Fantasy Gone Wrong

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Fantasy Gone Wrong Page 11

by Greenberg, Martin H.


  Kindo made a minor move next, but yet another muttering by Corbin caused the maneuver to abort, as Kindo grabbed at his suddenly itching privates, even more than he had the night before.

  Torg spat at the ground in disgust, then pushed his underlings to either side, and strode forward, as manfully as one can with urine-soaked goat breeches. “You no strong. Torg strong.”

  “Fair warning,” sneered Corbin. “I have the power of Life and Death in my hands.” He gazed quickly about the sky and saw a buzzard lazing overhead, no doubt waiting to get in on the leftovers of any violent encounter. Corbin pointed at the bird. “I show you.”

  With as much showiness and force as he could muster, Corbin gesticulated broadly and shouted magical phrases in basso profundo, ending with his hands and his eyes pointed straight at the innocent scavenger. “Death to you,” added the magician, as his minor zap spell sprang from the tips of his stubby fingers heavenward toward the unsuspecting fowl.

  The bird screeched in pain and fell from the sky, dead (maybe from the zap or maybe from the fall; Corbin wasn’t picky, he was just grateful).

  Corbin smirked crookedly and looked Torg straight in the eye (the blue one). “I can do that ten thousand times a day.” He waggled his little finger to discharge the static that always clung after a zap spell, sending a minor spark into Torg’s snot-encrusted nose. “Do not anger me, puny one. I am the most powerful mage the world has ever known.”

  The barbarians bought it, muck, slime, and stinker. Their eyes widened, then cast downward. They fell to their knees. They wrung their hands in supplication. They bowed in obeisance. They quivered in fear when they weren’t quavering in awe.

  The trip went much better after that. They rested when Corey wanted them to rest. They allowed him to walk where he wanted (upwind). They offered him the largest, moldiest portions of what he was sure they believed were fine cheeses. They even bathed, at his direction, in a river rapids they were crossing, scouring away months of grime and replacing their usual stench with the smell of wet goat hair, at least for a while.

  Corbin almost thought things would work out until it came time to camp for the night. Oh, the horde was obedient and helpful: stoking the fire; cooking up fish for him that they usually ate raw (without cleaning them first); mounding up dry grass for a mattress; and more. But Corbin saw the gleam in Torg’s good eye (he avoided looking at the pus in the bad eye) and realized that the barbarian would come for him in the night (and not in the “gee, we don’t have any goats here” way). Suddenly things looked a lot darker, and not just because the sun had set.

  Corbin was right. At the darkest hour, Torg came for him. Corbin couldn’t see him, of course. There was no moon. But he could smell him. So he did the only thing he could do when faced with a superior fighting foe. He leaped up, screamed like a little girl, tried his best to duck as he heard the swish of a weapon aimed for him, and collapsed to the ground, feigning death.

  In case you’ve never tried it, feigning death is pretty cool . . . especially to the touch. You can hear and see and smell normally, but you appear to be completely dead. No pulse, no apparent breathing, no reaction to stimuli. Skin cold and clammy. Corbin worried a bit that Torg might mutilate his corpse in rage or celebration, but the brute only nudged him a few times with a heavily callused toe with a frighteningly long toenail.

  Torg hooted in victory, waking both of the rest of the horde, and jumped up and down a few times. Then he clapped his companions on the head for being inferior to their fearsome leader and everyone went to sleep. Corbin dozed himself.

  The horde was just about to decamp the next morning, when Corbin calmly canceled the spell and sat up, refreshed and unharmed. He looked squarely at Torg. “I hold the power of Life as well as Death. The next time someone from your tribe kills me, I will rise again and kill not only you, but all of your women . . . and all of your goats.”

  And so it was that Corey the Comedian became the God-King of the barbarian horde (I mean the full horde; not just the three guys he had traveled with). Torg became the high priest of the acolytes of Corbin, the Conqueror of Life and Death. Barack and Kindo carried Corbin around in a litter. He was fed the best goat and the best berries and offered the best women the barbarians had to offer. Life was good. And Corbin didn’t just take advantage; he was an enlightened leader who instituted wise policies, like cooking fish and peeing in the bushes instead of on oneself.

