Fantasy Gone Wrong

by Greenberg, Martin H.

  Umsonofer told his new allies that it wasn’t as simple as that, but they wouldn’t believe him. They argued for a long time, but Kasimir was implacable. He was determined to try the experiment, even if he had to keep his eyes shut while he did so; like most humans, he had been born a philosopher.

  If Kasimir had been an elf, or even a dwarf, Umsonofer would have tried harder to talk him out of it, but Umsonofer’s own feelings were more mixed now than they had ever been before. Isabel might think that it was elfkind that was unutterably vile and worthy of eternal torment, but elfkind didn’t see things that way at all, and Umsonofer had been carrying the human doomsday weapon in his pack for far too long. He even contrived, in the end, to tell himself that the glamor might not work down here, in a society that plainly had no use for gold and precious gems.

  “All right,” Umsonofer said finally. “You can take it to the burrow entrance and try it on the spiders—but I’ll be right behind you in the tunnel. If it doesn’t work, the chalice is going straight back into the bag until I can figure out a way of getting rid of it for good. And if you value your life, you’ll keep your eyes shut—no peeking.”

  When the time came, Umsonofer crept along the tunnel in Kasimir’s wake, until the human stopped. The tunnel was just about wide enough for Umsonofer to squeeze past the human to recover the cup, if things went as badly awry as he expected—and once he had got it back into the bag, he would have time to take stock of the situation before deciding what to do next.

  He whispered the spellkey, to make sure that no one but Kasimir would obtain the deadly information—and then he closed his eyes, as he had done so many times before.

  When the human went limp, and his sphincter muscles relaxed, Umsonofer felt a curious shiver pass along his own body, which was not entirely composed of fatalistic sadness. There was something in him that was not displeased to have proof that the human doomsday weapon really did work on humans too. He squeezed past the corpse and began groping about for the chalice of death and its protective container.

  Neither of them was anywhere to be felt.

  Umsonofer moved farther and farther forward, unable to judge how far he had emerged from the burrow’s entrance, or what kind of menace might be lurking there.

  He knew he had overreached, though, when he was roughly seized at the shoulders by a pair of massive jaws, as strong and precise as magic-tempered bronze, which dragged his lower body from its protective hole like an ill-fitting cork from a bottle. He felt something akin to a broad needle stab him in the back of the neck.

  Umsonofer woke to find his arms and legs trussed up tight—not bound together but separately glued to rope-like strands that stretched him out like a letter X. He remembered what Isabel had said about the spiders fattening their victims up before liquefying their insides, and wondered how long the business of food-preparation would last.

  He wondered, too, whether it might be best not to open his eyes, given that he had no idea where the chalice was, but decided in the end that he had little enough to lose.

  He had not expected the spiders to be quite as abominable as they were. They were as big as elephants, with much longer and hairier legs. They were black as night, and there was something in the way they moved, so smoothly and silently, that flooded his consciousness with pure fear. Their heads seemed surprisingly sticky, their tentacular palps—each as big and flexible as the limbs of a giant octopus—glistening with what might have been saliva. Their multitudinous eyes glowed crimson.

  Hung up as he was, above the upper plane of the web, on a dendritic frame of some kind, Umsonofer could see at least forty spiders at various distances. Only two of them were studying him at close range, but that was more than enough. He had been unlucky enough in the course of his life to encounter half a dozen ghouls, three ogres, two chimeras, and a mad dog, not to mention various would-be assassins of the dwarf and goblin species, but he had always been able to turn on his heel and run like hell, ultimately outdistancing his adversaries. He had never seen anything half as awful as one of these spiders, and had never experienced such utter helplessness.

