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Post By Pieced together from a corrupted Word file, here's a fragmented jigsaw of a story from... the Hooded Hood Fri Jul 21, 2006 at 01:59:22 pm EDT |
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#277: Untold Tales of the Faerie Fayre | |
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#277: Untold Tales of the Faerie Fayre The Hooded Hood's Homepage of Doom Who's Who in the Parodyverse Where's Where in the Parodyverse Previously in Untold Tales of the Lair Legion #274: Dreams and Fantasies: Camellia of the Fey, evil faerie lady, has kidnapped a talented and unique child to raise as the new Queen of Faerie – under Camellia’s benevolent guidance, you understand. Unfortunately this child is the baby daughter of Visionary and Miiri (surrogately gestated by Hallie, of course), and the three proud parents aren’t impressed at the death curse that made them think their girl dead or at Camellia’s plans for her. Hence Vizh’s quest with a stalwart band of heroes… well, with a band of heroes… well, with some other people into the Many Coloured Land to rescue Naari and to bring Camellia to justice. Or maximum whompage at least. After days of travelling through the usual fantasy quests our heroes have finally arrived somewhere that they might be able to ask questions and pick up Camellia’s trail: the Faerie Fayre. Our cast: * Visionary, a possibly fake dad * Hallie, usually a sentient computer programme hologram, but the Jolly Green Giant’s little sister here in Faerie * Miiri, former Caphan pleasure slave, already a fantasy woman even before the chaimail bikini * Asil Ashling, an innocent clone with age-changing abilities, Vizh’s number one supporter * Fleabot, a smart-ass robot flea; in Faerie he’s become clockwork * Flapjack, the Lair Legion’s disgusting hunchbacked butler * George Gedney, scholarly young curator who has become the new wielder of the Chronometer of Infinity * Ruby Waver, LL administrator before she betrayed them, now a launderess and almost-witch seeking redemption * Tanner, what Bogart would have been if he was a lycanthrope * Con Johnstantine, an irritating bastard who knows too much to be good for you * A Wishing Well, currently contained in a little glass bottle in Miiri’s cleavage. We’re all just waiting for Vizh’s pic. Plus a full company of faeries, dwarves, orcs, Dark Lords, ancient wyrms, bold knights, hags, trolls, selkies, naiads, pookas, bookas, oreads, nymphs, kobolds, pixies, nixies, trixies, Feegee mermaids, signs, wonders, prodigies, and maypoles. Step right up. Images by Visionary. He’s good, isn’t he?  The Faerie Fayre spread out across the hollow in the forest, filling it with colour and bustle. There were perhaps a hundred brightly-coloured tents and half as many temporary huts and wagons, all laid out in a random fashion around the little brook bridge where the roads crossed. Beyond that were the lean-tos and teepees and burrows and caravans – and one sudden glass tower - of all the citizens of Gramayre who had come to meet and trade and dance and drink at this latest manifestation of the Eternal Market.As the sun set the crows were still swarming between the booths. The fairground was a mess of lights and smells and sounds – snatches of elfsong, grunts from the dwarven caber tossers, the twinkling of the little winged will-o-th-wisps, the smells of cooking meat and regional cheeses and nervous troll. Vizh and the other travellers stood on the crest of the hill for a moment and took in the sight. “Look at the size of that maypole!” Asil said in wonder. “It’s not the size of your maypole, it’s what you do with it,” Flapjack leered. “Maybe we should be finding someplace to camp?” George Gedney suggested, a little intimidated by the noise and bustle of the Fayre. “It’s getting dark.” “We can camp outside,” Tanner advised them, “then send some people in there in the morning to find out what we want to know.” “Camp outside?” objected Johnstantine with a grin. “This is the Faerie Fayre, mate. You don’t just hide in the woods. That’s be like going to Disneyland and not tinkling in the magic fountain.” “Hey,” objected the wishing well, from Miiri’s cleavage. “Sorry, didn’t quite catch that,” the irritating Englishman grinned, leaning closer to hear better. Mirri pointedly cleaned her knives. “It would be nice to sleep in a proper bed for once,” Ruby said wistfully. “Yes, I imagine you don’t see much of your own bed,” Hallie told her bitchily. The Lair Legion’s AI hadn’t really got over Ruby selling her tell-all story to the press. “If it’s a meeting place there’s got to be some sort of tavern,” Fleabot reasoned. “And it might be safer than sleeping out tonight, with all these people round about.” “What about those poor refugees we passed on the way?” Miiri asked. “They will have to sleep rough.” “But we don’t have to,” Con added. “So that’s alright.” Visionary had one concern; well two if you count the increasingly itchy areas under his fur loincloth. “On Earth when you stay in a hotel or inn they usually expect to be paid for it. Do we have any Faerie dollars?” “Crowns,” Tanner snorted. “Faerie doesn’t do decimal. Four farthings to the penny, three pennies to the thruppence, two thruppences to the tanner, two tanners to the bob, two and a half bob to the half crown…” “Do you have an algorithm for this?” Vizh asked Hallie worriedly. “Four half crowns and a shilling to the guinea,” the werewolf concluded triumphantly. “Proper money,” agreed Johnstantine. “Not kiddie decimal stuff.” “How could we pay for lodgings?” George worried. “We don’t want to get into any trouble.” Flapjack raised his hand in dissent. “I could probably raise us some money,” Miiri offered. “By singing,” she clarified as her companions each reacted according to their nature. “Places like this will always welcome an artiste.” “Especially one in a chainmail bikini,” snorted Ruby. “We don’t have time to busk tonight,” Con judged. “All the good beds will be taken. We need money fast. This way.” “Do we actually want to follow Johnstantine?” Fleabot checked as the trenchcoated troublemaker led them down into the throng of the Fayre. “Anybody?” “Well, he is our guide,” Asil noted uncertainly. “What he is,” Tanner began, “is a…” “Oi, mate!” Con called out to a passing gnome with a heavy backpack. “You up for a riddle game?” The gnome turned to look at the band of wanderers. “Riddle game,” he beamed like a shark. “Formal rules? Playing for forfeits?” “Could be,” Johnstantine shrugged. “What were you thinking of?” The gnome eyed the party with interest. “Well, you have several things I could accept as collateral,” he leered. George and Vizh bristled. “Like that,” the gnome pointed. “I would very much like to get my hands on her!” Vizh’s angry protest was