Shadewell Shenanigans (22 page)

Behind him, one of the indistinct figures raised a hand, causing the first line of soldiers on the hill to ready their crossbows.

The lords made a concerted effort to ignore them.

“What about King Phew?” Visceral demanded, emerging from behind Curfew with a fully formed fireball in his hands. “You’ve killed him, too?”

“We haven’t killed
anyone,
yet,” Pegrand assured them. “However, unless you agree to our demands, we can’t make any promises …”

“Why would we agree to a pathetic treatise written and enforced by morons? Who are those skulkers behind you, anyway?”

Pegrand squinted at the Viscount. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But did you just call Groan Teethgrit a moron?”

“Groan Teethgrit is DEAD!” Visceral screamed. “We had assurances from Modeset; he died at the hands of Count Cra—”

A sudden, terrible silence descended on the lords as Groan and Gape stepped into full view, their swords drawn. Gordo was the last to move forward, his battle-axe raised high above his head.

Groan spoke. “Are you agreein’ or not?”

“I—” Curfew suddenly trailed off, looking to his peers for support and finding none. He took a step back, just as three arrows thudded into the patch of ground on which he’d been standing.

The sudden attack had a dramatic effect on the lords. Muttknuckles quickly sleeved his cudgel and shuffled into the background. Prince Blood did likewise, pocketing his knife as he retreated.

Only Earl Visceral stood fast. Being a necromancer of some renown, he had less to fear than the others, and had forged a psychic link with his guard captain. However, he was also a master tactician, and he suspected that even the combined might of the nearby Dullitch-Spittalian troop squads—assuming they agreed to fight together in the first place—would be hard-pressed to match the armed host that amassed on the hills around them. A confrontation, it seemed, would be very unwise.

“Let me get this straight,” he snarled instead, eyeing the giant barbarian carefully. “You want us to allow Phlegm
out
of the Great Assembly, in return for which you’re offering
what
?”

Groan hefted his broadsword. “I ain’t offerin’ you nuffin’ sept the sharp end o’ this sword,” he boomed.

“Really,” Visceral muttered. “It’ll be interesting to see if you manage to let go of it by the time I’ve fried your skull with this fireball.”

“NO MORE LOOTING,” Gordo shouted.

Everyone stared at him, even Groan.

“NO PILLAGING,” the dwarf went on. “NO CARAVANS OVERTURNED, NO MERCHANTS ATTACKED. YOU LET US RUN PHLEGM WITHOUT INTERFERENCE, WE LEAVE YOUR CITIES ALONE. FOREVER.”

Visceral pursed his lips, then shrugged and dissolved the fireball between his hands. After consulting with the other lords, he stood aside for Viscount Curfew.

“What about trade?” Curfew asked. “We trade regularly with Phlegm.”

“Trade continues as normal,” said Gape, who’d appointed himself Phlegm’s first official chief of the trade industry.

“Yeah,” said Groan, who was beginning to feel out of his depth. “An’ you all ’ave to call me King Groan, right?”

The earl and Viscount Curfew exchanged glances. Curfew’s glance said
this might work to our advantage,
while Visceral’s said
there’s no “might” about it.

Prince Blood was thinking along the same lines, but his attempted discussion with Baron Muttknuckles ended abruptly when the baron blatantly stole some change he’d secreted in a back pocket.

At length, Curfew and Visceral emerged from the fray.

“Agreed,” said the Viscount. “You may consider Phlegm removed from the Great Assembly, King Groan. We look forward to much profitable trade with you.”

Groan nodded, and began to back away. His generals followed him.

Visceral noticed that, as the Phlegmian quartet disappeared into the distance, the armies on the surrounding hills slowly began to withdraw.

Eventually, the lords of Dullitch, Legrash, Spittle, and Shinbone were alone.

“Well, I certainly didn’t expect that,” Curfew said, suddenly feeling the cold again.

“Me neither,” said Prince Blood. “Still, I never liked Phew that much.”

