by Matthew Ward
Royston nodded in apology, then hunched forward and thrust Arthur through the cage door.
Arthur’s spine hit the back of the cage with a clank. It was no more pleasant an experience than he’d imagined.
The giant then turned his attention to Ruby. He flipped her right-side up again, gripped her under her arms, and held her firmly in front of his face.
As Royston’s eyes met his sister’s, he paused and cocked his head one degree to the left. He scrunched up his brow and inched his nose forward.
Ruby stared unflinchingly back. Slowly, moisture began pooling at the bottoms of her eyes.
The giant drew nearer.
Without warning, Ruby lunged forward and wrapped her arms around his neck.
Royston flinched and drew back his arm to strike—but quickly relaxed when he realized he was not under attack. For a moment, he stood bewildered and motionless as the girl pressed her cheek against his own—and hugged him.
The moment did not last long. Rayford’s patience, it turned out, was even shorter than his stature.
“Roy!” barked the dwarf. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
The giant’s face flooded with shame and panic. Stumbling backward, Royston ripped the girl from his neck and tossed her clumsily into the cage. He slammed the door shut, then snapped the lock into place and promptly removed the key.
“That’s more like it,” Rayford grumbled.
Inside the cage, Arthur could hear faint sniffling coming from his new cellmate. He crawled up beside her and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right?” he asked.
Ruby looked at Arthur through glistening eyes. “I— I thought I was the only one.”
“Ah, yes,” the dwarf interrupted, his beady eyes glaring through the bars of the cage, “I take it you’re referring to that minor surplus you’ve been granted in the toe department. That is rather amusing, isn’t it? I’m not sure Mother would consider it to be in quite the same category as our own exceptional attributes, but I imagine you might be regarded as marginally special in some less discerning circles. That said, we exceptionals should really stick together, regardless of our varying levels of uniqueness. Indeed, I had hoped we might work as a team someday—Mother’s three most special children, reunited at last. But I must say I’m sensing a bit of resistance from you on that now.”
Ruby wiped her eye with the heel of her palm and raised her chin. “I hate to break it to you, Rayford, but Rita hardly thinks of us as special. She’s simply trying to cover you up—like she’s done with my toes since the day I was born.”
“It pains me to hear you say that, Sis—but whatever makes you feel better.” Rayford glanced at his watch, which could only have been a rubber accessory for a toy doll, then said, “Ah, well, look at the time. Royston and I really must be going if we’re to accomplish all we have to do today.”
Something in the dwarf’s tone unsettled Arthur. “W-what exactly would that be?” he asked.
“Well, once we do a bit to beef up security around here, it’s off to the World Record World Championships to finally put an end to this ridiculous rivalry.” The dwarf giggled as he glanced to the bulging shopping bag the giant had retrieved from the entranceway. “But don’t worry, boy, your family will go out with a bang—hee hee—believe me, it’s going to be a blast.”
Arthur’s face went pale.
“Hmmm,” Ruby scowled. “Don’t know if you were quite clear enough there, Rayford. It’s fine to take the subtle approach, but what’s the point if no one can tell what you’re talking about?”
“Well, excuse me, Little Miss Know-It-All. And Royston wonders why Father finds you so disagreeable. Very well then, how’s this: if things don’t go our way, somebody is going to get blown up.”
“Better,” said Ruby with a smirk. “But I still don’t know if we completely understand. Could you maybe be a bit clearer?”
Rayford’s face was quickly taking on the traits of the World’s Largest Cherry Tomato, but before he could respond, Arthur interjected, “My family will notice the hole we made. They’ll follow the tunnel back to us. They’ll get us out of here and we’ll warn them of your plans.”
“Oh, really?” leered the dwarf, the coolness returning to his voice. “And what car is it your family drives? Triple-decker Hulls-Hoyst, is it? A bit like the one we’ve just seen speeding past us toward the city on our way home? Ah, yes—with everyone so focused on Daddy’s duel this morning and the competition’s final events, it seems your family has forgotten all about its poor, recordless son. I’m afraid you’ll be getting no help from them today. And as for you, dear sister, well, I’m sure it’s no surprise Mother and Father have left you behind as well. You really should try to be more of a team player if you want any chance at earning their love, you know.”
