Yowler Foul-Up

by David Lee Stone

  Modeset sighed. He found himself wondering what the people of Dullitch would keep as a reminder of him. A nose hair, perhaps, or some earwax? No, he reflected, it would probably be something like “the gold tooth of Duke Modeset” with a footnote declaring, “the only thing of any value we found on him.” He scowled at the thought and moved on.

  He was studying a metal clasp belonging to some long-forgotten king, when a gasp from Pegrand disturbed his concentration.

  “What is it, man?” he called over.

  “It’s this bloke, here. They’ve only got his whatsit on a plinth!”

  The duke sighed. “I don’t want to know, Pegrand.”

  “His whatsit, though, milord! His actual whatsit.”

  “Yes, so you said.”

  “He must’ve been pretty successful with the women for ’em to remember him like that.”

  “Yes, I’m sure. Now, please forget about it and continue your search.” He turned to look behind him. “Any luck yet, Flicka?”

  The aide shook her head and mumbled negatively.

  Modeset returned his attention to the line of cases he’d been perusing. Then he stopped short.

  “Pegrand,” he said slowly. “You told us about Lord Bowlcock’s generous donation of the sacred silver saber to Plunge Museum, do you remember?”

  The manservant was quick to frown. “Of course I do, milord.”

  Modeset swallowed and tried to hide the unease in his voice. “Well, would you like to know what else the great lord donated to the museum?”

  “Um … yes. What?”

  “Himself.”

  “Sorry, milord?”

  “Lord Bowlcock,” Modeset repeated, pronouncing each word with extreme care, “donated himself, along with the super saber you were talking about.”

  “It’s there? The saber’s actually there?”

  “Oh, yes. In fact, he’s still holding it. Only he doesn’t look all that keen to let it go.”

  Pegrand hurried over, Flicka trailing behind him.

  The skeleton beyond the glass barrier was still clutching the silver saber with both hands. It looked ancient in the true sense of the word, not merely long decrepit but well and truly worm-ridden; so off the coil as to be almost nonexistent.

  Pegrand reached out to touch the glass, but Modeset stayed his hand.

  “Wait, man! What if it’s cursed?”

  “Cursed, milord? What, Lord Bowlcock or the sword?”

  “Both!”

  “Well, of course it’s up to you, milord,” said the manservant, stepping back. “But look at the luck we’ve had so far.”

  Modeset nodded. “Good point,” he said. “I’ll grab it, then, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not, milord.”

  Pegrand and Flicka stood back as the duke looked around for something to throw at the case. Eventually, he settled on an old wooden stool behind the entrance doors.

  The glass shattered.

  “Right,” Modeset announced. “Here goes nothing.”

  Mindful of the glass shards, he leaned in to the display case and began the difficult task of removing Lord Bowlcock’s clasped fingers from the silver saber.

  “I’d have thought that they’d just crumble away, milord,” said Pegrand helpfully.

  “Hmm … it seems not.” In less than a minute, Modeset had resorted to applying pressure on the upper arm with his boot. “I certainly didn’t expect this much resistance.”

  He gave one final wrench and staggered back, clutching not only the silver saber but Lord Bowlcock’s arm as well.

  “Damnation! Of all the luck!”

  “Hold on, milord. I’ll help you out, there.”

  Pegrand and Modeset played tug-of-war with the sword arm and saber for what seemed like an age.

  “Flicka!” snapped the duke. “Get over here and help us, will you?”

  Flicka joined in, but to no avail.

  “Very well,” Modeset said, face flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and fury. “We’ll leave the arm on; I’ll use the saber as it is.”

  “You can’t do that, Lord M,” Flicka warned. “You’ll do yourself an injury.”

  “She’s right there, milord,” added Pegrand. “Every time you swing it round, the elbow’ll catch you on the chin. It’ll be like fighting two opponents at once.”

  Modeset raised the saber and, ignoring the arm that dangled down from it, smiled proudly.

  “Pegrand,” he began. “This is my ancestor, my flesh and blood. He will not impede my victory!”

  He took an experimental swing with the sword and yelped when its appendage almost took off his ear.

