Funny Fantasy

by Gail Carriger

  "Who starts with the head?" Braf whispered, sidling closer to Jig. "Ears are a chewy treat, sure, but there's so much better meat on the body. Brains are too slimy for my taste."

  "The dead humans were the same," Jig said. "Unkillable, but they kept stopping to eat the corpses, especially the brains."

  It had been a good thing, too. Ultimately, Jig had laid out five of his fallen goblins and waited for the dead humans to feed. Once they were all gathered together, it had been simple enough to encircle them in flames.

  But these goblins were more alert than the zombies Jig had fought. Maybe they hadn't completely succumbed to whatever magic sickness they had eaten with Skalk's body, but all too soon they would be the rotted, mindless killers Jig had faced before.

  The zombies snarled again, but this time their hostility was aimed inward. One jabbed a knife into another's chest, distracting him long enough for the first goblin to sneak in and snatch a bite to eat. They were like tunnel cats fighting over a meal.

  "What do we do?" Braf asked.

  "They're not the only ones we have to worry about." Jig searched the crowd. Where were the other survivors of his last battle? They would all be dying from the inside out as the magic took them.

  The commotion was attracting attention away from Trok and Valkaf. One of the younger goblins pointed to the zombie with the knife in his chest. "Hey, there are more!" Before Jig could react, the young goblin ran toward the zombies. "Bite me, too!"

  Jig caught Braf's eye. Braf inclined his head ever so slightly. As the goblin sprinted past, Braf extended the butt of his spear. The goblin hit the floor with a crack, but it was too late. Others were closing in, hoping either to be bitten or to eat the zombies, whatever it took to become undead.

  Cheers broke out on the far side of the lair. Jig glimpsed Valkaf stumbling forward, bathed in green fire and missing an arm, but still fighting. If one zombie was giving Trok this much trouble, more would pretty well wipe out the lair.

  "I've been bitten!" A gleeful goblin waved his arm in the air, showing off two bloody fang marks. "I'm unkillable! I'm—"

  Jig stabbed him in the back. The other goblins froze. The one Jig had stabbed looked down, gurgled, and fell. Two of the zombies immediately broke away and began to feed on his body.

  "Maybe he wasn't bitten hard enough?" one goblin suggested.

  Braf punched him in the head.

  Jig raised his voice. "These zombies can't make you unkillable. They're not . . . um . . . they're not ripe yet."

  Braf sniffed. "They smell pretty ripe to me."

  "Help me get the zombies to the kitchen," Jig said. "We can keep them in Golaka's slaughter pit until they're ready." The pit was as secure as any dungeon, both by nature of the pit itself and because anyone who escaped still had to get past Golaka.

  "How do we get them into the pit without getting bitten?" Braf asked.

  Jig glanced at the two corpses. He grabbed a sword from another goblin, jumped in, and swung, severing the closer corpse's head. "Jab the head with your spear and toss it into the pit. They'll follow."

  "Gross." But Braf obeyed. He returned a short time later, wiping goo from his spear. "Golaka isn't happy about this. I told her it was your idea."

  Jig grimaced. One more confrontation he wasn't looking forward to, but at least the immediate threat had passed. Over on the far side of the lair, the fighting was finally coming to a close. Valkaf had lost her weapon and three of her limbs. What followed wasn't so much a battle as simple butchery.

  He reached up to pet Smudge, who was beginning to cool now that the zombies were gone.

  "I've changed my mind," Trok yelled, wiping sweat from his face. "Kill every last one of those walking corpses."

  Good. Let Trok finish cleaning up this mess. Jig would return to the sleeping cave and—

  "And anyone who could have been exposed!" Trok added.

  Anyone who could have been . . . Jig's chest tightened. He looked at Braf.

  As one, they turned and fled.

  "THIS IS THE STUPIDEST plan in the history of plans."

  "Shut up," whispered Jig.

  "It's not even a plan." Braf picked at the grime on the floor. "Of all the places to hide, you picked Golaka's slaughter pit?"

  "Nobody's found us yet, have they?" Jig rubbed his knee, which had been badly bruised from jumping into the pit. Fortunately, one of the zombies had broken his fall. They were still squabbling over the brain of their last victim, but that wouldn't last long.