“Agreed,” said Curfew. “He didn’t trade with us at all, did he?”

“Not once,” said Visceral, with a wry smile.

“He traded with me every fortnight,” spat Muttknuckles, stomping toward his donkey. “See? I’ve bloody lost out again, haven’t I?” He clambered awkwardly onto his mule and urged it into a reluctant trot.

“I’m assuming Dullitch’ll hold the usual state funeral for Modeset?” he asked, peering over one shoulder.

“Of course,” Curfew said, noticing a sudden sly smile from the earl.

“You’ll invite the new monarch of Phlegm, I take it?” Visceral muttered.

“Naturally. It’ll be a good opportunity to … get to know him.”

“I’ll see you at the funeral, then,” shouted Muttknuckles. “If you’re all still alive. Ha-ha-ha-ha!”

Curfew watched the baron’s tired and inevitably slow departure. Then he turned to his fellow lords and said: “Remind me again why we put up with him?”

T
HE OFFICIAL FUNERAL OF
Duke Modeset took place one year after the noble’s death, partly because no one wanted to host the event and partly because the Phlegmian authorities had failed to find a body in the keep’s shark-infested moat. Still, it was a grand affair, attended by lords and ladies from all over Illmoor. The continent’s noble elite crowded atop the Dullitch tor, jostling for position among the newly elected rulers of Phlegm, Spittle, Sneeze, and Legrash. Groan Teethgrit, the King of Phlegm, was not present, having recently enjoyed the birth of his first son.

But that, as they say, is another story …

Turn the page to continue reading from the Illmoor Chronicles

“I
DON’T LIKE THIS
,” the traveler whispered to his friend. “I don’t like this
at all.
”

Having been caught short of common sense in the wilderness north of Crust, they’d been delighted to discover a dilapidated coaching inn amid the fierce woodlands. However, their delight had soon changed to dubious apprehension when the place turned out to be full of strangely inhospitable locals. They could forgive the sniggering dwarves at the corner table and the odd looks from the group of farmers huddled beside the bar, but there was something seriously
amiss
with the hooded man sitting next to the fire, cracking his jaw, and the innkeeper with the black moustache (who they strongly suspected was two teeth short of a beaver). Worse still, there was now a silent yet unsubtle exchange running between the innkeeper and his fireside customer, albeit from far ends of the room.

“I bet it’s about us,” said the first traveler, licking his trembling lips. “Did you see that bit where he walked his two fingers along the bar top? That might be code for ‘hitchhikers’ …”

The second traveler rolled his eyes.

“Oh, don’t be so paranoid,” he said, smiling nervously.

“I’m not being paranoid – why aren’t they just speaking to each other, like normal folk?”

“Perhaps they don’t want the farmers listening in.”

“Ha! I doubt that. Look: the bloke beside the fire just ran a finger under his jaw – ’sa death signal, that! I just knew it was a bad idea to come in here! I mean: what kind of place is open at nearly
three o’clock in the morning
…?”

“Go, then!”

“Aren’t you coming?”

“Nope: I’m far too tired to go on, just now.”

Time passed. One by one, the farmers began to drink up and head out into the darkness. They were followed by the dwarves, who were all the worse for drink. Eventually, the inn became quiet, with only a crackle from the fireplace to hold back the silence.

“Let’s get out of here;
please,”
whispered the first traveler, anxiety creeping into his voice.

“And go where? There probably isn’t another inn for miles, at least not one that’s open! Besides, we haven’t even finished our drinks …”

The traveler stared down at the tankards.

“I don’t like this ale, anyway,” he muttered. “It tastes funny. I tell you, this place is knee-deep in the bad stuff …”

The man beside the fireplace abruptly folded his arms, then seemed to change his mind, and reached up to caress his jutting jaw.

The first traveler leaned close to his friend.

“You’re not telling me
he’s
balanced,” he whispered.

“Why, just because he’s not running over here to engage us in conversation?”

“No,
because he’s wearing a hood and playing with his jawbone: that’s
proper
mental.”

