The Kidnapped Prince (Tales from the Land of Ononokin Book 5)

by John P. Logsdon

  “You don’t think you am,” Whizzfiddle corrected. “No, that’s not right. I mean, I don’t think I am.”

  “You am what?”

  “You are what?”

  “I are a Giant,” Gungren said, his face scrunched.

  “I am a Giant.”

  Gungren’s face changed to a look of surprise. “You am?”

  “No, wait...” Whizzfiddle was going to continue on, but he was growing tired. “Correcting you all the time is proving rather futile.”

  “I don’t know what you am talking about.”

  “Forget about that. Why do you think you only have a little time left?”

  Gungren looked out over the lake for a few moments. He was obviously worried about something, but he’d always been rather private about his feelings, especially as they related to concern and fear. Whizzfiddle assumed it was just the Giant that still lived within his DNA.

  “It ‘cause I are afraid this spell on me is going to wear off and then I’ll be a big, dumb Giant again.”

  “Is that it?” Whizzfiddle said, feeling relieved that it wasn’t something more dire. “Highly unlikely, Gungren, and you know that.”

  “It in Blitlaray’s book that it can happen,” Gungren countered.

  “Well, sure, it can happen, but that’s only if you’re not identifying with who you are now.” Whizzfiddle pointed at Gungren’s robe, hat, and the wand that he kept in his little pocket. “You are clearly identifying with who you are now.”

  “I are trying,” Gungren agreed, “but I have dreams where I just want to throw rocks and talk to my ma.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Do that mean something?” said Gungren as if he’d just been told he only had a week to live.

  Whizzfiddle stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Other than you having a subconscious desire to throw rocks and talk to your mother, you mean?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’m not a dream interpreter,” Whizzfiddle replied as a duck snapped up one of the pieces of bread near the edge of the water, “but I’d say you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  “Why you say that?” asked Gungren as he nervously picked up a rock and skimmed it across the lake.

  “Because you’re doing magic on a daily basis. You’re living as a wizard-in-training.” He squinted and chewed his lip. “You’re also not going about throwing rocks... all the time.” Gungren threw another rock. “Okay, well, maybe you are throwing rocks more than usual—and you should probably stop doing that—but still, it’s highly unlikely that you’ll transform back into a Giant. Not impossible, but definitely unlikely.”

  Gungren dropped the rock he was holding.

  “Blitlaray say that it could happen unless the person fulfills the ultimate goal of a changeover spell.”

  “That’s only if an ultimate goal was made, though.”

  “Yep.”

  The wizard who had enacted the spell that altered Gungren lived in the town of Kek, which sat in a central-northern patch of land in the Upperworld. The man's name was Peapod Pecklesworthy and he was one of only a handful of sorcerers capable of managing transfigurations. But he had suffered a meltdown during a peapod-shucking incident a couple of years back, and rumor had it that he wasn't quite the wizard he'd once been.

  “Even if Pecklesworthy did set an ultimate goal for the spell he cast upon you, we’d have no way of knowing what it was. Only he has that information.”

  “Yep,” said Gungren expectantly.

  Whizzfiddle sighed. “I take it you want to visit him, then?”

  “That one way,” Gungren replied. “Another is to have someone cast the get-the-spell-details spell on me.”

  “Never knew there was such a thing,” Whizzfiddle said.

  “Yep.”

  “Okay, then,” said Whizzfiddle with a clap of his hands. “If you want to refill my flask and grab your book that details this spell, we’ll give it a try.”

  Gungren sat up happily. “Really?”

  “Of course, Gungren. I can’t have my apprentice suddenly transform into a Giant while living in my house.” Whizzfiddle leaned in and winked. “You’d knock a hole right through my roof!”

  I WANT A WIZARD

  Princess Jill Henroot strode into the main chambers of the king and queen. She’d put a lot of thought into what she wanted to do and now was the time to put her foot down. All she really had to do was convince her mother, in truth, but having her father’s ultimate buy-in wouldn’t hurt.