  "And how do we get out?" Braf stabbed a finger toward the faint green light overhead. "The walls are too greasy to climb."

  "I'm working on it!" Jig leaned back, banging his head against the rock. Braf was right, of course. It was a stupid plan. It hadn't even been a plan. More like blind panic. Eventually either Golaka would find them and toss them into her pot, or else Trok would figure out where they'd gone. At least Golaka would be quick, and she generally kept her knives sharp, so it shouldn't hurt as much . . .

  In the end, it was Trok who peered down into the pit. "Not so clever after all, are you?"

  "We didn't eat Skalk," Jig protested. "Neither of us has been bitten. We're not going to turn into zombies!"

  "I'm not taking that risk. You saw what happened with Valkaf." He rubbed his shoulder, which looked like it had taken a nasty cut from her axe. "The last thing I need is an undead Jig walking around causing trouble with his zombie spider."

  Jig's heart pounded so hard he could barely breathe. Braf's spear had broken in the fall, so he couldn't reach Trok. Jig had his knife. He could try to throw it at Trok, but that still left them trapped in the pit. Not to mention he had never had much luck with thrown weapons. On the other hand, it wasn't like things could get much worse.

  Trok disappeared before he could try. A short time later, another body tumbled into the pit, landing with a sickly crunch. Several others followed, corpses and zombies both. Smudge flared to light, illuminating the groaning survivors from Jig's last battle.

  "Now what?" Braf muttered.

  "I don't know." Jig sagged against the wall. He had fought more battles than he could count, but nothing ever changed. Kill the humans, and the goblin zombies tried to eat you. Get rid of them, and Trok sentenced you to death. It never ended.

  "Get that filth out of my slaughter pit!" Golaka's shout echoed through the cavern.

  "We will." Trok peeked back into the pit. "We were going to burn them all, but it was stinking up the lair. Easier to leave 'em down there to rot away."

  Jig threw his dagger. It missed Trok by a wide margin, then clattered back down into the pit, nearly striking Jig's foot.

  "Stupidest plan in history," Braf repeated.

  JIG NUDGED SMUDGE'S fuzzy thorax, trying to scoot him up the wall to safety. Smudge kept climbing halfway up the pit, then scurrying back down to stare at Jig, as though wondering what was wrong that Jig wasn't following.

  "Will you stop worrying about the stupid spider?" Braf snapped. The zombies were licking their fingers and fangs as they finished off the last of the corpses. One drooled as he studied Braf, who shook his broken spear in response. "Eat Jig first. Everyone knows his brain is too big."

  "But Braf's meatier," Jig countered.

  "Eat," said the closest zombie, slurring the word. She started toward Braf, who clubbed her back with the butt of the spear.

  "Even if you eat us, you'll still rot down here," Jig pointed out. Flies had already settled on the zombies. Normally Smudge would have been in paradise, pouncing from the wall to cook the hapless insects, but he wasn't going anywhere near those goblins. "There won't be anything left but maggots and bones."

  "That's your plan?" Braf asked. "You're trying to reason with the dead goblins?"

  Jig sniffed the air. Over the putrefaction of the zombies, the scent of cooking meat filled the pit. The spices made Jig's eyes water. Golaka must have overspiced the meat, trying to overpower the rot from the pit.

  The others smelled it as well. Und
ead or not, they were still goblin enough to prefer Golaka's cooking. They pressed against the wall, arms stretched upward.

  "Probably leftover bear," Braf guessed. "Or maybe leftovers from the hunters who died killing the bear."

  Jig's stomach gurgled. On top of everything else, he hadn't had a decent meal in at least a day. He had fought more battles than he could remember, and this was how he would die? Hungry and miserable, devoured by the rotting remnants of his own warriors? Meanwhile, with Jig gone, the treaty with the humans would follow. Trok would drag the goblins into all-out war within weeks, if not days.

  "I know that look," said Braf.

  Jig wiped sweat from his nose, then replaced his spectacles. "Hey, Golaka?" He called again, trying to pitch his voice so it wouldn't carry beyond the kitchen. After a third attempt, he heard footsteps approaching, and Golaka peered into the pit.

