He lunged again, but with renewed vigor … and almost caught Curfew off balance.
“You know nothing about the time that I have waited, and the suffering that I have endured.”
“Granted,” replied the viscount. “But it’ll be nothing compared to the suffering you’ll endure if you don’t put down that sword and surrender yourself to me.”
“Why don’t you both put down your swords?”
The two viscounts turned to regard the staggering form of Spires, who entered the clearing with a black look on his face and the miniature crossbow raised.
“What do you mean, “both”?” said Curfew, outraged. “It’s me, Spires!”
The secretary nodded.
“I know you’re there somewhere, Excellency,” he managed. “It’s just a matter of finding out which one is the real you.”
“You can’t be serious, man! “said the viscount. “Use your mind, not your eyes! I know he’s wearing the Seal Ring, but …”
“He IS wearing it! Then you’re the impostor!”
“No, listen to me! He’s found some way to counter its power. It’s ME, Spires.”
The impostor tried to hide his smile, but it faded naturally when the secretary fished in his pocket, and produced the second of the city’s Seal Rings.
“Lucky I brought this along: put this on.”
He tossed the ring across to Curfew, who caught it gratefully and obliged.
Nothing happened.
“You see, it is me!” the viscount pleaded. “This proves it!”
“No,” Spires muttered. “It only proves that the villain has found a way to counter it.”
“But it’s ME, Spires: don’t you recognize my voice?”
“Of course I do; you both sound the same. Now, drop your swords, please: I need to think …”
Curfew shook his head.
“A noble never relinquishes his weapon, Spires.”
“Never,” added the copy. “And well you should know it, man!”
Spires glanced from one to the other, a confused look on his face.
“Your weapons,” he said, in conclusion. “And I shan’t ask again.”
Curfew looked deep into the secretary’s craggy face, and relinquished his weapon. The impostor followed suit, so quickly, in fact, that both swords bit into the dirt at the same time.
“Good,” said Spires, careful to keep his crossbow aimed as he collected both weapons. “Now move over to the big tree behind you: we’re going to have a little question and answer session … and a wrong answer is likely to leave one of you wanting.”
Ten
“DID YOU HEAR THE news?” Lusa said, hurrying over to where Dwellings stood, untying his horse. “Obegarde says that the kidnapping was masterminded by a man who looks identical to Viscount Curfew. Mr. Spires and the troglodyte are looking for them now … what if they get the wrong one?”
“Fret none,” Dwellings smiled. “There are certain magics protecting the viscount’s bloodline.”
“Like the ring?”
“Like the ring.”
Lusa nodded.
“So what will you do now?” she said.
“Nothing,” said Dwellings, proudly, mounting his horse and waiting for Lusa to climb up behind him. “I solved the case. I may have had help from Wheredad, Daily, Obegarde and yourself, but I — Enoch Dwellings — worked out the essentials! Don’t you realize what this means, and how monumental it is? I’m actually living up to my name as the Greatest Detective in the History of Dullitch!”
“Mmm,” Lusa replied, rather unenthusiastically. “Did you come up with that all by yourself?”
“Yes,” Dwellings snapped, rounding on the girl with furrowed brows. “Why, what’s wrong with it?”
“Well, nothing really,” she said, climbing up behind him. “It’s just a bit, er, pompous, isn’t it?”
“Pompous? Pompous!”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’ll have you know that a lot of women find ‘pompous’ men very attractive!”
“Do they?” Lusa looked suitably surprised. “Goodness; how odd.” She peered across the clearing, to the horse that carried one of the viscount’s soldiers and the wounded Wheredad. “Do you think he’ll be all right?” she asked, trying to sound casual. “He was ever so brave back there, fighting that lion …”
“Oh, he’ll be fine,” Dwellings muttered. “More’s the pity.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing, I was just thinking out loud.”
“Oh.”
“He’s never had a girlfriend, you know …”
Lusa looked up, suddenly.
“I’m sorry?”
“Wheredad; he’s never had a girlfriend in his life!”