  Obegarde, arriving at the museum just in time to witness the display, clicked his tongue and sighed deeply.

  “When you’ve all quite finished running around this cement garden of a town, raiding food stores and perusing museums, do you think that there’s even the slightest smidgen of a chance that you might accompany me to the lighthouse in an attempt to save the entire population of a certain city? You know, if it’s not too much trouble?”

  He made to leave, then turned and strode up to Flicka, depositing the blunderbuss in her hands. “You take this,” he commanded. “I’m better off fighting the old-fashioned way.”

  FORTY-NINE

  “THEY’RE COMING, MISTRESS, THEY’RE coming!”

  Edwy burst through the door to the top floor of the lighthouse, his breath almost failing him as he hurtled to a halt.

  The Lark was preoccupied with her glare machine. “Mmm … who is?” she said distractedly.

  “City folk, mistress! There’s a group of them.”

  The Lark released her grip on the machine and spun around, her attention suddenly seized. “Inconceivable! Who are they?”

  “One of them is the man I saw in Dullitch; he came to the temple to speak with Lopsalm.”

  “The wretched loftwing. Hmm … that would make sense. I thought I felt an invasive little mind trying to read my thoughts. Still, he got here exceptionally fast, which is troubling—”

  “Yes, mistress. Mixer failed you, mistress.”

  “Of course he did; I’m surrounded by incompetents. What about the other members of this raiding party? Who are they?”

  “I don’t know, mistress; I can’t quite make them out. What should we do?”

  “Nothing. You’ve done enough already.”

  Edwy bowed his head. “Yes, mistress.”

  “For now, I need you to take control of the machine. It’s being primed, and the glare is being collected. Keep it aimed through the lighthouse lens, but do not release the beam until I return. That is my birthright.”

  Edwy bowed and took over at the reins of the machine. “What are you going to do, mistress?”

  The Lark secured her hair in a ponytail and smiled cruelly. “I’m going to kill a vampire.”

  She turned and swept out of the room, calling behind her, “If Moors comes lumbering up here, tell him to guard the floor below.”

  “Yes, mistress. I will, mistress.”

  FIFTY

  THE PENINSULA LEADING TO Plunge Lighthouse was long and winding, and the approach offered much in the way of conveniently placed bushes. Modeset and company slipped from cover to cover as they neared the towering structure.

  The storm that had been hovering over the lighthouse had diminished considerably, but an ethereal glow still warned of magical activity inside.

  Modeset dashed straight to the door, giving an indication to Pegrand, who joined him, to kick at the door. Unfortunately, all they got was a dull thud. Even Obegarde’s hardened boot couldn’t penetrate the door.

  “Flicka,” Modeset said, turning abruptly on his heel. “The door, if you please.”

  Flicka nodded, looked along the barrel of the blunderbuss, and pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened.

  “She’s not doing it right,” Pegrand said, snatching the weapon and re-aiming it. He pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happ
ened.

  “Let me see that,” Flicka snapped, yanking the weapon back. She turned it over a few times and sighed. “You can’t fire it because it’s not real.”

  “Eh?”

  “What do you mean?”

  She shrugged. “It’s only the model of a blunderbuss. Where did you say you got it from?”

  “That elf guard gave it to me,” the manservant muttered, looking down at his feet. “You know, the one who his lordship assaulted—”

  “Fantastic, Pegrand, and you didn’t think this generous gift was a little odd?”

  Modeset straightened up. “Right,” he said, speaking with renewed authority. “I’m going to climb up to one of the lower windows and break through. Then I’ll crawl inside, disarm the guards (assuming there are guards), run down, and let you all in. I’ll need help getting up, though. Perhaps we can form a sort of human ladder. …”

  Pegrand and Flicka both looked extremely doubtful.

  “This is a joke,” Obegarde warned. “I’ll have no part of it.”

  “Please yourself.”

  “Oh, come on. There must be another way.”

  “As I said, Obegarde, please yourself. You’re your own man.”

  Modeset disappeared around the base of the lighthouse. A few seconds later, he returned.

