The Mammoth Book of Comic Fantasy

by Mike Ashley

  So too were Boscombe’s nose, ears and eyebrows.

  And as he stared, his left eye smoothed over, closely followed by his right.

  Boscombe was about to remark upon the somewhat Gothic turn that events had suddenly taken, when his mouth vanished, leaving his entire visage as smooth as a baby’s bum bum.

  And he suffocated.

  Little Epilogue Bit

  Dr Kinn, who viewed the spot-encrusted face of the deceased, said that he “appeared to have died from natural causes”, but declined further examination of the body on the grounds that he was “far too ugly to look at closely”.

  “Quack indeed,” said he, as he rode off on his BMX to his chess evening with Dr Poo Pah Doo.

  * Now legendary star of The Creeper and The Brute Man.

  FALL’N INTO THE SEAR

  James A. Bibby

  James Bibby has been contributing jokes and sketches to such television series as Not the Nine O’Clock News, Three of a Kind and the Lenny Henry Show for twenty years, but has only recently entered the comic fantasy book world with his spoofs on Robert E. Howard’s Conan stories, Ronan the Barbarian (1995) and Ronan’s Rescue (1996), both translations from the Gibberish. The following is a brand-new story set in the same world and specially written for this anthology.

  Mavol watched with a frown on his face as the half-orc landlord slouched across the malodorous dining-room with a tray of food and dumped it sullenly on the table in front of him. He rubbed his eyes tiredly and stared down at the revolting mess that was apparently supposed to be breakfast. There was a slab of grey bread that had the appearance and consistency of pumice, a mug of muddy brown liquid that looked and smelt as though yesterday’s bedding had been washed in it, and a single cracked egg that had reputedly been boiled, although what it had been boiled in was anybody’s guess, for it had turned a malevolent shade of orange, and pale green fumes were eddying from the crack in the shell.

  Although he had been in Malvenis for less than fifteen hours, Mavol was feeling seriously pissed off with the city and, more especially, with this foul, verminous hovel in which he had been forced to stay. He had travelled a long, long way to get there and the four-week journey had been tiring, especially as he had been forced to finish it on foot. His horse had spread a plate as he left the elven-realm of Nevin and, misguidedly, he had tried to fix it himself, for he was the proud owner of a signed copy of Delia Cook’s Smithery Course, the best-selling pamphlet that had put half of Midworld’s blacksmiths and farriers out of business. Unfortunately, he was no Delia, and his horse had developed a gangrenous pastern and had died shortly afterwards.

  He had eventually trudged into Malvenis the previous evening, hot, dusty and tired, and looking forward to a bath and a good meal in a comfortable tavern. But, to his chagrin, he had found that the Millennium Midsummer Games were taking place in the city, and nearly every lodging-place was fully booked. In the end he had managed to find a bed in this run-down slum in the orcish quarter, but he had seen better facilities in a pigsty. The place had no bath, the food had no taste, and the bed had no sheets, just a stained and lumpy mattress. And then he had woken in the middle of the night to find that the lumps were moving, and were in fact huge bed-bugs. Luckily, they must have been feeding off orc-blood recently, for they were all as pissed as farts, and not one of them had managed to get it together long enough to puncture his skin. But their drunken, tuneless singing had kept him awake for the rest of the night.

  Mavol stared apprehensively at his egg and then, with a sinking heart and a rising stomach, he picked up the stained spoon and hacked off the top of the shell. Green fumes billowed out and he gagged at the mephitic smell. The semi-liquid matter inside was green and rancid, and whatever the small foetus nestling beside the yolk had been destined to turn into, it wasn’t any variety of bird. For a few moments he stared disgustedly at the contents of the egg, and then he looked across to the half-orc landlord, who had stopped beside a recently vacated table and was scraping bits of food debris off the stained, yellowing tablecloth with a filthy talon and popping them into his mouth.

  “Hey, dung-face!” called Mavol.

  The landlord looked up, and Mavol hurled the egg at him with unerring accuracy. It smashed into fragments against the half-orc’s cavernous nose, and Mavol followed it with the bread, the mug, and (just for good measure) the table. Then, picking up his backpack, he strolled across the room, stepped over the landlord’s unconscious body, and went in search of a clean, well-run bath-house and a decent meal.

