Shadewell Shenanigans (2 page)

Curfew was the first to respond. “Groan’s worshipped as a hero in Dullitch,” he said defensively. “Ever since he brought the children home under your own inimitable rule, he has been seen as the savior of the city.”

“It’s the same in Spittle,” added Visceral. “News spreads quickly. D’you know, I went on an official visit to our oldest college last week, and the students actually had paintings of Groan Teethgrit over their beds!”

“My son has one,” admitted Blood. “Lovely brushwork.”

“Something must be done,” Muttknuckles snapped. “But I’m telling you, I’d be mobbed if I sent my—um—guards after him. And as for the brother, well, we
tried
to arrest
him,
but he made mincemeat out of my best! I mean, he mailed my own captain back to me: I had to sign for the man! Now I’ve only got two soldiers left. My point is: we can’t simply attack the Teethgrits, especially now that they’re together.”

“Har, har.”

“Exactly,” Curfew agreed. “We can’t afford to send our own men after the Teethgrit band; and any lord who
does
manage to get Groan’s blood on his hands is likely to be more despised by his people for shedding it!”

“Agreed! So what on Illmoor are we going to do?”

Modeset sat up slowly and grasped the arms of his chair.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “I do have a plan. It’s a long shot, but it might just work. It is certainly cunning enough, if played out correctly, to bring an end to Groan and his insolent little band—and without any
army
involvement to complicate things.”

Silence. Nothing but silence, and some expectant faces.

“Like his barbarian brother,” the duke announced, “Groan Teethgrit has two known weaknesses. First and foremost, the man simply cannot resist a challenge; and secondly, he
adores
beautiful women.” Modeset turned to King Phew. “And that’s where you come in.”

“M-me?” exclaimed the Phlegmian monarch. “Wh-what can I do?”

Modeset smiled, produced a scroll from his jerkin, and smoothed it out on the great table.

“You can start by getting this poster seen by
certain
persons-at-large in or around your kingdom,” he said. “It might take some time, but I’m quite sure we’ll get the reaction we’re looking for …”

King Phew placed a finger on the corner of the scroll and began to read, mumbling soundlessly. Then he sat back and swallowed several times, looking decidedly grim.

“What do you think?” Modeset asked as the scroll was passed around the table.

Phew blinked and cracked his knuckles. “I-I won’t allow it.”

Modeset’s tiny eyes narrowed to slits. “
You
won’t allow it?” he repeated slowly.

“I—” Phew began, his voice uneasy. “That is,
she’ll
never agree to it, never in a million years.”

Modeset shuffled his chair over to the old man and snaked a greasy arm around him.

“She doesn’t have to know,” he whispered.

When Phew looked up again, every eye in the room was staring at him expectantly.

A
CROWD OF MORE
than four hundred visitors had gathered in Bludly Wood for the last day of “The Limbbreaker,” an annual wrestling tournament that was quickly becoming one of Western Illmoor’s largest tourist attractions.

A weighing system comprising two enormous cages had been rigged up on a hastily assembled scaffold, one containing a multitude of tiny green creatures, and one half open for the use of a grizzly queue of potential combatants.

Three lines of thick hemp rope had been draped among four trees to form a square of combat, and an impossibly tall elf had stepped between them in order—the crowd assumed—to make some sort of announcement. However, when a statement was finally issued, it came not from the elf, but from a tiny goblin perched jauntily on the elf’s left shoulder. The goblin was carrying a twisty loudspeaker.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, welcome back to the last day of the Limbbreaaaaakkaaar tournament! I am your host, Cuppatee Tuesdi, and
this
is our closing contest, scheduled for
one
fall, a submission, or a knockout. I invite you to take a quick look at the progress of our two finalists …”

The goblin indicated, and all eyes turned away from the ring to consider an enormous chalkboard nailed to the nearest oak. It read:

QUARTER FINALS

Big “Nige” Trollsort vs. Mad Mick “The Ogre”

Winner: Double Disqualification

Groan Teethgrit vs. Ruby Twoshoes

Winner: Groan Teethgrit

(opponent disqualified for being a woman in disguise)

Grid Thungus vs. The Mighty Minter

Winner: Double Countout

Gape Teethgrit vs. “Muscles” Mirko

Winner: Gape Teethgrit

SEMIFINALS

Groan Teethgrit vs. (vacant)

(vacant) vs. Gape Teethgrit

FINAL

Groan Teethgrit vs. Gape Teethgrit

The goblin continued: “Coming down the aisle, weighing in at two hundred and ninety-six twadlings and hailing from the Mountains of Mavokhan, I give you GAAAAAPE TEEEEETHGRITTTTAHHH!”

