Shadewell Shenanigans

by David Lee Stone

  The entire surviving citizenry of Wemeru—which amounted to approximately twenty zombies—awaited him there, tottering around on their fractured legs like a group of oversized penguins. There was a succession of low, brainless muttering, and the Teethgrits were shoved to the front. A small space cleared around them as Count Craven slumped onto his wicker throne.

  “What do you want in Wemeru?” he began, each word sounding as though it had been scoured with sandpaper.

  “We’ve come for Lady Khan’s ring,” Gape announced pompously.

  “Yeah,” Groan added. “An’ we’re not goin’ wivout it!”

  Count Craven gave this a moment’s consideration; it took three quarters of an hour.

  “Lady Khan,” he said, as though the two men that stood before him were stark-raving mad, “is a chicken. And no one leaves Wemeru alive.”

  “It’s funny you should say that,” Gape said, beginning to untie the makeshift knot around his wrists. “Because, unless you hand over the ring, we’re not going to leave anyone in Wemeru alive.”

  “Interesting,” muttered Craven, biting at what was left of his lower lip. “I’ve never been threatened before—”

  “—and you’ll never be threatened again,” Gape finished, breaking the knot but keeping both hands behind his back. “I guarantee it.”

  “Ha! That’s not a threat.”

  “It is when you mean it to mean what I mean it to mean.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You’re boaf talkin’ junk,” Groan rumbled, wrenching free from his bonds with one almighty flex. “Eever give us the ring or die.”

  Count Craven smiled, and motioned for his guards to shuffle back. “There is no ring,” he said calmly. “And we’re already dead.” He rose from his throne and swept an indicating hand over the assembly. “By all means, try to fight us; you will fail. We have no blood to shed and all the time in the world in which to overcome you. Now, are you going to go quietly, or do we have to—”

  “Master!”

  The zombie captain entered the throne room from a side door and limped its way through the throng.

  Count Craven turned a tired eye toward him. “Well?”

  “Um … sorry to trouble you again, master, but what should we do with the dwarf’s head?”

  “You what?” Groan boomed, looking around the room and noticing, for the first time, that Gordo wasn’t present. “What’ve you dun ta GORDO?”

  “I thought I told you to drown him,” Craven said.

  The guard nodded. “You did, master.”

  “And you beheaded him instead?”

  “No, master, we’re getting ready to drown him. I just wanted to know what you wanted us to do with his head.”

  Craven’s face was a terrible mask of confusion. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Isn’t it on his shoulders?”

  “One is, master,” the captain confided. “The other’s around his waist.”

  Craven raised one desiccated brow and turned his attention back to the warriors.

  “You have a two-headed dwarf?” he inquired, with something approaching admiration.

  “Not a two-headed dwarf,” came a voice from outside, followed by a commotion. Gordo Goldeaxe appeared in the doorway, shouldered the last remaining zombies away from him, and held his head up high. “But a dwarf holding the head of your own nephew, Loogie Lambontroff!”

  “Hello again, Uncle!” the head exclaimed.

  There was a communal gasp, a series of shouts, and then the room erupted with violence.

  “Kill them!” Craven screamed, retrieving a black staff from beside his throne and holding it aloft. “Kill them all!”

  Groan bowled into the zombie carrying his sword, Gape wolf-whistled for his own two blades, and Gordo Goldeaxe did the first thing that came into his head. He threw it.

  The zombie horde dived left and right as the screaming skull of Loogie Lambontroff somersaulted across the room. Not for the first time that day, it was beginning to get very angry indeed …

  Fifteen

  IT WAS MIDNIGHT IN Phlegm, and the keep was shrouded in darkness. Somewhere on the first floor, a wire carefully worked its way into a lock and forced a resounding click from the mechanism.

  The door to Susti’s bedchamber creaked open, and the princess stepped outside. The sentries on duty were fast asleep.

  “Are you sure about this, ma’am?” Bronwyn panted. She’d had enough excitement for one day. For one lifetime, come to that.

  “Shhh!” Susti warned. “Just get back inside and stay quiet. If you want to help, you can stuff my bed full of cushions.”