  By way of distraction, the elf wondered whether the web was a sort of world, floating like his own in the ether, or whether it was the bottom layer of all existence, stretching like an aerialist’s safety net from one end of the universe to the other, set to catch the detritus of a whole host of slowly disintegrating worlds. There had to be some such bottom layer, he supposed, given that the worlds were disintegrating, and that streams and rivers would be ceaselessly carrying their water away even if the solid ground were more secure than it was. Was the water recycled somehow? Perhaps it was pumped up the walls of the universe so that it might fall again as rain onto the world or worlds. Perhaps, on the other hand, there was an infinite number of layers to the universe, through which everything was ceaselessly falling, periodically molded into worlds and set afloat by creatures with kinder habits than the Web’s top predators.

  In spite of his best efforts, though, Umsonofer could not bring himself to care. He was a philosopher now, by choice as well as necessity, but the consolations of philosophy still seemed very meager.

  In the end, he looked the nearest spider in its many eyes, and said: “I could do with something to drink. If you’re going to fatten me up, you’d best not let me die of thirst before you start, or there’ll be nothing left of me but a shriveled husk by the time you want to drink me.”

  He hadn’t expected the spider to understand elvish speech, but it seemed to take heed of what he’d said. It actually turned away, as if to search for something—and then it went toward something that was lying on the ground twenty elvish paces from the frame on which it had strung up its victim.

  Umsonofer recognized the bag containing the poisoned chalice. It was still bulging.

  He realized then what must have happened back at the burrow. After reciting the spellkey, Kasimir had been unable to resist the temptation to peek inside the bag before taking the chalice out. He had seen it—but he had been so enthusiastic to lift it to his lips to drink he had lifted the bag with it. When it had fallen from his grasp, the open bag must have enveloped it again, rendering it invisible . . . but not inaccessible.

  A spider had picked it up—and one of its companions had then picked Umsonofer up. The spiders had not yet caught sight of the doomsday weapon—but now, as his captor cast about for something in which to bring him a little liquid to quench his thirst, Umsonofer was finally about to confront it himself.

  “Oh well,” the elf murmured, unable to suppress a wry smile, “at least it’ll be quick, if I do get to drink from it.”

  He didn’t. As soon as the spider’s inquisitive palps had tumbled the chalice from its packaging, the monster paused as if hypnotized, and every one of its myriad vermilion eyes seemed to be staring madly. Umsonofer realized, as magical appetite surged through him like an internal tide, that he might yet have a deal of suffering still to do, given that his chances of slaking that murderous thirst now seemed very small indeed.

  The spiders, on the other hand, had every opportunity to slake their thirst. As connoisseurs of liquid food, they obviously found the inexhaustible nectar of the cup to be exceedingly tasteful. The spider that had released the cup drank deep, and was then shunted aside by another. Then there were twenty struggling to get to the weirdly glowing object—and after that, Umsonofer lost count.

  He also lost sight of the chalice, which gave him some slight relief from his own inexpressible torment.

  For obvious reasons, Umsonofer had never witnessed one of the brawls that followed the periodic unveiling of his dubious prize, but his ears had always assured him that they were relatively unviolent affairs, presumably because elves, dwarfs, and the like had thirsts appropriate to the size of their stomachs, and were not long delayed in slaking them. The spiders were huge, and had thirsts to match; the delay involved in waiting for each drinker to finish became intolerable to its impatient rivals with astonishing rapidit
y, and the spiders were predators, lacking the refined discretion characteristic of omnivores. Newcomers arrived on the scene at a faster rate than poisoned spiders died, and the struggles of the swarm grew increasingly agitated.

  It was not a situation that could endure for long, though. Something had to give—and what gave was the delicately spun but ancient web. Overladen with creatures that were normally wary of overmuch congregation, a whole section of it gave way, and fell away just as the stream-weakened land at the edge of Umsonofer’s world had fallen away.

  The chalice fell too, without the hapless elf ever catching sight of it again. The dendritic structure to which he was attached was left on the lip of the hole.

  When the elf finally felt better, he looked downward with some interest. There were no stars to be seen in the depths of the hole, but there was something down there like a soft white mist, stretching as far as the eye could see in every direction. Another web, perhaps? Or authentic cloud? Who could tell, without actually jumping down? And who was likely to do that, unless and until desperation drove them to it?

