Happily Ever Awkward

by T. L. Callies

  The Troll didn’t notice. King Hofnar’s belligerence had stirred up his old urges to devour, rob, and taunt, and the Troll was busy fighting them back down. Grinding his tusks, he slammed the gate behind the prince and sat down in his booth to think about the good old days.

  4

  THE POXIE POST

  Across the archipelago in another part of the Empire of Bridges, a curious island rose from the sea. A vast lump of rock, it heaved its wide, featureless bulk several hundred yards above the waves. But its rocky lumpishness is not what made this island curious. It was the millions of pipes.

  Countless pipes wrapped the island in a tangled mesh of tubing until the island resembled nothing more than a giant metallic knot. Some big, some small, the pipes emerged from deep within the rock, their bell-shaped apertures twisting every which way like an unkempt garden of horn flowers.

  As if that wasn’t odd enough, blizzards of multicolored lights constantly streaked into and out of each pipe to flurry away in all directions.

  The bridge leading to the island ended its journey upon the threshold of an arched entrance. Above this portal, chiseled letters proclaimed:

  POXIE POST

  Deep inside the island’s stone heart, a horrendously long wooden counter divided a monstrously cavernous chamber where hundreds, if not thousands, of people waited in a line that snaked through a soul-crushing series of corrals, paddocks, turnstiles, and one small but challenging trap-filled labyrinth.

  Overhead, like stars swallowed by the earth, thousands of the multicolored lights present outside swarmed throughout the cavern.

  Poxies.

  Each six inches tall, these tiny winged relatives of Flitterlings darted back and forth with scrolls and letters clutched in their minuscule hands.

  Laura the Handmaiden had no idea how long she had been waiting in line before someone finally called her up to an open window at the counter.

  “I need to mail this,” she said wearily, laying Princess Luscious’ parchment on the counter.

  The clerk was human, but her blank-faced stare made her appear to be something less. She took the parchment with a mechanical motion and tapped it with a wand. A bang of golden energy seared a magic symbol onto the parchment and caused Laura to jump, snapping her out of her daze.

  “What was that?!” she asked.

  “Enchanted seal,” the clerk said. She spoke in the monotone voice of someone who has repeated the same thing so many times that the words have lost all of their meaning, much like her life. “Poxies can sniff out magic from miles away. It’s a Flitterling thing. That’s how we track the mail. Thank you so much for your interest in Poxie Post. Next.”

  The clerk lifted the parchment. A nearby Poxie snatched it away and darted into one of the many pipes protruding from the ceiling.

  “Thank y—” Laura started to say.

  “Next!”

  5

  CROSSING PATHS

  The lights of the Poxie Post flickered faintly in the distance as Paul and King Hofnar trotted along a deserted stretch of bridge.

  “Quit thy moping, Paul!” King Hofnar barked. “Today thou finally becomest a man! Try to act like one!”

  “I don’t belong there,” Paul said quietly, his head hanging low.

  “Thou wilt not say that,” King Hofnar said.

  “You know I don’t belong there,” Paul said. Then he added more pointedly, “You know why—”

  “Thou wilt say no more! I trained thee for eighteen years. Thou art ready for the Lottery, and thou shalt defeat thy curse, once and for all.”

  When Paul did not reply, King Hofnar tried a different tactic. “What if Sir Whitethorne had carried on like you, boy? Who wouldst have ended the Plague of Dragons? Or fought against organized piracy? Or kept the kings from civil war?”

  “Yes, but Sir Whitethorne was the greatest knight who ever lived—”

  Hofnar clapped his son on the back, nearly knocking him from his horse. “And now is thy chance to becomest a hero just like him!”

  Paul readjusted himself in the saddle, his head bowed in defeat. “Do you think… do you think I’ll have to rescue a princess?”

  His father snorted. “I shouldst hope so! They always be in jeopardy of one sort or another.”

  A little farther ahead on her way home from the Poxie Post, Laura paused along the bridge to skim rocks across the water. Unbeknown to her, a ragged figure crept up quietly behind her.

