Yowler Foul-Up

by David Lee Stone

  “But the Yowlers put him in power!”

  “They had to! He was your only relative. The main order won’t get rid of him because he is of the blood. That’s when the group came up with this idea of breakin’ away from the others ’n’ turnin’ everyone to stone. S’posed to bring back Yowler, it was. Ha! They must’ve been mad, believin’ all that rubbish. …”

  “Yes,” said Modeset thoughtfully. “Religion has a lot to answer for.”

  “It’s not just that, Lord Modeset. Nobody likes Viscount Curfew. He’s a spiteful man. Lopsalm thought the cult could make a difference, put him in his place.”

  “By turning the population to stone?”

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time; Lopsalm and the Lark made it all seem so … noble. I never meant to hurt anyone.”

  “No, people like you seldom do. So, basically, Lopsalm and the Lark cooked this whole mess up between them, and you and your pathetic cohorts were merely pawns in their little game?”

  Moors considered the question.

  “Lopsalm’s crazy,” he said eventually. “I truly believe that. But the Lark, she knew what she was doing. I reckon she’d been planning to pull off something big for years. Fate probably brought the two of ’em together.”

  “Hmm.”

  Modeset stepped back.

  “The people of Plunge will want an explanation,” he said. “I’m sure that you’ll be more than happy to provide them with one, after you’ve cleared up what little remains of your beloved mistress.”

  He licked his lips, turned, and headed off down the spiral staircase.

  “And let this be a lesson to you,” he called back. “Cults have a tendency to be manipulative and dangerous; so next time you want friends, try joining something sensible … like church.”

  FIFTY-SIX

  REANIMATING THE PEOPLE OF Plunge turned out to be a tough (and largely thankless) task. Most of them had little or no idea of what had happened, and therefore, upon regaining consciousness, quickly came to the inevitable conclusion that somebody had broken into their homes to point a lizard away from them. It was hard to fathom, and resentment was rife. Eventually, the mayor would explain at great length just how much in Modeset’s debt they all were but, for the time being, chaos reigned.

  Jareth Obegarde was carried to a plinth on the edge of the village, where a small service was performed. The wound in his chest had closed, and his eyelids twitched several times, but nobody seemed to notice.

  The service itself was nothing to write home about, especially since the Plunge priesthood had only a vague notion of what a loftwing was. Instead, they resorted to the more usual speeches full of useful phrases like “Rest in peace,” “Take it easy,” and “Don’t get up for the milkman.”

  Modeset was the only mourner who cried, although Pegrand wasn’t entirely sure that it wasn’t due to the bite of the wind.

  As the small group made their way back down to the village, they were informed that a raven had arrived, carrying an important message from Dullitch.

  Modeset read it through carefully and smiled.

  “Those wishing to be teleported back to the city by the all-powerful hand of the grand Wrickshaw Muldoon must stand in the town square at noon tomorrow. The city will pay a small recompense for anyone who quickly forgets the use of magic involved in this procedure.”

  “He must be quite the ticket, that wizard,” Pegrand said, taking the note when Modeset proffered it to him.

  “Are you serious, man? You’ve seen him—”

  “Yes, milord, but he did get us all out here in one piece … mostly. Besides, look, he’s got letters after his name: G.O.F. What’s that, Grand Order of—”

  “It probably stands for Geriatric Old Fool. Now, do get a move on. We need to find somewhere to stay tonight.”

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  THE FOLLOWING EVENING, MODESET released a giant raven from the highest window of Plunge Keep. On reflection, he could’ve sent the note back with Jimmy, but teleportation spells were dicey at the best of times and he couldn’t risk this note going astray.

  “Nice of Baron Herpes to let us stay here, milord,” said Pegrand, straightening his jerkin in the chamber’s angular mirror.

  “It’s Herps, Pegrand. Baron H-e-r-p-s. And we did save his subjects from being turned to stone.”

  “Well, actually, milord—”

  “Yes, okay, we didn’t. Satisfied? But at the very least, we turned them from stone back into flesh. Surely that deserves food, board, and lodging for a couple of days. Besides, this was once part of my land; that counts for something, doesn’t it?”