  For quite a few months, it seemed as if it really had been a good idea to travel with barbarians.

  And then came the armed legions of the king.

  Soon, and apparently for the rest of their lives, the horde was surrounded by ten thousand armored soldiers, a force that had been assembled to rid the kingdom of the pestilent scourge of the barbarians. And everyone in the horde, every man, woman, and goat, looked to Corbin and cried in unison the phrase he had used at the beginning of every speech, every judicial pronouncement, every greeting he had ever made since becoming the God-King of the Horde: “I am Corbin, the Conqueror of Life and Death. I can kill ten thousand times a day. And I can rise from the dead to do it again tomorrow.”

  You have to admit, it’s a good line. But, of course, that’s what the horde was looking for him to do. Kill ten thousand times. The king’s legion, of course, had no such expectation. Accordingly, the knights bugled their charge, lowered their lances, and came at the tribesmen. The horde didn’t even bother to pick up their weapons, such was their faith in Corbin the Conqueror . . . their stupid, misguided faith.

  It was going to be a slaughter.

  Suddenly traveling with barbarians didn’t seem like it had been a good idea after all. So Corbin did the only thing he could do.

  He feigned death.

  Note to self: feigning death atop an open, wooden tower when the enemy has archers, lots and lots of archers (many of them shooting flaming arrows), not really a good idea.

  FOOD FIGHT

  Alan Dean Foster

  Foster’s sometimes humorous, occasionally poignant, but always entertaining short fiction has appeared in all the major SF magazines as well as in original anthologies and several “Best of the Year” compendiums. His published oeuvre includes more than one hundred books. Foster’s work to date includes excursions into hard science-fiction, fantasy, horror, detective, western, historical, and contemporary fiction. He has also written numerous nonfiction articles on film, science, and scuba diving, as well as having produced the novel versions of many films, including such well-known productions as Star Wars, the first three Alien films, and Alien Nation . His novel Cyber Way won the Southwest Book Award for Fiction in 1990, the first work of science fiction ever to do so. The Fosters reside in Prescott in a house built of brick salvaged from a turn-of-the-century miners’ brothel, along with assorted dogs, cats, fish, several hundred houseplants, visiting javelina, porcupines, eagles, red-tailed hawks, skunks, coyotes, bobcats, and the ensorceled chair of the nefarious Dr. John Dee. He is presently at work on several new novels and media projects.

  “MY COFFEE KEEPS INSULTING me.”

  Dr. Erin Alderfield flicked a glance to her left to make sure the recorder light was still on, scratched unobtrusively at the place on her slim neck where the thin gold necklace she was wearing never seemed to sit quite right, tilted her head downward so she could look over the wire brim of her glasses, and thoughtfully regarded her patient. Seated on the couch across from her, Morton Ropern pushed nervously at the front of his forehead where twenty years earlier he used to have a good deal more hair and waited for the therapist to respond.

  It did not take long. “Mr. Ropern, coffee does not talk. Coffee has no body, no organic physicality, and therefore no brain, much less larynx, lungs, and tongue. It is a liquid: nothing more, nothing less, sometimes imbibed chilled, more often hot. It cannot talk.”

  Far from being dissuaded by this bracing dose of cold realism, Morty Ropern’s reply spilled out (so to speak) even faster than before. “And it isn’t just the c
offee. It’s the cream, the sugar, and the bagel I have that usually accompanies it every morning.” He hesitated. “For some reason, the onion tends to keep quiet.” While still somewhat south of frantic, his expression could at least be said to be verging decidedly on the fretful. “Dr. Alderfield, what I am going to do?” The slight but trim forty-year-old looked anxiously around the neat, bookshelf-heavy office. “No matter where I am anymore, food talks to me.”

  Dr. Alderfield checked the recorder again. Usually each day at work was much like another, every patient similar to the one who preceded or followed. Not today. Not this patient. She was beginning to scent the rapidly expanding zygote of an incipient scientific paper.