“Really?” Lusa smiled over at the detective’s half-conscious assistant. “That’s so sweet.”
Enoch Dwellings, the Greatest Detective in the History of Dullitch, swore under his breath, cursed the gods, and urged his horse into a tired trot. Some girls, he felt certain, just weren’t worth the effort.
“Listen to me very carefully,” said Spires, eyeing the identical lords with suspicion. “I’ll ask you each a question and I don’t want you answering for each other; understood?”
Two nods, two confident smiles.
“Question one,” Spires continued, raising the crossbow and pointing it at the impostor. “What is my middle name?”
“How should I know?” came the answer. “I never discuss personal issues with the staff.”
Spires gasped.
“B-but I’ve worked in your service for years!” he said, breathlessly. “You must be the impostor.” He quickly turned the crossbow on Curfew. “Tell him the right answer, Excellency!”
The viscount tugged at the lobe of his ear.
“Is it Rupert?” he hazarded, to the apparent horror of his secretary.
“I don’t believe this!” Spires snapped, glaring at both men with disappointment in his eyes. “I’m your most important servant; how can you not know my middle name?”
Two impassive shrugs.
Spires gritted his teeth, and fought on.
“OK, then. By what name did the contessa call you when you came home two days late from the Legrash Carnival?”
“How am I supposed to answer that?” Curfew snapped. “You know my memory’s appalling!”
“Yes,” the impostor agreed. “He might be a fake, but he’s got a valid point, there: our memory is atrocious.”
Spires held the crossbow level, and racked his brains for a solution.
“I’ve got one,” he said, eventually. “And it’s something that every Lord of Dullitch knows like the back of his hand.”
“Go on,” said the two men, in unison.
“Why did Duke Vitkins defend a downed harpy from his own citizens when Dullitch was under attack from the Undead Horde?”
“I don’t remember,” said Viscount Curfew, whose father had so repeatedly drummed the story into him as a child that he’d deliberately blocked it from his mind at an early age. “I’m sorry, Spires, but I really, honestly don’t remember.”
“She was his daughter,” said the impostor.
Spires stared from one to the other with a shocked, almost ghostlike look on his face.
“What did you say?” he muttered, trying to decide whether or not his master could have forgotten such an important fact.
“The harpy was Vitkins’ daughter,” the impostor repeated. “She was converted to the forces of darkness by Liss, then Arch-lord of the Zombies, and mutated beyond recognition; to all but her father, that is.”
Spires nodded.
“That is the correct answer,” he said, swallowing. “I can’t believe that any true Lord of Dullitch would be ignorant of that tale. Step over to me, please, Excellency.”
“Spires! No!”
Curfew made to step forward, but the secretary shot him in the arm.
“Arghhhh!”
“Good man, Spires,” said the i
mpostor, hurrying across the clearing while the secretary fought to reload his weapon. “Let me just grab these swords, and we can do away with this … enchanted wretch.”
He reached down and snatched up both swords as Curfew struggled to stay upright, then he moved to stand behind the secretary, with a wicked smile on his face.
“I’m sorry, whoever you are,” Spires said, eyeing Curfew with a mixture of disgust and pity. “But no one imitates the Lord of Dullitch without getting their comeuppance.”
“I’m sorry too,” said Curfew, shaking his head. “Sorry for you, old friend.”
A flash of recognition suddenly dawned in the secretary’s watery eyes, and he spun around with the crossbow readied …
… but the impostor’s sword found its mark first.
Spires let out a blood-curdling scream … and fell at the feet of his master’s doppelganger.
“Interesting,” said the impostor, studying the sword-edge. “These blades really are quite sharp, aren’t they? Here, take this.” He tossed the other sword across to Curfew. “After all, my lord, I’d hate to be accused of anything but fair play …”
Curfew wiped away tears of frustration as he snatched up the proffered weapon and staggered across the clearing, trying to block out the searing pain in his leg.
