Fantasy Short Stories: Five Fantastic Tales

by Quincy J. Allen

  It took a month for the King to die.

  I didn’t find out about his death until a few days after the funeral, when a package of PD came wrapped in newspaper. That little package represented the last of my money. I was broke, and the thought of never seeing another package terrified me. As I unwrapped my bundle of godhood, I saw the headline:

  KING PASSES AWAY

  I didn’t think about how sad it was. I didn’t reminisce about all the good times with the King. The only thing that occurred to me was that I had an opportunity … with the Queen. An idea formed in my head, and if she went for it, I could get back on top of the movie biz. I had the proposal scrawled and off in a copturier in a flash. She still used the same number, after all those years, and the little gizmo sailed off into the air, clattering and sputtering, headed straight for the palace.

  I cancelled the party I’d scheduled for that night, took a few snorts, and then cleaned up the place as best as I could. I’d let the staff go weeks before, so it was all on me to get ready for the Queen.

  All I could do was wait and hope.

  O O

  The Queen arrived two days later with an entourage three blocks long. Dark elves with silver trumpets announced her arrival. There were trolls in dark armor, holding pikes. Dark men in dark tabards rode black stallions, and in the middle of the procession was a black carriage pulled by black unicorns.

  Through the haze of PD, I dredged up fuzzy memories … of the royal guard being made up of dwarves … of them wearing forest green. A layer of the fuzz peeled away, and it suddenly occurred to me that the Queen had probably made a lot of changes once the King was gone.

  A tall, gaunt elf with pallid skin and sunken eyes stepped off the back of the carriage and around to its side. With a flourish and a bow, he opened a pair of wide double doors.

  The Queen stepped out slowly and rose to her full height with a majesty that I’d never seen in all the years I’d known Stella. In fact, there was very little of Stella Davincourt left in the woman who so easily stared down at me. The smiling, buxom brunette I remembered, the one with a flair for filling out red dresses and dancing, was gone. What was left made me think of dirges and the taut skin of the dead.

  The Queen’s face was pale, rigid, and her makeup stark in contrast. There wasn’t even a glimmer of a smile, and the light that used to dance in her eyes at parties had faded completely into depths I didn’t care to explore. Her hair had been pulled back tightly against her skull, making it shine like metal, and a golden diadem set with rubies anchored it in place. Her gown was black lace, with traces of purple and white at collar, waist, and hem.

  She glided towards me, purposefully, and as she did, two young elves dashed from inside the carriage and ran by me.

  “Walk with me,” she commanded in a low voice.

  The elves got my front doors open just in time, and she seemed to float up the steps and into my house as if she owned the place. I stepped into her wake, careful not to tread on her dress, and heard the soft footfalls of several others move in behind me.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I realized two grim-looking trolls had appeared out of nowhere. They both wore matching daggers and paced behind like tigers, graceful, their eyes never leaving me. The gaunt elf from the back of the carriage followed them, and his eyes never seemed to drift far from the queen.

  The Queen wove her way through my house, the elves opening doors before her, finally making her way to the swimming pool. She glided across the patio and made her way to a lounge chair. The lounge chair, where I’d woken up in red panties all those years ago. Where I’d awakened to Wendy’s newspaper messages.

  The Queen slowly ran a finger over the frame and down the armrest, as if she were picking out memories like threads from an old quilt.

  Turning slowly, she cast her gaze upon me, and for just a moment I thought I saw a fraction of a smile, a glint in her eye. What was left of Stella Davincourt, tucked away someplace deep inside the Queen, remembered my performance with the blonde all those years ago. And it amused her.

  Another layer of the fuzz peeled away from my mind, and I think it was in that moment I understood how my life traced back to that night, that party.

  The Queen realized it too.

  The glint in her eye disappeared as quickly as it had manifested, like a mirror glinting in darkness. She motioned to the chair.

  “Come. Sit,” she said.

  Without a word, I did as commanded … and it was a command.

  “So,” she began, clasping her hands before her in a most Queenly fashion, “We understand you want to make a movie.”

