Denizens and Dragons: A Humorous Fantasy: The Faerie King Trilogy, #3

By Kevin Partner

A reluctant mage, a deluded dragon and a very scary fairie.
Bill Strike is abducted on the eve of his wedding by an elf and her band of carrier lizards and finds himself transported to the Beyond where it seems all is not well. The elfs blame him for an invasion of walking wooden robots and he's faced with a stark choice - destroy the machines or never see his world, and his fiance, again.
In the meantime, Chortley Fitzmichael's father is murdered and he's the chief suspect. To make matters worse, his homicidal half-sister is now countess and is scouring the country for him.
Add to this three witches, a bloody annoyed potential bride and a mysterious stranger who shares a past with Mother Hemlock and you have a recipe for chaos. And laughs.
If you enjoy the Discworld novels of Terry Pratchett, you'll love this fast paced tale of elfs, dragons, dwarfs and faeries. The last book in the trilogy, Denizens and Dragons promises laughs, thrills and a happy ending.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trantor Press
• Release date: Sep 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393292975

Kevin Partner

Kevin Partner has been programming computers since 1983 when he bought his first ZX Spectrum and learned BASIC. He's been a professional programmer since the mid 1990s and has been a contributer to PCPro Magazine since 1995. Kevin has an Honours degree in technology and has mastered dozens of programming languages. He is a massive advocate of the Raspberry Pi which he sees as the ideal gateway into programming

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DENIZENS & DRAGONS

A Humorous Fantasy

Kevin Partner

Denizens & Dragons: A Humorous Fantasy

Copyright ©2018 Kevin Partner

All rights reserved

The characters, organisations, and events portrayed in this book are fictitious (obvs). Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, are coincidental and not intended by the author. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

First Edition.

NOTE: This is a revised version of Strike Alight which was published in 2017

Published by Trantor Press

www.kevpartner.co.uk

To my Dad, the wisest and best man I ever knew.

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The Wolf of Wool Street

Ignis Bel, retired alchemist, gets lumbered with a wolf in the fold. Should he give it up to the door-to-door wolf-hunters? Is it guilty or is it an innocent victim. Or is it simple an idiot?

This is a story set in the Tworld, two worlds in different dimensions fused together. And across that gap comes a threat from the land of Faerie.

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Chapter 1

Never outsource the catering to dwarfs, they’ll always sell you short.

On the Tworld, this is a famous saying. Unfortunately for Bill Strike, soon-to-be bridegroom, he hadn’t heard it before - catering and weddings not being familiar topics. He was a lost traveller in an unfamiliar landscape.

On the other hand, his soon-to-be bride hadn’t yet found out that he’d entrusted the provision of food and drink for the most important day of her life to Messrs Layzee, Slipshod and Tardy, Purveyors of Economical Delights for Important Occasions on a Budget.

Bill suspected that, had she known this, he would cease to be a bridegroom-in-waiting and progress speedily and with deadly force to becoming the former fiancé never to be mentioned again. And the wedding was planned for next week.

Bill looked down at the economically sized hors d’oeuvres on the not-even-remotely silver tray and then looked down further at the dwarf holding it.

Aren’t you gonna try one? asked the dwarf from somewhere around Bill’s knee level.

Bill put out a tentative hand and searched for the nibble that looked least obnoxious. It was a challenge, but he eventually found one that seemed to contain something recognisable.

"Ah, I see you’ve selected one of our specialities Fromage de blaireau."

With great care, Bill put the small biscuit and its payload into his mouth. He ran his tongue around it before chewing down and swallowing. Cheese? he said. Not bad. It’s a bit on the small side, though, isn’t it?

The dwarf reddened. Small? Who are you calling small?

I meant the cheese, it’s not exactly a mouthful.

Well what do you expect? It’s not easy to milk badgers, you know. There’s all the hair, for one thing, and they’re bloody difficult to persuade to sit still while you do it.

Bill retched and the cheese rocketed from his gullet and flew across the kitchen to smack into a wall, where it remained, stuck and smoking.

The dwarf shook his head. "Waste of a good cheese. That was gormet¹, that was."

Bill held his breath as he poured water from a jug straight down his throat which, at this point, felt as though it was stuck together from the inside. After a few coughs and more deep breaths, he felt able to continue.

I’m sure, Mr… sorry… I didn’t catch your name.

That’s because you weren’t listening when I told you. It’s something to do with my height, you see, words spoken up at people seem to lack authority or importance, the dwarf said, sadly. My name is Stubbornly Lax, and I am a smelter of niceties.

