Gordan of Riss and the Malformed Sprite (A Madcap Fantasy Adventure Book 1) Read online

  Gordan of Riss and the Malformed Sprite

  Copyright © 2016 by Ryan Drake

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the author’s written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-0-473-38132-5

  Dedication

  This book was written in homage to the great fantasy and sci-fi humorists, including Terry Pratchett, Piers Anthony, Robert Asprin, Douglas Adams, Harry Harrison, and that other guy whose name I always forget.

  Contents

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  1 A Rollicking Start

  2 A Little Background

  3 Introducing a Drunken Pixie

  4 A Little Miss Fortune

  5 The Fracture Constrained

  6 The Taste of Smoke

  7 Goblin Country

  8 Goblin Attack

  9 To the Rescue?

  10 Recriminations

  11 Convergence

  12 The Things Gabby Knew

  13 Guardsmen and Wind

  14 Orcs and Assassins

  15 Pixie Dust

  16 Pingo T’Ong

  17 The Demesne

  18 In the Shadow’s Dungeon

  19 Zip Line

  20 A Time for Gloating

  21 Brelor

  22 Thork Yurger’s Return

  23 Pyre

  24 Coming Down from the High

  25 Inside Pingo’s Palace

  26 Under an Ominous Cloud

  27 Summoning

  28 The Malformed Sprite

  Epilogue

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  1

  A Rollicking Start

  It was mid afternoon in the town of Ulm, on the sort of gloomy, drizzly day that would suck the fun out of anyone. Anyone except for me, that is. I was grinning broadly. I probably shouldn’t have been, considering that there was a mob of angry merchants in front of me and a small company of town guardsmen behind me, but I couldn’t help it. I found every curse and accusation hurled in my direction hilarious.

  “He stole my bread!” yelled a fat man with a face almost as crimson as his tunic.

  “Thieving cur!” “Miscreant!” shouted a buck-toothed merchant and his big-nosed wife.

  “He knocked everything in my stall into the mud!” cried someone else, a fruit seller if I remembered rightly, who looked like he might have a touch of goblin blood in him. “It’s ruined!”

  “Scoundrel!”

  “That’s nothing! He farted on my wares!” This from one of the skinniest men I’d ever seen. He looked about to find others staring at him quizzically, not understanding. “I sell perfume!”

  The glares transferred back to me and I couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Pilferer!” bellowed an older man with a reedy voice who I’m almost certain had just joined in the fun. “I say we give him a thrashing!”

  More voices echoed the call and the threats grew ugly. “Thrash him? No! Hang ’im like the thieving scum he is!” “Kill him!”

  At that point my grin faded a bit, especially as knives and knobbly bits of wood started to appear in hands that had previously been empty. I thought about hastening my plans for departure but the guards behind me seemed to sense the possibility. Two of them gripped my arms as if they would have been able to hold me if I’d really been trying. Which I wasn’t. Not yet. But I was preparing myself to attack in a way nobody would expect.

  “Hold! I say hold!” It was the Captain, who was as fine a specimen of a guard as ever there was. Nearly as tall as me, lean and fit, he wore his greaves and breastplate as if proud to do so. Not a single scratch marred the polish of his helm and not a hair stood out of alignment on the crest.

  He stood facing the mob as if the force of his presence was enough to keep them back. And, marvelously, it was.

  “Whatever your grievances against this man may be, you will do him no harm!” he said.

  The crowd stayed back, grumbling. I wanted to ruffle the Captain’s crest to see if it felt as soft and feathery as it looked, but contented myself with grinning at the back of his head.

  “What’ll happen to ’im?” someone shouted. I’m not sure who. It might have been the fat woman dressed as a strumpet who I’d casually groped when I passed her by.

  “That’s up to the magistrate—”

  Apparently that was the wrong thing for the Captain to say. I’d only been in Ulm for just long enough to cause a little havoc at the local market, so I didn’t know the reason behind it. Perhaps the magistrate was known for poor decisions. Perhaps he spoke unkindly to old widows or ate raw babies for his dinner.

  Whatever the reason, all I knew was that between one heartbeat and the next the crowd surged forward with an anger that the impeccably-groomed Captain of the Guard couldn’t hope to stay. The distance between us quickly faded and the clubs and knives gleamed with new menace.

  Time to go, I thought, and put my plan into action.

  The guards never knew what hit them. One moment they were holding my arms and the next they were writhing on the ground and clutching their manhoods as if I’d bashed them both there. Which I had.

  The fat bread merchant with the crimson face was near enough that I could smell the staleness of his breath. I didn’t like him being that close, so I head-butted him in the nose at the same time as I stole his coin pouch and twisted left and right to avoid grasping hands from both merchant and guardsman alike.

  A club descended towards me, but it was slow and poorly aimed. I deflected it by grabbing the Captain and using his head as a shield.

