Yowler Foul-Up

by David Lee Stone

  A look of sudden, terrible recognition settled on the viscount’s face. “Plunge,” he said slowly. “Of course.”

  “Well, do you have a mage or don’t you?”

  “Yes, I mean, no! Absolutely not! Magic is outlawed in Dullitch, as you are well aware. I can, however, provide you with—”

  “Horses simply won’t make the journey in time, and I don’t know anyone with a dragon.”

  Curfew got to his feet. “I’m not supplying you with magic unless I’m absolutely one hundred percent satisfied that a definite threat is posed to the city.”

  “Very well,” Modeset agreed, leaning across the viscount’s marble desk and staring him directly in the eye. “A beam comprised of the glare of several Batchtiki lizards is to be fired from a small machine through a sorcery-fueled lighthouse lens into the sun. The resulting beam was going to hit a specially constructed magnifier in Dullitch. Now, as I understand, the receptacle has been destroyed—”

  “Yes, entirely.”

  “But that does not discount the fact that a beam will be fired and, though the resulting range will undoubtedly be reduced, I feel certain the malevolent group involved will inflict many, many deaths with it. Satisfied?”

  Before Curfew could question him further, the duke stepped forward and placed both hands flat on the desktop. “Now,” he began, eyeing the bodyguards who had begun to creep from the shadows. “Do you have a mage in the building or not?”

  The viscount held up a hand. “Yes … very well.”

  The guards receded.

  “I do hope you know what you’re doing, cousin,” Curfew warned.

  Modeset took a step back and saluted again.

  “How many men are you taking with you?” the viscount prompted.

  “Three, my lord,” said Modeset confidently. “And one woman.”

  FORTY-THREE

  MANY MILES AWAY FROM the palace, in a great lighthouse atop the tiny town of Plunge, the Lark paced back and forth before a wide window that looked out upon the sea.

  “Well,” she said, not bothering to turn when she heard the door creak open. “Was our little experiment a success?”

  “Yes, mistress,” said Moors, trying to control his excitement with a nervous laugh. “But I’m afraid Edwy got a little carried away.”

  “Oh?” The Lark twirled around, her robed arms folded in annoyance. “Do explain.”

  Moors hauled himself farther into the room, practically blocking out all light from the passage behind him.

  “Well, I changed the villagers exactly as you said, mistress: slowly, one at a time. But Edwy started trying to do two at once, then three and four, and—”

  “I get the picture,” the Lark snapped. “So we now have the entire town under wraps, do we?”

  Moors managed a sheepish nod. “I’m afraid so, mistress. I did warn him not to go too far, but you know Edwy, mistress, he doesn’t listen.”

  The Lark shook her head. “No,” she echoed quietly. “He’ll pay for that. Still, no matter; the test can be considered a success.”

  “Yes, mistress,” Moors bleated. “Is there anything else we should be doing?”

  The Lark nodded quickly. “There is. Fetch Edwy. We’re going to accelerate our plans a little. Dullitch falls tonight!”

  FORTY-FOUR

  THE CELLAR BENEATH DULLITCH Palace was in an absolute uproar.

  “Are you sure this man’s playing with a full deck?” Modeset demanded, pointing across the room at the viscount’s resident (and highly classified) sorcerer.

  It was no wonder Curfew kept Wrickshaw Muldoon in the basement. The old man had a face like the first actor in a play to forget his lines. He was impossibly ancient, excruciatingly wizened, and uncomfortably shortsighted.

  “You,” he announced, suddenly thrusting out an arm. “Do not dare speak ill of my powers.”

  Modeset rolled his eyes. “I’m over this way.”

  “I knew that! I was just testing your reflexes.”

  “Ha! Are any of you listening to this rubbish? We’d have more luck being teleported by an incontinent whippet.”

  “Can we please get on?” said Curfew, holding up a hand for silence. “Good. Now, can everyone intent on saving our city please step into the circle of voluntary transportation?”

  There was a lot of mumbling, and several city dignitaries secreted themselves in remote corners of the cellar. Modeset remained, accompanied by Flicka and Pegrand Marshall, his newly released manservant. Obegarde also occupied the inside of the circle, stepping aside to admit the reluctant figure of Jimmy Quickstint.

