Fairly Wicked Tales (33 page)

“No.”

“I’m sorry, but we are leaving. My orders are to burn all the bodies.”

“Leave everything here. I’ll take care of it.”

“I’m—”

“I’ll take care of it.”

Something in Mort’s eyes must have frightened the servant who stood twice his size. The servant ran back to the caravan and spoke to one troll who in turn spoke to the General. After some quick words, the servants rushed around unloading large barrels near the mountain of bodies and wood built up in the distance. The army disappeared beyond the horizon before Mort began preparing for the horror that came with the night.

A quick examination of the sky told Mort that only a few more hours remained before sunset. He set to removing his brother’s armor, laying each piece to the side, careful none sank into the mud. Once finished, Mort grabbed his brother by the shoulders and struggled to drag him over to the mound of bodies. Without all the armor weighing Grup down, Mort began moving the body. After an hour of pulling, tugging, and dragging, Mort reached the mound. He arranged Grup’s body in the most respectful way he could manage. Mort returned to the now empty barracks. Every breath burned like fire in his lungs. Still, he couldn’t stop. The sun descended through the sky. Little time remained for Mort to prepare. He grabbed an axe not fit for battle and began chopping the furniture into kindling. Soon, most of the chairs, tables, cots, and drawers transformed into a pile large enough for his intentions. Making simple torches and retrieving the tinderbox kept by the stove took little time. The sun dipped lower in the sky, a celestial countdown heralding the destruction nightfall brought. Mort used cooking twine to secure his work into tight bundles. He hauled the bundles up into the open air and started building a small cairn around Grup’s remains.

Just as the sun’s base touched the horizon, Mort finished building the wooden cairn over his brother. The sunset ticked away the seconds, changing the world, preparing the field for battle. Mort moved the first barrel, full of oil, to the edge of the mound. He punched a large hole into the top for the oil to escape and rolled the barrel around the mound so the liquid would seep into the pyre. He emptied one barrel after the next dousing the area until small puddles formed. Mort finished his preparations by making a line of oil from the mass pyre to his brother’s humble, wooden tomb. One final barrel of oil went to the bridge. He cracked the barrel open at the far end of the bridge and let the oil pour out. Once the creature crossed onto the bridge, there would be no escape for either of them.

Mort returned to where he left the armor. He lifted the breastplate and hung it over his shoulders. The greaves more than covered his thighs. Mort only needed a single lower vambrace to protect his entire arm. Already, the thick armor weighed him down. He appeared a child wearing his father’s armor. With the helmet on and club in hand, Mort stood ready.

Marching to the bridge, each step clanged in the empty air. The armor rattled and scraped on Mort’s form, but he ignored the discomfort. He placed the bucket-like helmet over his head and hefted the club onto his shoulder. At the end of the Bridge, Mort watched the sun slowly disappear. The fading light, the finality, meant little to Mort. Only the thought of failing his brother for a third time in as many days haunted his thoughts. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and waited. Just as the last ray of light vanished into twilight, the terrible scream of the creature signaled its return.

Mort began positioning torches along the bridge, careful not to ignite the oil too early. Under the orange glow of the crackling flames, Mort lit one final torch and walked to Grup’s grave. As he touched the pool of oil surrounding the cairn with the torch, Mort whispered, “Good night, little brother. I will see you soon enough.”

Mort made his way back to the bridge. The fire grew behind him quickly. The stench of burning bodies filled the air. The growing heat made the night nearly unbearable. The thunderous resonance steadily grew closer. Mort shifted his weight. The armor rattled, shaking with every subtle movement. As the stars began to peek out in the moonless night, Mort caught his first glimpse of the beast.

The beast doubled in size again. Long, curling horns crowned its black head. Red eyes blazed in the night, reflecting the flames of the pyre. Blood red, viscous drool dripped down its chin, hanging like a glob of melted flesh. Tentacles began to grow and swirl through the air. Mort fought down the panic begging him to flee. Rooted in place, he tried to breathe normally. Standing in the face of such horrible power, Mort nearly lost all sanity. The monster reached the bridge, those fiery red orbs locked on Mort. It took a slow step forward, obviously curious about the lack of resistance. The bridge groaned under the weight of the monster. Mort forced himself to step forward.