  “Yes, Stell—” I began, but her eyebrow shot up, halting her name in my throat. “Yes, Your Majesty,” I corrected.

  “We understand that you would like to borrow a sum of money to make this movie.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “We also understand that you want to make this movie about Our deceased husband, the good King.” For the first time, the Queen smiled. It was a rictus, devoid of happiness and even life. There was emotion, to be sure, but I could only liken it to hatred or disgust.

  The last layer of fuzz peeled back from my mind, the last remnants of PD-induced stupidity burned away. Clarity hit me like a diamond sledgehammer striking an anvil. I’d never heard such weight and meaning so deliberately applied to a single word. When she said ‘good’ there was so much she wasn’t saying … about the difference between good and evil … between the King and herself.

  For the first time in my life, I was truly terrified.

  I swallowed hard, and she seemed to delight in the fear that filled my eyes. She smiled once again.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” I replied, nodding slowly.

  The smile disappeared, and seconds drew out until I nervously shifted in my seat.

  “We approve of this endeavor,” she stated simply and with a finality that set it all in stone. She motioned to the gaunt elf, and he trotted up, producing a thick stack of bound parchment. Her eyes were stern as she stared down at me. “You will use this script, and you will follow it to the letter.” The elf dropped it in my lap. She continued, “I cannot be bothered with such trivial things, but this movie will help correct some of the … misapprehensions … the people have about Us and the unfortunate demise of the King … and his previous Queen. With you at the helm, they will have no choice but to accept it.” She looked at the doors to the house. “Guards!” she shouted. Four trolls kicked the doors open, and marched onto the patio hefting a large, wooden chest. They dropped it with a thud and one of them flung open the lid.

  My eyes went wide. “Good grief!” I shouted. It was full of gold.

  “Here is your budget, Cornelius,” she said. She sounded magnanimous, almost kind, but beneath it all was a venom that I’d never understood until that day. “Treat it with care. Your life depends upon this film. Make no mistakes.” She hesitated, looking down at me. Her eyebrow rose slowly, and I realized I was expected to say something.

  “Yes, Your Majesty. I will do as you command.” My mind was racing. I felt like a rat in a trap.

  She nodded slowly, and the eyebrow lowered back to its grim position. “If you succeed, perhaps We will see about correcting your current financial situation.” She turned and began walking towards the doors. With a swishing of lace, she spun back and glared at me. Her pale finger rose and pointed at me, piercing me where I stood. “If you fail, you, your dear wife, and your darling daughters will all make amends in whatever manner that suits Us. Do I make myself clear, Cornelius?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  I was committed.

  In a flash, I realized I had been committed from that first snort of PD at that first party. All the pieces fell together at once. She’d been planning her rise to power from the first moment she set her hooks in the King. The other PD dealers, they hadn’t left, they’d been removed. Stella had been responsible for the Queen’s death … and the King’s. She’d been marching her plan
along year after year, body after body, all paid for with PD money … my money.

  And with my movie idea, I’d given her a perfect way to placate the people. I’d been part of the story, on the sidelines watching it all happen. I didn’t need to read her script to know it was a pack of lies. I’m sure it would make her out like a hero. And once the movie was released, I’d be a liability. I’d know how much of a lie it really was. My life wouldn’t be worth the paper on a death certificate, and at that point, neither would Wendy’s or the girls’.

  I had one shot, and if I failed, they would bury Wendy and my daughters in the same shallow grave as me.

  I couldn’t let that happen.

  O O

  I became a movie producer that afternoon and spent the next week contacting everyone I would need to make one last blockbuster. I reached out to anyone who had been involved in Hoffur.

  At first none of them was interested, but when I dangled bags of gold in their faces, they changed their tunes, even the Director. A few had asked about whether the Queen approved of what I was doing. They were scared, scared of crossing a tyrant, scared of disappearing. I gave them the truth, or at least part of it—the Queen had already endorsed the script. I even showed the script to them, bound with the royal seal.

