Duke Grandfather Hears Voices: The Duke Grandfather Saga, #3

By James Maxstadt

I really don't mind when Lilly tells me what to do. . .

But when the orders are coming from inside my own head, that's a little different.

For years, people have wondered where I got my magic Gun. It's a unique weapon and one I'm not willing to give up. At least not yet.

I've been hesitant to tell the story, to be honest. When you start talking about a mysterious voice that only you can hear, folks look at you funny. And when that voice is compelling you to go in certain directions and do certain things, that just makes it even worse.

Even as a young Nuisance Man, I'd seen my share of weirdness in Capital City. But I still wasn't prepared for reality-shifting talking dogs, being cast as a fairy-tale noble for a little girl's birthday party, or a giant orc, who seemed to take making my life miserable as a sacred duty.

The voice wasn't all bad, though. It got rid of my hangover once. . . when it needed to me to do something, of course.

And it even helped me avenge an innocent old man's murder.

One more round of ale for the road. Actually, this is kind of a long story. You might want to make it three. It's worth your time, I promise.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Maxstadt
• Release date: Nov 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215548738

James Maxstadt

James is the author of more than fifteen fantasy novels. He loves writing books with quirky characters that are full of action, humor, and a lot of adventure. A fan of fantasy since he was young, James thinks a good story that can take a person away from their everyday life is something worth reading. He’s found over the last several years that writing such stories can be just as rewarding. When he does have his head in this world, he can usually be found relaxing at home with his beautiful wife Barb, doing some home renovation or woodworking project, or signing books at comic conventions and Renaissance Faires. Follow him on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/DukeGrandfather

Book preview

A CHILLY NIGHT

THE HOUSE WAS SHOWING its age, like the occupants who lived there. When the door opened, it creaked, and the floor squeaked as the young man tip-toed across it, glancing into the parlor, where a fire blazed in the hearth. It was a chilly, fall night, and although there was rarely snow, or even truly cold temperatures, in Capital City, his grandfather had reached the age where even a slight chill would be felt.

He was there, sleeping in his chair, a half empty mug of ale near to hand. The young man smiled at that. If there was one thing, other than Grandmother, that the old man’s love for had never faded, it was ale.

Stop sneaking around and come in if you’re going to, the old man suddenly said, his head still back against his cushion and his eyes closed.

Thought I had you this time, the young man laughed, abandoning his attempt at stealth and walking into the room.

Hah. The day I don’t realize that someone has entered my house is the day that I need to hang it all up. Besides, did you really think you could sneak past your grandmother?

No, of course not. But she wasn’t going to tell you.

Probably not. She’d probably enjoy watching me get startled. But enough of that. Why are you here? Not that I don’t enjoy our visits, but still...shouldn’t you be out, chasing after girls or getting into trouble?

The young man smiled. Probably. Although the girls all seem to run too fast for me to catch. And trouble and I have never been friends.

Nothing wrong with that. The world needs all kinds.

Besides, I think you’ve gotten into enough to satisfy the whole family for generations to come.

At this, the old man sat forward, picked up his mug and took a healthy swig of his ale.  "Maybe so. But I’ve done good, too, for all that. But you still haven’t answered my question."

The young man sighed. Well. You’re aware that I’ve written down the stories you’ve told me and printed them up. They’ve sold, Granddad. Like hot griddle-cakes. People all over the city have been reading about your and Grandmother’s adventures. They love them.

Added to shamelessly by you, I’m sure.

Not at all! I wrote them down as you told them to me. That doesn’t mean you were exaggerating, does it?

Me? Why would I do that? Things were exciting enough without lying about it. Besides, your grandmother wouldn’t let me.

That’s what I thought. But here’s the thing.  Everyone who talks about your stories has the same question. Where did you get it?

I keep telling you, that’s a story for another...

No, I think it’s a story for now, a new voice said.

The two men turned their heads to watch as an elderly woman entered the room. Slim, with long, silver hair, she walked to the chair across from the old man and sat down.

Hello, Grandmother, the young man said, and rose to kiss her on the cheek.

What are you talking about? the old man said. His eyes were narrowed as he leaned forward and stared at his wife, a sour expression on his face.

It’s time, Duke. The world wants to know, and quite frankly, so do I. You’ve never even told me where the gun came from.

Duke sat back in his chair; lips pursed. Why does everyone want to know this so badly?

Are you kidding? his grandson said. It’s unique, and you yourself credit it for a lot of the stuff you did. Even now, it’s still in your belt every time I see you. When’s the last time you used it?

Duke reached down and pulled the gun from his belt, holding it up so that it gleamed in the firelight.

