Novelette: Curse of The Kingslayer (2015)
This story was originally entitled ‘The Kazbrack Kingslayer’ and published in the collection of the same name in 2022. It was reprinted in ‘Curse of the Kingslayer’ (again, as the title story) in the collection you now see on the left. The collection is available from Amazon in paperback, hardback and ebook form - or the stories are available for members on this site.
‘How long has the throne been empty?’
Gordo Goldeaxe cast a glance around him and tried to fix an accusatory stare on the nearest sentry.
‘Just over a week, Sir,’ said the man in question, a trembling youth who had been on active duty for less than half that time. ‘King Teethgrit told us you were only to be summoned and appointed to lead us in the event of his being declared absent for more than three days.
‘But you waited seven?’ Gordo frowned and raised an eyebrow. ‘Why was that, exactly?’
The guard looked around at his cohorts, but found no signs of support so ploughed on: ‘Well, King Teethgrit’s been gone for a week, Sir: that much is true. The thing is, er, Captain Teethgrit’s only been gone for three days.’
Gordo rolled his eyes and thought: I knew this was going to happen.
It was very difficult to understand the mentality of the people of Kazbrack. Groan had taken the island by force, leading a tribe of barbarians and mercenaries who had laid siege to the castle and had basically overthrown a weak, tired bunch of undisciplined soldiers to snatch the throne from an ageing king. However, once he’d been safely ensconced at the top of the chain, Groan had done what he always did: he’d become bored and wandered off in search of new adventures, leaving behind a bunch of defeated islanders and an empty chair for them all to gather around in small resentful groups at the weekends.
It wasn’t good enough.
To this end, Gordo had chased down his lifelong friend and forced him to see the sense in appointing his slightly less dim-witted brother to run the place in his absence. Gape might have been identical to Groan in almost every respect, but he was a lot more solidly predictable when it came to erratic behaviour, and his vices basically extended to wine, women and the occasional charm bracelet. Now, there would be a backup whenever Groan dashed off on one of his jaunts: now, there would be a leader in reserve: a sense of stability for the poor islanders and their dwindling supply of trade, fruit and fresh fish.
Except, now they were both gone….and, this time, they’d given the situation enough thought to leave behind a command to appoint him to Captain the guards.
This situation worried him: it worried him intensely.
Rubbing his eyes with the rough balls of his fingers, Gordo thought back to the last time he and the brothers had spent any length of time together. The memory hit him like a sack full of granite.
*
‘Cut its head off!’
‘Which one?’
‘Anyone! Just hack at- ‘
‘I did! It grew another one an’ bit me axe in half!’
The trio tore out of the caves at a flat run, making for the edge of the Dread Cliffs with an audible equivalent of twenty roaring lions thundering up behind them.
‘Groan! What the hell is it?’
‘I dunno: thought it might be a dragon, but I ain’t never seen no dragon with ten ‘eads.’
‘It’s Gape’s fault: he woke the bloody thing up!’
‘Yeah, well, he didn’t know it was one o’ them funny temples.’
‘Funny? The sign on the door said DANGER OF DEATH: DO NOT OPEN!’
‘I told ‘im it was a false alarm.’
‘Danger of Death is a bit specific for a false alarm, Groan! If it was a false alarm, they’d have gone for something ordinary like ‘Do Not Open.’
Groan shook his head as he ran. ‘Nah: we’d ‘ave walked away from a sign like that.’
Gordo practically stopped dead, teetering on the edge of the cliffs.
‘Are you two NUTS? You’d walk away from ‘Do Not Open’, but you kick down a door with ‘Danger of Death’ on it? What’s wrong with you?’
‘Nothin’ wrong with me, mate: I reckon you’ve gone a bit soft.’
Gordo spat out a wad of phlegm as his heart pounded in his chest.
‘You don’t break a magical seal, Groan: every idiot with a sword knows that! There were SIX pentagrams over the archway.’
‘Yeah, but I reckon-’
‘No time; no time! Here it comes! HERE IT COMES!’
Gordo dived over the edge of the cliff mere seconds before the gargantuan beast cannoned across the ground where the trio of mercenaries had been standing. He clung frantically to a solitary Gulpweed branch, looking up just in time to see the brothers Teethgrit snatched up by two of the creature’s hideous neck stems and held out over the chasm like a pair of rag dolls.
The beast leapt into the air, supported by a dozen pairs of minute, madly flapping wings that didn’t seem up to the job of keeping it airborne.
Gape rallied first, wriggling from the snaking grip of the beast and plunging into the abyss below, screaming for his enchanted swords as he fell. Despite the frantic cries of the barbarian, Gordo found himself slightly relieved when the long-haired oaf disappeared into the swirling mists that formed around the base of the chasm: he knew Gape would survive because he was almost as lucky as he was stupid.
Groan had also managed to wrestle free, but wasn’t making any attempt to reach his own (still sheathed) weapon. Instead, he was reeling back for what looked to all intents and purposes like a punch. Sure enough, when the Gargant drew the barbarian into his gaping maw, Groan raged forth with a blow that caused a fountain of blood – and several teeth – to explode from the fourth mouth in a sort of mixed cascade.