choked off into shocked silence as he realised the gnome was pointing in his direction. “Hey!” he objected. “I’m male, dammit.” “Aren’t you just the little bit curious, though?” Fleabot asked him, just before Asil scooped the clockwork robot up and dropped him into a nearby soup cauldron. “He doesn’t mean you, Vizh,” Hallie soothed the agitated possibly-fake man. “He’s pointing at you loincloth.” “Just so long as Vizh isn’t pointing back,” shuddered Ruby. “Genuine mountain yeti,” Hallie assured the gnome. “And as you can smell, completely uncured.” “She is lovely,” the little being agreed. “I can’t wait to stroke her between my fingers.” “You better wait, buster,” Vizh warned him. “Hey, if we lose this riddle contest thing, what am I going to wear?” “Does it matter,” shrugged Con. “It’s not like you’re going to create a big stir, is it?” “As a matter of fact,” began Miiri defensively, “with the application of…” “Please, throw me back in the soup!” Fleabot begged. “Right,” bustled the gnome, suddenly all business. “As the challenged party I go first. Here’s my riddle: I breathe, remember, run, and lead, but do not walk and do not think. I cannot tell what’s gold or lead but know the worth of food and drink. I’ll always beat you in a race, I’m hard to see though in your face.” “Hold it,” Vizh objected. “Did I agree to wagering my pants?” “What, you’ll miss her?” Hallie teased. “Could you say that bit about gold and lead again?” Ruby asked. “And any extra clues you’d like to give us.” “We don’t need extra clues,” George objected. “We know the answer.” He looked at the goblin. “It’s as plain as the nose on your face. In fact it is the nose on your face.” “Oh,” blinked Asil, regarding the bespectacled young man beside her with a surprised look. “Well done.” George looked sheepish. “I have a lot of time for doing crossword puzzles at the museum,” he admitted. “Our turn,” Johnstantine told the gnome. “And our question is: Where has your purse gone?” The gnome looked to his belt. His money pouch had vanished while he was intent on the riddle game. He looked around in panic. “My gold! Where’s my gold! Help! Thieves!” “Technically if you can’t answer the riddle you forfeit your gold anyhow,” Hallie asserted. Vizh did a quick head count but Flapjack was nowhere to be seen, just like the gnome’s money pouch. “Did you plan this?” he demanded of Johnstantine as the gnome rushed away wailing for his gold and searching for the pickpocket. “Let’s head into that tavern,” the irritating Englishman suggested. “I think Flapjack is buying us drinks.”  The Black Spot Inn was cluttered and crowded and appeared to have been built from bolted together remains of old sailing ships. Just walking across the slightly-tilted floors made George feel seasick. Tanner had to clear a way through the press of customers to get as far as the bar.Even though the tavern was filled with tradesmen and refugees and wanderers, Visionary’s party was distinctive enough to attract attention. “Hey, cutie,” a young man in a feathered cap called out to Miiri as she passed, “What’s your price?” The Caphan turned to him. “Well, it’s been some time since my last formal evaluation, where I was assessed at 1.4 million shekli,” she told him. “My house-sister Losiira thinks a contemporary evaluation would put me at about .8 billion shekli though.” She looked him up and down as if he was a worm. “Do you have any recognisable value?” “My dear sirs,” called out an old wizard with a pipe and a broad floppy hat, “I’m looking for a bold band of adventures to venture for me into the Tombs of Uzkuteth and locate the Mithrum Bands of Boltharr.” “No honestly,” an earnest-faced half-elf assured Visionary. “I wouldn’t even want to part with the Emerald City Bridge were it not for my pressing need to buy spells for my poor ailing mother.” “Yes, I am looking at you,” Tanner told an inebriated barbarian in answer to his belligerent enquiry. “I’m wondering how you’d look with your face torn off and stuffed up your rectum. Why do you ask?” Johnstantine returned from chatting with the bar-dwarf and handed a key over to Hallie. “There you go, darling. Your room’s top of the stairs, last on the right. Sleep tight.” The others waited for their keys expectantly. “And the rest of us?” Ruby enquired. “I for one am fascinated by how the sleeping arrangements are going to work out tonight,” admitted Fleabot. “I’m still not granting wishes,” warned the wishing well. “What do you mean, what about the rest of you?” Johnstantine shrugged. “Like I said, the room’s top of the stairs, last on the right. This place is pretty crowded.” “You’re saying we all have to share one room?” Asil asked with a look of horror. “You’re saying we all have to share one room?” Flapjack asked with a happy slaver. “It’s a busy time,” Con pointed out. “Besides, most of these places come with a big bolster to put down the middle of the bed so the men can sleep one side and the women on the other.” “I can’t sleep at night unless I’m naked,” Flapjack warned. “But I’m guessing that’s pretty common. Right, Miiri? Hallie? Ruby? Please?” “Ah yes, the grand bed was a common feature of medieval hostelries,” George remembered. “That and fleas.” “Hey!” objected Fleabot. “We’re not all flesh-biting diseased parasites. Only Flapjack.” “I’m assuming a jacuzzi is out of the question,” Ruby sighed. “We’ll have to make do,” Vizh decided. “But Johnstantine gets to sleep next to Flapjack.” Con grinned. “Love to, squire, but I’ve made other arrangements.” And he waved across to a barmaid who seemed to be suffering from tragic blouse slippage syndrome. “Sleep tight, folks.” Tanner balled and unballed his fists as he watched Johnstantine slither his way back to the bar. “We’d better get to this room,” he growled. “I know these places. It’s only a matter of time before the brawling starts.” Just then somebody pinched Asil. She reacted by flattening the hill ogre and sending him tumbling onto the table where his clan were holding their ritual drinking contest. “As I was saying…” sighed Tanner as the first chair flew.  Zebulon gave the clamp a last twist with the wrench then laid it aside with the air of an elf with a job well done. “There,” he declared. “That’s one sink that’ll never give you trouble ever again, Mrs Badger. Er, until next time.”