Ratastrophe Catastrophe Read online

Of course, he had been carrying the flute. Although he hadn’t actually been playing it, he supposed the slightest hint of a note had kept them with him.

  He didn’t know where this knowledge came from; he simply knew it to be true.

  It was the same with sheep: they followed him everywhere. Then again, they were sheep, and sheep will eagerly pursue anyone who looks like they might have a vague idea of where they’re headed. But it didn’t explain the cows, horses, pigs, dogs, birds, lizards, and other, more nondescript creatures whose fixed attentions he had drawn during the waning week.

  Diek came to a sudden stop, cast his gaze back to the group of girls and then down at the instrument resting in his palm.

  Play. Won’t you play? Won’t you, Diek? Play.

  The three faces were sullen, lips turned down, and no voice seemed to have risen among them.

  Hesitantly, almost reluctantly, he raised the flute to his lips.

  “Look at them cows. Now, there’s a thing,” the barrowbird said, as it flapped and squawked its way on to Pier Wustapha’s shoulder.

  Diek’s father stood at the door of the cottage and looked out over his broad acres of farmland. Presently, his wife joined him, her face a patchwork of wrinkled confusion. “What’re they doing, love?” she managed, aghast.

  The question produced a shrug from her husband and a thoughtful scowl from the barrowbird.

  “Beats me, love,” said Pier. “It looks like they’re making for the field nearest Olvi’s place.”

  “Why would they do that, d’you think?”

  Pier Wustapha shook his curly head. “I’ve no idea. There’s nothing much over that way, apart from—”

  His wife waited for an end to the sentence, but none came. “Apart from what?” she prompted.

  Pier scratched at his bottom lip.

  “Well,” he said, uncertainly, “I saw young Diek go off that way this very mornin’. They could be followin’ after him like Mibbit’s dog and the cat as hangs around the farm. Seems like every livin’ thing’s taken after the lad. Even old Tyler’s daughters were on the trot when I last spied ’em.”

  “Oh no.” Mrs. Wustapha rolled her eyes. “Not them again! What is it with the lad?”

  Pier lanced a boil with an overgrown fingernail. “He’ll be all right in time,” he said. “It’s…er…it’s probably just a phase he’s going through.”

  Mrs. Wustapha frowned. She didn’t look too sure.

  “Play some more, Diek, won’t you play some more?”

  The words had definitely come from Dreena this time. Her sky-blue eyes were piercing his soul; he felt like a rabbit caught in the trapper’s mechanical jaw, awaiting the inevitable. And all the while, a voice, The Voice, seared through his thoughts like a hot blade You can have anything, Diek Wustapha, anything you want. All you have to do is—

  “Diek!”

  His father’s voice, distant but determined.

  All you have to do—

  “Diek, lad!”

  All you have—

  “Diek!”

  A sharp slap burned his cheek, and Diek awoke from his reverie. The girls had drifted away to make room for his father, who was shaking him as if fearful that he might have descended into a swoon. As Diek came round, Pier Wustapha staggered back, looking at his own hand as if seeing it for the first time. He’d only given the boy a glancing slap, yet his hand felt as though someone had been sticking needles in it.

  “That’s it, lad,” he spat, massaging his aching palm. “That’s it, you hear me? It’s time you went away from here, got yourself a place in the world. There’s something badly amiss with you, boy, and I’m damned if your mother an’ I are gonna get thrown out o’ the village because of it.”

  FOUR

  DUKE MODESET, RELUCTANT RULER of Dullitch and its bubonic environs, reclined in his chair and gazed absentmindedly at the large family crest over the fireplace; a regular pool of rainwater appeared beneath it during every shower. It was a sign of the times. Recently, the payment of city taxes had become so rare that the palace staff had been forced to block up leaks with such finery. Even his marble throne had been an early casualty in the war against bad weather: it was now to be found atop the east tower, where it served as a weight for the antique trapdoor beneath it.

  Modeset squinted, coughed, and yelled for the mail. Then, remembering the servants’ favored delay in responding to commands, went to fetch it himself. The contents of the royal mailbox turned out to be three tax demands addressed to an unknown cobbler, an appeal for donations from the Church of Urgumflux the Wormridden, and a letter from Tambor Forestall, the council chairman, notifying him of the city’s official line on the rat situation.

