“No,” the thief admitted. “This cage looks pretty secure. Very sturdy. Lots of spikes.”
“I claimed it from the Keep of Akragokh, where it once held prisoners of the Thousand Day Siege. Still, I don’t think it has witnessed such suffering as it shall see today.”
“Oh no,” said the thief. “What are you going to do to me?”
Standing, the Dungeon Lord approached an alcove near the throne and retrieved a small coil of barbed cord. “I thought, since you clearly had your sights set on my legendary possessions, you might like to sample the Lash of Khgharghag first hand.” He gave it an experimental flick. “Perhaps after a stretch on the Rack of Zhoug.”
“And... and then what?”
“Then...” The Dungeon Lord had not expected to have to come up with another torture so quickly. “Then I will have you hung by your feet in the viperbat caves.”
“That sounds really bad.”
Sarcasm? The Dungeon Lord wasn’t quite sure. “Your impudence will only extend your suffering!”
“Mmmmmm, yeah,” groaned the thief. “I’ve been really naughty.”
“Yes, you have!” The Dungeon Lord began to pace to and fro in front of the cage. “And I’ll personally see to it that you’re...you’re thrashed with brambles and doused with vinegar!”
“Yes!” shouted the thief, “Yes! Do all that stuff!”
The Dungeon Lord stopped. “Now look here! I can see what you’re trying to do, and I won’t fall for it. You can’t make me let you go just by acting all...unsavoury.”
“What?” The thief was appalled. “There’s nothing unsavoury going on! Just a plucky and impudent young thief who needs to be soundly thrashed by a big strapping Dungeon Lord in spiky leather armour.”
The thief was doing some kind of eyebrow gesture, and while the Dungeon Lord couldn’t entirely grasp its meaning, he sure didn’t like it. “You know what?” he said, “Okay, that is actually kind of off-putting. Maybe I’ll just get one of my minions to kick you down the stairs at the front gate and we’ll call it even.”
“No, wait!” The thief stretched an arm through the bars of the cage. “I don’t have to be a thief stealing your power gems! I could be, like, a noble paladin come to cleanse your evil from this place. Only I get caught, and...oh, come on! You’ve got a perfectly good suit of armour just over there!”
“Goblin-slave?” The Dungeon Lord clapped, his gauntlets clanking together clumsily. “Escort the intruder from the premises, make sure the gates are locked, and...maybe draw me a bath. I’m feeling really icky all of a sudden.”
The goblin slave bowed, his pointy nose almost scraping the dungeon floor. Then, once his master was gone, he made his way over to the cage and unlocked the door.
“I’ve seen people do all kinds of things to escape the Dungeon Lord,” remarked the goblin, “but that was quite the ploy.”
“Ploy?” asked the thief.
5
A Bold Stratagem
Challenge #3: Write a piece of historical fiction. Also, your story should include an event from July 5th in history.
July 5th, 1944:
They will give me the Dickin Medal for this.
I have intercepted a report indicating that reinforcements are to be sent to the 4th Army, east of Mogilev. I cannot allow that to happen. Though my actions in Berlin have drawn a significant amount of attention already, I am determined to hold my position. The ground I have chosen to make my stand is exposed. Every day, things get a little more uncomfortable. The enemy is just feet away. But I will persevere.
I will prevail.
“Aww.”
“Mein Fuhrer?”
“I was going to write important Nazi stuff, but there’s a cat sitting on my typewriter.”
“Can’t you just shove it off?”
I sense the tide of battle is shifting. New tactics are required. I lick my paw and use it to wipe my face. A bold stratagem.
“No, I...I’ll probably just find another typewriter.”
6
The Crown of Steel
Once upon a time, there was a kingdom, rich in gold and grain. None went hungry nor slept without a roof, and with great gifts the king secured the friendship of his neighbours. In truth, these treasures offered freely were mere boast, for in his youth the king had often fought, and all nearby remembered his campaigns: few would care to make an enemy of that good friend. But though the king was noble, strong and wise, his one small weakness could tear the city down.