  “It’s far too high,” he said. “Pegrand, you get dow—”

  He was interrupted by a small clap of lightning and a sudden puff of smoke. Jimmy Quickstint winked into existence, hovered in midair for a few seconds, and then collapsed onto the ground beside the lighthouse.

  “Where did you come from?” Pegrand demanded. “More to the point, where in the name of Urgumflux the Wormridden did you go?”

  A strangely tortured smile appeared on the gravedigger’s formless face. “I think I got a bit stretched,” he announced in a far-off voice. “In fact, it feels like only a bit of me is here.”

  “Yes,” Flicka chirped. “You’re right about that. In fact, if I were you, I should go down to the village right now and find some clothes to put on.”

  Jimmy looked down, and gulped.

  FIFTY-ONE

  “PEGRAND, KEEP STILL DOWN there!”

  “Hold on, milord! I’m trying to get Flicka’s foot off my shoulder.”

  “Don’t do that, man! We’ll all collapse!”

  “But she’s digging it in on purpose, milord!”

  “I am not. It’s Jimmy, he’s buckling!”

  “Well, what do you expect? This apron doesn’t fit me! Besides, Obegarde keeps tickling my feet!”

  Modeset stood at the top of the human tower, fingernails scratching for purchase on the pasty surface of the lighthouse wall. He was about an inch short of the ledge at the base of the lowest window.

  “Pegrand, stand on tiptoe!”

  “Arrgghhh!”

  The human tower was raised a little, and Modeset’s searching fingers found the ledge. He scrambled up and rolled inside the window. Behind him, the tower collapsed. Pegrand folded up and Flicka managed to roll, but Jimmy landed awkwardly and knocked himself unconscious.

  Obegarde shook his head sadly. “Well, you can count the boy out. Look at him—he’s stone cold!”

  Flicka moved to kneel beside the gravedigger (who’d managed to acquire a baker’s apron from one of the houses nearest the lighthouse) and cradled his head in her arms.

  “Are you okay, Jimmy? Can you hear me?”

  “He’s all right,” said Pegrand. “He’s still breathing, you see?”

  Flicka forced a weak smile. “He’s been through a lot,” she said. “Maybe we should leave him be. You lot go on, I’ll stay here with him, make sure he’s all right.”

  The manservant nodded. “See you around, then.”

  “Good luck,” said Flicka. “Don’t get turned to stone or anything.”

  “Yeah, right. We’ll try not to.”

  Pegrand took one last look at the pale face of Jimmy Quickstint and made for the lighthouse door.

  “Hello?”

  Pegrand peered around the door of the lighthouse, swallowed, and stepped inside.

  “Are you up there, milord?” he said, moving aside as Obegarde stepped across the threshold.

  “No, I’m behind the door,” said Modeset.

  “Oh, I am sorry, sir. I thought you’d be at the top by now.”

  Modeset smiled humorlessly. Then he wrestled himself free from the gap between the wall and the door, and staggered to the foot of the stairs. The lighthouse was engulfed in a thick, forced silence; the kind that usually precedes an explosion. However, before Modeset could remark on this, a resounding click signaled the closing of a door at least three floors above them.

  He glanced sideways at Pegrand and, finding no encouraging smile from that quarter, took a reluctant step forward and prepared to mount the spiral staircase.

  “Well, here goes,” he said. The manservant nodded in a way that indicated he’d be bringing up the rear from somewhere near Dullitch.

  “I’m not sure if we should be doing this, milord,” whispered Pegrand. “I mean, this Lark’s one of them magical types, right? So this is a job for a wizard, surely.”

  “In any other town, yes. But Plunge falls within the jurisdiction of Fogrise Keep and, therefore, it’s a job for me.”

  “But you don’t even like the place, milord.”

  “What has fondness got to do with it? Fogrise towns are my towns by inheritance. It’s the principle of the thing.”

  “I suppose so. But, by that argument, what about the time when Wild Chives attacked Brimtown?”

  Modeset sighed. “What about it?”

  “You said the villagers could all burn.”

  Obegarde sniggered.

