Loogie forced open an eyelid, and promptly shut it again. His mind raced:
We’re, I mean I am running behind something. I think it’s a cart. What should we, I, do? And who are you, anyway? … Hello? Is there somebody else in here?
What?
I think there’s somebody else in here.
What, besides us?
Who is this? And why did you go quiet just then?
I didn’t want to upset you.
Upset me? What’re you doing in here?
I’m waiting.
Waiting for what?
For you … to get annoyed. We both know what you’re like when you get annoyed … People die.
Both? There’s two of you in here?
No, I meant you and I, the two of US. You are a twinling, Loogie, remember? And I am your wrath; I am the bad side of you that always surfaces when you are at your most enraged. I am your dark brother …
Oh, it’s YOU. I haven’t seen you for ages.
Yes, Loogie, it’s been a while. My, my, you haven’t been this angry for a long time—must be all that medication they’ve got you on. Still, you seem enraged enough now, so when you’re quite ready …
“Yeeeaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh!!!”
The scream echoed through the mountains. It was so abrupt and so monstrously loud that the half-knackered horse immediately bolted forward, wrenching the reins from Groan’s tight-fisted grip. The huge barbarian dived forward to snatch hold of them, which turned out to be a big mistake.
Gordo looked on in amazement as his friend was dragged, like a child’s dolly, behind the bolting horse, and disappeared in the nearby woods. Then the cart fell to pieces where it stood, and Gape rolled out, his face a mixture of sleep and bewilderment.
Gordo snatched up his axe and clambered out of the woodpile, screaming all kinds of abuse about innkeepers and their wives, before focusing his attention on the source of the scream. He spun around, battle-axe at the ready, and began: “Okay, my lad, now you’re in for—”
Gordo Goldeaxe froze.
“GROAAAAAANNNNN!” he boomed, taking a few steps back and raising his axe threateningly. “You better get back here, quicksmart! This bloke’s a TWINLING!”
Eight
ILLMOOR WAS RIFE WITH magical creatures. A lot depended on how willing you were to see them, but a really astute hunter, in the right place at a good hour, could see sprites, demons, werewolves, vampires, pixies, imps, and even the odd gnome. Twinlings, on the other hand, were rare. On the few occasions that they were encountered, any hunter worth their salt would know enough to leave well alone. Twinlings were bad news. In fact, twinlings were bad-news headlines.
Named and shamed by the High Priests of Legrash, twinlings were those who had, at some point in their lives, been possessed by dark spirits. Upon extraction, these spirits occasionally manifested themselves physically, erupting from the souls of their hosts to wreak demonic havoc on anyone or anything unfortunate enough to get in their way. The host, meanwhile, was left in a dream state, entirely zombified until such times as the spirit’s thirst for anger had been satiated, or until it had been slain. The best way to defeat a twinling, it was rumored, was to douse its demonic form in salt and promptly set fire to it, or else deliver a fatal blow to its sensitive spinal column. However, Gordo Goldeaxe didn’t know this, so he dealt with it the same way he dealt with all hostile creatures; he ran at it with a bloody great axe and hoped for the best. Unfortunately, he chose the wrong twin.
The zombie half of Loogie Lambontroff staggered mindlessly toward Gordo, hardly batting an eyelash when the dwarf took its left arm off with one swift arc of the blade. Instead, it flailed madly with its right.
Gordo dived under the appendage, managed three somersaults without injuring himself—quite a feat for a dwarf with a two-foot axe—and swung around for another strike. He didn’t make it.
The gangster’s evil twinling, who’d been watching the proceedings with careful amusement, suddenly pounced, securing Gordo in a viselike headlock. The dwarf dropped his axe.
“Ah, look here, the little fellow doesn’t like pain, does he, Loogie?”
Gordo scrambled to free himself from the hold, but the twinling had its fingers firmly locked.
“Struggle if you will, little fellow. I can feel the breath leaving your body.”
Gordo tried to swivel himself around so that he could roll his way out of the headlock, but the twinling predicted his movement and promptly stamped on his shin.