“No further!”

The creature froze and scanned the empty field. The flames from the pyre lit up the entire field. No one stood to oppose the beast except Mort. A small, defiant troll armed with a simple club and wearing less than half a suit of armor too large for him blocked the monster’s path. The fires cast a glow over Mort. The shadows flickered around the combatants showing how small Mort was in the face of such power. A sound erupted from deep within the monster. At first, the clipped guttural noises resembled hiccups. As the sound grew louder, clearer, Mort recognized it. The monster was laughing at him.

Mort’s trembling disappeared. His grip on the club tightened. Fury replaced his fear. Too many, for too long, had laughed at him. The runt, the reject, the worthless little troll. Never good enough, always protected by his younger, stronger brother. Mort ground his teeth, a growl forming in his throat. Just as the monster’s laughter became hysterical, Mort roared. Putting all his anger behind the first attack, he swung the club directly at the beasts open jaw. A loud crack cut off the laughter. Mort kept the momentum of the swing going as the club whirled over his head. He brought it down on top of the monster’s skull. The force of the blow broke one of the curled horns. A black, sticky gel sprayed from the wound. Only a small spurt, but the howl of rage told Mort he had injured the thing. He ducked just in time to avoid the first swing of one of the tentacles. The second attack knocked Mort across the bridge. The loud clanging drowned out the monster’s wails. Mort quickly picked himself up off the ground and ran for the nearest torch. Barely dodging the next onslaught, he pulled a torch free and dropped it into the oil spilled across the foot of the bridge.

The flames forced Mort back. The monster began circling around, silent as death. A tendril swung down at Mort. He parried the attack. Another appendage snatched him up from behind. The tendril wrapped around the breastplate, tightening. Mort tried to beat the tendril free, but to no avail. He dropped the club, removed the enormous helmet, and wriggled out of the breastplate just before the monster caved in the armor. Mort lifted his club and charged the monster. The twisted breastplate flew through the air, barely missing Mort’s head. Mort ignored everything but his target. He swung wildly, batting all the whipping black limbs. Many of the attacks went over his head, some to the right or left. Used to fighting a larger enemy, the hulking creature moved slower than someone Mort’s size.

Mort swung in an upward arc, smashing the club into where he guessed the monster’s ribs would be. His effort produced an enraged howl. A leg kicked out and sent Mort through the air. He collided into the stone rail of the bridge. Dizzy, Mort fumbled around for a weapon and found one of the torches. As the beast closed in, he managed to pull the torch free. A frustrated snarl warned him of the next attack. He thrust the torch forward, jamming the flames into the open maw of the beast. It snapped back, all the writhing limbs flailing about chaotically. The monster clawed at the torch in its mouth.

Mort found his club nearby, grasping the weapon once more. He took a step forward, but the monster charged him first. Dark, ebony horns lowered, targeting Mort for one final blow. In a roar of defiance, Mort bellowed his brother’s name. He brought the club down into the beast’s head.

Cracking bones filled Mort’s senses. The impact ripped the club from his grasp. He looked down at the jagged horn buried in his chest. The beast lifted its head, wrenching Mort from his feet. A thunderous bay of victory tore through the sky. The very earth quaked in fear. The beast swung its head, throwing Mort over the edge of the bridge and onto the floor of the river. The beast huffed, satisfied, and approached the last of the youngling sprouts.

Blood pooled under Mort. He tried to pull himself, but the pain stole the last of his strength. His breath came slowly, in short ragged coughs. Blood filled his mouth. The night, already dark without the moon shining down, dimmed. A single tear broke free from Mort’s eyes when he heard the wet munching of the beast in the fields. He had failed, everyone had. So many dead. As darkness closed in, the sounds of the world receded. Mort still heard the sickening sounds of the monster eating. Just as Mort took his last breath, the wicked laugh of the monster, mixed with the high-pitched wails of the sleeping younglings being torn from the ground and eaten alive, echoed through the night.