Though the king made good use of his enormous wealth—hiring guards to make his kingdom safe, and learned judges to make it fair—and was not miserly, he began to despair at the thin band atop his head. It was no secret that he was the greatest king in all the land, so why should he have any but the greatest crown? And so the king commissioned ten master jewellers to cast his crown anew, and set it round with many precious stones. The king took his new crown, and found it good. But being a wise king, he sought the thoughts of another.
“Ingrith,” he began, “most loyal of my servants, and most honest. Tell me, is the new crown good?”
“It is good, your Highness,” answered Ingrith, “and suits you well. But the mark of a good ruler is not in his crown. I think the old one served you well.”
So the king was satisfied, and his thoughts returned to the service of his people. But it was not long before his neighbours heard of this new crown, and so the ten master jewellers had not far to go to find more work.
“I must have a sceptre,” the king declared. “This will be the symbol of my rule, and in time it shall be passed down to later kings, so their noble glory is plain to every eye.”
And so the king commissioned a legendary staff-maker, his skill beyond compare. Learning from his error with the crown, the king paid a goodly sum for the artisan’s assurance that no sceptre like it would be made for any ruler in any other land. For such generous payment, the staff-maker was happy to accept. The king took his sceptre, and found it good.
But as before, the king did not trust only his opinion. He called Ingrith the servant girl once again.
“Honest Ingrith,” he began, “you were wise to say the measure of a king is not his crown. But some token must I have of my station over lesser kings. Tell me, is the sceptre good?”
“Highness,” answered Ingrith, “you must know that even should there be a time when lesser kings have sceptres such as these, it is neither polished wood nor burnished gold that mark your glory over them.”
So the king was satisfied, and once more he turned his mind to the stewardship of his fine nation. But though the staff-maker had kept his word to the king, each lordly neighbour soon had a sceptre that, while by no means a copy, was easily the rival of his own.
“Bah!” cried the king. “These pale rulers seek to mock me? I shall have a treasure they cannot. Ingrith, what think you of this?”
“I think this is folly, Highness.” The servant shook her head. “Your grace and your wisdom: these are jewels that cannot be bought. Do not cast them away for mere gold.” And she took her leave.
The king decided at first that she was right, and resolved to forget these schemes. But then, what could a servant girl know of the glory of kings? And so he called upon the jewellers once again, and bade his subjects double their work in the mines.
Keen to please their kind ruler, the people of the kingdom dug deep into the earth, bringing up buckets of gold that the jewellers used to cast an enormous throne. But this great undertaking unearthed something mightier than iron, more ancient than gold. For as the king’s greed had long slumbered beneath his glory, so too had a terrible dragon slumbered beneath his kingdom.
Clawing its way from the mine and burning all in its wake, the dragon crawled to the palace, drawn by the scent of gold. “I claim this city as my own,” the dragon hissed, “and all who dwell within.”
But the king would not yield. Casting down his sceptre, he took up sword and shield and jumped from his high throne
. He fought valiantly, but no man can stand against a dragon, and soon the serpent’s flames drove him back. The jewels had fallen from his melting crown, and the throne served only as a shelter from the beast’s hellfire.
“Face me!” the dragon screeched as it approached. “Do not die cowering behind your gaudy chair!”
But though wounded, the king still had strength. Taking up the sceptre once more, he set it beneath the throne, toppling that great golden weight onto the serpent’s head. As the body lay thrashing, he drove his sword into its flesh, spilling the flames from its distended belly.
The king’s servant rushed to tend his wounds, but his next words were his last: “Ingrith, you were wise when I was not, and the only of my subjects not to flee when the dragon came. In happier days I might have made you my queen. Now, in this sad time, you are to become my heir. Take this sword. Should any challenge your right to rule, you will need nothing else.”
