“I CAN’T KILL THIS vampire,” Rhark said rather matter-of-factly, when his master emerged from the tapestry and joined him in the cellar. “It’s most vexing.”
“Loftwings are immortal,” the impostor said, pointing out the vampire’s single fang, “which makes them tedious company and very difficult creatures to dispose of.” He wiped some blood from his own blade with a rag and cast a glance at the pinned loftwing. “If I were you, I really wouldn’t bother.”
Rhark nodded, drew out his sword and watched Obegarde fold up like an old deck chair.
“There are more of them upstairs, master,” he said, a worried frown developing on his forehead. “What are we going to do? Where did they all come from?”
“Dullitch,” snapped the impostor, icily. “You must have been followed back from the city.”
“We can’t have been: I checked!”
“Did you dispose of the banshee?”
“Yes, master! I dropped it in a rubbish bin on my way out of the city!”
“What about the two travelers who saw Curfew being brought in the other night?”
Rhark nodded.
“The ones Kneath killed?”
“You disposed of them?”
“Yes, master: just like you said to do! We took them to Dullitch and left them on a vegetable cart!”
“And you weren’t seen?”
“No!”
“Did you remove their clothes?”
“What? Well, er, no, not exactly …”
The impostor let out a pained breath and bunched his fist.
“You fool! That would have led them to this part of Illmoor!”
“B-but it wouldn’t have led them to this wood, master. It wouldn’t have led them to this very inn!”
“You covered your tracks, of course?”
Rhark looked suddenly terrified. “N-no, master. Should I have done?”
“Yes,” said the impostor, looking distractedly at his fingernails. “It would be fair to say that you should have done. It would be even fairer to say that you have probably led the Dullitch infantry to our very door. It’s a good job you’re valuable as a hired sword, my friend; if you weren’t you’d be floating face-down in the sea by now …”
“I-I’m sorry, master; really I am! What should we do?”
“We should leave, Rhark … and very quickly, too.”
The sword master nodded.
“What about the others?” he hazarded.
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry unduly about them; Spoin and Davenpaw are natural predators … and Kneath can take care of himself. You follow me; but stay put at the rear of the inn … watch my back. If I’m followed, you deal with it. Understand?”
“Yes, master.”
“Very good. We’ll go out the back way; and do ignore the lout lying in the next corridor. I’ve shown him a very good trick with a blade that he’s yet to recover from.”
Rhark nodded, and followed his master beyond the tapestry.
In the shadows, Obegarde rose shakily to his feet, concentrated his mind, and watched as his chest healed up.
“Curfew,” he muttered to himself. “He can’t be the villain here, surely? Why on Illmoor would a man like Curfew kidnap himself?”
Determined to find out, he bunched up both fists and headed for the secret corridor.
As footsteps hurried past him without stopping, Jimmy Quickstint struggled to his feet, staggered a little way down the corridor and promptly collapsed once again. There he lay, in the darkness, surrounded by miniature pools of his own blood, contemplating his wasted life.
“Try to make it, Jimmy!” Viscount Curfew called from the confines of his cell. “You can do it, man!”
Jimmy groaned as a new stab of pain wracked his body. He was just considering the thought of abandoning the viscount completely when a heavily muscled arm scooped him off the ground and propped him against the brickwork.
“You’ve been stabbed,” said Obegarde, a concerned look on his face.
“You reckon?” Jimmy managed, forcing open one bloodshot eye. “What gave it away, the wound itself or THE RIVER OF BLOOD YOU JUST FISHED ME OUT OF?”
“All right, all right,” the vampire muttered, ripping some material from the arm of his coat and tying it rather uselessly around the gravedigger’s midriff.
“Don’t let me die, Obegarde,” Jimmy pleaded. “I’m too young … I haven’t d-done enough stuff.”
The vampire took a closer look at the wound.
“I think you might just make it,” he said.
“B-but the blood — so much blood …”
“Yeah,” the vampire muttered. “But I don’t think much of this is yours — I reckon they’ve killed a fair few poor unfortunates down here.”