  She turned and tiptoed off along the corridor, clutching a candle dish in one hand and a mace in the other.

  At the first T-junction, she slipped up behind the duty guard and clubbed him into unconsciousness. She decided not to bother dragging him into a nook; time was of the essence, and besides, he looked far too heavy for that.

  Susti crept to the top of the outer dungeon stairwell and began to descend. On the ground floor, she had to stay low in order to avoid the corridor patrol, and came dangerously close to killing the keep’s cat when it clawed at her as she crouched in the shadows.

  Eventually, the patrol came and went, and the cat received its just deserts in the shape of some very hot wax.

  Susti unhooked the latch of the dungeon door and stepped down into the glowing darkness.

  Down.

  Down.

  Down.

  Torchlight flared on the walls, and various nocturnally inclined prisoners began their midnight moaning sessions. Susti guessed that her father would be in the dankest, dirtiest cell in the dungeon, and headed toward it.

  She was wrong.

  Three half-naked ogres, a moon troll, two muggers, and a woman of the night later, she finally found the king in a cell not entirely unlike his own bedchamber. There were no guards on duty, and the key dangled from a convenient hook beside the door.

  “F-father? Are you okay?” Susti called, reaching for the key. “Can you speak? Have they hurt you?”

  King Phew rose from his prison bed. “No, my dear, I’m fine. Really, I am. What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve come to get you out! I’ve come to rescue you!

  She turned the key in the lock and flung open the door, stepping back to indicate the empty corridor.

  “C’mon, we’re going to steal a cart or something …”

  The king sighed. “And where would we go? You heard Modeset; there isn’t a kingdom in Illmoor that’d help me take my throne back from him!”

  Susti nodded. “I agree with you, Father, but I do know some people who might—”

  “Oh, really?” said a voice. Duke Modeset appeared at the doorway, flanked by General Crikey and an embarrassed-looking Pegrand. “Do tell.”

  Susti squinted to see into the shadows behind the general. There didn’t seem to be any more guards outside in the corridor.

  “I’m not telling you anything,” she said, readying her mace. “And you haven’t the brains to guess!”

  Modeset rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I haven’t the brains to guess what?” he said. “That you’re planning to flee the city and warn Groan Teethgrit and his rowdy mob about my plan, in a pathetic attempt to gain their allegiance?” He sighed and shook his head. “Two things, Your Highness: first, I doubt very much whether you’d make it past the more than fifty guards I’ve posted on the main gate, and second, according to a report from two of Phlegm’s finest, the Teethgrits and Goldeaxe have already crossed the Washin, and will, by now, be having their insides removed by the zombie lord of Rintintetly. In fact, I have already sent a message to my fellow lords confirming it! Ha-ha-ha-ha!”

  Susti’s face fell, and she lowered her mace. “Of course,” Modeset mimicked, “there’s always your wild friend from the jungles. Oh … but what am I saying? My men drowned him in the river this evening. I’m so very sorry. Now, are you going to put down your weapon peacefully and return
to your quarters, or are we going to have to do things the hard way?”

  Susti glanced at her father’s wretched expression, and reluctantly held out her mace for collection. Modeset grinned, Pegrand breathed a sigh of relief, and General Crikey strode over to retrieve the weapon.

  Everything that happened next, happened in a blur of bewilderment and fury …

  It wasn’t the first time Gordo Goldeaxe had witnessed the emergence of a twinling; in fact, it wasn’t even the first time that day. Still, the sight took his breath away. It was almost indescribable.

  Put simply: he’d thrown a head that’d landed on its feet. That is, Loogie had simply sprouted another body, fully formed, in midair. The twinling, which’d started off as a red mist, was solid by the time it hit the ground. Cursing unnamable obscenities, it had promptly gone tearing up the hall like a thing possessed—which, of course, it was—reached the count before he could summon anything with his staff, and was currently trying to unscrew the zombie lord’s decrepit skull. It was all very entertaining to watch, and, from a confrontational point of view, it had turned the tide of the battle.