  It was the fifth day of the Midsummer Games, and the sun was hammering down on Fadbasrad, a private of the Malvenis City Guard, as though it couldn’t stand the man. The first four days had been wet and misty: typical Malvenis weather, for the city was set high in the foothills of the Irridic Mountains and seemed to attract clouds like a magnet. But today of all days the sun had decided to show just what it could do when it really tried.

  Fadbasrad was on sentry duty at the entrance to the Games, which were taking place in the fields outside the Malvenis city walls, but his mind wasn’t really on the job. His head was thumping like a bass drum, his legs were shaking like those of a minute-old foal, and his breakfast seemed to have quarreled with his stomach and was threatening to walk out on it any second now.

  In fact, Fadbasrad could really have done with sneaking off home for an hour or two, but he knew full well that to desert his post would be to end up spending several days on fatigues under the vengeful eye of Sergeant Haydest, known throughout the Guard as Haydest the Sadist, and so Fadbasrad stood there clinging to the upright haft of his spear like ivy to a tree, cursing his stupidity and praying for some nice, cool, soothing rain.

  It was his own damn fault, he knew that. Only someone who was tired of living would have gone on a pub-crawl with a gang of orcs the night before a morning sentry duty. Orcs were creatures with such a high habitual intake of alcohol that their physiology had evolved to become dependent upon the daily consumption of at least the equivalent of a bottle of brandy. Nor was it merely their appetite for drink that was life-threatening to a human: orc party games tended to be so violent and bizarre that the average orcish week-long drinking spree had a mortality rate of more than 15 per cent. Fadbasrad had been lucky to wake up that morning with his head still attached to his shoulders.

  He winced and closed his eyes against the blinding glare as the sun turned the heat up an extra notch. Maybe he hadn’t been so lucky, after all. His gleaming metal helm seemed to be frying his brain, and his head felt as though it was going to burst. By the Gods, he thought, miserably. Surely I didn’t drink enough to merit such a bastard of a hangover?

  The trouble was, he’d got a bit out of practice lately. In fact, he hadn’t been drinking at all for the past couple of months in an effort to lose a little weight and get a bit fitter. He’d decided he needed to do something when the Sergeant had started calling him Fatbastard. And he had to admit his wife had a point when she said he was an overweight, out-of-condition slob. These days, sex left him panting and exhausted – and that was just climbing the stairs to the bedroom.

  In fact, had he but known it, Fadbasrad was absolutely right when he thought that he hadn’t drunk enough to merit the reaction he was suffering. But, unfortunately for him, Rettch, the Goddess of Hangovers, had had her eye on him for quite a while. This diet of his had caused her no end of inconvenience, and on seven separate occasions she had been forced to cancel the hangovers she’d had lined up for him when he had backed out of a prospective night out with the boys at the very last minute. Rules are rules, even for the Gods, and when Rettch had one night threatened to visit a long-overdue hangover on this recalcitrant human, despite the fact he was only having a quiet night in with a cup of cocoa, Gomal (the God of Gods) had given her a right old ticking off. And so, when at last Fadbasrad had decided to drown his sorrows the previous evening after the Sergeant had made his day a particularly miserable one, the vengeful Rettch had visited all seven h
angovers on him in one vast, economy-sized maelstrom of pain.

  A loud Crash! and a burst of drunken cheering from one of the nearby beer tents caused Fadbasrad to open his eyes and peer blearily across. Most were doing good business, for the day’s programme of events was close to starting, but the tent specializing in orcish beers was packed out with revelling orcs and was bulging and writhing like a sackful of eels. Malvenis was twinned with High Meneal, the orcish city in far-off Frundor, whose visiting delegation of town dignitaries had spent the entire first four days of the Games in the beer tents. Malvenis had quite a sizeable orc population of its own, being so close to the Irridic Mountains, and things were beginning to liven up quite nicely. Fadbasrad could scent trouble brewing.