Still, he scooped Jimmy’s semi-limp body into his arms and started to head back to the cellar.
“Um … excuse me,” called a voice. “Do you think that when you’ve taken young Jimmy to get some help, you might find a quick moment to let me out of this cell, only I’ve been here for quite a while now and I am supposed to be running a city …”
Obegarde recognized the voice and spun around.
“Lord Curfew!” he boomed. “Is that you? I mean, is that really you?”
“Yes, damn it! And the evil cretins who kidnapped me are getting away, so if you’ve not got the wherewithal to stop them, then at least GET ME OUT OF THIS DAMN PRISON so that I can!”
Obegarde knelt down, and deposited the moaning rogue gently on the cold stones. Then he shouted: “Get back, Viscount!” and took a run up at the cell door.
There was an incredibly loud crash, and Obegarde slid down the portal like a pancake thrown at a wall.
Curfew’s face reappeared at the door-hatch.
“Erm … I actually just wanted you to slide the bolt back,” he said.
“Ghrfff,” said Obegarde, peeling his nose from the stone. Then, clawing onto wall nooks for purchase, he dragged himself to his feet and snatched at the bolt.
The door flew open, and Curfew marched determinedly into the corridor, dabbing some blood from a cut above his lip.
“Right,” he said, snatching a curved sword from a display hook on the wall next to the cell. “Now you can get your friend to safety: I’ve got some vengeance to wreak.”
Eight
“HELP! SOMEBODY HELP US!”
“There!” Burnie cried, slapping his steed on the flank. The horse reared up and bolted through the wood in the direction of the shouts, its companions soon urged to follow suit.
Seconds later, all eleven riders erupted through the fringe of the wood like a wall of thunder.
Spires quickly surveyed the scene, but the little troglodyte was some way ahead of him.
“The lion!” he screamed. “I want two men on the lion! And somebody help that injured bloke … and the girl with the snake-man!”
Several guards dismounted and dashed around the clearing like headless chickens, screaming the Dullitch war cry and frantically waving their swords. The remaining squadron descended on the lion like the wrath of gods, driving swords at the beast and forcing it to retreat into the heart of the wood.
Kneath came bolting out of the inn brandishing a chair-leg, only to be mercilessly cut down before he reached Enoch Dwellings, who was helping a guard lift Wheredad onto one of the horses.
The writhing form of Spoin curled back as the guards advanced; their swords waved threateningly in front of them.
“Kill it!” Burnie screamed at them. “It’s evil; they all are! And you three: don’t let that lion get away!”
There were a few dog-eared salutes as several men galloped into the woods beyond, but the guards gathered around the snake were simply too slow to catch it.
Burnie swallowed, and shook his head at the overall scene. Then he turned to get Spires’ opinion on the proceedings, but the secretary was gone …
Spires had dismounted from his steed and was dashing toward the back of the inn. A few minutes earlier, while peering throug
h the spyglass, he’d seen something he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe. Viscount Curfew had emerged from the rear of the building, followed by … Viscount Curfew. The two men, one of whom was undoubtedly his master, looked completely identical.
He’d given chase immediately, but had lost them when they entered the wood. Still, the important thing was that they both had seen him coming, so the viscount would know that help was at hand …
He quickened his pace, hurrying toward the edge of the wood as fast as he was able. Behind him, in the shadows cast by the inn’s dark face, Rhark detached himself from the back wall, took a sizeable run-up and cannoned into the royal secretary, knocking him straight to the ground.
“Greetings, pathetic grovel-hog of spineless nobles,” he spat, leaping up and kicking the secretary hard in the stomach. “I am Rhark, sword master extraordinaire. Happy to meet you.”
He dragged Spires up by his collar and threw a punch, but the secretary blocked it and caught him with a well-placed knee in the privates.
“Ash!”
As the sword master doubled up in agony, Spires shoved him aside and bolted into the woods, unwittingly losing his sword in the process.
“You better run, little man!” Rhark screamed at the clustered trees. “You better run good and fast!”