  Paul stared over the water and noticed a rock go skipping past. It had come from somewhere beyond a rise in the bridge.

  “What princess would want me to rescue her?” he said. He thought he had said it quietly enough that no one else could hear. He was wrong.

  “By all the gods, boy, dost thou think it matters what a woman wants?!” King Hofnar cried. “Dost thou think I worried about that when I rode in and seized the hand of thy mother, Berba the Frigid — though, in retrospect, mayhaps I shouldst have given that a bit more thought — but it matters not! Thou art a prince! Thou takest whomsoever pleases thee!”

  “I’m not like that,” Paul said. “I’m not like you.”

  King Hofnar shook his head. “Thou hast the same barbarian blood pumping through thy veins. Embrace it!”

  “Embracing it is one thing. Gushing it while a Dragon eats me is another.” Paul’s voice became desperate. “Please, Father, I’m not ready. Don’t take me to the Lottery—”

  “Boy, if thou stoppest not thy whining, the blood-gushing mightest commence right here!”

  Finished with her rock throwing for the day, Laura strolled onward and entered a deserted triangular intersection serving as a junction for three different bridges. The bridge behind her led back to the Poxie Post, the one to her right led to some worthless island she could never remember the name of, and the one to her left would take her back to Theandrea and her life of servitude.

  “So many great choices,” she thought.

  The ragged bandit creeping along behind her thought it was time to make a choice of his own, so he pounced and pressed a knife to Laura’s throat.

  Rubbing his scruffy cheek against her ear, he whispered, “No noise, pretty pretty. Your purse.” Not only was he robbing her, but to make matters worse, his breath smelled of onions.

  Before Laura could make a move, Paul and King Hofnar abruptly crested a rise and entered the intersection, riding in from the bridge that led to the worthless island Laura could never remember the name of.

  Everyone froze.

  “He’s got a knife! What do we do?” Paul whispered to his father.

  “Thou savest her, of course!” King Hofnar said.

  “Me?” Paul’s eyes opened wide, as if his fear demanded a better view of the situation. “No, you — you should do it!”

  “Thou learned all this in Charm School — a Class Three Confrontation. Remember?”

  Paul nodded faintly, obviously scared.

  “Then sayest thy lines!” King Hofnar commanded.

  Paul cast a terrified glance at the bandit, but all he could see was the knife. “Un-unhand her, knave.”

  King Hofnar rolled his eyes. Even the bandit seemed unimpressed.

  “Beg pardon?” said the ruffian.

  Paul cleared his throat and tried again. “I said, unhand her, knave!”

  King Hofnar nodded. “Now get thee down and advance.”

  He gave Paul a little shove. The prince toppled from his saddle and the bandit watched with bemused amusement as Paul worked his sword free and shuffled into the intersection.

  He began to recite. “Only a coward… I mean, only a craven coward hides behind a woman—”

  The bandit sneered. “I think even bigger cowards hide behind swords.”

  Paul looked back at his father. The king scowled; logic like that just bewildered and angered him. Uncertain, Paul let his sword droop.

  In that instant, the bandit flung Laura aside and leaped at the prince.

  Paul stumbled backward, but not before the
bandit’s flashing knife nicked his cheek and drew a faint streak of blood. Feeling the sting of the cut shocked something awake within Paul and, impossibly, his sword blurred. Acting on instinct, he clumsily blocked every slash of his attacker’s blade. But clumsy or not, block them he did.

  King Hofnar’s eyes widened.

  So did Laura’s.

  Paul finally knocked the knife away, yet even so, even after his victory, he continued to retreat from his now unarmed foe.

  Seizing what might be his only chance to escape, the bandit smirked, bowed with a flourish of his ragged coat, and sprinted away.

  Paul didn’t move.

  But King Hofnar did. Springing from his saddle, the king sprinted along the railing of the bridge like a jungle cat and pounced in front of the bandit to block his escape. “Where dost thou think thou art going, vermin?! Get thee back there and attack my son!” He jammed a mace into the criminal’s hands and kicked him back into the intersection.