‘Have a bit o’ that!’ Groan boomed, twisting left to avoid the third head, which had come darting in like a cobra to catch him unawares. It missed, but the fifth head shot up at the same time and sank two elongated fangs into the barbarian’s broad shoulders. They punctured Groan’s skin for no more than a second, but must have injected a hefty amount of poison as the big warrior immediately drooped and hung limp in the grasp of the gargant.
Gordo scrambled over the top of the cliff, rolling aside just in time to avoid Gape’s two swords as they went arcing over his head before plunging into the void below.
The gargant screamed out a deafening war cry and suddenly swooped forward at the dwarf, still clutching the lifeless form of Groan Teethgrit in its curled appendage.
Gordo skidded to a halt, turned on his heels and unhooked his battleaxe from the strap on his back. Suspecting that he might be close to madness, he whirled the axe experimentally and uttered a war cry of his own.
Either the gargant didn’t notice the gesture, or found it so insignificant that it wasn’t quite worthy of a change in pace.
It smashed into the dwarf and sent him flying into the wall of the cave like a rogue dart.
For years, Gordo had suspected that warriors in full plate armour who hit hard surfaces and subsequently claimed a variety of injuries were probably egging the pudding a bit.
In fact, it turned out that hitting anything at speed – even when garbed in a layer of the iron stuff – was going to leave a mark.
Possibly the sort of mark you covered with a gravestone.
Gordo’s eyes filled with blood, and he started to lose consciousness...
...just as Gape came running along the cliff top path, waving his two enchanted swords and shouting: ‘Bastard? Bastard!’
The dwarf’s vision blurred, and his world became windswept and interesting.
There was so much...blood.
*
When he awoke, Gordo found himself staring up at the mildly concerned face of Gape Teethgrit. The barbarian’s frown quickly developed into a wide smile.
‘He’s not dead!’ came the triumphant shout. ‘You owe me FIVE gold!’
Groan’s moon-face suddenly blocked the dwarf’s field of vision.
‘I think he was dead for a bit: you can ‘ave two gold, but if he pegs it on the way back to Legrash, I want ‘em both back.’
Gordo strained to move. ‘What an overwhelming feeling of love,’ he muttered, rolling over and scrambling onto his feet.
‘Need your teeth?’ Gape enquired. ‘Groan found a few of them over by the wall.’
Gordo held out a palm and watched as the pathetic congregation of broken molars were handed back.
‘Er, thanks.’
‘Don’t dwell on it, little buddy: sorry I couldn’t get the big one out.’
Gordo tried to fit some of the teeth back into his mouth.
‘Ow id you ‘ill it?’ he gummed.
‘The gargant? Groan woke up and ripped a hole in its stomach: turns out it can’t re-grow that.’
Groan flexed his hand a few times.
‘Bad poison, mind. Me ‘and feels like a foot.’
‘And I lost my swords,’ Gape added, his head hanging in shame. ‘I lost one in the chasm, and I shattered the other trying to break the jaw on that big bull-headed neck at the back of the gargant.’
He pointed across the promontory at the enormous corpse with its multitude of necks spread over the edge of the cliff.
Gordo gawped at the younger barbarian and frowned. ‘I thought you couldn’t lose those swords: I thought they were enchanted?’
Gape looked at his remaining, broken blade and shrugged. ‘Well, this one’s certainly had it. The other one: who knows? I called it several times, and it never came back. I guess I could try again?’
He mooched over to the edge of the cliffs and bellowed.
‘Vengeance? Vengeance!’
When nothing happened, he idled sadly back to the group.
‘Listen-‘ Gordo began. He took a long time to continue, but both barbarians waited for him to speak as it was obvious that the little dwarf was wrestling with a problem and that he actually had something important to say.
‘We need to face some hard facts: we’re getting too old for this.’
Groan and Gape shared a baffled glance.
‘What you talkin’ about? We ripped it apart.’
‘Yes, but you got poisoned, I lost a mouthful of teeth, and Gape broke an enchanted sword. Considering that we used to walk away from these temple runs without a scratch, I’d say that – on balance – there’s a chance we might be losing our edge.’
‘You reckon?’ Gape looked down at his remaining sword and shrugged. ‘I guess you could be right...but I was thinking that I might keep going until this one breaks.’
‘Yeah,’ Groan added. ‘I’m a keep goin’ ‘till I lose a fight.’
The dwarf let out an exasperated sigh.
‘Groan, let me tell you something: the first time you lose a fight is going to be too late to think about retiring.’
He staggered a little as he reached down to pick up his battleaxe. ‘That’s it,’ he said, walking away. ‘I’ve loved every minute of it...but I’m too old, now. I’m done.’
Gape and Groan watched as the dwarf waddled around the expansive mass of the gargant and disappeared along the cliff top path towards the distant bridge.
Groan turned to Gape, and shrugged. ‘Don’ worry. I’ve known Gordo longer ‘an you ‘ave: ‘e’ll be back in two days: free at a push.’
Gape nodded...
...but, for once, Groan was wrong.
*
Looking back on the many years he’d spent working as a mercenary for hire with Groan and Gape Teethgrit, Gordo reflected that the brothers seldom gave a second thought to anything or anyone...so why this time? Why arrange for Gordo to come and take command of an entire kingdom? Where the hell were they?
His mind reeling, Gordo suddenly rounded on the fragile young man who had been on the receiving end of his questions.
‘You!’ the dwarf snapped. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Milifilofungarni, Sir!’
‘What?’