Darkness gathered over the land. Night was fast approaching … and the wind had a bite to it.
The unconscious form of Jimmy Quickstint cradled firmly in his arms, Obegarde kicked open the remains of the Lostings front door and emerged onto a scene of absolute mayhem.
A large man in an apron, presumably the innkeeper, had been wounded by the guards and was currently being read his rights by the unmistakable troglodyte who ran the Dullitch Council.
There were more guards emerging from the nearby woods, dragging the enormous, hairy body of a man behind them.
Obegarde smiled when he saw Lusa running toward him, waving her arms.
“Father!”
The vampire smiled.
“I’m OK, sweetheart! What are these guards doing he —”
“Father! LOOK OUT!”
Obegarde spun around just in time to see the snake-man — in human form, aside from his reptilian head — leap into the air.
Having learned a valuable lesson in his struggle with Rhark, the vampire moved with near lightning speed, dropping Jimmy on the ground so hard that the gravedigger almost bounced. Rising up, he brought the snake-man out of the air with a body tackle, and sank his elongated fang deep into Spoin’s scale-covered neck. The creature gave a terrible cry and began to convulse with shock.
In seconds, the guards were on them, some slashing at the creature while others helped Obegarde to detach himself from it. One even bent down to see how Jimmy was doing, and quickly called back for a first-aid kit.
“Thank the gods you’re all right,” Lusa said breathlessly, dropping onto her knees as she neared the vampire. “I didn’t realize … well, what I mean is, I didn’t think …”
“I could take him?” Obegarde ventured. “Mmm … you’ve got a lot to learn about your old dad yet … and, I warn you — none of it’s good.”
Lusa smiled, but somewhat vaguely.
“Do you mind if we go home now? Only, I’ve left Tiddles in the basement and I’m really quite worried about him.”
“Well, I’m sure he’ll be fine; he’s a very resourceful cat.”
“Am I alive?” said a strangled voice, causing both Obegarde and Lusa to start.
Jimmy Quickstint forced open a leaky eyelid.
“No,” Obegarde replied, leaning over the gravedigger with an evil smile. “This is the afterlife, and I’m your companion. You’ve been condemned to hell for a lifetime of pilfering and bad decisions.”
Jimmy’s eyelid flickered, and a tear began to form.
“B-but I helped save Dullitch … twice!”
“I know,” Obegarde said, mockingly. “They were the bad decisions.”
Lusa broke first; and suffered a sudden fit of giggles.
“Shhh! Stop it! He’ll hear you!”
“Oi! I know that voice! Obegarde … is that you?”
“Of course it is, you numbskull.”
The gravedigger sat up.
“I’m not dead, then!” he cried, relief flooding over him. “How can that be? I was stabbed in the stomach!”
“No,” Obegarde corrected. “You were stabbed in this …”
The vampire reached out with thumb and forefinger and plucked up the skewered body of Kyn Blistering’s hamster.
“Wow!” Jimmy exclaimed. “Y’see? I told you it was magical!”
Obegarde smiled wanly, and wondered just how many gods were looking out for Jimmy Quickstint.
“He all right?” said Burnie, carefully dismounting from his horse.
“He’ll be fine,” said the vampire, seriously. “But if I were you, I’d get after Viscount Curfew: the enemy is a man who looks exactly like him … and once they’re together, we’ll have no hope of telling them apart.”
“Identical, you say?”
“Absolutely identical.”
Burnie clambered back onto his horse, and snatched up the reins.
“I’ll go myself,” he said, checking his belt dagger. “Save your concern, though: only the royal bloodline can wear the Seal Ring. No impostor can or will ever sit on the Dullitch throne.”
With that, he urged his horse into a gallop and sped off in the direction of the wood.
Nine
SPIRES DASHED THROUGH THE gloomy wood, leaping bushes and swiping branches from his path in a desperate attempt to reach Lord Curfew before the sword master reached him. He had no fear for his own safety, but his primary mission was the same as it had always been: to serve and protect the Lord of Dullitch … at any cost.
