Few Are Chosen_K'Barthan Series_Part 1

by M T McGuire

  “But I did, my friend, in order to have your full attention,” said Denarghi. “This is not some light altercation between cartels, this is a holy war, our holy war against the Grongles and we will not rest until it is won. We must move fast to ensure the Candidate becomes Architrave and rightful ruler of K’Barth.”

  “You’ve found the Candidate?” asked Big Merv.

  “Yes.”

  The Pan was exasperated.

  “Denarghi, everyone thinks they’ve found the Candidate, Lord Vernon is even trying to set himself up as a false Candidate. You think you’ve found one, the person who paid us to rob the Bank of Grongolia, I’m pretty sure he thinks he’s found one ...” He stopped, he was going to say he thought his father might have found one.

  “There is only one true candidate,” said Denarghi acidly, “it is Deirdre.”

  “Oh get a grip! She’s a psychopath!” said The Pan with a vehemence that surprised him. What was he doing? It was as if he suddenly felt strongly about all this. The Pan made a point of never feeling strongly about politics. It was a waste of energy, and since the Grongles took power it was often a waste of life. But Deirdre! Denarghi must have a screw loose.

  “Look, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that about Deirdre. But if you’re so sure she’s the Candidate, why are we here, why do you need the loot? If it’s for the Looking and you need it badly enough to murder Frank and Harry it means you’re no surer Deirdre’s the Candidate than I am!”

  “She is the Candidate,” said Denarghi firmly.

  “Isn’t the Architrave supposed to be smart, though?” countered The Pan. He tried to remember what the old man had said. “Somebody who can think for themself? Deirdre is an insane nutter who blindly follows orders; that rubs her out for starters.” Oh dear. That wasn’t what he’d meant to say at all, he’d wanted to make his point in a calm and adult way. Pants.

  “Deirdre is brave and dedicated to the cause,” retorted Denarghi, “she will not rest until the Grongle nation is wiped from the face of the earth.”

  “And when, in all history, has the Architrave ever sanctioned wiping out an entire race?” asked The Pan. “Never. Not even if they are Grongles.” Anyway, he remembered, he’d checked the genocide question the night the old man came to see him. If the old boy considered it unethical to change reality to a version where the Grongles never existed, how much more unethical would it be to murder each and every last one of them? Although he had to admit that from where he was standing, the notion had a definite appeal.

  “You can’t just wipe out a whole nation—life doesn’t work like that,” said The Pan.

  “We can and we will,” said Denarghi.

  “You can’t! Look, if there is a real Candidate surely they must be chosen by the priests,” he held his arms out sideways in a why-don’t-you-get-it gesture and let them drop to his sides. “That’s how it’s done. That’s how we’ve done it for the last forty generations. You can’t just pick someone at random because it suits you—there have to be signs, they have to be found by the Looking—and genocidal tendencies aren’t going to impress.”

  Silence.

  “Can’t you see? Murdering the Grongles is wrong, it’s doing what they do! Being like them! It’s not the answer.”

  “And who are you to judge right and wrong?” asked Denarghi venomously.

  “Someone who clearly has a better grasp of what they are than you do!” snapped The Pan. There was a long uncomfortable silence during which, to his surprise, nobody shot him.

  “Don’t play games with me, I will not be goaded by your taunts. You have a choice, my friend, you can play your part, you can join us.”

  “I’d rather die,” said The Pan, before he could stop himself. Arnold in heaven! Where had that come from?

  “That can be arranged,” said Denarghi, “I’ll give a count of five for you to change your mind and explain the origin of that sound we just heard. Meanwhile, your mutant Swamp Monster friend had better think long and hard about whether or not he intends to hand over the loot. I know you’ve stashed it somewhere. Where is it?”

  The Pan berated himself, why did he have to be so touchy about this Candidate thing all of a sudden? Was it something to do with his father? He was going to have to backtrack now, apologise and support the odious Deirdre. That was always assuming Big Merv could see past being called a Swamp Monster, of course, and a mutant one at that, which, on the face of it, seemed pretty unlikely.

  “One.”

  OK, so it was simple. All he had to do was say Deirdre was the Candidate and begin at the beginning about being blacklisted; the Mervinettes and the old man and everything would be fine. No, he couldn’t.