  “Mother, Father,” she said strongly, “I have formulated a plan.”

  “Does it involve a farewell party?” asked Corbain mischievously.

  “No, Father, it does not.”

  “It doesn’t have to be a big party,” he added.

  “Stop it, Corbain,” Helena chastised. “Can’t you see that your daughter is in a fit of turmoil?”

  He snorted. “It’ll pass.”

  “What is your plan, dear?”

  “I want to solicit the aid of a wizard.”

  “A what?” the queen replied in shock.

  “A wizard?” Corbain followed.

  “Yes,” Jill answered, purposefully looking away from them. “It’s the only sensible option. I can’t sniff out where Jack has disappeared to on my own.”

  “Follow the butt-ends of funny cigarettes, I’d say,” suggested Corbain.

  “What’s that, Father?”

  “Hmmm? Nothing.” He glanced around. “Uh, a wizard, you say?”

  “Yes. I know that neither of you are fond of wizards, but—”

  “I don’t mind them,” Corbain interrupted. “I’m just not going to pay for one.”

  “Terrible excuse for a profession,” Helena spat. “Twisting the natural order for their own purposes, throwing balls of flame against ramparts during times of war, and staying out until the late hours, drinking and making a public nuisance of themselves. Blech.”

  “But I see no other option, Mother.”

  Jill had to somehow convince the queen that this was the right path. She would even burst into tears if that’s what it took. It wouldn’t be difficult. All she had to do was think about how many hours she’d spent jogging over the last six months so that she could lose enough weight to fit into that damn dress.

  “What about one of the clergy?” the queen asked, after she’d calmed a bit. “Maybe they could say a prayer to The Twelve on your behalf.”

  “Already tried, Mother.”

  “And?”

  “Same answer as always,” Jill replied.

  “No answer?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Just have to ask the right questions,” Corbain offered as he picked up a mug and took a sip.

  “What are you on about now, Corbain?”

  “Simple, my dear,” he said, turning to his queen. “Knowing that the gods never reply to anything we ask, the best way to get the answer you want is to ask a question that requires no answer.”

  Jill furrowed her brow. “I don’t understand, Father.”

  “For example,” Corbain said, sitting forward, “when I was considering having a concubine on the side...”

  Queen Helena spit out her wine. “You what?”

  “Uh... just kidding, dear,” the king said quickly. “Let’s go with the time I was weighing whether or not we should go to war with Ikas.” He cleared his throat. “I wanted battle, but the clergy kept saying that unless the gods approved, we would lose. So I told them to ask the gods as follows: If you believe we should go to war with the Ikas, would you please answer by not answering?”

  “That’s silly, Father.”

  “It worked, didn’t it?”

  “Anyway, dear,” Helena said while slowly turning away from the king, “if you feel that you should procure the services of a wizard in order to find your beloved, I shan't stand in your way. I don’t like it, but I will support your decision.”

  “I shall stand in the way,” Corbain stated flatly. “It’s my money.”


  The queen spun on him hotly. “You’ve already got some explaining to do about this concubine business you’ve just mentioned. Don’t make it worse on yourself. I’ll have you sleeping on the concrete bench in the living room this evening. Are we clear? “

  “Oh, fine.”

  “Thank you, Mother,” said Jill, reaching up to touch her mother’s hand. “It’s nice to know that one of my parents supports me.” She then turned to her father and said, “May I have the Rangmoonian Express card please?”

  THE CANDIDATE

  Heliok spent the next few hours in his office, scanning through the assortment of people in the land of Ononokin.

  The contrast of those living in the Upperworld versus the Underworld was interesting. There was some overlap, certainly, but even those who shared similar looks were quite different in personality, and there were subtle differences on top of that too. Except for the Humans, of course; they pretty much stayed the same no matter where they were. Heliok assumed this was due to his adding a sizable chunk of arrogance into the Human god when he’d created her.

  Even though the Fates were a top-down type of organization, Heliok was a rebel and so he started his search in the Underworld. He couldn’t help starting in the top-left and going clockwise, though. It was just the way he was wired.

