The Kidnapped Prince (Tales from the Land of Ononokin Book 5) Read online

  “Cause I got another plan and I want to try it.”

  “What is it with apprentices these days?” Whizzfiddle said, standing up and swatting at a particularly annoying gnat that wouldn't leave him alone. “Always looking for the hard way. You’re not as bad as Treneth of Dahl, thank The Twelve, but you’re still not fully embracing the wizarding credo.”

  “Cause I not lazy, like you?” Gungren said accusingly.

  Whizzfiddle blinked at his apprentice. “You say that as if it’s a bad thing.”

  “Anyway,” Gungren said, holding a handful of dirt, “I got another idea to try.”

  He shoved the earth into his mouth and began to chew. Watching him do so made Whizzfiddle throw a silent “Thank you!” to The Twelve for letting his particular power be booze.

  “Gimme-a-carrot-thing,” Gungren said.

  A carrot materialized in Gungren’s hand a moment later and he squatted down and held it out tenderly. The truth was that if the bunny had any ability to sense the kindness in the little Giant’s heart, it would have hopped onto his shoulder and explored the world with him.

  “Here, bunny bunny,” Gungren called out sweetly.

  The rabbit poked its nose out of the brush and began sniffing the air. It took a few steps out and then darted back away. This repeated a few times until finally it had summoned enough courage to snip a bite of the carrot before disappearing into the grass.

  “It okay, bunny,” Gungren said, sitting down again. “I not hurt you. I promise.”

  The creature came out and tilted its head at Gungren as if it had understood him. There was a look of “trust, but verify” in its eyes.

  “That a good bunny,” Gungren cooed as the rabbit hopped onto his leg and began eating the carrot like it was the best treat it’d had in days.

  “Well done, Gungren,” said Whizzfiddle.

  Gungren smiled in his gap-toothed way and said, “I got to use magic and my brain too.”

  “So it seems.”

  The little Giant gently stood up while holding the bunny in his arms. It continued nibbling away on the carrot as if everything was as it was meant to be.

  “At some point, though,” Whizzfiddle mentored, “I’m going to need to get you to embrace the finer points of wizardry.”

  “What are that?”

  “The standard stuff, of course,” said Whizzfiddle as they headed back towards the town of Rangmoon. “Lollygagging, drinking, and doing a lot of nothing.”

  “I not like doing nothing.”

  “It’s the way of our order, Gungren. All true wizards follow the decree.”

  “I don’t care about being true wizard,” Gungren said while puffing out his chest. “I want to be a great wizard.”

  “Same thing.”

  “Not to me, and not according to Gesdeegun Blitlaray, neither.”

  Whizzfiddle rolled his eyes. “Why do you always have to bring him into these discussions?”

  “Cause him were the first real wizard.”

  “I know who he was, Gungren. Blitlaray was my master, as you well know.”

  “Not Gesdeegun,” corrected Gungren. “Your master were Henry Blitlaray.”

  “It’s Herbie, not Henry, and so what?” Whizzfiddle held his head high. “Still of the family line. I think.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Anyway,” Whizzfiddle said before Gungren could form an argument, “you’re my apprentice and apprentices are supposed to model themselves after their masters, right?”

  “Well...”

  “And I subscribe to the wizardly precepts of mostly play and little work.”

  “Yeah, but...”

  “No buts about it. That’s the way it goes.”

  Gungren fell silent as they continued their walk. Whizzfiddle didn’t like to come down hard on his apprentice, but rules were rules. Yes, they were meant to be broken—especially if you were a wizard. Frankly, one of their cardinal guidelines involved the need to break rules. But there were times when you followed them as well.

  “Let’s just finish this quest and get the paperwork done,” Whizzfiddle said a little more gently. “I’m in need of a drink.”

  “You got your flask, right?”

  “I mean at a proper pub.”

  “Oh, right.”

  ANNUAL REVIEW

  There wasn’t really such a concept as morning in the realm of the Fates. Actually, there wasn’t much point of time at all since they never bothered with things like sleep. They had time, of course, but this was only because it made it easier to know when they were supposed to be attending meetings.

