Happily Ever Awkward

by T. L. Callies

  According to inter-dimensional zoning codes, though, agony levels in the Netherhells had to remain below certain thresholds to avoid disturbing neighboring astral planes. As a result, the Netherhells were not all that hellish. To be honest, they were more annoying than anything else.

  At this particular moment, something very annoying was afoot in Netherhell 3412.

  But it was about to be afeet.

  A desolate plain stretched beneath a sunless sky-that-wasn’t-a-sky. Glistening in the bleak unlight, massive blocks of ice sprouted from the ground. Frozen within each stood or sat or squatted a person. Each person had a surprised look on their face, as if they’d just been caught doing something they shouldn’t have been doing and, before they could stammer out an explanation, had been instantly frozen inside a block of ice.

  They did not seem to notice that a curious creature was hopping from one block of ice to the next. Over ten feet tall, it was a massive jigsaw of scales, plates, spikes, claws, fur, and fangs, with a giant, pelican-like mouth very much like… well, like a giant mouth crossed with a pelican. Its right leg was missing below the knee, which was why it hopped.

  Its name was Worrt.

  It was a he.

  And he was a Demon.

  He scrutinized every block, scowling at the people frozen inside, raking his fearsome claws across the ice in frustration.

  “No… no… no…” he said.

  This continued for hours, days, or millennia — it was often hard to keep track of time within the Netherhells — but eventually he came upon a much smaller chunk of ice. This chunk of ice was far too small to contain a person. Worrt felt a slight thrill in his chest, but he forced himself to be calm. He had known far too much disappointment over the hours, days, or millennia of his ordeal. He refused to get his hopes up.

  He hopped closer to the small chunk of ice, and with each hop, his hope ascended.

  Hop.

  Hope.

  Hop.

  Hope!

  Hop.

  HOPE!!!

  A leg was frozen within the chunk of ice.

  A monstrous, hairy leg with ugly toes and huge claws.

  Worrt’s missing leg.

  “At last!” he bellowed, and his cry echoed across the frigid plain. None of the frozen people seemed to notice, but even if they had, they were frozen solid and thus incapable of giving any sign, so the point was moot.

  Worrt eagerly hopped beside the block of ice and shattered it with a single blow. Gingerly picking his limb from the pile of fresh ice cubes, he pressed it against the stump of his leg.

  “Ooh!” he shivered, sucking air between his massive teeth.

  The flesh of his leg magically fused and he stood triumphantly, stamping his new foot upon the ground.

  “Good as new!” he roared. “Took me eons, but I’m finally complete!”

  When it was apparent no response from the frozen audience was forthcoming, Worrt paused and took a long, slow look around his environment as if seeing it for the first time.

  “And I’m completely lost,” he realized. “Where the Netherhells am I?”

  With one final glance at his alien surroundings, Worrt the Demon vanished in a puff of twisted space-time continuum.

  This will all make sense later.

  8

  THE CHAMPION LOTTERY

  The clatter of hooves, the rattle of wagons, and the shouts of shopkeepers greeted King Hofnar, Prince Paul, and Laura the Handmaiden as they descended a well-maintained bridge into the heart of Theandrea. The bridge deposited them in a vast plaza known as The Great Intersection. Less formally, the area was also known as The Crossroads of the World, The Roadian Knot, and A Good Place to Get Robbed If You’re Not Careful.

  Here it was that hundreds of bridges began and ended their journeys, looping over and under and around each other on their various ways to the farthest reaches of the Empire. No matter where one looked, the hustle and bustle of impatient travelers hustled and bustled in every direction.

  Overlooking the chaos from a summit beyond The Great Intersection, the Imperial Castle of Theandrea towered gloriously into the sky like the combined dreams of every little girl in the entire world.

  Paul had never experienced anything quite so overwhelming.

  After they reached the far side of the Intersection where more traditional streets led into the city, Laura reined Paul’s horse to a stop. King Hofnar, however, did not wait for her to dismount. Having no patience for Paul’s weakness, he trotted down the main thoroughfare toward an exclusive-looking tavern situated prominently at the far end of the street. A wooden sign swung from a post above the door. It read:

  Ye Olde Lotterie

  “Catch,” Laura said, tossing the reins to Paul.

