A World of InTemperance (The Adventures of Ichabod Temperance Book 2) (15 page)

“Der Fuhrer steps forward. ‘Tell me your name, woman!’ demands Spighe-Rhelle.”

“Oh, but I beg you, please to be the gentleman and identify yourself first, I think?”

“I am Spighe-Rhelle. Spighe-Rhelle is the name of the beast that is about to consume you, you little French fool!”

“Oh, no, no! Not French! French-Canadian! Merci!”

“‘Kitka, Natalya;
seize
her!’ orders Spighe Rhelle.

“The beautiful and voluptuous Kitka’s eyes flame with death’s promise.”

“Natalya’s famished frame slinks forward.”

“The intruder upon the Dark Caravan’s encampment easily maneuvers around Kitka’s attack. Ducking a wild slash of the angry vixen, she flings an arm out and around her neck. Simultaneously stepping around and swinging her hips behind Kitka’s well-shaped rear end, the fantastic French-Canadian balances the buxom beauty across her own back, spine to spine. Holding her left hand in front of her face, pinky extended, this Mademoiselle gives a short, sharp, curtsy; thus breaking lovely, but murderous Kitka’s back.”

“With a smile and a playful wink, she deftly gives a little bounce, vaulting Kitka up and over her back. With a continuous and fluid motion, the sophisticate turns to impale a charging Natalya through the heart with her finger-outstretched hand.”

“No-one moves. A frozen, and dramatic pause holds the encampment in its collective thrall.”

“The delicate arm is sharply withdrawn and Natalya’s body crumbles to the ground.”

“The intruder smiles as she rises, and removes the soiled glove. This is tossed aside. She removes and dons a fresh glove from her sleeve.”

“Yew mite git away with thay-yat with them mop handle wih-men, but yer tanglin’ with a horse uvuh ‘nother color, now, Missy!”

“Entirely, to be sure, my dear, I should think, too!”

“Ah’m a strong woman! Lemme git uh hold-uh yewh!”

“Oh! Oui! You are a strong woman indeed! Oui! I can smell you from over here. Please to keep your arms lowered, Madame! Oui!”

“Why yewh fancy little, hi falootin’, dressed up gewdy too shews! Ah’ll keell yewh!”

“Amy Moses attacks!”

“Her heedless fury hurls her across the open space between the vomen. She totters along at top speed, eventually covering the few feet that separate the combatants. At this time the smaller, and better attired, female unhurriedly steps forward to meet the turtle-paced onslaught. Thrusting out her hand, palm first, she makes contact on the blundering brute using the butt of her hand to the exact center of Amy Moses’ eyebrows.”

“Amy Moses’ boots fly straight up into the night sky, as the rest of the girl completes the airborne rotation landing face down in the mud.”

“A large bubble of watery mud expands and pops to either side of her submerged face.”

“Herr Suhlly still appears to be in a drunken stupor. After a few moments he manages a, ‘Hey!’ A short pause while a thought process slowly works its way through the wide open spaces of his unused skull. ‘You just hit Amy Moses, didn’t you?’ He then manages further thought. ‘I guess I better go over there and settle you.’ A nonchalant stroll is combined with several looks back at his skeptical comrades until he is finally across the four paces of distance.”

“The sadly unpleasant und greasy figure of a man looks at his slumbering girlfriend. He looks back to the exquisite woman, patiently awaiting some sort of gallant action from the unfortunate specimen.

A watermelon belly makes an effort to tighten. Birdlike fists are balled. Spaghetti noodle, no, dry, spaghetti noodle arms, stretch und flex. Unnoticeable difference in arm size is noted.”

“What did you say you were going to do, Monsieur?”

“I said I’m gonna set... urngh.”

“Suhlly clutches himself where no one else but Amy Moses would clutch him.”

“The point of the Lady’s boot is examined to make sure that no grime was transferred during the distasteful contact.”

“Faster than mein eye can follow, the leader of zee pack falls upon the brave Fraulein. Diving, raking, kicking and swinging wildly, an infuriated Spighe-Rhelle flings himself upon the lone voman. She effortlessly dances away, time and time again. Spighe-Rhelle grows more enraged with every failed attempt to kill. There is no mistake. He fully intends to kill this woman. Incredibly, she taunts the fellow, even as he would slay her.”