  Heliok was in the midst of one of those meetings.

  It was the annual review with his boss, Kilodiek, and it wasn’t going all that well. Heliok never quite understood the need for these checkups. They seemed like nothing more than a way for his boss to point out all of Heliok’s faults, of which, it seemed, there were many. Why Kilodiek didn’t take the time over the course of the year to guide Heliok was a mystery, but Heliok assumed it was more fun for Kilodiek this way. That assumption came from the fact that when Kilodiek did these little one-on-ones, his aura glowed with an eerie pinkish hue. The coloring was more pronounced in contrast to the backdrop of greens and yellows that made up the decorative palette of the office. Again, this was probably just as planned as the small chair that sat in front of the overlarge desk Kilodiek currently occupied. Everything about Kilodiek's person and area made it clear he wanted power.

  “I’ve gone over the numbers repeatedly, Heliok,” Kilodiek said, his ethereal eyes dancing, “and the bottom line is that your division is the only one that’s suffering. All of my direct-reports are showing consistent strength in their numbers.”

  “Yes, sir,” Heliok replied strongly.

  “This is bad.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Kilodiek glanced up. “It just doesn’t seem like you take these aspects of your job seriously anymore.”

  “No, sir,” Heliok agreed, and then quickly thought better of it. “I mean, I do, sir, but it’s just that there are constant challenges in the realm of...” He paused and squinted. “Uh, what are we talking about again?”

  “The numbers regarding the believers of the Fates on your beloved Ononokin,” Kilodiek answered while flicking his hand against the document he was holding.

  “Ah, yes, that.” Heliok adjusted slightly in his chair. It was completely unnecessary to do so since he wasn’t actually touching the chair at all. In fact, the chair wasn’t even real. It was just that the Fates had picked up a few things over the years of watching places like Ononokin, and their other wondrous offshoot creations that made them find creature comforts rather appealing. “You see, sir,” he continued carefully, “where there is technology, there is a tendency to disbelieve in the supernatural.”

  “You do realize who you’re talking to, right?”

  “Ah, yes.” Heliok cleared his throat. “Sorry, sir.”

  Kilodiek floated up from his chair, moving partially through his desk in the process, and glided over to one of his bookshelves. He tapped on a few of the spines. Images bounced off each in reply, shimmering multiple worlds into view. Each had statistical information floating above them, with the level of belief that their respective populaces held for both their individual gods and the Fates in bold.

  “All of your peer planets do just fine,” Kilodiek said as he motioned to the images. “They have a moderate to definite belief in the god that was created for said planet, but they retain a healthy belief in us, too.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The fact is that these twelve gods you created for Ononokin have caused a side effect of veiling our natural hierarchy so much that we’re barely thought of at all.” Kilodiek snapped his fingers and the floating worlds disappeared. “Last checked, only wizards and clergy know of us, and that constitutes less than one percent of the entire populace.”

  Heliok gulped. “Yes, sir.”

  “I told you that it was too much
when you were designing this world of yours, Heliok,” said Kilodiek as he resumed his seat. “You just wouldn’t listen. You never listen.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “I suppose it’s not all your fault,” Kilodiek said after a few moments.

  “No, sir?”

  “I was the one who allowed this little experiment.” Heliok kept quiet as Kilodiek gazed out his office window. “Most Fates create a single god and throw in a little bit of storyline to make everything work out, but you wanted a full complement of gods.”

  “One god is boring, sir.”

  “Which is precisely what you said on the day that you presented the idea to me.”

  “I can’t help that I’m a creative spirit,” Heliok noted, knowing that it was one of the tenets of the Fates that even Kilodiek could not exact punishment against.

  “No, I suppose you cannot.” Kilodiek mused for a moment longer and then put his stare back on Heliok. “Nor can I help that I am an exacting spirit.”

  “Oh.”

  “The bottom line is that these numbers are abysmal, Heliok. Even your beloved Twelve don’t do so well on this Ononokin of yours.” He lifted the document again. “The Upperworld people show a measly twenty percent belief, and the Underworld people come in at only five percent. Five percent, man!”

