Shadewell Shenanigans (19 page)

Groan turned away from the water, trying to decide who was more in need of his help. The answer was obvious: Gape was being totally outclassed by his opponent. Groan grinned and stomped off to help Gordo. He was almost upon the two dwarves when Mr. Big waded out of the Washin and clouted him hard in the face.

Groan fell back onto the beach as the gangster pulled Gape’s sword out of his stomach and tossed it aside like a matchstick.

“Now I’m bitter,” he said.

Mr. Big leaped into the air as Groan tried for a leg-sweep. Then he dragged the giant barbarian to his feet and head-butted him right between the eyes, using the time bought by Groan’s momentary confusion to kick the warrior’s broadsword away. It slid to a halt a little way down the bank.

Mr. Big sniffed. Then he brought up a heavy knee and, as Groan doubled up, chopped him roughly on the neck. The barbarian went down, hard.

“The bigger they are, eh? Ha!”

The gangster gave the prone warrior a gap-toothed grin and turned to see how his cohorts were doing. Thankfully, the scene was a pleasing one: both Mediocre and Titch were winning their respective struggles.

“Good on you, boys,” he shouted. Then he turned back and, to his surprise, came face-to-face with Groan.

“Is ’at all you got?” the barbarian thundered and drove a fist like bunched steel into Mr. Big’s stomach.

Stump, meanwhile, was attempting to shoulder himself along the bank, dragging his new companion behind him.

“Maybe my twinling can help,” the head muttered. “Get me angry; get me angry!”

“And how am I supposed to do that?” Stump complained, clutching at his bleeding wound.

“I don’t know—bang me on a rock or something!”

Stump looked around, found a flat stone, and slammed the head against it.

“Harder!”

A second time.

“Harder! Harder!”

A third.

“Ow! Not that bloody hard! You’re flaming useless!”

“And you’re nothing but a damn nuisance!”

“Yeah? I’d do you up a treat—”

Stump swore under his breath and lobbed the head over his shoulder. He didn’t see where it landed.

Mr. Mediocre raised a fist and slammed it down across Gape’s back. The warrior moaned, collapsed to the ground, and drove his hand into his boot. When he brought it out again, he was wielding a blade.

Mediocre grabbed Gape’s wrist, but the barbarian was stronger: he forced the gangster’s hand back toward him and slashed a deep wound across his chest. Then he turned Mediocre around and drove him headfirst into the Washin.

Groan had given Mr. Big six of his best shots, but the man had simply shrugged them off. Now he was blocking every blow, a filthy grin pasted across his face.

He ducked the last of Groan’s punches and caught the barbarian with one of his own.

“You’re a big lad,” he muttered. “But yer punch ain’t worth spit.”

He pulled a pistol from his sodden suit, flipped it over, and smacked Groan in the face with it. As the warrior fell onto his knees, he reached out for Gape’s sword.

Mr. Big stamped on his hand. “No thanks,” he said. “I’ve had that sword in my stomach, and I’m not in any hurry to get it ba—”

Mr. Big stopped talking.

An identical sword had sprouted from his rib cage.

“You’re quite right,” said a voice behind him. “My swords
do
seem to like you.”

Mr. Big spun around in a state of bewildered shock, and grabbed Gape by the throat …

… just as Groan lost his temper.

The barbarian unfolded like a deck chair. Then he wrenched Mr. Big away from his brother, withdrew Gape’s sword from the man’s ribs, and punched him with all his might.

The gangster staggered back and collapsed in a disheveled heap: he didn’t get up again.

Gape took his sword from Groan and reached down to snatch up the other.

Groan gulped some air. “Fanks fo’ the ’elp.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“I would’ve ’ad ’im anyway.”

“Yes, I know that.”

“I’m jus’ sayin’.”

“Fine.”

They both peered over at Gordo, who had turned the tide on his fellow dwarf and was driving Mr. Titch back down the beach with his own sword. It certainly didn’t seem as though he needed any assistance.

Groan glanced down at Big, who was lying still.

“What ’appen’d to that uvver one?” he said.

“Swam away,” said Gape. “The cowardly rat.”

He looked on, bewildered, as Groan suddenly bolted down the riverbank and dived into the Washin.

“What are you doing?” he shouted, as Stump appeared beside him with an incredibly indignant head.

