Fantasy Short Stories: Five Fantastic Tales

by Quincy J. Allen

  Shuffle-stepping to the cleft, I pressed my body into it. I turned and reached for the first handhold. I stepped up once, twice, and steadied myself with my other hand. It was difficult to climb with the spears, but this was the only way.

  Reach, step, step.

  Pause.

  Reach, step, step.

  Pause.

  A rock fell, clattering down to the ground. I ignored it. The qwilai’s rumbling stopped. I increased my pace.

  Reach, step, step.

  Reach, step, step.

  A larger rock fell, clattering down the wall to land with a thud in the moss below.

  A massive sucking sound filled my ears, followed by the rush of flowing water. It had lifted itself off the ground and released the water pooled along its side. My heart pounded in fear, but I didn’t turn my head. I simply kept climbing.

  The beast snorted and sniffed behind me. Massive, clawed feet stomped and squished in the mud. It let out a ragged, rasping hiss that echoed through the forest, setting several flocks of nearby birds screeching towards the canopy. I ignored it all and continued my ascent. I was almost there.

  I heard its quick stomps across the ground behind me. I hazarded a quick glance just in time to see it rush up against the rock face. It lifted its head and clawed its way upwards. Its great talons ripped at the stone, dislodging rocks with each pull of its massive body as it closed the distance between us.

  I pulled myself up one more step. Air rushed past me as its jaws snapped closed again. Its talons scraping against the stone was deafening. With one last heave, I reached the notch I had picked. I set my feet as quickly as I could, keeping a tight grip on my spears.

  The beast sucked in air, its body swelling. It hissed its rage through a partly open mouth. A fetid stench of old corpses washed over me. It sucked again and opened its mouth wide, revealing a pale cavern full of white spear tips as long as my hand. It shoved with its rear legs. The snap of its jaws was like a tree trunk hitting the earth. The stench hit me again, causing my gorge to rise in my throat.

  One more time, I thought.

  With a quick motion, I passed one of the spears to my free hand, clenched my teeth, and waited.

  It sucked in again, lowering back down onto legs already tightening to spring up towards its prey. I steadied myself and prepared to die. The great mouth of the qwilai started to open. Its legs heaved again. I stepped back off the cliff into empty air, pushing my feet outwards as I raised the spears high over my head.

  Its mouth became a pit racing up towards me. I screamed my fury at it and thrust down, summoning all my strength and fear and rage.

  The spears passed into the cavernous mouth, piercing pale flesh at the back of its throat just as the jaws came down with another clap of thunder. The shafts snapped between the monster’s teeth. The force of it jerked my body around. I slammed into the top of its head, tumbling down its back.

  The great beast erupted into agonized spasms that threw me far over the stream. I slammed into the turf and slid across mossy ground. Dazed, I tried to breathe, but found I couldn’t. Fear and death clutched at my mind. Past the sound of my own desperate gasping, I heard the massive qwilai thrashing against the rock face.

  Its hissing roars filled the entire jungle over and over again.

  Finally, just as my breath returned, the jungle went quiet. I lay there panting, staring at the canopy above. A sense of relief filled me. I smiled.

  The qwilai was dead. I tensed to get up, but my whole body ached, and it hurt to move my arm. All I wanted to do was lay there. Then I heard something shift against the rock wall.

  Something large.

  I raised my head, wincing at the pain. Terror clawed within my breast. The qwilai, its body sprawled against the rock wall, stared at me with fierce, yellow eyes. It snapped its mouth open and closed several times. I could see both of my spears stuck in the back of its throat. It sniffed at me, hissed once, and leaned sideways against the rocky outcropping. There was no way I could outrun it. I was about to die.

  And then the rocks fell.

  The outcropping collapsed under the tremendous weight just as its body slammed to the ground. With a rumble, boulders crashed down upon the beast, pounding into it. With each impact it hissed and grunted as it was pressed into the mossy earth. It tried vainly to rise against the avalanche, but even the great beast could not withstand such an onslaught.