  Modeset’s hawkish features fell foul of a frown; it was very unusual for the council to put anything in writing, let alone provide multiple-choice solutions and several small boxes requiring the royal seal. Their new chairman must be quite the ticket. Slowly, however, the duke’s smile returned. It appeared that the council leader had mistakenly dispatched the original draft of his letter which, bereft of secretarial corrections, read:

  Dear Lord Madshat,

  The council and I are fully aware that you are by way of being a little mentally challenged, so we’ll avoid using long sentences in order to make this letter very simple.

  City—Problem—

  PLAGUE OF RATS

  SOLUTION

  POSSIBLE/KNOWN DRAWBACKS

  1. Hire a ratcatcher

  There is not a ratcatcher in the entire city who’ll go near a job like this with a ten-foot bargepole.

  2. Send in the militia

  Of our 1,004 militiamen, 1,000 are currently deployed in the mountains of Mavokhan in our war against Phlegm, and the other four are off sick.

  3. Burn affected areas

  This is not really a solution, as burning down all affected areas of the city would leave just the palace and Joe Donn’s Bakery

  4. Hire mercenaries

  No drawbacks. Mercenaries do just about anything for the right price, and several of the household names are known to be at large in the hills around Dullitch at this time.

  Best wishes,

  Tambor Forestall, Chairman

  Modeset finished reading the letter, sighed, and rang for his manservant. Pegrand Marshall arrived with characteristic lethargy, a silver platter in one hand and, for reasons probably best left unknown, a plunger in the other.

  “You rang, milord?” said Pegrand, bowing his head before the duke.

  Modeset was shaken from his reverie. “Mmm? Oh, yes, so I did. Get my carriage, will you? We need to pay a long-overdue visit to City Hall; it appears the council has drawn up a selection of possible actions against our rat crisis, and they require my seal.”

  “I see, milord,” said Pegrand. “Does that actually demand a personal appearance?”

  “Mmm? No, it does not. However, I have chosen the option of hiring mercenaries and I would like to ensure that our good friends in the council recruit the, how can I put it, correct breed of scumbag for the job. Does that sound right?”

  “Absolutely, milord. After the Virgin Sacrifice Scandal—”

  “Exactly,” said the duke, shivering at the memory of that disaster.

  “What was that heathen’s name again, sir?”

  “Umm, Teethgrit, I believe; a suitably heinous name. Shall we go?”

  FIVE

  DEEP BENEATH DULLITCH, THE rodent tide began to swell. Driven on by the urgency to feed, the rats tumbled over one another in their haste to reach the surface, forming a terrible frenzied carpet that flowed inexorably upward. Despite the twisted maze of the sewers, the rats swept along with an eerie purpose, veering at every junction, scratching at every grate. The carpet of vermin seethed on: thousands of tiny legs scrambled insanely toward their distant goal, while rows and rows of gleaming teeth chattered longingly for sustenance….

  The city awaited.

  The Dullitch North Gate was hemorrhaging he
ralds. They rode forth in every direction, each one privately more determined than the others to return with the city’s savior; each one secretly wondering just how much of the reward money he could pocket.

  First out of the gate was a gangly, greasy youth named Jimmy Quickstint. He rode the fastest, youngest, and most agile of the horses, though, because of his natural inferiority complex, he thought it the cripple of the bunch. Jimmy had, in an illustrious career spanning more than three years, worked as a baker’s assistant, an apprentice alchemist, and as journeyman to an insane toy maker with designs on world domination. He currently spent his nights bidding for membership of Yowler’s elite thievery consortium. His days were spent serving burned fry-ups at Spew’s Breakfast Bar. Occasionally (on a Wednesday afternoon as a rule), he also found time to be a city herald.

  Jimmy didn’t know very much about horses. Indeed, he was so focused on staying astride his beast that he had little or no idea that he was a good mile ahead of his nearest rivals. He had even less of a clue that two of Illmoor’s most infamous mercenaries were leaving a village along his current path and he would soon be accosted by them. Some knowledge you can do without.