‘Milifilo-‘
‘Can I call you Murphy?’
‘Sir? Not really, Sir!’
‘Why?’
‘It’s not my name, Sir!’
‘Are you going to be a problem, Murphy?’
‘No, Sir!’
‘Do you have a rank?’
‘Corporal of The Kazbrack Last Infantry, Sir!’
Gordo nodded. ‘Well, congratulations are in order, Corporal: you’re hereby promoted to Captain, First Class. Now, go and find me the fastest ship in your fleet, and then arrange for a merchant trader to get me a good deal on a horse once we reach the mainland.’
‘But, Sir-‘
‘No ifs or buts. The kingdom is yours, Murphy: I’m going to find the King.’
*
The following day, Gordo Goldeaxe sat on a rocky promontory overlooking a wide valley and wondered if he’d seen his oldest friend for the last time.
It couldn’t really be denied that Groan Teethgrit had always been possessed of a death-wish: the only difference being that when he was younger, there were precious few warriors in the various kingdoms of Illmoor who would have had the strength or the patience to grant it for him. Groan Teethgrit, the man, the king, the legend: slayer of dragons, destroyer of dark magic, conqueror of a thousand armies and sword for hire (mornings only). Any potential opponent who wasn’t put off by the bald, hulking brute and his sackful of biceps soon thought twice when noting that the man was often accompanied by his equally well-oiled, long-haired brother: he of the two enchanted swords and an innate ability to bend prison bars simply by leaning on them.
Of course, times were changing….and, one by one, the legends were falling to the blade.
Gordo tried not to think about this as he raced around the landscape on a horse that moved at such a pace that the dwarf regularly found himself glancing over his shoulder to make sure it didn’t know something he didn’t know.
Covering an incredible amount of ground, Gordo quickly eliminated from his enquiries the Mountains of Mavokhan, the Desperate Wastes, the inaccurately named Caverns of Kindness and even the Vaulted Towers of the Ancient Undying Ones. In fact, putting aside an unexpected ambush from a solitary wightwraith on the Plains of Little Mercy, the entire trip was a poorly rewarded waste of time and effort.
In fact, Gordo was left with no choice other than to do the one thing he’d promised himself several years earlier that he would never, ever do. There was nothing else for it.
He would have to try Wiggle the Rat.
*
It lived beneath a tavern in the darkest, most heinous part of Dullitch: a network of cold, narrow streets that even the goblins avoided. Nobody knew the exact arrangement it had with the landlord, but it was always in residence and never turned away a client with a solid-gold piece to spend. The scroll over the door to the basement promised that it would answer any question with its incredible powers and boasted that it had been proved right an astonishing two times in every sixty-four sittings.
Gordo looked around the basement and shuddered. He didn’t like the thing, partly because of its disgusting methods of divination but mostly because the several occasions during his life in which he’d been closest to death had all happened due to information he’d received in this very room.
It arrived with little fanfare, hobbling from the shadows in a cloak at least two sizes too big for it. There was a prehensile tail sticking out of the back of the cloak, a hint of a claw protruding from one sleeve and at least three-quarters of a tangled, sore-pocked snout sniffing a few inches proud of the hood.
It sat down at the large circular table that had hosted every reading since the whole enterprise began back at the end of the Tri-age, and motioned for Gordo to join it. While it was waiting, it produced a dead, half-rotted rat from the folds of its cloak and slapped the thing onto the tabletop.
The dwarf sat down, somewhat reluctantly. A grunt from the thing signalled that some remuneration was expected, so Gordo deposited a single gold piece on his side of the table. There was a brief pause before the thing at the far end placed two claws onto the wooden surface, turning the entire table around on its axis.
Gordo tried to rein in his disgust as the rotting rat arrived in front of him. Naturally, his gold piece had vanished by the time he returned his attention to the thing sitting opposite.
He waited for a second, and then prompted: ‘This is where I ask my question, right?’
The thing gave a quick nod and folded its arms.
‘Right. I’m looking for my friend, Groan – that is King – Groan Teethgrit. He disappeared from Kazbrack Castle a few days ago.’
‘Very well,’ said a remarkably high and well-educated voice.
Gordo started: he’d heard the thing speak before, but its tone never failed to surprise him.
‘Would you mind doing the honours?’ it went on, and when Gordo made no attempt to move, it continued: ‘Please wiggle the rat.’
‘Sorry?’
‘You know how it works here, I’m sure. Please give what’s left of the rat a bit of a wiggle, would you?’
Gordo looked down at the remains of the rodent and, closing his eyes, gripped the tail end and shook it a bit.
‘Jolly good. I’ll just move the table around, and we’ll have a quick look, shall we?’
The table rattled around a second time, carrying the rat corpse back to its owner.
‘I’ve searched high and low,’ Gordo admitted. ‘The Mountains of Mavokhan, the Desperate Wastes, the Caverns of Kindness, the Vaulted Towers of the Ancient Undying Ones and the Plains of Little Mer-’
‘Have you tried his mother’s house?’
Gordo grimaced. ‘What?’ he snapped. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. The King of Kazbrack doesn’t just go home to stay with his mum. Are you mental? He and Gape are off fighting something ridiculous: probably a bloody cave ogre or some giant demonic slug that nobody in their right mind could handle by themselves.’
‘So you have or you haven’t tried his mother’s house?’