“Come now, my lord, I’m sure he didn’t feel much pain. I mean, look at his face; he is smiling …”
Curfew lunged forward, almost catching the impostor off guard. The swords clashed viciously; once, twice, then Curfew dropped down onto his good knee and tried for a last, desperate leg swipe. He missed, and the impostor used his own blade to block the misjudged attack. This time, as the swords met, Curfew’s blade was broken in half.
Shock overcame the viscount, and his arms fell limply to his sides. The impostor swiftly sheathed his own sword and, booting Curfew squarely in the chest, drove him back, hard.
The viscount collided with a tree, but managed to swing himself aside before the impostor’s fist could find its mark. Then he drove an elbow into the man’s back, kicked hard at his side and, as he stumbled around, slammed a punch so hard into his face that a spray of blood erupted from his nose.
“That’s for Spires,” he growled, and reached down for the impostor’s sheathed sword. However, this time the man was ready: it was as if he’d been given a second wind by some unseen force of energy. His eyes glinted with evil intent as he grasped Curfew’s wrist.
The viscount winced as he heard his bones snap under the pressure of the impostor’s grip.
“Try to take measured breaths, Excellency,” the man mimicked. “It will prolong your pain. Hahahaha!”
Curfew punched and kicked with all his might, but found every blow blocked with comparative ease. Eventually, when all other tactics had failed, he threw himself bodily at the fiend in a last-ditch attempt to take him down. The plan backfired: badly.
The impostor stepped aside, tripping Curfew in the process. Then he snatched up the viscount’s feet and began to swing him around, faster and faster, ultimately releasing him with such velocity that Curfew was practically knocked unconscious upon landing.
The impostor wiped a stream of blood from his face, and grinned down at the viscount.
“The Great Viscount Curfew, Lord and Master of Dullitch. Ha! Look at you now; beaten, broken and far from your throne.”
Curfew tried to stand, but the impostor glanced a boot heel off his face, flooring him once again.
The viscount coughed several times, then tried to roll over and, failing that, raised himself onto his elbows. He was now fighting for breath.
“W-w-who are you?”
The impostor smiled.
“Right now, I’m you,” he said. “Beyond that, you don’t need to know. Just assure yourself that I’m … nobody new in your life.”
Curfew tried to push himself up from the ground, yet still he lacked strength.
“Nobody new? What does that mean?” A sudden thought struck him. “Duke Modeset? It can’t be — is it? Is it you?”
The impostor made a face, but to Curfew’s relief his sword stayed firmly in its scabbard.
“Modeset?” he said, with a cunning smile. “Hahahaha! Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a very long time. No, I’m afraid I am most definitely not Vandre Modeset. However, if it comes as any sort of consolation, I did know him quite well.”
“Of course you did,” Curfew muttered, finally managing to struggle to his feet. “And thanks for the clue. Now I know where I know you from; the face and voice may be mine, but the expressions and the laugh remain unmistakably your own.”
“Oh?”
“Indeed … the funny thing is, I haven’t heard such cruelty in a laugh since I was sixteen years old, and studying at Crestwell.”
“Oh, do tell,” said the impostor with mock interest, drawing his sword as an afterthought.
“His name was Sorrell Diveal,” Curfew went on, backing away from his opponent very slowly. “Though everyone called him Sorry. He was a nasty piece of work in every respect, and he always had his eye set on Dullitch. Unfortunately, he was last in line to the throne; a fact that twisted and fractured his heart.”
“Shame,” said the impostor, now aiming his sword as if to strike. “What happened to him?”
Curfew, resigned to his fate, smiled at the prompt he’d been waiting for.
“Well, he ended up throwing away his birthright. You see, he got himself trained as a dark sorcerer in Shinbone. Then he made the mistake of his life: he tried to take the town. It was a bad move, it really was. Reinforcements arrived from Crust and wiped out his rag-tag army of trolls, imps and half-breeds. He himself disappeared, never to be seen again.”
“Hmm … a very sad story,” said the impostor, his grin undeterred.