  The road out of Spittle was notorious. It wound its way along the floor of a wide valley surrounded by lush and verdant woodland. Here and there ancient standing stones would mark rises in the road, an idea employed by Duke Modeset’s predecessor toward the end of his reign to ensure the safe passage of Dullitch’s lumbering war wagons. Despite the fragrant air and sweet serenity of the surroundings, no one except the poor or suicidal ever traveled this way; the road was a notorious breeding ground for bandits.

  Gordo Goldeaxe put his head to one side and squinted. A poster was nailed to one of the trees, fluttering in the breeze. He jumped up and ripped it down. “‘Wanted for Crimes Against Alchemy,’” he read, gripping the poster in his chubby little hands. “’Leaven Grismal. Reward if believable explanation given to Society of Alchemists.’”

  Loud footsteps approached, and a sword was stuck into a patch of ground beside the tree. A palm the size of a melon gripped the dwarf’s shoulders and lifted a stout battle-axe off its half-rotted strap. It had been hanging precariously for the last half an hour, and Groan was tired of watching his small companion struggle with it.

  “Thanks,” said Gordo.

  A nod.

  “Looks like your typical idiot gold brewer,” the dwarf continued, attempting to read the small print on the poster with little success. “Don’t suppose there’s much money in it.”

  His companion said nothing.

  “Is there something wrong with you, Groan?”

  Gordo looked up at a man of immense proportions. Muscles jostled for position in every limb, like snakes trying to escape from a sack. He was absolutely massive, and would have struck terror into the hearts of most living beings, had it not been for the crocheted bobble hat that perched atop his head like a cherry on a cupcake.

  “You’ve been miserable all week,” said Gordo, removing his helmet and tucking it under one arm. “Ever since you saw that magic rainbow thingy just past Irksome.”

  “Yeah, well, you know ’ow it is,” said Groan, turning his bulbous head skyward. “I don’t trust magic, specially when it comes from the clouds. ’S bad enough when we ’ad sorcerers firin’ off spells left, right, an’ center, now we’ve got magic comin outta the sky. Can you ’magine what’d’ve ’appened if that blast ’ad hit us?”

  “Well, it didn’t,” snapped Gordo, impatiently. “It hit some stranger down in the valley.”

  Groan frowned. “How’d you know that?”

  “I saw it through the telescope,” answered the dwarf as he stuffed the poster into his belt. “I didn’t show you because you were waving that sword around like a lunatic. Oh, and speaking of lunacy, Groan, where exactly did you get that hat?”

  “Killed an orc up near Scoon,” said Groan, flossing his teeth with a length of twine. The warrior gave great attention to his teeth and—when engaged in combat—to those belonging to other people. “This hat was all he had on him.”

  The dwarf appeared to consider this. “Couldn’t you just have left it there?” he asked.

  The warrior tried to shrug off the observation, but Gordo was undeterred by Groan’s attempt to avoid giving a straight answer.

  “What is it? Why the hat?”

  When it came to taking hints, the dwarf wasn’t the quickest of companions. The only drifts caught by his family were the kind you had to remove with a shovel.

  Groan stared down at Gordo long and hard. Then he removed the hat. The hills echoed with laughter.

  “How did that happen?” said Gordo, once he’d managed to regain control of himself.

  “You remember that dragon up at Vale Wake?” said Groan, flushing with embarrassment.

  “You said it missed you,” said Gordo, still smirking as he gazed at his friend.

  “I lied,” said Groan, crestfallen.

  There were approximately ten hairs left on Groan Teethgrit’s once lock-laden scalp.

  “Cheer up,” said Gordo, patting the warrior companionably on the kneecap. “Could be worse.”

  Somehow, the statement was less than convincing.

  “Horse up ahead,” said Gordo, changing the subject. “Maybe more than one. You know what that means?”

  “Aye,” answered Groan. “It means we’ll ’ave somethin’ to ride to the next village.”

  A sudden flash of inspiration brought the dwarf to a standstill. “I’ve an idea! Why don’t we just go back to Spittle and take that air balloon the locals were mucking about with?” he said. “There’s no reason to kill these riders; we could just storm the square and…what?”

