by Matthew Ward
Zap! The weapon struck Rex under his arm.
“Arh!” he yelped. Stung for the first time, Rex’s face flooded with rage. He leapt forward and lashed out with his weapon.
Crack-crack-crack! Mr. Whipple parried the blows as he stumbled backward.
Then, with a quick sideways swipe, Rex hooked the back of Mr. Whipple’s buckler and wrenched it from his grasp.
The helmet/shield hit the ground, leaving Mr. Whipple painfully vulnerable.
Zap! Zap-zap! Electricity pierced his left arm as he struggled to defend himself. He blocked the next strike with his zap dagger, only to have Rex land a series of jabs like none other so far. Zap! Zap-zap! Zap-zap-zap-zap-zap!
Mr. Whipple’s attempts at warding off electrocution grew more and more feeble with each jolt, a detail that did not go unnoticed by his opponent.
Rex put all his weight behind the weapon and lunged for the weakened man’s heart.
Charles Whipple, however, was in no mood for dying. The instant the electrodes met his shirt, he grabbed the end of the zap dagger and spun to his left, guiding the weapon away from his body and wresting it from Rex’s grasp. Using Rex’s weight against him, Mr. Whipple flung his attacker to the ground.
Rex landed facedown in the dirt. As he wriggled onto his back, Mr. Whipple clamped a boot onto Rex’s forearm just below the shield and swiveled his twin daggers into a downward grip.
“No, Charlie!” Rex squealed, covering his face with his free arm and blinking rapidly. “Please don’t! I’ll—I’ll do anything!”
Mr. Whipple depressed the trigger buttons and two streams of blue energy reflected in his furious eyes. He raised his weapons into the air.
At that moment, a voice called out behind him.
“Mr. Whipple! Mr. Whipple!” it cried. “I can’t find him anywhere! It’s all my fault. . . .”
Mr. Whipple halted halfway through his strike and turned toward the source of the commotion. There, he saw a roundish, gray-haired housemaid holding up her skirts and charging toward him across the field.
The next thing he knew, there was a scuffling at his feet. He looked down to see Rex Goldwin clambering out from underneath his boot. He leapt after him—but Rex slipped from his grasp and scurried off down the lists.
Boos sprang up from the crowd.
Mr. Whipple stood panting for a moment, watching his opponent escape—then turned to face his housekeeper.
“Mrs. Waite, this is highly irregular!” he roared. “What in blazes are you yammering on about?”
“I’m terribly sorry, sir, but it’s Arthur—he’s gone missing! I’m afraid something dreadful has happened to him!”
Mr. Whipple glanced distractedly across the tiltyard in time to catch a glimpse of his rival’s back as it disappeared through the door of the Goldwin tent.
“What do you mean he’s gone missing?” he snapped. “Hasn’t he been with us all morning?”
“I don’t think so, sir. And I’m afraid I may be to blame for it.”
Mr. Whipple’s eyes narrowed. “Really? And how do you figure that?”
“Well, you see, sir, earlier this morning, before anyone else had risen, I, well—I may have shown one of the Goldwins onto the grounds.”
“You may have done what?”
“It was only Arthur’s friend, Ruby, sir. She said she needed to see him—and I know I should have sent her away, but I couldn’t really see any harm in a quick visit—so I led her out to the edge of the garden and then brought Arthur to meet her. I left them alone to talk—with every intention of returning to check on them a bit later—but then I’m afraid I got caught up preparing for the day’s events and forgot all about them. It only just struck me before the start of the duel I’d not seen Arthur since. I’ve spent the past half hour searching for him with no luck. No one can remember seeing him at all today.” Mrs. Waite’s face grew solemn. “You don’t think that Goldwin girl’s done something to him, do you, sir? I mean, I thought they were friends, but she is one of them after all, isn’t she?”
“She is indeed, Mrs. Waite. This is truly a troubling report.”
“Oh, sir—I feel awful! What are we to do?”