  “Why am I doing this again?” the gravedigger asked, then muttered under his breath when nobody provided an answer.

  “Very good,” Curfew applauded. “Now, are you all ready to go to Plunge?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yeah.”

  “S’pose so.”

  “Do we have any choice?”

  Curfew beamed. “Superb! Now, if you would be so kind, Mr. Muldoon?”

  The sorcerer stepped forward, raised one withered arm, and promptly turned one of the skulking officials into a herring.

  The group, as one, swallowed. Modeset looked daggers at the old man.

  “Does he have any idea what he’s doing?”

  “Please control your temper, cousin. I’m sure Mr. Muldoon was merely warming up, isn’t that right, Wrickshaw?”

  Muldoon nodded, gave a lopsided smile, and began to concentrate again. A few moments later, Modeset disappeared in a puff of smoke. Flicka coughed and spluttered in the resulting cloud, and Obegarde had to thrust out an arm in order to block Jimmy’s sudden bid for escape.

  Pegrand gasped and stumbled in bewildered awe toward the place where Modeset had been standing. He hadn’t quite reached the spot, when he too winked out of existence. Flicka was the third to evaporate, but then a lengthy pause ensued.

  “What’s the problem?” Obegarde bellowed. Jimmy looked faintly hopeful.

  Curfew strode over to the old sorcerer and leaned in close; whispers were exchanged.

  “There is no problem, I assure you,” said the viscount calmly. “Mr. Muldoon simply requires a few moments in which to regain his energy.”

  The loftwing sighed. “Can’t he just get on with it?”

  Curfew swallowed. “Mr. Obegarde, you must understand that if our sorcerer is not able to recuperate his powers, he might not be able to send you to Plunge in one piece.”

  “We don’t have time,” Obegarde said. “I’ll take the risk.”

  “Fantastic,” Jimmy mumbled. “I bet I lose all my favorite bits.”

  PART THREE:

  THE FIGHT FOR PLUNGE

  FORTY-FIVE

  PLUNGE BAY STOOD ON the northern fringe of Illmoor, at a point where the Grinswood gave way to the Mountains of Mavokhan. In the past, it had been a picturesque little town full of fat, friendly fishermen and their bloated, odious wives. It had been a place where the aristocrats of Dullitch sent their children during the height of summer, and a place where retired wizards came to settle down and raise magically inept sons and dizzy daughters who always got into the kind of trouble a wand couldn’t fix.

  Plunge Bay had been all these things and more besides. Now, however, it was …

  “Empty, milord; the town’s a complete morgue.”

  Pegrand Marshall, standing in the middle of the street with his blunderbuss at the ready, squinted up to the roof of the nearest house to try and determine whether Duke Modeset had heard him. Flicka was still materializing at the far end of the street. Jimmy Quickstint and Obegarde were, as yet, nowhere to be seen.

  “It’s empty!” he bellowed again, just in case.

  “I heard you the first time, Pegrand,” said a voice beside him.

  Modeset shimmered into view, his fully-armed form becoming a little less hazy as the materialization spell wore off. Evidently, his own journey through enchantment had been somewhat less smooth than that of his companions.

  “
I don’t like it,” he said. “It’s not right. A whole town can’t just disappear. Have a look inside some of those houses, will you?”

  The manservant hurried over to one of the doors and hammered on it, using its ornamental brass knocker. When he got no reply, he slipped inside and reappeared minutes later, sporting a worried grin.

  “There is a woman in there, milord,” he said. “But she’s been turned to stone.”

  Pegrand tried rapping on another door farther down the street. To his surprise, Obegarde answered it.

  “Found the loftwing, milord! He came down in the butcher’s …”

  Thunder rumbled off to the east, a distant echo of sound. Somehow, it made the vacancy of Plunge seem even more forbidding. Doors creaked open in the wind and dust gathered on neglected panes.

  Flicka rushed up to join the duke as she fiddled with her clothes in a distracted manner; she felt sure that the spell had distorted the fabric. Obegarde looked even worse; the investigator kept shaking his head and had apparently lost the power of speech in the bargain.

