Story: Erotic Fantasy

Eric the Trollslayer was at wits' end. Sweaty, terrified, and exhausted, he was utterly lost, utterly without a clue as to what he should do. His purpose in life was, and always would be, the defeat and killing of trolls, but perhaps he had bitten off more troll than he could chew. But wait a minute. Defeat and killing, you say? Redundant? By no means! The troll, you see, was a fearsome creature: as tall as two stout men, it tipped the grain scales at two hundred stone and had the muscle to matc. Nigh invincible, one could split their skull open, tear their arms from their sockets (covering oneself in tacky lime-green ichor in the process), run them through a dozen times with one's Valiant Sword of Massive Obliterating Destruction, and within a minute the creature would revive itself. As if by magic (and it probably was magic, Eric suddenly realized) flesh would thread itself back onto bone from an invisible distaff, while those same bones would knit themselves back together, guided by unseen needles. Leaching material from the earth itself, failed organs would reconstitute themselves as quickly as an Abyssal fiend takes to unguarded cattle (Eric, never having seen an abyssal fiend, was unsure how quick such a creature was to engage in this sort of thing, but he was willing to trust to the truth of proverbs). Apparently lacking any recognition that just moments earlier it had been an emerald splotch on the road to Waterdeep, the troll would right itself and begin the process of menacing innocents all over again. The troll could be defeated, but it could not be killed.

That, of course, was where Eric the Trollslayer would come in. No mere dabbler in swords and armour he, this Trollslayer had been trained in the ancient art of Trollslaying. Apprenticed to a blind and wizened old man (who was only about thirty-five, retiring age for the understandably short-lived practitioners of this discipline), he had spent years studying the creatures: their likes, dislikes, strengths, weakness, their haunts, their origins. He learned to fight them, to block their claws with a dinner plate fastened to his left arm, to kick them in the genitals when they were over-committed. Every night he would listen to tales of epic battles fought, would cheer at the victories, would raise his tankard and drink his virgin margarita in silence at the losses.
When he came of age, he was sent on his Examination. The task: kill a troll and return with its head. The old man led him to a nearby troll nest (actually more of a ranch, he later learned, specifically designed to test potential inductees; he had failed to notice the fences and feeding troughs at the time). There, standing before the mouth of a low-ceilinged cave (despite their height, trolls stooped to walk around; they liked to look for money and collectible cards on the ground), his master wordlessly handed unto him the product of his experience: the Trollslayer Weapon. Its name, though uncreative, was accurate. This weapon, like all those of its kind, had been enchanted by a grumpy old wizard they kept locked in the basement of the Trollslayer Brotherhood Lodge. A stubby-looking club that hung at one's side from a leather cord, to the uninformed it looked laughably weak. But when brought near a troll its powers came to life. First, the club would begin to glow a dull red. Then, it would cry like a baby; indeed, gurgles, hiccoughs, and slurping could be heard for a mile around, and little drips of baby snot would gather at the club's tip. This noise would engage the attention of nearby trolls, who ever-hungered for tender baby flesh. Closer and closer they would come, seeking the source of the cries, until they beheld a mere manling, hardly worth the effort of peeling the tough manflesh from thick manbones, which themselves contained fruity manmarrow. But press forward they would, all red eyes, long limbs and pumped pectoral muscles, their claws extended, a cloud of dust rising up behind their loping footfalls. Just as they attempted to strike: wham! The club-baby would screech horribly and the trolls would recoil. Flames would begin to spout from the weapon, the heat prompting the user to surge forward and begin his murderous work. Only fire could prevent the regeneration of trolls, and the Trollslayer Weapon contained an inexhaustible fountain of liquid flame. Green flesh would blacken and curl from several feet away; ichor would steam and hiss and boil away at a glancing blow; troll eyeballs would plump and burst from merest glance at the righteous fire. Yet, as though by magic (and, once more, it probably was, Eric mused) the wielder would remain completely unharmed. In fact, no matter the environment, the club would, when its powers were activated, become totally weightless and release a fine perfumed mist, to cover over the stench of burning troll meat.

On that day Eric had had but one troll to kill, and it had been a delightful experience. Proudly had he returned with his troll head, which, like all others brought back to the Lodge, was set above the mantle of their giant stone fireplace. Of course, having once belonged to a troll, the head still maintained a semblance of life: it would take wheezing breaths, searching for its lungs; blood would congeal and uncongeal as it attempted to find a heart to pump it; eyes would loll uselessly, searching for the body that had once carried them to new and exciting places. Members of the lodge would make conversation with the heads, and some of the trolls became quite popular, with one even being elected Lodge Treasurer.

