Shadewell Shenanigans

by David Lee Stone

  “Let me get this straight,” he snarled instead, eyeing the giant barbarian carefully. “You want us to allow Phlegm out of the Great Assembly, in return for which you’re offering what?”

  Groan hefted his broadsword. “I ain’t offerin’ you nuffin’ sept the sharp end o’ this sword,” he boomed.

  “Really,” Visceral muttered. “It’ll be interesting to see if you manage to let go of it by the time I’ve fried your skull with this fireball.”

  “NO MORE LOOTING,” Gordo shouted.

  Everyone stared at him, even Groan.

  “NO PILLAGING,” the dwarf went on. “NO CARAVANS OVERTURNED, NO MERCHANTS ATTACKED. YOU LET US RUN PHLEGM WITHOUT INTERFERENCE, WE LEAVE YOUR CITIES ALONE. FOREVER.”

  Visceral pursed his lips, then shrugged and dissolved the fireball between his hands. After consulting with the other lords, he stood aside for Viscount Curfew.

  “What about trade?” Curfew asked. “We trade regularly with Phlegm.”

  “Trade continues as normal,” said Gape, who’d appointed himself Phlegm’s first official chief of the trade industry.

  “Yeah,” said Groan, who was beginning to feel out of his depth. “An’ you all ’ave to call me King Groan, right?”

  The earl and Viscount Curfew exchanged glances. Curfew’s glance said this might work to our advantage, while Visceral’s said there’s no “might” about it.

  Prince Blood was thinking along the same lines, but his attempted discussion with Baron Muttknuckles ended abruptly when the baron blatantly stole some change he’d secreted in a back pocket.

  At length, Curfew and Visceral emerged from the fray.

  “Agreed,” said the Viscount. “You may consider Phlegm removed from the Great Assembly, King Groan. We look forward to much profitable trade with you.”

  Groan nodded, and began to back away. His generals followed him.

  Visceral noticed that, as the Phlegmian quartet disappeared into the distance, the armies on the surrounding hills slowly began to withdraw.

  Eventually, the lords of Dullitch, Legrash, Spittle, and Shinbone were alone.

  “Well, I certainly didn’t expect that,” Curfew said, suddenly feeling the cold again.

  “Me neither,” said Prince Blood. “Still, I never liked Phew that much.”

  “Agreed,” said Curfew. “He didn’t trade with us at all, did he?”

  “Not once,” said Visceral, with a wry smile.

  “He traded with me every fortnight,” spat Muttknuckles, stomping toward his donkey. “See? I’ve bloody lost out again, haven’t I?” He clambered awkwardly onto his mule and urged it into a reluctant trot.

  “I’m assuming Dullitch’ll hold the usual state funeral for Modeset?” he asked, peering over one shoulder.

  “Of course,” Curfew said, noticing a sudden sly smile from the earl.

  “You’ll invite the new monarch of Phlegm, I take it?” Visceral muttered.

  “Naturally. It’ll be a good opportunity to … get to know him.”

  “I’ll see you at the funeral, then,” shouted Muttknuckles. “If you’re all still alive. Ha-ha-ha-ha!”

  Curfew watched the baron’s tired and inevitably slow departure. Then he turned to his fellow lords and said: “Remind me again why we put up with him?”

  Epilogue

  THE OFFICIAL FUNERAL OF Duke Modeset took place one year after the noble’s death, partly because no one wanted to host the event and partly because the Phlegmian authorities had failed to find a body in the keep’s shark-infested moat. Still, it was a grand affair, attended by lords and ladies from all over Illmoor. The continent’s noble elite crowded atop the Dullitch tor, jostling for position among the newly elected rulers of Phlegm, Spittle, Sneeze, and Legrash. Groan Teethgrit, the King of Phlegm, was not present, having recently enjoyed the birth of his first son.

  But that, as they say, is another story …

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Illmoor Chronicles

  Prologue

  “I DON’T LIKE THIS,” the traveler whispered to his friend. “I don’t like this at all.”