  “Does all food talk to you?” she inquired with admirable solicitude, “or just breakfast?”

  “All food, everywhere.” Inordinately relieved not to have had his phobia dismissed out of hand (much less with derisive laughter), Ropern worried on. “And not just my food. Other people’s food, too. Food in supermarkets, food in convenience stores. Sometimes I just overhear it talking to itself, but more often than not lately it recognizes something in me and addresses itself directly to me.”

  Perhaps it senses a kindred flakiness, Dr. Alderfield found herself thinking, though she of course said nothing of the kind. “I see.” Turning slightly to her right, she nodded in the direction of the wood-grained cabinet that dominated the far wall. “Behind that lower door is a small refrigerator. Inside are various cold drinks, water, and some small snacks.” She returned her attention to her patient. “Is any of it, um, communicating with you now?”

  Ropern looked in the indicated direction. Somewhat to Alderfield’s surprise (and professional delight), the patient did not hesitate. “Mostly it’s all chatting among itself. But there’s a half-gallon container of orange juice whose drink-by date expired two weeks ago, and it wants me to tell you that it’s pissed.”

  Profession and experience aside, Dr. Alderfield was also human. This response from her patient compelled her to, if not actually bite her tongue, to clamp her lightly glossed lips tightly together and for a moment turn her head away from him. When she had once more sufficiently composed herself, she looked back.

  “I didn’t realize that food could have, um, feelings.”

  Ropern’s gaze met hers unflinchingly. “It hates waste.”

  “I see.” She sat back in her chair, crossing legs that were shapely from decades of competition track, then city jogging. “How does it feel about being consumed?”

  “Fulfilled,” the patient responded immediately. He looked away, toward the window that opened out onto the noisy canyon of glass and steel towers. She recognized his expression immediately: it was the look of a patient suddenly wondering what he was doing in her office. “As far as I know, I’m the only one who can hear food talking.”

  She nodded reassuringly, then asked the question that could not be avoided. “I’m sure that is a condition that can be dealt with, given time and proper therapy. What I need to know now is—do you talk back?”

  Guilt and embarrassment vied for control of his facial muscles. In the end, it was a draw. “I try not to, but sometimes I have no choice.”

  “Really?” It was not the expected response. But then, nothing about this case was expected. “It becomes a compulsion, then?” Mentally she revised the prescription she had already intended to write for him.

  “No, not a compulsion.” Rising, Ropern began to pace the office. Sensing his nervousness, she let him roam at will. Purposefully the room contained no sharp or edged objects. “For example, yesterday I was walking to work and I passed a guy eating the biggest, greasiest, grossest hamburger you ever saw. A real mess-on-a-bun. I could overhear the ingredients conspiring.”

  “‘Conspiring?’” It was becoming harder and harder for her to maintain her professional aplomb in the face of such continuing, albeit inventive, illogicality.

  Ropern, however, was dead serious. “The cheese was whispering to the meat patties and they were both conniving with the sauce. The onions and pickles tried to take a stance against them, but they didn’t have a chance.”

  “I see. A chance to do what?”

  “Help the poor slob. The cheese was murmuring, ‘We’re gonna kill this guy. His cholesterol’s gotta be approaching four hundred. Let’s push him over the edge.’ ” Ropern stopped pacing so abruptly that for just an instant Alderfield was alarmed. But his tone and manner were so subdued that she was quickly reassured. This patient’s mania was not dangerous, only bizarre.

  “Have you ever felt yourself similarly threatened?” she heard herself inquiring.

  “Oh sure, plenty of times,” Ropern assured her. “Usually by the same kinds of fatty, unhealthy foods. They’re pretty transparent in their intentions.”

  “You’re lucky,” she told him. “Most people have to resort to reading nutritional charts.”

  “I don’t feel lucky,” he replied morosely. “I feel isolated, alone, and put-upon. I can’t shut out the racket. Everywhere I go it’s food, food, food everywhere, and all of it yammering away like a crowd at a football game.” He glanced up sharply again. “A friend suggested I see you, but I really don’t think I’m crazy.”