  Golaka was the largest, strongest goblin in the lair. She could have killed Trok one-handed, but she had no interest in being chief. Her straggly hair had thinned in recent years, and her face was like cracked blue leather. She wore a heavy apron so stained it probably carried a meal's worth of food all by itself.

  "You know the rules, Jig," she called. "If the food can't keep quiet, I dump the grease pot on its head."

  "Wait!" Jig tried to force his voice down to a less frightened pitch. "You know you can't eat these goblins. They'll be rotting for weeks. It will stink up the whole kitchen. The smell will probably even get into your food."

  Golaka said nothing. But she wasn't dumping hot grease on his head, which was a hopeful sign.

  "Get me out of here, and I promise I'll—Ouch!" Jig rubbed his arm. "Get Braf and me out of here, and I'll take care of the zombies."

  "How do you intend to do that?"

  "I'll need you to cook something for me. One of your specialties . . ."

  JIG CREPT OUT of the kitchen, both hands clutching a covered clay bowl. The buzz of voices died down as the nearest goblins noticed him.

  Braf followed, clutching five leather leashes with both hands. Each leash was secured to the neck of a zombie, and all five strained to reach Jig.

  He heard Trok's roar from the far side of the lair. Goblins split a path as Trok stomped toward Jig, flanked by armed guards. "I don't believe it! How in the name of all that's edible does a scrawny, miserable runt like you survive these things?"

  A flicker of anger stirred in Jig's gut, or maybe that was just hunger. He straightened.

  "You thought you'd try to turn the zombies on me, eh?" Trok eyed Braf and the leashed zombies. "You know they'll rip you apart before they even reach me."

  "You think it's an accident I'm still alive?" Jig asked softly. "This scrawny runt has survived more battles in this past year than you have in your entire life."

  Trok's eye narrowed. "Sure. Battles against humans."

  "And orcs. And hobgoblins. Even a dragon." Technically, someone else had killed the dragon, but Trok didn't know that.

  "That will make it more impressive when I run you through."

  "I'm not scared of you." To Jig's amazement, it was the truth. He had fought too many opponents, survived too many times, and Trok simply didn't frighten him anymore.

  Trok pulled out his sword.

  All right, maybe Jig was a little scared. Mostly though, he was just tired. "I challenge you for leadership of the lair!"

  Trok laughed. "You don't even have a weapon."

  Jig yanked the cover from the bowl. Steam rose from the red-gray sludge within. He flung the contents at Trok, doing his best to avoid splashing anyone else. Especially himself.

  Trok wiped his face. His skin was a vivid blue, but the burns weren't serious. He raised his sword. "If you think hot gruel is enough to—"

  "It's not gruel," Jig interrupted. "It's pudding. Minced bear brain pudding, spiced with fire-spider eggs."

  Braf released the leashes.

  Smudge seared Jig's ear as the zombies rushed past on either side, but they ignored Jig completely.

  "I survive because I'm smarter than you," Jig muttered. He doubted anyone heard over the screams.

  THE NEXT BATTLE came a month later. This time it was a band of human mercenaries, led by a young human in garish colors. Jig popped a fried lizard tail into his mouth and crunched happily as he watched them approach.

  "How long until the attack?" asked Braf, settling in beside him.

  Jig offered him a lizard tail. "Don't ask me. You're the chief."

  "Don't remind me." There was just enough hostility in Braf's voice to make Jig scoot sideways. Jig's reign as chief had been the shortest in goblin history. He had named Braf the new chief before Trok's blood was even cool.

  In a way, Jig owed Trok thanks. If not for Trok, it would be Jig himself down on the mountainside preparing for this battle. Instead, Jig got to watch from a small outcropping high above the lair, protected by rocks and gnarled trees.

  The mercenaries reached the mouth of the lair. Jig heard shouts from within.

  "There they are." Braf pointed to a handful of goblins running down a trail. Each carried a small, goo-filled bladder which they flung at the humans.

  "We should find a better way to throw those," Jig said as the makeshift missiles exploded, splattering cold pudding on the mercenaries. Slings would be too messy. "Maybe handheld catapults?"