“I’m not sure there is anything to do, Mrs. Waite. In case you haven’t noticed, I am presently engaged in a mortal duel—an activity, alas, which rather requires my undivided attention.”
“But, sir—surely your son is far more important than some silly game of pride?”
“If you please, Mrs. Waite, I shall be the judge of what is and what is not important to this family. Now, I appreciate your account of the matter; it has been most informative—but I must insist you exit the field at once so I may be left alone to resume this silly game without further distraction.”
“Yes, sir,” the housekeeper sighed—then did as she was told.
• • •
“Well, that’s certainly not something you see everyday, is it Chuck?”
“Indeed it isn’t, Ted. Last time I saw a maid storm onto a dueling field, she was carted off in separate wheelbarrows. You’ve got to admit, Ted—this is one brave housekeeper!”
“Brave, Chuck—or just foolish? After denying the crowd their well-deserved death blow, she’d better be ready to defend herself.”
“True enough, Ted. But though she may have inadvertently saved Goldwin from a swift and present demise, Charles Whipple has already secured a victory on the scorecards—and needs only to remain alive until the end of the duel to doom his opponent instead to a long, slow death by dishonor. So, unless Goldwin can deliver a death blow of his own or force a surrender, it’s all over for him anyhow. We’ll just have to hope it’s enough to appease the fifteen thousand dueling fans in attendance here today.”
“I don’t know, Chuck. This is the whole reason the IDA repealed the Mercy Mandate in the first place. It’s common sense, really: duels to the death just make for better spectator sport.”
“Can’t argue with you there, Ted. Lucky for us, there’s still time for that sort of end as well.”
“We can only hope, Chuck.”
“Absolutely, Ted. But death blow or no, this really has been a spectacular duel so far.”
“Right you are, Chuck. Whipple has now scored the Widest Point Differential in the History of the Sport. He needs only to match Goldwin’s scores for the remaining five tilts to officially clinch the record—an easy task, no doubt, seeing as he’s outscored Goldwin in every round.”
“No doubt, Ted. . . . Oh, hold on a minute—we’re just getting a report here regarding the reason for the Whipple housekeeper’s startling interruption. According to our sources on the field, Charles Whipple’s twelve-year-old son, Arthur, has gone missing and may be in considerable danger—perhaps even the target of foul play.”
“Who?”
“You know, Ted—Arthur Whipple—the only member of the Whipple family to have never broken a world record?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell, Chuck.”
“You may remember him from the Junior Rocket-Stick Race at this year’s Unsafe Sports Showdown. Foolishly sacrificed a shot at the title to assist an injured Jump Johnston?”
“Oh, that poor devil? Great Lakes! As if he didn’t have enough problems—now he goes and gets himself kidnapped? Some people just can’t catch a break, can they, Chuck?”
“Apparently not, Ted. And now it seems the lad’s left his father with a bit of a dilemma: does he go for the world record and a chance to vanquish a dangerous opponent—or does he leave the duel immediately to search for his missing son?”
“Well, Chuck, given all we’ve come to know about Charles Whipple, I think we can rest assured he’ll do the right thing.”
“Absolutely, Ted. This is far too important a duel to simply walk away from. In a competition of this magnitude, every record counts—not to mention the honor at stake here—
and Whipple is just too shrewd a competitor to be unnerved by something like this.”
“I fully concur, Chuck. . . . Oh, and here he comes now, back onto the field—with a positively thunderous reception from the crowd. And yep, there he is, mounting his motorbike and revving the engine, ready to win glory once again. This is a true champion we’ve got here, Chuck.”
“No question, Ted. Now he needs only to put the final nail in his opponent’s coffin to reclaim his throne at the forefront of world-record breaking.”
“That’s right, Chuck—and we get the pleasure of watching him do it. I hope you’ve brought your rubber ducks with you, folks; it’s going to be a bloodbath.”
• • •
Charles Whipple readied his electro-lance and fixed his gaze on the falling flag. The motorbike beneath him growled at his command, then charged forward.
