Robins in Spring

I kept trying to think of lyrics to a piano piece I wrote this month. Unfortunately the smart-ass in me wanted it's say, thus this Linus episode came into creation. In this section, Linus Weedwhacker (a Half-Ef) is living in quasi-exile among the Halfling town of Burrowsborough.

The wet morning turned into a pleasant afternoon as the Burrowsburrough walking club trekked towards Callain Forest. The three Halflings' voices rang sweet and clear over the rolling hillsides as they tramped merrily over the lush grass. Linus bringing up the rear was not having a good first day of it.

He was growing weary with their singing. So far the walking club had sung songs about walking, about bathing, about eating biscuits, about hay mowing, spinning, dancing, bowling, rowing, fishing and making jam; it was starting to get tiresome.

“Do you lot ever do anything that you don’t sing about?” he asked the Halflings.

“Well, one thing,” said Ludovic with a lusty chuckle.

“Unless there’re no ladies present,” added Malachi.

Even Linus had to laugh at this. In the end, menfolk were menfolk wherever you went.

“You don’t like singing?” asked Ludovic accusatorily. Among Halflings, an aversion to song was almost as suspicious as not drinking.

“No, I just don’t know the words half the time,” admitted Linus.

“I know, we’ll play ‘make a verse’ then,” said Eddie. Ludovic and Malachi heartily agreed to this.

“Is it more singing?” asked Linus.

“Yes, but you make up the verses as you go,” said Malachi

“I’m not good at verses,” grumbled Linus.

“Neither are we. It’s just all in good fun,” said Eddie.

“I’m good at it,” said Ludovic frankly.                             

“Yeah, he is,” conceded Eddie. “But Malachi and I could use the practice.”

 “Fine,” sighed Linus.

“What melody are we singing?” asked Malachi.

Eddie thought about it. “Let’s see. It has to be one that Linus knows.  Let’s use ‘The Whispering Willow.’ You know that one, Linus?”

“Yuh,” admitted Linus. It was the third movement from the Elven Baraloneth et Geheren (wisdom and foolishness) suite and currently a popular dance piece for reels. Linus knew the song, but it wasn’t his favorite, containing a lot of “tra-las” and “hey-nonnys.”  The first verse of the song went thusly:

Ah! De wilo sussuraeg— eernen! (tra-la-la)

Hu tylwa sul seunthsiul  gren (ah-ha!)

E farsad en enhodia ohr

Londias a dianeen indas demas helior

Far Il heded entritan Il wod sil rechor

Il entri e wilo a slen

(He-nonni-koem-lalli)

Ah! Entritan es naepothen!

 It was a rather fluffy song about wishing trees could sing, using tired Elven metaphors. Every verse had the word “green” in it and there was constant adoration of beautiful ladies with nothing interesting happening—the usual cue for Linus to take a nap in his chair. When Linus was forced to sing it at parties, he usually did it in a killing impersonation of a drunken Elven prince. It was a very popular bit among his city friends, but he’d never sung it in earnest before. He liked the tune, however, and was willing to play the game with only the usual grumbling.

“What’s the subject?” asked Ludovic.

“Can’t we make it free-form?” asked Malachi hopefully.

“You’re not singing about fruit trees again. You always sing about fruit trees,” snapped Ludovic.

“I like fruit trees,” mumbled Malachi looking longingly across the farmlands towards his orchards.

“The subject is…” Eddie looked about him and eventually spied a flash of orange hopping along the dirt road. “…Robins.” He said.

“I’ll go last,” said Linus nervously.

“Suit yourself. You’ll all have a tough act to follow though,” boasted Ludo who dove right in with his strong clear voice.

Ludo’s verse:

Ah, if I were a robin in springtime, (tra-la-la)

T’would be quite a marvelous thing, (a-ha)

I’d fly about on the gentle breeze,

And take my tea whenever I please,

With butterflies for my bread and cheese,

And pudding of dragonfly wings,

Hey nonny-come-lally!

I’d feel like a jolly old king!

Ludovic finished to hearty applause from the other three.

“I say, well done! Not one pause!” cried Eddie in approval.

Linus was too impressed to say anything. A smug grin crossed Ludo’s face as he perceived this.

“I knew you’d sing about food, Ludo,” said Malachi with a snort.

“How can a Halfling who likes his pudding as much as you be thin as a rail, I’d like to know?” commented Eddie. “Right. My turn.” Eddie began to sing. His voice wasn’t as fine as Ludo’s and he was going flat by the end of it, but he made a good show.

Eddie’s verse:

A robin’s a regular dandy, (tra-la-la)

The cheekiest birdie he be, (a-ha)

His scarlet waistcoat turning heads,

He looks so beguiling a fellow in red,

With his suit and gold stockings he looks quite well-bred,

In his mansion high up in a tree,

(Hey nonny-come-lally!)

The finest bird, don’t you agree?

There was moderate clapping followed by a pause while the others were considering the merit of Eddie’s rhyme.

“It’s not bad,” said Ludo eventually. “The ‘be he’ part bothered me. And I don’t think birds live in mansions.”

“They don’t eat puddings either,” said Linus, coming to Eddie’s rescue.

“You paused a bit in the middle,” Ludo persisted.

“I was going to say ‘orange’ instead of ‘red’, and stopped meself,” admitted Eddie.

“Dodged an arrow there, no mistake,” laughed Malachi.

“Alright. Who’s next? Linus? Mal?” said Ludovic.

“I’ll go but don’t laugh,” said the usually boisterous Malachi looking abashed. He began softly in his capable voice. It was a good rhyme and was sadly riddled with frequent pauses as Malachi worked out the rhyme or had to remember what he’d just come up with.

Malachi's verse:

O if I were a robin in springtime (tra-la-la)

I’d start every day with a song (a-ha)

Good night Miss Moon, I see the sun!

Now get thee to bed for his turn has begun.

And when I am singing to everyone,

They might join me in singing along.

