Fantasy Short Stories: Five Fantastic Tales

by Quincy J. Allen

  Book Description

  The Fantasy Short Stories collection from Quincy J. Allen includes five fantastic tales set in fantasy realms. With hints of epic fantasy, noir, Celtic legends, portal fantasy, and a little steampunk mixed in, these tales are sure to tickle the fancy of every fantasy reader.

  The stories included are:

  A Turn of the Ring

  A young rogue finds herself at the end of her rope and on an orc hit list. When a warrior maiden is attacked by the same orcs, she must choose between helping the woman and risking discovery or doing nothing and saving her own neck. Her choice will change the course of her entire life.

  The Godfairy

  A New Jersey detective lost in Fairyland is dragged into a crime scene straight out of The Godfather. He must use his wiles and a bit of ancient lore to not only solve this mystery but make a dwarven lass happy.

  Fomorian Legacy

  In a twisted, post-apocalyptic mashup, a young apprentice must save his people and discovers he has become part of an ancient legend six thousand years in the making.

  Such is the Jungle

  Dragons are real, or at least were. In this not-so-fantasy, a young warrior must slay the dragon that nearly wiped out his people. Along the way, he discovers that death is a natural part of life. Such is the jungle…

  Cornelius

  In a bizarre take on an old fairytale, a dwarf on the run tells six new friends of how he destroyed a perfect life and ended up in the gutter. You may recognize the characters in this one, but I assure you, that is pure coincidence.

  FANTASY SHORT STORIES

  Copyright © 2017 RuneWright, LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the copyright holder, except where permitted by law. This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

  Book Design by RuneWright, LLC

  www.RuneWright.com

  Published by

  RuneWright, LLC

  Contents

  Book Description

  Title Page

  A Turn of the Ring

  The Godfairy

  Fomorian Legacy

  Such is the Jungle

  Cornelius

  About the Author

  Other Titles by Quincy J. Allen

  A Turn of the Ring

  Draven stepped out from beneath a bone-chilling downpour into the bustling warmth of The White Dragon. She felt the all-too-familiar tingle as she passed through the magic-negating field hung on the doorway. Had she been invisible or illusioned, it would have been instantly dispelled. She tried to ignore the maddening itch crawling across her entire body, and it took everything she had to not groan out loud from the dull ache along her spine. Her body wanted more grind, but she was nearly broke.

  She couldn’t get more to save her life.

  Just another dreg strung out on grind and headed for the graveyard, she thought.

  She’d been on her own for nine years—ever since the revolution—and she’d been a lowly dreg from birth. Her parents, killed in the revolution, had been slaves to their own poverty. In all that time, however, she had never felt the shackles of loneliness … never let the weight of being alone drag her down.

  Until today.

  She stood in the doorway, the hood of her gray cloak pulled low, keeping her face in shadow as she cased the room. Her bloodshot eyes darted about quickly, scanning every face, every shape. She sought any sign of the Red Hammer, ready to bolt back through the door.

  In moments—she had a gift for sizing up a room—she identified the patrons as mostly human. There was a handful of dwarves and a few elves scattered about. Way in the back, she spotted two goblins tucked mostly out of sight. Two massive bouncers stood in the near corners of the room. Both were lumpy, ochre-green trolls, looming over the crowd like mottled, granite statues. Rowley, owner of The White Dragon, had hired them to boot brawlers into the street where the miscreants could kill each other without damaging the furniture.

  Having spotted no orcs nor picked up even a whiff of their foul stench, Draven relaxed enough to ease the knot of muscles across her back. On the south side of Maevelon, any orc would be part of the Red Hammer Clan. The Hammer had put a price on her head large enough to attract even some of the highest members of the organization. She caught one of the trolls looking at her with a fierce glare. It—there was no telling whether it was male or female without lifting its iron-studded leather kilt—pointed towards a tall sign to the right of the entrance.

  It was as wide as her shoulders, stretched from floor to ceiling, and painted blood red with black lettering. In every language of the kingdom, which was quite a few, was the phrase:

  Moving silently, as she always did, Draven stepped up to the metal-bound door with thick metal bars. It had a gap beneath the bars at chest-level. A wide, flat board beneath the gap allowed patrons to slide things through, and on the far side of the board was a hole slightly larger than the largest coins of the kingdom.

  Draven peered through the iron bars into a dark, closet-sized room occupied by a smooth-skinned, bright red hoggar by the name of Shines. He was squatting inside thinking whatever it is giant frogs think about. His impossibly wide head looked as if it could swallow a man whole, and his throat stack bulged and shrank slowly with his breathing. Bulging, yellow eyes swiveled towards her as she stepped up.

  “Weapons!” he croaked hotly, his throat sack fluttering with anxiety. He shot forward a damp-looking paw with elongated digits.

  “I know, Shines,” Draven grumbled. She didn’t like to be without her steel, but there wasn’t a tavern in the city that didn’t have a weapons-check. It was Law, and not even the Hammer would break that rule unless the stakes were much higher than just a courier who consumed her shipment. If the Hammer showed up, she wouldn’t have her steel, but neither would they.