As Rex Goldwin neared, Mr. Whipple could detect a shift in his enemy’s posture. Rex’s body slumped wearily over his handlebars. His lance wobbled loosely in his grip.
It was clear to everyone present that Mr. Whipple had won. If he simply finished the next five rounds, the duel was his. He would finally regain his honor from the man who had stolen it, ridding himself of Rex Goldwin once and for all. Surely, restoring the Whipple name was well worth any small sacrifices he had to make.
He sped faster.
By the time he reached his opponent, however, something had changed.
Mr. Whipple raised his spear and swerved sharply to his right. His enemy’s lance grazed his helmet as he spun his motorbike 180 degrees—and sped back toward his own tent.
“Wait—where are you going?” called Rex Goldwin from the opposite side of the fence. “Oh, that’s it—go on, coward—run away when you know you’re beaten!”
Ignoring Rex’s jeers and the growing furor of the crowd, Mr. Whipple made a straight line for the edge of the tiltyard, where his wife and children were already waiting.
Mrs. Whipple rushed forward to meet him. He jumped from his motorbike, cast off his helmet, then looked to his wife and said, “We’ve got to find Arthur.”
“I know,” replied Mrs. Whipple, her face creased with worry. “Charles, how could we have just forgotten him like that?”
“I’m not sure, dear—but I aim never to do so again.”
With that, he walked toward his children, who stood looking on from the sideline with Mrs. Waite. The housekeeper stepped forward as he approached.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” she said softly. “This is all my doing.”
“Don’t blame yourself, Mrs. Waite. It’s not your fault. If I hadn’t been so focused on this blasted duel, I might have realized I’d left my own son behind. Now—please help me muster the children.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, then set about gathering the young Whipples around him.
“Children,” Mr. Whipple announced, “as you may know, your brother Arthur has gone missing. I fear, however, that his disappearance is no mere accident. We all know our Arthur would never miss an event so important to this family unless something was dreadfully wrong.”
“Poor Arthur,” Beatrice whimpered. “How can we help?”
“We must set out to find him at once,” her father replied. “We’ll divide ourselves into search parties in order to cover as much ground as possible.”
“But what about our events?” asked Cordelia.
“It seems we shall have to miss some of them. How can any of us continue on until we know your brother is safe?”
“But Dad,” Cordelia argued, “it’s not as if Arthur was going to help us win the cup anyway. I mean, I don’t want him to get hurt or anything—but, honestly, this is the championships!”
Mr. Whipple shook his head. “My dear Cordelia, I wish I could say I had nothing to do with this callous single-mindedness of yours, but I’m afraid it’s just as much my fault as it is your own. I fully intend to set a better example in future—but for now, you’ll just have to do as I say. Though Arthur may not possess the abilities or accomplishments— or common sense—of the rest of us, he is a Whipple nonetheless, and as such, it is our duty to keep him from harm,whatever the cost. Would you not want us to do the same for you, were you in your brother’s place?”
Cordelia sighed and looked away, then nodded reluctantly.
“I thought as much. So, either we win the cup together, or not at all. Now, enough talk—we’ve no time to lose. Let us get moving—and pray we are not too late.”
The Dungeon
Arthur pressed his face between the rusty bars of the cage as he struggled in vain to pry them apart. The dank, musty air invaded his nostrils and assaulted his stomach.
From the cage’s opposite corner, Ruby remarked, “I assume they haven’t grown any less steel-like in the past few hours.”
“Nope,” Arthur groaned as he loosened his grip on the bars. Dropping his hands, he added, “You know, it’s funny—of all my brothers and sisters, I never thought I would be the one to have to worry about this sort of thing. I mean, who’s going to abduct the one Whipple nobody has ever heard of before, right? I know it might sound strange—but I almost feel honored actually.”
