Jimmy shook his head. “He fell down a chute or something.”
“Ha! Silly sod. He’ll be in that mountain for weeks!”
“Oi,” shouted a voice.
Gordo and Jimmy tuned to see Groan emerging from the tunnel. The barbarian looked battered, bruised, and miserable. At least he’s unaffected, thought Gordo. As the barbarian approached, Jimmy looked around him. “Where’s Granddad?” he called.
There was a dreadful, dreadful silence. “E’s gone,” Groan managed, at last. “Sorry.”
Jimmy shook his head. “What do you mean ‘gone’?” he asked, fighting back the first hint of a tear. “Where? How?”
Groan took a while to answer. “He went fru the doorway, took the foreigner wiv him.”
“He was a brave man,” said Gordo, patting the thief affectionately on the leg. “Those children may very well owe their lives to him.”
“And us,” added Groan, who was prepared to go so far with sympathy, but didn’t want any sentimental issues interfering with his share of the reward.
A wind whistled on the mountainside.
“Looks like the children can’t wait to get back,” said Jimmy, trying not to show his sorrow. He was gesturing toward a group of thirty or forty youths who had wandered off the path to start a rock fight between the trees. “Bless them, eh?”
“Little demons,” Gordo snapped.
“City owes us money,” said Groan, with rancor.
Jimmy smiled at the thought of Modeset parting with gold; perhaps Dullitch’s purse-string vigilante wasn’t going to get away without a scratch after all.
“I wish I hadn’t lost that horse,” he said.
“So do we,” Gordo muttered.
The thief shook his head. “No, I meant for the ride home.”
“I like walkin’,” said Groan. “More chance of a fight.”
“Me too,” added Gordo. “Nice fresh air in your lungs.” He licked his lips. “I expect you’ll be in for your granddad’s fortune,” he said, grinning. “The spell book, that is.”
Jimmy sniffed, nodded. “Not my thing,” he said. “There isn’t a magical bone in my body, thank the gods.”
They walked in silence for a while.
“Of course,” Jimmy added, thoughtfully, “there was always his gold vortiga bracelet. That must be worth thousands.”
There was another prolonged suppression of breath.
“You’ll be after that, then?” said Gordo, slyly. “You being a thief and all.”
Jimmy shook his head. “Not likely.” He passed a grubby hand over his forehead. “He never wore it, but he always had it on him somewhere. In a pocket, under his hat, in a shoe; anywhere you’d care to mention. Personally, I reckon he used to hide it inside that magic carpet of his.”
Groan looked up toward the summit of the Twelve, and wondered if it was worth going back.
THIRTY-ONE
THE PARENTS HAD STICKS, cudgels, knuckledusters and, in one extreme case, a knife. And yet they didn’t move an inch toward the duke. They didn’t dare.
Vicious had emerged from beneath the royal throne and proceeded, very quickly, to go off his rocker. Unbeknownst to the duke, who thought the little mutt might be displaying some deep sense of loyalty, he was actually protecting his bone. The hideous, half-rotted thing was hidden underneath a collapsed tapestry just behind the door, and one of the parents had taken a step in the wrong direction. It wasn’t the growl that frightened them, because Vicious didn’t growl. Instead, he made a noise like a yodeler gargling with acid, his eyeballs rolling right back into his head, spit flying from his maw in every direction.
Every weapon clattered to the floor.
The duke, who had finally mustered enough dignity to scramble to his feet, raised a shaking hand.
“I understand you people want some answers,” he began. “But the fact is, I have none to give you. Myself and my officials”—he indicated Quaris and Burnie, who both gave very weak waves—“have done the best we can in the circumstances. Now, will you please go to your homes and await the return of your children. Or else, I will…give the command.”
Hesitation. Doubt. Defiance.
Then was a series of mumbled discussions and, one by one, the parents began to shuffle from the room.
When the last of them had departed, Modeset breathed a sigh of relief and, stepping forward, carefully patted his little dog.