“Ahhhh! You’ll die for that,” the dwarf managed, digging his fingernails into the twinling’s hairy arm. “Groan! Gape! Grrrrrraahhhh!”
“Loogie,” commanded the twin. “Get over here and fetch me this axe. We’re going to slice up the little fellow with his own weapon. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”
The original half of Loogie Lambontroff was staggering around the road in a daze. Almost unconscious through blood loss, he’d managed to pick up his severed limb and was trying (with little success) to fit it back into its socket.
“Loogie,” the twinling persisted, tightening its grip on Gordo’s neck. “Are you listening to m—”
The sentence was abruptly cut off, along with the creature’s head, which thumped onto the ground and rolled a few feet away.
Groan Teethgrit wiped the blood off his sword, and sighed. “I’ve los’ the ’orse.”
“Never mind,” said Gordo, massaging his throat. “I think we’ve got more important things to worry about.”
He indicated the felled twinling, which suddenly burst into flames and vanished. Curiously, its grinning head remained.
“Will you look at that,” muttered Gordo. “Thank the gods on high.”
“Fank me,” Groan reminded him. He turned to Loogie the First, who was lying facedown on the floor, completely motionless. “I reckon he’s dead.”
“Doubt it.”
“You fink we should check?”
Gordo rolled his eyes. “Be my guest,” he said. “But I wouldn’t go near him in a month of Sundays.”
“I’ll do it now,” bellowed Groan, stamping over to the body. “We ain’t got that kind o’ time to waste.”
“I was being metaphorical.”
“Yeah, my auntie ’ad that. She used to talk out of her arse an’ all. He’s still breathin’. Reckon we should leave ’im ’ere?”
Gordo shook his head. “No, we’ll dress his wound and take him with us.”
“Why?” Groan asked, brows mating.
The dwarf knelt down, produced a bandage from his belt pouch, and began to tie a tourniquet around the gangster’s stumpy arm.
“It’s something the innkeeper told me,” he muttered. “I’ve a feeling our friend here might be of some use to us in Wemeru. Besides, if he’s with us then—er—we can kill him when he wakes up.”
Groan scratched his head. “Why don’t we just kill ’im now?”
“You can’t kill a man when he’s asleep! It’s immoral.”
“Wass that mean?”
Gordo reclaimed his axe and swung it over his shoulder. “It basically means that—er—people will think less of you if you kill him while he’s asleep.”
Groan peered up and down the road. “What people?”
“Just people, you know, people in general.”
“What, you?”
“No, not me. OTHER people.”
“But there’s nobody else ’ere.”
“Yes, all right! I’m speaking metaphorically again, like your aunt! Where’s Gape?”
Groan shrugged, then lumbered over to the destroyed cart and heaved some wood aside. Eventually, he announced: “He’s gone.”
“Fantastic,” snapped Gordo bitterly. “Greatest warrior of the plains, my foot. First sign of trouble, he’s off like a dog with a bum full of dynamite!”
“I’m over here!”
Both Gordo and Groan spun around, but the barbarian was nowhere in sight.
“Where?” Gordo called, rummaging through the cart wreckage him
self. “I can’t see you!”
“HERE!” came a second shout.
Groan lumbered across the road and paused beside a steep, grass-edged pit.
“Gape’s over ’ere!” he said, as if discovering the warrior was a shock to him. “Did you fall down the ’ole?”
“Yes, good brother; your perception once again amazes me. I, as you say, fell down the hole.”
Groan frowned. “Why?”
“Because I wanted to see how deep it was; why do you think? I toppled back, and a bone in my leg let me down!”
“Wasn’t your courage bone, was it?” Gordo inquired, stepping to the fringe of the pit and glaring at the warrior.
Gape returned the glare. “Listen, midget, if I had known what I was doing, I’d have creamed that damn whatever-it-was tenfold. Unfortunately, I was under the influence of sleep, and a collapsing coach cart isn’t the best of circumstances in which to wake up!”
“Yeah, yeah, a likely story.”