“Well thanking you kindly, Mr Zebulon,” Mrs Badger replied. “You’ve just timed that right for the kettle’s a brewing and I’ll be making the tea.” This wasn’t really the mission Zebulon had expected when he’d been summoned to the Faerie Queene, nor even the one he’d imagined when he’d been sent out by her emissary to carry out a vital task for the future of the Many Coloured Lands. For starters there had been less elves that looked like Cate Blanchett and Liv Tyler and more talking to hedgehogs and avoiding hungry barrow-wights than he’d initially hoped. “So you mentioned that if I could unclog your drains you’d be able to tell me something about this young Princess?” he prompted as Mrs Badger spooned six loads of sugar into his mug. “Well, just something I heard from our Moira,” Mrs Badger confided. “She’s Brock’s sister’s youngest and she heard from Mrs Vole that that flighty Miss Stoat – who’s no better than she should be in my opinion, don’t you ask me about midnight mushroom rings thank you very much – Miss Stoat was saying to Mr Weasel about what Mrs Tiggywinkle had been talking about to Mr Frog…” “Yes, yes,” Zebulon hastened her. “So you heard on the grapevine. What did you hear?” “Well, they do say there’s a girl up in the Forbidden Forest,” Mrs Badger answered, disappointed to be cut short in full flow. “A mortal girl, close to being a woman. And they say she’s got power.” “A mortal girl who is a Princess?” Zebulon frowned. “Who could become a vessel for the Essence of Faerie, the next Faerie Queene?” “Oh, I hope not,” Mrs Badger shuddered. “Not but what we see much of Faerie Queenes round here, but we’ve become accustomed to the seasons in their order and the rain and sun and day and night. I was just saying to Mr Badger the other day, Brock, I said…” “What’s she like,” Zebulon asked urgently. “This mortal girl?” “They do say she’s beautiful as the moonlight,” Mrs Badger admitted. “Graceful as a butterfly. Charming so as all who sees her falls in love.” Zebulon winced. “Those sound suspiciously like Blessings,” he noted. “Well they’d be from her godmother, wouldn’t they?” Mrs Badger shrugged. “That’s what they do, those godmothers. Not that baking and ironing and darning socks wouldn’t be more sensible practical gifts if you ask me. But no, it always has to be beauty and grace and charm and suchlike.” “Hold on. This Princess has a godmother. Who?” Mrs Badger shrugged. “I’m sure I don’t know, lovie. From what Brock’s youngest sister was saying about what she heard from Mrs Vole…” “Any clue,” Zebulon urged, spilling his tea in his agitation. “Who’s behind this Princess?” “Well,” Mrs Badger shrugged, “she can’t be that nice, for surely the girl has gothanmanders to protect her, and dark forest spirits to command. No self-respecting Princess should command flayboggarts and darkwoses and flibbertigibbets in my opinion. I was saying to Mr Badger the other night, Brock, I said…” “There’s a Princess in the Forbidden Forest who is god-daughter to a powerful faerie lady, who commands fell creatures and is growing to adulthood to challenge for the throne of the many Coloured Lands,” Zebulon concluded. He swallowed hard. “Now I know why I was sent.” That was the girl he had to kill. In the morning the travellers tried to forget about the night before and went out to search the Fayre for news of Camellia or a stolen baby. They split into smaller groups. “We can get into more trouble that way,” Fleabot suggested. The market was in full swing. The travellers pressed through crowds of excited shoppers of all shapes and sizes. Visionary carefully avoided stepping on the toes of a big hairy three-eyed creature that smelled of cheese. George nearly tripped over a determined family of voles who cut in front of him to get to the acorn stall before all the bargains went. The centre of the camp was a pole hoisted in the turf, denoting that this was an official mootplace for the duration of the Fayre. Tanner led the group there, spoke with the Mootmaster, and purchased each of the travellers a small wooden token that licensed them to trade, buy, sell, and barter at the hundreds of little stalls, tents, and rugs dotted round the place. “Just a reminder about the rules of Faerie again,” Johnstantine warned. “Nothing is for nothing. Don’t ask for anything without specifying what you’ll give in return. Watch the working carefully. Don’t eat or drink anything that I haven’t checked out first. Don’t sign anything. Don’t kiss anyone or have sex with anything.” Vizh almost caught a comment from Fleabot but the latter half of it was muffled because of the robot flea being ground into the mud under Asil’s shoe. “Those rules sound just like the ones my pa used to lecture us with on a Saturday night,” Ruby noted. “But this time listen,” Tanner told her. “We should hurry,” Miiri told the others. “We have much to accomplish.” She pulled up her red riding hood and vanished into the crowd.  George had expected to pair up with Asil. He was a little bit hurt when the Lisa-clone instead grabbed Con Johnstantine by the lapel and said “Come on. This way,” to the irritating Englishman. Con gave a bemused snort and allowed himself to be dragged off into the throng. By the time George looked around to see who else hw could team up with everybody had gone except an equally bereft-looking Visionary.“Well hi,” the possibly-fake man said. “Looks like we’re an investigating team.” “Okay,” agreed George. “So what’s Lair Legion protocol for a situation like this?” “Depends on the Legionnaire, really,” Vizh admitted. “If it’s Yo or Dancer we’d already have made friends with half the Fayre, and the girls would know everybody’s first name and how their families were doing. If it was Donar we’d be in a fight by now. Hatman would probably have organised some kind of team sports challenge. CSFB! would have been arrested.” George looked worried. “I’m not good at sports,” he admitted. “Well, draughts maybe. And I’m… well, I’m not too good at getting on with people, or at fighting.” Vizh had a strange realisation that in this team-up he was the cool one. “Well, I guess we do things our way. We could maybe just talk to some shopkeepers and ask what they know?” George agreed, so the two of them wandered the row of tents past various vendors hawking their wares. “What is kelpie slumpie?” George asked Vizh, slightly nauseous after their first visit. “I don’t know,” the Regular admitted, “but any stall that sells figgy pudding has to be sinister. Mumphrey inflicted that on us at his Christmas bash.” The next stall sold small floating goldfish on strings, but it didn’t know about a kidnapped girl or a Dark Lady. The booth after that offered hearts desires twisted into little knots of parchment, but the goblin behind the counter appeared not to speak any language Vizh or George could manage. The next tent offered fresh nymphs on a purely rental basis. George retreated blushing to the ears. “We… we should stop that,” he stammered. “Letting those poor things get used like that, I mean. We should… we should remonstrate.” “They didn’t seem unhappy,” Vizh pointed out. “I mean, they seemed quite… enthusiastic. But maybe…” Visionary and George Gedney spent the next fifteen minutes asking around and finding out that nymphs have certain requirements at certain