  The prince bobbled them and they dropped at his feet. As he bent to pick them up, he tried to think of something charming to say, but despite all his training, he had never been able to charm under pressure. “My… my pleasure. I…”

  When he stood back up, Laura was already gone, swept away in the flow of traffic.

  “…I enjoyed the walk.”

  By the time Paul caught up with his father, King Hofnar had already dismounted and was stomping toward the entrance of the tavern. A bouncer in shining armor waited there beside the doorway. Upon King Hofnar’s approach, he chased the gawking peasants from the king’s path and pulled open the luxuriously carved door. Paul scampered to catch up and ducked inside behind his father.

  They entered a large, comfortable tavern decorated in dark woods and plush leathers. Fires roared, tables sagged under mounds of meat, and scores of devastatingly handsome princes exchanged boisterous tales of their latest exploits.

  Paul had no tales to tell. He had nothing but a sick feeling in his stomach.

  On a stage at the far end of the room, a smarmy bard with oily, slicked-back hair crooned an old-fashioned ballad no one seemed to be listening to. Behind him sat a circular bin filled with a pile of wooden chits. Atop the bin reclined a cute, pink Poxie, idly cleaning her tiny glowing wings.

  Paul’s eyes were drawn to the elaborate tapestry that hung on the wall behind the bin. Rendered in striking detail, the tapestry depicted Princess Slumbering Beautiful asleep on her bed, surrounded by seventeen very grouchy princes. Words ran the length of the tapestry, picked out in exquisite red and gold thread:

  1 Prince + 1 Princess = Happily Ever After

  The bard finished his song to a smattering of applause.

  “Thank you, thank you, lords and ladies. You’re too kind,” he said with a slight bow. “Don’t forget to tip your wenches — they’re slaving their hearts out.”

  “Registration parchments, please.”

  Paul and his father had reached the registration desk. A scribe in coarse, heavy robes held out an ink-stained hand and repeated his request. “Your parchments.”

  When Paul made no move, King Hofnar shoved the boy forward. “Give him thy parchments, boy!”

  “Um…” Paul struggled to undo the flap on his satchel. “I…” He fished around inside the bag. “Uh…” He fumbled several scrolls and dropped them on the floor.

  “By all the gods!” King Hofnar fumed. “Wilt thou let thy bag defeat thee too?” He snatched the necessary parchments from the floor and slammed them down on the scribe’s desk.

  Paul hung his head and knelt to pick up the remaining scrolls. As he did so, he nervously surveyed the room. Everyone else was big and beautiful, and they all wore the finest silks and linens. They joked and laughed and charmed the very air around them in a way Paul knew he could never do, and he felt himself shrinking within his threadbare cloak.

  Taking the stage once again, the bard waved his arms until he had everyone’s attention.

  “And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for!” he declared. “It’s time to select the prince who shall this day rescue sweet Princess Dainty!”

  A cheer rolled through the crowd of princes, from one end of the tavern to the other, and
they all crowded about the stage. All of them except Paul, for the scribe had grabbed his hand. To be fair, even if the scribe had not grabbed his hand, Paul would not have been crowding the stage, but the young prince appreciated having an excuse.

  “All right, my lord,” said the scribe, “you have been registered. Signet ring, please.”

  Before Paul could protest, the scribe twisted Paul’s hand around and pressed his ring into a gob of wax that glistened on a wooden token — a token upon which the scribe had written Paul’s name.

  As Paul picked up the little piece of wood and blew on the wax to dry it, the scribe lifted a long, golden trumpet and blew a short fanfare in Paul’s face. “All hail King Hofnar and Prince Paul of Lilypine!”

  Paul was relieved when no one even glanced in their direction. All eyes remained focused on the stage.

  “If you hurry, you can still enter your name for this drawing,” the scribe said.

  “That’s not necessary—” Paul started to say.