Spires darted left and right, urgently scanning the woods for any sign of the two. Unfortunately, before he had time to focus on the glades dotted all around him, he was leaped upon and forced to the ground.
Rhark somersaulted forward and hurtled onto his feet, drawing his sword in the process.
“Get up,” he yelled at the secretary, swinging the sword as he circled the glade. “Foolish servant of cowards, get up and fight for your survival.”
Spires staggered to his feet and reached for his own sword, but the sheath was empty.
“Lost it, have you?” Rhark tormented. “Mislaid your only weapon in the woods? Pathetic incompetents such as yourself deserve no mercy, but worry not — you shall die in the manner befitting a fool …”
He drew a long dagger from his belt pouch with a free hand, and pitched it with unerring precision at the secretary’s leg.
Spires cried out as the blade bit into him, and collapsed into a crumpled heap upon the forest floor.
“P-please …”
“Ahh,” Rhark chided. “Here comes the begging; my favorite part.”
Spires held up a shaking hand.
“C-come no closer, enemy of Dullitch …”
“Hahaha! Enemy of Dullitch; how quaint! Now, I think, is the time to end this little pantomime. The question is, how. Hmm … a beheading, perhaps?”
Rhark raised his sword at a wide angle, and ran at the secretary. At the last moment, he leaped into the air and swung back the sword …
And Spires shot him straight in the face.
Swords clashed, glanced each other and clashed again.
Viscount Curfew stepped back, keeping his eyes firmly on the feet of the impostor.
“You can’t win, you know …” said the mock viscount. “I don’t doubt you’ll put up a brave fight, but in the end, you’ll be destroyed.”
“Thankfully,” Curfew snarled back, “overconfidence isn’t your only weakness.”
“That’s right,” said the impostor, performing a near perfect lunge of his own. “I’m also far too merciful.”
Curfew blocked the strike, but only just.
He lunged forward with his sword, but the move was qu
ickly parried by the impostor.
“Is that the best you’ve got, my lord? Ha! No wonder you were easy pickings for Rhark.”
The scream echoed through the wood.
Rhark landed on his feet, clutched frantically at his face, and staggered forward.
Spires pulled himself up and took several steps back, then he produced a mini-crossbow from his belt hook and aimed it at the flailing sword master’s chest.
“A bolt in the heart, perhaps?” he said mockingly, and squeezed the trigger.
There was a quick swwwwck, one final scream and a dull thud, and Rhark, sword master extraordinaire, fell silent.
“What was that?” the impostor demanded, circling his opponent with the air of the suddenly preoccupied.
Viscount Curfew licked his lips.
“My cavalry has arrived,” he said. “They might take their time, but they strike with a vengeance once angered.”
To underline the observation, Curfew ran a single finger along his throat. “I’m no voice expert, but that scream sounded like your man with the swords.”
“Never,” the impostor snapped, swinging his sword in a rough circle. “When it comes to steel, Rhark cannot be bested.”
“So you say,” muttered Curfew. “But my secretary is a very resourceful man. He, too, is difficult to match.”
“Ha! I think not, my lord. Your secretary, from what I’ve heard tell, is a bumbling, twitching, disconsolate fool, much like yourself.”
“Really? Then I should back up your words with steel.”
Curfew dived forward and drove his sword at the impostor’s neck. The shade parried, dropped to his knees and slashed at Curfew’s mid-section, a move that the viscount evaded by the narrowest of margins.
“You fight surprisingly well for a reflection. Perhaps, as one of us is going to die here anyway, you will tell me your true identity?”
The impostor blocked another of Curfew’s lunges, and shook his head.
“That knowledge will never be yours, my lord. Never.”
“Such secrecy,” the viscount remarked, switching his sword from one hand to the other. “Must be a hideously ugly countenance you’re hiding in there.”
“You have no idea,” said the impostor, his voice suddenly edged with emotion. “You have absolutely no idea.”
Dwellings Debacle Page 15