A long time now, I guess, he said quietly.

I never did examine it, Lilly said. I wonder what I’d find.

I believe you’d find the same as any other tool, or weapon. It’s been used for good and for bad, I suppose. He continued to look at it. Are you sure about this? It’s a long tale.

Positive, Lilly and his grandson said in unison.

You know what the deal is then. Duke tucked the gun away again.

His grandson smiled, got up and left the room. He returned a few minutes later with a mug of ale for his grandfather and cup of hot tea for his grandmother.

Duke sat quietly staring into the flames. I’m not sure where to begin. As I say, it’s a long story. Much more to it than the actual time that Adrian and I got our weapons. But I guess, if I’m really going to tell it, I have to go back to a time when I was much younger.

VOICES FROM BEYOND

NEW NUISANCE MEN DON’T always have an easy time of things. One of the first things that you find out is that a lot of these nuisances are tougher than you think they’re going to be. Take orcs, for instance. The large family groups they live in can be very intimidating, but what no one thinks about is that an individual orc can be plenty tough all on their own.

We have our champions, heroes, and villains, some with amazing powers and abilities. Those with the strength of three normal men, like MM, or with strange and powerful magical talents, like the Watch wizards or the witches. Those who you wouldn’t want to get on the bad side of.

Orcs, dwarves, ogres, and even goblins have the same thing. Oh, as a rule, orcs aren’t horribly tough, but then again, neither is your standard human. But they have their champions too, and woe betide the novice Nuisance Man who, knowing no better, picks one of them off the Board.

But you have to start somewhere, and sometimes, taking your lumps is the most effective way to learn.

I was at the Board, deciding whether I should stick to the goblins I had been taking, or if I should move up and try my luck at something more challenging, like an orc. There was one on the Board today, a lone individual, which told me that it was one of the Unhoused, those orcs who had either left or been driven out of their families. That was good. That meant I didn’t have to worry about facing a whole host of them at once.

I nodded, to myself, since no one else was around, and setting my jaw, took the orc’s notice off the Board and approached the desk.

The watchman there was an older guy who had seen his share of Nuisance Men come and go. As such, he didn’t have a lot of time for a newcomer like me, but since I had every intention of continuing down this career path, I decided that it was time he got to know me.

Hey, Sarge, I said. As I approached, I stuck out my hand, which he glanced at and ignored. My name is Duke. Duke Grandfather. I’m sort of new at this, but you might have seen me around.

I kept my tone light and friendly, but I might as well have been addressing a wall for all the good it did me. I dropped my hand, and fought to keep the smile on my face, which isn’t easy to do in the presence of such obvious disdain.

Ahem. I cleared my throat. Anyway. I wanted to let you know that I was taking this one today.

I showed him the notice. He glanced at it, then back at me, then at the notice again.

You sure about that, kid?

Aha, so he did speak. Progress was being made.

Oh, yeah, I replied, leaning on the counter and looking at the notice with what I hoped was a certain nonchalance, with just the right amount of professional acumen mixed in. I know I’m still relatively new and all, but since this one is Unhoused, I think he’ll be a good one to start with.

Sarge nodded. Uh huh. Name doesn’t ring a bell to you, huh?

I glanced at the notice again. Wulfonson? Nope. Should it?

Guess not. He pushed the notice back to me. Good luck.

Thanks! His warm wishes actually tickled me. Everyone said Sarge was a tough nut to crack, but obviously that was an exaggeration. Maybe those people hadn’t taken the time to try. I rapped my knuckles on the counter, because that was a move that I thought signified a certain amount of care-free attitude, but still said, I’ll be back, see you later, and headed for the door.

Hey, kid, Sarge called out.

I turned back around. Yeah?

You’re registered over at the Nuisance Man Guild, right?

Absolutely. All my paperwork, up to date.

Including next-of-kin?

I waited for him to laugh, but he didn’t. My own smile faded as I turned and walked out the watchhouse door, studying the notice.

Wulfonson was posted by a group of dwarves from the First Quarter, that area of the city that had seen better days, but was starting to come back around. Mostly due to dwarves. Dwarves are an intense, ambitious lot, who go after any enterprise with a gusto that very few humans can match. As such, they were taking a run-down area of the city and cleaning it up.

But there were a few hold-outs, like Wulfonson here. According to the notice, he still lived in a ramshackle hut just off the center of the First Quarter. While it didn’t say that he had been accused of any particular crime, like arson or assault, it did direct the bearer to see Johan Johanson, head of the Stonecutters Guild, for more information.