The crowd divided like an enchanted sea to admit the imposing form of Gape Teethgrit, who pounded down the aisle like a man possessed, leaping over the ropes and landing, one successful somersault later, squarely on his feet. While the crowd jeered wildly at the warrior, he secured his long hair in a ponytail and made sure his ankle guards were tightly locked.

“Annnnnd his opponent,” the goblin continued warbling into the speaker, “accompanied to the square by his manager, Gordo Goldeaxe, weighing in at three hundred and six twadlings, and also from the Mountains of Mavokhan, GROOOAAAANN TEEEETHGRITTT!”

A cheer exploded from the crowd as they parted once again to reveal Gape’s half brother. The larger of the two barbarians plodded down the aisle, stepped straight between the ropes, and slugged his sibling hard in the face. As Gape crashed to the floor, a small but sturdy-looking dwarf hurried to the side of the square and began to bark orders.

Gordo Goldeaxe looked nervous. It had taken him the best part of a week to persuade the brothers to enter the competition, and he was already regretting the effort. He beckoned Groan over to him and, when the barbarian finally hulked across the ring and leaned down, whispered: “What did you hit him for? We’re faking this, remember?”

Groan frowned. “I ’it all the uvvers.”

“Yes, I
know
!
That’s
because they were bloody strangers: we’ve got a
scam
going. If this fight’s a tie, then we get
both
lots of money, plus a bonus from the ring crew, because all the visitors will come back next year to see who wins out. That’s
fifty
crowns for Gape, twenty for you, and thirty for me. Remember how I told you to work it out?”

“Yeah,” said Groan doubtfully, “but I don’t see no ’arm in ’ittin’ ’im.”

“Fake it!”

“Why?”

Gordo sighed in exasperation. “He’s your brother, for cryin’ out loud!”

“So? I don’ like ’im.”

“Neither do I! But you wanted this all along. And besides, think of the
money.
”

“What money?”

The dwarf was about to go through the whole plan again, when Groan was suddenly taken off his feet by a ferocious leg-sweep.

The big barbarian landed on his back, moaned a bit, and then rolled over and grabbed a tree in order to regain his stance.

Gordo scowled at Gape’s victorious grin, then shielded his eyes as Groan muscled up and hit the barbarian with a head-butt that could probably have been heard in Spittle. Gape tumbled backward, swung on the ropes, and quickly retaliated with a reverse hamster-kick. The crowd roared their approval.

Quick to capitalize on the move, Gape hurried around the back of the ring and seized his brother in a vicious chiselfoot-leg-vise. The crowd was about to applaud again, when Groan broke out.

The giant barbarian lumbered to his feet, blocked two right-handers, and snatched his brother by the hair. Then he drove his head under Gape’s chin and dropped onto his knees, delivering a jawbuster that sent shudders through the sympathetic audience. He quickly followed up the move with two full blacksmiths and a half roadsweeper.

By this point, Gordo had his eyes shut and his stubby hands clamped tightly over his ears (a precautionary gesture that did little to prevent him feeling every crack and thud as various blows were executed).

The action in the ring was heating up.

Gape catapulted himself from the ropes toward his brother. Groan ducked, and they caught each other with a vicious washing-line maneuver, leaving them both down for the count.

The elf with the shoulder-goblin, who’d been circling since the two warriors had entered the ring, suddenly dropped to its knees and began to pound the ground. The goblin announced its actions to the crowd.

One.

“ONE!”

Two.

“TWO!”

Three.

“THREE!”

A group of official soldiers from Phlegm had been mingling in the crowd, and one of them pushed past Gordo, thrusting a small poster of some kind into the dwarf’s hands. Gordo’s attention shifted briefly from the match as he watched the soldiers continue to make their way through the crowd. Eventually, when it became obvious that the group had moved on, he returned his focus to the fight.

Eight.

“EIGHT!”

Nine.

“NINE!”

Ten.

“TEN! A TIE! THE CONTEST IS A TIE!”

