The Worm of the Ages and Other Tails: Six Short Fantasies Read Online Free PDF Page A

either.’
    ‘Not without the dust jackets.’
    The young adventurer heaved a mournful sigh. ‘Well,’ he said gamely, ‘I do have one other item.  This is something I  know you haven’t got.’ He reached deep into the bag and pulled out the very last thing in the bottom: a solid gold chalice, encrusted in jewels, shining of its own light so brightly that it was almost painful to look at. ‘Behold the Holy Grail!’
    The pawnbroker gave a sour little laugh.  ‘The Holy Grail? You mean  a Holy Grail.’
    ‘What do you mean,  a Holy Grail? There’s only one—’
    ‘Look, clearly you don’t know how reseeding works around here. There’s a factory that turns these things out in case lots. Look here, this is one of theirs.’ The broker turned the Grail upside-down and pointed at the inscription on the bottom:
     
    MIRABILIS HOLY RELICS INC.
    MADE IN FANTASYLAND
    Patent pending
     
    The adventurer’s crest was well and truly fallen by this point. ‘Look, can’t you give me  anything for it? You could use it as an ashtray or something.’
    The broker shook his head, not unkindly. ‘Do yourself a favour, my boy. Take it outside and smash it with a hammer. It will make you feel better, and save you the trouble of putting that trash back in the bag. No, young fellow, if you want treasures to pawn, you’re going to have to come up with something I don’t see twenty times a day. You could try— Pardon me.’
    Another customer had come in, an old man with a scraggly white beard, dressed like a tramp. ‘What have you got for us today, old-timer?’ the shopkeeper asked jovially.
    ‘Shaving kit and comb,’ said the old man, putting a small leather-wrapped bundle on the counter.
    The broker untied the strings and examined the contents. ‘Any enchantments?’
    ‘Nope.’
    ‘Not even a self-sharpening blade? Elf-made styptic for magic healing of shaving cuts? Magic hand mirror?’
    ‘Not a sausage.’
    ‘Well, well, well! Useful  and non-magical. Old man, you’ve come to the right place. Will you part with the whole kit for its weight in gold?’
    The old tramp chewed the end of his beard a moment, thinking. ‘Make it triple.’
    ‘Double.’
    ‘Done!’
    The pawnbroker’s fat, prosperous hand clasped the tramp’s lean and calloused one. ‘Keep an eye out for more of this stuff, will you? Bring it by any time. We’re always looking for honest rarities.’
    The kid could not watch this and keep quiet. ‘Oh, this is ridiculous! Razors and combs?’
    ‘My boy,’ said the broker, ‘you must understand the kind of clientele we get around here. These parts are positively stiff with young fellows like you. They are always out gathering weapons and armour and enchantments, and tawdry stuff with nasty gemstones stuck all over. Just look at this!’ Reverently he held up the simple tortoiseshell comb. ‘You can’t fight with it, you can’t cast spells with it, you can’t barter it with dragons or decipher it for ancient lore. The only thing you can do with this, my boy, is comb your hair. And I’ve never seen an adventurer yet who cared a plus-five fig about his hair.  This, my honest young fool, is a treasure old and rare. And it will stay that way, as long as tenderfoots like you go on mistaking shiny for valuable.’
    The pawnbroker turned to the old tramp again, beaming. ‘My dear fellow, this is the best find I’ve had all week. You’re welcome here any time; any time, you hear me? Now see if you can scrounge up some more where this came from, and next time I’ll give you a better price. And if you bring me a ball of plain old unenchanted string, why, you can marry my daughter.’
     

A case of vengeance
    If you are one of the 3.6 Loyal Readers who follow my blog, you have probably become acquainted with my Evil Alter Blogger, H. Smiggy McStudge. He is a small cog in one of the senior departments of Hell: one of those devils who work at damning art forms and cultures, twisting them until