His friend gave a dispassionate shrug.

“Look, I’m cold, I’m hungry, and I’ll be damned if I’m walking through the woods for another six miles. I’m staying here and that’s that!”

“Fine,” snapped the traveler, snatching up his backpack and clambering to his feet. “Well, just so you know, the innkeeper has dried blood all down the back of his coat: I saw it as I ordered the drinks …”

The traveler slung on his pack, and departed. When the door had slammed behind him, his friend made a disgruntled face and took another large swig of ale: it
did
taste funny, he had to admit.

The clock struck three. As the last of its chimes sounded throughout, the door of the inn creaked open, and a thin, spindly man with bulbous eyes and a strangely active tongue sidled his way in.

“We’ve got
it,
massster,” he spat, apparently addressing the hooded man. “
It’sssss
in the yard.”

That said, he hurried outside again.

The traveler looked on in a not-looking-on sort of way as the stranger beside the fire got carefully to his feet and followed.

“Open up the back,” the stranger called, as he passed the table. “I’ll give them a hand.”

“Right you are,” the innkeeper shouted after him, stomping off into the dark recesses of the inn.

Then, there was silence.

As the room’s enormous fire crackled away, the traveler – now totally alone in the bar – began to feel very uncomfortable.

“Maybe it’s an ale delivery or something,” he said to himself, but aloud, so the room didn’t seem quite so menacing. “Yeah, that’ll be it: an ale delivery.”

Then it happened: a terrible scream, a cry of pain that pierced the silence of the inn and nearly caused the traveler to bite clean through his tongue. He jumped to his feet.

“What the hell was that?” he gasped, glancing around at the empty room. There was
still
no sign of the innkeeper.

He quickly snatched up his backpack, left an overly generous tip on the table and made his way to the door, but he hadn’t gone more than ten steps when a deep, booming voice said:

“And where do you think
you’re
going?”

The innkeeper had appeared at the bar, his spindly associate standing beside him.

“I – er – thought I might head off …” the traveler said with a forced smile, sweat beginning to bead on his brow.

“Oh, you did, did you?”

“Er … yes: I’m afraid so. It’s getting late. Goodnight!”

There was a “click” from behind him, and the traveler spun around: the hooded stranger from the fireplace had re-entered the inn and was lowering a bar across the door.

“Wh-what are you doing? What is this?”

He made to step around the man, then thought better of it and turned back to the innkeeper.

“What’s going on here?”

The innkeeper smiled, displaying a grim formation of broken teeth, but neither he nor his snake-like companion spoke a word.

“LET – ME – OUT!” said the traveler, gritting his teeth, partly to show some mustard but mainly because it stopped his jaw from shaking. “I’m going home, do you hear me? I don’t belong here!”

“Oh, we know that,” whispered the hooded man, putting a hand on the traveler’s shoulder. “But tonight, for us, is a very important night, when something we’ve planned for a very long time has come to pass.”

“W-what’s that got to do with me?”

“Nothing. It’s got nothing
at all
to do with you, but when your friend left earlier, he did so at a very inopportune moment … and he saw someone that he shouldn’t have seen. He was in the
wrong
place at the
worst
possible time … as are you.”

The traveler’s eyes filled with tears, and his lips began to tremble.

“B-but I’m not g-going to tell anyone …”

“Not good enough. Besides,” the stranger said, removing his hood. “You’ve seen my face.”

The traveler stepped back, his jaw dropping. “B-b-but I don’t understand: aren’t you Vi –”

There was a sudden, sickening
thud
and then … there was silence.

N
IGHT … AND DOWN CAME
the rain.

Guard Marshal Tikki LaVale didn’t think much of Dullitch’s wall-top sentries, not because he had particularly high standards or was in any way difficult to please, but simply because the sentries in Dullitch were
that
bad. Consequently, when a shadow appeared on the rooftops of the city’s eastside, moving at an impossibly high speed and leaping chimney stacks as if they were pebbles, Tikki immediately determined to give chase himself.