“Thank you for that, my friend,” he said, turning back to the others. “You know, I think he understands—”
What happened next was a blur. One moment the dog was sitting beside Modeset, wagging its tail excitedly, and the next it was hanging off his throat.
THIRTY-TWO
SO THE CHILDREN OF Dullitch returned, just in time for the duke—and there was much rejoicing. The streets were filled with thankful parents, happy sons, and joyful daughters. Quaris Sands threaded his way through the crowds, shaking hands with some of the fathers and winking at their excitable offspring in that patronizing way that only adults with no children seem to employ.
In the palace, Groan and Gordo were also getting the red-carpet treatment. Strangely, they’d been prevented from entering the city through the main gate with the children. Instead, a group of guards had taken them, via a very tangled route, to the palace.
Now, they stood before the duke who, it seemed, was wearing some sort of padded collar support.
“The city of Dullitch is in your debt,” Modeset announced, pouring two measures from an expensive-looking bottle and passing the flagons to Pegrand to distribute. “You shall receive a full pardon, and the freedom of Dullitch.”
“We’d bedda,” Groan muttered, snatching his drink and scowling at the duke’s manservant. “I’ve ’ad a gutful o’ this stinkin’ city. Where’s our money?”
Modeset edged his way around the desk. “What are you talking about? I gave Quickstint two hundred crowns!”
“Hah!” Gordo was first off the mark. “We never got that—the thief lost the horse before he found us. We haven’t seen a single crown of your damn money!”
Modeset gave an impassive shrug. “I don’t see how that’s my problem.”
“Oh, you don’t? Maybe Groan and I should show you.
The duke began to twitch. “Where is the horse now?” he asked.
“That’s it! I’ve had enough.” Gordo took one last swig from his flagon and tossed it aside.
“Come, come,” Modeset soothed. “There’s no need to get excited, little fellow. It was merely a question.”
“Yeah,” Groan boomed, “and this is merely a sword, but it’s nearly stickin out the back of your bleedin’ ’ead.”
The duke flinched, but suddenly his confidence seemed to strengthen.
“Oh really?” he snapped. “Then step up, great warrior, for it seems we have little to talk about.”
The hulking barbarian drew his blade, took a stride forward, staggered, and collapsed. His flagon clanked across the marble floor, spilling its contents.
Gordo watched his friend in amazement, but found himself too weary to help. His limbs felt like lead weights.
“Now!” Modeset cried.
Pegrand hurried over to the door, where a rope snaked through a heavy torch bracket. He yanked the knot free and a great iron cage clanked down over the two mercenaries.
Burnie the troglodyte struggled out from the tattered remains of the great palace curtains. He was holding a small glass vial.
“We can’t hang around,” he said. “The alchemists reckon these sleeping draughts never last more than a couple of hours.”
“Very good. Pegrand, Quaris, and I will take the barbarian. Burnie, do you think you can manage the dwarf?”
“Just about.”
“Right, then. To the dungeons!”
THIRTY-THREE
GORDO GOLDAXE WAS DROWNING his sorrows with some ale he’d found in a dank corner of his cell. At least, it tasted like ale. He held the bottle up and regarded it critically. It certai
nly was a strange color. He had a feeling it was watered down or low on liquor content. Either way, it was totally failing to get him drunk.
A few seconds passed in silence. Outside, a half-moon glowed in the sky. Gordo put his feet up on the bench beside him. He was about to nod off when a tune rang out from the next cell.
“Is that you, Groan Teethgrit?”
“Yeah.”
“What is it?”
“’Sa flute.”
“Where did you get that?”
“Fell outta the foreigner’s robe when I ’ad ’im off the rock.”
Gordo leaped off his bunk. “Throw it away,” he shouted. “It’s probably cursed.”
“Wants to be,” said Groan, continuing to produce a strangled tune from it. “I’ve a good mind to try an’ get them rats back.”
“If he didn’t kill them,” said Gordo, unhelpfully. “I hate this city. It’s a flaming cesspit. These cells are like sewers.”
