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    A Princess of Fae
    A Princess of Fae
    A Princess of Fae
    Ebook127 pages1 hour

    A Princess of Fae

    By Bob Craton

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    About this ebook

    A young girl who curses like a sailor, a drunken hero, an incompetent wizard, a thief on the lam, a cowardly ogre, and a boyish goblin unite to banish the narrator and author of the tale so they can do what they damn well please. Or at least what pleases the girl. She’s a bossy little bitch with a secret. Here's a sample:
    - - -
    Appalled by the idiocy, she looked up in disgust at the strip of metal which gave the Iron Bar Tavern its name. It was attached above the door. Demonfolk could not step over cold iron but they had no trouble walking under it. She considered leaving but she’d gone to a lot of trouble to find this forsaken place, and her last informant had sworn that the man she sought spent much time here. Sighing, she pushed the door open and was assaulted by stench.
    The boisterous crowd failed to notice her at first, but when she headed for the bar, a burly drunk with a particularly ugly face saw her.
    “Hey, look! A girlie!” he shouted and suddenly every eye turned to her.
    Her long loose robe and hood hid her figure and most of her face, but her petite size implied she was an underage girl rather than an adult woman. Not that it mattered to brutes such as the denizens of this tavern. The drunk stuck out a leg to block her passage.
    She stopped and stared at him. Only the high level of alcohol in his blood kept it from freezing solid in the glare of her icy blue eyes. The crowd hushed as they watched. Without a word, she reached and picked up the heavy pewter mug the man was using. She extended her arm and held the mug beside the man’s ear then stood on one foot and pirouetted. At the end of its rotation, the mug hit the drunk square in the face. His nose disappeared, partly splattered sideways and partly pushed back into the space where a normal man’s brain would be. His eyes rolled back in his head and he fell to the floor. Three little yellow birds appeared and flew circles around his head, their twittering clearly audible.
    When she walked to the bar, a strand of hair escaped from her hood. Shiny, golden, and with the artistically perfect amount of curl, it hung down to her waist.
    “I’m looking for the famous warrior-hero Aretino Searle,” she told the bartender.
    He pointed to an empty table and explained, “Not at the table, dearie. Under it.”
    “Oh shit,” she muttered when she saw her man in a drunken stupor. “This can’t possibly be right.”

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBob Craton
    Release dateOct 1, 2012
    ISBN9781301371556
    A Princess of Fae
    Author

    Bob Craton

    Fantasy & Sci-Fi Fans:I actually would rather have people enjoy my stories than make money. That is why I write. Therefore, you can get "The High Duties of Pacia," "A Princess of Fae," and "Jesika's Angel" all for 'reader sets the price.' Naturally, I would love reviews but you have no obligation to write one if you don't want to.---When he was a child, Bob Craton’s teachers often remarked (not always favorably) about his day-dreaming. He spent much of his time lost in his own imagination, often creating elaborate elementary school tall-tales, and the habit never went away as he grew up. Coming of age in the 1960s filled his head with dreams of saving the world and having a career in academia. Then the real world closed in. With a family to support, he took a job at the corporate grindstone, just temporarily until he could get back to grad school and earn the PhD he desired. Somehow ‘temporarily’ turned into thirty-three years of stress and boredom but he kept entertaining himself by creating stories inside his head. Interestingly (well, he hopes it’s interesting anyway), his best ideas came to him while he was stuck in rush-hour traffic during his daily commute.At age fifty-seven, he retired early (a euphemism for ‘got laid off') and had time to put his tales on ‘paper’ (an ancient product now replaced by digital electronics). The ideas in his head were all visual, like scenes from a movie, and as he began writing, he learned to translate visual into verbal and improve his skills. Or at least, that’s what he says. He admits that sometimes minor characters – or some who weren’t included in the original plan at all – demand attention. Frequently, he agrees with them and expands their roles. Many people believe he is bonkers for believing that fictional characters talk to him, but he calls it creativity and remains unrepentant.

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      Book preview

      A Princess of Fae - Bob Craton

      A Princess of Faë

      ~A True Tale of Magic, Adventure, Excitement, and Disdain~

      (Not to mention a warrior-hero, wizard, thief, ogre, and goblin, who must contend with a dragon, demons, and angry imperial soldiers. Oh, and there’s a Magic Sword too.)

      Volume 17 of the Trägheit Triumphant Trilogy

      //That’s a joke, people. You should laugh at it.//

      **Ignore that guy, dear readers. He’s just the idiot author. I’m the narrator and my opinion is much more important. He thinks he’s clever just because he alliterated. He doesn’t know that Trägheit is a German word meaning lethargy – which describes him exactly.**

      //Shut up smart-ass.//

      **See what I have to put up with?**

      By

      Bob Craton

      **Remember what I told you about him.**

      Be Advised: This is a work of fiction and any resemblance between characters in this Tale and actual real persons is totally unintentional and very unfortunate.

      Also, this text contains Naughty Words not suitable for children, puppies, and other gentle beings.

      The person responsible for the titles has been sacked and replaced by a llama . . . no wait, that’s another story.

      All art except the painting below by Bob Craton using materials from Dover Publications.