‘NO! Of course I bloody haven’t!’
The thing drew its hood closer to the desiccated rat and shrugged.
‘Well, that’s where he is,’ it said.
*
The cottage stood on a hill overlooking a broad spread of woodland and a small village just north of Legrash. As Gordo approached, he could see smoke curling from the chimney, a cart parked on the narrow road and an enormous mound of dirt half the height of the cottage itself at the bottom of the front garden.
Gordo reined in his horse, rubbed his eyes and blinked in the sunlight. However, when he shook himself out of his reverie, the enormous mound of dirt was still there. Moreover, a sudden spray of earth indicated that another shovelful was being added to the pile.
Gordo dismounted, readied his battleaxe (just in case) and waddled up the hill. It didn’t take long to spot Gape, as the six-foot-eight-inch monster was walking backwards and forwards with a wheelbarrow containing what looked like pieces of antique furniture. Groan, on the other hand, was nowhere to be seen.
It was only when the dwarf walked around the back of the mound that he saw the hole: it was a large, rectangular cavity roughly the size of a small lagoon. Groan Teethgrit was at the bottom of it, pushing an elderly looking wardrobe against one of the dirt walls.
Looking down on the scene with no small amount of amazement, Gordo quickly realised that the furniture in the hole had been arranged to resemble a living room of some sort.
‘Groan?’ he called out. ‘What’s going on?’
The big barbarian looked up, and a smile illuminated his features. It didn’t last long, but Gordo always felt that any emotional response from Groan was a positive result.
‘Gordo Goldaxe!’ came a sudden cry of recognition from Gape, as he crashed down the pit’s singular dirt ramp with his hefty burden. ‘What are you doing here? Don’t you have a kingdom to run?’
Gordo gritted his teeth, but managed a humourless smile before focusing a meaningful glare at his oldest friend.
‘GROAN – WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TWO DOING? I’ve been searching the land for a fortnight trying to find you!’
The mountainous man stalked up the makeshift path and came to stand before him. A number of expressions seemed to fight for control of Groan’s enormous face, but in the end it was a deep look of sadness that won.
‘Mum died,’ he said.
It was a flat statement, but one that had an incredible impact on Gordo. It felt as if he’d been hit with a rock.
Despite the fact that they’d journeyed together for more than two decades, Gordo had never met Groan’s mother. In fact, he’d always assumed both his parents were dead: you didn’t meet many barbarian mercenaries who popped home for the weekend. It was usually the classic story of abandoned villages, devastated tribes and terrible bloodshed.
‘Groan,’ he managed, trying to keep his voice from shaking. ‘I-I’m so sorry.’
The barbarian sniffed and looked at his feet. ‘Fanks.’
‘Do you need any help or anything? I mean, if there’s something, well, you know. I’m just a bit shocked. You never really talked about your mum. Is, er, is Gape okay?’
‘Don’t fink so: keeps talkin’ to ‘imself. I reckon he’s gone a bit funny in the ‘ead, again.’
They both turned to watch the other barbarian, who was reclaiming chairs from the wheelbarrow and positioning them around the pit, a bemused but slightly manic expression on his face.
‘I came here when mum got sick, ‘cause Gape di’nt wanna see ‘er all messed up, but she made me sen’ for ‘im an’ spoke to ‘im on ‘is own fer a bit. I reckon she said somethin’ bad to ‘im.’
Gordo shook his head, sadly.
‘What’s going on here? It looks like you’re making a house UNDER THE GROUND.’
‘It’s fer mum. She’s over there, rolled up in tha’ blanket. We’re goin’ to put ‘er in the armchair by the wardrobe. It’s wha’ she would ‘ave wanted.’
Gordo boggled at him before peering into the hole, screwing up his face against the intruding sunlight and trying not to look at the blanket next to the edge of the pit. ‘That’s lovely, Groan: it really is, but – how can I put this - what makes you think that your mum wanted you to bury her with all her furniture in a hole at the bottom of the garden?’
Groan reached into his belt pouch and pulled out a roll of parchment, which he handed to Gordo. It read:
Groan,
Bury me with all me furniture in a hole at the bottom of the garden, and none of your cheek.
Mum
‘That’s very forward thinking of her,’ Gordo muttered, handing back the scroll.
‘Yeah.’ Groan sniffed and seemed to be trying to find the right words. ‘Our mum was a sort o’ witch.’
Gordo nodded. ‘I thought the cottage looked a bit gingerbready. You know something? I reckon that if I chip in and help you two with the digging, we can all be back in Kazbrack by-‘
‘NO.’
The word was like a clap of thunder, and Groan’s face had set into a terrible rictus.
‘But-‘
‘We can’t go nowhere ‘til we find Mungus.’
‘Mungus? She had a familiar?’
‘Yeah: kinda.’
‘What is it: a cat?’
Groan seemed to deflate a little.
‘No,’ he said. ‘S’not a cat.’
‘What is it, then? A rabbit? A fox?’
‘It’s our dad.’
Gordo spun around to see Gape standing just behind them, his face strangely illuminated.
‘Your mum was a witch and she kept your dad as her familiar? That must have been some relationship...’
‘It was the only way she could control him,’ Gape said, with a ridiculously happy shrug. ‘You see, Dad liked to bite things, and he sort of liked it when they bit him back. He went into the Rintintetly Woods and came back with Lycanthropy-‘
‘Tha’s where you changes into a wolf,’ Groan added helpfully.’