Wow. I hadn’t read the notice that carefully when I took it, but now I was doubly glad that I grabbed it. Everyone knew of the dwarven Stonecutters Guild. They were a powerful force in the dwarven community, and had even made inroads into influencing human politics, if the stories could be believed. They were accomplishing this by having lots of members, doing lots of works on the homes of the rich and powerful, and having very deep pockets.

Pockets which I’d be able to dip into myself, to remove the problem of Wulfonson from their lives.

I found the Stonecutters Guild easily enough. The First Quarter was indeed going through a revival, with buildings undergoing repair and renovation everywhere you looked.

But that wasn’t my concern. What was my concern was getting in to talk to Johan Johanson and getting my money.

The guild house was a large, three-story affair, with elaborate stone work. Showing off the skills of their members, I supposed. Inside was a desk, with a stout, serious faced dwarven woman stationed at it.

May I help you? she asked when I approached.

Yes, I’m here to see Johan Johanson.

Do you have an appointment?

Not as such... I started, but she interrupted me.

Mr. Johanson doesn’t see anyone without an appointment. Come back when you have one.

She turned her attention back to whatever paperwork she was frowning at when I came through the door.

Well, yes, but I have this, I tried, holding out the notice from the Board.

She sighed and took it from me. Then, she looked up as if truly seeing me for the first time. I didn’t quite know how to take it when she rose to her feet so that she could see all of me, her eyes roaming down my body and then back up.

Where did you get this? she asked, handing the notice back to me.

The watchhouse. Where I assume Johan posted it.

I did the actual posting on behalf of Mr. Johanson. I was expecting a Nuisance Man to be the one to take it.

Well, then it’s your lucky day. Since a Nuisance Man did take it and all. I tried to keep the snark out of my voice and make it into a joke, but I really wasn’t enjoying her attitude.

I see, she said, giving me the once-over again. That being the case, the best I can do is offer you half of the fee up front, the rest upon completion.

That wasn’t the way this was supposed to work. Normally, the Nuisance Man got the fee upfront, and the Watch was supposed to verify that the work was done, and pity the Nuisance Man who was caught cheating his customers. Not only would he no longer be a Nuisance Man, but he wouldn’t be a free one either.

I frowned, to let her know what I thought of this arrangement. That’s not the way this works. Besides, you forgot to fill in the amount you’re willing to pay. I pointed at the blank line on the notice.

I forgot nothing, Mr....?

Grandfather. Duke Grandfather.

Surprisingly, she never even blinked at my name. Most of the time, I at least get a raised eyebrow with a really? expression attached to it.

I forgot nothing, Mr. Grandfather. I simply chose to leave it blank to avoid a rush. Since you are here, know that we are willing to pay a total of six-hundred gold rubles for the removal of this Wulfonson.

Six-hundred rubles! I had never had so much money in my entire life, and I can only say that the sound of all those coins clinking together in my head drowned out what should have been the alarm bells going off from a fee that high.

And you’re willing to give three-hundred up front? Why?

Perhaps your next-of-kin can use it, she answered.

Second time today someone made that joke. Still wasn’t funny.

Wulfonson wasn’t home when I approached his shanty, but I could see why the Stonecutters Guild wanted him gone. His hut was in an alley to the side of their building, where anyone walking by could see it. While I still didn’t have any particular crime to pin on him, the money that the dwarves were offering made me not really care.

I approached cautiously, hand on my sword hilt, ready for the slightest sign of trouble. I was more than a fair swordsman and spent a substantial amount of time perfecting my craft. I opted for a long, slender sword, sharp on both sides and coming to a fine point. While most swordsmen employed the edges most of the time, I preferred to use the point as much. It made keeping an angry foe at bay much easier.

But there was no sign of the orc being at home. Bones from recent meals, and other refuse of a less savory nature, littered the ground. Whatever else he had done, Wulfonson should have been tried as a litterbug. Flies buzzed in the air around some of the fresher remains, and I held my breath against the smell.

Wulfonson! I tried to keep my voice deep and authoritative. There was no answer, not even the sound of someone moving about.

A ratty, old, blue blanket was hung over the door of his hut, for privacy I assumed, so I couldn’t see if the place was really abandoned or if he was hiding in there, regretting whatever it was that he had done to bring a Nuisance Man down on him.

I drew my sword, noted that there wouldn’t be enough room in there to effectively use it, and put it away. Instead, I pulled out a stout length of hardwood that I kept with me. One or two cracks of this along the side of Wulfonson’ s head should do the trick nicely, and I didn’t need much space to wield it.

