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

by John P. Logsdon

  “What are ye on about?” Corg said in his grumpy way. He pulled out a document from his jacket and looked down at it. “Says here that...”

  “The stout one’s thoughts ebb and flow like the waves of an ocean in turmoil,” the Elf said with a voice that danced to its own rhythm. “Alas, the crest of the wave knows not what the undercurrent holds.”

  “What the crap was that?” said Corg.

  “I haven’t any idea,” answered Whizzfiddle, staring up at the Elf.

  Gungren walked between them, but kept his eyes on the grass and dirt. “Him said that Corg ain’t supposed to say anything about why they is really filming.”

  “Him did?” said Whizzfiddle. “Erm, I mean, he did?” Again, he wasn’t certain of the gender, so he amended again with, “Erm, I mean, Eloquen did?”

  “Yup.”

  Eloquen’s eyes followed Gungren with surprise. “The shell may be gnarled and fashioned with scrapes, but the pearl inside is polished like none other.”

  “Thanks,” Gungren replied.

  The area was quiet for a few moments after that. Obviously something was amiss. He could press it, of course, but something told him that he wasn’t going to get any straight answers out of the Dwarf, and while he may get one out of the Elf, he’d never understand it.

  “I’ve found something over here,” Kelsa called out, holding up a small piece of rope. “This is Jack’s good luck charm.”

  Jill snatched it away and gave Kelsa a sharp stare. “How did you know that?”

  “Uh...” Kelsa started, flushed. Her eyes darted this way and that. “You told me when he was last in town.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Oh.” Jill relaxed a little, which allowed Kelsa to relax a lot. “Okay then.” Jill studied the small piece of rope for a few moments. “Yes, this is definitely his good luck rope.”

  “Sorry,” said Whizzfiddle with a raised hand, “but why would someone have a good luck rope?”

  “Cause him family make rope, remember?” answered Gungren as he moved his study to the area where the rope was found.

  “Ah, yes, true.”

  “I’ll need ye to be after acting like ye found it again,” Corg demanded. “Me cruddy camera-Elf missed it.”

  Whizzfiddle was afraid that this would happen. It was one thing to send a bard along on quests like this. They could watch the happenings, jot a few notes, and form a complete picture regarding the ins and outs of the adventure. It would often be far more exciting than the real story, too. But whenever cameras got involved, people wouldn’t have the ability to bring the imagination into play, and that meant that they’d have to get everything right.

  “We’re not going to replay every scene in this little adventure just so you can film it, Mr. Sawsblade,” stated Whizzfiddle. “You’ll just have to be more aware of the goings on.”

  “Last I checked, wizard,” Corg said with a puffed-out chest, “ye weren’t the one who was after callin’ the shots.”

  “And you are?”

  “Nay.” Corg pointed at Gungren. “He is.”

  “Me? Oh yeah.”

  Whizzfiddle grunted and crossed his arms as his apprentice thought it all through.

  “I guess it okay to re-film that part, but my master are right. We can’t keep doin’ that.”

  “Good,” said Corg. “Drop the rope back where ye found it, yeah? Now, ye two lasses push outta the way while the rounded one here finds the rope and gets after lookin’ surprised.”

  “Hold on a second here,” said Whizzfiddle, sticking his nose into the mix again. “I thought this was supposed to be a true documentary?”

  “It is?” said Corg. “I mean, yeah. Sure, it is.”

  “But Gungren didn’t find the rope originally.”

  Corg waved his hand. “Semantics.”

  “You do understand the concept of a documentary, I hope?”

  “Sure I do,” answered Corg, “but for the sake of argument, how do you see documentaries working?”

  “You have to film it as it actually happens,” Whizzfiddle shrieked. “There are no do-overs, and you most certainly can’t change who did what.” He was beside himself at this point. “This is history you’re making here. You don’t change history just to make your point the way you want it!”

  “What?” Corg replied with equal ferocity. “Have ye ever seen any actual history films?”

  Whizzfiddle deflated slightly.