  Pegrand hunched his shoulders and rubbed his wrists.

  “What’re we dealing with here, milord?” he asked, staring off into the distance.

  “A difficult prospect,” Modeset answered. “But at least we know we’re in the right place. Presumably, the unfortunate population of Plunge has been exposed to the glare of the lizards as some sort of preparative experiment for the turning to stone of Dullitch.”

  “We need some sort of weapon,” Obegarde piped up, peering around the empty streets. “Something bigger than that blunderbuss: a siege cannon, maybe. Something major …”

  They watched as he disappeared down a side alley, only to reemerge from the mouth of a second, some distance along the road. He beckoned to them, then suddenly veered left.

  “Where’s he off to?” said Modeset, nudging Pegrand in the ribs to shake the manservant from his reverie.

  “Dunno, milord. I’ll try and get his attention.” Pegrand flung up his arms and started shouting.

  “Will you shut up, Pegrand! You’ll alert the Yowlers! We’ll catch up to him, okay?”

  “Right, milord. Sorry.”

  “Where’s young Jimmy got to?”

  “Don’t think he’s arrived yet, milord. Flicka’s disappeared as well.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, where is everybody? We’ve only been here five minutes and we’re already a bloody shambles!”

  “Quiet, milord! You’ll alert the Yowlers.”

  Modeset cast a sharp glance at Pegrand, then clipped him round the ear.

  FORTY-SIX

  “SORRY, LORD M,” FLICKA said when the duke and Pegrand had caught up with her on the first floor of one of the fishermen’s cottages. “But I had to get a closer look at the peninsula and I just knew one of these rooms would overlook the bay. I haven’t seen Jimmy yet. I hope the spell didn’t go wrong or anything. …”

  Pegrand shrugged and began to rummage through the cupboards. “No weapons here,” he said eventually, and ripped off one of the doors for good measure. “Have to rely on me and my blunderbuss, milord.”

  “May the gods have mercy,” said Obegarde, conquering the stairs of the cottage and leaning halfheartedly against the door frame.

  “Find anything?”

  “No,” said the loftwing sulkily. “Not so much as a knuckle-duster.”

  “Great. You all right, milord?”

  Modeset, still taken aback by the stone statue of a small boy beside the window, didn’t reply. He took a moment to mentally rewind what Flicka had said earlier.

  “What peninsula?” he said to her, when he’d finished his thinking process.

  “The one with the lighthouse on the end,” said Flicka, gesturing out of the window toward a towering column just visible in the distance. “I noticed it from the end of the road, while you were talking. There’s a localized storm there, which is odd. It’s a little too localized if you ask me.”

  “Sorcery,” said Modeset, eyes narrowing. “Our friends from the church, no doubt.”

  Pegrand marched over to the window and squinted out. “Should we go in guns blazing, milord?”

  “No, thank you, Pegrand. That will not be necessary until after you’ve learned how to operate the weapon you’re carrying.”

  The manservant frowned. “How do you mean, milord?”

  “Well, for starters, the barrel is pointing toward your chest. …”

  Pegrand glanced down. “Oh, will you look at that? So it is.”

  “ … Meaning that if you’d heard a noise on the way up here and had, in reaction, pulled the trigger, Flicka and I would now be scraping sections of your rib cage from the walls.”

  “Point taken, milord.”

  “Jolly good. Now, I want you to hand the blunderbuss over to Obegarde.”

  “Oh, do I have to?”

  “Immediately and without argument.”

  “But why?”

  “Because, dear friend, I have to focus my mind on defeating the enemies of Dullitch, and I’m going to find that extremely difficult if I have to keep looking over my shoulder to make sure you don’t accidentally blow my head off with your six seconds of ballistic experience. Okay?”

  Pegrand mumbled something under his breath and shoved the gun toward Obegarde, who accepted it with no particular show of emotion.

  “Now,” Modeset continued, “we’re going to make for the lighthouse.”

  “I don’t fancy walking into the jaws of death without good reason, milord,” said Pegrand.

  The duke sighed.