(Hey-Nonny-come-Lally)

You might feel like singing along

They asked him to sing it again without the pauses so they could hear it properly, and they all agreed that Malachi was a fine competitor. Ludo frowned at being upstaged.

“You used ‘along’ twice and stole my first line,” he said bitterly, but they paid him no mind.

“It’s Linus’s turn now,” said Eddie.

“Er,” stammered Linus.

“Go on, bigg’un.  See if you’re a match for Halfling rhymsters,” said Malachi.

“I doubt it,” said Ludovic with a snort. “Look, he’s sweating.”

It was probably Ludo that did it in the end, for Linus grit his teeth and launched into a sardonic verse on the spot.

Linus’s Verse:

I don’t give a fig about robins, (tra-la-la)

A robin has nothing to boast. (a-ha)

It’s far too early when they sing

And their cheeky attire doesn’t do me a thing

In fact of the things I detest about spring,

I hate songs about robins the most.

(Hey Nonny-come-lally)

I fancy a robin on toast.

The last line made Eddie and Malachi burst out laughing until they sat on the grass to calm down. Even grim Ludovic cracked a smile but he refused to concede victory to Linus since he obviously “hadn’t taken the game seriously.”

“Oh give over, Ludo! He’s as funny as Doctor Frumbold on a good day!” said Eddie when he was able to draw breath.

“Hrmph!” grunted Ludovic, trying to sound bitter but his lips kept twitching into a grin.

Sadly, Linus had set a precedence that day that would haunt him to the end of his days in Burrowsburrough.

The Dagger (teaser)

This is the first part of an upcoming short-story featuring the heroes of CRIT! For more adventures of Linus and his team, check out CRIT! at www.tangentartists.com “Does it ever bother you that we searched the pockets of the people we’ve just killed?” asked Kiyana. Her educated brain was wrestling with philosophy that the others would have just as soon ignored. “Well, it does when you put it that way,” said Linus, the senior member of the party. The middle-aged Ranger frowned at the blonde buxom wizard. “I mean, it’s not as if we killed them just to rifle through their possessions. That’s just barbaric.” “Hey!” cried Quince the barbarian. He looked ready to cry at the accusation. “Present company excluded,” added Linus hastily. “But yes, killing people for their gewgaws is wrong… but looting the pockets of the people who’ve just ambushed us? I’d say that’s restitution.” “Besides, sometimes they have cool stuff!” added her brother, Bart. The ten-year-old rogue was holding up a severed ulna which was sporting a diamond-studded bracer. The little Elf had actually pulled out a jewler’s eyeglass was examining the cut and water of his find. “Thanks for backing me up there,” sneered Linus. “Wotcher,” said Bart. “From the mouths of innocent babes…” quoted Kiyana with a smug smile. “If he’s innocent I’m a bloody penguin,” said Linus dryly. “Morfindel, what’s your take on this?” Kiyana whined to the Cleric. Morfindel, Elven Cleric of the Ardellan Mission, stepped over the bodies of the dead Scath A Dannen. These particularly nasty Fallen Elves from the Dark Dimension had popped up out of nowhere and Morfindel had unleashed his holy fury upon them. The Cleric was smiling grimly with satisfaction at a smiting well done — so much satisfaction in fact, that the others were giving him a wide berth as they searched among the pile of limbs and entrails. He wasn’t blood-thirsty by nature. The Elf had an easy-going temperament that bordered on “wishy-washy” at times; that would disappear the moment that duty called. Morfindel performed his duties with a glad heart. “Morfindel?” Kiyana ventured a second time. “Huh?” asked Morfindel, lost in thought. “I said what’s your take on our ghoulish tendency to steal from the dead?” asked Kiyana. The others groaned at her grim exaggeration. “I don’t really care so long as they’re not proper Elves.,” said Morfindel, and that was basically that. The world came in two flavors for Morfindel: “Elves”, and “everything else.” Morfindel’s holy duty was to protect all Elves from harm and to do no harm to Elves himself. This included Elves who wanted to kick his ass and/or do very bad things to him. It didn’t matter. Morfindel knew he was a racist—he’d often commented on the fact—but that didn’t give him one moment’s pause when it came to blows. Unfortunately it forced Linus to pause quite frequently. Bart and Kiyana were exempt from fighting Elves, being High Elves themselves, but Linus was only Half-Elven and given no leeway. During battles amongst the pointy-eared Children of the Sun, Morfindel would often shout to Linus, “Don’t kill any Elves or I’ll have to kill you! Sorry!” There were a few loopholes in his dogmatic law, but Morfindel was often forced to search for them in the heat of battle. Linus was currently nursing a sizable gash on his bicep that he’d received while fending off blows from the Scath A Dannan and shouting, “CAN I PLEASE HIT THEM BACK?” By the time Morfindel had answered in the affirmative, the battle was half-over. Now that Linus knew that Scath A Dannan were fair game, he filed that information away for future use. Maybe I should write them all down on an index card for quick reference, he thought. Elves: No. Elf Assassin bent on my destruction: No Brainwashed Elves controlled by a vampire: No Fallen Elves from Dark Dimension: Go nuts. While Linus was mentally writing this out he became distracted by the flicker of reflected sunlight. Looking for the source he spied a dagger lying a few feet near its owner’s severed hand. Linus bent down (to a chorus of popping noises from his knees) and retrieved the weapon. He immediately recognized that this was a dagger of superior workmanship. It was light, well-balanced and practically new, judging by the flawless sheen and the fresh leather wrappings. It mimicked the shaped of a typical naval dirk with a reversed guard (somewhat fancifully executed) and had a large red cats-eye jewel at the junction of the hilt and blade. The blade was both artful and diabolical. Hooks, serrates and barbs had been stamped into the metal that spelled instant disaster for internal organs and ribcages. The metal itself was like nothing Linus had ever seen —he couldn’t guess its name or its origin— it was a dark black that glistened with a purple sheen when held to the light. The light played on the greasy purple cast, giving the blade the illusion that it was in constant motion, like liquid. Linus was a practiced dual-wielding fighter, currently favoring a spatha and a ballock dagger. The latter was giving him trouble; the blade was notched and dull, the point had been snapped off, the wrappings kept coming loose, and the blade was off-balance after a plethora of re-sharpenings. It was small wonder then, that Linus made experimental swipes in the air with this new dagger, tossing it in his hand a few times to get a feel for the balance and the weight. After a few minutes he seemed well pleased with it. The old ballock was unceremoniously chucked among the corpses. Linus hunted up the dirk’s scabbard and was strapping his new conquest onto his leg when he heard a shrill voice pipe up behind him and curl the hairs on his neck. “You’re not keeping that, are you??” cried Kiyana. “It would appear that I am,” said Linus. “You’re not serious!” protested Kiyana. “I generally am,” returned Linus, arching an eyebrow. “Why?” “’Cause it’s evil!” Linus blinked. “Run that by me again.” “The dagger is eeeevil!” repeated Kiyana, waggling her fingers for further emphasis while her voice trilled like a sibyl. This gave Linus genuine pause. Kiyana was a university-educated woman which meant that she didn’t have enough imagination to outright lie. She was prone to exaggeration, however, and Linus wanted to know more. “What makes you say that?” asked Linus. “Just look at it! It’s got hooks and squiggles and a big red eye on it!” “Ah. So we’re just arguing about aesthetics, are we?” said Linus relaxing. “I got it off a Scath A Dannan. They just like to put their own little eldtritch stamp onto everything that’s all.” “Evil,” insisted Kiyana. “Look!” grunted Linus, growing annoyed with her. “It’s a tool, alright? A tool can neither be good or bad. It’s all in how it’s used. Now I don’t want to hear another word about it!” “Fine,” said Kiyana coldly. “What do the rest of you think?” she asked the other men. “I don’t care,” said Morfindel with a shrug. “It’s not my call.” Linus smirked at Kiyana. “Bart? ‘Talky-Tim’? What do you think?” he called to the other two. Quince said nothing until realization dawned. “Me? Oh I—I’m ‘Talky-Tim’?” he said eventually. “Yes,” said Linus. “You needed a new dagger, didn’t you, Linus?” asked Quince. “Yep.” “That’s alright then,” said Quince with a shrug. “Bart? How ‘bout you?” called Linus, trying to find where the boy had got to. “Would you shut up?! I’m trying to count up here!” Bart shouted from atop a tree. “The vote stands four-to-one. Motion carries,” said Linus. “Two-to-one with two abstentions,” corrected Kiyana, pointing to Morfindel and Bart. “Not saying ‘no’ doesn’t count as saying ‘yes’.” “That’s a double-negative, princess, so in point of fact: IT DOES,” crowed Linus. “Put that in your thesis and mark it, Miss Coed!”

