisingly key role …

  “’Tis not me, milady Shade. That vile villain but wears my face.” Justinian glared at his approaching foe and held up his hand. “Halt, duplicitous doppelganger! Surrender and lead us to the fair Princess Viola—”

  “And Prince Beow,” Shade piped up.

  “—and we shall show thee mercy. If not, thou shalt feel the full force of my fury and taste the sting of my cold stee—” Justinian looked at the short green blade he had drawn from his scabbard. “Oh, right … Taste the sting of my … battle-seasoned bronze, my treasonous twin!”

  Justinian’s double drew near, then reined his horse to a stop. A rat-faced goblin poked his head out from behind him. “Why the donkle did you stop? We gotta get outta here!”

  The fake Justinian’s face broke into a sneering smile. “We will. But first I want to teach myself a lesson.”

  “Are you crazy?” the goblin squealed. “Don’t fight him!”

  “Yeah, you no wanna the piece of the real Justinian, fatcha-coota-matchca, Notstinian,” Ginch said. “There’s-a the nobody can beat him.”

  “Then it’s a good thing I am him,” Notstinian replied smugly. “Well, him but better.”

  “Thou liest, Sluagh dog,” Justinian declared. “I care not what disguise thou wearest—”

  Notstinian laughed. “Take a good look, you ridiculous old fool. No disguise. No glamour. No tricks. I am you, except younger. Stronger. Whole.”

  Shade studied the stranger’s face. It was true—his hair was less gray and his face looked younger, less worn. And then she noticed on the side of his head—“His ears! He has both ears!”

  “I care not if he has two ears or four arms, he shall not best me.” Justinian got off his pony and strode toward his foe. “Fighting ponyback against horseback gives thee an unfair advantage. Step down and fight me on equal grounds if thou wishes to prove thyself.”

  “Um … no.” Notstinian reached and pulled a flail from his saddlebag. He lifted it up and twirled the spiked metal ball on its chain. “You see, that’s one of the ways I’m better than you. I know that playing fair is for suckers.”

  “Speaking of suckers, you’re being one right now, you nitwit!” The goblin seated behind Notstinian slapped him on the side. “If you don’t get us outta here right now, I’ll see to it you don’t see a single copper of—ah!”

  Notstinian shoved the goblin off the back of his horse, then charged at Justinian. The good knight drew his antique sword, but instead of holding the blade so that it pointed out at his foe, he held it angled down with the flat of it resting on his forearm. Notstinian attacked, swinging his flail at his noble foe. Justinian swung out his sword arm and the weapon’s chain wrapped around it. The flail’s spiked ball would have shattered the good knight’s arm were it not for the bronze blade guarding it. Yanking with his entangled arm and grabbing Notstinian’s tabard with the other, Justinian wrenched his foe from the saddle.

  As he fell, the faux knight grappled Sir Justinian, rolled as he hit the ground, and used his momentum and a mighty kick of his legs to send the true knight flying. Justinian landed hard on his back. As he rolled over and struggled to catch his breath, his foe leaped up and drew a long bronze sword. “Just stay down,” Notstinian said. “It’ll make killing you a lot easier for me and a lot less painful for you, so really it’s a win-win move.”

  “I fear … no pain … contemptible counterfeit,” Justinian groaned as he got to one knee. Before he could rise further, Notstinian jogged forward and kicked him to the ground again.

  “We’ve got to do something to save him!” Shade cried. She flew at Justinian’s attacker, fist held out in front of her, ready to strike. Unfortunately, she fought with all the strength and skill one would expect from a sedentary junior librarian with a deep disdain for physical activities. Before she knew it, the flat of a bronze sword smacked her in the cheek and sent her spinning off course and down to the ground. “Ow, ow, ow! You miserable thistleprick! Ginch, Professor—do something!”

  “’Ey, Mr. Notstinian! You gotta the untied shoelace!”

  “My boots don’t have laces,” he growled. Notstinian again kicked Justinian as he attempted to rise.