  “Nonsense,” Modeset snapped. “I would never encourage vandalism in the Fogrise communities.”

  “Eh? You gave ’em the money for torches, didn’t you? And that siege cannon of theirs had ‘sponsored by Modeset’ along the side.”

  “Yes, well, those were very hard times, Pegrand. Back then we sold out to oppression. Now we’re fighting for, for—”

  “A sack of lizards,” Obegarde interrupted. “Essentially.”

  “Well, yes, essentially.” The duke took a moment to consider things. “Hardly seems worth all the effort, does it?”

  The investigator shrugged. “Not sure; I’ve never gone much on morality. I suppose one way of looking at it would be to say that we’re trying to save an endangered species as well as a city. That’s assuming everything Jimmy told us about the bird is true.”

  “Yes, you’re absolutely right! Onward and upward, as they say.”

  Modeset drew the sacred silver saber and hurried up the stairs, trying to keep Lord Bowlcock’s arm tucked under his own. Pegrand waited until he was out of sight and then followed sheepishly after him, but Obegarde remained rooted to the spot. Something very interesting had caught his attention.

  FIFTY-TWO

  THERE WERE TWO DOORS on the first landing of the lighthouse. Saber drawn (literally) at arm’s length, Modeset stood on the landing, glancing nervously from one to the other. Eventually Pegrand padded up the last few stairs and almost collapsed. He leaned against the wall for support while he got his breath back.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, man,” Modeset whispered. “When was the last time you took some exercise?”

  Pegrand shrugged. “Dunno, milord,” he managed. “I can’t remember much before my eighth birthday.”

  “You mean you haven’t taken any kind of exercise since you were eight?”

  “Well …”

  “Do you know how dangerous that is?”

  “Not sure, milord. About as dangerous as tryin’ to stop a mad priestess from turnin’ a city to stone?”

  “Yes, very amusing, Pegrand. We’ll have to look into your fitness.”

  “If we survive this, you mean?”

  “Exactly. Now, are you going to take the left- or the right-hand door?”

  The manservant s
hrugged. “Er, well, seein’ as you’ve got the saber, milord. I thought I might just wait out here on the landing.”

  “Okay, in that case we’ll go in together. The question remains; left or right?”

  Pegrand took a good long stare at each option. “I read somewhere that evil is always defined as the left-hand path, milord.”

  “Right it is, then.”

  “Hang about; isn’t this woman we’re after supposed to be evil?”

  “Make your mind up, man! They’ll have turned Dullitch to stone by the time we’ve put in an appearance!”

  Modeset darted forward and put a shoulder to the left-hand door. When, after three or four charges, the door still hadn’t given way, he turned the handle instead.

  “Unlocked, milord! There’s a turn up for the books.”

  Modeset gripped his shoulder in agony. “I really hate you, Pegrand.”

  “Ha! You’re a fair old joker, milord.”

  “Yes … now, come on. Let’s move.”

  “Right behind you, milord.”

  The manservant stepped aside to let his master go first, shivering with cold as Modeset used the edge of the saber to urge open the door. It creaked back on tired hinges.

  The room beyond was unremarkable in structure. With no additional doors, one minuscule barred window, and no furniture to speak of, it felt like a prison cell. The only thing of any interest was the cage full of baby lizards nestling in the far corner.

  Modeset’s reaction was instinctive, if a little peculiar. He flung the arm ’n’ saber wide, dropped onto his stomach, and buried his head in his hands.

  “Look away, Pegrand!” he cried. “It’s them! It’s the Batchtiki! Look away quickly!”

  “Oh, come on, milord. You don’t honestly believe—”

  Silence.

  Modeset moaned and hammered his fists on the floor. Then, expecting the worst, he raised his head, eyes tightly shut against the glares he could still feel harpooning him.

  “Pegrand? Pegrand! Answer me now, man!”

  Silence.

  Modeset reached for his sword, grasped it by the arm, and began to pull himself around to face the door. Eventually, he opened his eyes.

  The manservant had been frozen in midstep. His mouth formed a surprised “O” and his eyes were glazed.