By this point, Bill had seated himself at a table in the kitchen of Hemlock’s Farm and was, therefore, able to look the dwarf in the eye. The problem is, Mr Lax, that I don’t think my wife-to-be… At this point, his eyes glazed over. The casual observer might have assumed that he was imagining the delights of the honeymoon night. Anyone who knew Brianna, on the other hand, would know that his mind was actually full of knives and their potential proximity to his wedding equipment.

His face hardened. Caught between making a firm of dwarfs unhappy (and, by extension, all dwarfs in the locality - they were gossipy bastards) and thus risking a cudgel in the dark the next time he was walking the streets of Upper Bottom, and the sure and certain knife in the privates he’d receive² if he cocked up the catering, he chose to upset the little people.

He could hear her derisive voice echoing in the chambers of his mind. "One job! You said you wanted to be involved in the wedding plans, and so I asked you to sort out the catering. I mean, how hard could it be? One job! That’s all you had, and you cocked it up!"

There was nothing else for it. I’m sorry, but this just isn’t good enough.

Bill had never seen a chameleon, but if he had, he’d have still believed it couldn’t hold a candle to the speed with which Stubbornly’s face went from pink, through red, to purple. Not good enough? he erupted. "This is finest dwarfish fayre! Do you know how hard it is to convince dwarf chefs to share their finest recipes with you BFGs?³ You know, we have a saying ‘A little goes a long way’ and I bet you've not got the taste of the badger cheese out of your mouth, have you?"

Well, that’s true enough, Bill replied. He ran his tongue around the inside of his jaw to check for any damage. No teeth had dissolved, but there were a number of suspiciously sticky lumps between them. And his mouth tasted like rancid cider.

So, when you look at it that way, we’re actually very economical. One badger-cheese-on-a-stick and the guest is not going to want to eat anything else in a hurry.

Plucking another lump of steaming detritus from between his teeth, Bill flicked it into the kitchen sink. He found a milking stool and sat on it, facing the dwarf. Look, I’m sure your food is of gormet standard, but we’re catering for a less, um, discerning audience.

The dwarf’s face brightened. Ah, I see what you mean, he said, scratching his chin thoughtfully, a rural audience, would you say?

Oh definitely, some of the guests have never even seen a paved road, Bill lied, adding mortar to the brick wall of their shared delusion.

So, perhaps, something a little simpler would be more appropriate?

Bill nodded vigorously. And more capacious.

For the same money?

Yes, Bill said. His budget had been set by Brianna, and some of it had already been sunk into the several pints of Pickled Stoat it had taken for him and his father, Blackjack, to discuss the wedding plans.

Stubbornly sucked his teeth and shook his head. Well, that’s a challenge and no mistake. More food for less money, is it?

That’s about the size of it, Bill responded.

The dwarf’s face tightened as resentment at the use of that particular adjective clashed briefly with the clinking of gold in his customer’s pocket. Gold that could be his. Well, I’m afraid there will have to be compromises.

Fair enough.

We’ll have to cut out the badger cheese, spider souffle and owl pellet soup, he said.

Bill shook his head in mock disappointment. Well, if there’s no budget.

But we could probably manage to squeeze a few fox testicles into the cream tea.

No, that’s okay, really, Bill managed, wincing.

Stubbornly shrugged. That’s a pity. All we’re left with, then, would be a pig on a spit and lots of cheap ale.

Bill relaxed. Sounds perfect.

Well, it’s your funeral, Stubbornly said.

Not any more, thought Bill.

Chapter 2

AND SO IT WAS THAT

the day of the wedding arrived. Acceptable food arrived also, which meant that the bridegroom, if not quite awarded a gold star for originality by his beloved, could at least enjoy the prospect of the honeymoon with his essential equipment intact. And, if he was very lucky, no ammunition in the locker for their future years together.

Well, I think you look bloody lovely, Gramma said as Brianna did a twirl in her wedding dress. It was, she reflected, probably the single most girly thing she’d ever done. The old woman was sitting in a rocking chair in the corner of the master bedroom at Hemlock’s Farm. The fresh sun of an early summer morning threw onto the floor a pillar of dusty light that Brianna walked through feeling, for that one moment, as if she was an elf princess dancing in the dawn of a new world. Elfs. Bugger. That brought her back to reality with a bump.

You does indeed. Brianna turned to see her mother at the door, smiling and, yes indeed, with the faintest trace of moisture in the corners of her eyes. A day of miracles.

And the young lad’s done pretty well with the caterin’, continued Gramma, dunking a biscuit into her cup of builder’s tea. When I ‘eard the silly bugger ‘ad hired dwarfs, I said to Badger, ‘ere’, I said ‘what’s he done that for?’ I said it, didn’t I lad?

Badger, who’d been sitting beneath her chair in hopes of falling crumbs, looked up, raised his eyebrows and gave a brief nod with, if Brianna wasn’t mistaken, a hidden sigh that suggested she might have said it more than once.