But that was then. Within a year, Eric had slain fifty trolls, but he had become hungry for more. He wanted to take down the most famous troll of all, Push'Pu. Push'Pu was a the product of a union between a dragon-witch and a gay troll and he had in addition to his already fearsome regenerative powers several magical abilites at his command. He had little embroidered wings with which he could fly around. He could turn people to stone by making unkind remarks about their appearance. He could shoot a little beam of damaging light out of his finger just by saying "zzzzzap" with a lisp. Eric knew he would need an extraordinary weapon to defeat this extraordinary troll. He visited the basement wizard and demanded he improve his weapon. "No," said the wizard. "I only make one every week, and no more. Unless," he said, his voice lowering to conspiratorial whisper, "you wanted to release me from these chains." "Of course, noble wizard!" said Eric. The wizard took the weapon and told him to return in three days. Three days hence, Eric returned to claim his weapon. The basement wizard smiled as he presented the new and improved Trollslayer DeLux, a wicked-looking sword. "How is it different?" asked Eric. "Simply tell it do so and it will leap from your hands and hack the head off of any troll, pouring fire down their throat as it does so. Then it will fly into their hoard and bring you a lot of treasure." "Excellent," said Eric, and he turned to leave. "Wait!" cried the wizard. "What about our deal?"
"I've decided not to uphold my end of the bargain. I am treacherous and vainglorious." "Curses!" said the wizard.

Eric set off for Push'Pu's lair. It was deep in the Chartreuse Curtain Mountains, and the path was guarded by many a troll. But, just as the wizard had said, so the sword worked. Every time he spied a troll from afar, Eric would command the sword to attack and, like a magically-powered regular timekeeping device, the sword would fly from his hands and cut his foe to ashen ribbons. And just as regularly, it would seek out the home of the newly-slain troll and return with whatever gold coins and jewelry and magical trinkets the troll had accumulated over the years. Soon he had so much treasure he could hardly carry it. As he scaled the day-glo heights of Chartreuse Curtain Mountain he became very tired and realized he would not be able to carry his loot any further. Using the sword, he dug a hole in the ground and put all his treasure in there, marking the spot with a pile of stones. He would have to remember to pick it up as he left.

Now it was on to Push'Pu. He approached the forbidding cavern and hunched down to enter. As he made his way deeper into the gloomy lair, the sword, unexpectedly, grew heavier and heavier. The effort of crouching and dragging the increasingly weighty sword caused him to begin to perspire. Sweat, of course, was the bane of the Trollslayer, for it caused trolls to enter a maddened frenzy, in which they became extremely difficult to kill. Trollslayers were taught to master the temperature control of their body and instead regulated themselves by urinating frequently - hence their fondness for tunics, in favour of pantaloons. But the concentration demanded by the sword made Eric forget his training, and he forgot to urinate; thus did his brow moisten. Snuffling could be heard in the distance. A grumbling, lisping troll voice echoed in a distant cavern "What iiiiiiis that DEE-lish-US smell? Daddy thinks somone's come to PA-LAY!" Fear struck Eric for the first time, and this caused him to sweat yet more profusely. The delicate padding of what was surely Push'Pu became more distinct; the monster approached. Eric decided to abandon the sword and make a break for the exit. As he turned to scamper away, his arm was jerked back. The sword would not leave his grip. Panicked, he strained and tugged and yanked at his arm, all to no avail: his hand had been magically bound to the hilt of the sword. "Where ARE youuuuuuu?!" In the dim light of the cave Eric saw the shadow of the fell beast round the corner, and soon enough he was face-to-knee with the stooping, florid majesty of the effeminate master troll. "Why you look good enough to EAT!" And then he did. In one gulp down went erstwhile hero and sword, into the distended but well-exfoliated belly of his one-time nemesis. But before he could sit and luxuriate, Push'Pu's belly split open and disgorged a partially-digested Eric and his very disobedient but angry sword. Push'Pu fell backward as the sword's flames ran up and down his exquisite skin, and Eric's corpse thudded to the ground, the sword landing beside with a clatter. For a moment, all was silent.

Then the sword disappeared in a puff of smoke. When the air cleared, behold, our basement wizard. "Asshole," said the basement wizard, as he reached down to pull a cigarette from Eric's mostly-intact leather jerkin. He lit it with a magical flame that sprouted from the tip of his finger. "That's better," he said to no one in particular, taking a long drag. "Haven't had one of these in two hundred years. Oh yeah," he said nonchalantly, looking at Eric, "thanks for paying into my retirement fund." The wizard departed from the cave, collected the loot his sword had gathered, and lived for another forty years in a magic flying yacht in the invisible city of Kua-Lu.

TH'ENDE