  One goblin took an arrow to the stomach, and the rest scattered, earning taunts from the humans.

  Braf snickered. "They think the goblins are running from them."

  Jig could already see the first goblin zombie shambling up the path. "They look pretty well-preserved."

  "Keeping them up in a colder cave was a good idea."

  "So were the spiders." Jig had gathered all the spiders he could find, releasing them into the cave where the zombies were leashed and guarded. No fire-spiders; the cave was too cold for them anyway. But there were plenty of others to help protect the zombies from flies and other insects.

  Jig reached up to pet Smudge. Trok might not have thought things through, but Jig had. Enthusiasm at joining the living dead had died out once the rest of the lair saw a few zombies in more advanced states of rot. Few were willing to risk their important bits falling off.

  One zombie stopped to eat the fallen goblin while the rest closed in on the mercenaries, who had stopped laughing.

  "You're sure they kept enough pudding in reserve to get them all back to the cave?" Braf asked.

  Jig shrugged. If not, each of the zombie keepers carried a pointed skull-cracking hammer to use on whoever was responsible for forgetting. "They'll find a way to lure the zombies back."

  "It won't last forever, you know."

  "I know." Goblin plans rarely did. Sooner or later a zombie would escape, or one of the keepers would get careless, or the humans would find a way to destroy the zombies. When that happened, Jig would deal with it.

  But until then, he intended to sit back, eat a few more lizard tails, and enjoy the well-earned rest.

  This story originally appeared in When the Hero Comes Home, Dragon Moon Press, 2011.

  Jim C. Hines's first novel was Goblin Quest, the humorous tale of a nearsighted goblin runt and his pet fire-spider. Actor and author Wil Wheaton described the book as "too f***ing cool for words," which is pretty much the Best Blurb Ever. After finishing the goblin trilogy, he went on to write the Princess series of fairy tale retellings and the Magic ex Libris books, a modern-day fantasy series about a magic-wielding librarian, a dryad, a secret society founded by Johannes Gutenberg, a flaming spider, and an enchanted convertible. He's also the author of the Fable Legends tie-in Blood of Heroes. His short fiction has appeared in more than 50 magazines and anthologies.

  Jim is an active blogger about topics ranging from sexism and harassment to zombie-themed Christmas carols, and won the Hugo Award for Best Fan Writer in 2012. He has an undergraduate degree in psychology and a Master's in English, and lives with his wife and two children in mid-Michigan. You can find him onli
ne at www.jimchines.com.

  Librarians in the Branch Library of Babel

  with apologies to Jorge Luis Borges

  Shaenon K. Garrity

  THE LIBRARY OF BABEL is one of those extrusions of pure logic into our universe that you get sometimes, a library of infinite size containing all possible books. Logically (and so actually), almost all these books are full of nonsense—meaningless collections of letters or even just random markings. Once in a very long while a book containing a few readable lines is found, and the people who find it rejoice. The search for meaning in the Library's honeycomb rooms is seldom rewarded, but really, most patrons just come in off the street to use the restroom, and the Library has plenty of restrooms.

  I'm sorry. That was unfair to our patrons.

  Carol and I worked at the Branch Library of Babel in Dublin, Ohio.

  First:

  THE BRANCH LIBRARY is infinite. All Libraries of Babel are infinite. The Branch Libraries are just smaller.

  Which is larger: all possible numbers, or all possible even numbers? Logically, they're the same size. A fraction of an infinite set is still infinite, isn't it? By the same logic, it's possible for an infinite library in which every other book is, say, Stephen King's Cujo to still contain all possible books, same as the main library. It's just that you stand a 50% chance of getting Cujo.

  I'm only using Cujo as an example. As you know, we did not work at an infinite library where every other book is Stephen King's Cujo. That library is in El Paso.

  I know it's confusing. We used to have a laminated sign behind the front desk explaining the Library system, with all the math, but a few years ago someone stole it and by then we'd lost the laminating machine.

  Second:

  CAROL AND I WERE librarians at an infinite library where roughly 72% of books are Moby-Dick. Our library contains, within in its stacks, every edition of Moby-Dick that ever has been or will be or could be published. So does the main Library, of course, but at our branch the probability of coming across one of them is much higher.