Ingrith took the sword, though the blood of the dragon had melted the blade like ice. She brought the hilt to a common blacksmith, and had it reworked into a simple crown. This she wore for many years, and though no neighbour mimicked it, neither did they dare to claim her land, nor ask why this queen did not give gifts, as the old king had done before.
7
The Curious Case of Benjamin Bunge
There once was a man named Benjamin Bunge. He was really smart, and all sorts of people came to him with their problems. One of these people was Wobble-leg Wenda, who liked the idea of skiing but was woefully bad at it.
“Try bungee jumping instead,” offered Benjamin Bunge. “Anyone can go bungee jumping.”
So she did, and it was lots of fun.
A few days later, Benjamin Bunge met Sweaty-hands Saul, who figured he was pretty good at basketball...until he got kicked off the team.
“Why not try bungee jumping?” As Benjamin Bunge pointed out, “Anyone can go bungee jumping.”
So he did, and it was lots of fun.
A few days after that, Benjamin Bunge bumped into Warty Wilfred, whose modelling career just didn’t seem to be taking off for some reason.
“Maybe bungee jumping would make you feel better about it?” suggested Benjamin. “Anyone can go bungee jumping.”
So he did, and it was lots of fun.
It was about a week before Benjamin Bunge met anyone else in need of help. But then there was a knock on the door, and standing there on the welcome mat was Eyebrows Elaine.
“I hear you help a lot of people out.”
“Let me guess,” said Benjamin Bunge. “Ridiculously massive eyebrows getting in the way of your career as a photographer? Fancy doing something different for a while?”
“Actually,” she said, parting her eyebrows to reveal a police uniform, “I’m investigating the recent death of Scissorfeet Steve...”
8
Last Minute Shopping
Challenge #4: Write a story in which a first person narrator witnesses what they think is the end of the world.
It had been an unremarkable Tuesday at the petrol station until Pestilence—of Four Horsemen fame—came in and started leafing through a magazine. He didn’t exactly have a “Hello, my name is...” tag pinned to his robe, but it was pretty obvious to look at him. Limp hair, pale, pock-marked face, bow legs...it was like he had every disease in the world, and was only alive because all of them were tripping over each other trying to kill him. “Three Stooges Syndrome,” I think they call it. But that probably wasn’t it.
He must have realised I was staring because he said: “Sorry. I know this isn’t, like, a library, but I sent a letter in to the Agony Aunt a while back and I want to see if they’ve printed a response.”
“Oh, right,” I said. “No, that’s okay.” As a rule, I didn’t take issue with people having a quick skim of the Sports section or just checking what the articles were. I might have taken issue with people’s mangy horses dripping eye gunk into the plastic crate of apples by the door, but in this particular case it seemed wisest not to draw attention to it.
I took a look around the shop, like “Is anyone else seeing this?” but most of the customers were on their way out. The reason was pretty obvious.
“Jesus Christ, dude,” said one guy, hand over his mouth, “you smell like death.”
“I get that a lot,” said Pestilence. “I’m starting to think we use the same deodorant or something.”
I’m pretty sure that guy hadn’t actually seen who he was talking to until then, because at that moment he did a double take, made it a triple take just to be sure, then dashed into the automatic doors, knocking himself out. The doors opened with a merry “Ping!” noise, waited a bit, then closed dejectedly.
I took a few shallow breaths, trying to work out if there was anything I should be doing right now. Frantic prayer seemed like a good option, but at the same time I wasn’t sure it counted if your only reason for doing it was that the Apocalypse had already started. If it did count at this point, I decided, that wouldn’t be fair to everyone who’d died without getting this kind of massive hint, and so I abstained on moral grounds. Also because I was feeling a bit dizzy at this point and was afraid I might pass out and hit my head on the corner of the till. I could picture my entrance to the afterlife going like this:
Saint Peter: “Hello Rick.”
Me: “Wow—you already know my name?”
Saint Peter: “Not usually, no, but you died wearing one of those ‘Hello, my name is...’ tags. That’s pretty lame.”
Me: “Ouch. I thought you were supposed to be a saint.”
