Shadewell Shenanigans (21 page)

“Yes,” Susti snapped. “Not that she’d ever consider wedding a pair of boneheads like you and your brainless brother.” She stomped over the battlements and, to everyone’s surprise, thrust the pistol back into Modeset’s hands. “Go ahead, kill each other. I’ve met plenty of half-wits before, but never in my life have I encountered people who’d qualify for the quarter-wit grade.”

Modeset raised the pistol.

Groan raised his sword.

“We are at an impasse,” said the duke solemnly. “I’ll die if you bring that sword down, but you’ll die with me.”

“Likewise,” said Crikey, staring at Gape.

“So I’d like to make a suggestion, if I may.”

Gordo Goldeaxe appeared at the trapdoor and staggered out onto the battlements, puffing and panting in the early morning air.

“Wh-what’s going on?” he said.

“Believe it or not,” Susti said. “They’re all trying to predict who will kill who.”

Gordo nodded. “Any luck?”

“Yes,” Susti said, rolling her eyes. “They’ve realized they’ll all kill each other.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” the dwarf admitted.

“Gordo, isn’t it?” Modeset cried, trying to peer around Groan’s shoulder and keep his pistol steady at the same time. “Good old Gordo Goldeaxe. I was just telling your friend, here, that nobody will profit if everyone dies.”

Gordo spotted the pistol. “You’re right, Modeset,” he said. “Even Groan’s not that stupid.”

“I might be,” Groan bellowed, his sword remaining firmly aloft. “He ain’t talkin’ ’is way out o’ this one.”

“I promise you, Gordo,” the duke shouted. “My plan is foolproof, and I swear that nobody on these battlements—with the possible exception of the king—will go home empty-handed.”

Groan shook his head. “’Sall jus’ words.”

But Gordo’s appetite for gold had been whetted. The little dwarf crossed the battlements in record time, leaping between the enemies with his axe raised.

“Drop your weapons,” he said, looking from one to the other.

“Nah.”

“No.”

“DROP THEM.”

“He’ll strike me down.”

“An’ ’e’ll shoot me.”

“NOW!”

Groan lowered his sword … and Modeset shot him.

G
ROAN SAW A SHADOW
move in front of him. He thrust out his sword, and felt pain in his leg: intense pain. His vision clouded and he collapsed onto his knees.

A second shot rang out. There was a brief
ping,
and Groan buckled backward, folding onto his back with his legs underneath him.

There were several shouts and a distant splash.

Someone gasped.

Groan’s eyes rolled in his head …

… and then darkness overcame him.

General Crikey dropped the crossbow, staggered back, and gazed downward: both of Gape’s swords were embedded in his chest. He looked up again, gave a strange smile, and sank slowly to the ground.

Gape, on his knees a few yards away, gasped with relief. The arrow had barely glanced his shoulder. It stuck out of the wall behind him, resonating like a twanged ruler.

Susti lowered her hands and checked that her father and Bronwyn were still standing. Then she hurried across to Pegrand, who was leaning over the keep’s battlements, staring into the moat. His shoulders were trembling.

“It-it happened t-too f-fast,” he managed. “I c-couldn’t catch him.”

Susti pulled the manservant back and peered over the edge herself. There was something floating in the water, and a quick head count told her who it was.

“Listen,” she said, turning to the manservant and firmly grasping his arm. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Pegrand’s eyes had filled with tears.

“B-but I-I-I—”

“You knocked his hand down,” said Gordo. The dwarf was crouched beside Groan, tying a tourniquet he’d ripped from his jerkin around the barbarian’s bleeding leg. His friend, it seemed, had lost consciousness. “And a good job, too: that first shot would’ve gone straight through Groan’s chest.”

Susti steered Pegrand away from the battlements, but the manservant wrestled free.

“You killed him!” he screamed, diving at the unconscious warrior. “You killed my master!”

Gordo leaped up to intercept the manservant, and with Gape’s help, managed to force him to the ground.

“Listen to me!” the dwarf shouted into Pegrand’s ear. “Modeset killed himself!”

“You’re lying!”

“I’m not! You knocked his hand down, but he went for another shot. The second one rebounded off Groan’s collar, hit Modeset in the face, and he fell. I’m TELLING you.”

Pegrand stopped struggling. At Gordo’s insistence, Gape released his grip on the manservant’s legs and moved away from him. Eventually, the dwarf followed suit, leaving Pegrand a sad and lonely figure lying on the stones.