  She drew her rapier and handed it pommel first through the gap beneath the steel bars, following it with the heavy dirk at her waist, the stiletto tucked into her glove, and the two balanced throwing daggers she kept concealed in her boots.

  Was that a tremor in her hand?

  She clenched her hand into a fist to stop the faint shaking. “That’s it,” she said.

  Shines wrapped a leather strap around the blades, cinching it up and tying a quick knot. He raised her weapons above his head, opened his maw wide enough for a barrel to fall into, and lowered the blades down into the wet darkness. His armed shifted around a few times, settling her blades in amongst a number of others. Pulling his arm out from the darkness, he closed his mouth, looked at her with a smile, and let out a wheezing belch that smelled of loam.

  Before Draven could step away, he leaned forward and gave a long, mighty inhale through distended nostrils, the air moving enough to flutter the edges of her hood. He could smell weapons—literally—if any were present. Satisfied she had no steel, he leaned back… and paused. He leaned forward again and sniffed, a staccato rhythm of short snorts this time that set her hood to jerking about.

  “You want grind,” he whispered. It was said almost as a question, but the creature clearly knew she needed more of the drug. He could smell the need on her.

  She did. The question of if he had any reached her lips, but she cast her eyes down, ashamed. “No, Shines,” she mumbled. “No money.”

  His eyes got wide and he nodded, an understanding look on his face—which w
as odd on a giant frog. “You in for rough night, Draven,” he said quietly. He’d certainly seen the hell people went through when their supply ran out.

  “Yeah, I know.” She pulled her coin purse out of her vest, upended it, and sighed as two copper coins plopped out into her waiting palm. She slowly took one and slid it beneath the iron bars. A weak smile passed her lips. It was half of everything she had.

  Shines blinked at her several times and then extended his long, red index finger, settling it on top of the coin. Draven expected him to pull it back and hear her second-to-last copper clink into the waiting moneybox below.

  Instead, he straightened his finger upon the gleaming copper coin and pushed it back towards her.

  “You keep,” he said and winked one of his giant eyes. “No tell.”

  She wasn’t sure if he meant he wouldn’t tell anyone or if she shouldn’t tell anyone. Either way, she planned on keeping her mouth shut.

  She nodded her head and gave him a slim but heartfelt smile. “Thanks, Shines.”

  “I have nephew got hooked,” he said quietly. “Was with when he cut loose of grind.” She would never have thought she’d ever be grateful for the understanding of a hoggar, but there she stood fighting tears. People in Maevelon, at least those she knew on the south side, didn’t help each other … didn’t care.

  “I owe you, Shines.” She reached through the gap, her fingers trembling slightly, and placed her hand atop his. “If I live through the next few days….” her voice caught in her throat. “Well, you just have to ask, and I’ll come running.”

  He smiled again and patted her hand. Giving him a quick, warm smile, she retrieved the copper and put it back in her purse. Then she turned and wove her way through the throng of people, making her way to the bar. Not one of them felt her passing by.

  Even on the verge of a complete breakdown, she thought, I’ve still got it.

  The sign Rowley had placed over the bar a few years back made Draven smile, just like always—and in spite of how she felt.

  Draven’s skin itched horribly, and her head was on fire. The grind was calling.

  There was a conscious part of her that wanted more, and her body told her she needed it, but she was down to her last two coppers. Besides, every dealer and courier on the south side was probably on the lookout for her. She was truly screwed.

  She spotted a narrow gap most of the way down the bar and slid up to it. She shoved herself between two large humans, a man and a woman, both wearing the black robes of the Baelefon Order. The Baelefon was a small guild of mages who handled day-to-day magics on the south side for those who could afford such a thing … like the magic-negating field on the front door of the Dragon, for instance.

  The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She always knew when someone was watching her. Her eyes darted right and then left to discover a beautiful, dark-skinned woman with silver at her temples staring at her.

  The woman wore a heavy, indigo cloak with fine lines and silver thread embroidered along its edges in an intricate pattern that spoke of roses and leaves. When their eyes met, the woman nodded once in greeting, but her face showed no emotion at all. Her jerkin was gray and also of a fine cut, with the neckline opened loosely and threaded by what appeared to be thin ropes of woven silver. She absentmindedly spun a golden ring around the middle finger of her right hand.

  The ring looked like the head of some sort of animal, but Draven couldn’t tell what. The dark woman’s whole appearance spoke of wealth, but Draven’s keen eyes and experience told her that the woman was dangerous. A flickering thought that the woman might be an assassin passed through Draven’s thoughts, but she discarded the notion. She could see strength, and a fierce will behind the woman’s piercing gray eyes, but there wasn’t the cold malice or unbridled savagery she had seen in the eyes every assassin she’d ever known.

  Draven nodded towards her just as Rowley, rubbing a dirty mug with a dirty rag, stepped up in front of her. She pulled her eyes away from the dark woman and couldn’t help but smile at the portly tavern owner. He’d been cleaning that same mug for as long as she could remember.

  “Draven,” he nodded affably. “The usual?”