  “Well, that’s all I got,” Ginch sighed.

  Notstinian raised his sword to strike, but before he could do so, he yelped in pain and grabbed the back of his head. He turned around, teeth bared. “Knock it off, or you’re next!”

  The Professor, still holding the slingshot he had just shot Notstinian with, smiled and waved. During that momentary distraction, our noble knight struck. He launched himself at his assailant, grabbed him by the waist, and with a mighty heave, flipped him over his back. Not bothering to watch where he landed, Justinian unwrapped the flail from his arm, flung it away, and brandished his found blade. “Rise so that I may see your vile, deceitful face, villain,” he commanded.

  “You know you just insulted yourself, right?” Notstinian pointed out as he got to one knee. “We have the same face.”

  “Yeah but he make it look good,” Ginch declared.

  “Smack the donkleberries out of him, Sir Justinian!” Shade shouted. “Let’s see how you do in a fair fight, grub-gobbler!”

  Notstinian laughed. “What are you, an idiot? I’m not going to fight fair.” He grabbed a handful of dirt and threw it in Justinian’s face. As the good knight sputtered, his foe swung his sword with all his might, but the temporarily blinded Justinian’s battle-honed reflexes made him leap backward. The sword missed his belly by less than an inch. Justinian wiped his eyes with one hand and blindly raised his sword in front of him with the other; he could not see his foe whirl to the side, rush in, and raise the sword above his head to cleave Justinian’s skull. But before he could deliver what would no doubt have been a killing blow, he cried out and grabbed his forehead. “Dingle-dangle pixie! I’m going to take that dingle-dangle slingshot and—”

  A hard uppercut from Justinian cut off his doppelganger’s threat and sent him staggering back. Justinian pointed his sword in his foe’s face. “Thy perfidy will avail thee naught! Make peace with thy maker, for I shall speed thy soul hence posthaste!”

  Notstinian rolled his eyes. “Do you ever just shut up and fight?”

  Shade, Ginch, and the Professor all shook their heads. “Not really,” Shade said.

  “No. It’s-a the part of his process,” Ginch affirmed, as he glanced over his shoulder. He did a double take and tapped Shade on the shoulder. “Okay, it’s-a bad that Justinian gotta fight himself to the death, but I think things is about
to get even worse.”

  Shade turned away from Justinian and his opponent as they circled each other and looked where Ginch pointed. Galloping toward them was a cloaked figure on a black horse. “Maybe he’s not coming for us?” Shade suggested hopefully as Justinian’s sword clanged against Notstinian’s.

  “He’s-a comin’ inna the beeline toward us,” Ginch observed as Notstinian’s sword clanged against Justinian’s.

  “Maybe he’s a good guy here to help?” Shade offered weakly as the two combatants struck and parried, parried and struck.

  Ginch shook his head. “He no look-a like the good guy, what with the black horse and the gray cloak and the hood up so you no can-a see his face.”

  “Puckernuts. Okay.” Shade glanced at the ground, then snatched up the discarded flail, which she shoved into Ginch’s hands. “You and the Professor get ready to take out the rider. I’ll help Sir Justinian if he needs it.”

  The Professor saluted her, shoved back his hat, put a pebble in his slingshot, and turned in the direction of the rider, shot pulled back and ready. Ginch held up the flail, poked at the spiked ball, and frowned. “I no know how you use this thing.” The Professor lowered his slingshot, pointed at the ball, and then punched Ginch lightly in the arm. “Hit him with the spiky part. Got it.”

  As the two readied themselves, Shade watched Justinian bravely fight the foe with his face. Blow for blow, the two seemed equally matched in skill, but because of his greater age or earlier injuries or a combination of the two, Shade could see Justinian’s strength flagging. Shade, not sure what else she could do, shouted insult after vulgar insult at Justinian’s opponent to distract him, but to no effect. Blow after blow Notstinian rained down upon the good knight, and blow after blow the good knight parried, each time a little more weakly.