  But then his nostrils caught a faint waft of ale from the tents, and his throat started to go into spasms. Clamping one hand over his mouth and fighting desperately to keep the contents of his stomach where they belonged, Fadbasrad turned and concentrated on watching the stream of spectators who were arriving for the day’s events. He recognized quite a few, but there were many faces that were unfamiliar, for folk had travelled from towns as far afield as Ilex and Far Tibreth to watch or participate in the Games.

  He nodded a greeting as his next-door neighbour went past, and immediately regretted it for the throbbing in his head had started up again. He lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the burning sun, and it was then that he realized he was being watched. A man had stopped just inside the gates, and was peering at him with a thoughtful expression on his face. Fadbasrad peered back, wondering why he was being stared at, for he was certain he had never seen the other man before. The guy was no more than average height, with long, dark hair and a thin, deeply tanned face, but there was something about his poise and muscle-tone that hinted he was a warrior. Mind you, the dirty great sword that he wore slung down his back, Southern-fashion, was a bit of a give-away as well.

  Fadbasrad straightened uneasily and stared rigidly ahead of him, trying to give the impression that he was a sentry who was right on the ball. The guy might just be a passer-by, but then he might also be another of Haydest’s little spies. For a full minute Fadbasrad stood there at attention, peering straight ahead, but then he flicked his eyes nervously sideways to see if he was still being watched. The man had switched his attention to the small group of picketing pedants by the gate, but even as Fadbasrad glanced at him he turned back and stared straight at him. And then, to Fadbasrad’s dismay, a small, rather cruel smile started to play about his lips and he began to walk decisively towards the perspiring, hung-over sentry.

  After a long, slow, luxurious bath, Mavol had discovered that, as it was the week of the Midsummer Games, nearly every tavern in the city was opening early and serving breakfast. He had eaten in a wine-bar called Dipso Facto in Blood Lane, and had then spent an hour browsing through the local news sheets and reading about the day’s events. Some of them sounded quite interesting and so, although he was now just a couple of days’ travel away from the culmination of his quest, he had reckoned that he could spare a few hours and had decided to spend an afternoon watching the gladiators.

  With his hunger sated he had felt much happier, but he was still in just the right mood for a little devilment. He had been delighted to discover a small group of protesting pedants near the entrance to the Games, waving their placards and chanting dejectedly. They were objecting to the fact that the Millennium Games were being held in the year 1000, when in fact (they insisted) the Millennium didn’t really begin until 1001. But they hadn’t got very far. The vast majority of people merely laughed at them, and they had quickly become objects of ridicule. Folk had started bringing decaying fruit and vegetables to the Games to throw at them on the way in, and Mavol had joined in with a will. A couple of direct hits had left one of them with a face that was covered in bits of rotten tomato, and Mavol had turned away feeling a good deal more content. But then he had seen that the sentry on duty by the gate was looking distinctly nauseous and had decided that perhaps it was time for a little more light relief.

  Mavol stopped in front of Fadbasrad and gave him one of his brightest smiles. He took in the bloodshot eyes, the sheen of sweat, the pasty, yellow tinge to the skin and the foul breath. I was right, he thought to himself. The guy has one mother of a hangover.

  “Good morning,” he said, brightly. “I couldn’t help noticing that you look a little unwell. That poor man must have been on sentry duty all morning, I thought to myself, he must be faint with hunger. I wonder if he’d like me to fetch him a little snack. Perhaps some fat-pork lightly fried in lard . . .?”

  “Hurp!” said Fadbasrad.

  “Or maybe a nice runny egg sandwich? Here, are you all right? You’ve gone a very strange colour . . .” Mavol paused, apparent concern written all over his face, and tried not to grin. The guard’s face had turned the colour of old cheese, and his throat was jerking convulsively like that of a lizard.

  “I know,” Mavol continued. “I’ve got just the thing for a hungry soldier!” Grinning, he hauled an old pasaroni* out of his backpack and held it under the sweating guard’s nose.

  “How about some nice, ripe garlic sausage?” he asked, wafting it gently to and fro, and then he leapt smartly backwards and contemplated the resulting eruption with something approaching awe.