  “Poxie!” shouted the scribe.

  The tiny winged creature leaped from the bin on the stage and flew across the tavern, trailing a long streak of glowing pink flitter dust behind it.

  “One more for the drawing,” said the scribe, pointing at the wooden token in Paul’s hand.

  “No, really—”

  “Give her thy token, boy!” commanded King Hofnar.

  Motivated by the angry look on his father’s face, Paul started to hand the token to the hovering Poxie, but then, in an accident that might not have been an accident, he dropped the token through the Poxie’s hands.

  It clattered across the floor.

  “Clumsy insect!” the scribe said, swatting at the Poxie. “Find it!”

  Paul quickly stepped on the token and hid it with his foot. “No, it’s all right,” he said. “It’s not her fault.”

  “My apologies, my lords,” said the scribe. “I’ll see that she’s punished for this.”

  Paul shook his head. “That really won’t be necessary—”

  The scribe swung another angry blow at the Poxie.

  The Poxie cowered.

  Surprisingly, the blow never landed. The scribe’s arm was frozen in midair. Without thinking or blinking, Paul had caught the scribe’s wrist.

  King Hofnar and the scribe gaped at him. Embarrassed, Paul let the man go.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I mean… I dropped the token. It was my fault. I’ll just enter the next drawing. Really.”

  “Very well, my lord,” said the scribe, slowly pulling his hand back and massaging his wrist.

  The Poxie blinked at Paul, unable to believe such kindness. Giggling, she trailed loops of flitter dust around his head, and the dust blossomed into a cloud of rainbow butterflies.

  “You’re welcome,” Paul said.

  The Poxie kissed his cheek and darted back to the bin.

  Clearly disgusted by the entire pathetic display, King Hofnar shouldered his way to the bar. Paul hastily knelt, pretending to adjust his boot, and palmed the token. As he trailed after his father, the cheers down by the stage became louder.

  The bard continued to play to the crowd, strutting back and forth across the stage. “As you all know, Princess Dainty is being ransomed by the Bandit King Delgadim, and it’s up to one of you to save her, yes? And so we invoke the sacred ritual of the Lottery.”

  All the princes recited together, “One prince plus one princess equals happily ever after.”

  The bard nodded and swept his arm along the length of the tapestry behind him. “In honor of Slumbering Beautiful, may the verdict come down soon. Never again will there be such a dispute! One princess in jeopardy, one prince to save her! And now, let the choice be made!”

  Flipping open a door on the bin, the bard nodded and the Poxie swooped inside. As the bard spun the barrel, the Poxie, serving as the impartial, randomizing element of magic, zipped among the avalanche of tokens and blindly grabbed one. When she finally emerged, she swooped around the bard holding the token high above her tiny head.

  “And the winner is…” The bard pretended to struggle reading the token, building the tension in the room with the practiced precision of a seasoned showman before he finally cried, “Prince Hardbody of Studrock!”

  Explosive cheers ripped through the tavern. Clearly, Prince Hardbody was a favorite there. He jumped to his feet, pumping his muscled arms into the air and beaming his perfect smile at all his drinking buddies.

  His father, the ever-regal King Studrock, stood beside his boy and threw his arm around the prince’s shoulders. “A toast!” he said. “A toast to my son and Princess Dainty!”

  From his perch on a stool at the bar, Paul gazed upon the father-son embrace. His longing was obvious to anyone who cared to look, but the only one Paul cared about caring to look was busy looking at a mug of beer. Resigned, the timid prince turned to the bar and sat quietly beside his father.

  The bard waved his hand over the crowd, motioning the Lottery winner forward. “Prince Hardbody! Come hither!”

  The prince bounded to the platform, his back smacked by nearly everyone in the room along the way. As he climbed up beside the bard, a serving wench wheeled a small cart onto the stage. A red cloth covered whatever rested upon it.

  “And now, a gift for our latest Prince Charming!” proclaimed the bard. “To aid you on your Quest, the Lottery awards you…” With another carefully rehearsed move, the bard swept the cloth away with an amazing flourish. “The Flaming Sword!”