  “I’ve actually lived more history than most, and though I drank myself through the majority of it, the parts I remember don’t quite match the manufactured version that I’ve read.”

  “There ye go, then,” Corg said with a smart nod.

  “But that doesn’t make it right.”

  “This dumb, anyway,” Gungren interrupted. “You need a way to film everything as it happens.”

  “What do you mean, Gungren?”

  “Aye. What are ye on about?”

  Eloquen stepped up before Gungren could answer.

  “The reflection of life should not consist of sticks and lenses on such an excursion into the riddles of one who has suffered the fate of evanesce. The lens should float among the land beyond.”

  Everyone turned and looked at Gungren for translation.

  “Him said what I said,” Gungren said.

  “He did?”

  “And what was it that ye were sayin’, again?”

  “It simple, guys,” Gungren said as if they were stupid. “You shouldn’t be carrying the big cameras and tripods around. You should be filming it all at once.”

  “By The Twelve, man,” Corg bellowed, “who’s after havin’ that capability?”

  “Heliok,” Gungren replied simply.

  Whizzfiddle was about to argue, but the little Giant was right. Moving the camera crew up into the ethos would get them out of the way. Plus, they’d be able to film however they wanted. They wouldn’t be able to alter and re-film, either, which meant that it’d be a true documentary. Then again, if they were up in Fate land, they’d have plenty of means to change things as they saw fit. Whizzfiddle was having trouble believing that this was a documentary anyway. It was clear that Mr. Sawsblade didn’t think it was. In fact, it was clear that Mr. Sawsblade wasn’t one hundred percent certain what the rules of a documentary truly were.

  “Actually, that’s pretty smart,” said Corg. “Problem is that I ain’t after havin’ a way to get back up there.”

  “That no problem.” Gungren looked up and said, “Heliok, is you there?”

  Whizzfiddle laughed and said, “That won’t work, Gungren. These Fates have an agenda of their own. He’s not going to...”

  “I’m here,” answered Heliok through the clouds.

  Whizzfiddle sighed.

  “Tell him what you am said before, Elqudim.”

  “Eloquen,” corrected Eloquen.

  “Sorry,” Gungren replied. “Anyway, tell him.”

  Eloquen stood tall and opened his arms wide. “The sloth moves with haste in a race with crates of capture. The view from on high shimmers with delights abound.”

  “What?” came the response from the clouds.

  Gungren groaned. “It really not that hard to understand him if you work a little. Him says this Corg guy too slow with filming stuff. Him should film from where you am.”

  “You mean from where I are,” Heliok replied from nowhere. “No, that doesn’t sound right.”

  “The point, ye daft Fate,” Corg called out, “is that I can get a fair bit better visual from yer spot than from here, and I shan’t be in the way of the quest neither.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Aye.”

  “Fine,” Heliok said. “We’ll do it that way. I’ll bring you and your assistant up.”

  Corg was waving his hands frantically. “Wait!”

  “Yes?” said Heliok.

  “Uh...” Corg glanced around. “I’m after thinking I should keep a man with them.”
r />   “Why?”

  “Well, uh... Let’s see.”

  Whizzfiddle knew precisely why. Dwarves and Elves were not known to be fond of each other, and Eloquen’s bouts of flowery speech were bound to make a Dwarf like Corg crazed enough to want to pull forth an axe. Frankly, Whizzfiddle found Eloquen’s manner of communique irritating as well.

  “The gruffness of cave dwellers contrasts with the beauty of the garden,” Eloquen said morosely.

  “What?” said Corg.

  “Eh?” agreed Heliok.

  “Him say that Corg not like him,” explained Gungren.

  “Exactly,” Eloquen agreed.

  “Ah, uh...” started Corg an instant before he disappeared from view. There was no sound or theatrics. He simply vanished.

  Whizzfiddle could tell from the look on Eloquen’s face that he was both relieved and saddened. It had to be difficult living as an Elf among non-Elves, especially when you were the brand of Elf who spoke in musical sentences.

  Still, it wasn’t that difficult to make minor adjustments in order to fit in. Unless you were Human, of course, but everyone knew that.