  “Yes, sir,” said Heliok in a more subdued tone.

  Kilodiek sniffed. “And the Middleworld teeters at just over fifteen percent.”

  “Always forget about them,” Heliok said to himself.

  “But it’s the Fates' numbers that I’m honestly worried about. The higher-ups don’t like seeing numbers less than ten percent, and with your world that’s going to be a tall order.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Kilodiek returned to his chair and leaned forward to put his elbows on the desk.

  “You have three months to get your belief numbers up or I’ll have you pushing mops for the next thousand years.” His aura was humming with pink and sparkles now. “Are we clear?”

  “Abundantly, sir.”

  RATINGS

  Misty Trealo sat in the office of Knuds Grutch, an Orc who sported a mohawk, a war tattoo that covered the majority of the right side of his face, and a set of jutting lower teeth that were so thick they made the tusks on a boar look thin in comparison.

  It was her annual review.

  She’d spent the last few years as the Creative Director at The Learning Something Channel, or as it was commonly referred to, TLSC.

  Mr. Grutch had become the department head halfway into her third year on the job, and she had loathed every minute of it. He was the worst boss she’d ever had, and she’d had some doozies.

  But Misty was a Dark Elf, and that meant she’d grown up under the harsh stares of her clan. Life had toughened her up to the point where people like Mr. Grutch were nothing but aggravating diversions to her already irritating existence.

  “I haven’t seen numbers this bad since that show Fun Days did the episode where that Funzi guy jumped the dragon,” Mr. Grutch shouted.

  “I know it hasn’t been our best quarter, but—”

  “When I joined on,” he interrupted, “I was told that you were supposed to be a rock star. They said you were the best of the best.”

  “Who told you that?” Misty asked, feeling somewhat flattered.

  “You did.”

  “Oh, right. Well, that was just bravado because you were my new boss. What was I supposed to say, that I was mediocre at best?”

  “Seems that would have been more truthful,” Mr. Grutch noted.

  “Ouch.”

  “Listen, I’m not one of those heartless Orcs that you read about in your romance novels.”

  “I don’t read romance novels,” she stated evenly.

  “I play fair and I give more chances than I should,” he continued, clearly ignoring her. “So I’m giving you one chance to fix this, Misty.”

  “I thought you said you give more chances than you should?”

  “I do,” Mr. Grutch said with an ominous stare. “Most Orcs wouldn’t even give one.”

  She frowned at him. “That makes no sense.”

  “You have three months to get these numbers to a respectable level or you’ll be out on your keister.”

  “Three months?” Misty said with a laugh. “That’s impossible!”

  “Hopefully not, for your sake,” he said darkly.

  “Or what? You’ll fire me?” Misty was not one who took threats well. “I can find another job, Knuds.”

  “It’s Mr. Grutch,” he said as his eye twitched slightly. “Bottom line is this: if you don’t get those numbers turned around there won’t be a single network in all the Underworld that will hire you.” He then leaned back and crossed his arms. “I have far more connections than you do. Remember that.”

  She leaned back in her chair as well, mimicking her boss by crossing her arms.

  The truth was that he did have more connections. Worse than that, she’d grown a reputation for undermining her peers over the course of her career. It was how Dark Elves operated, after all. Orcs did this as well, obviously, but they were direct about it, where Dark Elves did it sinisterly. In other words, Knuds Grutch retained the respect of people in the industry while Misty Trealo did not.

  “Do we understand each other, Ms. Trealo?”

  “We do, Mr. Grutch,” she replied painfully. “We do.”

  INFORMING KWAP

  Kwap was one of the more patient bosses in the mob. He understood the concept of motivation. Sometimes this involved using fear and intimidation, but he avoided that wherever possible. Sure, he was an Orc, but he’d only fallen into the cut-throat mentality of business after he’d gotten out of college. Prior to that, his dream was to open up a soap factory in the attempt to help his fellow Orcs not smell so …Orcish.