times of their life cycle. It was very informative and left George glowing like a Bautistamatic toaster. “You haven’t had a lot of experience with girls, have you?” Visionary asked. “No too much, no.” He glanced enviously at Vizh. “I’m not able to just make them flock round me like you can.” Vizh bit his tongue. “What? Me?” “Well yes. Asil has told me a great deal about you. She talks about you an awful lot. So I know about Cheryl and Pricilla and the Caphans and Brunhilde and Urthula and Lara and…” “Let’s check in this tent here,” Vizh suggested quickly. So George and Vizh entered the Mathom Shop. “Can I help you, sirs?” the saleshobbit asked hopefully, rubbing his hands together. “I can tell discerning customers when I see them. And I see you have already spotted the prize of my collection, the vorpal cheese-wrestling device…” “That’s not what it is,” George told him, running professional hands over the strange object. “This is a yeddle pump. Used in a farmyard for pumping… farmyard fluids. Early colonial, circa 1680. Made in Bristol, England, by the Bristol Pump and Pipe Company.” He looked up quite enthusiastically. “It’s a beauty.” “It… it is?” the bobbit asked confusedly. “And this is great too,” enthused George, heading to the next item. “You know what this is?” “A gnomish machine to sort out good ideas from bad ones?” ventured the mathom saleman. “It’s an early Spanish sea-compass, complete with theodolite attachment,” George explained. “See, that bit over there locks into this bit here and… well, if you had a magnetic field in Faerie then you’d know which north was.” The salesman glanced up at Vizh. “He really knows what all this stuff is?” “Museum curator,” the possibly fake man judged. “I’m afraid he does.” The hobbit’s face was suffused with awe. “A sage” he breathed. “Please… tell me everything.” “Happily,” agreed George, reaching for a Babylonian stone abacus that had somehow slipped into Faerie four thousands years since. “But nothing’s for nothing,” Vizh cut in. “In exchange we’ll want to know all you can tell us about the Dark Lady.”  “We don’t want to do this,” Tanner warned Ruby. “Really.”Tanner’s co-worker was waiting in line to have her palm read by the old crone next to the colourful wheeled wagon draped with mystic red gauze. “Because she’s a fake?” grinned Ruby Waver. “Because she might not be.” The man in the front of the queue moved on and Ruby sat on the little stool beside the old woman. “Cross my palm with silver,” the gypsy demanded. Ruby unclipped one of her earrings and laid it on the old lady’s hand. “It might not be actual silver,” she admitted, “but the guy at the flea-market swore it was silvery. At least it’s not from around here, and that makes it valuable, right?” The fortune teller tasted the metal with a forked tongue. “Mortal,” she concluded. “Very well, it’ll do. Give me your palm.” “I need to know if we’re going to find a stolen baby,” Ruby explained, “and preferably some map grid references.” “That’s not what you need to know,” the gypsy answered. “That’s not what you want to know either.” She looked across at the girl. “You want to know about your power, and your destiny, and if you are doomed.” “I warned you,” Tanner grumbled. “If you want this kind of crap you can ask the Calleach back at the Laundry of Doom.” The gypsy’s eyes widened. “Yes… I can see the laundry mark upon you, now. One of Mr Lye’s lost souls, are you? Well, you won’t be the first witch he’s caught in his web.” “Witch?” Ruby objected. “I’m not a witch. A… a few distant relatives might be very slightly witchy, but…” “You would prefer a different first letter?” the gypsy snorted. “What would you call a young woman who can make things happen just by the power of her mind? Some of the doors that were forced open in your head can never be closed again.” “Er, about this missing baby…” “Mr Lye’s laundry has you now,” the old woman cackled. “You’ll be scrubbed and mangled and seared with hot iron, and then you’ll either be clean or you’ll be thrown away as unrepairable. Ask your royal friend there how many bright damaged young women he’s seen come and go in his time there.” Ruby turned back to Tanner, staring at the big brusque man in his Celtic war-paint. “Royal?” she asked. “Let’s go. This one doesn’t know anything,” the werewolf growled. “No wait,” Ruby said to the gypsy. “I have another ear-ring. A matched set would be much nicer than just one. Tell me about him.” A look of murderous rage washed over Tanner’s face. “He’s the Tanaise, of course,” the gypsy replied. “One of the Princes, a candidate for fame, a choice to be the next High King crowned at Tara; except he broke his geas and instead received the curse of the beast. He just…” That was all the seeress said because then she had a hairy hand at her throat. “Some people don’t know when to turn a blind eye,” Tanner warned her, his eyes yellow and lupine. “Tanner!” called Ruby. She’d seen him furious before, but this was the first time he’d scared her. “Tanner, stop it.” Tanner drew his lips back from his sharp pointed teeth, glared at her, dropped the choking gypsy woman, and stormed off into the crowds.  “So why the sudden urge to do a team up?” Johnstantine asked as Asil Ashling dragged him through the Fayre. “I didn’t think I was your type. Too competent and confident.”“But Con,” Asil told him sweetly. “Right now I need competent and confident. I need somebody who can do amazing things.” Con looked at her worriedly. It wasn’t often that Asil sounded like Lisa, but he was reminded now that the two of them shared identical genetic material. At the edge of the Fayre proper, past the dancing bears and the dwarf tossing and the pixies-on-a-stick, outside the ring of hustlers and the small traders and peddlers who had to operate out of sight of the Mootmaster, the refugees from the war to the west were still arriving. Some of them had brought wagons laden with their goods, piled high with furniture and elderly relatives. Others huddled miserably in their rags, robbed of everything. Asil looked at the shivering starving displaced children, the haunted exhausted faces of farmers and villagers who had lost everything. “We need to help these people,” she told Con. “Why?” asked the irritating Englishman. “Because it is the right thing to do,” Asil told him with a bright smile. “We are the good guys. We do the right thing. So we have to help these people who don’t have any food or any place to go and who have lost everything. More specifically, you do.” “And what’s in it for me?” Con asked. “If you do it well, I promise not to tell anybody that you did it at all.” “Darling, you don’t have the first idea how hard it’d be to find food and shelter for all these people who are running from the Parody Master’s armies.” “Then I’ll be all the more impressed when you do it, won’t I?” Asil asked sweetly. She crossed her arms and stared at the heckblazer. “I have this theory that you are secretly a good man hiding in cad’s clothing to protect yourself. Now is the time we find out. Help them, because it is what a good man would do.” “Why not ask Visionary? He is a Great Man, so I hear.” “I’m asking you.” Asil clapped her hands to get the attention of the nearest refugees. “Hello! Could you gather round? My friend here is going to help you with your urgent needs. Make a list of the help and supplies you require and he’ll see what he can do.”  