“‘Oh! No, no, Monsieur, you shall have to do better than that, I think, oui! You are the slow and clumsy boy I think, no? Why do you get so angry? Is it because you are just now realizing what a pitiful waste of this Earth’s resources you are? I think so, too!’”

“‘You will die!’ screeches Spighe-Rhelle. He is so full of rage, that he is about to lose his human form. His eyes, solid  red, glow with a bright, light. Horrible fangs grow in his mouth. His twisted features are full of rage. Frustrated at his inability to slay the woman, he draws a dagger. Something makes me think it is an especially evil dagger.”

“Be careful, Monsieur, that might be the ‘no, no’, I think, oui!”

“Spighe-Rhelle replies with a
‘Screeeech!
’”

“Stepping forward to catch the rash young man’s dagger hand, my rescuer performs an artful pirouette ending with Herr Spighe Rhelle suffering the cursed shank. With eyes bulging in pain and disbelief, the proud young fiend stumbles, looking at the dagger’s handle protruding from his abdominals.”

“‘Stay back!’ Screams Stephanne. ‘I’ll kill him! Don’t take another step!’”

“The final combatant holds me between himself and the advancing young woman. He has one of my arms pinned behind me. With the other, he pulls mein head back, to reveal mein neck. I can feel the inhuman one’s fangs near mein jugular.”

“‘Stay back! don’t come any closer! I’ll bite a chunk out of his neck before you can...
Aaww!’
”

~Schnappen! Krunckle! Poppe!~

“Suddenly, Stephanne has released me. He is sitting on the ground, wondering why his arms, and one leg, are not pointing in the accepted direction.”

“The woman gives a vhistle, and her horse returns.”

“‘Shouldn’t we do something? Drive stakes through their hearts? Chop off their heads and bury them under a crossroads? Do you sew garlic into the mouths of Vam...’”

“‘Oh, no! You are getting mixed up with the Zombie, I think maybe, too!’”

“‘What do we do?’”

“‘Oh! Mademoiselle, she always has a trick or two up her sleeve, no?’”

“She sets the wagon horses free and then sets fire to the caravan’s wagons.”

“Zee sun shall rise and say hello to these fellows in a few hours I think, no? Oui!”

“I think she enjoyed a moment of sarcasm with the Dark Caravan with her last statement:”

“‘Have a Nice Day!’”

P.O.V. Cogito

Initiating...

Initiating...

Initiating, initiating, initiating.

Engaged! I am cognizant again. The self-regulating Cortextual Attenuators that Mr. Temperance invented for me really did the trick.

Mr. Temperance! Where is he? I must find my human friend!

Sensors indicate that I am buried in snow. Sight is very limited and my bearings are difficult to get a reading on.

This unit is magnificently disoriented.

I may be able to determine the direction of up.

An experiment involving disengaging the lifts of my arms helps me to find gravity’s direction. Up, I postulate, should lie in the other direction.

Locomotion is proving difficult. I am almost in some sort of limbo. Upward mobility is almost impossible. Hello, what's this? A tree branch! I shall pull and follow this to its source, the trunk. This tree is upside down. I determine it to be uprooted. I will climb this avalanche-harvested tree. I locate the root ball as I emerge from my snowy confinement.

A jumble of snow, ice, and broken tree branches are my surroundings. Where the snow was smooth beneath the trees a few minutes ago, now the landscape lies jagged and wrecked.

I begin the search for my human friend. I collect a rifle amongst the detritus of the disaster. It contains ammunition! It must be from one of our fallen foes. Alas, only two rounds does it contain.

I see movement! Someone is trying to climb up out of his white burial.

“Mr, Temperance! Ichabod!”

“Wib, wib,
whrawr!
wib, wib...”

~Stomp!~

“Be quiet, I am looking for my friends.”

Here is another rifle. Only one round remains in its magazine.

Receptors detect movement again. I approach with more caution this time, but it is most assuredly a human hand that is reaching up out of the snow.

“Mr. Temperance!” I audibalize while I grasping his hand to pull him up out of the snow. The poor fellow is obviously suffering from exposure to the cold. He searches his person for his, in my humble opinion, obsolete, tinder box. He finds this as I gather wood to build a fire and help bring life back to his frozen limbs.

Distantly, across the vast, avalanche wrecked mountainside, a low, rumbling noise becomes discernible to my sound detection receptors.

“Ichabod, Lord Bar’Bazaul’s snow steamer approaches our Yukon catastrophe. He is opposite of us across the broken wastes, at about four hundred yards’ distance.”

