Skullenia

by Tony Lewis

  Occupying the once tarmacked area was a large house. A very large house. In fact, if you have a minute, it was a very large, opulent, grandiose and rather stately house. It was the sort of place used to advertise health spas, or where an ambassador might hand out inexpensive but suggestive chocolates, or where you would go on endless school trips year after year, forced to wander from room to room looking at endless paintings and tapestries whilst some boring tour guide droned on about what life was like in the Middle Ages. Kids don’t really care what life was like in the Middle Ages, though. If it didn’t have Xbox Live and Sponge Bob Squarepants, they weren’t in the slightest bit interested.

  “Christ Almighty,” said Stitches, staring up at the magnificent edifice looming over them, all leaded windows and fancy columns. “I hope whoever’s going in there doesn’t have to clean the place. That’d be one hell of a challenge.”

  “There’s a note attached to the front door,” said Ronnie.

  Ethan was closest, so he plucked it from the wood. It was a sealed envelope and it had Ronnie’s name written on the front in a fine italic hand. He passed it on.

  Ronnie opened it up with a due sense of trepidation and dread. He pulled out a jet black piece of letter paper. On it, in white ink in the same cultured handwriting, was simply ‘Welcome, Ronnie. Please come in’.

  “Seems pretty clear,” he said, folding up the note and placing it into his trouser pocket. “I gotta go inside.”

  “Be careful, Ronnie,” said Flug, a concerned edge to his deep voice as he placed a giant hand on his friend’s shoulder.

  “Don’t you worry, mate,” Ronnie responded as he reached over and patted the heavy extremity, “I’ll be ultra-careful. Back before you know it.”

  As he approached the door he received good lucks from Ollie and Stitches, and a resounding slap on the back from Ethan.

  “Steady, guys. It’s not like I’ve chosen my last meal and I’m heading off down Death Row, is it?”

  “I hope not,” said Stitches, “cos I don’t think even the worst inmate should be subject to a last meal from The Devil’s Diner.”

  Ronnie grasped the ornate door handle, gave it a twist and pushed. The door swung open easily, revealing an expansive reception area. It was marble-floored and had several doors leading from it. There was an enormous staircase opposite him that terminated in a seated landing area. More stairs from there led off upwards, left and right. To where, he couldn’t make out.

  “Pretty fancy,” he said, stepping inside. The door slammed shut. He was on his own.

  “Well that’s not bloody fair,” he announced to nobody in particular. “How come I get stuck by myself?”

  “That’s the nature of the challenge,” said a quite frankly, miserable voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. He couldn’t decide if it was in his head or totally surrounding him. It was a weird sensation. It was like wearing headphones.

  “But do not worry,” the despondent voice continued. “I’ll be with you.”

  “And you are?”

  “The spirit of the house.”

  “More like the house whine, if you’ll forgive me,” said Ronnie somewhat apologetically. “You need to cheer up a bit.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Force of habit. I’ve been alone so long now, I do tend to get a tiny bit maudlin every couple of centuries.”

  “Well, if you’re staying in my head you can snap out of it, challenge or no challenge. I’m sure you don’t want me to ignore you.”

  “Indeed not,” said the voice with renewed vigour and enthusiasm. “And, as things progress, I shall be happy to offer any assistance that I am able, within certain limits of course. They don’t just give these things away, you know.”

  “Pity, but that’s very generous of you,” said Ronnie.

  “Oh, think nothing of it. It’s such a pleasure to have some company. This is a big place and when you’re on your own, you tend to rattle around a bit.”

  “I suppose you would at that. What do I call you, by the way?”

  “Flabbitt.”

  “Well, Flabbitt, seeing as I’m here, I might as well get on with it. And I do have four companions waiting for me outside.”

  “Of course. Okay, down to business. Here comes the formal bit. Welcome, Ronnie. Your goal is to defeat the challenge set before you.”

  “Defeat? I don’t like the sound of that. Solve would have been better.”

  “As I was saying, defeat the challenge. Your instructions are on the table over there.”

  “What if I don’t complete the challenge?”