The crowd booed, hissed, and began to shuffle away to the various food stalls surrounding the area. Groan and Gape lay still for a further five minutes as per their instructions, and Gordo, well pleased with himself as he noticed the treasurer counting out a generous stack of gold, unfurled the parchment that had been handed to him and read:

WANTED:

MAN TO MARRY

THE RICHEST PRINCESS IN ILLMOOR.

APPLICANTS MUST BE OVER SEVEN FEET TALL

AND MUSCULAR WITH NICE TEETH AND

CONSIDERABLE SKILL WITH A SWORD.

ACCEPTABLE CANDIDATES GET

A ONE-DAY TRIAL PERIOD EACH,

FOLLOWED BY A CHANCE TO COMPETE IN THE

ARENA FOR THE LADY’S FAIR HAND!

APPLY TO: PRINCESS SUSTI,

PHLEGM KEEP, PHLEGM

Gordo sniggered at the advertisement, reflected that the princess in question had to be a complete moose, and tossed the scroll away. Groan caught it.

“Wass this?” he boomed, his brother striding up behind him.

“It’s nothing,” Gordo assured them both, snatching Gape’s arm and hurrying the younger barbarian over to the treasurer’s table.

Groan frowned as he attempted to make sense of the words; reading had never been one of his strong points. After his third attempt had got him as far as “Wanted,” he called to one of the scantily clad dancing girls who had accompanied him to the ring during the earlier rounds. She hurried over.

“You know words?” Groan asked.

“Yes, Mr. Teeth. I can speak Illmoor, Goblin, and Orcish.”

“Read this for me, p’ease.”

“Certainly, Mr. Teeth.”

Gordo had managed to extract a hundred crowns from the tournament’s treasurer; his day was only slightly marred when Gape decided he wouldn’t accept his share.

“What’d you mean, ‘that’s not enough’?” he snapped as the barbarian slowly shook his head.

“I mean exactly what I said, Gordo. You’ve given me forty-eight crowns; the agreement was for FIFTY.”

Gordo sighed and slapped two more crowns into the warrior’s open palm. “Just remember that
we’re
allowing
you
to join
us,
not the other way ’round.”

Gape nodded and leaned close to the dwarf. “And just you remember which brother you’re dealing with,” he snarled. “Groan and I may share the same father, but the similarity ends there.”

Gordo sneered at the warrior, failed to shove him aside, and waddled around him instead. When he’d made his way back to where Groan was standing, he was shocked to see the barbarian deep in conversation with one of the Phlegmian soldiers. The man was showing Groan a scrolled painting of some kind.

“What’s going on here?” Gordo asked, glaring at the soldier with barely disguised malice. “I’m only away five minutes and you’re already mixing with the
enemy.
”

“I ain’t mixin’,” Groan bellowed, turning the scroll around so that Gordo could get a good look at it. “I’m in love.”

“Who’s that?”

“That,”
intoned the solider, “is Her Royal Highness, the Princess of Phlegm.”

Gordo shrugged. “She’s nothing special.”

“Are you joking?” Groan exclaimed. “She’s the bes’ lookin’ woman I ever saw!”

“Get out of it; my mother’s prettier than her.”

“Your muvver’s bald.”

“Yeah,
and
?”

Gordo shook his head in disbelief. “You’re actually considering it, aren’t you?” he said. “You really think that girl’d look at you twice?”

“Not once she’s seen
me,
” said a voice, and Gape snatched the scroll from Groan’s fumbling fingers. “Felicsataris Trumidia, a woman of unspeakable beauty.”

“Oi!” Groan echoed. “Stuff off out o’ it; I saw her first.”

“Yes, well you’d
have
to, because if she saw you first, she’d run a two-minute mile. Ha-ha-ha-ha!”

The soldier, who’d been grinning slyly ever since the girl had led Groan over to him, cleared his throat. “I know,” he said. “Why don’t you
both
apply? That way, I can arrange for you each to spend a day with the princess before the list of applicants becomes too … crowded.” He glanced down at Gordo. “You can bring your gnome, by all means.”

“I’m a dwarf!” Gordo snapped. “And I’ll bring my bloody self, if I’ve a mind to.”

“I should hurry, if I were you,” the solider concluded, calling over one of his subordinates and politely reclaiming the portrait from Gape. “After all, opportunities such as this seldom come along every day.”