“He sees us! We must abandon the campfire’s warm flames and seek what shelter we can find.”

“kuh-kuh-kuh-kuh-kuh-kuh-kuh.”

“Why of course, I shall be happy to lend assistance. Here you are. This jumble of debris will have to suffice for cover from the mercenary monkey rifle fire. Be carefu...woah!
~klank.~ ~sigh~
I slipped. I’m down.”

“kuh-kuh-kuh-kuh-kuh-kuh-kuh.”

“Yes, I know I cannot stand back up. There’s no need to be rude.”

“kuh-kuh-kuh-kuh-kuh-kuh-kuh.”

“Oh, I see, you meant Lord Bar’bazaul. He and his snow steamer had apparently been too far back when the avalanche struck, and missed being crushed by its fury. He is trying to gather and rally his troops, such as they are.”

“kuh-kuh-kuh-kuh-kuh-kuh-kuh.”

“I am making that estimation now. Your avalanche has whittled his forces down considerably. Outside of Lord Bar’Bazaul and his driver, there are only seventeen troops at the man’s disposal. Our war of attrition has had an impact after all.”

“kuh - - - buh-buh-buh-buh-buh-buh...”

“Yes, Ichabod?”

“...buh-buh-buh-buh-buh-buh-bullets?”

“Three, sir.”

“kuh-kuh-kuh-kuh-kuh-kuh-kuh.”

“No, even in your palsied state, I am sure you are still the better marksman.”

“Luh-luh-luh-lemme ch-ch-ch-check out th-th-the rifles.”

“Ah, I see that rifle did not pass inspection. I am happy we did not attempt to fire the damaged device.”

The second rifle passes Ichabod’s quick examination. He now gives close scrutiny to the three rifle cartridges. The third round of ammunition gets a hard squeeze between Ichabod’s frozen hands.

“Let’s see what we’ve guh-got. Okey doke, I’ve got a bead on one feller. Oh, guh-guh-golly, how about helping to hold this r-r-rifle steady, Mr. Cuh-cuh-cogito?”

“Of course, Ichabod, how is this?”

“Fuh-fuh-fine.”

~Bang!~

“Yipe!”

“Good shot, Ichabod! Ha, ha, that toad did a triple somersault. Duck! Ha, ha! We are really taking fire now! Those gargoyles did not expect us to be armed.”

“Nuh-nuh-nossir. Still a bit of fight left in us eh, Mr. Cogito?”

“It would appear, so, sir.”

“Their rate of fire is slowed; let’s take another shot.”

“By all means, let’s.”

“They are being more cautious. Okay, there’s one.”

~Bang!~

“Yipe!”

“Were you able to relieve us one of our besiegers, Mr. Temperance?”

“Yessir, Mr. Cogito.”

“Well, done! Duck!”

“Yessir!”

“As soon as this barrage dies down, let’s go for three.”

“Splendid, three is such a magical number.”

“Uh-hunh. Wish me luck, buddy.”

“I do not normally endorse such whimsy; however, in this case, I shall make an exception. I wish you the very best of luck, my friend.”

“Thanks, pal.”

“This then, is our last round, is it not?”

“Yessir.”

“Then please make the most of it, Sir.”

~Bang!~

“Yipe!”

“Ah, our attackers renew their rifle assault. The little cover we enjoy is being eaten away by the bullets’ bite.”

“I ain’t normally the jealous type, but I sure do envy the stores of ammunition our fiendish foes field.”

“Funny you should mention that, for I believe the barrage of our baboon insurgence withers.”

“Gee, whiz, you’re right, Mr. Cogito! The rifle fire is more and more sporadic. Golly, I think it has stopped. Let me just take a peek and see what’s going on. Hunh, looks like they are having a pow-wow. Yeppers, everybody is out of ammo. Hunh, now they are advancing again, but holding their rifles by the barrels.”

“Clubs! They are holding their rifles as clubs, Ichabod.”

“Gee, that ain’t such a bad idea. This could be an interesting little dust-up we got brewing. What do you say, Mr. Cogito?”

“The encounter holds promise. It’s a pity that I am stuck on the ground.”

“Oh, yeah, gee, that’s too bad. Wait a second. I’ll sit opposite to you with our feet together. Grab the barrel of this rifle while I hold the other. Okay, now pull. Come on, pull. That’s it, it’s working. We’re almost there; we’re up!”