  If the Midsummer Games had included an event called the Chucking-up Cup or the Marathon Hurling Championship, then Fadbasrad would have been a certainty for the gold medal. Once he had got started, there was simply no stopping him. He seemed to be putting his whole heart into the performance – and several other organs as well, to judge from the vocal accompaniment he was providing.

  “Ah, the poor man,” sympathized an elderly matron who had stopped near by. “He must have a weak stomach.”

  “Weak?” muttered her husband. “You must be joking! Look how far he’s chucking that stuff!”

  Mavol watched from a safe distance, but as he did so, the slow realization crept over him that he wasn’t getting the same pleasure from such a successful prank as he used to. In fact, as he viewed the wretched guard’s discomfort, he realized that he was feeling pity more than anything else; pity mixed with another unaccustomed emotion that left him feeling vaguely uncomfortable and unclean, and made him want to creep quietly away. With astonishment, he realized that it was guilt.

  He swore quietly under his breath. To his disgust, he seemed to have developed something of a conscience in the past few months, and he was beginning to feel a bit concerned. If he was to accomplish the quest that he had set himself, and for which he had travelled all the way to Malvenis, a conscience was going to be about as much use as a chocolate condom.

  Frowning, he turned to push his way through the crowd of onlookers when a sudden fanfare of orc trumpets blasted out, making his head ring. It was a wonderfully discordant fanfare, and the trumpets seemed to be treating it more like a test of stamina than a musical event. Beginning more or less together, they set off at different paces and in different keys. The clear winner was the one that began in B flat and accidentally moved into F sharp near the end. C sharp pushed it all the way and actually took over the lead at the half-way point, but then ran out of puff and died away with an agonized glissade in the finishing straight. The others trumpeters either gave up completely or trailed in at intervals afterwards, with E sharp vibrato bringing up the rear and finishing some distance behind after a bad attack of hiccups.

  The final wavering notes died away and there was a stunned silence which lasted a good thirty seconds. Orc fanfares were notoriously uneven, but this had been something truly spectacular. Fadbasrad, had he been capable of speech, could have explained why: it had been the orc trumpeters with whom he had got so drunk the previous night. But then the silence was broken by the town crier, who began to announce the start of the afternoon’s events. A thickening stream of people began to flow towards the gladiatorial arena that had been set up in the field ahead, and Mavol, after one last guilty
glance at the now prostrate sentry, went with them.

  Algin Bonecrusher, the undefeated champion gladiator, was not the sort of person who anyone would want to take to tea at grandma’s house – not unless they wanted grandma to be disembowelled, flayed, trimmed and stapled to the kitchen ceiling. Standing well over 6 ft tall, he looked like the result of an illicit liaison between a gorilla and a bear. His chest appeared to have been constructed using barrel-staves as ribs, and his strong, powerful arms reached almost to his knees. His head was bald and gleaming, and a thick, black, bushy beard covered his chin. From one ear hung a gold earring so large that a chicken could have roosted in it, and his eyes glittered with a red, malevolent fire, like a demon that has had a few whiskies too many and is looking for trouble. He was clad only in leather trousers, but his body-hair sprouted so thickly that from a distance he appeared to be wearing something that had been very badly knitted.

  Algin glowered round at the spectators crammed onto the tiers of wooden benches encircling the temporary arena and growled threateningly, then snorted with satisfaction at the chorus of boos that greeted him. Reaching down, he jerked his sword free from the mangled remains of his latest victim and brandished it above his head. The chorus of boos redoubled, but Algin just smiled coldly and began to strut round the arena, waving his blood-stained sword and taunting the spectators. He was exactly the sort of gladiator that the paying public loved to hate, for he was fast, brutal, totally unsporting and he knew how to wind up a crowd. There had almost been a riot when he had shaken his opponent’s hand after his previous bout, for it had no longer been attached to his opponent’s arm, and the blood had splattered over quite a few of the ringside spectators.

  From a seat in the second tier, Mavol watched the victorious gladiator thoughtfully. The man would have been lethal enough bound by Warrior Codes, but as a gladiator he was unfettered by such conventions, and he seemed to know every dirty, underhand, sordid trick that there was. Mavol had come to the rapid conclusion that Algin was by far the most dangerous fighter he had ever seen.