  An ornate crimson broadsword lay upon the cart. When Prince Hardbody held it aloft, the blade instantly burst into crackling orange flames and everyone gasped. The prince swept his blazing weapon back and forth, much to the crowd’s delight, before accidentally setting fire to the tapestry, much to the bard’s lack of delight.

  While the bard rushed to beat out the flames, the other princes continued to cheer for their companion. Eventually sheathing his magic sword, Prince Hardbody dove from the stage and toppled into the strong arms of his friends, all of them collapsing with hoots and howls of laughter.

  Paul, meanwhile, slumped on the stool beside King Hofnar, feeling alone and afraid.

  “Innkeeper! A jack of ale for my son!” King Hofnar barked.

  The innkeeper plunked a fresh mug on the bar. Paul eyed the frothy head of foam as it dribbled down the side of the glass. “I don’t like to drink,” he said.

  “You be just like thy mother,” King Hofnar grumbled before downing the remainder of his own mug in a single gulp.

  9

  THE CURSE

  Some time later, the span of which might be measured more meaningfully in mugs rather than minutes, King Hofnar slumped upon the bar. To be precise, he slumped behind a pile of twelve empty tankards stacked upon the bar. Blearily, he grabbed Paul’s untouched mug, hoping to add it to his pile, and he spilled lukewarm ale all over his son in the process.

  “Don’ know why thou don’ like ale,” he slurred. Then his cheeks suddenly bulged and he ducked below the bar with a great, unpleasant “HURRRK!”

  “It’s a mystery all right,” Paul whispered.

  “Innkeeper, there’s a barbarian on the floor. Clean it up this instant.” The voice was mocking. Paul knew it well.

  Turning, he found himself face to face with King Sterling and his son, Prince Savage. The two of them looked upon Paul with utter disdain. Paul had to admit that beautiful rich people got no more beautiful or rich than this pair.

  Or more arrogant.

  Prince Savage cocked a nasty smile in Paul’s direction. “And while you’re at it, take care of this pile on the stool as well.”

  Across the room, the scribe blew his trumpet once again. “All hail King Sterling and Prince Savage of Illigoz!”

  All within the tavern cheered. While King Sterling bowed to everyone in greeting, King Hofnar hooked an arm over the bar and hoisted himself up.

  “Sterling?” he managed to say.

  King Sterling glanced back at the
sound of his voice. “Ah, it speaks. You see, Savage, my boy? It’s almost human, except for that bumpkin accent. Still haven’t found your way out of the dim ages yet, have you, Hofnar.”

  “Begone with thee…”

  “And miss this display? I think not.”

  “Leave him alone—” Paul started, but Savage spun him around on his stool.

  “Or what?” Savage asked. “My father could conquer your father any day of the week.”

  “Your father…” Paul tried to unleash a terrifying barbarian glare on Savage, but his eyes just wouldn’t do it. “Your father is nothing like my father, Savage, and… and he wouldn’t be conquering anyone if Sir Whitethorne was still alive.”

  “But Sir Whitethorne isn’t alive, is he,” said Savage.

  King Sterling tapped his son’s shoulder and Savage stepped aside. “Paul, do you honestly think you can rescue a princess, what with your curse and all?” King Sterling asked. Disdain dripped from his words and formed puddles of contempt on the floor. “I should think you’d be terrified she might laugh at you. You know what happens when people laugh at you.”

  King Hofnar growled, his rage trying to claw its way up through the layers of inebriation, but Paul just looked down. He always looked down.

  “Stop deluding yourself,” King Sterling continued, nothing but cruelty in his voice. He gestured at the other princes around them. “You’re not one of us. Neither of you are. Spare yourself the humiliation — well, the additional humiliation. Drag this drunken relic home and leave the rescuing to Savage.”

  King Hofnar finally managed to lift his eyes and glared at his smirking tormentors through thunderhead brows.

  “Aye? Leavest the rescuing to Savage?” King Hofnar nodded. “Fine. Then let Savage rescue thee from this!”