  The town of Hazpen was full of retirees. There were all sorts of races there, and they lived mostly in harmony. This was because they were too old to bother with warring and such. Yes, they were crabby and they threatened each other a lot, but before they could get too involved in fisticuffs they’d either forgotten what they were angry about or realized it was time for a nap. Nobody there fit what he was looking for, though.

  Xarpney was a place that even Heliok avoided. It was the land of the salesperson. You couldn’t step foot in that town without being sold something. They even had laws about it. For example, if you made eye contact with anyone in town, that legally opened the door to allow them to ask you if you were looking to make a purchase. Secondly, you should never wave at anyone in Xarpney, even if they wave at you first—and they will wave at you. Doing so signals the salesperson that you wish to inquire about a purchase, which ropes you into at least one product demonstration. And you never want to smile at anyone in Xarpney. If you do, you have entered a binding agreement that will land you in a full presentation. Countless timeshares had been sold due to an innocent smile. He spotted a few possible candidates there, but the risk of being put in the sales hot-seat made him move on.

  Heliok jumped over to Dogda, the town of the Dark Halflings. They were the grumpy version of their happy Upperworld cousins. Their skin was dark blue, as was their demeanor. They were short with big, hairy feet, bushy hair, and surly attitudes. But they also ran the most successful theme park in all the Underworld. Halfy’s Park had thrill rides, shows, and a ton of half-sized employees who were bent on making sure that customers did not have a good time. This sounded counterintuitive, but since the park was also the home of the Halfy’s Chocolate Company, their primary focus was on selling sugary snacks, and they knew that depressed people were more likely to drown their sorrows with buckets of ice cream and bars of decadence. Happy people ate foods like broccoli and peas. Heliok had many choices of unfortunates here, but nothing really stood out.

  Dakmenhem sat on the upper-right edge of the Underworld. It was full of nightlife, casinos, boardwalks, and incredible performers. This is where the majority of bachelor and bachelorette parties happened. It was also where people won and lost fortunes, and where many a poor decision was made. But, as the saying went, “What happens in Dakmenhem stays in Dakmenhem.” This ensured that the locals wouldn’t say anything about any unfortunate and unplanned trysts. Again, Heliok spotted nobody who fit the profile he was seeking.

  The entire southeastern section of the Underworld was the land of the Vampires. Heliok didn’t bother spending too much time studying that area because he’d worked with a few Vampires on Fate Quests in the past and found them to be naught but arrogant and self-involved. They reminded Heliok of himself.

  Wikr housed the jolly Giants. They were perpetually happy and they all would have fit the profile of being in serious need of physical alterations, except for the fact that they looked good to each other. If he’d taken any one and altered them to be what the rest of the populace of the Underworld considered attractive, they’d be the laughing stock of the Wikr community.

  Orcs and Ogres filled the countries of Pren and Fez, respectively. They suffered the same fate of the jolly Giants, though, meaning that they looked great to each other regardless of what the rest of the races thought.

  Heliok paused his search at this realization. Who actually would fit the criteria he was seeking? The only way he could really know the answer to that would be to understand who the demographic was for this show that Misty was producing. Fortunately, she’d provided him with a document that detailed such data when they’d originally spoken.

  He plucked through his desk until he spotted it. There were a lot of charts and numbers, but if he was reading this correctly, he needed to find either an Elf, a Human, a Halfling, a Gnome, or a Dwarf.

  That narrowed his search down a bit, allowing him to skip over the Trolls in Gakoonk and the Werewolves in Yezan. Even though Werewolves had many members from the races he was seeking, everyone knew that once a person was infected with Werewolfism—an STD that passed along during the monthly Full Moon Event, if you were promiscuous and didn’t use proper protection—they would already have automatically had all their physical faults fixed instantly. Yes, all Werewolves were smokin’ hot... when not in wolf-form, anyway.