  Clang! The club dislodged some of the plumes from his crest and rang the helm like a bell. Stunned, the Captain fell to his hands and knees, so I stepped up onto his back and kicked out at the closest merchants with enthusiasm.

  Perhaps unsurprisingly, a small gap opened up. I took it, leaping over the perfume seller and aiming for freedom. But I was halted by the other guardsmen. There were four of them and if they weren’t quite as resplendent as their Captain, they were still impressive in their own right. They stood in front of me with their swords drawn and grim expressions on their faces.

  “Not so fast, cur!” said one.

  Now I’m not afraid of the occasional skirmish. In fact, I’ve been known to enjoy them from time to time. But only when the odds are stacked mightily in my favor. I’ll fight old men, young boys, goblins and halflings, and mobs like the one I was trying to escape tended to be mindless beasts that are easily confused if you know the trick of it. And I’d had plenty of practice.

  But I draw the line at anything where I don’t have an obvious advantage.

  The Captain, for example, was someone I’d not choose to engage in a one-on-one tussle. Orcs might be stupid as a general rule, bu
t they’re big, brutal, prodigiously strong and can be stubborn about dying. Trolls and ogres are even bigger, stronger and more difficult, and were-creatures and other monsters each come with their challenges.

  I’d fight them all if I had to, using every nasty trick I could come up with to tip the balance my way. But my preferred option in such situations was to run away.

  I would have backed myself against any of the four soldiers in front of me individually. But all together? My instinct was to run.

  The problem was that they were blocking my way.

  I grinned and held up my hands as if surrendering. Then I turned quickly to my left and swung my tail at their legs.

  Tail? Yes, I have a tail. How else do you think I’d nutted the other guards? It’s as thick as my wrist, as long as my legs, prehensile, and has a small serrated section just below the heavy, bony knob at the end. In times of trouble it can be very useful.

  Two of the guards went down in a heap. I leapt over them before the others could figure out what had happened, swung my tail at the face of another, upturned a fruit cart (it may have belonged to the part-goblin in the crowd behind me) to slow pursuit and dashed through the market crowd to cries of “Get him!” “He’s getting away!” and “No!”

  I ducked into an alley with the sure knowledge that the mob would be on me in moments if I didn’t do something clever. Fortunately, I’d spotted a large man wearing a cloak. I spun him around, removed his cloak from him and put it on me all in one movement. Then I watched as he staggered drunkenly from his spin before falling into the mud.

  He looked like he was about eighty. Immediately feeling guilty, I dropped the bread merchant’s coin pouch near his hand and said, “For your troubles.” That done, I picked up his short walking staff, turned back the way I’d come and hobbled like an old man past the angry mob who were surging into the alley, still baying for my blood.

  I kept up the pretense until I’d left the mob and the guards behind. Chuckling over the day’s adventure, I turned into another alley. I thought I was safe and free.

  That’s when I first heard the stuttering, high-pitched voice I’d soon grow to seriously dislike.

  “G-g-gordan of R-r-riss, I presume? Pingo T’Ong sends greetings.”

  I whirled to face this new and unexpected threat only to nearly explode with laughter. Such a little man, I thought. Part halfling I guessed, and dressed in a very dark robe that I’m sure was supposed to look threatening. He was aiming a small crossbow my way.

  “What?” I said. “Sorry, who are you looking for? Pingo T’Ong, did you say? Nope, never heard of him. It’s certainly not me, anyway.”

  The man’s small face scrunched into a frown. “N-n-n-no,” he said. “P-p-pingo is my m-m-m-master. You’re G-g-gordan.”

  “Nope, wrong again,” I said, even though Gordan is, was, and always has been my name. And if I was from anywhere, then that anywhere was indeed Riss. I just didn’t see any reason to admit it, given that he was aiming a crossbow at me. “Sorry, can’t help you. But if I meet a man with such a name, I’ll be sure to tell him you’re looking for him.”

  The little man’s frown grew more pronounced. “N-n-no,” he began. Then he shook his head. “Enough of this. T-t-time to die.”

  “Wait!” I cried, even though I wasn’t scared in the least. I just wanted to know what I was dealing with. “At least tell me who you are and what this is all about!”

  “Thork Yurger is my n-n-name,” he said. “I d-d-do this for my master.”

  And his master was someone named Pingo T’Ong. I’d never heard of either of them, but I guess that didn’t really matter. I’d offended hundreds of people in my short but adventurous life. Pingo wouldn’t be the last to come after me.

  What Thork Yurger didn’t know was that ever since I realized how much I enjoyed making mischief, I’d taken to wearing some form of armor under my tunic. At the time, that armor consisted of overlapping scales of polished bronze that covered not just my torso, but also my arms all the way to my wrists. It was flexible, light and surprisingly strong. Guaranteed to turn a knife, take the sting out of a sword and even stop a full-sized crossbow at ten paces. I’d be bruised and maybe I’d break a rib, but I’d survive.

