This is a blast from the past! Back when I first started writing short stories, I dabbled in humorous fantasy. The phase didn’t last long, but one of the results is this short story about an unlikely group of heroes confronting the Dark Lord.
When the heroes burst into the throne room of Castle Doom, they found Umbraga the Dark Lord seated upon his throne of skulls (padded to spare the Dark Lord’s backside), with the Staff of Immolation across his knees.
Prince Florizel squinted myopically at a piece of stained parchment covered in crabbed handwriting and addressed the Evil One. “You foul villain,” he read. “Your ring… sorry, reign… of terror is at an end. This day you shall polish… polish?” Deep frown lines appeared between the prince’s eyebrows. He wiped his sweaty forehead, gave Umbraga an apologetic smile and said, “Excuse me a moment.” There was whispered consultation with the rest of the party, opened by Florizel’s irate, “Damned royal bards!”
After a furious exchange, the heroes turned back to Umbraga, with identical expressions of steely resolve. Prince Florizel stepped forward. “Umbraga!” he proclaimed. “This day you shall pol… perish!”
The Dark Lord looked at the prince with an expression generally reserved for a zealous housewife confronted with a cockroach in her kitchen. “Hah!” he said. “I can only be defeated by one wielding the Sword of Invincibility!” His gaze traveled to the weapon in the prince’s hand. “Is that a poker I see?”
Prince Florizel (who was short, fat and balding), looked at the floor and muttered something.
“Excuse me?” said Umbraga, cupping a hand around his ear.
Florizel looked up defiantly. “We threw away the Sword of Invincibility.”
Umbraga’s eyebrows shot up. “Threw it away?”
A tall, middle-aged woman with a mane of chestnut hair liberally sprinkled with gray, pushed to the front. She had a long face that–if you were being kind–could only be called “striking”. Or “horsey”, depending on who you asked.
“Of course we did!” she brayed. “The wretched thing would start glowing and singing at the presence of any malefactors, which, of course, was all the time in the cities. We nearly got arrested for disturbing the peace, and I swear, they were forming a lynching mob in that last town. And then, up in the mountains, it kept us awake all night, singing heroic sagas. We took a vote and down the ravine it went. And a good riddance, I say.”
Umbraga turned his disbelieving stare towards her. “And who might you be?”
“I’m the prophesied princess, of course.” The woman gave him an exasperated stare. “Now, can we get on with this, please? My best mare is near her foaling time, and I want to be back before she gives birth.”
Umbraga’s thin-lipped mouth turned down primly. “I’m sorry. A poker cannot defeat the Dark Lord. Unless it’s the Poker of Much Hurting?” His tone was hopeful.
The woman gave a neighing laugh. “No, it’s just an ordinary poker. Give Florizel anything sharp and he’ll stab himself in the foot more like than not! Why, the Queen won’t even let him carve the Winter Solstice turkey anymore, even though it’s traditional for the…”
Florizel, red-faced, interrupted. “Do stop rattling on and on, Martha!”
Umbraga looked ready to faint. “Martha? Martha? What sort of prophesied-princess name is that? I’ve been confronted by Clarissas and Emelines and they were all young and beautiful, not like this hag over here.”
“There are no other princesses, so you’re stuck with me. We can’t all be young and beautiful, you know,” said Martha, reasonably, “especially after six children.”
“Six children?!” shrieked Umbraga, spittle spraying from his mouth. “The prophesied princess-companion must always be a virgin. You,” he stabbed a bony finger in Martha’s direction, “do not qualify!” Looking wildly about, he pointed at the burly man hovering behind Martha and Florizel.
“Yes, sir?” said the man, touching his cap politely.
“What’s your name?”
Umbraga relaxed. “That’s a good solid barbarian name, at least.”
“Um,” began Conan, holding up his hand. “I’m not a barbarian. Sir. I’m a painter.”
One of Umbraga’s eyes whirled madly in its socket.
“I wanted to see the final confrontation,” said Conan hurriedly. “So I can paint it. For posterity. Well, actually for the Royal Art Society’s annual competition. They always get hundreds of pastoral scenes with rosy-cheeked shepherdesses and portraits of fat children with puppies. I thought I’d do something different this time.” His words trailed away under Umbraga’s withering stare.
“And I suppose he’s really a pacifist tailor?” Umbraga jerked his head towards the fourth member of the party who had detached himself from the group and was gently orbiting around the room like a moon on vacation. He had flowing silver hair, eyes of cerulean blue, and well-made clothing that showed off an excellent figure. Occasionally, he made notes in a leather-bound silver-clasped book with a long white quill that curled elegantly at the end.
“His name is Elindorian Bright Moon,” volunteered Florizel. “He joined us three days ago. We’re quite sure he’s an elf. Or a bard. Maybe even both.” His brown spaniel eyes looked appeasingly at Umbraga, whose fingers clenched convulsively around the Staff of Immolation.
“He may be all right, but the rest of you!” said Umbraga, through gritted teeth. “What a sorry lot! Have you no respect for tradition, for custom, for Ancient Prophecies that Must be Fulfilled to Every Tiny Jot?” Conan and Florizel drew closer together under the blast of his scorn.
“Never have I seen such a motley, ill-prepared, ill-equipped set of would-be heroes! Does Good not train its Chosen Ones anymore? I have risen and been defeated twenty-five times in the last thousand years…”
“Twenty-nine,” interrupted Martha. “You’ve been defeated twenty-nine times.”