  “There are footprints here,” called out Kelsa, seemingly the only one in the group who had any skill whatsoever for spotting clues.

  They all rushed over and looked at the ground. There were a number of prints pressed into the dried mud and dirt, and there were even a few groupings of grass bent out of shape.

  The voice of Corg Sawsblade boomed from the clouds, saying, "Ye witless bunch had better be after waitin' to go findin' too much afore I get me cameras in place!"

  "Just ignore him," instructed Whizzfiddle as they continued their study.

  “Do any of those prints look like high heels?” asked Jill.

  Kelsa gave her an odd look. “Not that I can tell, my lady.”

  “The prince wears high heels?” asked Whizzfiddle. They all stopped studying the ground and turned to look at him. “What? It’s how she asked the question.” He folded his arms. “Oh sure, like I’m the only one who thought that.”

  “He does not wear heels,” Jill stated firmly, giving Whizzfiddle a disapproving look. “I just wanted to make sure that he wasn’t with any ladies-of-the-night.”

  “Ah, yes,” Whizzfiddle replied, feeling silly. “That does make more sense.”

  “I’d say they’re bootprints.” Kelsa was kneeling and running her fingers along the outlines.

  “Jack does find boots interesting,” said Jill with a sneer.

  “True...” Kelsa began and then her breath caught. “Erm, I mean, these look like men’s boots. That set looks like it would fit a Yeti.”

  “I don’t think he has a thing for men’s boots,” said Jill thoughtfully. “Or Yetis.”

  Whizzfiddle had the feeling that this was going to take some time. That didn’t bother him so much, but the fact that he’d only had one flask full of booze was worrisome. He was used to bringing along his magical backpack that could hold kegs of his power source.

  “Okay,” said Gungren, “let’s talk about stuff we know.” He held up the first piece of evidence. “We got a rope thing, so we is sure that the prince guy was here.” He motioned to the patch of dirt, grass, and mud. “There is boot marks on the ground, and one set is bigger than the others.”

  “And there seem to be smaller prints, too,” said Kelsa pointing along the path. “Much smaller.”

  “That mean that there were different people here. Not just the prince guy.”

  “His name is Jack,” noted Jill.

  “Those could be old imprints, though,” Whizzfiddle suggested.

  “Not very many come through this way,” said Jill. “This path is mostly hidden. It’s only directly accessible from the back of Jack’s property.”

  “Precisely,” agreed Kelsa.

  Jill squinted. “You know about that, too?”

  “Ummm...” Kelsa swallowed. “You speak about stuff like this a lot when you’ve had a few ales, my lady.”

  “Oh,” said Jill, looking rather embarrassed by that admission.

  Whizzfiddle sought for a place to rest his bones. There was a tree stump across the way, but he’d be out of the conversation if he went over there. Still, his feet were killing him. With a moan, he took a quick sip from his flask and cast a spell of padding on his aching soles.

  “Are you saying that nobody ever comes through here?” he asked as his feet relaxed.

  Jill shook her head. “I’m not saying that, no. I’m sure that people stumble through here from time to time, but it’s just not a very accessible path, is all.”

  “Rain and wind would wipe them out if they was too old,” said Gungren.

  “Valid point,” Whizzfiddle agreed, “but it doesn’t set them as being put here as recently as last night, and that’s our dilemma.”

  “That true, master.” The little Giant took a deep breath and started reaching for his backpack. “I think it may be a good time to do magic on this.”

  “Now Gungren,” Whizzfiddle said in as patient a tone as he could manage, “we’ve been through this many times. A wizard doesn’t just cast spells as a general convenience.”

  “You was the one that wanted me to do it with the bunny quest.”

  “I was in need of a nap,” Whizzfiddle said, bridling.

  Gungren pulled Whizzfiddle off to the side, out of earshot of the others. He set his backpack down and riffled through it until he brought forth Blitaray’s instruction manual. He then took out his wand and began refilling his dirt pouch from a spot near the edge of the path.