I mean, some of the things those dwarfs eat, it’s bloody disgustin’. Folk ought to stick to plain, ordinary food from plain, ordinary, animals. Like chitterlin’s and lites, and a nice piece of turkey neck. That’s proper food.

Brianna opened the window and looked out over the farmyard. Smells as though they’ve started the pig roast already.

Yes, I shall be counting our stock after the buggers have gone, too, Mother Hemlock said. Her distrust of dwarfs was legendary and, in the main, entirely justified.

At least he settled for something conventional, Brianna replied. Not exactly imaginative, but safe enough. She paused for a moment, thinking. Unimaginative, but safe.

Mother Hemlock spotted the shadow that fell across her daughter’s face. Brianna ‘emlock, she said, with a sharpness that made Gramma jump. Badger edged into the shadow of the rocking chair. That lad is the best thing that’s happened to you in a month of Mondays. Being with someone what makes you feel safe is a good thing. I should think you’ve had enough excitement for one lifetime already. Then she realised what she’d said and put her hand over her mouth.

So, what you’re saying is that the excitement ends here, Brianna said softly.

Well, there’s always the wedding night, piped up Gramma. That should be pretty bloody exciting. And quite surprising. Anyway, don’t do the lad down. He’s the quiet sort and they often ‘ave hidden paddles. Like ducks, she continued into the vacuum of silence, they’re all quiet-like on the surface, but under the water their lickle legs are goin’ like the crappers.

Brianna glowered. He’s a duck, now, is he? Not an eagle or a hawk or, for godsakes, even a heron, but a harmless, boring, safe duck.

It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that every bride has a meltdown on her wedding morning. The more iron their certainty, the more shocking it is when it collapses in the forge of commitment and spreads liquid fire among all those standing closest to it.

Brianna sat on the edge of the bed, her shoulders sagging. Am I doing the right thing, mum?

Yes, Jessie Hemlock replied. The Hemlocks were famous for their ability to pronounce judgement on the minimum available evidence. That lad would do anything for you. And he’s got fairie blood in his veins, so there’s like as not more to come from him. And, let’s be frank, daughter, he has the sort of stamina any husband of yours is goin’ to need.

Brianna looked up at her mother, her eyes wet. So I should marry him because he puts up with me?

Mother Hemlock shrugged. Well, he’s lasted a lot longer than any of your other boyfriends. That makes him pretty special in my book.

Don’t look a gift hearse in the mouth, pronounced Gramma from the rocking chair.

Horse, Mother Hemlock said.

Gramma sipped her tea, as if contemplating this revelation. I always wondered about that. I reckoned it must be something to do with zombies.

Get out, Brianna whispered.

Mother Hemlock’s head snapped round so fast, it almost spun off. What was that?

I want to be alone.

Oh, now don’t be like that, Gramma said in what, she imagined, was a soothing tone. We’ve all been a lickle bit frickened on our wedding morning. I remember when I married Pa Tickle, I were a bungle of nerves, but it were fine in the end. Mind you, the first five years were pretty bloody awful.

Now, Brianna said. Quietly and without fuss, Mother Hemlock and Gramma Tickle shuffled past the brooding bride and closed the door behind them. A casual observer might have been surprised to see the two experienced witches obeying without further protest, but had that observer seen Brianna’s face, all would have been explained. There are portraits hanging in the Lyle Ancient Gallery in Varma, portraits of the most notorious tyrants, conquerors and maniacs (and, in the case of Yessie Khan, all three at once) and yet their careers would have been cut short had they encountered Brianna Hemlock wearing the expression currently etched into her face. Particularly if she’d been behind the reins of a chariot.

#

She watched from the thorny cover of a hedgerow. There were many people, humans and the wretched dwarfs, milling around. Far more than she’d seen over the days she’d been observing the farm. Patience was part of the job description for the likes of her. She could sit, perfectly still, and watch for days, weeks and months on end. None would notice her because she couldn’t possibly be there.

But today was the appointed day. It was the summer solstice, one of the four days of the year when the magical barriers that protected the portals were at their weakest, when she could pass through with ease and return home. Ah, the blessed realm, where the colours were more vivid, the tastes more vivacious and the smells… She breathed in, as if savouring the anticipation. Then, quite suddenly, her nasal receptors shifted from anticipation to actuality and overloaded with a pungent mix of manure, pollen and freshly lit charcoal. She sneezed convulsively, then froze. There was a moment’s silence here, on the edge of the field, looking across to the farmyard, and then the birds began to twitter again, as if they, too, couldn’t bring themselves to accept what had, for a moment, obviously been there.