  I was off and running.

  My PD usage leveled off, but it didn’t go away. It couldn’t. I needed to keep an edge, just a hint of godhood in my own mind to pull it all off, and I couldn’t afford a breakdown. I took the stuff like clockwork, every six hours, just the right amount. At the rate I was consuming it, that last delivery, my only stash, would last quite a while.

  The parties, however, came to an end.

  I set aside two bags of gold and then threw the Queen’s money around like candy at a parade. I had a crew, a director, actors … everything I needed. We started production in record time and hit it full steam with a vengeance.

  I must admit, I was surprised that the Queen’s people didn’t check in on me more often. The gaunt elf showed up from time to time, making sure everything was going as planned. He even watched some of the dailies to ensure that the script was what they expected. But his appearances were few and far between. I suppose the Queen figured I was too hooked on PD, too scared of poverty, and too terrified of her to run a double-cross. Or maybe she had bigger fish to fry. I didn’t care.

  I had a mission.

  I hired a marketing firm to litter the city with advertisements. We billed it as The King: The Truth. It took us six months to finish production, and when the movie was in the can, we sent a copy up to the Palace for approval. I received a reply from the Queen that same afternoon. The message simply read, “We approve.”

  I scheduled the premier and sent invitations to everyone in the movie industry. I had the marketing firm advertise that there would be snippets of the film running in every theater in the kingdom.

  On the morning of the premier, I got up bright and early and put together the best costume of my career. It was a variation of King Hoffer in his golden years, the schtupping years, taken from what I remembered of my first movie. It seemed appropriate. The clothing was plainer than a King would wear, but there was no doubt that I looked like a grizzled, stooped, old man.

  I’d done everything I could to make sure that the entire kingdom would be in front of a silver screen that day. And it worked.

  On the morning of the premier, the streets were mostly empty. I know, because I snuck out of my house, made my way to the zeppelin terminal and left town.

  O O

  I’d chartered an express zeppelin bound for Wendy’s hometown, and when I touched down I bought a fast steam carriage, paying in gold. No names were exchanged. Like a whirlwind I’d kicked in her mother’s door, gathered up my family, and with the simple phrase “We have to leave,” we packed their bags and rushed out.

  Wendy never said a word.

  She heard the urgency in my voice, saw the fear in my eyes. I have no doubt she knew or at least suspected what was going on. She still trusted me, after all those years of failure.

  I drove further and further north. The silence inside the steam carriage was oppressive, but I thanked the heavens for it. I didn’t want to explain it all to them.

  Couldn’t.

  We crossed one border and then another. Darkness settled in, and I found myself wondering how the premier had gone, what the Queen was doing to find me.

  It was after midnight when I finally pulled into a zeppelin terminal with flights bound for distant lands. I gathered them up and we picked a spot in the terminal where we were out of sight. Keeping only a handful for myself, I gave Wendy both bags of gold and told her buy tickets for herself and our daughters, told her to get as far away from me as possible. The girls were tucked away in a corner, fast asleep, and I watched over them as Wendy got the tickets. When she returned, she finally looked at me, the obvious question clear in her eyes.

  I grasped her shoulders gently, feeling an ocean of emotions welling up inside.

  “This is the way it’s got to be, Wendy. My life for you and the kids.” I squeezed. “You’ve got to stay safe, any place the Queen can’t reach you. Hide. Change your names. Forget you ever knew me. If she gets her hands on you …” my voice trailed off and I shook my head, trying not to think what the Queen would do to them. “If they get you, my entire life will have been in vain. Getting you out of here is the only thing that can save me.” Tears slid down my cheeks and into my beard. “I’m so sorry, Wendy.”

  She grasped my hand, tenderly, forgiving. She took in a breath to speak.

  “Don’t,” I said. “You can never forgive me for this, for what I did to your life … to theirs. Ever.” I looked at our daughters, sleeping peacefully. I’d never felt so much guilt in my life. “I took what was perfect and dropped it into a meat grinder.” I gripped her hand tightly, staring fiercely into her eyes. “Promise you’ll never, ever forgive me for this.”