  “Best not to, really,” said Flabbitt.

  “I’ve heard that before.”

  Ronnie’s gaze was drawn to a small mahogany table sitting next to the left hand wall of the entranceway. He hadn’t realised that it was there when he came in. He inwardly thanked Flabbitt for the unseen helping hand.

  Resting on the table was another envelope that on inspection contained another piece of black note paper.

  “Oh, for f…, not another riddle. I’m sick of riddles. That’s all we’ve done so far,” he said.

  He read the words in his head. ‘Watch out!’

  That was it. Just those two words. Nothing else. To say he was confused was an understatement, so in time-honoured tradition as everybody does when trying to figure something out, he read the words aloud to see if they made more sense. There is no reason to think that this will help, it just seems like the natural thing to do, like turning the radio down in your car when you’re lost, or wailing like a town crier when you’re having a private conversation on your mobile phone.

  “Watch out. What sort of riddle..?”

  “En garde!”

  The shout came from a rather dandy looking chap, standing about twenty feet away from Ronnie. He was all frills, lace and white powder, and was poised nonchalantly and rather camply, one foot in front of the other. His left hand rested on his hip whilst his right hand clutched a distinctly pointy looking steel blade. The end wavered back and forth slightly, the shiny silver metal glinting in the light.

  “Are you serious?” asked Ronnie.

  “I think he is. Don’t you?” said Flabbitt.

  “And what am I supposed to use? A butter knife from the kitchen?”

  “The fireplace,” said Flabbitt.

  Ronnie looked in that general direction.

  “Well, I could throw him in it, I suppose. Or brain him with a log. That should do the trick.”

  “Above it,” said Flabbitt with a sigh.

  “Oh, right.”

  Hanging in traditional fashion above the massive stone grate were two crossed swords.

  “So I take it I…?”

  “You can take whatever you like,” said Flabbitt, “just make sure you take one of those and be quick about it, Ronnie. Our foppish companion seems to be getting a little impatient.”

  Ronnie unhooked one of the weapons and hefted it, testing its weight and giving it a few practice swipes.

  “Seems a bit flimsy,” he noted.

  “I wouldn’t worry too much,” said Flabbitt. “Those things were responsible for the deaths of hundreds of toffs in years gone by.”

  “That’s reassuring. So what do I do? Just get on with it and start slashing?”

  “Indeed, but first the rules.”

  “Of course.”

  “Okay. First, you have been challenged, so you may choose where to start.”

  “What do you mean where?” asked Ronnie slightly confused.

  “This is a traditional and formal duel,” explained Flabbitt. “You have to start somewhere dramatic. You know, one of you on a table, under a piano, hanging from a chandelier. That sort of thing.”

  Ronnie sighed and raised his eyebrows.

  “If I knew I was going to be starring in a second rate Musketeers movie, I would have brought my velvet pants and fancy wig. Okay, what next?”

  “Second,” Flabbitt continued, “any locking of swords th
at causes the two of you to come together, must be accompanied by an appropriate insult. Something like ’You offend me, you cankish lean-witted badger’s bottom.”

  Ronnie laughed out loud and shook his head.

  “You have got to be pulling my leg.”

  “Not at all. It’s the done thing.”

  “If you say so. Next.”

  “The winner will be declared on account of first blood being drawn, one of the two parties yielding, or the application of a killing strike.”

  “Shouldn’t a killing strike count double?” asked Ronnie nervously, trying to get himself prepared for the duel.

  “Very amusing. The time has come.”

  “Where would you laike to begeen, Monsieur?” said his sword wielding opponent in a very cultured French accent.

  Ronnie looked around the vast interior, wondering where would be best. He didn’t really have a clue. He did have some fencing experience, but that had been as a child, poncing up and down on blue mats twice a week with a blade so dull it wouldn’t have cut the air.

  “Just take a stab at it,” said Flabbitt.

  “That’s not even remotely funny,” Ronnie shot back. Oh, for a shotgun.

  “Sorry. Why don’t you try the stairs? That’s always a good place to start.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Put him below you, a few steps down, and you’ll have the high ground. Best to go into it with an advantage, I would have thought.”