I used the cudgel to move the blanket to the side and peer into the shack. As far as I could see it was empty of orc. There was rumpled bedding on the ground, and a crate with a few odds and ends thrown into it. A couple of old, dented cooking pots hung on the walls and surprisingly, a few books were carefully stacked in the corner, near a candle stuck neatly into a holder.

What are you doing? The voice came from behind me, and despite it being much deeper than I tried to make mine, it sounded honestly curious.

I let the blanket fall and turned, ready to brandish my stick and get to work.

In front of me stood the largest orc I ever saw. I’m sure he was the largest orc that ever was. In fact, I was pretty sure it was actually an ogre that someone confused with an orc.

His fangs stuck up from his bottom jaw like two spikes, a yellowish-white color, dripping with saliva. His arms were bigger around than my legs and his legs made his arms seem small. Around his waist was a belt, and stuck into that was a war hammer with a head on it that was bigger around than a dinner plate.

Wulfonson was simply the biggest, most intimidating orc I ever heard of.

Umm... I was suddenly at a loss for words and the three-hundred gold ingols in my pocket didn’t seem that heavy anymore.

He simply stayed where he was, glaring at me. It occurred to me that he could afford to be patient. He was between me and getting away. There was no way for me to exit this situation without going through him, a fact that he seemed perfectly comfortable with.

What are you doing?

Looking to borrow a book? I tried.

Wulfonson didn’t believe me. I could tell when his huge brow furrowed over his eyes.

Try again? he asked.

There was nothing for it but to face the music and take the bull by the horns, although I would rather have done that.

Looking for you, actually, I said. I drew myself up to my full height, which put the top of my head approximately in line with his chin. I was finding it hard to be tough and commanding when staring up his nostrils, but I tried not to let it show.

Oh? he said. For what?

You’ve been asked to vacate the premises. You haven’t done it, so I’m here to see to it.

I thought he would do one of two things at this point. Laugh, or get testy and try to remove my head from my shoulders. He did neither. Instead, he asked, Why? This is my home. I’ve been here for years.

I don’t know why. I don’t ask questions. I’m paid to remove someone, I remove them. So, what will it be? Do we do this the easy way, or the hard one?

What’s the easy way?

That was another surprise. Maybe Wulfonson was a reasonable orc and didn’t want to fight me any more than I wanted to fight him.

The easy way is you move on. Take your stuff and go, I told him.

Where?

This Wulfonson was full of questions that I had no good answers for.

I don’t know, I said, putting as much disinterest in my voice as I could. Maybe back to Orc Town.

The brows coming down even further should have been a warning sign, but I missed it. I was doing a lot of that.

He couldn’t go back to Orc Town, and I knew that, if I cared to think about it. The Unhoused orc was a pariah, and no matter how big and tough he was, he would still be no match for a whole clan against him. My callously tossed out suggestion reminded him of the fact.

I’ll take the hard way, he said.

Now, be reasonable... He interrupted me, much as the dwarven receptionist had, but with a great deal more violence.

I don’t know exactly what it would feel like to have a building collapse on you, but I have a pretty good idea. Wulfonson was not only big and strong, but he was amazingly fast. His hand came looping around and caught me, open handed, across the face with a ringing slap. I flew across the alley and crashed into the wall.

He actually hurled me through the air with a slap. That wasn’t a good start to the fight.

I shook my head as I regained my feet, hands up in front of me, ready to block any blow coming my way that happened to land directly on them. To my dismay, there were three Wulfonsons glowering at me, but when I shook my head again, they all melded together into one. You’d think that would be better, but somehow it wasn’t.

Get him, a voice said. Or at least, I thought I heard a voice say. I glanced around, but no one else was nearby.

What? I said.

Wulfonson stopped for a moment. What? he said.

You said something.

Crazy, he muttered and came for me.

I couldn’t refute the observation.

Having no choice, I went for him, aiming at his knees with my cudgel, which I somehow managed to hang on to when he smacked me into the wall. As I’ve said before, I’m no slouch in hand-to-hand combat, and spend plenty of time practicing. I avoided the next blow he sent my way, spun around him and got in a good crack on his kneecap, a sure-fire way to either end a fight, or at least get some breathing room.

I may as well have been using a wet noodle. My cudgel bounced off his knee and he never even showed the slightest indication that he felt it.

But I did. Because I didn’t avoid the next blow. He hit me, closed fist, in the stomach, and I thought the world ended. I couldn’t breath and never would again. I would have screamed, or cried, but you need air for either of those things and there was none to be had. I gaped like a fish out of water for a moment, and then dropped to my knees, finally making a sound as I retched.