  Having been caught short of common sense in the wilderness north of Crust, they’d been delighted to discover a dilapidated coaching inn amid the fierce woodlands. However, their delight had soon changed to dubious apprehension when the place turned out to be full of strangely inhospitable locals. They could forgive the sniggering dwarves at the corner table and the odd looks from the group of farmers huddled beside the bar, but there was something seriously amiss with the hooded man sitting next to the fire, cracking his jaw, and the innkeeper with the black moustache (who they strongly suspected was two teeth short of a beaver). Worse still, there was now a silent yet unsubtle exchange running between the innkeeper and his fireside customer, albeit from far ends of the room.

  “I bet it’s about us,” said the first traveler, licking his trembling lips. “Did you see that bit where he walked his two fingers along the bar top? That might be code for ‘hitchhikers’ …”

  The second traveler rolled his eyes.

  “Oh, don’t be so paranoid,” he said, smiling nervously.

  “I’m not being paranoid – why aren’t they just speaking to each other, like normal folk?”

  “Perhaps they don’t want the farmers listening in.”

  “Ha! I doubt that. Look: the bloke beside the fire just ran a finger under his jaw – ’sa death signal, that! I just knew it was a bad idea to come in here! I mean: what kind of place is open at nearly three o’clock in the morning …?”

  “Go, then!”

  “Aren’t you coming?”

  “Nope: I’m far too tired to go on, just now.”

  Time passed. One by one, the farmers began to drink up and head out into the darkness. They were followed by the dwarves, who were all the worse for drink. Eventually, the inn became quiet, with only a crackle from the fireplace to hold back the silence.

  “Let’s get out of here; please,” whispered the first traveler, anxiety creeping into his voice.

  “And go where? There probably isn’t another inn for miles, at least not one that’s open! Besides, we haven’t even finished our drinks …”

  The traveler stared down at the tankards.

  “I don’t like this ale, anyway,” he muttered. “It tastes funny. I tell you, this place is knee-deep in the bad stuff …”

  The man beside the fireplace abruptly folded his arms, then seemed to change his mind, and reached up to caress his jutting jaw.

  The first traveler leaned close to his friend.

  “You’re not telling me he’s balanced,” he whispered.

  “Why, just because he’s not running over here to engage us in conversation?”

  “No, because he’s wearing a hood and playing with his jawbone: that’s proper mental.”

  His friend gave a dispassionate shrug.

  “Look, I’m cold, I’m hungry, and I’ll be damned if I’m walking through the woods for another six miles. I’m staying here and that’s that!”

  “Fine,” snapped the traveler, snatching up his backpack and clambering to his feet. “Well, just so you know, the innkeeper has dried blood all down the back of his coat: I saw it as I ordered the drinks …”

  The traveler slung on his pack, and departed. When the door had slammed behind him, his friend made a disgruntled face and took another large swig of ale: it did taste funny, he had to admit.

  The clock struck three. As the last of its chimes sounded throughout, the door of the inn creaked open, and a thin, spindly man with bulbous eyes and a strangely active tongue sidled his way in.

  “We’ve got it, massster,” he spat, apparently addressing the hooded man. “It’sssss in the yard.”

  That said, he hurried outside again.

  The traveler looked on in a not-looking-on sort of way as the stranger beside the fire got carefully to his feet and followed.

  “Open up the back,” the stranger called, as he passed the table.
“I’ll give them a hand.”

  “Right you are,” the innkeeper shouted after him, stomping off into the dark recesses of the inn.

  Then, there was silence.

  As the room’s enormous fire crackled away, the traveler – now totally alone in the bar – began to feel very uncomfortable.

  “Maybe it’s an ale delivery or something,” he said to himself, but aloud, so the room didn’t seem quite so menacing. “Yeah, that’ll be it: an ale delivery.”

  Then it happened: a terrible scream, a cry of pain that pierced the silence of the inn and nearly caused the traveler to bite clean through his tongue. He jumped to his feet.

  “What the hell was that?” he gasped, glancing around at the empty room. There was still no sign of the innkeeper.

