Please Kill the Neighbours

By Brian Wakeling

Most nuisance neighbours can be dealt with by a court order. When your neighbour is a country ruled by an evil wizard, we recommend a demon. Of course, you need someone ... disposable ... to summon the damn thing.

Meet Cullan and his companions, Alys and Kenyon, and follow their adventures when they're blackmailed into escorting Morgan, a gifted young mage, into a hostile country so that she can fulfil her Destiny.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 29, 2015
• ISBN: 9781326231842

Book preview

Please Kill the Neighbours

Please Kill The Neighbours

Book I of the

Have Sword & Sorcery: Will Travel™

series

A NaNoWriMo Novel

by Brian Wakeling

About the Author

Brian Wakeling was born in the Midlands, bred in the Home Counties, raised in Yorkshire, and went to university in Edinburgh, where he studied fencing and drinking at QMUC - from where he was finally kicked out for the second time in May 2000. He returned to Yorkshire nine months later where he tried to get a life, but couldn’t afford one. In summer 2005, following his ambition to get a job in a theatre, he moved down to London - and almost completely failed in this ambition. He has been writing in one form or another for most of his life. He was diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome in March 2009.

Other Books

Have Sword & Sorcery: Will Travel™

Please Kill the Neighbours

Finish the Job So We Don’t Have To

All’s Fair in Love and Politics

Things Never Go Smooth

Cult Following

Customs & Duty

The Dragon, Shrouded

The Dragon, Rising

The Dragon

Copyright

Copyright © Brian Wakeling 2006

I, Brian Wakeling, hereby assert and give notice of my right under sections 77 and 78 of the UK Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. Any unauthorised copying, lending, distributing or hiring is prohibited, whether by electronic or by any other means.

All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

The GURPS rules and system used as part of the creation of this work are © Steve Jackson Games. GURPS is a Registered Trademark of Steve Jackson Games.

Cover art by and © Ann-Cathrine Loo 2007

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

First Edition 2007

Second Edition 2008

Third Edition 2010

Fourth Edition 2015

Fifth Edition 2016

ISBN 978-1-326-23184-2

This forms part of The Published Works as defined in the SOAUL

(http://www.sabremeister.me.uk/soaul.html)

Have Sword & Sorcery: Will Travel is a Trademark of Brian Wakeling

http://www.sabremeister.me.uk/Hsaswt.html

http://www.catroll-art.co.uk/

Author’s Note (2007):

This was written for NaNoWriMo in 2006. It was written using the GURPS® roleplaying system to determine the decisions, choices and chances of the plot, and what the characters did with them. If they met the guards, I rolled the dice to see how many guards there were. I rolled out the combat. If they needed to climb a ladder or pick a lock, I rolled the dice. I had fun writing it, even on the occasions when my protagonists were one unlucky result away from dying and ruining the whole thing.

Second Author’s Note (2015)

While the writing method for the series may have changed over the years, as has (I hope) the style, the attention to detail has not. With the end of the series in sight, I have gone back over this for a final-final polish. I have also removed the subtitle. If you have a copy with the subtitle intact, cherish it – it may be valuable some day.

Dedication

To those who know

The Round Table off Leicester Square

from one Saturday afternoon every month:

Thanks for brightening up the year

Please Kill the Neighbours

Cullan was out in the city of Darash, after dark (and curfew), alone, and he couldn’t remember where the rendezvous was. Normally this wouldn’t be a problem, but he could hear the sound of marching feet approaching, and the feet were accompanied by the gentle clink of armour and weapons. He took the next left and hurried silently along it. He stopped at the end and hung in the shadows waiting. The feet were getting nearer. Their owners appeared at the far end of the short street, and the leader of the squad looked down it. Seeing nothing, he didn’t pause as he lead his squad on.

Cullan breathed out, and decided he would turn right here, keeping parallel to the street he’d been going down, to try and see if anything sparked his memory. He was in luck, as after a short walk, he saw a tavern. The rendezvous was only a few hundred yards down another street!

Unfortunately, the squad of watchmen could see him from their road. You! Halt! shouted the man at the head, as he hurried his squad towards Cullan’s already running form. Cursing himself for his bad luck, Cullan headed down the nearest alley, took a right, a left, another left, another right - and ended up looking at a brick wall twenty yards away. He skidded to a stop. He still might get away with it - the clanking of the guards’ armour was almost undetectable. However, not totally so, and it was getting louder. He could make out occasional orders, as well. Seeing nothing for it, he approached the wall, and attempted to climb it. He’d never been very good at free climbing, so it didn’t really surprise him when he slid back to the ground after only a few seconds. Seconds just enough for the squad to round the corner and block him in.