‘-and then, just when she got that horrible business under control, he contracted Baaganthropy-‘
‘-tha’s where you changes into a sheep-‘
‘-and, finally, when she’d practically grown sick of the sight of him, he went and got himself the worst possible dose of Gruffanthropy.’
Groan said nothing, so Gordo had to stare at the sky for a few seconds to work out the answer.
‘Your dad’s a goat,’ he said, eventually.
‘Not jus’ a goat,’ Groan muttered. ‘A Goatwere.’
‘You mean a weregoat?’
‘No.’ Gape shook his head, vehemently. ‘There’s a huge difference. A weregoat is a human who changes into goat. A Goatwere is a goat that changes into a man.’
‘Is that even a thing?’
‘It totally is,’ Gape confirmed. ‘And there’s no point sugar-coating it: he’s psychopathically evil and practically insane.’
Gordo frowned with the effort of even imagining such a thing.
‘How is it worse that he’s a goat that changes into a man?’
‘It’s worse,’ Gape said, very deliberately. ‘Because he can hide in a field of perfectly ordinary goats, and because, when he changes back, our dad is twice the size of both of us.’
‘Okay, that’s...er...hard to believe, but – even so – why would you have reason to fear your own father?’
Groan and Gape shared a glance.
Then they led Gordo away from the pit, through the little cottage and down a rickety flight of stone steps into a sort of sub cellar at the back of the building.
The cellar contained a heap of smashed bookcases, a mountain of broken crockery and a cow lying dead with bulging eyes and a huge gaping wound in its stomach. On the wall at the back of the room was a message that Gordo immediately knew was daubed in the cow’s blood:
Groan Teethgrit! On this day, I am finally free of your mother’s terrible magic. I’ve been a prisoner, a victim, a humiliated servant. Now, see me for what I am: a conqueror. In years to come, they shall call me The Kazbrack Kingslayer, for no ignorant son of mine will sit on a better seat than his old man. I’ll come for you when you least expect it. Dad.’
Gordo read the message through twice before shaking his head.
‘What’s that old saying?’ he muttered. ‘Parents: you can’t live with ‘em, and you can’t bury one in a hole in the garden without the other one hunting you down in the form of an evil goat.’
He folded his arms and took a deep breath.
‘Right. Let’s sort this bloody mess out, shall we?’
*
The ageing schooner seemed to just sit on the water and float without any great leaning in a particular direction, but the skipper – a gnarly octogenarian – appeared to be more than happy with their progress.
‘Kazbrack ahead!’ he boasted, underlining the lie by pointing left.
Gordo Goldaxe rolled his eyes.
‘Maybe if we float round the island enough times, the tide will take us in.’
‘Piss off, dwarf.’
Gordo felt his axe hand begin to itch, but he was determined not to rise to the old seadog’s bait: he knew the man was spoiling for a rumble, and he didn’t have the first idea what he’d do with the old git’s six wives if he suddenly lost his temper and tipped him overboard. Unfortunately, he’d brought all six along for the ride: even the one who looked like she should be cocking a leg up a tree in the woods.
Feeling his muscles tense, he smiled humourlessly at the insult. Then he turned and moved swiftly to the stern, where Gape Teethgrit was bent over the side of the schooner, trying very successfully to empty the contents of his stomach into the drink.
‘Why are we goin’ back?’ Groan boomed, staring at the distant land mass. ‘I’m dog sick o’ tha’ place.’
Gordo shook his head in disbelief.
‘It’s your kingdom, Groan. You can’t overthrow an entire race, destroy a wicked sorcerer, claim a throne and then bugger off somewhere else. You have a responsibility to these people. I know you don’t really understand that word, but a fact’s a fact.’
‘But Mungus-‘
‘Your dad wants to be known as ‘The Kazbrack Kingslayer’. In order to do that, he has to come here and beat you. Now, call me optimistic, but I’ve seen you take on giants, ogres, trolls and dragons: somehow, I can’t see a demented goat laying claim to the greatest scalp in Illmoor. Besides, it’s not going to happen on my watch: I’d never live it down.’
‘So what’s the plan?’ said Gape, staring up at them mawkishly between heaves. The big barbarian was still acting decidedly strange, and Gordo knew he would have to get to the bottom of the situation sooner rather than later.
‘The plan is simple. We make a big entrance, confidence is restored to the kingdom, and everything is back to normal. Then we move against Mungus.’
‘How?’
‘Well, we’re not going to kill every goat on the island: the people of Kazbrack have enough reason to despise Groan, I don’t think taking away more food and produce is going to improve the situation. I do suggest, however, that we do some scouting: you know, strike out into the fields. Kazbrack must have fields, surely?’
Groan shrugged, but Gape wiped his mouth and nodded.
‘It has a field,’ he admitted.
‘Just one? How do you keep all the animals apart?’
‘We don’t. They all just sort of mix in together. Pigs, sheep, goats, chickens: it’s pretty shocking to watch, actually. It looks like one big melting pot.’
‘Whose bright idea was that?’
‘The King’s.’
They both turned to look at Groan, who was staring at the sky with a look of molten obliviousness on his mammoth face.
It was going to be an interesting day.