“I guess I can see that,” Ruby replied. “But then again, you are locked away in a rusty cage on the floor of a dungeon with no sign of rescue. So it’s sort of a mixed blessing, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Arthur sighed. “And they’re not exactly trying to ransom me either, are they? Argh!” he cried abruptly, punching the roof of the cage. “I can’t even get kidnapped properly!”
Clumps of hardened black sludge dislodged from the ceiling and dropped onto Arthur’s face. Snarling, he flicked the debris from his forehead with the back of his hand.
“And what’s worse,” he continued, “the one time my family could actually use my help, I’m stuck in here, unable to warn them they may be attacked at any moment by twin assassins with advanced explosives training!”
“Hey, don’t forget that those two assassins are actually my own dear brothers,” Ruby added sarcastically, “and quite possibly the long lost family I’ve been searching for my entire life.”
The girl paused. Arthur noticed her eyes grow watery.
“Ruby?” he called softly.
“Ahh,” she said through a quivering smile, sniffling briefly as she brushed away the tears. “It hurts to say that bit out loud.”
Arthur’s heart sank. He wanted desperately to comfort his friend, but struggled to find the words. “I—I’m so sorry,” he said.
“No, it’s all right. Just sort of sneaked up on me there for a moment. I’m okay.”
Arthur felt a sudden surge of rage well up inside him. “Ahhh!” he cried. “Why doesn’t anything ever work out the way it ought to?!”
He grabbed the bars at the front of the cage and shook them with all his might, then promptly collapsed against the cage door.
There was a small click—and the lock on the outside of the cage fell open.
The once-despairing children glanced at each other in astonishment, then immediately scrambled up to the door for a closer look.
The heavy steel padlock swung gently back and forth before their eyes, dangling from one side of its U-shaped stem.
“What just happened?!” cried Ruby.
“I think the lock unlocked itself.”
“Wow. How hard did you shake it? And how long have you been living with super-human strength?”
“I never knew I had been. But I guess it’s either that—or this is one remarkably defective lock.”
“Can you reach it?”
“I think so.”
Arthur extended his arm through the bars at the bottom of the door and reached up past the steel mesh that protected the latch. He grunted in concentration as he strained to grasp the end of the hook and push it out of its slot.
“Go
t it!” he exclaimed.
The lock clattered to the floor. Arthur retracted his arm through the bars and gave the door a push. The rusty hinges squealed in protest as the door swung open.
The two exchanged smiles, then rushed through the opening.
“Nicely done, Arthur!” cried Ruby.
In the relative freedom of the open dungeon, Arthur crouched down and retrieved the fallen padlock. Closing the cage door behind them, he slid the lock back into place and popped it shut with a click—then pulled on it as hard as he could.
“Seems to work just fine,” he puzzled.
“Hmm,” said Ruby. “Looks like Royston forgot to actually lock the lock when he was locking us in the cage. I guess it’s no wonder he’s never learned to speak. Don’t report me to the Global Guild of Dwarves and Giants for saying this—but giants aren’t really known for being the World’s Brightest Thinkers. I mean, look at Frankenstein, or the Jack and the Beanstalk giant—or the 50 Foot Woman. None of them are exactly geniuses, are they?”
“I can see your point,” said Arthur, “though it’s hard to be too critical—I mean, after all, we’re the ones who never bothered to check the lock.”
“If it’s all the same to you, Arthur, I’d rather not think about the part where we spent all morning inside a cramped rusty cage for no reason at all. But anyway, come on—let’s see what else our cunning captors may have overlooked.”
The two children scurried over to the door that had served as the twins’ exit. Arthur tried the handle. “Still locked,” he said.
“Maybe you should try shaking it,” smirked Ruby.
Arthur scowled. “I’ve got a feeling that’s not going to work this time.” He shook the handle to no avail. “Happy?”
“Yeah, well,” said Ruby, “we could hardly hope to be so lucky twice in one abduction, now could we?”
“Hardly. Which means it’s back into the tunnel for us. We’ll just have to find a way to climb out through the hole in the cave ceiling. If only we had a ladder or a pole or something tall we could climb up.”