The Shooting Party

“So what the hell is a ‘cockadoodle?’” asked Kelly. His voice was muffled by the thick scarf wrapped around his face.

He and Lynald were seated by the crumbling wall of an ancient stable on the edge of Leandir’s field, giving them a clear view of the tree-line. Lynald's cousins were behind similar half-walls and rocks in various states of disintegration. Their breath hung in the air as each man shivered in the freezing dawn. The sun was in hiding today and the pearlescent morning made the dying trees and mown wheat-stalks look tired and old. Kelly fought another wave of sleep as Lynald took another long pull at his flask of coffee.

“I thought I was on this holiday to recuperate,” grumbled Kelly. “How does freezing my bollocks in a field at six in the morning fit into that plan?”

“You’re getting out in the fresh air and taking exercise. That’s how,” said Lynald.

“That’s what walks and outdoor luncheons are for!” complained Kelly. He eyed the long rifles next to him warily. “You know I don’t like guns.”

“Come now, don’t be such a spoil sport,” said Lynald yawning. “This will be jolly fun.”

“You can have jolly fun, Ly-o. I’d rather stay in bed and read a book. Wish I’d brought one now. What’s taking so long anyway?”

“Would you just shut up for two minutes together? I’m trying to enjoy the morning and it’s rather hard with your constant stream of whinging.”

“Oh, pardon me for ruining your morning. Never mind that you’ve already ruined mine.”

“SHUT UP!”

“Git.”

“Ass.”

Just then there was a loud and rather wounded-sounding horn blast from the tree-line. A large orange cloth was being waved by Phelps the gamekeeper.

“That means we’re about to start.”

“You still haven’t explained to me what a cockadoodle is.”

“It’s a cross between a cockatrice and a dog,” replied Lynald.

“Good eating on ‘em?” asked Kelly.

“Of course not!” sniffed Lynald.

“Good fur?”

“No.”

“Then why are you hunting them?” asked Kelly.

“For the sport of it,” said Lynald with a snort. “Besides, it’s the one species in the forest these days that isn’t in danger of growing extinct. They’re a damn nuisance and they breed like rabbits,” said Lynald.

“Then why have a gamekeeper and fosterers?” asked Kelly.

“Oh, that’s one of Leandir’s little ambitions. He’s trying to improve the breed.”

“How?”

“He’s trying to breed a species of cockadoodle that can actually fly.”

“They don’t fly?” asked Kelly in astonishment. “Then how do we shoot them?”

“Ah, well, that’s the other reason for the gamekeeper and fosterers.”

“Huh?” asked Kelly.

“On your marks gentlemen!” came Cousin Leandir’s booming voice across the bare fields. “When you’re ready, Phelps!”

Lynald shouldered his rifle, but Kelly held back, desirous to see what was going on first.

“PULL!” shouted Phelps.

There were a series of twangs and simultaneously five feathery floppy creatures with beaks and long ears leaped into the air like they had been stuck with pins. There was a loud explosion as twelve rifles reported and clouds of smoke drifted across the foggy field. Kelly squinted, trying to get a better look at the proceedings when the wall next to him exploded. He felt a sharp sting on his cheek as he fell over backwards in his chair. Looking up, he saw a large bullet hole, the size of an apple in the crumbling stone wall.

“Nice shot, Cousin Algie!” cried Lynald in a dry unconcerned voice.