  Groan, ever the resourceful combatant, had quickly realized that his sword was redundant in their present situation, and had also figured out that the farther you threw a zombie, the longer it took the thing to stagger back.

  Gape, usually by far the smarter of the two, was still persisting with his swords, and had several deep gashes in his chest as a result.

  Gordo had leaped up onto the back of one of the larger zombies and was riding around on it, swinging his axe whenever the opportunity presented itself. He was also watching the Lambontroff versus Craven struggle with increasing curiosity.

  Dark Loogie was winning. It’d pressed two thumbs into the eye sockets of its erstwhile uncle and was literally pushing the life right out of him.

  “You stole my chicken!” it screamed. “You thieeef!”

  There was a final, strangled scream, and the count collapsed into a crumpled heap. The move proved to be a domino effect, and, one by one, all of the count’s minions succumbed to a similar fate, tumbling to the floor like unwanted rags.

  Groan felt the zombie he was holding on to go limp, and tossed it aside.

  Gape took two last swings at his own aggressors as they dropped, and Gordo landed on top of his makeshift horse with a cheer of victory.

  “We did it!” he cried. “Can you believe that? Are we the toughest bunch of nutcases on the jetty or what?”

  “I am,” Groan bellowed. “You two didn’t do nothin’. ’Sides, how we gonna find that ring now?”

  “Hold your hors—” Gordo started, but Gape interrupted him.

  “Not now, fellas. We’ve got trouble …”

  The three warriors looked up toward the throne, where Loogie Lambontroff’s twinling was finishing off the count’s staff. It raised the weapon high above its head and snapped it over one knee. Then it brandished both halves of the staff and came at them, screaming bloody murder …

  Stump awoke, freezing cold.

  He was hungry, thirsty, and not a little annoyed. Still, he reflected, at least the guards had gone. He looked up at the full moon and tried to work out where he’d come ashore. It didn’t take him long …

  He was on the eastern bank of the Washin, and the bordering trees of Rintintetly seemed to reach out toward him. He’d heard about the woods, of course. Everyone had. If the rumors were to be believed, they contained nothing but terrible danger and almost certain death. Then again, the same could be said for virtually any forest in Illmoor. Stump was at home in forests, woods, and jungles, but he usually liked to keep his base of operations in the southern stretches, like the Carafat, Helter Glades, or Shademost. This was new territory, and despite the come-hither wave of the trees, it didn’t look too inviting.

  Still, he had to get away somehow. It looked as though the duke was baying for his blood. He wondered about Phlegm’s reach, guard-wise. Would it stretch up to Spittle, down to the Twelve? Hmm …

  The best thing, he decided, would be to wait until morning and then go into Rintintetly. That way, he could follow the wood south and eventually emerge near the old Dullitch road.

  First things first.

  Stump looked around for a good-size rock, and went fishing in the moonlight.

  Gape swung out his swords as the twinling rushed toward him. He caught it with the first, missed with the second, and found himself hurtling backward across the hall, before he could even think about trying for a kick.

  The twinling looked down at the cut that the warrior’s sword had made in its arm, and grinned at the sight of its own blood.

  Gordo was next up. He ran screaming at the creature, leaped into the air, and swung his battle-axe in a vertical arc. The twinling caught the weapon just below the blade, wrenching it away from the dwarf. Gordo rallied quickly, flinging himself to the ground and successfully sweeping the legs of the dark twin. It crashed to the floor, then spun around with such force that both its legs smashed into Gordo at the same time.

  The dwarf shot across the flagstones like a flicked coin, disappearing through a window in a shower of glass.

  The twinling cackled evilly, then raced across the room at Groan …

  … who caught it in midair and snapped it like a twig.

  There was a sudden eruption of flame, and the twinling vanished.

  “Thank the gods for that,” said the head of Loogie Lambontroff, looking up at Groan from amidst the smoking remains. “I thought we were in real trouble then.”

  “Help! Somebody help me!”

  Gape staggered to his feet, and the two warriors hurried over to the window, pulling Gordo up from the ledge below with comparatively little effort.