  He quickly snatched up his backpack, left an overly generous tip on the table and made his way to the door, but he hadn’t gone more than ten steps when a deep, booming voice said:

  “And where do you think you’re going?”

  The innkeeper had appeared at the bar, his spindly associate standing beside him.

  “I – er – thought I might head off …” the traveler said with a forced smile, sweat beginning to bead on his brow.

  “Oh, you did, did you?”

  “Er … yes: I’m afraid so. It’s getting late. Goodnight!”

  There was a “click” from behind him, and the traveler spun around: the hooded stranger from the fireplace had re-entered the inn and was lowering a bar across the door.

  “Wh-what are you doing? What is this?”

  He made to step around the man, then thought better of it and turned back to the innkeeper.

  “What’s going on here?”

  The innkeeper smiled, displaying a grim formation of broken teeth, but neither he nor his snake-like companion spoke a word.

  “LET – ME – OUT!” said the traveler, gritting his teeth, partly to show some mustard but mainly because it stopped his jaw from shaking. “I’m going home, do you hear me? I don’t belong here!”

  “Oh, we know that,” whispered the hooded man, putting a hand on the traveler’s shoulder. “But tonight, for us, is a very important night, when something we’ve planned for a very long time has come to pass.”

  “W-what’s that got to do with me?”

  “Nothing. It’s got nothing at all to do with you, but when your friend left earlier, he did so at a very inopportune moment … and he saw someone that he shouldn’t have seen. He was in the wrong place at the worst possible time … as are you.”

  The traveler’s eyes filled with tears, and his lips began to tremble.

  “B-but I’m not g-going to tell anyone …”

  “Not good enough. Besides,” the stranger said, removing his hood. “You’ve seen my face.”

  The traveler stepped back, his jaw dropping. “B-b-but I don’t understand: aren’t you Vi –”

  There was a sudden, sickening thud and then … there was silence.

  Part One

  Problems at the Palace …

  One

  NIGHT … AND DOWN CAME the rain.

  Guard Marshal Tikki LaVale didn’t think much of Dullitch’s wall-top sentries, not because he had particularly high standards or was in any way difficult to please, but simply because the sentries in Dullitch were that bad. Consequently, when a shadow appeared on the rooftops of the city’s eastside, moving at an impossibly high speed and leaping chimney stacks as if they were pebbles, Tikki immediately determined to give chase himself.

  Saying nothing to his lazy subordinates on the eight o’clock shift, he backed slowly away from the window, walked casually out of his office, climbed carefully down the rickety ladder that separated his own sentry box from those on the lower level, sneaked out of view along the dark alleyways opposite the city wall and promptly shot off across town like a crossbow bolt.

  Tikki could run fast – he’d been able to ever since he was a boy – and he could also hurdle, so nothing short of an unexpected high wall was going to slow his progress. There were certainly no unexpected high walls in this part of Dullitch, where the houses were so close together that their upper stories were affectionately known as “kissers.”

  Tikki dashed up the ridiculously narrow, uneven cobbled lanes until he found a house with something that thieves would have referred to as the “golden drainpipe.” Spotting the property out of the corner of his eye, he hurried over to it, shinned up the pipe, scrambled on to the ramshackle roof and produced an old but very trusty spyglass from the depths of his jerkin.

  The rooftop view appeared, and was quickly twisted into focus. It took Tikki a moment to find the shadow – mainly because the rain was lashing his face – but once he’d spotted it, he immediately knew from the divergence of direction and the incredible urgency of pace that it could only be heading for one location: the palace.

  Tikki took a deep breath, and put on a burst of speed that he usually reserved for downing ale in the Ferret at closing time. In just under ten seconds, he’d crossed six roofs and made a very unlikely-looking jump between two buildings loosely linking the rich and poor districts. Recovering quickly, he dropped onto the dodgy slates of Finlayzzon’s and, unfurling a coil of rope and a miniature grapple, managed to get halfway along the jutting buttresses of Karuim’s Church before slipping in the unforgiving rain and sliding awkwardly to the street below.

