Yowler Foul-Up

by David Lee Stone

  “Lizards?”

  “ … he knew too much, so I took him down. I only scared the old man. Of course, they wanted me to kill him.”

  “That’s enough, I think. You can explain all this to the viscount.”

  “You don’t understand. I—”

  “Come on,” said Obegarde, dragging him up from the floor. “I’ll take you to jail. The Crown can decide your fate in the morning.” He straightened up, shouldered the crossbow, and pushed the gnome in front of him. “And if you try anything smart, you’ll find out why the world hates a loftwing.”

  Mixer coughed and managed half a nod.

  “Good. Now, keep your hands where I can see them.”

  He shoved the gnome in the back with his boot, and the two of them headed on down the hill.

  High in the sky, the barrowbird watched them with considerable interest.

  THIRTY

  THE ALLEY WAS WREATHED in shadow.

  Jimmy Quickstint picked his way, catlike, between crumpled bins and bulging rubbish sacks that spilled their contents from gaping wounds. Occasionally he would stand stock-still and listen for the slightest hint of movement ahead. Then, detecting nothing, he would move on much as before, hands bunched into fists for the attack he expected at any moment.

  Then he saw Lopsalm. The mad priest was a tiny speck at the farthest end of the alley, about to cross Cathedral Street.

  Slowly at first, then picking up speed, Jimmy moved faster and faster until he was hurtling headlong after the priest, arms pumping and legs threatening to strike every inch of the way.

  What am I doing now? he thought. Eleven o’clock at night and, when I should be tucked up in bed, I’m chasing a religious lunatic down a blind alley at the request of a bloody pigeon. I must be mad; there’s no other explanation. Never mind, I’ve nearly caught him. Oh look, he’s going in to the cathedral grounds. I wonder if Jed’s working tonight?

  THIRTY-ONE

  THE LOFTWING BRANCH OF the vampire family was characterized by its breathtaking reflexes, which were described by some anthropologists as “so fast as to be almost anticipatory.” Mixer, on the other hand, was desperate, and occasionally desperation carries an amazing ability to turn back the odds.

  They were approaching Dullitch City Jail when the gnome made his move. Obegarde, who’d had the nose of the crossbow jammed into Mixer’s back since the moment he’d hoisted him off the cobbles, was beginning to relax. The jail loomed into view at the end of the street, and manholes aside, there was simply nowhere for the little gnome to go.

  Then, without the slightest physical indication, Mixer took off like a torpedo … toward the jail-house. Wary and not a little baffled, Obegarde rocketed after him, slowing a bit when he realized the gnome was on a collision course with the jail’s immense barred door. But Mixer knew exactly what he was doing.

  “Hey, stop him!” Obegarde screamed at the sentries when he saw the little gnome squeeze himself between the bars and disappear into the darkness beyond.

  The two guards on duty began to stumble about in confusion, partly befuddled and partly bemused at the fact that someone had just forced their way into the building. Mixer evaded them with consummate ease, sliding between their clumsy limbs and leading them on a merry dance along the gloomy corridors of the jail.

  Obegarde arrived at the entrance to the jailhouse, crashing into the giant door and hammering on the bars until his knuckles bled.

  “Let me in, you fools! He’s going to get away!”

  “Leave this to us, citizen!” the guards bellowed back. “We have everything under control.”

  “Like hell you do! LET ME IN!”

  There was a lengthy pause, and the gate began to trundle sideways. Obegarde grabbed at the retreating bar and propelled himself inside. Unfortunately, he then ran smack-bang into the one person in Dullitch he always tried passionately to avoid: Quartermaster Alan Sorrow.

  “Obegarde, what a lovely surprise; and where do you think you’re going?”

  Sorrow wasn’t a well-liked man in Dullitch. In fact, he was positively loathed. This was something he simply couldn’t fathom, for, being one of the four quartermasters, he considered himself highly respectable. Obegarde, on the other hand, he regarded as a hopeless piece of street scum. This didn’t worry the loftwing unduly, as the feeling was mutual.

  “Alan,” he said breathlessly, “you’ve got to let me pass. There’s a gnome on the loose in there.”