“I am never defeated a prime number number of times!” shrieked Umbraga.
While Florizel and Conan tried to work this out, Martha said. “Oh yes, you are. You had to go through nineteen to get to twenty five. And it’s the last thousand and one years. We’d have come last year but we had to find Florizel first. He ran away from home when he found out about this Chosen One business and hid in a brewery for six months. And when we finally found him, we had to pry him loose from his barrels of Ostenian beer.”
“Martha!” complained Florizel. “Do you have to dredge up ancient history all the time?”
“Chosen Ones do not run away from their Destiny!” blared Umbraga. He stood up, towering over the heroes, the Staff held out stiffly before him. Florizel and Conan cringed, Martha’s lips tightened. “I see that I must take things into my own hands, since Good is doing such a useless job of it. I shall have to train you.”
They turned horrified looks at him.
“You, Prince Florizel, will lift weights and run five miles every day. You will be permitted only stale bread and cold water. My Right-Hand Almost-Supreme Commander will instruct you in the use of the sword and the bow. You will retrieve the Sword of Invincibility from whichever ravine you pitched it in. The Princess Martha will get a complete make-over. Hair dye, manicure, new clothing, and three hours in deportment every morning. And as for the painter…” He drew in a deep breath.
They were not fated to know what delights Umbraga had in store for Conan. Just then, a lump of stone fell from the ceiling and landed with a thunk on Umbraga’s head. The Dark Lord’s eyes crossed. The Staff clattered to the floor. Umbraga tumbled headfirst down the dais steps to lie in a crumpled heap on the floor.
The trio stared at the Dark Lord’s body in stunned silence. Elindorian Bright Moon drifted over in a cinnamon-scented cloud and placed a hand on Umbraga’s chest.
“Dead,” he pronounced.
“Um?” began Conan, just as Martha said, “I gathered as much from that awkward angle of the neck.”
“I thought only the Sword of Invincibility could defeat him,” said Florizel. He whipped out a handkerchief as Conan once again uttered an “Um?” which was lost in Florizel’s giant sneeze.
“Damnit, Elindorian, must you wear that scent?” said Florizel, eyes tearing. “You know I’m allergic to it.”
“UM?” said Conan, louder. The others looked to see him pointing up at the ceiling. They looked up.
After a bit, Martha said, “It doesn’t look too stable, does it?”
Elindorian examined the enormous wax-covered blackened-iron chandelier hanging over their heads by a chain that was slowly working loose from the ceiling. “No. The whole building’s in utter disrepair, and Umbraga never heeded the warnings of the Department of Housing Safety. I came to deliver the property condemnation papers.”
As if to prove a point, the entire structure groaned alarmingly.
“Shall we?” suggested Elindorian.
There was a mad rush for the door.
Four figures stood outlined against the sunrise, watching the collapse of Castle Doom from a convenient hilltop.
After the dust had settled, Martha said to Elindorian. “We thought you were a bard.”
Elindorian flicked a piece of lint from his elegant sleeve. “I was once. Bureaucracy pays better.”
Martha looked back down at the ruined heap. “I wonder what Umbraga will do when he returns. A Dark Lord needs a moldering old castle, and there’s not many of them left since they went out of style centuries ago.”
Elindorian stifled a yawn. “I doubt that it will be a matter of any concern in the future. Umbraga will not return.”
“But he always does,” protested Florizel. “He’s indestructible.”
“Only because the Sword of Invincibility decapitates him without banishing his soul out of the world,” said Elindorian. “Crumbling castles, on the other hand, are not that subtle.”
The other three digested this in silence.
“Why, that…” said Florizel.
“Quite so.” Elindorian gave him an understanding smile.
Martha gave a cracking yawn. “Well, it’s a good thing we threw it away then. Let’s go home. Who knows what the servants are doing without me to supervise. Walter’s a dear, but he’ll let anyone walk all over him. And Firefly needs me with her.” After a thoughtful pause, she added, “I expect the children will be glad to see me, too.”
Florizel’s eyes grew misty. “Mother was expecting a shipment of ’34 wine when we left. It ought to have come by now. Yes, we’d better hurry back before she serves it all up to those jumped-up courtiers of hers.”
“I wonder if a Crumbling Castle painting will impress the judges?” mused Conan. “I’ll add lightning in the background, and just a hint of dragon wings. And robes flapping in the wind as the hero battles the Dark Lord…”
The figures disappeared down the hill.
In the cold dark waters of the river, the Sword drifted, dreaming of flaming dragon’s breath and marching armies upon vast plains.
One day, the Chosen will come. And together we’ll set the world on fire. Our names will blaze across the sky, our fame will make the nations tremble.
How long it dreamed, it never knew. A hand parted the waters above it, grasped its hilt. The Sword thrilled to the strong fingers, the manly clasp.
“What’s this, then, Anron?” yelled a coarse voice from further away. A peasant voice. The Sword disdained it.
The man named Anron had a voice like dark honey and cold steel. “A sword, Pilel,” he said. The voice reminded the Sword of the great heroes who’d wielded it. This man would be greater than any of them.
Pilel snorted. “What good’s a sword with Umbraga dead and gone?”
“No good at all,” said Anron. “But I always need metal for plowshares.”
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