About the Author

A storyteller most of his life,
JP Behrens
weaves an intricate web of bold faced lies every time he opens his mouth or scribbles words on paper. Everything in one’s life is a learning experience, and he’s tried to learn from both wondrous successes and miserable failures. While at Rowan University, JP attained a BA in the Writing Arts. Since then he’s written as much as possible, most recently while fending off a newborn who thinks daddy needs help slapping out words on the keyboard. Though JP has managed to fib less often, he still tells the occasional exaggerated tale here and there. A practitioner of Southern Shaolin Kung Fu, novice musician, avid reader, gamer, and expert procrastinator, JP Behrens is always busy. Bouncing between working on rewrites for his first novel, rewriting a number of short stories for submission, all while writing a novella and a Young Adult Fantasy Novel, JP finds there are not enough hours in the day to get everything done. A list of his published work can be found at
www.jpbehrensauthor.com
.

Bloodily Ever After

A retelling of several fairy tales

Reece A.A. Barnard

B.B. upturned the pipe and tapped the base. He watched as the scorched, shriveled tobacco caught on unseen wind currents and began a spiraling, dancing descent towards the ant-like market below. Slowly, he re-packed the bell of the pipe with fresh tobacco from a pouch he wore slung from the waist. He sighed, and let the stiff breeze ruffle through his fur like phantom hands stroking with long fingers. Searching for warmth, he adjusted his hood so only his snout protruded into the frosty morning air.

“Can I sit too?”

“Aye. ’Tis a free realm.” His gruff voice tickled his throat and he dissolved into a fit of coughs. Thumping his chest, he managed to hock up a gob full on phlegm, spat and watched as the glob disappeared below. “Sickness be damned.”

“Sounds nasty,” the voice remarked, and B.B. regarded the source with hidden eyes. An oval-shaped man, pale beyond all belief, stood nearby. He had a pinched, squashed face centered in an oversized head, with no neck to speak of. In fact, he looked very much like a chicken egg, but much larger. The egg-man sat, and B.B. wasn’t surprised when he heard the sound of eggshell scraping on stone. “Some view, huh stranger?” he said. “Name’s Humpty Dumpty. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Likewise,” B.B. said. “B.B. Wolf, at your service.” He could not dispute the magnificence of the view. Perched atop the castle wall, they commanded a view of the village sprawled out below, ever changing and growing like a sickness spreading over the body. To describe it as a village was generous—a muddy collection of shelters, ramshackle huts, and lean-tos packed against each other, thick with wretched filth and dirt. Thus was how the peasants of Old King Cole lived. Then, at the castle limits, the village gave way to lush green forests, and in the distance, silhouetted towering mountain peaks topped with snow, stood like silent sentinels.

“Well met,” Humpty said. “A wolf who speaks the King’s tongue. A rarity.”

“As is a breathing egg,” B.B. growled. “But I can fix the breathing part.”

“No offence meant, Mr. Wolf. I am just relieved to find another that can relate.”

“Relate to what?”

“Why, being an outcast,” Humpty said. “Always on the edge of society, but never belonging. You seem to know something of that. Wolves are pack animals, yet here you are all alone.”

“I have my reasons, egg.” He knew better than any that the pack didn’t tolerate his sickness.
A pack is only as strong as its weakest member
.

“It must be hard for you after the whole Red Riding-Cap business,” Humpty said. “I thought you dead, from the reports filtering through the Inns.”

“Mere flesh wound.” B.B. didn’t bother to mention it was his older brother, Big Bad Wolf, who got himself involved in
that
debacle. According to his brother, he only mugged the little bitch for her cupcakes, but—as usual—the humans concocted some far-fetched story for entertainment. A whore he knew, named Mother Goose, once told him, ‘Never let the truth get in the way of a good story’. Judging by the tales she told,
she
certainly did not.

“So it was a misunderstanding?”

“Something like that,” B.B. said. Truth be told, he tired of explaining the confusion between his brother and himself. Both were named B.B., but where his brother’s moniker stood for Big Bad, his stood for Barely Belligerent: hardly a name to inspire terror. He lit a taper with a flint and steel, and puffed his pipe back to life. The first inhalation of smoke he took in set off a chain of coughs once more.

“How long do you have?”

“The apothecary said a couple of moons at the outset,” B.B. said. “Anything after is lucky.”