  A cloud of dust rose, and the sound of stones clattering against each other went on for some time. All I could do was watch and listen. Finally, there was silence. I rose slowly—painfully—to my feet. I crossed the stream, and the cool water soothed my feet.

  I pressed through the dust and reached the edge of the rock fall. The qwilai’s head and body were under an immense pile of boulders. There was no sound of rumbling or rasping. I considered the great beast whose life I had taken, just as I had the kuduk. While I was certain it would never hunt my people again, I sorrowed at the thought of all its meat going uneaten. It was a waste, even for the great jungle creature who had lived here for countless moons. Then I realized it would be eaten by insects or the small creatures that inhabited the forest.

  Such is the jungle.

  The dust began to settle, and off to the side I spotted the beast’s tree trunk of a leg protruding from the rock pile, the rear one with my father’s spear sticking out of it. I couldn’t believe it had survived the avalanche, but the sight of it lifted my spirits.

  I pulled it free and set off for my tribe.

  O O O

  Hon looked at the faces around him, now illuminated by firelight against the darkness of night. His chest felt heavy, and he suddenly knew this would be the last time he would see them.

  It was time.

  Clouds had rolled in during his tale. The soft patter of raindrops against the canopy filled him with a sense of completion, of coming full circle. He briefly considered returning to his cave, of crawling beneath his hides and going to sleep one last time.

  A single raindrop splashed against his cheek and slowly made its way into his beard. It was followed by a single tear, and the two joined together just as he knew he would join with the jungle.

  Hon stood, and in a rare gesture of affection, gave each member of his tribe a hug. His hugs lingered somewhat upon Ula, Kai, and Jumu, the children who had shown him such kindness. He finally came to his eldest son and paused. Looking into eyes that looked so much like his own … when he was young and strong.

  He placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Take care of them,” he whispered. And then he smiled.

  His son nodded, knowing what his father meant. They embraced for a long time. When they let go, Hon turned slowly as the rain began in earnest. With a shiver and an ache in his bones, he picked up one of his son’s spears and hefted it.

  It felt good in his hands.

  He shrugged off the hide that had kept him warm, propped the spear over his shoulder, and walked away from the warmth of the fire one last time.

  Such is the jungle.

  The End

  Author’s Note:

  “Such is the Jungle” is a work of fiction, and I took some license with the technological level of prehistoric man as well as the estimated size of the “dragon.” I got the idea for this story when I realized that migrations of humans from Asia into Australia some 30,000 years ago could have quite easily encountered the now extinct Megalania¸ a massive monitor lizard that some estimate had an average length of 7 meters. If ever there was a real dragon that mankind had contended with, it was this truly impressive beast.

  According to the Melbourne Museum, “Megalania was the largest carnivore to have lived in Australia during the last two million years, but was probably less common than the predatory marsupial lion, Thylacoleo carnifex. It would have ambushed its prey, which possibly included the rhinoceros-sized Diprotodon optatum, and then torn it to pieces using its very large claws and serrated curved teeth. Megalania probably also scavenged for food, feasting on
dead animals it located with its keen sense of smell.

  Megalania most likely lived in grassland and open woodland, although some scientists think it may have been partially aquatic. Incomplete fossil skeletons have been found in New South Wales, South Australia, and Queensland, particularly in the Darling Downs. It became extinct before the peak of the last Ice Age (18,000 years ago), when Australia was becoming drier and Megalania’s prey less numerous.”

  Cornelius

  The downpour fits my mood, but I’m still grateful for it. The rain is sure to wash away my blood.

  I sigh, wondering what it’ll feel like when the Queen’s thugs beat me to death. I don’t even plan on fighting. Not that a runty little dwarf like me could take two full-grown trolls, but the sorry truth is that I got myself into this mess … practically begged for it. I’ll take it like a dwarf. I just hope the whisky and drugs take the edge off when they lay into me.

  The chipper one—I nickname him Smiley—asks me how I ended up here. He’s all mooney-eyed and awestruck, like most of my fans used to be. He remembers me from movies he’d seen as a kid. But I’m sure he can’t reconcile what he remembers with the wreck of a dwarf before him now—shadowed, deep-set eyes; threadbare clothes; a grungy, red cap; and that look of death you see on drug addicts right before someone finds them face-down in a rain-filled gutter.