  Laura couldn’t believe what she was seeing. “What are you doing?”

  “Silence wench!” King Hofnar growled. “We be training!”

  “Wench?” Laura looked shocked. Then she looked furious. “Who are you calling wench?!”

  The bandit rounded on Paul, swinging the mace in his hand and looking more than a little upset about the current situation.

  “Sorry about this,” Paul said apologetically. “My father, he gets this way sometimes—”

  “Vermin!” the king called. “Aim high to the left! His backhand be weak!”

  Taking the king’s advice, the bandit angrily swung the mace high and to the left. Paul barely managed to get his sword up in time, and with a teeth-rattling CLANG, his blade shattered. The impact caused Paul to lose his balance and he stumbled over some loose cobblestones. Landing hard on his back, he tried to scuttle away like a crab as the bandit rushed at him with the mace.

  “Help him!” Laura cried.

  “This be his fight,” the king said.

  Frantic, Paul kicked his way back across the intersection. He spotted the bandit’s fallen knife and stretched for it, but before he could reach it, the bandit stepped on his hand and began crushing Paul’s fingers beneath his boot.

  The thuggish thief towered over the cowering prince, mace raised high—

  CRACK!

  A cobblestone ricocheted off the bandit’s temple. Stunned, he dropped the mace upon his own head and the impact caused him to crumple. Laura stood behind him, ferociously brandishing another stone in case the need — or the bandit — should arise.

  King Hofnar smacked his palm against his forehead at the sight. “Oh, the shame…”

  “Are you all right?” Laura asked.

  “Um, actually that… that’s supposed to be my line…” Paul said.

  “Of course it is. Well, I’m fine. I just saved us, didn’t I?” She looked at her nails. “Oh, and I think I cracked a nail. Great.”

  King Hofnar crossed the intersection and paused beside his son. The prince extended his hand, expecting his father to help him up, but the king just grabbed the fallen mace and mounted his horse.

  “What was that all about?” Laura demanded of him.

  “’Tis the only way he wilt learn.”

  “He could have been killed!”

  King Hofnar trotted past without giving her a second glance. “I guarantee thee, if he getteth a limb chopped off once, he’ll not make that mistake again. Come, Paul.”

  Paul scrambled to his feet. Dusting off his trousers as he made his way back to his horse, he said, “Sorry about… all this.”

  As he started climbing into the saddle, he couldn’t help but notice Laura’s disgusted stare. “What?” he asked hesitantly. Virtually everything Paul did, he did hesitantly.

  “Typical,” she scoffed. “Ride off on your big white horse, let the handmaiden walk back on foot.”

  Paul swallowed hard. “Would… would you like to ride on… I mean with… ride with me?”

  “Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you,” Laura said, stalking away. “They’re right. Chivalry died with Sir Whitethorne.”

  Those words stung Paul more than any other humiliation he had suffered that day. After only a moment’s hesitation, he stepped down and slipped his boot from the stirrup. “Don’t… don’t say that.” He offered his horse’s reins to her. “Here. Please. You earned it.”

  When Laura saw the reins in his hand, she arched an eyebrow before striding back to grab them without hesitation. “Thank you. At least you’re not a complete savage.”

  Paul reached for her arm to help her climb into the saddle, but she wrenched it away. “Don’t touch, I can do it myself,” she said.

  And she did, trotting after King Hofnar to leave Paul alone in the intersection. With a sigh, he started walking.

  “It’s not easy being charming,” Paul said to the unconscious bandit, since an unconscious bandit seemed to be the only person willing to listen to him.

  6

  THE OUTHOUSE OF EVIL

  An outhouse stood beside a stretch of putrid lagoon.

  Jeremy the Zombie, dignified in the remains of his tattered finery, waited beside the smelly, wooden box and slowly rotted. Upon his claw-like hands he balanced a silver tray bearing a single scroll.

  From the direction of a monolithic tower farther up the beach, a hooded, black-cloaked figure approached. Hints of a dark and predatory face were visible beneath his hood, and impressions of a strong body could be discerned beneath his cloak.