  How could he have been so stupid? Why hadn’t he thought ahead and seen this moment coming? Nothing and no-one was ever worth dying for! But he couldn’t save his own neck by betraying his friends. The old man was a ‘friend’ of Gladys and Ada; to betray him was as good as to betray them. They were like a second family.

  “No. Not again,” he said angrily to no-one in particular, “this is not going to happen again!”

  “What are you talking about?” said Denarghi, “You may be the best escape man in K’Barth but you only have one life. Now I will ask you once more. What did you steal and where is it? Two.”

  The Pan turned to Big Merv who was glaring at him with murderous intent, antennae sticking straight upwards in rage position again. He was going to get himself shot and Big Merv too. Bang on cue, his life started to flash before his eyes: his childhood, his parents, the Grongles, Big Merv, the visit from the old man, the robbery, back to the visit from the old man. He felt the thimble in his hand and he had an idea.

  “Merv. Hold my hand.”

  “No! Die like a man, you nerk.”

  “I’m not a man, I’m Hamgeean and neither of us has to die! Hold my hand.”

  “Save yourself, Big Merv,” said Denarghi. “Hand over the loot and I’ll spare you. Three.”

  “OK, OK. You win. I didn’t bung the loot,” said Big Merv, “it ain’t here though, we stashed it, so we’d have to go get it.”

  “You didn’t have time to stash it.”

  “Did. Search us and see!”

  “So you LIED to me,” said Denarghi.

  “Yeh, we lied, coz we didn’t nick it for you, so it ain’t yours to take.”

  “It wasn’t yours either.”

  “Well it sure as hell ain’t yours, Denarghi! You people make me sick! I’m a bank robber and I ain’t ashamed to admit it. You? You make out you’re so effin’ noble, like you’re above us, and then you let us do your dirty work, kill two of my lads and now, you’re trying to rob me! Honour like that’d get you sliced in my part of town.”

  “Nobody in your part of town would dare touch me.”

  The Pan had never seen his boss so angry.

  “Wanna give it a try, Big Man?” asked Big Merv quietly. Why did he have to go and say ‘big’? At this rate, The Pan thought, Denarghi wouldn’t finish the count before he had them shot.

  “Four.” There was a new sense of anticipation emanating from the Resistance leader now, as if he was looking forward to pulling the trigger.

  “Merv, you don’t understand, HOLD MY HAND!” said The Pan.

  “Shut up you big ponce! I’m talking.

  “You wanna know about the loot, Denarghi?” asked Big Merv, except he said the word ‘Denarghi’ the way he might say the ‘punk’ at the end of ‘make my day’.

  “Let me tell you about the loot. We took the risk, we stole it an’ that means, since I’m in charge, that it’s mine to do what I like with. If you want it, you’ll have to ask the bloke what paid me and my gang to steal it in the first place! You never know, if you’re lucky he might let you have it for the right price. I ’spect he’ll be a bit short of cash after what he’s promised us—but that’s the thing, see? You have to talk to HIM because unlike you, Denarghi, I am HONOURABLE and I blummin’ mean it when I tell someone I’ve made a dea
l.”

  “You’re a dying breed Big Merv and when we take power we will cleanse society of scum like you, the way I’m about to do now,” said Denarghi.

  “Don’t bet on it you snotty little twonk! We’ll kick your jumped-up behind back down the sewers where you belong.”

  “Merv, please, this is not gratuitous touchy-feeliness, think about the interesting noise, Mr Denarghi has asked me to explain! Remember what happened? HOLD MY HAND YOU BONEHEADED SLIMEBAG!” said The Pan. He was going to get punched for the ‘slimebag’ bit but it was the only way he could think of to get Big Merv’s attention.

  Glowering at The Pan, Big Merv took his hand.

  “There, you big wuss. That better?” he growled.

  “Five. Well?”

  “I swear on my life we don’t have the loot,” said The Pan.

  “Don’t think your life is worth that much!” said Denarghi. “The Grongles will pay the same reward for your carcass, regardless of whether or not it’s breathing, and I am confident I will find the loot on one of your bodies.”