  “Good point. Thanks, Flabbitt. The stairs,” Ronnie announced to his foe.

  “Very well,” he replied, “after you.”

  Ronnie walked to the stairs and went about half way up. His opponent followed, coming to a stop four steps below Ronnie.

  “Are you ready, Monsieur?” the fellow asked.

  “As I’ll ever be. What’s your name, by the way?”

  “Jean Baptiste Tete de Noeud, Vicomte de Garlic Pompom, First Prince Etranger of the House of La Tour d’Auvergne.”

  “I had to ask.”

  “Well, it’s actually Michel, but I thought that sounded a bit camp. Ironic when I dress like thees, but hey, the ladies seem to lov eet.”

  “Oh, one more thing,” said Flabbitt.

  “What now?”

  “You’re not allowed to become invisible.”

  “Epic.”

  “Well, it wouldn’t be entirely fair, would it?”

  “Oh, no,” came the sarcastic reply, “what could possibly be unfair about an obviously expert swordsman duelling against someone who’s only recent experience with sharp objects is cutting a peanut butter sarnie in half. We couldn’t be more evenly matched. It’d be like Brazil taking on the Stoke Mandeville wheelchair eleven.”

  “Exactly. Off you go, then.”

  “You’re enjoying this aren’t you?”

  “I can’t even begin to lie about that. Yes, indeed.”

  Ronnie raised his sword in preparation. As quick as a flash, his opponent rushed at him, charging up the stairs straight towards him. Taken by surprise all Ronnie could do was hold his sword up as the man dashed past, slashing as he went. Ronnie turned quickly, now in the disadvantageous lower position. Michel took the initiative and struck downwards with a vicious overhead chop. Ronnie managed to get his sword up in time and blocked it, his own blade coming to a stop a couple of inches from his face. He pushed back causing Michel to stumble up a step.

  “So thou dost have some fight in thee, thou mammering, crook paled bum bailey,” said Michel in a passable English accent.

  “More than enough for you, thou droning, fat headed malignancy,” Ronnie answered, not having a clue where that had come from.

  Michel struck again, forcing Ronnie down a stair or two and putting him off balance, as his left foot slipped off a carpeted step. Seeing an opening, Michel pushed forward. He thrust his blade towards Ronnie’s midriff, but somehow Ronnie saw it coming. He parried it away just as he completely lost his balance and fell against the wall. Luckily for him though, Michel’s momentum continued, and without Ronnie there to stop him he hit the banister, toppled over it and crashed to the floor ten feet below. Seizing the moment, Ronnie vaulted the banister and landed like a cat on the floor, just as Michel regained his feet and his composure.

  “Seems that maybe thou ist not as accomplished as ye think you are, thou lumpish, eye offending varlet,” Ronnie jibed.

  “Even if I am not, it will trouble me little to thrash you to within an inch of thy life, thou puking, wobbly jowled dog fish,” came the reply.

  The blades came together in a series of thrusts, lunges, counter strikes and parries. Ronnie felt that he was doing fine, but he was wishing that he hadn’t smoked twenty roll ups an hour for the last fifteen years.

  The ring of steel against steel rang out as Michel surged forward yet again, forcing Ronnie back against the opposite stair wall. The blades came together and locked once more, as if they were trying to conjoin without any effort from the two men holding them. Again, their faces were within touching distance as they each struggled to gain the upper hand.

  “The sweat upon thy brow tells me that thee is struggling and may soon quit this duel, thou vain, ill nurtured jolt head,” said Michel.

  “It will take better than thee to put me on my back, thou warped, rump fed maggot pie,” responded Ronnie, as he quickly turned Michel round to get himself away from the wall. As he did though, Michel gave him a sharp shove. Ronnie stumbled backwards and crashed into a glass cabinet that he was positive hadn’t been there before.

  “You’re right,” said Flabbitt in his head, “it wasn’t, but it wouldn’t be a sword fight without a few items of handily placed furniture to bump into, now would it?”