  “Mr. Horseguy’s a-gettin’ close,” Ginch announced.

  Before Shade could reply, Notstinian’s sword struck and, with a harsh and thunderous CLANG!, shattered Justinian’s. Justinian looked in shock at his broken blade for just a moment, which was just enough time for Notstinian to crack Justinian on the side of the head with the pommel of his sword and send him sprawling in the grass. In a desperate attempt to save her friend, Shade again attacked and was again knocked aside with a slap of Notstinian’s hand.

  “Mr. Horseguy’s a-gettin’ even closer,” Ginch said, as he gave the flail a practice swing and the Professor launched a pebble the rider’s way.

  Horrified and powerless, Shade watched as Notstinian rolled Justinian over with a kick. “I told you, old man—I’m you, but better.”

  Justinian coughed and spat blood in dirt. “Not me … Not better … ”

  “He’s-a almost here!” Ginch shouted.

  “Yes, you and, yes, better.” Notstinian’s eyes gleamed with malice as he raised his sword up over his head with both hands. “I’m younger than you. I’m stronger than you. I’m smarter than you.”

  “He’s-a here!” Ginch cried. He and the Professor dove to the side as the rider almost trampled them, reaching a hand into his cloak as he passed.

  “And now I’m going to kill myself—and by that I mean you—and be the best and only me around!” Notstinian tensed his muscles to strike, but before he could the dark rider was upon him. The man on horseback drew forth from his cloak an iron skillet and clobbered Notstinian in the face with it, spinning the deadly doppelganger around. Notstinian’s sword fell from his hand and he staggered about yet somehow managed to stay on his feet, his face red and sizzling as fairy flesh does when touched with iron.

  “Thou talks too much, villain,” Justinian growled as he snatched up the dropped sword and stabbed it through his foe’s heart.

  Notstinian’s hands grasped the bronze blade buried in his chest. He looked at it then at Justinian. Then he began to glow. “I … talk too much? You’re saying … that I talk too … That’s … that’s just … ” he murmured as he grew brighter and brighter until he vanished in a flash of green light. With a little plop, a shriveled ear with a golden hoop in its lobe dropped in the grass.

  “Yeah, you did talk too much, you cheap knock-off knight,” the cloaked rider said as his horse walked up to Justinian. The rider hopped down and pushed back his hood, revealing the thin pale face of a teenage boy whose hair fell down over his eyes. “But not nearly as much as the original windbag himself.”

  “Grouse!” Shade cried with relief.

  “My squire?” Justinian asked blearily.

  “Unfortunately,” Grouse grumbled as he put his arm around the battered knight’s waist. “Come on. Let’s patch you up and get some food in our bellies. Saving your bacon makes me want some actual bacon.”

  In which socks are shoved in places where they should not be shoved …

  “After you came back from Ande-Dubnos, you were—well, what I thought was you was acting kind of funny,” Grouse explained as he spooned eggs from his skillet onto metal plates next to the bacon he had just cooked, and then passed them around. “When I complained about having to leave the kitchens at Dinas Ffaraon, your double suggested that maybe I should just skip going on the rade. That didn’t sound at all like you, so then I said I’d like to quit being your squire and become a chef. When your fake said that sounded like an excellent idea and gave me his blessing—”

  “Oh, that foul fiend.” Justinian’s lip curled in disgust. “To think he would have you quit the noble field of battle for an ignoble fate amongst cooks and pastry chefs—”

  “Which sounds lovely, by the way,” Grouse cut in. “But it definitely was not something that you would say.”

  “So how did you find us?” Shade asked.

  “Yeah, how did you know we was in the big, big trouble?” Ginch mumbled through a mouthful of eggs.

  “I had no idea.” Grouse paused for a bite of bacon. “Mmm … salty and crispy. Since something was clearly up with Sir Earwax there, I decided to follow the rade to see what was going on.”