  The Pan tutted. He knew he was being cocky but he couldn’t help himself.

  “Shouldn’t you check? Pride before a fall,” he said lightly. He had a plan! Tra-la-laaa!

  “Yeh, I told you! We don’t have the loot here!” said Big Merv.

  “But we do have this,” said The Pan, holding up the thimble in his left hand and curling his thumb into the open end.

  There was a loud sucking sound as the power of the forces began to build and he held onto Big Merv’s hand tightly as they were dragged in. From somewhere far away he could hear Denarghi’s voice shouting,

  “Don’t just stand there! Open fire! Kill them!” before he and Big Merv were crashing onto the floor of the cellar in the Parrot and Screwdriver, bottles, packets of crisps and the odd maturing cheese scattering in all directions. There was a final crash as a pot of Gladys’ home-made pickle fell off a shelf and smashed on the ground, a short hissing noise as the contents ate its way into the stone flags, and then silence.

  Chapter 53

  “Arnold’s Y-fronts!” yelled The Pan leaping to his feet. “It worked!” He started to run forwards but was brought up short. Ah yes, the ball and chain. As he reached the end of the chain, his feet stopped where they were and the rest of him blundered forwards onto a beer barrel.

  “You mean you didn’t KNOW it would?” asked Big Merv incredulously. “Why you little scrote! AND you insulted me! I’ll show you who’s a boneheaded slimebag, you snotty little Herbert! I’m gonna knock your block off!”

  The cellar resonated with the sounds of bottles tumbling over and yet another loud crash as Big Merv got to his feet, launched himself at the place where he’d heard The Pan’s voice and bumped into the same barrel.

  Hiding behind a pillar, The Pan waited while his eyes acclimatised to the gloom. The cellar wasn’t in complete darkness; a faint phosphorescence emanating from Gladys’ stock of home-made preserves illuminated the scene. Outlined against the glow, fourteen stones of angry Swamp Thing rose to its feet, ball and chain in one hand.

  “Merv, don’t kill me, it was the only chance we had,” said The Pan, ducking swiftly as, with another crash, Big Merv made towards the sound of his voice. A moment later the light came on and Gladys and Ada appeared in the doorway with a large shotgun. Humbert careened past them and circled the room, squawking and swearing vociferously.

  “Humbert! Come here this minute!” shouted Ada, as the parrot flew past her head. On the dimly lit stairwell beyond, Gladys’ son Trev ducked out of the way as Humbert made his way to his second favourite perch on the coat stand in the hall.

  “Don’t anybody move or I’ll shoot!” Ada ordered them, waving the gun in the air. There was an almighty bang and a large chunk of ceiling fell onto The Pan who was lying over the lid of the freezer, where Big Merv had him in a headlock. “Oh dear! Did I do that?” she trilled.

  “Put that down or you’ll do someone an injury,” said Gladys.

  “No,” said Big Merv belligerently.

  “I weren’t talking to you, young man,” said Gladys, “but since that’s my lodger you is manhandling I’ll thank you to put ’im down, anyway.” Big Merv let go of The Pan’s neck. “Thank you,” said Gladys, with a nod and a ‘hmph’ of satisfaction. She turned to her friend. “Ada?”

  “Oh. Yes. Here you are, dear,” said Ada, handing the gun to Gladys, who immediately rounded on The Pan.

  “Where has you been? We was sat here worried to death about you.”

  The Pan glanced at Big Merv and shrugged. There was no point in carrying on the pretence, if they hadn’t realised what his ‘job’ entailed before, they would now he’d brought his boss home with him. There wasn’t any official evidence to support Big Merv’s connection with the Mervinettes, but even so, there was enough speculation for him to enjoy a certain notoriety.

  “Robbing the Bank of Grongolia,” he mumbled.

  “You was what?” asked Gladys.

  “Robbing the Bank of Grongolia,” he spoke a little louder this time, adding bullishly, “for YOUR friend.”

  “I does not consort with crim’nals,” said Gladys archly.

  “Yes you do, even if he pays others to do his robbing for him. Old bloke, looks not unlike your Trev,” said The Pan. He knew that was a cheap shot, and when she coloured in a deep blush, his sense of guilt was overwhelming.