Susti stepped forward and helped him to his feet. As she was guiding the manservant toward the trapdoor, there came the distinct sound of whistling steel, and a blur shot past her.

“Argh!”

King Phew soared backward and crashed into the wall of the keep’s solitary scout tower, a giant broadsword protruding from the neck of his gold chain.

“I’m sick an’ tired o’ you damn lords,” said Groan, shoving Gordo aside as he limped across the battlements. The barbarian came to a standstill, staring blearily at the king, while Susti, still supporting Pegrand, screamed for the city guard.

“It-it was Modeset’s idea,” Phew spluttered, as Groan gripped his shaking jaw.

“I don’ care; you’re all as bad as each uvver.”

“GUARDS!” Susti screamed.

“It’s no good, my dear,” the king managed, talking out of the corner of his mouth. “They’re about as loyal as a pack of pirates.”

“Release my father,” Susti pleaded, “and he’ll give you the city.”

Groan suddenly stopped menacing the king, and his great big cannonball head swiveled around to face the princess.

“He’ll what?”

“He’ll give you the Phlegmian throne,” Susti said, glaring at the king. “Won’t you, Father?”

“I will,” said King Phew, massaging his jaw when Groan had finally released it. “It’s yours. That is, if you want it.”

Gordo tried to step forward, but found Gape’s foot barring the way.

“This bedda no’ be a trick,” Groan warned the king, jabbing a finger into his eye for good measure. “I’ll kill ya, ’f it is.”

“It’s no trick,” Susti called. “My father is old, and his guards are disloyal. The city is full of rich, fat merchants who never go outside unless there’s something in it for them. Now, if someone like
you
were on the throne, Phlegm would really become a city to be reckoned with—those other
vile
lords wouldn’t
dare
attack you.”

Groan glanced back at Gordo, who was nodding his head vigorously.

Gape didn’t look so sure. “What’s in it for me?” he said, slapping his chest. King Phew tried to speak, but Groan clamped a hand over his mouth.

“I’ll give you one o’ them floppy ’ats,” he said.

Gape frowned. “What?”

“You know, them big floppy ’ats you give ta rich folk.”

“You don’t mean a deerstalker?”

“Nah.”

“I think he means a knighthood,” said Gordo, shaking his head.

“Yeah, thassit. You can ’ave one o’ them.”

“And me?” Gordo said, an expectant grin playing on his lips.

Groan thought for a moment. “You can be me guard boss.”

“Oh,” Gordo said noncommittally, but his mind was racing. At last, he thought, a job where people can’t look down on me.

“All righ’,” Groan boomed, turning back to the king. “I’ll take it, but first I’m gonna get them lords what plowed ’ginst me.”

“It’s
plotted,
Your Majesty,” Gordo corrected him. “But I’m right with you on that one.”

T
HREE WEEKS LATER, AN
eagle swooped to land on the sturdy battlements of Phlegm Keep.

Lord Phew, the keep’s newly appointed custodian, had been awaiting the return of the messenger birds for several days. He was informed of the eagle’s arrival by his apprentice, and quickly hurried to the roof to greet it. By the time he arrived, three more birds had gathered upon the battlements, each bearing their own burdens.

The former king bustled over to the first messenger and hurriedly retrieved the piece of parchment attached to its leg. He read it through twice before moving on to the next bird and following the same procedure. Eventually, having viewed all the messages, he dismissed the birds to their various quarters and turned to head back inside the keep.

He was halfway there when a figure stepped out of the shadows.

Phew started.

“M-my lord,” he said. “You frightened the life out of me! I didn’t realize you were up here …”

A shrug. “You’ve heard from the other members, Majesty?”

Phew nodded. “They’re all coming, my lord. And please don’t call me Majesty—I’m not a king anymore. I’m just a lord, like yourself.” He smiled. “Are you absolutely sure you want to go through with this?”

Duke Pegrand Marshall nodded. “Absolutely,
Lord
Phew. I don’t think your daughter would ever agree to marry me if I didn’t.”

T
HE VILLAGE OF SHADEWELL
was unaccountably quiet as Baron Muttknuckles rode in on his “royal” donkey. The streets were deserted and a light rain was beginning to fall from the leaden sky. Every now and then, a curtain would twitch, a door would slam, or some smudgy, inquisitive face would appear at a window.