  “Yes, it seems so,” Sorrow agreed, nodding his head to one side and listening as a hundred pairs of feet responded to the unmistakable din of the jailhouse alarm. “Do you have any idea why that is?”

  “Yes,” the loftwing managed. “I brought him in. Now, can I—”

  “Hold your horses, Obegarde. My men will handle it. What’s the charge?”

  “Um … murder, assault, possible theft, conspiracy to endanger the city, er, you name it. …”

  “I see. Nice of you to let him go, then.”

  “What? I didn’t let him go.”

  “Then, would you like to explain what he’s doing running loose around my jailhouse?”

  “He escaped.”

  “Terrific. Well, we’ll handle it from here. We are, after all, professionals.”

  Obegarde snorted. “You’re a bunch of incompetents,” he muttered.

  “What was that?”

  “I said, you’re a bun—”

  “Yes, I heard you the first time; I just wanted to see if a bloodsucker like yourself had the nerve to repeat it. I have to confess, I’m shocked.” He stepped forward, ushering Obegarde into the street, and motioned for the great gates to be closed behind him.

  “You’re coming with me,” he said flatly.

  “Where?”

  “The palace. I understand Lord Curfew’s secretary wants to see you, though I can’t think why the palace would employ a freelancer when they’ve got us.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  THE ANCIENT GATES BARRING entrance to the grounds of Dullitch Cathedral creaked ominously in the wind; the chains that usually constricted them had been severed.

  “Watch your back here, boy,” said the barrowbird, landing on the iron gatepost. “I reckon that Lopsalm could be a tricky customer.”

  “Thanks,” said Jimmy wretchedly. “I’ll keep that in mind when he’s beating my brains out with a candlestick.”

  “No need for sarcasm; I’m just trying to help.”

  “Thanks.” Jimmy spotted a shadow slipping between two stone monuments and crouched down to hide himself in the long-neglected grass. A few seconds later the shadow emerged and, looking both ways, slipped behind another statue. It was definitely Lopsalm; the little priest’s pathetically scrawny form gave him away.

  “Out of his bloody mind,” muttered the barrowbird. “That’s one of the requirements of being a priest, if you ask me. Start a bloke off wearing a dress and sooner or later things are bound to go wrong.”

  “You may have stumbled upon something there,” said Jimmy.

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, wizards wear robes and most of them go bad. There was one up in, there was one, er, I don’t remember. … ” Jimmy trailed off. He knew that he must be pretty scared, subconsciously, because he’d started talking for the sake of talking, and that was always a sure sign of trouble.

  He kept himself low to the ground and pulled himself along on his stomach. The damp from the grass seeped into his clothes and, somewhere behind him in the darkness, a flapping indicated that the barrowbird had moved skyward to get a better view of the proceedings.

  Lopsalm was clearly visible now, and his destination was equally obvious. The scabby little priest was heading for the hulking mass of the cathedral. He broke into a run and had almost cleared the first flight of steps when he tripped and fell.

  The barrowbird flapped furiously. “Now! Quick, while the bugger’s down!”

  Jimmy bolted. Running faster than he’d ever run before, he cleared bushes and graveston
es with jumps that would’ve ruined a shorter man for life. Lopsalm was getting to his feet when the gravedigger cannonballed into him. The two men rolled on the ground, raining blows on each other in the familiar fashion of men who’ve never fought before and are trying to remember how their fathers had told them to bunch a fist.

  Jimmy scored the first “oof,” but spent too long congratulating himself and got caught across the chin with a brass knuckle-duster Lopsalm had seemingly produced from thin air.

  “The Holy Hand of Yowl!” yelled the priest, his grin ethereal in the moonlight. “How it striketh thee down!”

  Jimmy brought up a knee and, more from luck than judgment, connected with the man’s most sacred relics.

  “The, er, Gravedigger’s Thrust of Doom,” he barked back. “How it maketh your eyes water!”

  Lopsalm creased up and collapsed, something that Jimmy mistakenly interpreted as license for a breather. He struggled to his feet, took a step back, and tripped over the edge of a gravestone. When he managed to struggle up again, the priest had vanished.