  Groan raised one eyebrow, a particularly expressive gesture for a man whose discourse was usually limited to a succession of grunts. He shrugged.

  “What I mean is,” Gordo continued, “we can’t attack on the road. Remember? The only folk who use the road these days are thieves and the local militia, and we can’t afford any more trouble with Dullitch, not after that mess-up with the Virgin Sacrifices. I still have nightmares about that. Whereas, if we get the baloon…

  “I ain’t gettin’ no b’loon,” said Groan, emphatically. “B’loons is for clowns, an’ I look like enough of an idiot in this hat.”

  “Oh come on, buddy. At least think about it,” pleaded Gordo.

  Groan gave the situation a moment’s thought. It was over in seconds. “We’ll attack the riders,” he said. “That’s what they’re there for.”

  “I vote we find out who it is, first,” said Gordo.

  Groan shook his head. “I wanna fight,” he said. “An’ kill folk.”

  “Right, fair play. So that’s one vote for you and one for me, giving me the majority.”

  A confused expression crossed Groan’s face.

  “Remember how I told you to work it out?” added Gordo.

  The horse was slowing; having been present at a number of notable land wars, it had an instinct for trouble. However, Jimmy Quickstint didn’t know this, so he dug in his heels and tried to urge it onward.

  Suddenly, there was an obstruction in the road. At first Jimmy took it for a mountain troll, but then he noticed the crocheted bobble hat and the leopard-skin posing pouch. Another distinguishing oddity, on closer inspection, appeared to be a barracuda tooth on a nipple ring.

  “First, get off the ’orse, or die,” it said. “Then you can ’and over all yer gold, or die. You’ll ’ave noticed that two of them…er…six options is you dyin’. Make yer choice.”

  Jimmy brought his horse to stop (at least, he meddled with the reins a little; the horse had actually stopped moving a few minutes before).

  “What do you want?” he asked, fearing another options-based summary of the situation.

  Groan looked momentarily taken aback. He wasn’t used to having to repeat himself.

  “Hang on, I know you!” Jimmy continued, his voice edged with genuine glee. “You�
�re Groan Teethgrit, the barbarian who got thrown from the Crest Tower after that business with the virgins!” The thief slapped his thigh, gave a little whistle and grinned like a hyena. “What happened to that fat one-eyed dwarf you used to hang out with? What was his name? Gordy?”

  “Gordo,” said Gordo, emerging from the thick undergrowth beside the path. His planned entrance had been rudely interrupted by the thief’s description of him as a “fat, one-eyed dwarf.” “And I’d thank you to keep personal remarks to a minimum while I’m carrying this battle-axe. You’ll find that protects against accidental decapitation.”

  Jimmy held out his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “I don’t want any trouble,” he said, the corners of his mouth turning nervously upward. “In fact, I’ve been looking for you two. That is, looking indirectly. I bring an important message from Duke Modeset and the Dullitch Council. It’s a message for several local mercenaries. Dullitch has been infested by a plague of giant rats. We need someone to go into the sewers and wipe them all out.”

  “What’s the pay like?” Gordo said, almost before Jimmy had finished speaking.

  The thief considered lying about the reward money, but quickly thought better of it. Instead, he whipped a scroll from his saddlebag and unfurled it. “Says here twenty gold crowns,” he began.

  “Twenty? But that’s absolutely—”

  “Per rat,” Jimmy continued.

  There was a momentary silence.

  “Plus a thousand crowns reward money for disposing of the entire horde.”

  There followed an even longer pause.

  “This mercenary list…how, um, how many names have you got on it?” said Gordo, speaking slowly and carefully.

  Jimmy performed a quick finger count. “Seven,” he said eventually. “You, your friend, Sven Sussussafson—”

  “Dead.” Groan interrupted. “Taken out by a dragon on the Loft Rise.”

  “Okay.” Jimmy nodded. “I’ll cross that one off. Er…Ffaff Qumray?”

  Gordo shook his head. “Mutilated by a skeleton horde up near Skoquement; terrible thing for a man to go through, ’n’ all. They actually sawed his leg off, usin’ his other leg.”