Muttknuckles muttered under his breath as a coach rattled past, bearing the grand seal of Dullitch. It slowed down a little way in front, and Viscount Curfew appeared at the window.

“Can you believe this?” the nobleman snapped. “Twice in one year! I’m telling you, Modeset had better have a damn good reason for this summoning.”

“I agree,” said Earl Visceral, emerging on the far side of the Dullitch coach on his own imperial steed. “I can’t understand why he couldn’t have said whatever he needed to say by ravensage. Those birds are even faster than carrier pigeons. And what’s all this ‘no guards’ business? I’m telling you, the man’s getting paranoid.”

“Have you not brought guards with you?”

Visceral smiled. “I have thirty men on the edge of Shinbone forest. You?”

Curfew gave half a shrug. “Eighty, a mile or so outside the village. There’s something distinctly odd about this meet—”

“Who cares?” Muttknuckles grumbled. “As long as it gets me out of Sneeze, I don’t give a monkey’s.”

The three rode in silence for a time, Visceral and Curfew purposely slowing to keep pace with the baron.

“A bit quiet, isn’t it?” the earl said, peering around him as if he’d only just noticed the silence.

“Raining,” Muttknuckles muttered, by way of explanation. “No shortage of guards, though, is there?”

Visceral followed the baron’s pointing finger and noticed—for the first time—the army of guards lined up on the hilltop, overlooking the hall. “Great gods,” he said. “There must be two hundred of them. I wonder what they’re here for.”

“I didn’t realize Shadewell had a troop contingent,” said Curfew, ordering his coach to a halt as the group came upon the village hall.

“Neither did I,” said Visceral. “With that many troops, they could probably try for Crust, or Shinbone.”

“Or Sneeze,” Muttknuckles suggested hopefully.

“Of course,” Visceral muttered doubtfully, “that’s assuming they belong to Shadewell.”

“They’re certainly not Modeset’s men,” Curfew observed, suddenly glad that his city was half a continent away. “Maybe he borrowed them from King Phew. Let’s ask him, shall we?”

The other two lords dismounted and passed their respective steeds over to the village’s somber-faced stable boys. Prince Blood was already waiting for them, clapping his hands together in order to keep warm.

All four lords were about to head inside, when a loud, booming voice echoed through the village’s single street.

“OI!”

The lords turned, as one.

There were four distinct figures standing in the middle of the street. Evidently, they had waited for the lords to pass before strolling out behind them.

Viscount Curfew was the first to step forward. The other lords fanned out behind him, Blood drawing a dagger, Visceral mustering a fireball between his hands, and Muttknuckles sliding a cudgel from the sleeve of his overcoat.

When they were still a good way from the party, which appeared to consist of a normal-sized man, two giants, and a dwarf, they stopped. This was because the first man had marched forward and unfurled a scroll, his irregular companions keeping their distance.

Curfew’s breath turned to steam in the air as he waited for the man to speak. There were various mutterings from the other lords as they recognized Pegrand Marshall.

“The following statement,” Pegrand began, “has been prepared by the King of Phlegm and his associates. It has also been agreed upon and signed by the newly appointed Duke of Fogrise (that’s me, by the way), and ratified by the Captain of the Phlegmian Guard and Overall Commander of the combined Phlegmian/Fogrise alliance. We hereby declare that we wish to remove ourselves from the Great Assembly. We would also like to notify you that, unless you promise faithfully never to interfere in the running of our kingdom, we will be declaring WAR on you in the name of Rackentirin, God of Terrible Carnage, and Mistymeaner, God of Unsuppressed Rage.”

There was a moment of silence as everyone waited for Pegrand to recoil the scroll, which he dropped twice.

Finally, Viscount Curfew spoke.

“What is the meaning of this?” he asked, looking at the back of his hands in a distracted manner. “What exactly are you trying to pull, here? There is no
Phlegmian/Fogrise
alliance. Fogrise is a rural district, for goodness’ sake. If this is some stupid scheme of Modeset’s to get him back into power, it won’t work …”

The group went into a huddle before Pegrand emerged once again, unfurling the scroll in his hands.

“The following statement—” he began.

Curfew clapped his hands. “Yes, yes! We got all that, thank you. Where is my cousin?”

Pegrand looked down at his feet. “Duke Modeset is no more.”