“Fick walls, ’n’ all,” said Groan. “I spent a year tryin’ ’o get out of ’ere once; no good, hard as iron. These dungeons run right under the road.”
Clip clop. Clip clop.
Clip clop, clip clop.
It was coming from above. Gordo looked up to the roof grate, but he couldn’t see anything but moonlight and shadows.
Clip clop.
Clop.
Clop.
Gordo jumped up and down, stretched left and right, but he still couldn’t make anything out. In the next cell, Groan was up and padding across the stones.
“’Ere,” said the low booming voice, after a time. Gordo sighed. “What? What is it?”
“You ’member the ’orse that thief lost?”
“Of course! I’m hardly likely to forget it, am I?”
“It’s standing in the street over my cell!”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Well it looks like an ’eraldic horse to me. ’S got a fat saddlebag ’n’ all.”
“You don’t seriously think it’s the same animal!”
“Dunno. I reckon it might be a homin’ horse. You know what I mean, one that comes back on its own accordion.”
“Well, there’s nothing we can do about it now,” said Gordo doubtfully, and settled down to sleep.
Eventually, around midnight, Groan stopped trying to coax the horse within reach and took a nap himself. He dreamed of beautiful maidens, a bath full of soya milk, and a scrubbing brush. Like his partner, he slept peacefully. In a week or two, Gordo would come up with a daring plan and they’d make their escape. They always did….
THIRTY-FOUR
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, AS Jimmy Quickstint entered the draughty chambers beneath Yowler House, several high-ranking dignitaries stared out at him from the depths of their swarthy hoods. The halls here were lined with fanciful tapestries, all hand-stolen from many of the wealthiest lords in Dullitch.
In the center of the room sat Riggor DeWatt, master of the Rooftop Runners for more than forty years. His face, like those of his colleagues, was concealed, but he wore a ring of such magnificence that his identity was obvious. It actually required two fingers to support it.
Jimmy reached the center of the chamber, and bowed low. “You asked to see me, sir?”
The hood looked up. Jimmy could just make out the shadowy form of a chin. “I did,” came a booming, resonant voice. “Jimmy Quickstint—”
“Yes, sir?”
“Quiet! Jimmy Quickstint—”
“Sir?”
“Silence! I’m trying to pronounce you. Jimmy Quickstint—”
The thief tried to avert his eyes, while at the same time looking hopeful.
“Because of your bravery—”
“My bravery?”
“Your bravery,” echoed the congregation of cowls.
“Your honor—”
“Honor? Really?”
“Your honor.”
“And your loyalty to the crown—”
“To the crown.”
There was a pause.
“We have decided against admitting you to our organization. Sadly, we do not think that honor, bravery, or loyalty in this arena are directions in which we feel bound to move. Please leave via the west door, depositing your yearbook and complimentary swag bag in the alcove provided. If you don’t have these items about your person, you are advised that you are permitted five days to return them. You also, it seems, owe the city two hundred crowns, so we strongly suggest you begin your search for the royal steed immediately. Good day.”
Jimmy raised a hand to protest, but he was suddenly snatched and frog-marched out through a nearby door. Before he could so much as kick out a leg, he was dragged along a draughty passageway, hauled up several flights of stairs, and deposited, face first, on the cold cobbles of Palace Street, where he lay in a crumpled heap, too tired to move and too depressed to think. After a couple of seconds an alley cat padded up to him and widdled in his ear.
EPILOGUE
DUKE MODESET STOOD TRIAL for his “incompetent handling” of the series of events which subsequently came to be known as the “Ratastrophe Catastrophe.” He was exiled, along with his trusted manservant, Pegrand, leaving the throne to one Viscount Curfew, a rather insipid young man whom the Yowlers were rumored to have firmly in their pocket. Under his reign, the city once again became a haven for thieves and assassins, but at least the children were safe (a silver statue of Diek Wustapaha was placed in the Market Square to ensure that they always behaved themselves).
Duke Modeset’s expulsion did not mark the end of his relationship with Dullitch, for he would return, some seven years later, at a time when the city faced an even greater crisis….