Miiri slipped back into the tavern and watched as a creature that seemed to be made out of twigs stood on a table and warbled a song about willows and valleys and tra-la-la-lallies. The audience didn’t seem too impressed. Most of the axes missed.“May I offer a song?” she asked the landlord. The dwarf looked the zaftig green-skinned Caphan up and down and shrewdly agreed. “I get to keep half the weapons they throw, though,” he added cannily. Miiri spent a moment composing herself then changed her whole body language. She slipped back her hood, smiled at the audience, and waited for somebody to scramble and place a stool for her beside the fireplace. “I am a long way from home,” she told them. “A lot of people here are a long way from home, and not all by choice. Some have fled from a war. I am looking for my stolen baby. Here is a song of Earth called The Long and Winding Road.” And apart from the singing that was the last noise in the tavern for five minutes. “Do not meddle in the affairs of wizards,” warned the old man with the white beard. “Your choice,” agreed Fleabot. “It’s just that there’s a nixie has just made off with your money purse.” Flapjack and Fleabot stood back and watched the excitement of an elderly man in a gown chasing a squad of pickpocket nixies through the bear pit. “Hey, I was about to make money off that mark!” objected the sharp-nosed elf with the deck of cards. He looked over at Hallie. “I don’t suppose you’d care to try a small wager, dryad?” Hallie looked uncertain. “Gambling?” she worried. “I don’t know. Mother always told me…” “No, it’s simple,” encouraged the gamesman. “Look, there are three cards. One of them is the Black lady, the Queen of Spades. I just lay them on the crate, swirl them around a bit – just to make it interesting – and then you just pick which one is the lady.” “Why don’t you try it, mistress?” suggested Flapjack. “We could use the cash even if he doesn’t know anything.” “I’ll try,” announced Hallie, shamming uncertainly while her computer-precise mind locked onto interpreting the card-sharp’s every hand move. Fleabot jumped onto her shoulder to whisper a second opinion if necessary. Remarkably, Hallie found it easy to win the first hand. “Why, you’ve a born talent for this,” grinned the cardsman ingratiatingly. “I can see I’m going to have trouble with you. But I hope in the interests of sportsmanship you’ll try again and give me a chance to win back what I’ve lost? I know, let’s make the wager a teeny bit bigger.” “If you think so,” agreed Hallie. She watched him shuffle then pointed to a card. “That one.” “Er, yes,” agreed the elf, a little disconcerted. “Perhaps another try?” Hallie won the increasingly-large pot four times in a row to the sharper’s dismay and the growing crowd’s amusement. “It’s got to be a fluke,” Flapjack told the onlookers. “But just in case it isn’t, I’ll take bets she gets the next one as well.” The cardsman dealt and shuffled the cards. “Up your sleeve,” Fleabot told him. “The queen’s up your left cuff.” “Now,” Hallie smiled like a shark, “shall we play for information?”  “They swept down from the mountains,” Radford Ruttlegut explained to Asil. “Hordes of orcs and their kin like we haven’t seen for generations. With trolls and ogres, all looking for blood.”“And where was the Faerie Queene during all of this?” demanded a small tree-spirit Asil had come to think of as Twiggy. “Where were those Elfguard when they were burning our hayrick, that’s what I want to know?” “I heard they were organised,” the Lisa-clone prompted. “Oh, they’re organised all right,” Ruttlegut spat. “There’s word that the Parody Master has given them license to maraud. The wyrm Ashbane has awoken. They say he fired Willowdell three nights past, just to amuse himself. The orc generals and goblin clan chiefs are reporting to him.” Twiggy rustled. “And what does Lord Erlic do but march his men right up into the dragon’s face at Raevenscrag and get them all incinerated and him along with them?” “But the Parody Master’s not here,” Asil checked anxiously. “Not yet.” “By the time he gets here there’ll be nothing but ashes,” Ruttlegut predicted gloomily. “And a kingdom already conquered for him by the wyrm’s armies of Darkness.” “I will survive. For as long as I know how to love I know I'm still alive. I've got all my life to live, I've got all my love to give, And I'll survive, I will survive,” concluded Miiri. The crowded pub threw more coins and a few flowers. “Er…?” Visionary puzzled as he and George pressed their way into the crowded building. “Ssssh!” a huge barbarian hissed at Vizh. “Have you no soul, by Crom?” “How does she manage to accompany herself, that’s what I want to know,” a tavern wench asked enviously. The wishing well in Miiri’s bosom also liked singing. “Diaphragm control,” the young man next to her sighed happily, spilling beer down his front as he didn’t watch how close his hand was to his face. “Wonderful diaphragm control.” “You’ve been a lovely audience,” Miiri’s cleavage told them, “We’re glad you liked the show. We’ve had a great time singing out but now we have to go.” There was a groan from the audience. Vizh goggled. Miiri smiled across at the possibly-fake man. “I’ll really have to be going now,” she told the disappointed crowd. “But before I finish, here’s another Earth song that I’d like to dedicate to the best man I have ever met. It is called I Will Always Love You..” “Who knew Miiri was a Whitney Houston fan?” whispered George. The other scouting parties arrived back while Miiri was Houstoning; Asil skipping in happily, trailed by a sour-faced Johnstantine with his hands rammed into his trenchcoat pockets; Hallie and Fleabot, with Flapjack behind them pushing a wheelbarrow of items won at cards, with a small goat tethered to the handles; and last of all Ruby alone, trying not to look upset. “We’d better get to our room and compare notes,” Hallie suggested. “Could somebody rescue Miiri from the autograph hunters?” “Where is Tanner when we need him?” grinned Asil. Then she caught Ruby’s expression. “Ruby?” “He went off on his own,” the laundry girl answered in a small voice. “He’ll be back.” She didn’t sound sure. George and Flapjack escorted