The Yowler Foul-Up
The Illmoor Chronicles
David Lee Stone
For my grandmother,
Doris Christina Stone
And my late grandfather,
David Stone
CONTENTS
SELECTED DRAMATIS PERSONAE
PROLOGUE
PART ONE: THE GREAT RETURNING
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
PART TWO: THE DUKE AND THE DETECTIVE
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
PART THREE: THE FIGHT FOR PLUNGE
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
FIFTY
FIFTY-ONE
FIFTY-TWO
FIFTY-THREE
FIFTY-FOUR
FIFTY-FIVE
FIFTY-SIX
FIFTY-SEVEN
FIFTY-EIGHT
FIFTY-NINE
SIXTY
Preview: The Shadewell Shenanigans
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
SELECTED DRAMATIS PERSONAE
(ye cast of characters)
BARROWBIRD: A distant relative of the forest hornbill
BOWLCOCK, LORD: First ruler of Dullitch (deceased)
COLDWELL, JED: A gravedigger
CURFEW, RAVIS: A viscount; Lord of Dullitch
DAFISFUL, GRAB: A thief
EDWY: A Yowler acolyte
FJIN, FROWD: Landlord of the Rotting Ferret
HALVN: An elf guard
HOPKIRK, FLICKA: Fogrise aide, daughter of Lord Modeset’s secretary
INNKEEPER: Owner of the Steeplejack Inn
LADY LAURIS: THE LARK: A Yowler priestess
LOPSALM: A Yowler curate
MARSHALL, PEGRAND: Manservant to Duke Modeset
MIXER: A gnome
MODESET, VANDRE: A disgraced noble, former Duke of Dullitch
MOORS: A Yowler acolyte
MULDOON, WRICKSHAW: A sorcerer
OBEGARDE, JARETH: A loftwing investigator
QUICKSTINT, JIMMY: A thief turned gravedigger
SORROW, ALAN: Dullitch quartermaster
SPIRES, MILQUAY: Secretary to Viscount Curfew
VRUNAK, AUGUSTUS: An inventor
An extract from the memoirs of Vandre Modeset, forty-third Duke of Dullitch:
The lowest of the low. Destitute. Exiled from Dullitch along with my personal manservant, Pegrand. I returned to my birthplace: the forest kingdom of Fogrise. There I was happily reunited with Hopkirk, elderly retainer of the Keep and my father’s own secretary. Together with these loyal aides and Hopkirk’s indomitable daughter, Flicka. I determined to restore the kingdom to the grandeur it had once enjoyed. …
It was a time of brief happiness and, without the chaos of city duties, Pegrand and I grew to become good friends.
Little did I suspect that fate was set to urinate on my doorstep once more. Just five months later, I lost my beloved ancestral home in a complicated and particularly ruthless game of Snap.
Now we have been forced to sink to new depths of poverty, and the others are becoming increasingly despondent. However, I remain optimistic about the future; I’m certain that something will turn up soon. …
PROLOGUE
MORNING SUNLIGHT FLOODED ILLMOOR.
In the south it bathed the Gleaming Mountains and the fifteen spires of Dullitch, city capital of the continent. In the north it infiltrated the sprawling forest of Grinswood, home to a variety of magic sects, including the Dark Trinity.
The Dark Trinity was nothing more than a name, a pronouncement. The Druids who made up its order were not in the least given over to darkness, but had simply been tarred by their proximity to the black heart of the wood. They served and represented Jort, God of Animal Kinship, a hypocritical entity famously disgraced when the King of the Gods paid him a surprise visit and found his sitting room full of deer heads.
The order occupied Jort’s Hand, a fortified manse in the center of the wood, and a place only marginally less attractive than the decrepit moss that clung to its walls. The spiral towers of Jort’s Hand rose high above the forest roof, and had stood solid against the wrath of time and the onslaught of the area’s changeable weather. Only the skyward towers caught the sunlight, due to the unique way in which the trees huddled together and locked branches. This meant the forest floor was always dark, although occasionally a few flashes of daylight would slip through the net of foliage and illuminate a daffodil. The effect was rather less than ethereal.
The Dark Trinity seldom took an interest in local affairs and few could blame them, considering the area. It was difficult to preach forest lore to a tribe whose only encounters with the animal kingdom came as a result of hunger. Occasionally, when the goblins killed a goat, or the trolls ambushed a wolf pack, the Dark Trinity would be called upon to intervene. These were sad and desperate times, and too many species were dwindling into extinction. Chief among these was the group of giant lizards, known locally as the Batchtiki.
The Batchtiki, although unspeakably rare, were not worth much to anybody; their skins were rough and uncomfortable to wear, and their one talent relied heavily upon their being alive to perform it. Therefore, when a forest interloper (at no small risk to his health) was observed stealing a group of baby lizards from their nest in the northeastern corner of the forest, the Dark Trinity was immediately concerned. However, being of sound mind, and suspecting, quite correctly, that this intruder was merely a pawn for some higher intelligence, they dispatched a barrowbird, one cursed to remain forever in the service of Jort, to spy for them and to trace the theft to its source. …
The bird’s mission, unbeknownst to the order at that time, would end in the cobbled streets of Dullitch, which seemed like a lifetime away. It would begin …
PART ONE:
THE GREAT RETURNING
ONE
… SOMEWHERE IN THE NORTHEASTERN corner of the forest. A tiny sprite emerged from the gloomy depths of a tree hollow and listened, translucent wings fluttering in the midmorning breeze. A boot crushed it into the ground.