  No time for such a mistake …

  He groaned as he struggled up from the mud, then swung the rope around in a wild arc and began the frantic climb back to the top of the church. Progress was fast, but not nearly fast enough for Tikki’s liking. Finally, engraved with grit, grime and countless scratches, he hauled himself onto the highest of the church’s many spires, locked the grapple in place and lowered himself gently over the side.

  Drawing level with the palace walls, he kicked himself away from the church’s north face and landed squarely on the battlements opposite. His rope was more difficult to retrieve this time, so much so that he almost left it, but eventually perseverance paid off.

  So … around the palace wall …

  … through a door in the (alarmingly empty) guard post …

  … and down the spiral staircase.

  Then outside, across the palace gardens …

  … grappling iron ready …

  … swing …

  … and up to the palace roof.

  Tikki LaVale, through determination, speed and an outstanding knowledge of the city’s myriad byways, arrived on the roof of Dullitch Palace, sparing just enough time to draw his sword as his target landed on the other side of the building’s wide roof.

  The shadow – for it was wreathed in a black, billowing cloak – rolled as it landed, depositing a small box on the rooftop, then leaped up and drew two swords with such speed that, for a moment, Tikki thought he might have imagined the move. Anticipating an immediate strike, he knelt and readied his own blade.

  Then came a shock; as the figure drew near to the Guard Marshal, it pulled back the hood covering its face.

  Relief flooded over Tikki LaVale.

  “Human,” he said, gritting his teeth against the pelting rain. “I’ll admit I’m surprised; I thought at the very least you’d be Elfin. What’s in the box? Doomchuck powder? An explosive of some kind? Oh no, I see it’s moving. A poison lizard, then? Very original.”

  The stranger paid no attention to Tikki’s words. Instead, he darted forward, whirled the two blades in a complicated web and swiftly struck out with them.

  Tikki blocked both shots with his own sword.

  “Two things,” he said, squinting through the downpour. “One: though I’m impressed with that turn of speed you showed in getting here, I should advise you that I was further away, and I still got here first. And two: it wouldn’t be fair of me not to tell you that – with the possible exception of Viscount Curfew himself – I’m probably the best sword in the city, so don’t even think –”

  Tikki was interrupted by
two immediate strikes, followed by a somersault and a third. Still, despite the fact that he parried all three, the action worried him enough to take a step back and study the face of his attacker.

  “Who are you?” he said, gazing from the small, beady eyes to the straggly, rain-soaked hair. “What do you want here?”

  The two men circled each other, looking for an opening.

  “I assume you’re here for the viscount,” Tikki went on, while measuring the time between lightning strikes to see if it would aid his cause. “Who sent you? Legrash? Phlegm? Spittle? Hmm … funny, somehow you don’t look like an assassin …”

  The fifth blow was aimed directly at Tikki’s face, and he dodged it with comparative ease: perhaps the talk was helping.

  “I say you don’t look like an assassin because assassins are usually smart enough to keep themselves covered up,” he continued, smiling through a particularly vicious rumble of thunder. “Then again, maybe you’re just confident …”

  Nothing was spoken by the stranger, but a sixth strike followed, then a seventh.

  Tikki dived down to block the last blow, and realized with sudden, terrible horror that he’d left himself open to …

  Ssssk.

  Tikki grabbed for his throat, but he’d incorrectly predicted the stranger’s move: the throat wound was merely a scratch to divert attention from …

  “Argghh!”

  He staggered back, the stranger’s second sword buried deep in his chest, and …

  … down came the rain.

  The swordsman dragged the body of Tikki LaVale across the palace roof and deposited it beside one of the more magnificent buttresses. Then he retrieved the box he’d been carrying and crept carefully toward the upper stairwell hatch.

  When he pulled on the brass ring and lifted the sturdy hatch, relief flooded over him: there were no guards on duty at the top of the tower. Ha! That would make the task so much easier than he had anticipated.

  The swordsman slipped inside the tower and began to descend the spiral staircase: his box was shaking now, as the creature inside fought to escape its squat prison.