*
The Fabulous Return of the King was a non-event, largely because the oft-conquered peoples of Kazbrack still looked on their recently absent monarch as yet another outlandish usurper brought by the gods to punish them for their lack of spiritual dedication.
At least, Gordo reflected as they rode through the main village, nobody was throwing rotten apples.
However, it had to be said that the guards were positively thrilled to see Groan. Evidently, being in close proximity to a seat of such vulnerable responsibility was enough to cast a pall of terror over the draughty halls in the keep. On the other hand, their relief soon turned to dismay when Gordo issued the restored King’s first commands to his enforcers.
‘You want us to do what?’ said the upwardly mobile Captain Murphy, conscious of the fact that several of his juniors were standing in the room and were probably expecting a moderate display of leadership.
Never one to make things easy for a man trying to do an irritating and largely thankless job, Gordo Goldeaxe put his head on one side and enquired:
‘Is there a problem?’
‘Well, no...it’s no problem. That is, whatever His Majesty wishes will of course come swiftly to pass. It’s just that-‘
‘Spit it out.’
‘Well, building an enclosure for seventy-five goats and then detailing our very best and brightest to watch them just seems a bit of a waste of resources when there are vital-‘
‘NOW YOU LISTEN TO ME,’ Gordo puffed himself up to his full height, which brought him just above eye level with the Captain’s groin. ‘The King wants these goats treated as enemies of the island state of Kazbrack and vile, detested prisoners of the worst order. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, but-‘
‘They will be fed and watered in accordance with the Great War Treatise signed at the end of the Dual Age by The Twelve Lords, and given shelter as appropriate to their species. Other than that, I want this all handled as if we’re dealing with a thirty-foot dragon ogre.’
‘Yes, SIR!’
‘Very good. You may go.’
Captain Murphy spun on his heel and got halfway to the door before Gordo spoke again.
‘Oh, and Captain?’
‘Sir?’
‘This wouldn’t have been necessary if the goatherds had known how many goats there were BEFORE the King returned. When I say everyone is in terrible danger, I’m really not exaggerating.’
The Captain saluted smartly and left the throne room. Gordo made a face at his back.
*
The scroll said: WATCH THE GOATS.
Third Sentry Vortasiniaformay, the most decorated guard in the Kazbrack Last Infantry, unfurled it to see if there was anything else on the order sheet. The rest of the document was blank aside from three extra words scrawled across the bottom of the page: REALLY WATCH THEM.
Vortasiniaformay looked down at the goats milling around the hastily constructed enclosure. Some were clearly visible in the moonlight, but most were lying near the edge of the enclosure or nosing at the horrific wood and wire fences they now found surrounding them at every turn.
Wood and wire fences: for a bunch of goats.
Vortasiniaformay shook his head, noting as he did so that the village’s solitary witch doctor was down at the other end of the walkway, casting some sort of protection enchantment over the most recent addition to the fence: a thickly veined Poison Ochre plant whose ivy-like tendrils had been snaked around the wood to form an extra barrier.
Vortasiniaformay wondered exactly what level of danger could warrant such incredible fortification, and reflected that the goats had been on Kazbrack for generations, in many cases sleeping outside the dwelling houses and on some extreme occasions even sleeping inside them.
A goat nudged at the base of the platform he was standing atop, and stared up at him, myopically. He noticed that it was a good deal scruffier than the others gathered on this edge of the enclosure, and substantially bigger, too.
For some reason, Vortisiniaformay found the goat’s attentions particularly disturbing.
‘Piss off,’ he hinted, jabbing it in the flank with the edge of his longest pike.
The goat looked up at him.
‘You want me to do it again?’ he threatened, waving the pike precariously close to the creature’s face. ‘Get on with you, Ugly.’
Mildly affronted, the goat took a step back, allowing a more ordinary-looking example of the species to mooch into its place.
The new goat sniffed at the end of the pike.
‘Oh, now you want some, do you?’ said Vortisiniaformay, jabbing out with the pike a second time.
The nondescript goat took a step sideways and crashed into the scruffy one, which immediately turned into an eight-foot monster and smashed the platform in half.
*
Rigging up more than a hundred tiny bells on a series of interconnected ropes had seemed like one of Gape’s better ideas when the afternoon sun was shining, and Kazbrack had been alive with bustling activity.
In the middle of the night, the effect of every single one exploding into life suddenly transformed the idea into the stuff of nightmares.
Women screamed, horses bolted, and children ran in every conceivable direction while men did what they did best in dramatic situations: stood around and talked about what might be happening.
Up at the keep, soldiers were arming themselves and preparing for combat.
‘Just keep calm!’ Captain Murphy screamed, glancing at the empty throne and wondering how much noise it would take to shake the King and his friends from whatever debauchery was taking place in the misty apartments beyond the throne room. ‘We are more than capable of handling the situation! There is no need to panic! I repeat: there is no need to panic!’
Gordo Goldaxe half staggered, half fell out of the door that led from the throne room to the King’s Hall.
‘What’s happening?’ he said, staring around, bleary-eyed and wishing, quite fervently, that he hadn’t decided to drink before bed.
‘Commander Teethgrit’s alarm bells are going off all over the village, Sir!’ Murphy bellowed. ‘But we have the situation under complete control!’
‘You do? Glad to hear it, Captain! Now: who’s at the goat compound?’