  “I don’t have time to argue,” he said pleasantly. “Suffice it to say, old friend, that if I’m going, then so are you.”

  FORTY-SEVEN

  MODESET AND COMPANY WERE on their way over to the lighthouse when Pegrand suddenly barked an announcement.

  “The saber! The silver saber!”

  Modeset and Flicka froze; Obegarde took a deep breath.

  “What?” the duke asked, bewildered.

  “The sacred silver saber.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The sacred silver saber of Bowlcock, milord!”

  Modeset frowned at his manservant. “Bowlcock,” he said slowly. “You mean—”

  “The first duke of Dullitch,” Pegrand confirmed with a sudden grin. “The greatest warrior who ever walked the land. On his deathbed, he donated his sacred silver saber, the weapon that’d never failed him, to a museum in Plunge! It must still be here somewhere!”

  “How do you know all that?” asked Modeset, aghast at the possibility that the final movements of his greatest ancestor had escaped him.

  Pegrand looked nonplussed. “I read it in the Collected Histories of Dullitch, milord. Volume Six, I believe. If we can find the museum, we’ll find the saber.”

  “I don’t understand,” Flicka chimed in. “Why would we want it?”

  Pegrand gasped. “Why would we want it? The sacred silver saber of Bowlcock? We’d want it because it’s a charmed weapon. Bowlcock never lost a single fight with it. He took on dragons, wyverns, trolls, giants, and an army of greenskins. It’s got—”

  “Historical significance,” Modeset finished. “Yes, I can appreciate that. Destiny has its wily ways. Besides, in a town this size, it shouldn’t take too long to find the museum.”

  Obegarde made a sucking sound with his cheeks. “I’ll wait here,” he said, “but do remember that lives may well be at stake. We haven’t got all day!”

  FORTY-EIGHT

  THREE AND A HALF HOURS of frantic searching had laid bare the Plunge treasury, gold reserve, bakery, butchers, merchants’ tenement, armory, food stores, and blacksmiths’ forge; not to mention fourteen private houses.

  All the while, Obegarde stood in the town square, tapping his foot and kicking the occasional wall.

  “I don’t believe this,” said Pegrand, sighing and stamping his foot on the dusty floor of yet another food store. “They must have eaten like r
abid animals.”

  “It’s a pity we haven’t got a map of some kind,” said Modeset.

  “There’s a place we’ve missed.”

  “Yes, a map!” Pegrand agreed, ignoring the brief interruption. “There would have to be one in the town hall.”

  “Town hall’s full of statues,” said Modeset dismissively. “There must’ve been a big meeting or something. I assume the villagers were all caught unawares; it’s like Medusa’s garden in there.”

  Modeset frowned suddenly. “What do you mean, ‘a place we missed’?” he demanded, turning to Flicka. She was standing with her arms folded, gazing nonchalantly out to sea.

  “Well?” Modeset prompted. “What place?”

  “A big building with brass dogs outside, right next to the town gates. We’ve walked past it five times; I have been trying to tell you but nobody seems to be listening.”

  “Very well,” said Modeset, stung by the tiny flicker of embarrassment he always felt whenever he looked directly at her. “We’ll check it out at once, but I prefer to take the back alley. I don’t think I could bear walking past Obegarde after his last outburst.”

  The door to the Plunge Museum was locked. Modeset eventually had to break a window in order to gain entrance.

  Inside, the building was dark and shadowy. Glass display cases crowded the walls and a heavy candelabra hung down from a grand mosaic ceiling.

  “I’ll start on the left,” said Modeset. The others mumbled in agreement and wandered off toward various cases huddled in bleak corners of the room.

  The first case, Modeset noted with no great interest, contained the skull of Baron Huckstep, a little-known retainer of the Plunge crest who had helped rescue the town from a great dragon back in the Dual Age. It was in two separate pieces.

  Next up, after the vertebrae of several infamous (and rather less than respectable) marquesses, came the legendary Tarnish Helmet that had almost saved Sir Cuffock from the Witches of Rinstare. Judging by the shape of it—an inverted L—the margin of survival had been pretty narrow (evidently, unlucky for some).