  “Of course, of course. So, what was the raven’s message about?”

  “A message to Viscount Curfew telling him about the Lark, her group, and the conclusion of this unholy mess.”

  Pegrand nodded.

  “Where’s Flicka?” he asked, looking around.

  “She teleported back to Dullitch with Jimmy,” Modeset said. “We’re walking; it’s safer, and besides, I’ve decided that we need the exercise. We should get to the border by noon.”

  It took a few minutes for Modeset’s meaning to dawn on Pegrand. When it did, the result wasn’t pleasant.

  “We’re going home, milord?” he exclaimed. “B-back to Fogrise?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think you’ll get the kingdom back?”

  “Not without a fight, old friend, not without a fight. I was thinking that perhaps we might whip the peasants into a frenzy. Do you think they’re the right sort for a revolt?”

  “Dunno, milord. They’re certainly revolting.”

  Modeset patted his manservant companionably on the back. “That’s what I like about you, Pegrand. Your inimitable sense of humor. Did you manage to return the saber to the museum?” he asked.

  “Yes, milord.”

  “And you apologized for the mess?”

  “Yes, milord.”

  “And, of course, you helped clean up?”

  “Absolutely, milord. I worked so fast, they couldn’t see me for dust.”

  “Hmm … I’m sure. Then we’re almost ready to leave. I’m going to thank Baron Herps for his hospitality. Do get a move on, won’t you?”

  Pegrand waited until the sound of the duke’s footsteps had dissipated, and raised a defiant middle finger.

  Duke Modeset, crossing the boundary between Fogrise and Plunge, looked out across a hundred acres of swampland.

  “Home is where the heart is, Pegrand,” he said. “A pity we have to go back to Fogrise, instead.”

  The manservant gave the question due consideration, and shrugged. He’d spent most of his life in the dreary little kingdom and harbored no particular desire to return there.

  “Can’t we just skirt round it, milord? I’m sure you’d get a hero’s welcome in Dullitch.”

  Modeset looked incredulous. “The people of Dullitch are fickle,” he exclaimed. “Besides, Curfew will invariably hush up any talk of our escapades. In fact, I doubt very much if the people of Dullitch will ever know just how close to oblivion they were; Curfew certainly won’t risk any wrath from the Yowlers. All that aside, I can’t sit by and watch someone else run my city. It’s not my way. I’d rather return to my beloved ancestral home at Fogrise.”

  “You said you hated it, milord.”

  “Well, yes … but—”

  “You said you’d gladly sit back and watch it fall into the swamp.”

  “Enough!”

  Modeset’s expression could’ve melted lead. Pegrand saw a fire in the duke’s eyes that he hadn’t glimpsed since the early days, when the kingdom still had a decent wall.

  “We shall rebuild it,” Modeset said, his voice determined. “Bigger, greater, and grander than ever it was!”

  “Won’t be too difficult, milord,” said the manservant, on reflection. “Hut with a turret should do it.”

  “Did I already mention how much I hate you, Pegrand?”

  “Frequently, milord. You
old joker, you.”

  Modeset looked up toward the heavens, and wondered if the gods were laughing.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  THE THRONE ROOM AT Dullitch Palace was enjoying the kind of silence that was merely a precursor to the inevitable din of someone losing their temper.

  Viscount Curfew shuffled through a mountain of paperwork, gritted his teeth, and then threw the whole pile into the air. As pieces of tattered parchment drifted to the ground all around him, he snatched two at random and tried to read both at the same time.

  “None of this makes sense,” he groaned, glaring across the desk at Master Sorrow, who sat beside Jimmy Quickstint. “I have different accounts of the same situation, and a letter from Modeset flatly contradicting everything else. You do realize that I’m going to have to employ somebody specifically to unravel all this mess, don’t you?”

  “Sorry about that, sir,” said Sorrow. “But it’s a tricky situation. This is a very intricate case and these reports appear to have come at it from different angles.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” agreed Curfew, scratching his fingernails over the rough wooden surface of his desk. “The investigator, Obegarde, wasn’t it? He caught the gnome?”