  “Never you mind who he looks like, young man,” said Ada, coming to Gladys’ rescue, “and we know what you’ve done, we weren’t born yesterday. But the Bank of Grongolia was robbed over twenty-four hours ago! We were expecting you back last night.”

  “We ran into a spot of bother,” said The Pan.

  “We suspected as much. The Grongles are looking everywhere for you; they’ve been here twice already and searched the place from top to bottom.”

  “Yer,” said Gladys. “Only just gone. They ain’t got nothin’ on us but we had to move yer stash,” she pulled a red freezer bag from the pocket of her apron. “Catch!” She threw it across the room to him.

  “Thanks,” he said, sheepishly.

  “Well, what do you think you’re doing crashing about down here?” asked Ada. She picked up a cheese which had come to rest at the bottom of the cellar steps and put it back on a nearby shelf. “How long have you been here, anyway?”

  “A few seconds.”

  Gladys pulled a fob watch from the pocket of her moth-eaten cardigan.

  “’S opening time in an hour. I reckons you is dressed too con—con—I reckons you oughter ditch the fancy dress. ’Specially you,” she nodded at Big Merv, “I ’spect Our Trev’s got something you’ll fit into.”

  “We do have one small problem,” said The Pan and to illustrate their predicament, Big Merv held his ball and chain aloft. With a heavy sigh, Gladys’ Trev made his way past her and Ada into the cellar while the sound of somebody pummelling thunderously at the front door could be heard upstairs.

  “Oh dear, that’ll be the Grongles again,” said Ada. “My! They are keen today!”

  “Yer,” said Gladys, “I wonder why.” She glowered meaningfully at The Pan who felt put upon. The least she could have done was glare at Big Merv, too. “Over to you, son, we’ll stall ’em as long as we can,” she told Trev and, gun in hand, she followed after Ada.

  The Pan knew that unless Ada and Gladys could persuade them to take a drink of specially laced fruit smoothie, the Grongles would not be delayed for long. They had a minute or so, at the outside. Not enough time to get rid of the shackles. Then there was the fact that Big Merv was dressed as a major in the Grongolian army. Impersonating a member of the Grongolian armed forces was a capital offence on its own, let alone when coupled with a bank robbery – their supposedly thief-proof state bank. It was a long shot but he thought he might have hit upon an escape plan.

  “Lads, we are short of time here,” he said in what he hoped was an authoritative voice – it was vital both Trev and Big Merv did what he
said, before they had time to think about who was saying it and argue. “Trev, you don’t have time to free both of us and Big Merv, you’re dressed as a major in the Grongolian Army; they’re going to string you up if they find you like that. Do you still have your rubber face?”

  “Yeh.”

  “Then put it on! Trev, if you can, get the ball and chain off him and then we can pretend that he’s one of them and he’s captured me.”

  While Big Merv struggled with the rubber mask, Trev went at the shackle round his ankle with a lump hammer and chisel.

  “It ain’t working,” he wailed after a brief spate of concerted effort.

  “Here, give it me,” said Big Merv. He spent a few seconds examining the metal before carefully positioning the chisel and splitting the chain with one well-aimed blow, and hiding it under one of the barrels. “You wanna find the weak spot,” he told the astonished Trev by way of explanation.

  They could hear heavy footsteps above moving towards the cellar. Big Merv stood up and put his sunglasses on.

  “Here,” said The Pan, handing him the bag of loot Gladys had given him. “There’s no time to stash this so we’ll have to pretend you caught me red-handed.”

  Ning Dang Po’s premier gangland boss gave him a curt nod, straightened his jacket, and almost pulling The Pan off his feet as he did so, picked the remaining ball and chain up and strode up the stairs to the door.

  “I am most grateful, underling,” he told Trev loftily over his shoulder as he flung it open. Outside, two Grongles stopped in surprise. “You! What are you doing?” asked Big Merv, seizing the initiative. The Pan had to give it to him; he was good.

  “We’ve been ordered to search these premises—” one began.

  “Then you are wasting your time. My squad and I have already done so successfully, as you can see.” He yanked at The Pan’s chain causing him to trip up the stairs, “On your feet, scum!”