  But life had a way of ignoring best laid plans and that meant that Kwap’s dream was put on hold while he played the part of mob boss. More accurately, mob kingpin.

  It was a simple enough gig as long as all the bosses in his jurisdiction maintained a healthy level of respect for him.

  That was the easy part.

  While it was true that bosses liked to have power, they typically didn’t want too much of it. It was one thing to have a bunch of lackeys challenging your position, but it was quite another to have a bunch of bosses doing it. Fortunately for Kwap, only one boss—a particularly annoying one named Kleeshay—had continuously nipped at his heels. Kwap didn’t worry much about Kleeshay, though, because the Orc was too disliked amongst the other bosses to pose much of a threat.

  Kwap was different and he knew it. He preferred glass desks to the wooden ones. They were more modern and sleek, which was the kind of Orc Kwap was. But tradition dictated that kingpins go with the standards, and since Kwap was also able to alter his personality to fit the needs of most any situation, he decorated accordingly. That meant mob-looks: brown chair, brown desk, brown credenzas, beige paint with matching carpet, and a dismal ambiance that informed anyone unfortunate enough to be “brought” in front of him that it was likely to be an unpleasant event.

  Another problem of owning his position was bringing in the right henchmen to work for him. It was a constant challenge because most of those who were interested in that line of work were uneducated, prone to violence, and difficult to manage.

  The case in point were the two who stood before him now, in his office. Blaze and Pilk. They’d had a simple task to use an illegal portable transporter to zip to the Upperworld, kidnap Prince Jack Nubbins, and then zing on back down. It should have been one of those no fuss, no muss kind of jobs.

  “Where’s Jack?” he asked calmly.

  “Him not here,” Pilk announced as he rubbed the back of his head.

  “Let me do the talking, Pilk,” Blaze said.

  “Sorry, Blaze.”

  Kwap tilted his head. “So where’s Jack, Blaze?”

  “He’s not here,” Blaze replied.
/>   “I can see that,” Kwap said, fighting to maintain his composure. “What I want to know is why he’s not here.”

  “Oh, right,” Blaze said. He had a bit of a squint as he started in on his description. “Well, we were in the Upperworld...” His face lit up. “The place was exactly like you described, too, boss. Very detailed, actually. Highly impressive.”

  “Quit brown-nosing and tell me what happened,” warned Kwap.

  “Sorry,” Blaze replied. “Well, we were standing in the shadows, waiting for Prince Jack to come along so we could nab him, and then Pilk started talking, making me lose focus, and we got thumped by Kleeshay’s goons.”

  Pilk's eyes opened wide. “Hey!”

  “Kleeshay’s goons?” said Kwap, ignoring Pilk.

  “Gespo and Henrik.”

  “I see,” Kwap began as he rolled his knuckles on the desk. “So a Dwarf and a Halfling thumped an Elf and an Ogre?”

  “That’s exactly what happened, boss,” Blaze answered.

  “The sheer size of you two should make that improbable at best.”

  “Tell him why it happened, Pilk.”

  “’Cause I are a goose,” Pilk said proudly.

  “What?”

  “He’s a chicken, boss. Not a goose. He’s afraid to fight.”

  “No, I not,” argued Pilk. “I told you already dat I just not like to hurt nobody.”

  Kwap leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. It was truly a wonder that he was able to keep his position as kingpin when he had henchmen like this. Good thing the rest of the bosses suffered the same lack of talent in their ranks, keeping it a level playing field.

  He could have sent Tred and Hazz instead, but this type of mission was beneath them. Besides, he wanted the prince brought to him still breathing. Tred and Hazz struggled with outbursts of violence. Kwap had enrolled them in many sensitivity training seminars since they’d joined his squad, and they always passed with flying colors, but once they got back out in the field, old ways floated back to the top.

  No, he’d made the right choice sending Blaze and Pilk, even knowing about Pilk’s aversion to hurting people and animals. He was the stereotypical dumb Ogre, after all. But the fact that these two ended up getting bonked on the head by a Dwarf and Halfling meant that not even Blaze put up a fight.