‘Sentry Vortisiniaformay, Sir: the most celebrated fighter in the entire-‘
A window imploded, showering the throne room with a rain of glass. A lumpy, circular object rolled to a halt at the foot of the throne.
It was a standard-issue guard’s helmet, and it contained a standard-issue guard’s head.
‘Is that him?’
‘Yes, SIR!’
‘Great.’
*
Mungus Teethgrit, later described by the more literal citizens of Kazbrack variously as an angry giant, a sort of troll and even a rock ogre, was in fact nothing more than a wild human barbarian...but one of considerable size.
Stepping down from the cart that had brought him into the village, Gordo actually stopped dead and simply gawped at the outline of the immense warrior as he flung soldiers in a variety of different directions and ripped enormous holes in the sides of buildings as he proceeded towards the keep.
Mungus was like three barbarians sewn together with knots of tangled sinew. He was physically disproportionate in the way that Groan was physically disproportionate, but almost impossibly so: there were muscles on top of muscles, bulges next to bulges and veins that seemed so keen to escape that they were standing proud of the surface like a network of hosepipes fit to burst.
Circling around the monster, looking for a point of attack, Gordo found himself suddenly reluctant to move in for the kill. This was partly because he doubted any low-level strike would actually injure it, but mostly because the demented eyes, surrounded as they were by wispy tufts of thick grey hair, were literally aflame with delight at the sight of every new victim that stepped into the path of the beast.
Choking back the curses he wanted to scream at the gods for producing such a monster, Gordo rushed forward, somersaulting under a sweeping fist that removed half the wall from the flat hut beside the road. A series of screams preceded a mass exodus from the hut, which had apparently been sheltering half the terrified villagers of Kazbrack. They scattered as the monster took better aim at his new attacker.
Gordo Goldeaxe rolled to his feet and came up swinging. Unfortunately, the first blade storm he threw himself into culminated in Mungus Teethgrit snatching the head of his battleaxe and gripping it with vicelike strength as a stream of blood seeped between his enormous fingers.
Gordo’s eyes met the gelatinous, bloodshot pupils of the Goatwere, and Mungus reached back and hit him with the other hand. The result was an explosive, thunderous blow which sent Gordo crashing through the roof of a well in an ornamental garden on the far side of the road.
Roaring with explosive mirth, Mungus pursued his prey, reaching the garden in three great leaps and clearing the debris with two arcing slaps that sent bricks and wood flying in every direction.
As Gordo lay in the wreckage of the well, his armour cracked and dented, and his face smashed and bleeding, his life flashed quickly before his eyes.
He was disappointed to note that it was basically a series of fights, interspersed by a bit of drinking and the occasional kiss: he really needed to get out more...or possibly less.
Mungus raised the dwarf’s battleaxe over his head, whirled it twice in a circular motion and, cackling with animated fury, brought it down hard.
The axe head was blocked by a bastard sword.
Mungus Teethgrit looked into the steely eyes of his oldest son.
‘You shouldn’ o’ come back ‘ere, Dad,’ said Groan, his muscles screaming with the effort of turning aside the blade. ‘I ain’t givin’ up a throne for you and you ain't welcome ‘ere ‘less you’re plannin’ to ben’ the knee and call me King.’
A strangled, blood-fuelled war cry welled up inside the throat of Mungus Teethgrit, and the monster threw a powerful and blisteringly quick punch at his son.
Groan snatched hold of the fist, spit flying from his lips as he poured all his strength into holding the strike at bay.
It didn’t work.
Mungus ducked down and lifted his hulking son into the air, manoeuvring the barbarian into a body slam and depositing him hard on the dusty ground.
Then, readying Gordo’s axe once more, he screamed out in rage as he brought the weapon to bear on his son’s prone body...but the strike never happened.
Gape cannoned into his father, and the pair of them crashed into the open hole that now gaped in the space the well had occupied only moments before. The axe flew into the air and landed somewhere on the edge of the road.
There was a brief but terrible silence, followed by a deafening crash from below...but this merely signalled the start of a terrible underground battle that raged for several explosive seconds before the Goatwere’s horrifically mutated hands appeared at the edge of the hole and dragged its considerable bulk after them.
Having thrown off the attentions of his younger son with only the gods knew what horrific assault, Mungus was grinning with malicious delight and readying himself for more furious destruction.
The Goatwere leapt to its feet and began to concentrate, an aura of magical energy flexing and bursting around it.
Gordo heaved himself into an upright position using the pile of bricks that had cascaded from the destruction of the well, and stared with horror as the beast that was Mungus began to grow even bigger.
The trio of warriors found themselves watching a sort of temporary warp that took hold of the monster and slightly stretched it, forcing a growth that ultimately amounted to a few extra inches.
‘Well, that was pathetic!’ Gordo shouted, spitting blood onto the path and snatching up a brick as an impromptu weapon.
‘Yeah,’ Groan echoed. ‘Your powers ain’t up to much, ol’ man. I can beef more ‘an that if I stan’ on tiptoe.’
Mungus turned his glowing green eyes on the pair.
‘I wasn’t trying to make myself taller,’ he growled. ‘I was trying to grow hooves.’
Both warriors barely had time to glance at the feet before they were launched forward in a double dropkick that sent the pair crashing through the wall of the Kazbrack Fishery, three doors down the road.