  This man was none other than the dark wizard Seeboth, Lord of Shadows. The outhouse belonged to him, and the horrible darkness expelled from his body on a daily basis made it the most truly evil outhouse in all existence.

  “Urrr…” said Jeremy.

  “Urrr urrrr…”Jeremy said.

  The Zombie cleared his throat one last time and then he said, “Ur, my lord, I don’t smell so good.”

  “You’ll get used to it,” Seeboth said gruffly.

  Jeremy toyed with a loose flap of skin on his arm. “I also appear to be somewhat… decaying…”

  “Of course you are. You’re not a butler anymore, you’re a Zombie,” Seeboth said.

  Jeremy looked surprised. “A Zombie? Really? When did that happen? I don’t feel undead—”

  “Then you shouldn’t have burned my crepes!” Seeboth snapped. “Now stop whining, Jeremy. It ruins the ambiance. Trust me, you’ll feel undead after your brains finish rotting and all you can do is drool and grunt. But until then, no more talking. Chatty Zombies aren’t evil, they’re annoying.”

  Seeboth grabbed the scroll from Jeremy’s tray, tucked it under his arm, and squeezed into the outhouse. With a rustling of robes and a great, contented sigh, he settled down to begin taking care of business for the day.

  “Let us see what’s new in the world,” he muttered as he unrolled the scroll, scanning its columns until he found the section he was looking for.

  Could It Be Magic?

  Personal Ads

  “Ah, yes, here we go,” he mumbled. As he trailed his finger down the row of ads, he began to notice a distressing trend.

  I’m ready to take a walk on the dark side.

  Will you be my guide?

  NO Shadow Wizards considered!

  Want to taste the Deep Magic with someone

  who knows how to cook?

  NO Shadow Wizards considered!

  I’m looking for a wizard with a slow wand.

  NO Shadow Wizards considered!

  He became more and more frustrated until he reached the last ad in the list. “Hello,” he said. “What do we have here?”

  Beautiful Princess seeks Evil Wizard.

  I tire of waiting for my Prince Charming,

  so come kidnap me if you think you’re wicked enough — I dare you!

  P.S. Shadow Wizards considered!

  “Shadow Wizards considered.”

  Seeboth reread the sentence.

  And then he reread it one more t
ime just to make sure.

  “Shadow Wizards considered. Yes, that’s what it says. That is indeed what it says. At last. At last! At last, someone wants me!”

  A rumble shook the outhouse. Jeremy the Zombie looked up from studying his rotting reflection in the silver tray. “Oh dear,” he said.

  BOOM!

  The outhouse exploded in a ball of green flame, the force of which blasted the hapless Zombie face-first into the beach. He remained there with his head buried in the sand and his posterior stuck up in the air.

  His bottom was on fire.

  Green fire.

  Seeboth stood unscathed amid the debris and adjusted his robes. “Pardon that,” he said, and then he noticed Jeremy’s predicament. “Good thing you were already dead, eh, Jeremy?”

  Without pulling his head from the sand, Jeremy flashed a thumbs-up to his master, but Seeboth was already racing toward the distant tower, his robes flapping in his wake.

  “Demog, ready the ship!” he called. “Tonight we go courting!”

  “Is something burning?” Jeremy asked. “It rather smells like chicken.”

  7

  NETHERHELL 3412

  As its name suggested, the dimension known as Hell was a rather hellish place. Overcrowded, generally uncomfortable, and with an average year-round temperature in the “oh gods, oh gods, make it stop” range, Hell’s abysmal quality of unlife nevertheless completely failed to discourage a continuous influx of new residents from arriving.

  Because of the unending demand, property values in Hell escalated until the average Demon found it impossible to afford living there anymore. Millions of lesser Demons, desirous of their own private hells, were forced to relocate, eventually settling in a realm known as the Netherhells, a space out where dimensional real estate was less expensive. It was also less desirable, but when it came to buying a hell, lack of desirability was actually a selling point.