  Sorrow nodded. “Yes, Excellency.”

  “The gnome who carried out at least one murder on the orders of a man called Lopsalm, who you—Jimmy—witnessed commit suicide yesterday evening up at the cathedral.”

  The gravedigger, who’d managed to shrug off his usual gawp in the presence of royalty, attempted to nod but only managed a small cough.

  “And according to one of these unfathomable statements,” the viscount continued, “Lopsalm was in league with a young lady who, it now seems obvious, was referred to as Lauris or the Lark. Correct?”

  “Yes, sir,” confirmed Sorrow. “I read that somewhere in there, too.”

  “Good; it would appear my delightful cousin has dealt with her.” He spent a few moments reorganizing the remaining papers on the desk before turning his attention back to the group.

  “Let’s see … Edwy, another member of this despicable order, and a man called Moors, are being brought up from Plunge for questioning? And we’ve also obtained a book from the gnome’s hovel on Rump Lane. That, Mister Sorrow, would appear to be all she wrote.”

  “She, sir? There’s a third witness?”

  “An expression, Sorrow. Do not dwell on it.”

  “Yes, sir. No, sir. Won’t, sir.”

  “Good.”

  “Can Mr. Quickstint go now, sir?”

  Curfew nodded. “You can show him out, by all means. Just reward him and make sure he’s doesn’t leave town, so to speak. We may need his help to further document this matter.”

  “Yes, suh!” Sorrow stood to attention, saluted, and marched from the room without a second glance. After a few minutes he realized his mistake and returned to escort the witness away.

  Curfew rolled his eyes and prayed for the day when he wouldn’t have to deal with such glaring ignorance.

  FIFTY-NINE

  OUTSIDE THE PALACE, JIMMY Quickstint stood watching the moon. The gravedigger felt itchy with excitement; he’d certainly had an extraordinary week. However, the sight of his old boss leaving the Dog and Duck did a lot to bring him, crashing back to earth.

  “Evenin’, Mr., er, Coldwell,” he ventured, praying desperately that he’d remembered the old man’s name correctly.

  “Evenin’.”

  “Nice night, sir.”

  “Aye,” came the expected reply.

  “Busy up at the cemetery, I’ll bet?”

  “Aye.”

  “Got another assistant yet, have you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Lookin’ for one?”

  “Aye.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s any chance—”

  The old man flicked his flat cap with a grimy forefinger. “Aye.”

  “I’ll want better conditions, though.”

  “’s tha’ right?” The old man swung his shovel over one shoulder and raised a bushy eyebrow. “An’ what’d those be?”

  “Um … an extra crown an hour.”

  “Aye.”

  “More help when I’m digging.”

  “How d’you mean, like?”

  “Well, you could at least hold the lantern or something.”

  “Aye, ahright. That all?”

  Jimmy considered all his demands.

  “Yes,” he said finally. “Well, also, I’d like to know who’s sharing with my uncle.”

  SIXTY

  IT WAS EARLY EVENING in Plunge, and rain poured in torrents over the sleepy town. In the makeshift graveyard that surrounded a solitary chapel on the cliff top, a gravestone toppled backward, slamming into the grass with a cushioned thud. A few inches from the upturned base, a fist erupted through the turf, straightened into a hand, and felt around a bit. Then it disappeared.

  A voice from within said: “At least the sun’s not out; that’s something.”

  A few moments passed as the rain diminished into a fine mist.

  Then the ground imploded, grass and mud spewing into the grave as Obegarde frantically clawed his way out. The loftwing, bare-chested but still clad in his trademark raincoat, rolled onto his back and took a deep gulping breath while the fine rain soaked into his flesh.

  Nearby, a squirrel stopped assaulting a nut to watch him quizzically. Obegarde struggled up onto his elbows and grimaced when he saw the little creature observing him.

  At the other end of the graveyard, an old lady tending a tiny grave beside the gates had frozen to the spot with fear. As Obegarde made his way past, he smiled at her.