‘I will have revenge, father. I will have revenge.’
Gape Teethgrit clambered over the edge of the well’s vacant maw and drew a dagger from his belt.
Mungus let out a booming laugh and began to dribble a terrible slime from his lips. ‘Revenge? Revenge for what? For being a pathetic whelp? For being half the man your brother is, and half again less than me? Ha! Revenge! And I haven’t even killed you, yet.’
Gape crouched low to the ground as he advanced on his father with cat-like steps.
‘Do you remember the man you were before you became a monster?’ he snarled. ‘I mean, I understand why you wouldn’t remember...because you weren’t that different.’
‘Is THAT right?’
‘You know it is. You’ve always been a bastard to the bone, Mungus: even before the first enchantment ever took hold of you. Mum made a mistake keeping you as a pet: she should have put you out of your misery.’
The beast’s grin bared a mouthful of cracked and broken teeth.
‘You gonna try that, maggot?’
Gape turned the dagger over in his hand and held it out in front of him.
Mungus charged.
Gape ran to meet him.
The pair collided with such force that a dull thud was the only sound that heralded the impact.
Gape came off worse and landed beneath the belly of the beast. He thrust upwards with the dagger, but Mungus simply grabbed the blade and snapped it in half. Then he drove two heavy fists into the face of his son, knocking him unconscious with the second blow.
‘Time to finish what I started when you were nothing more than a newt,’ he spat, scrambling to his hoofs and dragging Gape after him. ‘Time to teach the ghost of your mother a lesson she will never-‘
The punch was epic, and Mungus didn’t see it coming.
Groan’s fist, bunched up like a hunk of steel, slammed into the side of the Goatwere’s face and actually stunned the beast, which staggered slightly and shook its shaggy head.
Capitalising on the success of the blow, Groan shouldered into Mungus with a determined lunge, almost toppling with his father as he crashed to the ground.
Across the ravaged roadway, Gordo Goldaxe was trying desperately to retrieve his own mighty weapon from where it remained lodged in the dirt. Sweating and gnashing his teeth with the effort required, he finally managed to wrench the battleaxe free and flew backwards with it, landing on his back in a sparse patch of scrubby grass beside the road.
‘Groan!’ he shouted as he hit the dirt. ‘Finish him! Quick! FINISH HIM!’
The big barbarian looked down at the monster that used to be his father and sniffed. ‘Ain’t got me sword, ‘ave I? ‘ere, chuck me your axe.’
Gordo took a moment to shed the heavy plated armour that made his movements so arduous, finally hurling the axe into the wall of the house next to his enormous barbarian friend.
Groan swooped aside, wrenched the blade from its resting place and swung it in a whirling arc, bringing it to bear on the writhing flesh of Mungus Teethgrit, who threw up a clawed hand at the same time.
There was a sickening, ear-splitting crunch, and the wooden shaft of the axe was severed in two. The double-headed blade spun off and embedded itself in a tree.
Groan looked down at the broken axe handle and shrugged.
Mungus struck out with a gnarled, bulbous leg-sweep and brought his son crashing to the ground.
Then the Goatwere flipped - actually flipped – onto its feet.
‘Told you I’d get you, boy.’ Mungus glowered at the fallen warrior. ‘Now tell me your throne isn’t mine!’
‘Vengeance!’ The shout came from Gape, who had awoken from his enforced slumber and was using the broken doorway of the nearest shelter to haul himself onto his feet. ‘I will have...my...Vengeance!’
‘Ha! Vengeance!’ Mungus literally glittered with delight as another warp of chaotic enchantment seeped into his eyes. ‘Bring me your pathetic VENGEANCE, you worthless piece of was-‘
There was a sudden rush of air, and the Goatwere’s eyes took on a distant, distracted and almost disbelieving shift of focus. As the very life seemed to shriek out of his hugely muscled frame, Mungus slowly released a spew of sticky mucus from between his hairy lips and gazed, by degrees, down at his chest...
...where Gape’s long-lost sword protruded from his chest.
‘W-whelp,’ Mungus spat, staggering slightly and almost stumbling onto one knee. ‘C-can’t be killed. I c-can’t be killed with s-s-steel.’
‘Enchanted steel!’ Gape screamed, shocked and delighted in spite of his wounds and aching jaw. ‘Now, come on, Vengeance! Come to DADDY!’
The sword ripped through Mungus with a flash of whipping, whirling blue electricity...and the Goatwere folded up and crashed face-first into the dirt.
There was a long, drawn-out moment of silence where the air hung thick with an invisible cloud of nervous anticipation.
Then Groan said: ‘I’m not goin’ all the way back to mum’s to bury ‘im in that ‘ole.’
*
The islanders of Kazbrack threw an epic, three-day party to celebrate their king’s latest incredible victory. There were celebrations, voodoo dances, snake-charming contests and the sort of drinking games that invariably ended up in an archaic tangle of limbs. Groan and Gape had an absolutely fantastic time, and barely noticed their missing companion...but Gordo Goldeaxe didn’t like parties. As he stood at the anvil in the Kazbrack smithy, hammering out the bumps in his armour, he realised that true happiness lay in the company of friends...and there was nobody better than Groan at making you feel like a worthy companion, especially if you were standing right beside him and, Gordo reflected, he did always seem to end up standing right beside Groan Teethgrit.