“I think he’s trying to get to Mediocre before Mediocre gets to the barge,” he guessed.

And he was right.

Groan had adopted a smooth underwater breaststroke in order to counter the gangster’s frenzied crawl. Mediocre reached the barge first but, despite his head start, there wasn’t a lot in it.

Gape, Gordo, and Stump watched as Groan climbed onto the barge and began to struggle with Mr. Mediocre. Loogie would’ve watched, but he was facing the wrong way.

“Go on, Groan!”

“Give him hell!”

“Low blow, low blow!”

“Can somebody please turn me ’round?”

A series of blows were exchanged before the gangster toppled into the water and floated away. Groan strode to the far end of the barge and began to steer it slowly toward the east bank.

“So,” Stump said, as Gordo proffered a rough bandage for his shoulder. “Are we going for a trip along the river, then?”

“No,” said Gape sternly. “We’re going to rescue a princess, overthrow an evil dictator, and sack a city.

“Ah, right.” Stump flashed a grim smile. “Still,” he said. “You’ve got to laugh, haven’t you?”

T
WO NIGHTS LATER, IN
the converted hall of records at Phlegm Keep, Susti wriggled her arms in an attempt to loosen the pressure on her wrists. No use: the manacles were fastened tight. Still, it could’ve been worse: at least they had platforms to stand on.

She peered across at her father and Bronwyn, who were both, unfathomably, asleep. Susti couldn’t understand how
anybody
could sleep with their arms raised high above them.

She focused on the king.

“Psst!”

Nothing.

“Father!”

At first she thought the king might wake; then he began to snore.

Susti sighed, as the door to the hall creaked open and Pegrand limped inside.

“Good evening, milady,” he said, holding his ribs with one hand and a tray of goblets in the other. “Thought I might bring you all some water?”

Susti nodded. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, milady. My chest is a bit battered and my leg’s been better, but otherwise I’m fine.”

“Hmm … you really shouldn’t have betrayed me, you know. I mean, I understand why you did what you did, but honestly”—Susti shook her head—“No. I’m not talking to you. You’ll only repeat everything I tell you to Modeset.”

Pegrand nodded. “Probably, milady. I’m sorry.”

“Yes, so am I,” Susti said regretfully. “Sorry that you’ve spent practically
all
of your life serving someone who doesn’t appreciate your loyalty, someone who only thinks of thrones and power, someone who’d rather fawn over a makeshift general than tend to the wounds of his own faithful manservant. I’m sorry for
you
, Pegrand.”

“Well, milady, I appreciate the thought, but it really is
my
business.”

He hobbled up the narrow flight of stone steps to the length of wall where Susti was confined, and raised the goblet to her lips. When she’d drunk her fill, he replaced the goblet on the tray … and looked up again.

“Which one would you have married?” he asked, his expression earnest in the glimmering torchlight.

Susti frowned. “What?”

“The Teethgrits,” Pegrand muttered. “If there
was
no plan and you really meant to marry, which warrior would you have chosen for a husband?”

Susti thought for a moment, then managed a noncommittal shrug.

“Neither,” she said. “I like my men modest … and preferably loyal to a heart, not a purse. Even if you weren’t a hundred years too old,
you’d
never do.”

Pegrand’s face flushed, and he hobbled across to wake the king from his slumber. Susti watched the manservant raise a goblet for her father and Bronwyn, and wondered if thirty-nine was really as old as all that.

“Right,” Gordo said, surveying the vast array of weapons and armor that they’d unloaded from the gangster’s barge the night before. “We’ve got ten longbows, six hundred arrows.”

“Firty swords, five axes,” Groan added, brows meeting as he tried to do the math in his head.

“Ten crossbows, fifty bolts,” said Gape.

“One empty pistol,” Stump said, tossing the spent weapon to the grass.

“And a head,” Loogie finished, speaking from his resting place atop the crossbow pile.

“How many guards d’you reckon they’ve got in Phlegm?” Gordo said to Gape.

The warrior shrugged. “Who knows? Judging by the arena turnout, I’d say more than one hundred, less than three.”

“That’s still too many,” said Stump, suddenly wondering why he was still with the group, and making a conscious decision to leg it at the first available opportunity.

“Not if we attack ’em in the small ’ours,” Groan thundered. “Like we did in Sneeze, one time.”