  “Of course you’re not.” Her voice was soothing, comforting. Practiced. “You’re—perceptive. It’s the exact nature of your perception that we have to define, and deal with.”

  That brought forth the first smile he had shown since checking in with her receptionist. “You’re very understanding, Dr. Alderfield. My friend said you were understanding.”

  She shrugged off the compliment. “It’s my job to understand. And to help those people who come to me to understand themselves, the world around them, and how they fit into it.” Looking down, she checked her watch. “We can delve further into understanding, but not anymore today. Can you come back Friday, around ten in the morning?”

  “I’ll make time,” he told her. A hand thrust out as he rose and came toward her. She did not flinch. The fingers enveloped one of her hands and shook it gratefully. “I feel better already. I’ve been carrying this around inside me for so long. Just being able to talk to someone about it is an enormous help.” His eyes darting in the direction of the concealed refrigerator, he looked suddenly uneasy again. “I can’t talk to food about it, of course.”

  “Of course,” she agreed readily. “Friday, then.” She nodded firmly toward the door. “My receptionist, Mary Elizabeth, will give you a reminder card.”

  He started to exit, paused at the doorway to look back. “You’re so accepting. I don’t suppose you’ve ever had any food talk to you?”

  She smiled. “One time in Zurich I had a peach melba call to me, but that’s about the only occasion I can recall.”

  Wholly overlooking the gentle sarcasm, he nodded knowingly. “Desserts are the worst. They have this bad habit of always shouting.” Then he was out the door and gone.

  What a refreshing, and fascinating, change of pace, she thought as she walked over to the refrigerator to get something to drink. A patient who wasn’t in love with his mother, didn’t want to murder his boss, was confident in his chosen sexuality, and presented no immediate apparent danger to himself or to anyone else. On the other hand, his was the most purely wacky mania she had encountered in fifteen years as a practicing professional. As she plucked a glass off the shelf and opened the door to the small fridge, she was already composing the first paragraphs of the paper she intended to write.

  Cold shock coursed down her front from chest to feet as the bottom fell out of the container and a quart of orange juice spilled down her suit to run down her legs. Looking down in dismay, she could only stare as the sticky liquid began to pool up in her expensive shoes.

  After finishing the day at the firm where he worked shuffling sales statistics for a major retailer, Morton Ropern decided to take the long route back to his apartment, detouring by way of the harbor walk. Usually he avoided it because of all the cafés and tourist sho
ps selling seafood and such, but it was too nice an evening to terminate prematurely, and he felt strengthened by his session with the new therapist.

  He found that for the first time in a long while he was able to ignore the mutterings of the cooked crabs that whispered darkly from atop hillocks of preserving ice. Clam chowder simmered expectantly, waiting for hungry imbibers. Cotton candy leered at passing visitors, while rows of fudge commented stolidly from within their window-mounted trays. Such food stalls and displays were always a problem for him, though nothing was worse than the occasional unavoidable visits he had to make to the supermarket. To most folk, buying food was a necessary chore. For him, it was akin to temporarily imprisoning a sympathetic eight-year-old in an animal shelter.

  “Buy me!” the cans of soup would scream at him as he hurried past. He wasn’t a big fan of soup, but he inevitably found himself shuttling one or two cans into his shopping cart just to shut them up. “Bread—man can’t live without bread!” he would hear as he tried to make his way through the bakery section. “Eat us and the bullies at the beach won’t kick sand in your face!” the steaks and chops chorused accusingly. The cacophony, the pleading, the endless demands were unrelenting and deafening. It was all he could do to escape with a basket containing the minimal necessities.

  He didn’t even dare to try and shop the imported foods aisle.

  Restaurants were mildly less stressful. There was less competition for his attention and the food was invariably more refined. Not only the menu, but the dialogue. He had once managed to carry on a very civilized tête-à-tête with a plate of oysters Rockefeller before the last of them found its way down his gullet. Butter set on the table tended to leave him alone, reserving its banter exclusively for the accompanying bread rolls, while the respective components of a properly prepared main course vied for consumption and his attention with the utmost politeness.

  “You first,” the main course would invariably declaim to the vegetables.

 

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