  “I’ve trained you well, my squire,” Justinian said quietly as he stared into their campfire.

  Shade saw a half-smile steal across Grouse’s face, which he quickly hid with a frown. “Yeah, for whatever that’s worth. Anyway, I had some trouble getting a horse, so it took me a while to get on the trail. Eventually I found a bunch of unconscious nobles.”

  “We did that,” Ginch said proudly. The Professor nodded and pulled out the spray gun. He held it up, gave it a kiss, and tucked it back in his coat—and put in a couple pieces of bacon as well.

  Shade told Grouse all about their imprisonment and escape, and everything leading up to their confrontation with the magical counterfeit Justinian. “Now that you’re up to speed and we’ve had a nice meal—it was delicious, by the way, Grouse—let’s find out what Sir Notstinian’s little buddy can tell us about what’s going on. Guys, could you bring the scum-sucker over for a few questions.”

  The Professor and Ginch walked over to the dead tree where they had staked the horses and ponies and marched the rat-faced goblin who had been riding with Notstinian over to the campfire, his arms bound behind his back and a filthy sock shoved in his mouth. Shade reached out to remove the sock, then stopped. “Professor, take that sock out of his mouth. I’m not touching that thing.”

  The Professor kicked off a shoe, wiggled his bare toes, then in one fluid motion pulled the sock out of the goblin’s mouth and onto his foot. The goblin spat and stuck out his tongue. “Bleh! I’m poisoned! I’m poisoned! That was the most vile, disgusting, foul—How dare you treat the Viscount of Scuttling in such a manner! Release me this instant, you worthless curs, or I shall—mumf, mumf, MUMF!” he grunted as the Professor shoved the sock back into his mouth.

  Shade put her hands on her hips and her face close to the goblin’s—but not too close because of the stinky sock. “Here’s how it’s going to work, Count Vermin.”

  “VI-cown,” the Sluagh nobleman mumbled.

  “Honestly, I don’t know the difference and I don’t care. We’re
going to take the sock out again, and when we do, you are going to tell us exactly where Princess Viola and Prince Beow are and everything you know about this plot to start a war. If you don’t, then we’re going to leave you tied up and ready to be eaten by anything that might happen to come along and … ” Shade arched her eyebrow at the Professor, “ … we’ll replace the sock with something even worse.”

  The Professor grinned, stuck his hand into the top of his pants, and then whipped out a pair of green underwear covered in little red hearts.

  “Hey, partner, how’d you getta the underpants off like that and no tear ’em?” Ginch asked, to which the Professor merely waggled his eyebrows. Ginch shrugged, then reached out and pulled the sock loose from the goblin’s mouth as the Professor twirled his underwear on his finger.

  “Okay, okay, I’ll talk!” the goblin squealed. “But first, give me some water to get the taste of … of … just to get this horrid taste out of my mouth!”

  The Professor jogged to the campfire, then jogged back with a waterskin. He uncapped it, held it near the noble’s face, then put his hand behind his ear. “He says you gotta say the pretty please first,” Ginch explained.

  The noble scowled. “Fine. Pretty please, you slack-jawed goof.”

  The Professor squeezed the skin, sending a jet of water splashing into the goblin’s face. As the goblin sputtered and spat, the Professor put the skin to his own mouth and gulped and squeezed and squeezed and gulped until it was empty then tossed it over his shoulder and wiped his mouth.

  “You got your drink, now talk,” Shade demanded. “Where are the prince and princess?”

  “In the Ruins.”

  The Ruins. The vast crumbling stone buildings that lay within the haunted lands of Stormfield, known to all but seen only by a brave or unlucky few. The most dreaded and horror-haunted place in those dreaded and horror-haunted fields. Its origins long shrouded in myth and legend, it was now known by those who read The Fairy Chronicle to be the former capital of a fair and just commonwealth of fairies and the place where that commonwealth died to make way for elven privilege and tyranny. Shade shivered at the thought of it. “Why did you take them to the Ruins?”