Miiri back to the staircase. “It was wonderful to be able to perform again,” the Caphan told them. “I have missed it. My sisters will be so jealous.” “Yeah, it’s not been an unprofitable day,” agreed Fleabot with a robotic smirk. “The hicks here just aren’t used to card-counting algorithms and frame by frame digital slow-mo playbacks. Heh.” “But at least they all have food and blankets,” Johnstantine grouched, with a sullen glance at Asil. “Con and I have been doing good,” the Lisa-clone told them brightly. Between her and Con they averaged out as one calm human being. “Well Vizh and I found a twelfth century astrolabe probably created by Bertram of Alexandria,” George competed jealously. “Although it might have been a thirteenth century knock-off by the coppersmiths of Joppa.” Baron Brass rode into the Fayre a little before sunset, his shining white charger glowing in the evening light He was so handsome and striking that the two dozen armoured Elfguard behind him blended into the background The fayregoers rushed aside to avoid the galloping hooves then oohed in awe as the great captain leapt down from his steed It was only a matter of moments before somebody in the throng recognised him “Baron Brass! That’s Baron Brass of Perfectgaard!” “Baron Brass!” The cry was taken up across the Fayre “Baron Brass has come to save us!” The Baron held his hands up modestly and flashed them a white-toothed smile He made no speech, but strode up to the inn A servant hastened to pull the door open for him. “My Lord,” bowed the bar-dwarf “We are honoured!” ”Of course you are,” Baron Brass told him “Although you should refer to me as Your Excellency. I’ll overlook that however, being as you are only a dwarf. Your kind too may serve.” He seasoned the insult with a charming smile “I require your best suite.” The bar-dwarf made to object that it was already taken, then did a quick count of the number of soldiers flanking the Baron and the value of the clothes and equipment on the Faerie Queene’s emissary “Of course, Your Excellency,” he bowed. “I’ll just go and prepare it.” “Bring me food and drink, also. The good stuff, not the slop you usually sell I’ve had a long journey. And send me an entertainer to sing or play while I eat. Whoever is best.” The dwarf paused, mentally running through the artistic talents of his tavern staff. Then inspiration struck. “As you say, Your Excellency.” There is a dryad bard-girl staying with us just now, more talented than any I have heard for many a year. I’ll ask her to attend you.” The innkeeper thought for a moment then added, “And she is very beautiful.” “Splendid,” Baron Brass told him, kicking off his boots “Run along then.”  Tanner sloughed off his human form with its cares and angers and took the shape of the wolf, a great grizzled grey beast with blue woad markings along its sides and back. And he ran, loping with easy powerful strides through the forest, away from the stench of humanity, away from the traps and snares they set.As he often did, he wondered why he would ever want to go back to that confining form and that confining life. Because you broke a vow once, he heard the Calliach’s voice replay in his head, and you want redemption. He howled. It was late in the day. Already the moon was visible in the blue-and-orange sunset sky. It was almost full. He loped on. The moon was a mirror, really. It reflected sunlight, the source of all life, the great power that ruled the world. But the moon changed that light, like a refracting lens, suffusing it with something else, something different. Moonlight was manufactured. Mirrors were a kind of magic, and they could show what things really looked like and they could twist and distort and deceive; and always they showed you the reverse. Even as the wolf he couldn’t quit the philosophy. He glided down a bramble bank, rolled once, and rose up as the man. He said a short glottal word that has been obscene for more than two thousand years. Then he smelled the rank stench. Instinctively he shifted to an intermediate wolfman form to improve his senses. The smell almost made him gag. He ran forward, clearing the distance almost as fast as he would as the wolf, but able to reason more. Yes, he wasn’t mistaken. It was the small of orc. Lots of orcs. An army of orcs, moving silently now, an advance war-party, vanguard of the wyrm’s invasion force. Moving silently towards the Fayre. Fayres were inviolate, protected by ancient treaty, neutral ground. Tanner wasn’t sure whether the silent grim horde with blackened faces were really traditionalists. If the Faerie Queene’s power was fading then maybe her edict of protection would be insufficient to hold the Faye in her protection. Tanner abandoned himself to the wolf and raced back to warn the travellers that death was creeping upon them through the forests.  “You used to lead the Lair Legion, Visionary. You tell us what to do.”Fourteen words from George was enough to trigger terrible flashbacks in the possibly-fake man. “Ack,” Vizh shuddered. “Why don’t we all just say what we found out?” “Strategic stuff first,” Johnstantine insisted. “Asil, why don’t you summarise what your little friends told you while we were coddling them with medicines and blankets? Asil stood up and hooked her hands onto her cardigan lapels. It was a very Mumphrey pose. “The Parody Master isn’t here yet,” she started with the good news. “Nobody knows why. There’s a wild rumour that there’s some kind of magic barrier gone up that he can’t break through yet, but nobody knows for sure. But in the meantime an army has formed anyhow, led by some wyrm called Ashbane, to conquer the land and give it to the Parody Master for a rich reward.” “The humanoids have just been looking for an excuse to cause trouble,” Con added. “Now they’ve got it. Thousands of ‘em streaming down from the mountains, up from the deeps. None too organised yet, but plenty of them.” “If they’re not organised then they can be defeated,” Hallie argued. “What are the defenders of the land doing?” “Dying, mostly,” Con snorted. “The High Commander led a big army of the Faerie Queene’s Elfguard right into and ambush at a place called Raevenskraag. That left the way open for the enemy to push through the passes and get onto the lowlands.” “Which is why we keep encountering burned villages and refugees,” George concluded. “It’s the classic barbarian invasion pattern. Roam fast and wide, pillaging and destroying as they go. Hard to find, harder to stop.” “Everybody in the inn has their own tale to tell about the invasion,” Miiri added. “Mostly sad stories. There is another commander, Baron Brass, and he suggested trying for a truce with the invaders.” “Yeah, that always works out fine,” snorted Flapjack. “Baron Brass’ peace faction were overruled by Lord Erlic