“Well done, Ichabod, I am standing again! If I may be so bold, I suggest it behooves us to follow in the example set forth by our combative companions. I confess, I am rather intrigued at the maced
mêlée
possibilities afforded by this encounter.”

“Gee, I’m warming up, just thinking about it.”

“Happy to hear it, Ichabod.”

“Come on, Mr. Cogito, it’s clubberin’ time!”

“Yes, Ichabod. Let’s go and give it a whack, as it were.”

No need for subtle, artful maneuvering on my part. I shall commence swinging my rifle and march upon my enemy.

~whack!~

I did not intend to literally march upon my enemies, but if the opportunity presents itself, why not?

Oh, I am struck. Ah, again I am hit. I am in danger of falling. Got it. I caught the rifle I was being hit with. My enemy has prevented me from falling. Good, he has fallen.

~stomp.~

I now enjoy better stability on this improvised platform.

~whack!
~

“Yipe!”

~whack!
~

“Yipe!”

~whack!~

“Yipe!”

Where has my human friend got off to? There he is. How peculiar. Ichabod prefers to dodge and maneuver about his ring of foes, and only engages in strikes, periodically. More often than not, his ducks and misdirection leave the HellSpawn soldiers striking each other.

“I am now plodding my way in your direction, Ichabod.”

“Wib, wib, wrawrrr!”

“I beg your pardon!”

~whack!~

“Yipe!”

“I hope I do not come across as callous, but I feel like prehistoric man, caught in primal combat.”

“Yessir!”

“Well done, Ichabod, your method of having your opponents inadvertently strike one another is remarkably effective.”

Our war of attrition continues to pay off. Our enemies are down to their last: Three, two, one...

“We done it, Mr. Cogito, we won.”

“So it seems, sir.”

“Gosh, I’m about done in, bud.”

“Stand up, Icky, we have company.”

“Hunh? Oh gosh, it’s Lord Bar’Bazaul in his linked-metal-belt-driven, snow-ski-steamer.”

“My army! What have you done!”

“I reckon we put your test-tube army on ice, Mr. Barberpole, sir.”

“It took me months to create my creatures! They cost a fortune! You shall pay dearly, you nasty little interloper!”

“Your plans for world domination have come to the end of the line, Mr. Barbidaul.”

“These soldiers were but a small cog in the giant machine that will crush humanity forever!”

“Those cogs better increase their tolerances, Lord Baldandtall: humanity will not allow you to subjugate her.”

“I can stand no more insolence from this insignificant little scarecrow!”

“I already used that scarecrow line, my mentholated friend, and I don’t care for being called ‘little’ either. I prefer ‘small boned.’”

“Enough, you shall pay for those injudicious words! If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself!”

Lord Bar'Bazaul strikes his now familiar pose. With his arms held wide and before him, he looks as if he supports a large, round ball in his upraised hands. This imaginary ball appears to be very heavy. When the mascaraed magician gets his arms shoulder high, he pulls them inward, turning his black fingernail polished clawed hands, palm out. These are thrust towards Ichabod and myself.

“Come on, Mr. Cogito, let’s get him...kuh-
gulk!
”

I am stopped!

I cannot move!

I can see that Mr. Temperance is in the same state.

Lord Bar’Bazaul has us in a magical grip. Ichabod struggles, yet he cannot move. He has dropped his rifle and is desperately clawing at his throat as an invisible hand throttles him.

My servos are non-responsive!

Ichabod’s face changes color as his organic hydraulics back up their pressures. He is about to deactivate!

“Nyenh, henh, henh!
Die
, little man!”

“Roof!”

I am able to redirect my receptors to the left. Our friend Bolt has climbed free of the snow!

“Roof!”

He shakes the snow from his fur.

“Roof!”

“No, not the dog! I don’t like dogs! I
hate
dogs!”

“Roof!”

“Call him off!”

Lord Bar’Bazaul drops his out-reached arms, and gathers his frock closely about his legs, preventing Bolt entrance beneath.

The persistent dog attempts to find an opening of attack as he seeks entry under the leather skirts of Lord Bar’Bazaul. The wizened wizard well remembers his attack from just a short while earlier; the vicious little bites are nothing to scoff.

Too late does Lord Bar’Bazaul remember his interrupted activities, turning in time to receive an Alabama hello to the point of his chin.