Gordo and Groan reached into the pit and helped Gape to climb out. As the warrior dusted himself off, Groan snatched up Loogie and flung him over one shoulder.
“Oi,” he called back. “One o’ you can bring ’is arm. I ain’t carryin’ it.”
Pegrand Marshall blundered along the drafty corridors of Phlegm Keep’s east wing and half tripped, half fell through the doors of the great library. He was carrying a bundle of scrolls.
“I’m afraid the plan’s gone arse up already, milord!” he gasped. “Total bloody disaster, in fact.”
Duke Modeset rolled his eyes. “Calm yourself, Pegrand,” he said. “I’m sure you’re overexaggerating.” He closed the volume he’d been reading and flexed his fingers. “Now, take two deep breaths and explain the problem.”
“Yes, milord.” The manservant made a show of inhaling some of the room’s stale air, then coughed it out again. “I’ve just had an urgent report, milord; the king’s messenger took it from one of the guards at the front gate. Teethgrit and his band are heading for the jungles of Rintintetly, as you said they would …”
Modeset looked confused. “And?”
“And the king’s daughter’s gone missing with one of her maids.”
“So?”
“So, King Phew says that he had to tell her about your plan, and he thinks she might have gone to warn them, being the rebellious sort and all …”
Modeset shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. Then he said, “Excuse me a moment,” and disappeared into a nearby corridor.
Pegrand heard some appalling curse words before the duke reappeared and took his seat once more.
“Right,” said Modeset eventually. “First things first: I want an updated and detailed description of both the princess and her maid posted on militia message boards throughout Illmoor.”
“Yes, milord. Right away, milord.”
“Be sure to include everything: the clothes they’re wearing, hairstyles, blemishes, the lot!”
“What should I tell the king, milord?”
Modeset sighed. “Tell him to stay put. I don’t want hordes of guards blundering across the countryside. If you want something done properly, you do it yourself.”
“Right, milord.”
“I mean it, Pegrand. I’m not taking any chances on this one. If the princess reaches Teethgrit and warns him of our plans, she’ll ruin everything! Phlegm, Spittle, Dullitch, and Legrash will suffer perpetual raids from that scumbag, and I’ll have made an enemy for life! So we’re going to take decisive action, Pegrand, VERY decisive action. I’m going to fetch some pistols. You get the coach, and tell King Phew we’re going after his daughter.”
Nine
SUSTI REINED IN THE horse they’d stolen from her father’s stable, and motioned to Bronwyn to do the same.
“What is it, ma’am?” the servant inquired, peering along the misty road. They’d traveled a fair way from Phlegm, and were heading steadily toward the distant sound of the river.
Susti put a finger to her lips. “Trouble up ahead,” she confirmed, climbing down from her ride.
“Really? How can you tell?”
“I’ve got a sixth sense for these things, Bronwyn.”
“You mean, like in the kitchen, ma’am?”
“Don’t be flippant, Bronwyn. I do have a sixth sense. It’s just that, for some reason, it doesn’t seem to work against my father.”
“I see, ma’am. What do you think it is?”
“I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure it’s not Teethgrit’s mob.”
Bronwyn peered ahead, but could see only mist.
“What do you want me to do, ma’am?”
Susti flicked back her hair and pursed her lips. “Get off your horse,” she said, “but keep hold of the reins, and—here—take mine, too. We’re going to arrange a little ambush.”
Bronwyn nervously accepted the tethers for Susti’s horse. She looked exceptionally wary of the whole situation, especially when Susti made a beeline for the woods at the side of the road.
“Ma’am?”
“It’s okay, Bron. I’m going into the undergrowth. I want you to count to ten, then slap both horses on the rump, and follow me. Bring some rope and a frying pan from the pack.”
“But, ma’am—”
“Don’t worry! I know what I’m doing.” Susti flashed a demonic smile and hurried off between the trees.
A few minutes later, the maid slapped both horses hard on the rump and followed her. Together, they dashed through the undergrowth, leaping bushes, ducking low branches, and darting behind trees each time they heard a noise. At length, they reached a thickly wooded grove boasting several well-placed trees that all commanded a good view of the road. Susti was about to climb into one, when she noticed that a skinny, scruffy-looking native had beaten her to it.