Cullan groaned inwardly as the Sergeant approached, his men spreading out to block the exit. He knew his appearance would not be very convincing as someone who had merely lost track of time whilst out for an evening stroll - especially at 3am. His, admittedly not-bad looks, were somewhat offset by the knife and shortsword he carried, and the leather Jack he wore. He also had a large satchel slung at his hip, in which he had some lockpicks, a line and grapnel - he swore again as he realised he could have used that to get over the wall - and the night’s takings. Nevertheless, he had to try, otherwise he would be in the stocks for two days - if they didn’t search him, and if they did, prison for a month or more, maybe. Ah, Sergeant, well done, he began, and sudden inspiration struck him. King Gort will be most pleased to hear my report of your sterling efforts to keep curfew enforced. He reached into his sleeve pocket and pulled out a small piece of paper with a coat of arms and some writing on - in fact, an arrest warrant - and flashed it towards the guardsman. I am instructed to report on the efficacy of the law and its’ enforcers, so if you’ll kindly allow me on my way, you can get back to your regular duties, and I to mine. He finished with an ingratiating smile.

You, the Sergeant said, after he had strolled up to within arms-reach, are a lying piece of criminal filth.

Valid point, Cullan conceeded, backing up slowly for the first time.

You are under arrest for Breach of Curfew, the Sergeant told him, advancing slowly. Cullan’s keen hearing caught two soft thumps nearby, that the Sergeant’s talking didn’t quite mask. Cullan carefully kept his eyes on his captor, in case looking over his shoulder would let him see something.

Really? he asked, playing for time. So, you didn’t believe my story then?

The Sergeant snorted. Believe you? I’ve heard more believable jokes!

At which point, one of the watchmen collapsed, and another cried out and staggered. Cullan took advantage of the Sergeant’s glance over his shoulder, and tried punching him in the jaw. It did little more than hurt his knuckles though - not that it mattered now, as Alys and Kenyon were here. Things were always alright when they were around. She knew more ways to incapacitate someone than Cullan had picked locks, and Kenyon was a skilled brute of a fighter. Cullan was the brains, they were the brawn. Well, Kenyon was the brawn, Alys was the eye-candy who would kill you for calling her that.

At least one of your lads has probably got a cracked skull, Cullan remarked, as the Sergeant roared and lunged for him, as his men dropped their halberds and drew their truncheons. By the time the six who were untouched had done so, Alys had doubled one of them over with a kick to the crotch, and Kenyon had unhooked his greataxe, and was preparing to use it as a club. He rammed the end of the haft into the face of the man he had hit and was still staggering, knocking him out cold. The first watchman to attack Alys missed. She grabbed his arm, turned him into one of his fellow’s attacks, and kicked out again, staggering back a second man. Kenyon swung his axe haft, dazing a guard, taking their number down to four, plus the Sergeant, who was grappling with Cullan, and getting the best of it. There was a brief lull as they took stock - the guards didn’t want to draw their swords, in case that prompted Kenyon to use his axe properly, or Alys to draw the slender blade slung down her back. They couldn’t retreat, and running for it would mean going past them. As for Kenyon and Alys, they had to help Cullan, so running was out, but to do so, they had to get past four upright watchmen, and one who was slumped against a wall, trying to raise his crossbow.

The lull didn’t last long. Kenyon held his axe like a staff and charged, catching the two nearest watchmen across their chests and pushing them back. Alys jump-kicked one of those facing her, and spun-kicked the other as she landed. The first staggered back a little, the other was slammed into the wall. Kenyon smacked one of his men in the face with the flat of the blade, dropping him, then turned and hurled the other into the other wall, next to the guy with the crossbow. He’d got it ready by now, and fired it with a jump as his mate met the brickwork. Kenyon hurled himself sideways and the quarrel spanged as it ricocheted off his mailed flank. Kenyon and Alys didn’t stop, they went straight to where Cullan and the Sergeant were grappling.

Do you want to hit him, or shall I? asked Kenyon.

One of you hit him, eh? grunted Cullan. Kenyon smacked the Sergeant on the back of the head with the butt of the axe. He yelled and let Cullan go, spinning round. Seeing the two warriors standing so close, his face turned from snarl to grimace, then slowly turned back to grin. He straightened up.

About bloody time! he called.

Cullan stopped rubbing his wrists, and Kenyon turned. He tapped Alys on the shoulder. She turned. What they saw was, apart from the two original watchmen still standing, now with crossbows ready, there was an entirely new squad behind them, fanned out across the entry to the alley, and they also had their crossbows aimed at the trio.

Ah, said Cullan. I don’t suppose either of you two can do anything about that lot?

No.

Nope.