  “Water,” she replied quietly as she sat down. The mages in black on either side shot her a quick glance and then went back to their ales.

  Rowley didn’t have to voice the question. His raised eyebrow did it all. Rowley was efficient like that. It was one of the reasons people came back to the Dragon.

  “I took a taste … of a client’s package.” she replied in answer. She took a deep breath, “And didn’t quit.” She cast her eyes down to the bar, even more ashamed than she’d felt with Shines.

  His face hardened as he pressed his lips together, not in anger but in sympathy. Rowley knew what she’d been doing for the past two years and knew what she meant by her cryptic reply. He had seen plenty of people, strangers and friends alike, get hooked on grind and disappear down the sewer … or into the river.

  Rowley grabbed a clean mug from under the bar and worked the hand pump behind him. Water splashed into the mug, and he set it down in front of her. She reached for her purse, but Rowley shook his head.

  He held up a hand and said, “I can’t let Shines show me up.” He winked just like Shines had.

  He saw, she thought. She gave him the same embarrassed smile she’d given to the hoggar.

  “I owe—”

  “No,” he cut her off, “you don’t.”

  When Rowley disappeared from view, she sat there looking down at the mug of water, her skin itching and ready to catch on fire. Her spine felt like a torch. She let out a single snort of laughter. The situation would almost be funny if it was happening to someone else. Hell, she’d joked about it with other couriers. But living the reality of it weighed heavily. She didn’t have the money to pay for the grind she’d consumed, and the Red Hammer didn’t forgive debts. They cut a victim’s hands off … and then threw those victims into the river to bleed out or drown.

  Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad, she thought, contemplating the depth of her troubles.

  For two years, she’d run grind for the Red Hammer Clan, never taking it herself. She’d made a name for herself by always getting the package to the client. She knew how to use shadows and avoid constables. And she’d never lost a package to rival gangs. On rare occasions when rival couriers or thugs had cornered her—not an easy thing to do—she’d always come out on top, whether it was with her steel or her bare hands.

  She’d been an asset to the Red Hammer. Of course, most of her pay was wrapped up in paying “protection” back to the Hammer—an insurance policy of sorts that guaranteed if anyone nailed her, the Hammer would nail them. She paid the toll, paid her rent, ate well… and had nothing left to tuck away for rainy days. It wasn’t much of a life, but it was better than most folks got on the south side.

  And then, ten days ago, the first of two clients on her list had gotten her to try grind … for the first time. She couldn’t count the number of times she’d run deliveries. From one shabby grindhouse to the next, she snuck through the south side, dropped a package, picked up some coin, and moved on. But this client had been different. Perhaps it was because the location was a manor house with manicured shrubs and not a ruin. Perhaps it was the recipient, a finely dressed woman with flowing crimson hair and fine jewelry. The woman offered, and something within Draven acquiesced. She still didn’t understand why, almost as if she had been compelled.

  She never made it to the second client, and that package of the potent drug turned into a ten-day bender. Then the grind ran out.

  She’d woken up that morning in a well-known grind joint down by the docks, naked and with an unconscious elf in bed next to her. He was face-down with his head turned away, snoring loudly. His long silver hair was scattered across the pillow between them, and the shape of him beneath the sheet spoke of muscled vitality.

  She had no idea who he was—and she didn’t stick around to a
sk. She silently put her clothes back on and slipped out the door, all the while fighting the images that flashed through her memories. Bits and pieces of it floated up, as if she were trying to look at something through a dirty, stained glass window. Those ten days were a blur in her memory, a wash of fragmented images—sweating flesh and running blood. And each shattered image scared the hell out of her when she looked too closely.

  She didn’t want to remember.

  For the first time in her life, she actually felt alone. Before then, she’d felt comfortable in her solitude. She was a survivor, and she’d done well for herself. Her reputation was of a dangerous, capable courier. But now it was only a matter of time before the Hammer found her. She’d end up in the river, like so many others, and nobody would miss her.

  Nobody misses a dreg from the south side of Maevelon.

  Rowley’s fat belly, covered with the stained, leather apron she’d always seen on him, appeared just beyond the mug. Another mug slid up next to the first, this one also full, but not with water. The thick liquid within looked like swamp water, from the sickly green tinge to the darker floaty bits on top. It smelled like a swamp as well.

  She looked up at Rowley with disgust. “What the hell is that?” she grumbled.

  “It’ll take the fire down a few notches.”

  “What fire?” She tried to put up a strong front, hide the burning that now flared across her skin and up her spine.

  Another raised eyebrow. “You think you’re the first one to come in here on the tail end of a grind bender?” he asked. “Drink,” he insisted.

  She picked up the mug, noticing a slight tremble, and sniffed at the contents. It didn’t smell bad, really… just not good… like cut hay, herbs, and flowers that had sat in water for too long.

  “Alright.”

  She held her breath and gulped the stuff down. She could feel the leafy clumps as they tickled down her throat. The burning seemed to fade just a touch even before she put the mug down. Draven got a curious look on her face as the fire cooled even further, reducing itself to a distant itching.