  “Nice day we’re having, ma’am. Looks like I’m the first one up. Well, see you around.”

  The old woman’s bottom lip quivered, and she forced herself to watch the stranger as he made his way down the road toward Plunge’s town square. After a time, she turned back to her husband’s grave.

  “Henry,” she said hopefully. “Do you know that man?”

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Illmoor Chronicles

  Prologue

  THE MEETING TOOK PLACE in the village of Shadewell; a sure sign that something untoward was afoot.

  Shadewell had a bad reputation, and not simply because it nestled beneath the western overhang of Shinbone Forest. The town, aside from being a haven for thieves and the more disreputable traders that frequented the southern shores, had played host to just about every major conspiracy in the history of Illmoor. In fact, no backstabbing murder plot was ever considered a threat until it could boast at least one high-level meeting in Shadewell. The villagers, who had a keen but necessarily detached interest in current affairs, occupied themselves during these anarchical gatherings by guessing who was going to be murdered next. Gold was seldom wagered on these guesses, though, because the process was so straightforward. All one needed to do in order to ascertain the presumed target was spot which great civic leader hadn’t been invited to the table.

  On this occasion, however, the villagers of Shadewell were left more than a little flummoxed; everyone who was anyone had turned up. Indeed, by lunchtime, all six permanent members of the Illmoorian Great Assembly had passed under the Shading Gate and into the village proper.

  Viscount Curfew was the first to arrive. The ruling lord of Dullitch had left his entourage at the stables and had, to the great appreciation of the crowd, made his way to the village hall by foot, his long, dark cloak billowing out behind him like a possessed shroud.

  Next to appear was Curfew’s cousin, Duke Modeset, a notorious figure throughout Illmoor since his banishment from Dullitch following the hideous rat catastrophe. Modeset, much to the chagrin of his cousin, had been awarded the elevated position of Assembly Chairman, effectively allowing him a five-fingered veto throughout the proceedings. Curfew had only a one-fingered veto at his disposal, but it probably wasn’t the sort he’d be allowed to use during a vote.

  After Modeset, came King Phew
of Phlegm, the richest member of the Great Assembly. He arrived in a golden carriage pulled by a pair of Chudderford Shires that were so incredibly intelligent, they’d waited until they’d been stabled before asking to use the toilet. Phew himself was a stout and sturdy man who attracted attention wherever he went, not merely due to his wealth, but because he walked while leaning backward: anyone who watched him was immediately put in mind of a limbo dancer, minus the bar.

  The next arrival struck a stark contrast. Baron Muttknuckles, the regularly bankrupt and consistently violent lord of Sneeze, rolled up his sleeves at the door, elbowed his way into the village hall, and practically committed murder when the butler tried to take his deerskin coat. Eventually, after several arguments with fellow lords, the baron allowed the still-antlered beast to be removed, and blind eyes were turned as a full set of stolen crockery fell from one of the pockets.

  Prince Blood, the premier of Legrash, arrived in a blaze of glory. Quite literally, in fact: his party had been attacked by Shinbone Footpads, who’d beaten up the prince’s footmen and promptly set the royal carriage afire. As he arrived, several of his aides were trying to put him out and were beating him frantically about the head with a wet blanket, much to his apparent embarrassment.

  Last to enter the village was the Earl of Visceral, the gaunt and angular primate of Spittle, who arrived complete with two skeletal bodyguards and, much to the amazement of the villagers, proceeded to dismantle them both and pack them away neatly in a small wooden suitcase before continuing to the hall.

  Inside, the atmosphere was less than pleasant. Underneath a wide banner commemorating continental peace and the All-Cities Charter of 1014, several cries of “don’t you threaten me” were quickly followed by a suggestion from Muttknuckles that Phew’s incredibly muscular left arm had only become incredibly muscular since his wife had run off with her jester. Amid the tumult, Duke Modeset was in huddled conversation with Visceral, with whom he shared a great deal of common ground; partly because they had attended the same classes at Crestwell School, but mainly because he’d borrowed from the earl’s land army in order to wrench the town of Fogrise back from a ferocious group of cardsharps.