“Shhh!” She motioned to Bronwyn for silence, pointing away, and whispered: “Over there, in the trees: a man.”
Bronwyn followed her gaze and nodded.
After Susti had dragged her into a nearby bush, Bronwyn mouthed, “What should we do, milady?”
The princess poked her head out of their impromptu hiding place, made a quick and all-encompassing study of the area, and crouched down again.
“He looks wild,” she said nervously. “Some sort of tribesman, I’m guessing. The horses have slowed, and they’re wandering around on the road. He’s watching them; probably waiting to ambush. I thought it was bandits, but he looks like he’d probably eat them. Either way, he’s going to get a big surprise—”
“Well, if you say so, Majesty—”
“I do. Now listen: I’m going to climb up into the next tree and sneak up behind him. Then I’m going to crack him over the head with this frying pan. What I want you to do—when I give the signal—is to reach up into the tree, grab hold of his leg, and pull.”
Bronwyn looked confused. “Um—what’s the signal, Majesty?”
Susti thought for a moment. “This,” she said, holding up a hand and making the shape of a rabbit head with her fingers. “Got it?”
“Yes, Majesty.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
Susti took the frying pan from Bronwyn and, crawling on all fours, began to advance toward the occupied tree.
Halfway across the forest floor, she lowered herself onto her stomach and employed her elbows to work her way along.
Bronwyn gained a new respect for her mistress when she saw the princess arrive at the designated tree and climb dexterously into it, raising herself up through the branches like a native.
At length, Susti emerged onto a thick branch right behind the tree’s occupant, who was carefully watching the road. He had a wiry frame, wore ragged skins, and had a rough thatch of curly black hair.
Susti raised her frying pan with one hand, then peered through the undergrowth toward Bronwyn and made the sign of the rabbit with the other.
The servant hurried up to the tree, trying her best to match her mistress’s stealth, and reached a point jus
t below the wildman’s hideout.
“Now!” screamed Susti.
She brought the frying pan down hard and glanced a blow off the wildman’s head, just as Bronwyn reached up and yanked at his leg …
The royal coach rattled between the trees, its rickety frame threatening to retire every inch of the way.
Pegrand Marshall swore under his breath. The horse had slowed to a reluctant trot, and the thick canopy of trees occupying either side of the road looked decidedly unwelcoming. Now, to cap it all off, Modeset had ordered them into the woods.
“Are you sure about this, milord?” Pegrand called. He reined in the horse and peered back toward the coach window, where the duke’s head was emerging.
“The warriors are heading for Rintintetly, Pegrand, and we know that the princess is following them. Therefore, if we take a shortcut through these trees, we should be able to cut her off before she gets anywhere near the river. Savvy?”
“Yes, milord. Right you are, milord.”
He urged the horse onward.
The Teethgrit party reached the edge of the River Washin without further incident, and Gordo breathed a huge sigh of relief when he saw a jetty stretching out over the fast-flowing waters. There was a small rowboat moored next to it.
At first, Gordo took the boat to be empty. Then Groan pointed out a bundle of rags in the bottom of it, and Gape pointed out that the rags were breathing.
Gordo trundled to the edge of the jetty and, peering into the boat for a closer look, saw the oldest man he had ever seen in his life: there were creases in every crumple, and crumples in every crease.
“Morning,” it said, forcing out both syllables with terrible effort.
“Hello,” said Gordo, in what he hoped was a cheerful voice. “How much to get across?”
The old man shrugged. “It’s free.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What did he say?” Gape asked, crouching down to get a better view of the boat.
“He said we can go ’cross for nuffin,” said Groan, who never missed an opportunity to get something for free.
“There’s no charge AT ALL?” Gordo asked doubtfully.
“None,” the old man assured him wearily. “We’re funded by the Riverboat Association; there is no charge whatsoever for crossing these waters.”
Shadewell Shenanigans Page 7