  “The chance would be a fine thing,” Umsonofer muttered glumly, wishing that he had a drink of perfectly ordinary water.

  They did not come to find him for at least twenty-four hours, but they did come in the end, wondering at the scarcity of spiders—and the consequent abundance of recoverable loot—for many miles around. They found him barely alive, but not so barely that he could not be revived and cut free, and assisted to tell his story.

  Eventually the entire party gathered around the rim of the hole to look down into the vast abyss that had swallowed up so many of their enemies. It was a moment made for philosophy.

  “They’ll be back, of course,” said Landameofurkh sadly. “They’ll breed, and occupy the territory again, and we’ll be right back where we were, struggling to survive.”

  “But a breathing space is a breathing space,” Isabel observed. “We’ll be able to tell our grandchildren about this, so they’ll know that the spiders can be defeated, provided that there are heroes brave enough to try.”

  It was a very human thing to say, but Umsonofer found himself nodding his head. “And we’ll have reinforcements in the meantime,” he said. “As long as the world keeps falling apart, there’ll be jumpers—and as long as they have far enough to fall, they’ll always change their minds on the way down. And fallers too, of course . . . but I hope I’m the last of my kind of hero. I’d hate to think of it raining poisoned chalices for the next ten thousand years.”

  “I don’t understand about that,” Isabel said, furrowing her horrid brow as only a human could. “How did it keep filling up again? Where did all the poison come from?”

  “I’m the kind of person who can always resist the temptation to peek,” Umsonofer told her, “so I’m not really equipped for philosophy—but I’ve seen a lot more of the universe than most philosophers have. One thing it’s not short of is ingenious ways to kill people—and yes, I do mean people in the broad sense, not in the narrow one. The old world’s just a crumbling flying island, and we live on the shore of infinity now. If we have to go farther down, in the end, we might as well all go down together.”

  BATTLE OF WITS

  Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Mickey Zucker Reichert is a pediatrician, dog trainer, animal wrangler, alligator wrestler, coach, parent, and all-around nice person (most of the time) as well as the author of more than fifty short stories and more than twenty novels, including (but not limited to) the Bifrost Guardians pentology, two trilogies about the Renshai, the Books of Barakhai series, The Legend of and The Return of Nightfall, The Unknown Soldier, A Time to Die, Flightless Falcon, and Spirit Fox (with Jennifer Wingert). She shares a forty-acre farm with a stunning husband, three perfect children, seven dogs, eight parrots, way too many cats, four horses, eleven goats, thirteen geese, three snakes (that we know of), a dozen chickens, three lizards, two peacocks, three guinea pigs, two hundred fifteen total gallons of fish tank (fish included), two hermit crabs, a llama, a guanaco, and a duck. Loneliness is so underrated!

  WIND TWISTED, HOWLING, THROUGH the crags of the Pellorth Mountains, bearing the smoke, sparks, and embers of Kymystro’s dragon breath. As brilliant and scarlet as the depths of fire, he perched on the tallest peak, horny head raised, leathery orange wings splayed in victory. Filled with the unfettered joy of triumph, he spat a fiery torrent at the stars while six terrified centaur children cowered with their mother in the cave behind him. For the next several days, he would feast on the father, who lay helpless in a deep ravine. A foreleg broken in defense of his younglings assured the father could not escape his fate. Now in possession of the centaurs’ vast treasure, Kymystro intended to remain until his confined supply of food became depleted. From the summit, Kymystro saw all; Kymystro ruled the world.

  The unicorn Masikah awakened with a stabbing headache caused, at least in part, by the singed wren pecking incessantly at her forelock.

  “Unicorn! Unicorn, wake up!” the wren twittered. “Wake up!” Disheveled feathers stuck out in every direction, making her look more like a soft porcupine than a bird.