and so the Legions of Light went to Raevenskraag,” Miiri went on. “So we have a problematic local political situation,” Vizh concluded. “But is there any news of Camellia? Of Naari?” “Camellia’s certainly known,” Flapjack contributed. “Round here they call her…” “Never mind that bit,” Fleabot interrupted with uncharacteristic tact. Or maybe he just wanted to save the insult for when he really wanted to get Visionary. “The point is she was apparently exiled from Gramayre as punishment for trying to become the Faerie Queene.” “And now she’s back for another try,” George suggested. “No,” Hallie contradicted. “When she tried before she was cursed. The curse is that she can never be Queene, ever.” “Does anyone else object to Faerie dumping their exiles on our planet where they can still do wicked horrid things?” Asil asked. “Be sure to take that up with the Faerie Queene when you see her, luv,” Johnstantine suggested. “So that’s what Camellia meant,” Hallie deduced. “When she took Naari, saying she had a use for her. Naari’s a very unusual child, of very unusual parents.” “And a very unusual birth,” Fleabot added. “Go on, try to summarise it all in ten words or less.” “Visionary was the Chronicler of Stories for a short time,” Asil remembered. “That seems to be important.” “Faerie’s one big story,” Johnstantine pointed out. “Of course it’s important. Camellia wants to use the baby as the next Faerie Queene – but a Queene under her thumb. If she can’t have the throne she’ll be the power behind it. Naari’s a candidate that could overthrow Mab. Especially if Mab’s subjects lose faith in her during an orc invasion.” “But Camellia is allied with the Parody Master who is behind that invasion,” Asil objected. “And who knows this, apart from us?” asked Hallie. “I’m smelling one big plot here, folks.” “All of which means we have to recover Naari quickly,” Vizh insisted. “Do we know where Camellia might be, or where she might have hidden Naari?” There was an awkward pause. “There was a rumour about a Wicked Witch of the South-West,” Flapjack offered. “Quite a hottie, apparently. I don’t mind going to check her… er, check it out.” “That sounds a bit vague,” Vizh noted. “And disgusting,” added Hallie. “Anything else?” Ruby stirred for the first time and held her hand up. “The fortune teller I saw… she suggested another seer, a better one. She said Vizh should go ask at the little hut at the edge of the clearing. If he dared.” “Dared?” worried Visionary. “Why dared?” His narrative-sense was tingling. Ruby shrugged. “She didn’t say. She just said you had to talk to the Baba.” And that was when the dwarf from the bar knocked on the door.  “I don’t like the idea of leaving Miiri at the inn,” Visionary said for the fifth time. “I don’t like the way that Baron Brass smiles.”“As if a Greek god had been moulded into human shape and made the room light up with his countenance?” Hallie asked carelessly. “I, um, hadn’t noticed.” “He could do with a few warts and scabs, that’s for sure,” Flapjack complained. “No character. a face without warts and scabs.” “Miiri will be fine,” Fleabot told them. He was currently perched on one of Visionary’s shoulder-guards, where it was easy for the possibly-fake man to reach and wind him. “We left her with Asil, George, Ruby, and Johnstantine as chaperones. That a lot of chap.” “I’d have been happier if we could have brought everybody along,” Vizh admitted. “All this Faerie stuff makes me a bit nervous. Where is this hut anyhow?” The travellers had passed out of the camp proper into the murky scrubland forest beyond the clearing. “That’ll be it there, I’m guessing,” Hallie said. “Inside that picket fence of bones with the skull lanterns on them.” “Ooh, classy,” admired Flapjack. “I wanted to do that with the Lair Lawn, but Yo vetoed it.” “It’s one hell of a way to say keep off the grass,” Fleabot admitted. “Okay, let’s go in. We can always escape while she’s eating Visionary.” Tanner found it harder getting back to the Fayre than he’d expected. There were orc troops moving silently to cut off the roads, leaving the fayregoers with no escape when the attack began. Tanner spotted the invaders bringing up siege engines and Greek fire throwers under cover of darkness. It was going to be a massacre. “This is none of your business,” Tanner told himself. “You didn’t come here for this.” Then why did you come? he asked himself. Because of Ruby? Because of what the Calleach Bheur said? Because it got you out of doing the night shift at the laundry steam room? “Aw crap,” he growled as he loped out of the trees, felled the orc with the dark lantern, and hurled it into the nearest ammunition cart.  “The most exquisite, handsome, perfect creature ever to grace creation,” Baron Brass told Miiri as the Caphan finished Country Roads Take Me Home. “And as such, I like to gather beautiful things around me.”The Caphan ex-slave smiled politely. “I do not wish to be gathered, thank you for your interest.” “Oh, you don’t understand,” Baron Brass told her. “I think she’s got a pretty clear idea,” Ruby snorted. “Just go gather somebody else, buster.” George winced as the guards twitched at Ruby’s caustic insolence. He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the big gold watch-fob he’d inherited from Sir Mumphrey Wilton. “If you use that you’ll be plastering Cosmic Office Holder Is Here in mile high letters across the psychosphere,” Johnstantine warned him. “You’ve only got this far because you’re new in post and you haven’t used your gifts.” “But I have to…” George insisted, looking over at Miiri and the Lord of Perfectgaard. “Miiri can take care of herself,” Asil assured him. “Trust her.” “I’m nor proposing some tawdry dalliance,” Baron Brass told the Caphan. “No, my dear. You are just what I have been looking for: the future Baroness Brass.” “Oh,” Ruby gasped. “Right. Well, that’s different. Baroness Brass you say. Um… Is there a waiting list?” Miiri gently smoothed the Baron’s hand from her waist. “Your Excellency honours me with you offer. But I am a free woman and I will not…” The windows of the tavern blew in as a bright explosion lit the sky. “What the &%$ ?” shouted Johnstantine. “What was that?” “Somebody annoyed the wrong wizard?” suggested Ruby. “They let Flapjack at the curry stall?” Asil crawled to the window while everyone else was picking themselves up. “It was out of the camp, to the east. I can see the flames. And… there are creatures moving there, silhouetted by the fire!” She peered more closely then gasped and ducked back, “Goblins! Orcs! And… maybe a big dragon?” “What?!” yelped the Baron. “Guards? I was told the invader vanguard was three days ride north from here!” “Well they’re not, squire,” Johnstantine grinned. “Good job you and your soldier-boys happened along to defend the