  Six dwarves, caps canted foreword, stare down the bar at me. Expectant.

  How did I end up here?

  The question skips across my thoughts like a stone across water. I’ve asked it a thousand times, looking for any answer besides the truth. And a thousand times I’ve come up with nothing but reality as cold and hard as an axe blade set in ice.

  Through the addled haze of a two-day bender, I feel a low chortle soft-shoe its way across my throat like an old, gay fairy. I sniff hard. It’s a long, drawn out thing piggy-backed by flames that ignite the inside of my skull. I’m grateful for the pain, though. It lets me know I’m still alive.

  I’m not sniffing because I’m crying, though, or because I know I’m gonna die. I got past feeling sorry for myself months ago. I sniff again, and the pleasure-pain flares anew. Sniffing is just one of the more obvious side effects for habitual PD users. The stuff goes by a lot of names, but those of us on the hook call it PD for short. I guess that’s a side effect too. At parties it’s how we separate ‘us’ from the normals.

  You may not know it, but there’s a bunch of us in the movie biz with the sniffs. None so much as me, though. I have it bad. Hell, I’m practically the poster child. Or at least I was.

  I think about Smiley’s question. And how to answer. I suppose most would say I’d done a lot in my life. Movie star. Big house. Beautiful wife. Great kids. Hell, I’ve seen most of world … and done shit not a soul in this whole, damn kingdom would believe. But when you’re sitting in a strange bar waiting for a couple of hit-trolls to bash your brains in … let’s just say my life doesn’t seem to add up to as much as it should.

  A clap of thunder encourages me to raise red-rimmed eyes from the ‘W’ I’d traced in a splash of whisky on the bar. The effort is more than I bargain for. A wave of dizziness crashes into my skull like storm-tossed breakers on a levy. There’s an up side though. The stars swirling in the air between Smiley and me are every color of the rainbow. Another side effect of PD. What can I say?

  PD side effects is a long list.

  There’s a clock behind the bar, and I try to focus my eyes on the damn thing, but stars keep getting in the way. I spend a minute bobbing my head around and fluttering my eyes, trying to see past the stars. It dawns on me that I must look like some whacked-out lizard doing a mating dance. I don’t give a shit, though, because I finally get a bead on the numbers.

  Ten o’clock.

  I realize I’m just about due for another hit. I can feel the others still staring at me. Waiting. Wondering if I’m even lucid. They look worried … and a little scared … all except the grouchy one. He seems to be disgusted. I run a hand over the sniffer in my pocket—another habit you’ll find with PD users—and take some comfort that I have just enough PD to get me through the rest of my life.

  I trace a finger around and around the lump in my pocket, trying to forestall the inevitable. But who am I kidding? I know I can’t wait anymore. Besides, another snort is the only way I’ll be able to tell them the whole story.

  With only a small bit of fumbling, I work the sniffer out. The glint of shining metal and sparkling facets dazzles my eyes, adding another colorful layer to the dancing stars. It’s one hell of a show, and I get lost in it for a few seconds. The dwarves’ eyes shift from me to it. I bet most have never seen such a small bauble worth so much money.

  I smile.

  The thing had been a gift from my dealer. Sterling mithril, clockwork cap, inlaid rubies, gold-filigree fairies etched into the sides … it’s beautiful … really. She’d given it to me a few years back at a big party full of the movie moguls and underworld muckity-mucks that I used to call friends. She’d sent it as an apology for not making the party.

  That night she had bigger fish to fry, but she never would have made it where she did if it weren’t for me. I’m ashamed to admit it, but the Queen’s reign of terror started the moment I took my first snort.

  A blurry shadow crosses in front of the clock. It’s a hand.

  I guess I got lost in the shiny.

  “You look like shit.” It’s a gruff, grumble of a voice that presses down through the haze and draws me up enough to almost think clearly.

  I pull my eyes away from the sniffer and trace back along the hand, up the sleeve, over the shoulder and into the eyes of the grouchy one.

  He’s frowning.