“Is that so?” snapped Ruby. “And what exactly has ‘earning their love’ got you—a bomb shelter with a custom bunk bed?”
Rayford gritted his teeth momentarily, then resumed his speech. “Anyway, do try to enjoy yourselves. I hope your accommodations don’t prove too intolerably dull or confining. You might try a game of ‘I spy’ or ‘sit-down charades’ to better help you pass the time. Royston and I have often found them to be just the thing. Oh—and if any jumbo-sized rats happen to wander into your cage, you’ll want to refrain from petting them—I’m afraid Rocco hasn’t had his vaccinations yet. Very well then—toodle-oo!”
At the snap of his brother’s fingers, Royston grabbed the sinister shopping bag in one hand and hoisted Rayford onto his shoulder with the other. He lumbered over to the locked door and inserted a key into the latch, then pulled it open and ducked into the doorway.
The diabolical twins disappeared through the threshold as the door slammed shut behind them, leaving Arthur and Ruby altogether alone.
The Duel
Well, it’s been quite a blustery morning here at Champions Court Place Park—both meteorologically and competitively—as the final leg of the tournament is now well under way. The major story to come out of this morning’s events, of course, has been the Whipple family’s sudden surge forward in their race against the Goldwins for world-record breaking’s most coveted prize.”
“That’s right, Ted. After starting the day in a veritable dead heat with their rivals, the Whipples have managed to pull ahead of the Goldwin clan by nearly a dozen world records. At this point, they’ve earned such a lead that, to have any chance at the Championship Cup, the Goldwins would need to win virtually every one of their remaining events—an unprecedented feat for any family behind by so much at this stage in the competition.”
“There’s no question, Chuck—this is definitely the Whipples’ race to lose.”
“Certainly, Ted. Of course, with Dueling Hour set to kick off in just a few minutes at the traditional high noon, there’s really no telling what the final outcome will be. As Charles Whipple and Rex Goldwin prepare to square off on the main dueling field as per the terms of their rivalry contract, a massive crowd has gathered to watch them settle their dispute—an event that is sure to shape the future of record breaking for years to come.”
“That’s right, Chuck, this single contest can often mean more to a participant’s career than the very championship itself. No loser of a premiere-division duel has ever gone on to win a major cup title. This is largely due to the fact that few defeated duelists—even those surviving the ordeal—have managed to overcome the acute humiliation of being beaten in a matter of honor on such a grand stage. Many have dropped out of the world records game altogether; some have struggled to remain relevant, only to become the objects of ridicule and derision amongst the world-record-breaking elite. And then, of course, there are those unfortunate few who have gone so far as to take their own lives.”
“Never really a thing we like to see, is it, Ted?”
“Indeed, Chuck. Though, more often tha
n not, it does end up being the best career move these poor devils could have made.”
“Too true, Ted. There’s nothing like dying a horrible death to help one recapture lost market share.”
“Absolutely, Chuck. Let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that for one of our combatants here today; the loss of revenue on sponsorships alone would be truly tragic. But now, let’s head out to the field, where Charles Whipple and Rex Goldwin are gearing up for their preselected event: motorbike jousting!”
• • •
Mr. Whipple strode toward the tent’s exit, but his wife clutched his arm and pulled him back.
“Are you sure we haven’t forgotten something, Charles? Hard as I try, I can’t shake the awful feeling that something is missing. We haven’t left George’s bagpipes at home, have we?”
“No dear. I packed them myself.”
“What about Ivy and Mr. Growls’s matching diving suits? I don’t remember seeing them this morning.”
“I watched Wilhelm load them onto the roof rack just before we left. Please, darling—we’re all a bit nervous here. It’s only natural when one is faced with such a high probability of death and humiliation. But we mustn’t lose our heads now—not when we’re so close to our goal. I assure you, everything is perfectly in order.”