“Damn thing got away from me!” grumbled Algernon. “Alright there, Kenny?”

“Oh absolutely spiffing.” sneered Kelly under his breath.

“Tip top! No harm done!” said Lynald.

“Jolly good!”

“PULL!” shouted Phelps, and again there was a twanging sound and a chorus of gunshots.

Through his safe spot on the ground, Kelly took advantage of his position and watched at a low hole in the masonry. There were a few more explosions of mortar and crumbling brick, this time Kelly could see that every shooting station was affected. Shots were hitting walls and landing in the dirt several feet from their guns, and a few set a couple of trilby hats spinning. Most of the cockadoodle, apart from the two shot stone dead by Leandir, had landed without incident, waddling unconcernedly on the ground. Occasionally they were forced to leap out of the way of a gunshot, but they fluttered heavily back into place and to continue scratching at the frozen ground.

Kelly tried to get a look at the fosterers and noticed that they were all wearing very heavy leather clothes and wore metal helmets on their head, like jousting knights. At their feet were several hundred cockadoodle milling about and preening good naturedly. A fosterer would then seize a bird-dog in his leather gloves and load him into a device. The device looked something like a large crossbow or slingshot with a stiff leather compartment near the stock. The animal was placed in the compartment and a crank was wound. When Phelps’s cry of “PULL” echoed across the field, the fosterer pulled a lever and the bird was shot ten feet into the air to land with a soft feathery “plop” in the dust. The survivors waddled back to the other cockadoodle by the fosterers.

Whether there was food over there, or they sought out the familiar fosterer, or whether they simply liked being flung into the air was anyone’s guess. It was clear after the first six volleys that there was no imminent danger. Kelly judged that only 10% of them were doomed to die in this exercise, those being the unfortunate birds under Leandir’s keen eye. The kills by his kinfolk however, were esoteric at best and included trilby hats, a straw bonnet, a rifle barrel, a box of cartridges, a pocket watch, six clumps of sod, a folding chair, three walls, and a chipmunk. There was one moment of family camaraderie when all the men and ladies took up arms to decimate a burlap sack that had been caught up by the wind.

Kelly dodged away from his section of wall as another chunk of it was blown into powder and debris. The only sound that could be heard above the reports was the occasional “sorry.”

“Dear God, it’s like a war zone!” cried Kelly gripping his hat and lying in the dirt.

“Pretty much. Better vittles though,” said Lynald taking a pull at his flask of coffee. It was shot from his hand by a sheepish-looking cousin in the next “foxhole” struggling with the weight of his rifle stock.

“Sorry there!” he cried, dropping the gun causing it to fire into the air. There was a soft thump near Lynald as a dead squirrel landed on Kelly’s bowler hat. “You alright?”

“I’m fine, Neelan?” called Lynald sighing. “Just a tip: don’t point a rifle at anything you don’t want to die.”

“Right-o!” answered Neelan, shouldering the rifle again, backwards. There was another shot and when the smoke cleared one of the servants near the chafing dishes had keeled over.

“Did he just kill a man?” gasped Kelly.

“No,” said Lynald. “He just dove for cover the big baby,” sniffed Lynald.

“He alright?” called Kelly.

“He’s fainted, sir!” replied one of the servants attending to a young man whose face was the colour of cold porridge.

“Well pick him up and send him to bed,” Neelan said to him. “But none of you lot get any ideas about falling over like big nancies. The next man to go under is getting shot in the foot.”

"Bloody Elves," moaned Kelly and decided to curl into a ball unpon the dusty ground until they went in to lunch.


Like?> Read book one! Madame Bluestocking's Pennyhorrid is now available for pre-orders HERE!

An Excerpt from Madame Bluestocking's Pennyhorrid

The following is an excerpt from my upcoming novel, Madame Blustocking's Pennyhorrid now available for pre-order Through Hunt Press.

“Misters Wingaurd and Kelly to see the council.”
The young doorman nodded and slipped through a servant’s door at the side. After a moment the main doors were muscled wide open with the assistance of four men. A young man, in judiciary black robes and a powdered wig, beckoned to Lynald and Kelly and they were ushered in through the towering archway. The two gentlemen exchanged nervous glances. They didn’t have a clue what was going to happen now.

“So how did they know we were coming?” Kelly asked the Elf in a barely audible whisper.
“I have no idea,” came Lynald’s answer, eyeing a sort of arena ahead of them. Some public forum was in session, consisting of a council seated at ornate wooden desks. These were tiered in a wide circle around a sunken dais.
“So we’re just going with this?” asked Kelly.
“Pretty much,” said Lynald. He seemed to have pulled himself together and was striding purposefully behind their guide. Only Kelly noticed Lynald’s slightly fixed grin; a testament as to how nervous the Elf really was.
“Grand. Bloody grand,” muttered Kelly, shaking his head.

“Announcing Misters Lynald Wingaurd and Evelyn Kelly! Blindsmen, Costermongers, Duffers, Dowsers, Factors, Fulkers, Legerdemainists, Limners, Noontenders, Machinists and makers of fine Wigs!” announced an undersecretary as the two travelers approached the council. The council consisted of about twenty fat middle-aged gentlemen with impressive sideburns; all were dressed in somber black and starched collars. They nodded grimly.

Kelly nudged Lynald. “’Makers of fine wigs?’ Why the hell did he say that?” he hissed.
“I thought it had a nice metre,” said Lynald with a shrug.
“You changed our business card again, without asking me! You always do that!” growled Kelly in frustration.
“Oh hush.”
“Have you ever made a wig in your life?”
“How hard could it be?”
“I bloody hate you sometimes,” said Kelly through gritted teeth.

“Gentlemen,” said one of the councilmen with white hair. Kelly thought he looked like the senior official. “On behalf of the town council I bid you welcome to Poulipolis. What brings you to our fair city today?”

Kelly and Lynald exchanged glances. They hadn’t gotten a “story straight” yet and weren’t even sure if they needed one. Kelly would have been less worried about this if they hadn’t been in a city submerged in the Undine Ocean. Before he had a chance to whisper this to Lynald, the Elf had stepped forward and was speaking to them in his pleasant tenor.