“Oh, yes, it is,” Curfew agreed. “But the thing that always made me laugh about it was, they were planning to offer him the throne of Shinbone the very next day …”
“SILENCE!” the impostor screamed, and bolted across the clearing, swinging out wildly with his sword. “That’s a liiiie!”
Curfew just managed to dodge the lunge, and watched as the man’s sword-edge bit into the tree bark beside him.
“They would never have given me the throne!” Diveal cried. “They would all have died before they saw me crowned!”
“Quite right,” said Curfew, too pained to run and too exhausted to argue. “Hello, Sorrell; it’s been a long, long time. Where exactly have you been hiding?”
Sorrell Diveal wrenched his blade from the tree and turned, a wicked glint in his eye.
“Hiding? No,” he muttered. “Watching and waiting. Not to mention gathering some unique talents to my aid. Dullitch has always belonged to me, Ravis, whether by right or intention. I’ve seen it plagued with rats, I’ve seen it almost turned to stone, and I’ve seen it harshly neglected by two pathetic incompetents who laid no greater claim to the place than I!”
“But we did have greater claim, Sorrell; that’s all there was to it. Don’t you remember the lineage classes at school? First came Modeset, then me and finally you.”
“Ha! A dismal third in line …”
“Indeed; a damn sight better than the other lords, though, and they all accepted their own destinies, shared the smaller cities between them …”
“Oh yes … and look how they turned out! Vadney Sapp went mad, Muttknuckles managed to bankrupt Shinbone and Victor Blood filled Legrash with ghouls! I would’ve done a far greater job with the capital; it just wasn’t fair!”
“Nothing’s fair,” Curfew snapped, steeling himself for the assault to come. “But that’s the way things are; life’s a bit —”
Sorrell screamed vengeance and brought his sword down, hard.
Curfew tried to move, but the blade caught him in the stomach and he fell.
“Does it hurt, Ravis?” Sorrell inquired, circling the viscount with spit flying from his twisted mouth. “Is the pain … unfortunate? You’re wrong, you kn
ow, life isn’t a bitch, it’s a joke … and here’s the punch line.”
An ear-splitting scream echoed through the wood, and then … silence reigned.
Eleven
VISCOUNT CURFEW STAGGERED TO his feet and wiped the blood from his sword.
Emerging from the woods, he saw that the sun had risen high over the mountains, bathing the land in a bright new morning.
“Lord Curfew?” called a voice behind him. “Don’t move, now — it’s me, Burnie!”
The viscount froze as the troglodyte steered his horse along the fringe of the trees, his dagger drawn at his side.
“Stay still, please, and raise your right hand. I need to make sure it is you and not the … other.”
The viscount turned and did as he was told, extending his right hand in front of him.
There was a pause, followed by a significant sigh of relief from the troglodyte.
“Thank the gods, Excellency! We were all so worried about you.”
He urged his horse closer to the viscount and reached out a gloopy hand.
“Are you hurt?”
Curfew shook his head.
“No, not at all; I’m just extremely tired.”
Burnie nodded, and helped his lord up into the saddle behind him.
“What about Mr. Spires, Excellency? Is he OK?”
Curfew shook his head.
“Unfortunately not, my friend. He was slain by the fiend who orchestrated this whole, insane plot.”
“The impostor?”
“Yes.”
“W-where …”
“In the black heart of the wood; I managed to drag him along with me for a time, but we’ll certainly need help in order to get both bodies safely back to the city.”
“Both bodies, Excellency? Are you sure you want to bring the body of that fiend back with you?”
“Absolutely; after all, he still looks like me … and I’m desperate to find out how he achieved such sorcery. I want to forget this dreadful business as much as you, but I must ensure that such a conspiracy never takes place again.”
“Of course, Excellency. I’ll have the men find both bodies. Now, do make sure you hold on tight!”
Burnie urged his horse into a trot, then a gallop; as it neared the edge of the wood, Sorrell Diveal looked back over one shoulder, and grinned. Far in the distance, the city of Dullitch awaited … and with it, his throne.
Dwellings Debacle Page 16