The thief was out of breath. He had run the length of Grinswood in just under three hours, which was a boastful feat for a man on horseback, let alone one with three broken toes, a limp, and advanced constipation. He staggered, muttered a few obscenities, and collapsed in a final wave of exhaustion, dropping his prize beside him. The sack wriggled as it hit the floor, and continued to do so for several minutes. Then it seemed to give up. The rest of the glade was still, with only the thief’s heaving chest and slow, determined breaths punctuating the silence.
Time passed. …
Presently, a barrowbird flew into the glade, landing on the gnarled lower branche
s of an ancient oak. It cocked its head to one side and considered the scene.
The thief, whose distinguishing features included one mechanical arm and a moon-shaped scar dissecting his chin, struggled to raise a charred eyebrow. The commotion inside the sack had started up again and even appeared to be building; yet he took no notice.
Still, the bird watched.
A few minutes later, the thief had taken to rolling around on the grass in a number of failed attempts to get to his feet. Finally, he made a desperate lunge at the oak, twisted around, and shouldered himself up. Blood rushed to his head as he fought to maintain his balance.
The barrowbird, completely nonplussed by the sudden display of energy, fixed its beady eyes on the sack.
Grinswood had become eerily silent. Shadows merged, and the trees seemed to move with them.
The thief took one last look around. “Time to move,” he muttered, snatching up the sack and urging himself into a run.
When he’d disappeared from view, the barrowbird twitched and ruffled its feathers. Then it flew up onto a higher branch and cast a glance down the forest path, where a trail of disturbed foliage marked the thief’s progress.
I’ll take my time, it thought. This one looks like he’s come a long way.
TWO
For the specific attention of Duke Vandre Modeset,
Fourth Kennel Along,
Fechit’s Dog Sanctuary,
Fogrise.
Dearest Cousin,
I was delighted to hear from the redoubtable Pegrand that you have decided to accept my offer of hospitality. It has been some months since the terms of your exile entitled you to return to Dullitch, albeit as a citizen!
I can assure you that the “rat catastrophe” is a long-forgotten piece of Dullitch history; people have moved on! I do so look forward to seeing you and, to this end, have taken the liberty of booking you four rooms at the Steeplejack Inn, a grand boardinghouse on Royal Road. I trust your visit, along with that of your staff, will be both enjoyable and relaxing.
Regards,
Your cousin, Ravis Curfew, Lord of Dullitch
DUKE MODESET HAD READ the letter many times, and was still of the opinion that it had probably been written by one of the palace’s many scribes. As far as he was concerned, anyone who described Pegrand as redoubtable probably didn’t have a royal bone in his body.
He sighed, folded the letter neatly in two, and looked around for somewhere to file it. His gaze eventually came to rest on something that he assumed was supposed to be a bureau. A curious piece of furniture, it looked as if the carpenter responsible had started out with high hopes but had evidently been sidetracked en route to perfection. Modeset reached down to open the drawer and scowled as the handle broke off. Shoddy. Oh well, at least the place felt like home. He tried and failed to replace the handle three times before letting it fall to the floor, where it clattered noisily on the wooden boards. He propped the parchment on the windowsill instead.
Despite the cracked plaster and crumbling beams, there could be little doubt that the Steeplejack Inn was indeed a five-star resort; the only problem being that a five-star resort in Dullitch was the equivalent of a mutant cesspool anywhere else on the continent. Modeset wasn’t sure what the minimum requirements were for earning five stars, but Spittle Bridge had three, and there was water under that.
Modeset crossed to the bed, turned, and let himself fall back onto the mattress. The moment he did, there was an explosion of sound much like a dwarf war-hammer hitting a wardrobe door. Pain ricocheted through Modeset’s back, and he sat up with a start. His eyes bulged.
A moment later, the duke’s faithful manservant erupted through the bedroom door. His face was redder than a beetroot.
“You all right, milord?” he wheezed, leaning against the door frame for support.
The duke, still grasping his back, glared at him.
“Only, did you hear that almighty bang?”
Modeset nodded.
“So did we. What was it, d’you reckon?”
“It was me, Pegrand,” Modeset managed, suppressing a groan. “Go and tell the innkeeper that I want another bed. This mattress is thinner than your anorexic aunt.”
“I’ll have a word in his ear, milord.”
“Good man. Where’s your room?”
Pegrand pointed skyward. “’Snot exactly Marble Heights, though,” he confided, lowering his voice to a whisper. “There’s a big leak in the roof. The innkeeper says it doesn’t let much in, but I’ve been speaking to a few of the guests and they reckon the last bloke who stopped in the attic drowned. I dunno how the others’re getting on.”