“If we may be so bold, I must admit that we are at a loss. We had no outstanding plans to visit Poulipolis–no purpose in coming. It was a whim we acted on, only this morning. That being the case, we must ask you: how did know we would arrive today?”

Kelly watched the council anxiously. The black-robed gentlemen seemed a trifle perturbed and mumbled a bit amongst themselves. Finally, the white-haired gent spoke again.
“You yourselves do not know? Well that really is puzzling. It seems we are all wrapped up in this mystery. By any chance… did you receive a note urging you to come here today?”

Lynald hardly needed to answer, “yes”. The astonishment on his and his partner’s face told the council already.
“Yes, I have the note right here,” said Lynald, offering the scrap of paper to the councilman. “Did you receive a note yourself – er – m’lords?”
“Yes. It told us that the renowned team of Wingaurd and Kelly would visit us… and that the city is doomed.”

PRE-ORDER YOUR COPY OF MADAME BLUSTOCKING'S PENNYHORRID HERE!

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UPDATED NOV. 7 2011

The Dynamic Wingaurd & Kelly are in print!

At long last Madame Bluestocking's Pennyhorrid is available for sale from it's publisher,Hunt Press.

 Did you love Must Love Dragons? We know we did! Well, Monica Marier is back with a brand new series and it's now available for pre-order! As always, get it now before it comes out when the price goes up?

Madame Bluestocking's Pennyhorrid by Monica Marier

A Hope/Crosby style buddy-comedy in a Steampunk/Fantasy World!

Introducing The Dynamic Wingaurd & Kelly: Blindsmen, Costermongers, Duffers, Dowsers, Factors, Fulkers, Legerdemainists, Limners, Noontenders, Machinists and makers of fine Wigs. One is a washed up, boozing wizard, one is a debonair walking disaster. They’re gentlemen of fortune who realize that the advantage goes not to the biggest hand, but the better bluff. Additionally that any landing you can walk away from is a good one, and chicks dig scars.

Can the pair of them stop arguing long enough to save the citizens of Poulipolis from a watery grave? How will they manage with a shifty working girl and a hardened police inspector dogging their tails? Follow the hijinks of the Dynamic Wingaurd & Kelly (and their blue dragon, Philomena) as they unravel clues in a mysterious underwater city!

CLICK HERE TO ORDER YOUR COPY IN PAPERBACK OR E-BOOK FORMAT TODAY!

CHICKEN SH*TFACED PART 2 of 2

By Monica Marier

This is the conclusion of last week’s story, which can be found  HERE

A special thanks goes to PJ Kaiser for helping me post this on her blog today in a time of techno-drama.

The night was in full swing when the two men trod shivering through the black soup of darkness. The lantern swung erratically in large arcs casting ghostly fairy lights and demonic shadows across gnarled trees. He and Vilori had followed the tracks as they led with distinct purpose to apple orchard that marked the edge of Uncle Red’s farm.

“Think the chickens got peckish and decided to have a late tea of apples?”

“Chickens don’t eat apples, Vilori,” said Harcourt. A thought suddenly occurred to him. “But I hope for our sakes they’re trying.”

“Why’s that?”

“Cause if they haven’t stopped at the orchard, and they’re headed due South… that means that they went into The Terrible Woods.”

“Which terrible woods would that be?” asked Vilori.

“That one! The Terrible Woods! Capital ‘T’—The Terrible Woods.”

“Is that really its name? How unimaginative!” cried Vilori in disgust.

“Yes. It was named by a town of very unimaginative people… WHO KEPT DYIN’ in the woods,” hissed Harcourt.

“What, is it Haunted? Do the ghosts come out at night?” asked Vilori with a snort.

“Ghost nothing! It’s full of dense bracken, sudden drops, peat bogs, wolves, bears, griffons, and dragons, AND poisonous spiders.”

Vilori stopped dead.

“How big are the poisonous spiders?” he asked in a hollow voice.

“They’re poisonous! Does it really matter how big they are?” replied Harcourt.

Vilori nodded. “I concede your point.”

They walked a few more yards in silence, following the razor straight lines of chicken feet and trying not to think of spiders. 

“Oh bugger,” sighed Harcourt. The lantern light bounced in his hand, but Vilori plainly saw the chicken tracks leave the soft earth of the orchard and trail into the tall grass bordering it. The grass had been trodden and bent in a tiny thin path no wider than an arm’s length. It led with mathematical precision to the forest. Vilori snatched up the lantern to examine the tracks.

“Well it looks like this wasn’t done by any man, Har,” said Vilori agog. “There’s no signs in the grass that anything bigger than a chicken has gone through here.

“Which means what?”

“Um… the chickens are in on it?” supplied Vilori uncertainly.

“What, like they’re?” asked Harcourt in disgust.

“Well, I don’t know!” mobilzin’ cried Vilori, waving his free arm in exasperation. “What other explanation have we got?

“A spell?” asked Harcourt.

“….yessss,” nodded Vilori nodding his head. “I’ve never heard of chicken magic before.”

“I have,” said Harcourt seriously. “I heard of men in the hot islands that puts paint on their faces and dances around fires and sacrifices chickens. ‘Hoo-doo’ they calls is. Barbaric,” he added.

Vilori sniffed in similar suspicion. “Ah, well that’s foreigners for you. Sacrificin’ all manner of things. As if pidgeons and goats and virgins aren’t good enough.”

“Goats was good enough for me granddad.”

“Indeed. So you think it’s some foreign hoo-doo thingummy stealing chickens with magic?”

Harcourt scratched his sandy chin. “Dunno. It’s better than your idea of mobilizin’ chickens.”

“Yeah, that was stupid, sorry,” sighed Vilori, flushing red.

“S’alright. I know it’s just ‘cause you’re pissed.”

“And how,” mumbled Vilori stifling a belch. “Well, into The Terrible Woods then,” he said tramping through the tall grass for the tree-line.