Didn’t think so. Cullan turned to the Sergeant and gave him a big wide grin. Well, Sergeant, it appears I and my friends will be enjoying your hospitality tonight after all.

2

At least the cell was nice and roomy, and had four pallets, thought Cullan, an hour later. The guards had confiscated all their equipment (including the warrant for Cullan’s arrest and his satchel), and the one window was high, small, and barred. The front of the cell was floor-to-ceiling iron bars, and while it may have been possible to bend one a little so that they could slip out, it wasn’t likely that they could slip past the guard at the end of the corridor, next to the heavy, locked, oak-studded-with-iron door. The moon had set, the only illumination was torchlight, and they were stuck in jail, to await trial and severe punishment in the morning - breaking curfew was one thing, assaulting the city watch and resisting arrest were another.

Get your arse over here and get some sleep, Cullan, Alys tried again. She and Kenyon were both flat out on a pallet each, he asleep, her awake. Cullan was pacing up and down near the bars, and was trying to think. He smiled at her, although the effect was lost in the gloom.

Is that an invitation to get some sleep with you? he asked.

No, it’s me telling you to lie down on a pallet and sleep. We all need to be awake and alert at the trial.

Why bother? We’ll just be back here in a few hours anyway, and this time for years. He stalked over to Alys’ pallet, and squatted by her head. Unless, of course, the beautiful killing machine that you are has a plan to get us out of here when they come for us?

No, Cullan, Alys rolled over, I don’t. I want to get back on the road, earning an honest living.

Almost honest, rumbled Kenyon.

There are no caravans this season! There are no mercenary parties, no bandit-hunts, no noblemen wanting an escort! The winter is always slow, we agreed, we needed to be in a city to survive.

Go to sleep, Cullan. We can argue in the morning.

Fine. I’ll try and sleep, Cullan sighed, climbing onto the pallet next to Alys.

3

They were given no breakfast, but taken at mid-morning from the cell. Their wrists were bound, and they were heavily escorted through the streets from the watch-house, to a much more prosperous area. Cullan began to get a feeling of foreboding., but before he could voice his concerns, they turned onto a square - in fact, the main square of the city, with the royal palace at the far side of it.

Is that where we’re going for trial? he asked.

Kind of, replied the leader of the escort. The King himself wants to know who’s been taking his name in vain.

Oh shit.

That’s putting it mildly.

They marched on, through the main gates, down some steps. Their escort signed them over to the palace guard, who unbound their hands, and a group escorted them through some cramped, twisty, underground passages. At last, they climbed a set of stairs, and found themselves in an impressive antechamber. A chamberlain addressed them. You will speak only when spoken to. You will append all your replies with ‘Sire’, or ‘Your Majesty’. You will not turn your back on the Royal Presence. You will not leave until given permission to do so, and in the company of the guard. You will be truthful and honest at all times. You will wait here until you are summoned. He then opened one of the big double doors and went through it, closing it behind him.

Well, we are in trouble, aren’t we?

He said quiet! barked a guard. Cullan subsided. It wasn’t long before the doors were opened, and the chamberlain beckoned them to follow. There were another set of double doors about five yards further along, which led into the throne room itself. It was lined with guards with crossbows - not pointing at the prisoners, yet - and around the throne were a few nobles, a few wizards, and a rather small and frightened-looking girl. King Gort himself was a stocky man, with his long golden beard and hair beginning to turn grey. He was seated on his throne, holding a rapid and whispered conversation with a very old wizard. The King cut the wizard off as the prisoners were brought to a halt.

Your names? was all he asked.

Er - Cullan, Your Majesty. And these are my companions, Alys and Kenyon.

Your professions?

Cullan clammed up. Alys aswered. Warriors of fortune.

Other people’s, it appears, sometimes, smirked the King.

Times are hard, Your Majesty, Cullan replied, there is no work at this time of year, we...

The King raised a hand, cutting him off. I know of hard times, he said. This Kingdom We administer is currently experiencing some. He paused, and when he next spoke, his tone was not so imperious, more lively. Do you know anything of Magery?

Not as such, Sire.

You know, though, that mages can be some of the most powerful persons to encounter. Even the weakest mage can incapacitate the strongest foe with a simple spell.

Cullan began to agree, but King Gort continued. "Mages come in all shapes and sizes - as do ‘warriors of fortune’ - and rise to all manner of varied positions; some modest, some powerful. Some dangerous."

The three prisoners kept quiet. They were clearly being told something, although what, just yet, eluded them. They all knew to whom King Gort referred, of course. The neighbouring Principality was ruled by a wizard named Abner, who was quite definitely a nasty piece of work - most sensible people avoided Abner’s realm, Morat, if they could. It was also common