  Moving to the middle of the Underworld showed him Hubintegler and all of its tiny inhabitants. Gnomes zipped across the land like bubbling ants who were on a mission of constant importance. From Heliok’s estimation, even the homeliest among them was adorable. In fact, he’d recently hired a few from the Rent-A-Friend business in the small town of Planoontik to stick out on his front lawn during a recent party he’d held.

  To the left of Hubintegler were the Dark Elves in the Lazent Range and to the right were the Dark Dwarves in the Klaken Mountains. The Elves were known to be gorgeous and the Dwarves were known to be just fine with how they looked. Heliok had enough experience with both races to wisely move out of the Underworld and over to the Upperworld to continue his search.

  He was able to skip a fair number of areas, including Restain, where the not-so-jolly Giants lived; Sed’s point, which was the home of the Dragons; Gorgan, where the exceedingly large Gorgans lived; Ikas and Natix, the forest lands that the Elves called home; and parts of the Kesper’s Range where the Dwarves, of the non-Dark variety, lived inside of the mountains. The rest of the Upperworld gave him a canvas of Humans and Halflings.

  Just as he was about to look into the town of Lesang, another name caught his eye: Rangmoon. It was a town he’d known well, since he’d handed out countless quests to the wizards who lived there. There was ever the pickings when it came to Fate Quests in Rangmoon, but he wasn’t so sure that there was anyone who would fit the bill for Misty’s show.

  And that’s when he zoomed in on a squat-looking man with crossed eyes, gapped teeth, and a body that looked as though it had been squashed down from the size of a Giant into that of a tall Dwarf, and then was swelled up as if it’d been stung by a thousand bees. He was walking out the back of a quaint house towards a little lake while holding a large book.

  Heliok shut off the feed and grinned.

  He’d found the perfect candidate.

  THE SPELL'S PURPOSE

  Whizzfiddle felt the breeze pull across his face as the lone tree that sat beside the bench rustled its leaves.

  The elderly wizard had spent many a night in a drunken stupor, having heated debates with this tree. In fact, he’d even named it Bub. This name came about during an angry political argument that Whizzfiddle and the tree were having. Whizzfiddle said that everyone should have the right to do whatever th
ey wanted to do, with the exception of those doing anything that would infringe upon someone else’s rights. The tree, though, wouldn’t budge. (This was something that trees were known for, after all.) It replied that people should be allowed to do whatever they wanted. Period. The moment any limitations were applied, the political canvas would shift and freedom would become a gray area. Whizzfiddle—again, being completely blitzed out of his mind (he was talking to a tree, remember?)—thought the tree was pointing at his beard when it said “gray area.” Whizzfiddle was still coming to terms with his salt-and-pepper beard back then, and so he took offense, standing up and poking the tree in its proverbial chest, saying, “Watch it, Bub.” And the name stuck.

  “Here the page for the spell,” said Gungren as he approached the bench.

  Whizzfiddle adjusted his hat and reached out. “Let me see that.”

  He quickly scanned the text and said, “hmmm” and “yes” a few times before finally feeling that he had everything set.

  “Okay,” he said, pointing at the ground, “you’ll need to be face-down in the grass. Good thing it’s not winter.” He went to the next line. “I’ll need a clump of your hair.”

  “Already done that part,” Gungren said, handing his hair over.

  “Thank you.” Whizzfiddle felt his stomach growl. It was well past lunch, after all. “I’ll need a cheese sandwich.”

  Gungren looked up from the ground. “That not in there.”

  “No, I suppose it’s not,” Whizzfiddle acquiesced. “But after this is done, if you please?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “All right, good. Face back down in the grass, then.”

  Whizzfiddle checked everything on the list once more and even read the fine print to ensure there weren’t any gotchas. He’d had his fair share of those over the years, especially from a book like Blitlaray’s.

  He took a swig from his flask and said, “Ima-wizard-who-wantsta-know-something.”

  A dazzling array of sparkles filled the air around Whizzfiddle’s head. He was used to seeing the blues, reds, and greens, but some spells included a few purples along for the ride. That was the case with most of the more obscure magical castings from Blitlaray’s original tome.