Yowler Foul-Up (17 page)

“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.

T
HERE 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 shrugged. “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.

Modeset fought to control his temper; any sudden outburst would invariably alert the machine operator on the roof.

Remembering the folklore passages in
Leaving Legends
, Modeset used his shining silver wrist guard to view the Batchtiki. The reflection showed him that there were five of them in the cage; all seemed impatient to escape.

Modeset got to his feet and, heaving Pegrand’s statue onto his back, hurried from the room and slammed the door shut. Outside on the landing, he propped the manservant against the east wall and made for the opposite room, which fortunately turned out to contain a small armory.

T
HE SHAPE WAS SO
slight that at first Obegarde thought he was seeing things. It started as a small orb, spinning in one corner of the ceiling, just below the first flight of the spiral staircase. Neither Modeset nor Pegrand had noticed it, but Obegarde’s superior vision had picked up the glimmer immediately. Now, somewhat worryingly considering their intended ambush, it was flashing red and green.

Obegarde cursed, and was about to hunt around outside for a suitable stone to throw at it, when the globe suddenly began to grow. Descending as it swelled, the globe re-formed into the features of a sharp and extremely intimidating woman. She was attractive, raven-haired, and emanated a presence quite unlike any Obegarde had encountered before.

He tried to run, but his legs wouldn’t move. He stood rooted to the spot as the facial image shimmered and expanded into an elfin figure, which emerged from the pool of light.

“Modeset!” Obegarde cried, fighting against his own inability to escape the paralysis brought on by the Lark. “Pegrand! Jimmy! Flicka! Anybody! Help me out, here!”

Somehow, the words became muffled as soon as they left his lips. He actually felt the sound reverberate and die before him. The reply, however, was not so impaired.

“The loftwing, I presume. Let us silence you first, shall we?”

The Lark stepped forward, mumbling unrepeatable syllables under her breath, and quite calmly closed a clawlike hand around his neck. She drove her other hand into his chest, and he felt fingernails like sharpened glass pierce his heart.

Obegarde threw punches and kicks that would have devastated a mountain troll, but still the Lark maintained her stranglehold, still she pierced his heart. He staggered backward, feeling the life drain from his body. Finally, in a last-ditch attempt to fight his way out, he tightened his jaw muscles and extended his fangs until they curved in a wide arc. Then he ceased his backward drive and darted forward, biting sharply into the Lark’s exposed neck.

“Ahhhhhh!”

She screamed and stumbled back, but in doing so she closed her fist around the loftwing’s heart. Clutching at the fresh wound in her neck, she yanked her arm from the vampire and fell against the wall.

Obegarde gave one last smile of satisfaction and collapsed in a heap on the floor.

Still grasping the bite on her neck, the Lark pushed herself from the wall. She gave the loftwing an experimental prod with her foot. He was dead.

“Interesting that the city’s resistance should include a vampire,” she said, as if the now silent Obegarde could still hear her. “How … quaint. Oh well, onward and upward.”

She folded her dark cloak about her and promptly vanished in a puff of smoke.

A
RMED WITH A SHORT
bow, two throwing daggers, and Lord Bowlcock’s arm and its trusty saber, Modeset negotiated the rest of the spiral staircase and found himself in a small passage with a ladder leading to a trapdoor in the roof. A repulsively obese man stood on guard duty. At least, he would have been on guard duty had he actually been awake. Heaven only knew how he’d managed to drag that gut up two hundred stairs, Modeset reflected.

He crept over to the man, took a few moments to consider how his ancestors might have tackled the situation, and pummeled him on the head with the hilt of a dagger. Then, groaning with the effort, he dragged the unconscious figure away from the base of the ladder before beginning his ascent.

There were muffled voices coming from the other side of the trapdoor. Raising it a gnat’s wing, Modeset heard snatches of conversation.

“Won’t stay still, mistress!”

“Idiot! Just concentrate, will you?”

“S’not my fault, mistress! The little bugger keeps running between the tubes! Maybe we should fetch the rest of them, and then—”

“Don’t be ridiculous! If you can’t keep one of them in check, how on Illmoor do you envisage handling six?”

“Well, I thought … er … can’t we follow the prophecy with one lizard?”

“No! The machine must be at full strength, and that requires the glare of no less than six!”

“But, mistress, the intruders—”

“Are pathetic incompetents. I can, assure you, Edwy, I’ve dealt with the only one capable of any kind of offense. Now, just do as you’re tol—”

Before the Lark could finish, the trapdoor flew open and Modeset erupted from within. Fueled by an uncharacteristic taste for battle that went far beyond simple heroism, he pitched both daggers at Edwy and let out a scream of victory when one of them caught the Yowler disciple just above the kneecap. Edwy grabbed at his leg, gasped, and fainted.

“You?” cried the Lark. “Modeset, isn’t it? The Great Duke of Rats! Ha-ha-ha-ha!” She took a step back and removed a glass sphere from the sleeve of her robe. Muttering an incantation under her breath, she flung the sphere toward Modeset, her eyes gleaming as it erupted into flame. The duke, still thinking on his feet, used the silver saber to field the sphere right back at her, his fist closed tightly around Bowlcock’s fist on the handle.

The sphere exploded in the Lark’s face with a subdued flare. As she staggered against the far wall, Modeset saw his chance and darted forward.

One thrust with the silver saber shattered the huge glass eye of the lighthouse. It was only as Modeset turned to take out the glare machine that he realized his mistake. The Lark should have been his priority.

Now he found himself face-to-face with the machine.

In the few seconds he’d taken to demolish the glass eye, the Lark had wheeled the machine around to face him. Somewhere in those tubular bowels, the Batchtiki was glaring. Its stare, reflected and magnified through a network of tiny mirrors, fired a ray directly at the duke.

This is it, he thought. I’m absolutely, positively, going to die.

He closed his eyes.

He swallowed.

He held his arms up over his head and crossed them.

Then it happened.

The Batchtiki’s ray hit Modeset’s shiny wrist guard and beamed back directly along its length. When the duke finally did pluck up enough courage to open his eyes, the machine had been turned to stone.

Silence reigned in the little room.

Modeset put a fingertip to his forehead and wiped away a bead of sweat.

“And let that be a lesson to you,” he said, and passed out.

The Lark screamed with fury, levitated off the floor, and flew forward. She had almost reached Modeset’s prone figure when a small fist like bunched metal slammed into her face.

Flicka stood over the duke, fists raised defensively. With the Lark still reeling from her blow, Flicka executed a low kick into the priestess’s stomach and brought up her other knee to finish the job.

The Lark hit the ground, somersaulted backward, and leaped to her feet. Then she spun around with a backhand of her own, and Flicka, caught unawares, tripped on Modeset’s arm. She fell to the floor, gasping as her hand crunched awkwardly beneath her.

“Foolish girl,” spat the Lark, a second fire sphere already in her hands. She took aim, smiled grimly, and released it.

Flicka rolled aside at the last minute, struggling to her feet as the sphere exploded mere inches from the duke’s unconscious form. Then, muttering an incantation under her breath, she raised both palms and sent two miniature bolts of lightning on a zigzag course toward the priestess.

Electricity filled the air and, for the briefest of seconds, it actually looked as if the Lark were in trouble. A wave of her hands quickly dispelled the illusion and she stood firm once again, shaken and bleeding, but still with all her wits about her.

“So … a fledgling sorceress,” she said. “How … endearing. Your vampire offered no challenge; I wonder if you might?”