“You coming?” he asked when he noticed Harcourt lingering behing.

Harcourt nodded. “Yuh. Alright,” he said in a high voice. “Only be careful. The sudden drops in there can break your neck... and the spiders…”

“What do the spiders look like?” asked Vilori warily.

“They look like leaves.”

“Grand.”

***

“Is that a spider?”

“No.”

“Is that a spider?”

“No.”

“Is that a spider?”

“Would you give over already, Vilori!” Harcourt said through clenched teeth. He was trying to keep his voice down, but with Vilori buzzing around him like a gnat it was hard.

“Is that a —”

“SHH!” Harcourt waved at Vilori to shut up. “DO you hear something?”

The men strained their ears for the slightest sound when they both heard it. It was a warbling susurration, like the sound of hundreds of tiny voices having hushed conversations.

“What is that?” asked Vilori.

“It’s chickens! Must be hundreds of em,” said Harcourt advancing slowly. Vilori observed sweat trickling off his friend’s brow in the growing light. “There’s a light up ahead,” he said.

 “Someone’s got a fire lit, I reckon.”

“You were right! There’s Hoo-dooing and dancing afoot, no doubt!” hissed Vilori.

“Well the chicken noise is coming from there, so we’ll see.”

“Good. I’m ready to finish up and get to bed,” yawned Vilori. The night was getting colder and a thick mist was starting to rise from the forest floor, undulating in ghostly shapes in front of the lantern. They grew closer to the fire, and unsheathed their swords. Swords could only do so much in the face of magic, but they could generally sever a head from a neck, which was sometimes enough.

Cautiously, they peered over a bramble thicket to see what they were dealing with.

Both men dropped their swords in shock.

“Is that…?”

“It looks like…”

“Dear GODS.”

A large clearing was occupied entirely by chickens.

There wasn’t the slightest sign of human involvement; only avian. They weren’t milling about in typical chicken fashion, but they were evenly spaced in a circle, five deep around a ring of standing stones. Large fires had been lit in key places around the field casting a weird orange glow on the perfectly still birds. In the middle of the ring was a large flat rock lying lengthwise on the ground.

It was currently empty.

“How do chickens light fires?” wondered Harcourt aloud.

“What is this place?” Vilori managed in a terrified voice.

“It’s the faerie ring! It’s older than…than… really old stuff! It probably predates the word ‘old’,” Harcourt stammered, his face ghostly white.

“The chickens aren’t doing anything! They’re just standing there!” squeaked Vilori.

“No, see. They’re all looking outside the ring on the southwest side…. They’re waiting for something!”

“For what?”

As if in answer a loud roar shook the air and made each man cower with his face in the dirt. It sounded like someone trying to saw a bottle in half with cello string.

Vilori and Harcourt gibbered momentarily before rounding up enough sanity to look at what was approaching. Their swords were still on the forest floor, untouched.

A dark shape sillouetted in the firelight descended on the avian crowd. It walked upright like a bird, but there was something distinctly mammalian about it. It had a snout full of cruel teeth despite its coat of feathers, and its feet were definitely paws. It let loose another shriek, similar to a dog’s howl, but there was no mistaking the consonant and resounding “BWARRRRRK!” that shook the tree tops.

 Harcourt and Vilori were suddenly more sober than a teacher on Monday.

“It’s a cock-a-doodle,” said Harcourt.

“A what?” asked Vilori.

“Part dog-part rooster. Distant relative of the cockatrice.”

“Cor,” said Vilori. “What’s it got there in its paws?”

Squinting in the gloom the men could make out something round and flat with something lumpy on it. It was clutched awkwardly in the cock-a-doodles forepaws as it approached the flat stone in the middle of the ring. The beast then lay the object in the middle of the stone.

“I don’t like this…” said Harcourt, trembling.

“Why what’s he got?” asked Vilori, trying to make heads or tails of the dim shapes.

“That’s the carcass of the chicken we had for tea tonight,” he said.

Now that he knew what he was looking at, Vilori could indeed see a former chicken picked clean with bits of sage still stuck to its insides. It was even on the willow-ware patterned platter Harcourt’s Aunt had served it on and surrounded by wrinkly cold potatoes.

The cock-a-doodle roared again, and the susurration of idle chickens stopped. Silence blanketed the clearing, and even the crackle of the fires seemed to have stopped.

Then the cock-a-doodle began to utter strange sounds in a low monotone drone. After he began the chickens would answer him, all clucking in perfect unison to a strange rhythm.

“BWAARK BWARRK BWARRRK”

“Bok-bok bok-bok b-bok bwaark!”

“BWAARK BWARRK BWARRRK”

“Bok-bok bok-bok b-bok bwaark!”

“It looks like…” began Harcourt, afraid to finish.

“It looks like a ritual,” answered Vilori.

Harcourt and he exchanged glances of pure horror, before watching the birds and their master again, helplessly captivated by their own curiosities and the mounting terror of events.

The standing stones began to glow an unearthly green and the light channeled by the outlandish carvings in the stones fed into the oblong stone table where the sad remains of dinner sat. The boks and bwarrks grew louder, faster, more fervent as the light grew brighter. Vilori felt the hairs on his arm stand up and felt his ears block up as an oppressive cloud of energy grew around them. Just as the chickens were so frenzied that they seemed about to break out of their orderly ranks the last of the light flowed into the now-glowing dead chicken. Silence reined again.

The men held their breaths as they stared at the carcass. If birds could hold their breaths, it was very likely the chickens were doing the same. Only the cock-a-doodle seemed cooly confidant.

Then it happened.

It was subtle, but every eye, beady or otherwise, caught it.

One of the naked wings began to twitch.

Harcourt and Vilori didn’t know how they got back to Uncle Red’s farm. To Vilori it was all a blur, and if Harcourt remembered, he wasn’t saying anything. Uncle Red and Aunt Primula took it with the resigned attitude of “boys will be boys,” assuming it all to be a drunk hallucination and were kind enough to never bring it up again. It didn’t seem there was any harm done anyways, since all the chickens were back in their coops the following morning.