  “I …” she hesitated.

  “Promise!” I almost shouted, and my tears were rivers.

  “I promise, Cornelius.”

  I nodded once, and with that I walked away.

  O O O

  I take the last two blasts from my sniffer. It’s empty. At last. I close my eyes as the PD works its fire through my body. I smile, feeling like a god, knowing it’s for the last time.

  “That was four months ago,” I say, looking at the six faces staring down the bar at me. I trace another W in the whisky. “I’ve been on the run since then. Living in dive bars and back alleys. Every now and again I let someone recognize me. I left a trail of sightings in my wake, figuring that if the Queen was hot on my trail, she wouldn’t be as interested in finding Wendy or the kids.”

  “So, how’d they find you?” the grouchy one asks. “Seems to me you could have stayed ahead of them forever.” He looks at over his shoulder at the trolls and realizes they haven’t taken their eyes off me this entire time. His voice has softened a bit. Not out of sympathy, though. We all know I don’t deserve a shred of it. It’s more out of pity. Pity for a wreck of a dwarf who had everything and pissed it away.

  “They didn’t,” I reply with a grin.

  “Then how—?” Grouchy starts.

  Through a laugh I say, “I told them where I’d be.”

  Six mouths drop open.

  “But—” the MD starts.

  “I’m tired, boys.” I let out a long sigh, and it turns into another coughing fit. “I sent one last copturier to the Queen. Yesterday. I was even rude about it. I told her she was the dirtiest whore to ever grace the surface of the earth.” Grouchy laughs at that one, and there’s a glint in his eye, like I’ve earned just the tiniest bit of respect. “I’m done running,” I add.

  “They’re going to kill you,” the MD says, he sounds confused, and he’s got genuine concern in his voice. I don’t deserve it, but I’m grateful.

  “That’s the plan,” I say quietly, more to myself than to any of them. My whisky glass has
been filled again. I turn slowly, toast the two trolls and wink at them. One of them lurches up, but the other reaches out his clockwork gauntlet, holding his partner in place. I toss the whisky back and slam the glass down. It’s the sound of finality, a crack of doom long overdue.

  I stand, pull my tattered coat off the stool and shrug skinny shoulders into it.

  “What are you doing?” one of them asks.

  I reach into my jacket and pull out a pouch with my last fifty in coin. I toss it on the bar with a jingle. I toss the sniffer after it, and the thing lands on the pouch with a single clink of metal on metal. I figure it’ll make one hell of a tip. I look at myself in the mirror behind the bar and straighten my collar.

  Grouchy is right.

  I do look like shit.

  “Boys,” I say slowly, “it’s time to pay the tab.”

  The End

  About the Author

  Nationally Best-Selling Author Quincy J. Allen, is a cross-genre author with numerous short story publications in multiple anthologies, collections, and magazines. His first short story collection Out Through the Attic, came out in 2014 from 7DS Books. He made his first short story pro-sale in 2014 with “Jimmy Krinklepot and the White Rebels of Hayberry,” included in WordFire’s A Fantastic Holiday Season: The Gift of Stories and his most recent, “Sons of the Father,” appears in Larry Correia’s Monster Hunter: Files from Baen, published in October of 2017.

  Chemical Burn, his first novel and the first volume of the sci-fi detective noir series Endgame, was a finalist in RMFW’s Colorado Gold Contest in 2011. His latest installment of the Blood War Chronicles, Blood Curse, is book 2 in an epic fantasy series starting in the Old West and featuring a clockwork gunslinger, is now available. His first media tie-in novel, Shadow of Ruin, set in the Aradio brothers’ Colt the Outlander universe, is expected out in early February of 2018.

  He is the publisher and editor of Penny Dread Tales, a short story collection in its fifth volume that has become a labor of love. He also runs RuneWright, LLC, a small marketing and book design business out of his home in Charlotte, North Carolina, and hopes to one day be a writer in Baen’s stable of fantastic authors.