Turn the page to continue reading from the Illmoor Chronicles
An extract from the memoirs of Vandre Modeset, forty-third Duke of Dullitch:
The lowest of the low. Destitute. Exiled from Dullitch along with my personal manservant, Pegrand. I returned to my birthplace: the forest kingdom of Fogrise. There I was happily reunited with Hopkirk, elderly retainer of the Keep and my father’s own secretary. Together with these loyal aides and Hopkirk’s indomitable daughter, Flicka. I determined to restore the kingdom to the grandeur it had once enjoyed. …
It was a time of brief happiness and, without the chaos of city duties, Pegrand and I grew to become good friends.
Little did I suspect that fate was set to urinate on my doorstep once more. Just five months later, I lost my beloved ancestral home in a complicated and particularly ruthless game of Snap.
Now we have been forced to sink to new depths of poverty, and the others are becoming increasingly despondent. However, I remain optimistic about the future; I’m certain that something will turn up soon. …
PROLOGUE
MORNING SUNLIGHT FLOODED ILLMOOR.
In the south it bathed the Gleaming Mountains and the fifteen spires of Dullitch, city capital of the continent. In the north it infiltrated the sprawling forest of Grinswood, home to a variety of magic sects, including the Dark Trinity.
The Dark Trinity was nothing more than a name, a pronouncement. The Druids who made up its order were not in the least given over to darkness, but had simply been tarred by their proximity to the black heart of the wood. They served and represented Jort, God of Animal Kinship, a hypocritical entity famously disgraced when the King of the Gods paid him a surprise visit and found his sitting room full of deer heads.
The order occupied Jort’s Hand, a fortified manse in the center of the wood, and a place only marginally less attractive than the decrepit moss that clung to its walls. The spiral towers of Jort’s Hand rose high above the forest roof, and had stood solid against the wrath of time and the onslaught of the area’s changeable weather. Only the skyward towers caught the sunlight, due to the unique way in which the trees huddled together and locked branches. This meant the forest floor was always dark, although occasionally a few flashes of daylight would slip through the net of foliage and illuminate a daffodil. The e
ffect was rather less than ethereal.
The Dark Trinity seldom took an interest in local affairs and few could blame them, considering the area. It was difficult to preach forest lore to a tribe whose only encounters with the animal kingdom came as a result of hunger. Occasionally, when the goblins killed a goat, or the trolls ambushed a wolf pack, the Dark Trinity would be called upon to intervene. These were sad and desperate times, and too many species were dwindling into extinction. Chief among these was the group of giant lizards, known locally as the Batchtiki.
The Batchtiki, although unspeakably rare, were not worth much to anybody; their skins were rough and uncomfortable to wear, and their one talent relied heavily upon their being alive to perform it. Therefore, when a forest interloper (at no small risk to his health) was observed stealing a group of baby lizards from their nest in the northeastern corner of the forest, the Dark Trinity was immediately concerned. However, being of sound mind, and suspecting, quite correctly, that this intruder was merely a pawn for some higher intelligence, they dispatched a barrowbird, one cursed to remain forever in the service of Jort, to spy for them and to trace the theft to its source. …
The bird’s mission, unbeknownst to the order at that time, would end in the cobbled streets of Dullitch, which seemed like a lifetime away. It would begin …
PART ONE:
THE GREAT RETURNING
ONE
… SOMEWHERE IN THE NORTHEASTERN corner of the forest. A tiny sprite emerged from the gloomy depths of a tree hollow and listened, translucent wings fluttering in the midmorning breeze. A boot crushed it into the ground.
The thief was out of breath. He had run the length of Grinswood in just under three hours, which was a boastful feat for a man on horseback, let alone one with three broken toes, a limp, and advanced constipation. He staggered, muttered a few obscenities, and collapsed in a final wave of exhaustion, dropping his prize beside him. The sack wriggled as it hit the floor, and continued to do so for several minutes. Then it seemed to give up. The rest of the glade was still, with only the thief’s heaving chest and slow, determined breaths punctuating the silence.
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