Although… and this was the strange thing…

…It seemed there was one extra bird.

Chicken Sh*tfaced Part 1 of 2

Vilori Reagan is a character from my 2nd book "Runs In Good Condition." He was such a crusty, rude unlovable character that he quickly became one of my favorites. Oddly enough, I started wondering what his youth had been like (before it all went wrong) and this ZANY story popped into my head.

“What is it?” asked Vilori Reagan in confusion. He scratched one of his pointy ears and smoothed his white-blond hair.

“It’s a chicken ,” said Harcourt in mild disbelief.

“You sure?”

“YES, Vilori! What did you think it was?”

Reagan examined the beady-eyed feather duster in curiosity and (he noted the sharp talons and spurs) some apprehension. “I’ve never seen one before,” he admitted.

“You’ve never seen a CHICKEN?” demanded Harcourt.

“Well not a live one anyways,” mumbled Vilori. “I’ve seen them in the poulterer’s windows and such. As a child I recall having a picture book about a little red hen but…” Vilori trailed off. The picture-book had had such jolly woodcuts in it of a fat flouncy chicken in a bonnet. The mad, twitchy, beasts going “BWARRRK” around him were not of the bonnet-wearing variety.

“I grew up in a mansion, you pillock,” he finished.

“What! Didn’t your family keep chickens on the grounds?”

“Might have done,” said Vilori looking around. He didn’t want to admit that he hadn’t been let out much in his youth. Having only just reached the tender age of 30, the immortal Elf hadn’t much been exposed to common things like boot-blacking, burlap, and scary flappy feathery things that went “BWARRK.”

“You’re such a nancy,” sighed Harcourt, fingering the hilt on his short-sword.

“So why are we looking at chickens?” asked Vilori in disgust. “What did your uncle want done?”

Harcourt eyed his friend nervously. “He… er… wanted us to find out why the chickens were disappearing at night.”

Vilori made a noise of utter annoyance. “But we’re bloody RANGERS, Harcourt! We’re not farmhands!”

“He’s family!” moaned Harcourt. “I told you we were doing it as a personal favor!”

“Yes, but CHICKENS?” moaned Vilori. “If his farm was being overrun by wild bears, I might concede his point, but disappearing chickens! What he wants is a good fox trap.”

“We  know it weren’t a fox. There’s no paw prints, no blood, no feathers, just a lack of chickens!”

“So, poachers?” asked Reagan sounding mollified. This was more like it.

“Dunno,” said Harcourt. “Haven’t been any strange boot prints.”

“Maybe it was Elves,” said Reagan darkly. “I’ve known a fair few that could walk without leaving a trail. And speaking of boots, I wish you’d told me to wear proper footwear. My slippers are all covered in mud.”

Harcourt looked down at the silk slippers on Reagan’s feet and shook his head. He decided that now was not the ideal time to mention that it was not entirely mud. “Eeeeyah. So anyways, come nightfall, Uncle Red wants us to keep watch.”

“So are these all new chickens?” asked Vilori.

“No.”

“Seems your Uncle has quite a lot of chickens despite the burglaries.”

“Well, that’s the strange part, you ken…” began Harcourt scratching his sandy head. “…they all come back.”

“What do?” asked Vilori in confusion.

“Most of these chickens were gone for three days… but just this Tuesday… they all come back.”

“Really? What do the farmhands have to say?”

“They don’t want to talk about it.”

Harcourt scratched his arm absently, his surplus of muscles bulging under his linen shirt as he did so. Vilori wished for a moment that he’d been blessed with a powerful farmer’s physique rather than the build of a female ballet dancer. It certainly didn’t earn him any respect in the Northern farmlands of Buncham.

“What do you think it means?” asked Vilori.

“I dunno. Something has the farmers around here worried”

“Then why aren’t they out in a bloody chicken pen at night?”

“They did that last Monday-week. The next day, young Alistair went missin’. Now they want Rangers.”

“Rangers?  I’m beginning to think that what they want is a wizard.”

“Well you know how farmers feel about magic.”

Reagan nodded. Farmers were down to earth people that knew better than anyone the trick to patience, determination and blind optimism. The idea of waving a wand to fix your problem was an insult to the farmer’s own special brand of country magic.

“Best get comfortable then” said Harcourt, shooing some chickens off a pile of sacking and sitting down. Vilori made a face at the none-too-clean seat and gingerly sat on it so that as little of his expensive clothes touched it as possible.

Hours passed.

Night fell and a few stars winked in the overcast night. A thin sliver of moon garnished the navy-blue cocktail of night which made Vilori look wistfully down the road to the pub.

“Do we get a dinner break?” he asked mildly still looking at the far away windows glowing yellow.

“I suppose we could in an hour,” said Harcourt who had begun staring with him. After all, it’s not like we’re expected to go without for 12 hours.

“Right,” agreed Vilori.

“And this way we won’t wake any of the house,” said Harcourt, pointing to the black windows of his uncle’s farmhouse.

“Right.”

The two men sat in silence a while.

“I mean it’s not like were even getting paid by my uncle,” added Harcourt.

“Uh-huh,”

A few soft “bwucks” were the only sound as they two men anxiously watched Harcourt’s pocket watch.

“Nice night,” observed Vilori looking about at the monochrome landscape.

“Very mild, yes,” said Harcourt.

…

…

“If memory serves, the pub does ploughman’s pie on Thursday nights,” said Harcourt.

“With those little round onions?” asked Vilori

“Yuh.”

Both men silently contemplated the virtues of tiny crunchy onions.

“Right! Best take our break now so we can concentrate on chicken-watching later, eh?” said Harcourt rising to his feet.

“Good plan,” agreed Vilori.

The two men, being very quiet so as not to disturb the household or the chickens padded softly off the farmlands and (when they were out of earshot) legged it down the road to the sign of the Fiddler’s Riddle.