  As he landed on the floor, shattered glass and splintered wood showered down onto him before the main body of the cabinet crashed on top of him, pinning him to the ground. Michel rushed forward and plunged his blade downwards through the fractured frame. Luckily for Ronnie, his sword hand was free and he was able to bat it away and, whilst doing so, he managed to draw his right knee up towards his chest and plant his foot onto the bulky framework. Another thrust from Michel got through, the point of his blade resting lightly just below Ronnie’s Adams apple.

  “Looks like victory may be mine sooner than I thought, thou surly, half faced pig nut,” said Michel, pressing the blade down another couple of millimetres.

  “If quick victories are what thy desire, ye should learn to press home thy advantage, thou hideous, flap mouthed snipe,” said Ronnie.

  He thrust his leg forward with all the strength he could muster, sending the remains of the cabinet and Michel flying away from him, giving him enough time to extricate himself from the tangled mess and get to his feet. He quickly checked his neck and was relieved to see that his fingers came away free of blood.

  They came back together again, slashing, pushing and shoving each other, both now keenly attuned to each other’s fighting styles. The sound of their laboured breathing was heavy in the air, punctuated only by the crunch of broken glass under their swiftly moving feet. Both men were beginning to tire now, and as they found themselves either side of the table in the entrance hall, both saw it as a chance for a momentary respite.

  Silence descended for a few precious seconds until Michel roused himself once more, kicking the table aside and lunging at Ronnie. Blades locked they came together again, each man so exhausted that they were almost leaning on each other for support.

  “I almost have thee vanquished. I can feel the tremor in thy being, thou logger headed, pottle deep death token,” Michel hissed through gritted teeth and a fine spray of spittle.

  “Thy feelings are mistaken. Even at my lowest ebb and on my worst day I would still have the beating of you, thou fawning, shag eared jack-a-nape.”

  Both of them were visibly shaking and drenched with perspiration. Then suddenly, as if by some mystical pre-arranged signal, both realising that the duel would soon be over, they both pushed at the same time. They each t
ook a step backwards and raised their swords before bringing them sweeping down in fast, tight arcs. The blades crashed together, ringing like a bell, but the combined force proved too great. Both blades shattered, sending shards of metal flying through the air and the reverberations from the collision causing both of them to drop their stunted handles in shock. In a flash Ronnie reacted and punched Michel square on the nose, squashing it into his face and sending a spurt of blood onto his mouth and chin. His backside hit the floor with a resounding THUMP and he sat there dazed and confused, his tongue licking the rapidly drying fluid from his lips.

  “Honour is satisfied,” announced Flabbitt. “First blood has been drawn. Ronnie, you are victorious.”

  “Well met, Monsieur Ronnie” said Michel, getting to his feet. “Ah have been bested by the betterrr man.” With that he simply vanished.

  “So, what now?” asked Ronnie.

  “Hold your hands out,” said Flabbitt.

  Ronnie did as he was bid. A quiet pop and a puff of smoke announced the arrival of the second cup handle.

  “Thanks, Flabbitt” said Ronnie. “So I guess that’s it. Can I go now?”

  “Indeed. Unless you want to stay for a bit longer. I’ve rather enjoyed you being here.”

  “Well I appreciate the sentiment,” said Ronnie, heading for the front door, “but I think it’s a bit too hectic round here for my liking.”

  “Fair enough. Goodbye, Ronnie.”

  “Bye, mate.”

  The door banged shut, almost catching Ronnie on the backside.

  “Blimey that was quick,” said Ollie. “You’ve only just gone in.”

  “Really?” said Ronnie disbelievingly.

  “Yup,” said Stitches. “What did you have to do in there? Spell your name correctly?”

  “Not quite.”

  “Hi, Ronnie,” said Flug. “You okay?”

  “Couldn’t be better, mate,” Ronnie said, clapping his large friend on the back.

  He regaled them with the tale of his challenge before showing them the third piece of the cup, which Ethan took and placed into his backpack with the other two.

  “Excellent,” said Ollie. “Right, let’s get working on the next one, shall we?”