  “You silly bugger!” squawked the barrowbird, flapping on the wind. “You shouldn’t have taken your eyes off him!”

  Jimmy groaned. “Did you see where he went?”

  “Yeah; in there.”

  The cathedral loomed large. Jimmy hoped it didn’t look as bad on the inside, but something about the expressions of the gargoyles suggested the architect had been working on a theme of unimaginable terror.

  “Well, here goes nothing,” he said, and sprinted off, the barrowbird close behind him.

  THIRTY-THREE

  AN EAR-SPLITTING SCREAM ECHOED through the palace corridors. There was a lengthy pause, then …

  “What is the meaning of this disruption?” the viscount boomed. He’d been somewhat taken aback when Secretary Spires had rushed into his private chambers (once again without knocking) accompanied by a bedraggled stranger in a dirty overcoat. He made a mental note to execute his chamber guards, assuming he could find them.

  Obegarde, still panting heavily from the night’s exertions, took a step back and collapsed into one of the palace’s hard marble chairs. Spires was less keen to be silent, and stood at the edge of Curfew’s desk, his hands visibly shaking.

  “Now,” the viscount began, “I’m sure you’re here on the most urgent of business, but still, I’d appreciate it if you at least made an attempt to announce yourself. These intrusions really are most …” He trailed off as he saw the secretary’s expression. “What is it, man?”

  “I have vital news, Excellency.”

  “What news? Who is this fellow?”

  “First things first, master. The young lady you asked me to trace—I searched the palace for info, asked every employee. I turned up nothing.”

  “Unfortunate …”

  “Yes, but then I spoke to the Yowlers.”

  “You did what? Without my permission! You imbecile! You do realize that anything you say reflects on me? Do you know how many Yowler groups there are in this city? Moreover, do you know how many Yowlers there are in this quarter of the city? If you’ve compromised my posit—”

  “Don’t worry, Excellency! Please, don’t worry! The news isn’t as bad as we think—”

  “Oh, it’s bad all right,” Obegarde interrupted.

  “Quiet! You’ll get your turn, whoever you are.”

  “I’m just saying—”

  “Well, don’t. Let him finish. Go on, Spires.”

  The secretary passed a set of parchments to the viscount. “I think you should take a look at these profiles, Excellency.”

  Curfew studied the scrolls, his cheek twitching as his eyes progressed down each page.

  “Moors, Edwy, the Lark? Who are these people?”

  “A breakaway section of the Yowlers, Excellency.”

  “How breakaway, exactly? Breakaway as in still tied to, or breakaway as in totally broken? I don’t want to end up murdered in my bed—”

  “They’re total outcasts, Excellency; I assure you. They deserted the main order last year to start up on their own. The ruling brotherhood say they won’t have anything to do with them because they’re all mad.”

  Curfew swallowed a few times and wiped his brow with the back of his hand.

  Spires slowly took back the parchments and continued. “Moors, Edwy, and Lopsalm are all ex-priests from the order. We think the fourth member, the one known as the Lark, might be our girl Lauris.”

  Curfew snatched the parchments back and rifled through them. “Hmm … these aren’t very good. Apart from the fact that this Moors is supposed to be grossly obese, we don’t have an awful lot to go on; most of these pictures are drawn in crayon.”

  “Yes, Excellency—our artist was working from a few vague descriptions. But wait! There’s more. The Yowlers say that one of their grand churches was recently sold to this Lopsalm character for a sum referred to as considerable.”

  “Let me guess: Karuim’s?”

  “Precisely, Excellency. Used to be the temple of origins, didn’t it?”

  Curfew perked up. “But that’s next door, for goodness’ sake! We can storm it.”

  “Unfortunately not, Excellency. The church is on Yowler land, and even though they’re opposed to the new order, we’ll incur their considerable wrath if we thunder right in there with no religious jurisdiction.”

  “Absolutely, absolutely. We don’t want that kind of trouble. … You’ll have to think of something else. Where does this fellow come in?”