      **That’s because he’s too cheap to get a real artist.**

      //I said shut up!//

      **Sigh**

      Seriously:

      Copyright 2012 by Bob Craton

      All Rights Reserved

      Smashwords Edition

      Chapter 1

      Appalled by the idiocy, she looked up in disgust at the strip of metal which gave the Iron Bar Tavern its name. It was attached above the door. Demonfolk could not step over cold iron but they had no trouble walking under it. She considered leaving but she’d gone to a lot of trouble to find this forsaken place, and her last informant had sworn that the man she sought spent much time here. Sighing, she pushed the door open . . .

      . . . and was assaulted by stench. Smoke and rancid cooking smells were the least of the problems. The aromas of unwashed men (some had not been washed since their mothers last changed their diapers) and flatulence (what could men eat to produce so much noxious gas?) were much worse. The boisterous crowd failed to notice her at first, but when she headed for the bar, a burly drunk with a particularly ugly face saw her.

      Hey, look! A girlie! he shouted and suddenly every eye turned to her.

      Her long loose robe and hood hid her figure and most of her face, but her petite size implied she was an underage girl rather than an adult woman. Not that it mattered to brutes such as the denizens of this tavern. The drunk stuck out a leg to block her passage.

      She stopped and stared at him. Only the high level of alcohol (an effective antifreeze) in his blood kept it from freezing solid in the frigid glare of her icy blue eyes. The crowd hushed as they watched. The drunk broke eye contact but forgot to move his leg out of her way. Without a word, she reached and picked up the mug the man was using. One sniff of the bitter brew that passed as beer in this establishment informed her of its exceptionally high alcohol content, but it was the mug itself that drew her attention. Big, thick and heavy, it was made of pewter and would hold a full quart of beer. Yes, it would do nicely. She extended her arm and held the mug beside the man’s ear.

      Then she stood on one foot and pirouetted.

      A prima ballerina could have moved as gracefully as she did but not with such speed and power. As she spun, she stretched her arm to its full length and leaned her body to maximize the diameter of the circle the mug traveled. At the end of its rotation, the mug hit the drunk square in the face. His nose disappeared, partly splattered sideways and partly pushed back into the space where a normal man’s brain would be. His eyes rolled back in his head and he fell to the floor. Three little yellow birds appeared and flew circles around his head, their twittering clearly audible.

      For a long moment, the crowd was silent. Then a man yelled, Old Rayburn’s been cold-cocked by a wee slip of a girl! Dam’dest thing I ever saw! Hoots and raucous laughter exploded around the room. Apparently, Rayburn’s misfortune was the funniest thing any of these men had witnessed during their entire lives.

      Ignoring them all, she walked to the bar. A strand of hair had escaped her hood during her movement. Shiny, golden, and with the artistically perfect amount of curl, it hung down to her waist.

      Thank you, miss, said the barkeep. Rayburn’s a deadbeat who’s always late paying his tab and smashing his face like that will bring me extra business. Men will want to come hear the story. Here, have a brew on the house.

      I wouldn’t drink that swill if you paid me.

      He frowned, but not too much. Looking in her eyes was like being on a ship headed for an iceberg. Or at least it would have been if the barkeeper had ever been on a ship and knew about icebergs, but that’s another story. He started to speak but she cut him short.

      I’m looking for a man named Aretino. Do you know him?

      Can’t say that I do . . . no, wait a minute, said the barkeeper. He turned to a man sitting at a nearby table. Hey, Gurdo. You’ve ridden with Tino before. What’s his real name?

      Airy-Tino. Why?

      And his last name? demanded the girl.

      Gurdo shrugged. Dunno. We just called him surly.

      Could it have been Aretino Searle?

      Yeah, maybe, replied Gurdo with another shrug.

      Do you know how to find this man? she said to the barkeeper.

      Sure.

      Then give me directions to where he is and be precise.

      Easy. Right over there. He pointed to a corner in the back of the room.

      She looked and saw a table but no one sitting at it. Her head snapped back to the bartender.

      "Not at the table, dearie. Under it," he explained.

      As she turned, she told the barkeeper, By the way, if you set your wards correctly at the door and windows, you wouldn’t get those annoying little birds when someone gets knocked out. She reached the table in the corner and looked underneath. The man lying there was dirtier and stinkier than average, and in this place, average was really disgusting. And he was as thoroughly unconscious as the man whose head she had bashed.

      Oh shit, she muttered. This can’t possibly be right.

      Chapter 2

      Waking up was a slow and difficult process for Tino but he gradually became aware of three unpleasant facts. One, he had a sharp pain in his ribs; two, he was shivering with cold; and three, he was soaking wet. When his eyelids fluttered, cruel sunshine assaulted his pupils and the lids scrunched shut again. Then another pain stabbed at his ribs, this one worse than the first. Drawing upon all of his erudition and elocution, he spoke as clearly as he could.

      Ow! he said followed by argh! and umph! As his consciousness level rose, he perceived that he was lying half submerged in the water of a roadside ditch. That explained his cold and wet condition, and soon he discovered the cause of the pains in his ribs – boots. Although not big, they were sturdy and had wicked pointed toes. As he watched, one boot drew back with the obvious intention of kicking him again.

      No! No-o-o-, he begged mournfully and the boot withdrew its threat and planted itself back on the ground. He struggled to crawl out of the ditch. Then he tried to sit up. After a minute or two, he half succeeded and managed to hold his torso at a 45° angle while leaning on one arm. From this position, he observed that the feet in the boots were connected to legs which were covered by

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