Fayre, innit?” He pointed to the Baron’s gleaming jewelled axe. “There’s a wyrm out there with your name on it, chief.” “Everybody’s panicking,” George realised. “That’s just paying into the enemy’s hands.” He flung open the door and rushed out into the throng. “Stop! Don’t run blindly! Think for a moment!” “Yeah, that’ll work,” snorted Ruby. “Well at least he’s trying to do something,” Asil retorted angrily. “The rest of us need to find weapons and fight too!” Miiri slipped her daggers from nowhere and tossed her head. “Ready,” she said. “Let’s find Visionary and Hallie.” “My, what spirit!” admired Baron Brass. “But I’m afraid we are too few to make a stand here, my dove. Never fear. I have enchantments for emergencies just such as this, glamours woven by the Faerie Queene herself. I will save you, transport you far away from all harm to my kingdom of Perfectgaard.” “I don’t want saving,” Miiri told him. “I just want…” Baron Brass activated the crystal talisman round his neck. There was a flash of light, a harmonic chord, and he was gone; and so were Miiri, Asil, and Ruby. The Elfguard were left behind. “Oh, thanks a lot,” spat Johnstantine, also still in the besieged inn. “I’m never going to hear the bloody end of this now.” And the orc horde swarmed forward.  “Should I cross you palm with silver?” Vizh asked the Baba hesitantly.“Only if you want me to rend you head from your neck and feast upon your living blood, my dearie-o,” the old woman in the little hut answered kindly. “No, I require another price.” “Careful,” Hallie warned Vizh. “Remember what Johnstantine said.” “Johnstantine!” spat the Baba. “A meddler and a fool, but then that’s his role. The Harlequin was ever thus. But everything has its price, and if you seek the truth there is always a cost.” “What’s the price?” Visionary asked. “Precious truths cost precious things, my pets. For three questions I’ll want three treasures. I’ll take two moments from your past and one from your future.” “Watch it,” Flapjack warned Visionary and Hallie. “She’s more than she seems. She’s more than just a hunka burning hot hag love. She’s asking more than you know.” “What moments?” Hallie asked nervously. “From each of you, the memory of love’ first kiss,”the Baba chuckled. “And for the future, the only moment where either of you could achieve happily ever after.” “Couldn’t be settle for a big Amex payment?” Fleabot bargained. “Or free air miles? Hatty’s phone number?” Visionary and Hallie exchanged worried glances. “We have to find Naari,” Hallie said miserably. “Whatever it costs.” “I’d die for her,” Vizh admitted, “but I should be the one paying the prices, not you.” “I carried her in me, Vizh. I’d die for her too.” She turned back to the Baba. “Alright, you wicked old woman, we’ll take the deal. What you want for three questions.” The Baba cackled and turned the pestle in her mortar. “Ask then. Three questions, no more, my dearie-os.” Vizh swallowed hard. “Where is Naari right now? Precise geographical directions please, for a route we can follow.” “Good catch,” approved Flapjack. The Baba spat out a bone. “Well now, right this moment she’s in the Forbidden Forest, east of the Tansy Gorge and west of the Mountains of Evercloud. Follow the Great Tithe Trunk to the Farthing Crossroads, then north until you reach the Meeting Tree. Then take the backroads, keeping the Finger Ridge of Demdyke Peak always ahead of you to the Ghost Ford, and thence into the Blackwoods where the Gothenmanders prowl.” She looked up with a single-toothed grin. “That’s where she is right now. Where she’ll be when you find her is another question.” She made a sudden grab in the air as if catching a fly. Visionary felt a strange tug in his mind, as if something had been yanked loose. He probed his memories to try and find out what it was that had gone. “What does Camellia of the Fey intend for Naari?” Hallie demanded. “Be specific about her masterplan.” The Baba chuckled. “Ambition, that little snippet. She seeks to raise Naari as a Faerie Princess, so that the girl might one day ascend to be Faerie Queene. A child with such remarkable ties to narrative could easily become the next Vessel of Fey. Naari will rule, but it is Camellia who will stand behind the throne pulling the strings. And if Naari disobeys, well that which Camellia has given the child she can also take away.” Hallie felt a wrench inside her, like a chunk of data had been deleted. “This isn’t a question for the scary bag lady,” Fleabot interjected, “More a general comment. Do we actually know what Camellia has given Naari?” “Could be a fair third question,” Flapjack admitted. “I was really going to ask how could we stop Camellia and rescue my baby,” Visionary admitted. “But first I want to know what that’s going to do to Hallie’s future.” “Moments,” Hallie realised. “I’ve lost one tiny, specific memory. That’s what she took.” “What?” asked Fleabot curiously. “None of your business,” the no-longer-AI snapped. She could no longer recall what it felt like to kiss Visionary. “Personal stuff,” Vizh agreed. He had lost the memory of his only kiss with Hallie. He knew it had happened, but the vivid sensation of it had been taken from him. “Just ask your question,” Hallie said fiercely “This old crone is enjoying our anguish.” Visionary frowned at the Baba. “Right,” he said. “What we want to know is this…” And a huge explosion shook the hut. “Whoa!” called Flapjack, lurching to the tiny slit of window. “Watch out. We have orcs!” “Orcs?” Fleabot objected. “We can’t have orcs. Who sent out for orcs?” Visionary peered through the door. “It’s true. The Fayre is being overrun by screaming monsters. We have to get back to Asil and the others!” But then the whole hut lurched again and rose twenty feet in the air on spindly chicken legs. “Oh, yeah!” enthused Flapjack. “I’ve always wanted to try a test drive in one of these babies!” And the Baba’s hut raced away into the night, faster than the fastest of the attack wyverns that was besetting the camp, faster than the poisoned arrows spraying death, faster than the cry of Visionary to stop and let the hapless visitors out first. Hallie and Vizh and Flapjack and Fleabot were tumbled about as the old cabin raced away, taking them far from the Faerie Fayre, deeper and deeper into the dark places of story. Original concepts, characters, and situations copyright © 2006 reserved by Ian Watson. Other Parodyverse characters copyright © 2006 to their creators. The use of characters and situations reminiscent of other popular works do not constitute a challenge to the copyrights or trademarks of those works. The right of Ian Watson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the UK Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. |
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