  Masikah leaped to her hooves, her snowy coat shimmering in the moonlight. “What’s wrong? What’s . . . ?” Her nose crinkled in disgust. “Bird, you reek!”

  The wren became more agitated, if possible. “It’s a dragon, Masikah! He’s taken Treasure Peak.”

  “Treasure Peak?” Masikah’s slender legs beat a worried tattoo against the forest floor. “What about the centaurs?”

  “Captured.” The wren let out a low moan of concern that emerged more like a whistle. “The dragon plans to eat them.”

  Now fully awake, Masikah shook her head, rearranging her silken mane. The horn weighed heavy on her forehead, like the leaden crown of an aging king. “How do you know what the dragon plans?”

  “He said so.” The bird landed on Masikah’s back, folding wings blackened by soot and ash. “He shouted it at the heavens. He’s declared himself king of the entire world.”

  Irritation shot through Masikah to join the growing vat of anxiety. “King of the world, he claims. We’ll just see about that.” She spread her silvery wings. The wren flew off to rest as Masikah leaped into the air and—

  *Hold it right there, Mickey!*

  Shock froze my fingers to my Gateway keyboard. “Are you talking to me?”

  *You described me as a unicorn. Unicorns can’t fly. They don’t have wings, silvery or otherwise.* Masikah gave me a withering look through one huge blue eye.

  “Sometimes they do.” I nervously defended myself from the character I had created. “I’ve seen toys—”

  *Toys, feh.* Masikah shook the length of her body with a noise like a tarp snapping in a hurricane, and her wings dropped off in the dirt. *What, Barbie toys? Sissy animé?* She snorted. *Why is it that every plaything for little girls has to have those cutesy, lacy little wings?* Masikah pawed the ground, kicking up divots. *Even the girls themselves have to have wings. It’s not enough to be a princess anymore.* Her tone turned mocking. *They have to be a fairy princess. With glittery pink butterfly wings, no less. Ugh.* She made retching noises. *Makes me want to puke.*

  I reattached the wings with a stroke of my keyboard, growing seriously irritated myself. “First, I have a four-year-old daughter. She loves fairy princess costumes. Wore one to preschool today . . .”

  *Argh. Puke, puke, puke!* Masikah spat with each repetition.

  “. . . second, and more important, there’s a cruel oaf of a dragon on Treasure Peak holding a family of centaurs hostage.”

  Masikah looked at me expectantly, then spoke slowly, as if to someone exceptionally stupid. *Yeeeeesss . . . and what does that have to do with me?*

  A^itr58nbm’s90-&*vzx2. (I slammed my hands down on all the keys at once.) “You have to save them. And you can’t make it to the mountaintop without wings.”

  Masikah sprang into the air, ditched the wings, then stamped all four hooves simulta
neously. *Unicorns . . . don’t . . . have . . . wings. Pegasus has wings.*

  I had had enough. Characters don’t just refuse to do things, to be things, to defy their author’s description. I had a fantasy to tell, and it had gone terribly, terribly wrong. “So you’re a . . . pegacorn, all right?”

  *A pegacorn?* Masikah turned her back to me, crossing her forelegs daintily. *That’s not even a word!*

  “It is too!”

  *Oh, yeah? Then how come it’s got that wavy red underline on your screen? It’s clearly not in your spell checker.*

  “My spell checker?” I couldn’t believe this was happening. I’d been writing novels for over twenty years now and never gotten a word of backtalk from any of my characters. “How . . .” I started and stopped. “What . . . ?” Utterly incoherent, I finally sputtered out, “How are you even talking to me?”

  Masikah smiled an impish, flat-toothed smile. *Your brilliant and detailed writing brought me to life.*

  Flattered, I grinned back at her. “Really?”

  *No. Not really, you incompetent moron. You never heard of sarcasm? You don’t even know the difference between a unicorn and Pegasus.* She muttered beneath her breath. *A unicorn with wings, please. Don’t you know even basic anatomy?*

  “Actually,” I started. “I’m a—”