She controlled her breathing to bring it down to its usual, calm rhythm and scanned the landscape. No-one appeared to have noticed. Good. But then, what did she expect? Blundering fools. Well, they’d notice her soon enough. She’d be ready to move as soon as the cavalry arrived.

#

It wasn’t so much the headache, the stale, furry taste in his mouth, or the sensation that he wasn’t quite here that were the worst after effects of his cock party the previous night, it was the memories.

As he’d grown up, he’d heard all sorts of stories of pre-nuptial adventures, but he was pretty certain none of them had involved sitting in a quiet pub with a collection of relatives he hardly knew, other relatives he wished he didn’t know, and his homicidal maniac of a half brother. No, that wasn’t fair, Chortley had shown himself to be quite a decent sort over their recent adventures together, and the fact that he’d apparently won the heart of the gorgeous witch Velicity De Veer had to count for something. Bill was ashamed that his overriding emotion, on that particular score, was one of jealousy. He’d hardly been able to speak when he’d first met her.

But Chortley had been the problem, there was no doubt about that. He was the bastard son of Count Walter Fitzmichael, liege lord of the county and the nastiest tyrant you could wish to be 100 miles away from. This upbringing had not prepared him for an evening sandwiched between two of Brianna’s uncles where the cultural zenith was a discussion about which of Fingered Bishop or Abbot’s Delight was the finer pint of scumpy. The closest Chortley had come to being qualified to comment in such a debate was the half pint of Bland he’d tried at a pub in Winklesdon. To be fair to him, he’d tried to use his much wider knowledge of fine wines to contribute to the debate, but these bumpkins didn’t know a cabernet from a cabinet. So, he’d sat there and sulked, his mood casting a gloom over an already subdued event.

Bill’s father, Blackjack, had hardly been much brighter. It had been eighteen months and more since his humiliation at the hands of the Faerie King, but the Blackjack of old showed no signs of resurfacing. He was polite enough, and would respond if spoken to, but returning to the scene of his woes had, if anything, caused a relapse. And as for Brianna’s relatives, they were, generally, a suspicious lot who weren’t convinced that Bill was a suitable suitor. It seemed that being a fire mage and guardian of the free world wasn’t a sufficient qualification. After all, the lad couldn’t take his scumpy.

Bill would be the first to admit that he had a pretty low toleration threshold for alcohol. Back home, supping on familiar ales, he’d generally be fast asleep before he’d finished the third pint. Unfortunately, scumpy had a different effect - it kept him awake long enough to be dancing on the table rather than snoring underneath it. And, as with all alcohol, it magnified the general mood which, in the case of the previous night, had been dark enough already.

Fortunately, the evening had been saved by the arrival of an old friend. The locals had been discussing a worrying increase in cases of chicken-rustling when the door swung open and a hulking figure stood framed against the night. What ho! it cried. Is there a lad here by the name of Bill Strike?

Flaxbottom! Bill leapt out from between uncles Enok and Ezra, banged his knees against the underside of the table and limped over to embrace the poultry infused figure of the Wing Commander.

I hoped you were coming! he said, stepping away and gesturing to a quiet bench and leaving Chortley glowering amongst the relatives.

Flaxbottom tapped the side of her nose. The KFC was engaged on a secret mission, lots of chicken abduction going on, it seems. But, anyway, let’s not talk business. I arrived at the Hemlock’s farm an hour ago and, after settling the squad into their temporary barracks, decided I’d come and say hello myself. I know, technically, it’s a cock party…

Bill nodded towards the gloomy assemblage. Oh, we have no shortage of cocks already. Frankly, Permanence, you’ve saved the evening. The KFC triumphs again!

Flaxbottom’s cheeks coloured as she waved away Bill’s compliment.

So, what have you been doing since, you know, the battle? he asked, returning with a pint of scumpy.

Flaxbottom took a mouthful, nodded in a satisfied fashion, and put the tankard down. Excellent, if a little sweet, she said. Well, there is much to tell, but where to begin?

Have you rebuilt the Amelia?

I have done better than that! Flaxbottom boomed, her chest inflating with pride and forcing the buttons on her khaki jacket to strain menacingly. After leaving the Hemlocks, I returned to my farm and gave most of the squadron an extended period of rest and recuperation, while I and a hand picked team of my finest operatives - I call them the CIA…

The what?

Flaxbottom smiled. "Chickens In Action, or the Poultry Dozen, as I sometimes call them." She guffawed to herself for a few moments as Bill sat, titterless, waiting for her to continue.

Where did you take the CIA?

To the jungles of Awimbaway, to seek fresh stocks of featherwood with which to build a replacement for Amelia - the Amy.⁴ Flaxbottom sighed, and gazed into her memory. "Oh, I do miss Amelia, she was a pioneer. But Amy, you should see her, Bill, she’s a miracle! Brianna won’t