  The loftwing stepped forward and gave a reluctant bow.

  “This is Mr. Obegarde, Excellency, the investigator we hired to track Lauris.”

  Curfew nodded. “Ah yes, last I heard you were chasing after a gnome who worked as a cleaner at the church?”

  “Oh, he’s a cleaner all right,” Obegarde conceded. “He’s also an assassin, a thief, a conspirator, and only the gods know what else.”

  “Definitely a member of the group, then?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Did you catch him?”

  “I did, and I took him to the city jail.”

  “He’s there now?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Oh?”

  “He got away from me in the jailhouse. Sorrow’s men might catch him, but I wouldn’t build your hopes up. …”

  The viscount caressed his eyelids with a thumb and a forefinger.

  “I see,” he said sadly. “And do we have any idea, absolutely any idea, what all this is about?”

  “Not really,” Obegarde admitted. “All I’ve got is a few fractured facts from eavesdropping and a very dodgy confession from our little friend. What I do know is this: there’s a machine in a warehouse down at the harbor; it’s big, it’s mean, and it’s definitely a vital part of whatever this group has planned. If we can do a demolition job on the cursed thing, my bet is we’d be putting a major dent in their plans. It’s in Warehouse Six.”

  Curfew nodded. “Spires,” he began, gripping the arms of his chair so hard that his fingernails turned white, “I want you to take all available guards and destroy this machine. Do it quickly. Do it now. I’ll come along for good measure. Anything else that might help?”

  “Possibly,” Obegarde said when Spires had hurried from the room. “The Lark has gone to Plunge.”

  “Plunge? But that’s miles away. Have you any idea why?”

  “No, but she had a thief steal some lizards from a forest up north, and then the gnome killed him. Now her minions have them; as far as I can make out, they’re en route to rendezvous with her.”

  “In Plunge?”

  “Yes. Whatever she’s planning, I’m guessing these lizards are an integral part of it.”

  At that moment, Spires returned. He stood in the corridor, fully armored and gasping for air.

  “The men are ready, Excellency,” he said.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  HAVING SHINNED UP A sheer brick wall in the nave of the cathedral, Jimmy Quickstint vaul
ted over the edge of a balcony and landed, on all fours, in the dark antechamber beyond.

  “Bugger this,” he spat at the barrowbird who flew over the balcony to land beside him. “He could be anywhere.”

  “Just stay alert, boy. I’ll keep watch for you.”

  Jimmy squinted into the gloomy shadows cast by the cathedral’s innards. He slipped over to crouch beside a heavy iron pipe that ran from floor to ceiling, and put an ear to the outer shell.

  “What’re you doing, boy?”

  “Shhh! It’s an old thief trick.”

  “You were a thief?”

  “Be quiet!”

  Jimmy strained to listen; somewhere far off in the gargantuan sanctuary, he heard the unmistakable click of a door closing.

  “Well,” squawked the barrowbird. “Getting anything?”

  “Mmm … I think he’s downstairs.”

  “Straight up? How can you tell?”

  Jimmy tapped the pipe indicatively and raised an eyebrow. “A door closed.”

  “Ah. How do you know it was him, though?” asked the barrowbird. “There must be folk working here, place this size: bishops, canon, cardinals, and the like.”

  “Cathedral’s abandoned,” Jimmy snapped. “Didn’t you see the chain on the gates? No one comes here now, not since the Yowlers outlawed other religions. The grounds ’re still used for burials, but that’s about it.”

  The catacombs beneath Dullitch Cathedral were legendary.

  Stretching for half a mile in every direction, they linked up with the city’s equally legendary sewer system. Rumor suggested that black elves wandered the subterranean waterways, but no one had survived long enough to prove it.

  Jimmy, with the barrowbird perched jauntily on his shoulder, squinted ahead. The passageway he’d happened upon culminated in a T-junction, and the figure lingering there was definitely not a black elf. Jimmy couldn’t be sure, but he hoped it was the rogue Yowler priest.

  “Hey, you! Stop in the name of, er—”

  “Jort,” said the barrowbird.

  “Yes! Stop in the name of Jort!”