  The bolt from Thork Yurger’s half-sized crossbow wouldn’t make a dent.

  Except that the diminutive assassin was taking careful aim at my face.

  I closed my eyes, raised my armored arms and charged straight at him, screaming like a banshee all the while. “YAAAHHHH!” Like that, only louder.

  It worked. Thork either shot wide or hit my armor. When I opened my eyes again, he was unconscious on the ground with his crossbow still in his hand.

  I couldn’t help myself. I laughed long and hard. When I was done, I kicked him in the head just to make sure he was out and thought about killing him. But I’ve never been truly heartless and didn’t then know how much of a thorn in my side he would become. So I just searched him and came away with a full coin pouch and a picture of me drawn on a rolled-up square of parchment.

  Not a bad likeness, I thought. Whoever drew it had some talent. They’d captured my grin, my general size and shape, and even knew enough to include my tail. More than sufficient to recognize me by, even without the slight mottling that showed up on my skin from time to time, or the way my pupils aren’t quite round—both of which were plain to see if you looked hard enough.

  You see, in case the tail hadn’t given it away, I’m not exactly human. What I am, I’m not entirely sure.

  And it was that very question that had driven me for a number of years.

  2

  A Little Background

  Now, the bards and storytellers will say that once you’ve got your audience’s attention, don’t let go. Just get on and tell the tale. But this is my story and I’ve never been one to do as others might tell me. And besides, I don’t know who you are. You might be from another land, or even another world. Don’t laugh; the sages have long speculated that other worlds exist, and some of the things I’ve seen might surprise you. But that’s another tale, for a different day.

  For now, it’s enough to know that you might not be familiar with some of the things I take for granted. So I’ll try to fill in the gaps.

  You already know that I have a tail. At the time of this story I was about twenty years old. I’m fairly tall, with blond hair and bluish eyes. Likely that’s because Riss, where my earliest memories are set, is filled with tall, blond, blue-eyed people. But where most others from Riss tend towards willowy slimness, I combine that slimness with broader shoulders and a more muscular frame. Weapons and fighting come easily to me, and that’s helped me a surprising amount in my short but adventurous life. But then, I am drawn to mischief.

  I live in a kingdom made of many parts and ruled by the Shadow, who resides in a palace built on what can best be described as a floating mountain. Called the Demesne, this floating mountain drifts continuously from one side of the land to another, casting its shadow over the people below.

  The Shadow doesn’t live there alone. It is said that he picks from the most beautiful and talented men and women to serve there as his playthings and servants, and barracks an army of orcs that numbers a hundred thousand or more.

  It is also said that he keeps a small zoo filled with unicorns and griffins and centaurs and rocs and other strange beasts that used to be common on the land below, but (largely because of the trade in their various parts) are now nearly gone.

  There were once even dragons, or so the bards tell us. The last confirmed sightings had been before I was born.

  More common are the sprites, elemental creatures that show themselves mostly to witches and are important to this story for two distinct reasons.

  First, as far as I knew, they were the source of most of the land’s magic. And second, they occasionally became malformed and turned into marvels.

  I’d journeyed to Ulm to locate one of these.

&
nbsp; Known as the Fracture, this malformed sprite wandered about unfettered, like a leaf blown in the wind. It was said to be half the size of a man and edged like the frame of a painting in sparks and ripples of lightning that never held still.

  It was a window through which those who looked could see whatever aspect of the past, present or future they wanted.

  And I very much wanted to view part of my past.

  In particular, I wanted to view the part of my past that had to do with my parents, so I could start to unravel the mystery of who and what I was. Because in this land of halflings and orcs and pixies and more, I’d never met another like me.

  So far, I’d tracked the Fracture through dozens of towns over more than a year. No, that’s not true; I hadn’t tracked the Fracture at all. I’d tracked rumors and whispered possibilities through tenuous links and dead ends, and I finally felt like I was getting somewhere.

  The latest rumor had led me to Ulm. It was said that a Seer of some repute could tell me where it was.

  That Seer plied her trade in a tavern, and it was there that I headed after my excitement with the merchants and my friend Thork Yurger.

  3

  Introducing a Drunken Pixie

  “Ale!” I bellowed as I crashed my fist on the counter to draw the barkeep’s attention.

  Despite its colorful name, the Rancid Pusball was no more rancid or pustular than any other tavern. Then again, it wasn’t any less rancid or pustular than any other tavern either, so I suppose the name was appropriate. It smelled vaguely of vomit and urine and the body-odor of many different species all pressed in together.

  A dozen orcs diced with each other in a corner, halflings and gnomes occupied several of the tables, humans lounged over the rest, and the usual assortment of pixies flew drunkenly from tankard to tankard, guzzling what they could before the owners realized what was happening and shooed them away. And it was loud. My bellow was lost among many.