A one hour break turned into a two hour long rest which turned into a “lemme buy yus jus’ wummore round,” and finally became a “we shu’ definly (hic) definly be getting’ back, we should. When the landlord shoved the two men out the door so he could finally get to bed, Harcourt and Vilori stumbled back to Uncle Red’s chickens.

“Shhhhh!” hissed Harcourt in a voice that would have woken stone.

“Whazzut?” shouted Vilori.

“SHHHHHHHH!” hissed Harcourt in a louder hiss, spraying his friend liberally in the process.

“I fink you’re deflating,” slurred Vilori. “I hear an air leak somewhere.”

“So we should ge’ back to the chickens,” mumbled Harcourt.

“Your uncles gon’ go spare,” mumbled Vilori.

“Nahhh nahh…. Nah… nah nah nah… nah…” said Harcourt shaking his head in intervals. “I mean, YES, but he’s not going to find out!!”

“Oh,” said Vilori flopping onto the sackcloth where he sat for a while, letting his organs sift through the hefty amount of toxins he’d just dumped in ‘em.

After an hour of silent processing a thought occurred to a slightly more sober Vilori.

“Harcourt?”

“Mm?”

“Have you noticed something?”

“What’s that?”

“That suddenly there’s a distinct lack of chickens on this chicken farm?”

Jumping to his feet (and managing to find  them on the second attempt) Harcourt blearily stumbled around the yard looking into the coops. They were, to the last bird, EMPTY. Blood and alcohol drained from Harcourt’s face.

“Oh bugger,” he gasped.

“Harcourt?” called Vilori.

“Yuh?”

“How organized are chickens?”

Harcourt pondered this for a moment, “The HELL do you mean, how organized’re chickens?”

“Well some birds travel in “V” formations, right”

“Yeah, well that’s PROPER birds, innit? Not bleedin’chickens.”

“So most chickens don’t walk in single file, do they?”

“No!” shouted Harcourt until Vilori’s question probed at him. “WHY?”

“Because these chickens did,” said Vilori pointing to a thin chain of chicken tracks leading out of the yard in a PERFECTLY straight line.

READ THE CONCLUSION HERE!

The Nature of Magic

This is an Excerpt taken from my YA novel, Madame Bluestocking's Pennyhorrid. It's slated for publication next winter. In this quasi-Edwardian world, Magic has all but disappeared. All that is left are a few stray Elves, Dragons, Magic Crystals, and ...occasionally a few very mad wizards. Evelyn Kelly is one of these sad magical men. His partner in crime is one of the last Elves, Lynald Wingaurd.

Kelly was lost to the world and it wasn’t due to any indulgence in spirits this time. In fact he hadn’t had a drink in over seventeen hours and it was beginning to tell on his sparking, fizzing nerves. But it meant that his brain was alive and running on energy more potent than a dynamo. He was reading his prized tomes, the hand-written heirloom grimoires of the Amazing Meriwether Maydock, wizard and machinist extraordinaire. Inspector Slaven had readily retrieved them, along with Lynald’s tools, from the evidence locker. Reading the grimoire was a lengthy process. Meriwether, whether out of typical wizardly paranoia or sheer bloody-mindedness, wrote in his journals using encrypted code. This code would differ from page to page depending on what Meriwether felt like using.

Maydock’s Code was derived using a complex magical algorithm written at the top of each entry, and each formula would vary, producing a different code. Being the product of a wizard’s imagination, the formulae tended to defy conventional mathematics and required a kind of (as Lynald put it) ‘fluffy wizard logic’ to solve it. Lynald had once tried to solve one of the algorithms and had needed to lie down for an hour afterwards. Kelly, however, had already solved two-thirds of the seven-hundred and ninety-two collective pages after only a year. His mind was more attuned to solving problems like “If green is to 28 as Jam is to Wednesday, where did I leave my socks?” The answer of course, being, “well, where did you last see them?”

Kelly would then plot the alphabet on a Venn diagram where the “x” was labeled Jam and “y” as Wednesdays and “z” as green. For example: There were 6 kinds of Jam beginning with “B”: blueberry, blackberry, boysenberry, bilberry, black currant and blood orange. None of those were green. He’d eaten two kinds last Wednesday and it had taken him 7 minutes to find his socks. So B was given a value of 15 with a green value of 0.

It didn’t make sense, but then sense always takes a back seat to “logic.”


You can currently read the first four chapters of Madame Bluestocking's Pennyhorrid at Dr. Fantastique's Show of Wonders.

GO BACK TO TESSA'S NATURE OF MAGIC BLOGFEST

(I coudln't get the images to fit.) :P

BOOK 2 IS NOW ON SALE!!

UPDATED, 9/6/2011
'Runs in Good Condition' by Monica Marier is now available in paperback and e-book formats from lulu.com

Linus is back from his travels with money to burn and a grateful family. Only now he finds himself swept up in a danger worse than dragons and kobolds: Politics. Nominated for Union President Linus goes toe to toe with crooked leaders, a tank of water, dancing slippers, pop singers, corsets, and even a werewolf or two. That is if he even passes the qualifying rounds… and if he can avoid planting his foot in his mouth every two seconds.

Whether you’re liberal, conservative, or nihilist, there’s nothing as impolitic as Linus Weedwhacker: Candidate at Large!

Praise for Must Love Dragons (Book 1 of ‘The Linus Saga’)

**“…A dungeon crawling adventure with heart and a sense of humor. Five stars all the way.”

**“Linus [is] 'John McClane in Middle Earth.'... a real page-turner”

**“A Fun Fantasy Romp! With great characters and terrific plot twists, this book was fun, from start to finish.”

**“It's a wonderfully witty book, that pokes fun at growing older, dealing with impudent newbies and wondering just how good were the 'good ol' days.'”

**“This is a beautifully written story full of truly likable characters.”

**“A fun satire of the classic 2-d fantasy character turned three dimensional… I'd recommend this to any humor/fantasy and especially any Pratchett/Discworld fans.”

**“It takes a good sense of humor as well as a stiff upper lip... Highly recommended.” ~ Midwest Book Review

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