Modeset put his head in his hands and tried to focus on the positives. Firstly, he was on holiday. That, generally speaking, was a good thing. He was accompanied by a full complement of personal staff, which was another. Negatively speaking, the inn was a dump; the city, a nightmare he’d spent the best part of seven years trying to forget; and the staff, a pair of depraved cultural dropouts from a depressing backwater he couldn’t wait to forget. Then there was Pegrand. He imagined a series of public humiliations and disastrous misunderstandings festering on the horizon, and he determined to escape before they arrived. After all, fate was avoidable; it was destiny that caused trouble.
THREE
MODESET CHECKED HIS POCKET WATCH. THERE WAS STILL HALF an hour to go before dinner. Having already paced back and forth in his room for what seemed like a millennium, he decided to take a nap. He carefully lowered himself onto the bed, worked his body into a halfway comfortable position, and tried to drift off.
CRASH!
His eyes flicked open, and he sat bolt upright.
The inner shutters were devastated; one had been wrenched off its hinges and the other had slammed into the far wall with such velocity that it had spawned a network of cracks in the plaster.
For a moment the duke observed the rules of stunned silence and remained absolutely still. Then he leaped off the bed and hurried over to the window.
The street below was dark and shadowy, and the bleak light offered by the lamp wicks betrayed no obvious signs of an explosion.
And so it begins, he thought bitterly. Word of my arrival has got around and suddenly everyone’s out wandering the streets with a brick in each hand. Ha! So much for moving on!
He peered cautiously out of the window, expecting at any second to be bombarded by the rest of someone’s garden wall.
Nothing: the street was empty. Silence reigned. From what he could make out, the rest of Royal Road’s crooked buildings were largely undisturbed. There was a fire blazing somewhere to the north, but nothing to account for the sudden, meteoric destruction of the shutters.
Modeset sighed and pulled the outer shutter closed. He was about to return to bed when he saw the rock on the floor beside the bureau. It was wrapped in parchment which, in turn, was fastened with string. For a moment he just stared at the rock, as if waiting for it to sprout legs and run under the door.
Then he sighed despondently, bent down, and tried to pick it up, groaning when it turned out to be a stone heavier than the average cannonball.
Puffing and panting with effort, he hefted the rock onto the bed, untied the string, and folded out the parchment. There was a note on the back.
Modeset squinted at the writing, which was crude and betrayed a certain loathing for punctuation. It certainly wasn’t what he expected:
ToNiGht WAS a tASTer TherE iS MoRE tO coME StaY away frOm wareHouse six if You don’t yOu Will wAke up FEEling NOt vEry well wiTh a cRosSboW bolT iN Your bAck yOu have beEN warned thEre are many ToRture instruMEnts whicH wE Are NOT aFraid to uSe in aN EmerGeNcY aNd we knoW yOuR arE A lOFtWing bECAuSe YOu ONly folloW at niGHT aNd We hAvE lots oF SiLvEr WhicH KiLLS YOu lOT So BE wArNEd
No More OuT of YOu aFTEr tHaT thEN MisTeR X lANd that’S NOT My ReAL naME SO DoN’T ThiNK YOU’VE GoT Me theRE.
Modeset looked from the rock to the note and back again, his attention final
ly diverting to the window. The remaining inward shutter broke off from its hinge and crashed onto the floorboards. He was about to hide the note under the bed when there was a heavy-handed knock on the bedroom door.
“Milord?”
Modeset started, thrust the parchment under his pillow, and pulled the bedcovers over the cannon-ball rock.
“Yes?” he shouted testily. “What is it, Pegrand?”
“Dinner’s in five minutes, milord. Thought you might like a quick reminder.
“Mmm? Oh, yes. Thank you.”
“No problem. Just yell if you need anything else.”
“Good show. I’ll be along presently.”
“Okay, milord. No worries, then. Everything all right in there, is it? Only, I thought I heard a noise.”
“Yes, that was me, Pegrand. I … tried to close the wardrobe.”
“You’ve got a wardrobe in there now, milord? That’s a first-class accommodation.”
Modeset looked around frantically. “No!” he yelled. “It … fell out of the window, I’m afraid. Look, I’ll be out in a few moments.”
“Right you are, milord.”
When the manservant’s footsteps had dissipated, Modeset snaked a hand under the pillow and retrieved the parchment. After a second reading, he rolled it up and stowed it away inside his tunic. He had a funny feeling that it was going to be one of those nights.
FOUR
ELSEWHERE.
From the state of the room, you could tell it was part of a hovel in one of the seedier parts of the city. The furniture was threadbare, the walls were collapsing, and a dynasty of cockroaches fought terrible wars beneath the floorboards. The occupant of the room, a gnome with brass teeth and a network of terrible scars, was studying something of great importance.
The book stood open on the table. It was a heavy tome, more than five times the size of a regular book, and its pages were inked with bold script and elaborate illustrations. The turning of each leaf was accompanied by a dull crackle, and the gnome spent several moments smoothing the pages down so that the book would close properly. It had to close properly. Otherwise it wouldn’t fit in the gap in the wall, and some filthy thief would sneak in and steal it. Such was the norm in Dullitch.
Yowler Foul-Up Page 1