“Oh, Charles—I’m so worried for you! Do be careful not to be killed!”
“You may rest assured, dear—I shall make every effort to that end.”
With that, he kissed his wife and walked from the tent to the welcoming roar of the crowd.
Mr. Whipple cut a straight line across the tiltyard, zipping up his black leather jousting jacket as he approached his motorbike, where his two eldest sons stood waiting. He gave a nod to each of them, then straddled the vehicle and ground his boot into the kick-start lever, goading the engine to life.
When he had set his helmet in place and fitted his scarf, he motioned to Simon, who handed him his shield—a steel hubcap painted with the sable elephant of the Whipple family crest.
“Good luck, Dad,” said Simon.
“Thank you, Son.”
Mr. Whipple turned to Henry. “Electro-lance.”
“Yes, sir,” said the eldest. He hoisted the long, tapered spear into his father’s right arm and connected it to the two electrical leads that ran to the bike’s battery. “Bring us back a Goldwin kebab, Dad.”
Mr. Whipple glanced to the opposite end of the list field where his opponent sat revving the engine of his gold-trimmed cycle.
“I shall indeed, Son,” he said, then lowered his goggles and grasped the throttle.
As the flag boy approached the center of the field, Henry and Simon retreated to the sideline, leaving their father alone with his mechanical steed. A hush fell over the crowd.
The flag, held aloft in the boy’s hand, flapped for a moment in the breeze—and then dropped.
The two motorbikes charged forward.
Mr. Whipple sped alongside the low fence that divided the two sides of the field. He lowered his lance and trained its point on his oncoming target.
He waited until he was close enough to see the fury in Rex Goldwin’s eyes, then leaned into his handlebars and braced for impact.
The spring-loaded spearhead struck the golden lizard at the center of Rex’s shield with a crash, sending sparks of electricity arcing across its face and into the arm of its bearer.
At the same moment, Rex snapped his own lance upward, skirting the top of Mr. Whipple’s shield and striking his head.
Sparks flew from Mr. Whipple’s helmet as the spear scraped a deep gouge in its left side. Though the insulated shell protected him from the electric shock, the force of the blow snapped his head back in a cruel, unnatural motion.
The crowd gasped. Mr. Whipple slumped to the rear of his cycle, his fingers clutching tenuously at one handlebar as his vehicle swerved to the right.
A cluster of field-level spectators dove from the path of the runaway motorbike, narrowly escaping death as it crossed the sideline and careened toward the concrete wall beyond. Looking on from the front row, the Whipples leapt to their feet and covered their mouths in panic.
Sparks showered from Mr. Whipple’s handlebar as it struck the cement barrier.
Penelope and Charlotte buried their faces in their hands.
But just before the wheel made impact, Mr. Whipple regained his grip on the handlebars. He jerked the bike away from the wall and plowed through a row of hedges, nearly striking two referees before finally skidding to a halt on an empty patch of turf.
The crowd cheered. The Whipples sighed with relief.
Mr. Whipple caught his breath and peered down the field to see Rex Goldwin saluting the audience from his motorbike, entirely unharmed in the duel’s first clash.
As the two men passed each other on the way back to their respective starting positions, Rex shouted across the fence, “Careful, Charlie! Don’t go dying on me just yet—be a pity to spoil the fun so soon, wouldn’t it?”
“Never you worry, Mr. Goldwin,” replied the other. “The fun is only just beginning.”
• • •
“Well, Ted, that marks the fourth straight round in which Charles Whipple has scored a clean shot to his opponent’s shield—in spite of being struck on the helmet by his opponent’s lance. Quite a strange tactic from Rex Goldwin, don’t you think?”
“Very strange indeed, Chuck. Though head strikes are not illegal in motorbike jousting, only strikes to the shield count for points. It seems Goldwin is willing to sacrifice a showing on the scorecards for a chance at unseating Whipple and engaging him in close combat. If he manages to deal a death blow, of course, he’ll have no need for points—but I’ve never seen a combatant focus so heavily on unseating an opponent so early in a duel. It’s a tactic usually reserved as a last resort—when one can no longer win the duel on points. Rex Goldwin, however, has shown no interest from the very start in a victory by scorecard. I’d say what we’ve got here, Chuck, is a man out for blood.”