Saint Peter: “I am, but given that it’s the apocalypse and most people die punching thirty demons while gargling mead I think your lameness is extreme enough to warrant comment. But at least you won’t have to keep introducing yourself in Hell, where you’re going despite having seen one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse first hand. I would have figured that would be your cue to start praying, but hey, what’s done is done.”
Me: “Hey, I’ll have you know I decided not to do that on moral grounds. It totally wouldn’t be fair to everyone who didn’t see one of the four horsemen.”
Saint Peter: “Oh, boo-hoo. Don’t be such a martyr.”
And then obviously he, like, pulls a lever and there’s a trapdoor or something. To be honest, I was aware at the time that it was quite an odd little exchange to imagine just then, and it seemed likely that the horseman fumes rapidly filling the shop were making me hallucinate.
I stumbled over to the window and opened it as far as it would go. Just then, an impossibly muscular man galloped past on a Clydesdale, firing twin miniguns into the air and shouting “YEEEEEEEAH!!!” as he did so.
Pestilence walked off towards the big cooling cabinets, then came back with four pints of milk. “Famine keeps bugging me because I drank some of his. Apparently that’s a really big deal for some reason.” His breath was even worse than his everyday apocalyptic stench. “I don’t see why. I don’t think he even uses it.”
I scanned the barcode. Feeling that building a rapport with this guy would probably help my chances of survival, I fought the urge to chunder and tried to make smalltalk. “No luck with the Agony Aunt, then?”
“No.” He sounded glum.
“What did you write in about?”
“I’m trying to find a girlfriend, but it’s not going well. I’ve got, well...all the STDs. Frankly.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” He drummed his soggy fingers on the countertop.
That hadn’t gone as well as I’d hoped.
“Can I get these as well?” he asked, holding up a pack of throat lozenges.
“Sure!” I smiled, desperate to salvage what was probably my last chance not to get splattered into chunky salsa in an epic battle between good and evil that I really didn’t have that much riding on, if I was honest. “I guess you’ve got to be on top form just now, right?”
“Huh?” He looked at me blankly.
“You kno
w. With the whole End of Days thing.”
“Oh, that!” He laughed, slapping his thigh with a horrible squelching sound. “That’s not happening for at least another six hundred million years.”
“Oh.” That certainly took the pressure off. “So why are you here?”
“Me and the guys are going to see Mamma Mia.”
I really hadn’t expected to hear that. “Sounds nice.”
“Yeah! Should be good. Well, see you around!”
“See ya!”
As he rode off down the road, I took a look at the crate of putrefied apples by the door. Apocalypse or no Apocalypse, I really hoped I wouldn’t see him around.
9
Mind the Steppe
“So...” said Emma, leaning over the table. “Who’s my blind date?”
“Yes.” Marlene turned to glare subtly at Steve. “I think we all want to know that.”
Steve laughed nervously. “Well, you’ll just have to meet him for yourself. But he’s a really great guy.”
Emma bought it. Marlene clearly didn’t. He didn’t blame her. One didn’t make “If I get a girlfriend, I’ll get her to introduce you to one of her friends” pacts with anyone you’d typically consider “a really great guy.” Which sucked, now that he thought about it, because that meant he wasn’t a really great guy himself. Marlene’s expression seemed to back that up.
“Come on,” said Emma, clearly oblivious to the daggers being shot across the table. “You’ve got to tell me something about him.”
“Well...” Steve counted on his fingers. “He’s high-up in the military...really big in China...has a large family...hey, here he is now!”
“May I take your coat, sir?” asked the maître d'.
“NUH!” grunted Emma’s blind date.
“No.” Marlene took advantage of Emma’s obvious distraction. “Seriously? This is ‘Big G?’ This. You said it wasn’t anyone I’d know! We are not doing this. We are seriously not...”
But Big G was already at the table.
“Emma...” Steve stood up. “This is...um...Genghis Khan. Genghis, Emma...Emma, Genghis.”
“Pleased to meet you.”