  Finally, he stood up, glanced back at the others and then tilted his head to look up into Whizzfiddle’s eyes.

  “This am my quest, right, master?”

  “Well, yes...”

  “And I got to do what I think is smart, true?”

  “Sure, but...”

  “If I don’t, then I not get the recergnition I need to get my diploma, yeah?”

  “I see where you’re going with this, however...”

  “I want to cast a spell, then,” Gungren stated, placing his hands on his hips.

  “But...” Whizzfiddle began.

  “It my quest, master.”

  “I know, but...”

  Gungren stomped his foot. “My quest.”

  “Right.”

  EXPLAINING CORG

  Having Corg and Misty up in the Fate world was not as readily accepted as Heliok had hoped it would be. In fact, he was currently sitting in Kilodiek’s office explaining what the two were doing there.

  “You see, sir, we’re filming...”

  “I understand that you are filming, Heliok. What I don’t understand is why you’ve got an angry Dwarf running around in our main office.”

  “He’s not angry, sir. He’s just that way.”

  “Not my point.”

  “No, sir,” Heliok said as he searched for an answer. Finally he settled on using the same reasoning that the Ononokinites had used on him. “We couldn’t rightly send him along with the questing party because he would have slowed them down substantially, what with all the retakes and such.”

  “I see,” mused Kilodiek.

  Heliok pressed on. “And so the idea came up that the Dwarf...”

  “I assume this Dwarf has a name?” Kilodiek interrupted.

  “Corg Sawsblade, sir.”

  “Corg, then. Fine, go on.”

  “By being here, sir, he can have all sorts of angles for filming.”

  “Angels?” Kilodiek more spat than said. “You didn’t dare bring angels here, did you?”

  “Angles, sir.”

  “Oh, good.” Kilodiek exhaled heavily. “The last thing we need is a repeat of that time when that one god got into a fight with his angels and they were all up here complaining about him. That was a nightmare.”

  “Yes, sir,” Heliok agreed. “Well, with Corg here, he can get a number of different takes all at once and then it can be smashed together in post-production.”


  “And what about the Elf woman?” Kilodiek asked as he glanced past Heliok.

  “Misty Trealo, sir. She’s Corg’s boss.”

  Kilodiek shook his head. “Micromanaging him, eh?”

  Heliok hadn’t put any thought to why she’d been hanging around. It wasn’t as though she could do much other than keep a watchful eye. At some point she’d need to be up here to interview Heliok, but what other reasons could she have? Maybe she simply had no way to get back home.

  “I don’t think she’s doing that, sir,” Heliok said finally. “Then again, maybe she is.”

  “Dreadful to be micromanaged.” Kilodiek made a face that looked as though he’d just bit into a lemon, which Heliok only knew from the fact that he’d once watched a man on Ononokin bite into a lemon. It did not look pleasant. “I wouldn’t wish being micromanaged on my worst enemy.”

  “No, sir.”

  Kilodiek shook himself as if trying to wipe away unpleasant thoughts.

  “Okay, Heliok,” Kilodiek said, “here’s how we’re going to work this. You’re going to keep a keen eye on both Misty and Corg. I want as little disruption in our offices as possible. You’ll also be keeping constant tabs on the population’s belief in us in real time, as well as watching over the questing party. I want reports every hour on the hour, including your sheet work. Are we clear?”

  “I think I see what you mean, sir,” said Heliok, feeling as though he finally understood what a lemon tasted like.

  “Good, good.”

  “It truly is dreadful to be micromanaged.”

  “What? Oh...” Kilodiek started shuffling some papers on his desk. “Well, maybe I don’t require the sheet work.” He glanced up. “Or the hourly reports.” Finally, he put the papers down and closed his eyes. “Look, just do your job as best you can and keep those people out from under my feet. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  § § §

  “Nay,” Corg was yelling as Heliok stepped back into the main room, “not like that! What sense is there in having the camera point right on top of their heads?”

  “That’s how we see the world,” Aniok explained.

  “That may be, but we’re after needing to see facial expressions on our world.”