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!

MADAME BLUESTOCKING'S PENNYHORRID ON SALE NOW!

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!

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