  I laugh. The laugh turns into a cough, the cough into a bleary-eyed fit that almost makes good on a promise to toss my lungs up onto the bar.

  “Thanksh, pal,” I mumble through a weak smile. I raise my glass for a refill of the rotgut I’ve been pouring down my neck for two days. I’m down to my last fifty in coin, but I plan on living it up as best I can in the time I have left. I give the grouch another smile, the very same smile that melted the hearts of movie-going dwarves for nearly a decade.

  His frown doesn’t waver, doesn’t move a millimeter. Like it’s etched in stone.

  Must not be a moviegoer, I muse.

  “Maybe you ought to call it quits,” one of the other dwarves adds, genuine concern coming through. I think he’s an MD, but I can’t be sure. My vision is too blurry to see that far along the bar.

  Call it a quits? I chuckle. That’s exactly what I am doing.

  “I appreshiate the conshern,” I slur in a hollow, raspy voice that would have worried me under different circumstances, “but another drink and another shnort is the only way I’ll get this shtory out.”

  “Then out with it!” the grouchy one barks.

  “Riiiight,” I reply, nodding. My shot glass has mysteriously been refilled, so I toss it back and feel the burn. I pop the cap on my sniffer, take a blast in each nostril, and let the PD light up the inside of my head like a fireworks display at the castle.

  My heart pounds.

  My ears ring.

  Energy works its way back into my limbs.

  I feel bright-eyed and bushy-tailed … well, if my eyes were wrapped in cotton and I had a tail, anyway. The old me settles in—the performer, the shining star, the bigger-than-life hero of the silver screen.

  The god of the silver screen.

  I look over my shoulder and eye the two, massive trolls sitting in a back corner. Black grimwig hats, dark goggles, and brass gauntlets with spikes … the hand gear perfect for terminating deadbeats. If ever a couple of trolls looked like killers, they do.

  Their eyes never leave me, and one of them tightens his gauntlet around a pewter tankard of ale in front of him. The sides cave in. I’m almost relieved. It means I won’t have to suffer long when they finally get their hands on me.

  My six companions see where I’m loo
king and cast quick glances in that direction. Only the grouchy one seems to make the connection, his eyes going wide, and then they all look at me again.

  “My story, hunh?” I ask.

  Several of them nod, Smiley vigorously. The grouchy one just narrows his eyes.

  O O O

  I was one of the lucky ones.

  The first movie I ever made was a smash hit, a bona fide blockbuster.

  It had it all—dragons, dwarves in shining armor, some of the most beautiful females ever to grace the silver screen. It was a historical epic about old King Hoffur Bomberbast IV and how he defeated the dragon hordes. I played the young Hoffur, during the years when he was still slaying dragons and not shtupping ladies of the court like he did when his beard went gray.

  After the premier, the producers put together this big party at some palace of a home the likes of which I’d never seen. The place was huge, with art and statues and furniture that cost more than the small house I was living in at the time. And I mean everyone was at this party, even the King.

  Everyone was dancing and laughing, having a great time. There was food and booze all over the place. Cakes, candies, just about anything you could put in your mouth was laid out on every surface or tucked away in nooks and crannies. They’d even brought in hookers—male and female—of damn near every species you could schtupp. There were dwarves, elves, humans, fairies, ogres … all walking around in red silk drawers and high boots. You ever see a female ogre in a red thong and knee-high red boots? It sure is something…. I’ll tell you that for nothing.

  I doubt there was a single appetite that didn’t get satisfied that night, including my own.

  As the sun started to set, the Hoffer Director pulled me aside. He said he had a surprise for me … job well done and all that. He led me through a maze of hallways into a back room. As we approached, this drone pricked up my ears. It’s a chatter, mostly high-pitched, and I eventually figured out it’s people talking … lots of them … like they’re on fast-forward or something.

  We walked into a wide room with low lighting above, a rainbow of multi-colored lamps lining every wall. I’d never seen anything like it. There were sofas and sectionals, a few day beds, and even some beanbags scattered around the place. Most were occupied, and a few occupied by folks doing the horizontal mambo.