Gordo nodded. “Mind you,” he said reflectively. “The Sneeze defenses weren’t up to much, were they? In fact, as I recall, there was only the baron and his nephew … and they turned on each other. This is a different kettle of fish. You know what Modeset’s like; he’s—”

“—not expecting us ever to come back,” Gape concluded, a smug grin developing on his face. “So when we attack tonight, his troops won’t be ready for us.” The warrior stared at Gordo thoughtfully for a long time, as if they both shared the same vision but neither one could be bothered to spell it out for the other.

Finally, it was the head of Loogie Lambontroff who spoke.

“So what you do is, you split into two groups: one takes as many men off the wall as they possibly can, and the other tries to breach the main gate with a ram of some kind.”

Gordo nodded and thrust a finger at Gape. “You and Groan chop down a tree and charge at the main gate—”

“Why do we—”

“Because you’re the strongest. Stump and I will handle the ballistics.”

“Will we?” the wildman moaned, an edge of desperation to his voice. “Oh, good; I’m … thrilled.”

Night had washed over the battlements of Phlegm Keep and was struggling valiantly to hold off the morrow.

In the banqueting hall, a midnight feast was taking place. The long table, loaded down with roast chicken, thick cuts of pork, and a selection of heavy bread rolls, was occupied by three figures at its far end.

“Try the chicken, Pegrand,” Modeset advised, accepting a plate of pork from General Crikey. “It’ll help get your strength back.”

The manservant self-consciously touched a hand to his bruised ribs, and managed a depressed nod.

“Good man,” Modeset continued, turning back to Crikey. “You can expect a lot more feasts like this with me in charge, General.”

“Splendid, lordship.” The officer smiled.

Pegrand glared at him.

“I suppose we should hold some kind of
internal
coronation,” said the duke. “And maybe an official promotion ceremony for you, General.”

Crikey nodded eagerly, munching on a chicken leg.

He was about to take a drink from one of the silver wine goblets, when the door to the hall flew open and a junior guard hurried in.

“What is it?” Crikey asked, rising from his chair.

“We’re under attack, General,” the boy panted. “We’ve got twenty men down at the city gate, and the sentries on the east wall are reporting heavy losses.”

“Do we have any idea who the attackers are?” Modeset demanded.

The guard smiled nervously. “It’s difficult to say, lordship,” he said, staring down at his feet. “It’s still dark out there. Whoever they are, they’re attacking in two separate bursts. We’ve got arrows flying in from the east, and there’s some kind of battering ram on the city gate.”

Modeset nodded. “I see. You are dismissed, boy.” He turned to Crikey, whose hands were beginning to shake. “I wonder, General: what is the most powerful ballistic weapon you have at your disposal?”

Crikey thought for a moment. “The sentry harpoon, Your Highness.” He smiled. “The men call it the Assoonas Harpoon, because
Assoonas
it hits you, you’re dead.”

Modeset leaped to his feet.

“Show me,” he said, “and get me a pistol too.” As he and the general headed out into the corridor, neither of them noticed that Pegrand had also quietly slipped away …

Stump was unexpectedly turning out to be the best marksman Gordo had ever seen. The wildman had yet to miss a target, even though he fired off each arrow with his eyes closed. Admittedly, most of his success was due to the fact that the head of Loogie Lambontroff was on the tree branch next to him, guiding his every shot.

“Left, down, fire! Reload. Left, left, down, right, fire! Reload. Down, down, down, left, now! Reload.”

“Will you shut up?” Gordo snapped, fumbling his own shot because of the distraction. “I’m trying to concentrate over here.”

They were both going for leg shots, trying to keep any casualties to a minimum; but more and more guards were hurrying round from the other sides of the wall, and shooting with no such precision.

“We’re gonna be dead meat if we stay here much longer,” Stump warned, uncovering his eyes long enough to glance around him. “This tree’s shedding branches like autumn leaves. We’ve got to make a move.”

The wildman began to descend to the ground.

“Two more shots,” Gordo promised, and went back to his crossbow, picking off one of the new guards and wounding another. Then he threw the weapon to Stump and climbed down after him.

Groan and Gape, shields held high over their heads with one hand and each supporting one half of the tree they’d felled with the other, took a tenth run-up at the gate and slammed their wooden ram into it.