  “I’d say it’s about time,” Gordo spat, noticing that Groan had Loogie’s head under one arm. “I see we’re ahead of the game once again.”

  “Very funny,” said Loogie miserably. “You know, I really should’ve grown back by now.”

  “I dun’ care if you never grow back,” Groan roared. “Tell us where the count keeps ’is chickens.

  Loogie sniffed. “Don’t know that I will.”

  “If you don’t,” said Gape, retrieving his swords, “I might start taking a dangerous interest in sport. I hear deathball is a lot of fun.”

  “All right, all right!” Loogie spluttered. “He keeps his chickens in a big coop in the gardens, but—”

  “Good.”

  “Wait a min—”

  “Shut it.”

  “Fine!”

  Gape made an exaggerated gesture with his arm. “Lead on …”

  “Have it your way,” the head muttered. “You’ll need to go back through the door at the far end.”

  The group slowly began to head for the exit, but halfway across the floor, Gordo’s sixth sense started tingling. It was a strange sensation, and one that seldom affected the dwarf unless he was about to miss out on something special.

  “Stop!” he said suddenly.

  Groan and Gape paused in the doorway and peered back at him.

  “What is it?” the younger Teethgrit inquired, squinting at the dwarf. “You need a breather after your little trip through the window?”

  Gordo shook his head. “There’s something else in this room.”

  Groan stepped back through the door, and both brothers began to look around. After a few minutes, Gordo came to his senses and tapped Loogie on the top of his head.

  “Yes?”

  “Am I right?” asked the dwarf. “Is there something in this room that we’re not seeing?”

  The head sniffed. “Like what? Hidden treasure or something?”

  “I dunno: you tell me.”

  “Hmm … I don’t think so. There’s a door you might be interested in, though—”

  Gordo grinned. “I knew it,” he said. “Where?”

  “Behind the throne, but don’t get excited; it doesn’t contain the secret wealth of Illmoor or anything like that.”
<
br />   “Does it contain the secret wealth of Wemeru?”

  The head twitched a few times, then sighed, “Scientifically speaking, yes.”

  “That’ll do.”

  The warriors made for the steps that led to the throne, dashed up them two at a time and, together, heaved the giant chair to the flagstones.

  Sure enough, there was a door in the wall behind it.

  “Get it open!”

  Groan’s broadsword was the first to breach the gap between the door and the wall. Gape soon joined him, driving both swords in to give the team extra leverage. There was a hiss of escaping air, an audible creak, and the door scraped open.

  “Look, why are you doing this?” Loogie complained. “I thought you wanted to find Lady Khan—”

  “We do,” said Gordo. “But if there’s a gold deposit in there, then obviously we have to put that first.”

  He glanced at Groan and Gape for support, but both of them were looking doubtful.

  “Look,” Gape said, snatching a burning torch from a nearby wall bracket and peering beyond the door. “What exactly is up there?”

  “I told you,” Loogie muttered. “The scientific wealth of Wemeru.”

  “I don’ wan’ no si-an-tif-ic welf,” Groan thundered. “I wan’ welf you can buy stuff wiv.”

  “That door leads to the top of the pyramid,” said the head. “And I’m warning you, it’s one hell of a trek. If I were you I’d camp here and go up in the morning.”

  There was a vague murmur of agreement before Gordo conceded the point and slumped, exhausted, to the ground. Groan and Gape had a brief discussion about the best way to start a campfire and wandered off to collect a few zombies for kindling.

  They slept peacefully, albeit in shifts.

  Susti paused for a second to take stock of the situation. Somehow, she’d managed to knock General Crikey back with such force, he’d bowled into Modeset and Pegrand, and now all three were rolling around in the corridor like stuck turtles.

  She seized the opportunity, and, grabbing her father by the elbow, she rushed outside. She snatched a dagger from Crikey’s belt, kicking him in the face before he could muster a reaction. Pegrand got similar treatment from King Phew, while Modeset had the common sense to stay down and wait for reinforcements. Unfortunately, the duke’s luck wasn’t in, and he felt a dagger prick his throat.