“No question, Ted. I guess we’ll see how badly Charles Whipple wants to keep his own from spilling.”
“That we shall, Chuck. This should be a good one!”
• • •
For the next five rounds, Mr. Whipple continued to rack up points on his opponent’s shield—while Rex Goldwin persisted in pummeling Mr. Whipple’s head, like a sweet-toothed child battling the World’s Most Stubborn Piñata.
It was in the tenth round that Rex’s persistence finally paid off.
Having grown accustomed to his opponent’s repeated shots to the head, Mr. Whipple had learned to lessen the impact by dodging to one side or the other. This, routine, however, left him entirely unprepared for a direct blow to the chest.
The tip of the spear compressed against Mr. Whipple’s steel-studded jacket and catapulted his body backward, while his motorbike rode on without him. Mr. Whipple floated in midair for a split second, then thudded to earth on his back.
He lay stunned for several moments. But then he noticed the man on the motorbike charging at his head.
Rex hunkered into his seat and cranked the throttle as the fallen man struggled to move.
Mr. Whipple reached for his lance. He anchored its handle in the earth and popped its point upward.
The maniacal grin on Rex’s face froze as the spear struck his ribs.
Mr. Whipple rolled to his right. Wind blasted his face as Rex’s tires whirled past him.
An instant later, Rex hit the ground. His unmanned motorbike collided with the center fence and plowed into the earth, its front wheel still spinning as the vehicle clattered to a standstill.
In the space between the two immobilized machines, their riders lay motionless in the dirt.
Then, slowly, the figures began to rise.
“Touché,” Rex croaked as he stagg
ered to his feet and removed his jacket. “I’ve got to admit, Charlie—you’re harder to exterminate than I’d thought.”
Mr. Whipple tossed his own jacket to the ground. “Why, Mr. Goldwin,” he panted, “that may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” The two men circled one another and removed their helmets, gripping the hidden handles inside to convert their headgear into small, rounded shields.
“Ah, Charlie,” Rex chuckled. “What a shame you couldn’t have died a bit easier.” From a sheath on his belt, he drew a two-foot-long wood-and-metal shaft, not unlike a large cattle prod. “Death by zap dagger is quite excruciating I’m told.” He pressed the trigger button and a blue surge of energy arced between the two electrodes at the tip of the rod.
Mr. Whipple drew his own, identical weapon. “You may be overstating your chances, Mr. Goldwin. I think you’ll find I’m quite handy with zap dagger and blast buckler—though it’s no great matter to me. I should gladly die a thousand deaths today to have my family honor restored.”
Rex grinned. “Well, Charlie, I certainly wouldn’t want to stand between you and your honor.” And with that, he threw a handful of dirt in his opponent’s face.
Mr. Whipple stumbled backward, shutting his eyes in pain and confusion. Zap! Rex’s weapon struck his shoulder.
“Ahh!” cried Mr. Whipple. He flailed his buckler wildly and managed by chance to parry his foe’s second thrust.
Rex countered with two quick strikes—Zap-zap!—one to the side and one to the stomach. Mr. Whipple doubled over in anguish. The crowd roared.
Rex drew back his weapon and brought it down with enough force to split the man’s skull.
Crack! The sound of the blow echoed into the stands.
But instead of slumping to the earth, Mr. Whipple stood taller. Having caught the weapon an inch from his brow with his own zap dagger, he slowly pressed back Rex’s hand. Mr. Whipple’s eyes burned red with blood and fury as he lifted his head to face his enemy.
The two combatants struggled, weapons locked, until Rex deflected Mr. Whipple’s blade and lunged for his ribcage. Mr. Whipple, however—having largely recovered his eyesight—simply repelled the blow with his buckler and took a stab of his own.