Wulfonson stepped back, avoiding the mess I was making. When I finished, I collapsed onto my side and could see him standing a few feet away. His hobnail boots were really large from this angle, or any other I supposed, and I was hoping he wouldn’t kick me with them.

Good try, the voice said again. That was the last thing I heard for a while. My hopes were all in vain, but at least my stomach stopped hurting so bad when the lights went out.

My eyes snapped open to see a bunch of bones and other piles of filth. Strange. I’m not the world’s neatest guy, but I usually don’t have actual garbage laying around my bedroom. Besides that, my bed felt oddly hard and uncomfortable, and I must have pushed my pillow away during the night.

Then the pain started to sink in, surrounding my head and pushing its way in like an unwanted salesman. Around the edges at first, but then going deeper, until my brain was trying to leak out of my ears to escape.

I gasped, which was when I realized that the only air I was taking in was through my mouth, my nose feeling swollen and worthless. I gingerly, very gingerly, sat up, and touched it. The pain from doing that almost made me forget my headache.

I suddenly remembered the last thing I saw. A huge hobnailed boot growing rapidly larger as it approached my face at top speed. Probably good that the mental images went away after that point.

That memory spurred me to action however, if you want to use the term loosely. I staggered to my feet, lurching to the side, unable to stop myself until I came up against the alley wall. The world swayed and pulsed in and out, details becoming fuzzy, clearer and then fuzzy again. I held on, keeping my eyes focused on the one stable point of ground in front of my feet and tried to breathe deeply.

Focus! I needed to focus. The only reason that I wasn’t dead was because that orc, Wofenstein? Wolberger? Wulfonson...yeah, Wulfonson, wanted to watch me thrash around some more. I was obviously in dire straits here, but I could at least straighten up, and die with a little dignity.

I pulled myself up, blinked several times, put my hand on my sword hilt, and turned.

Alright, I growled. Snuffled is probably more like it, but I tried to make it a growl. Time to finish this.

There was no response, and no sign of Wulfonson anywhere. The alley was deserted.

Wulfonson? I called out, wincing at the pain in my head. Still no answer.

I shuffled over to his shack and pushed the ratty blanket aside, not even making a pretense at stealth this time. The huge orc wasn’t in there either. It took me a minute to spot what had changed.

His books and candle were gone. Wherever Wulfonson went, he had taken his treasures with him.

Later, I sat in a tavern near my house, The Wooden Pig. I returned most of the three-hundred rubles to the Stonecutters Guild, since I hadn’t even come close to finishing the job. In what I was sure was an uncharacteristic display of compassion, the dwarven woman at the desk cleaned up my face somewhat and insisted that I keep twenty of the rubles as compensation. I took it, because my pride could absorb that, and besides, Wulfonson was technically gone.

Which meant I had enough money to last for several days, as long as I stretched it out. In my present condition, I didn’t think I was up for much drinking anyway.

I nursed an ale, looking over the tavern from my corner table. The Pig, as we affectionally called it, was a working-class bar, and that’s using the term nicely. Yes, a lot of the clientele had jobs, it was just that a lot of those jobs were better off not being spoken about. Certainly not in mixed company, meaning anyone in the law enforcement business.

But I grew up around here and was tolerated. Not least because Nuisance Men aren’t technically law enforcement. There were those who didn’t consider us as anything more than bounty hunters, an appellation that I found distasteful. Bounty hunters were in it for the money. Nuisance Men served the public good.

But always for money. Don’t forget the money.

No one had spoken. As a matter of fact, after some curious stares at my swollen nose and blackened eyes when I first came in, no one paid much attention to me at all.

I looked around, but as I recognized the voice, I wasn’t expecting to see anyone.

Wulfonson was right, I am going crazy, I muttered.

First sign is sitting in a tavern talking to yourself. This was a different voice, which made sense since the speaker was standing on the other side of my table. He was a young man, about my age, and dressed in the sort of casual finery that spoke of money that could be spent without a second thought. Not the normal sort to show up in the Pig, unless of course they were dragged there by someone, mostly by their feet.

Can I help you? I asked. I wasn’t in the mood to be congenial.

Not really. But I’ll buy you your next mug. He pulled out a chair and plunked down into it, not waiting for my response.

I can buy my own, I growled. My nose had cleared somewhat, so it was sort of a growl.

No doubt, no doubt. Still, I find myself curious, and I figure the price of a good story is a mug of good ale. Or whatever it is that they serve here. He peered into his own mug with a doubtful expression, then shrugged and took a good-sized swig. I had to give it to him, he hardly even shuddered.

Story about what?

All that, he said, pointing at my face and moving his finger around. Someone got you good. Did you get them back?

No, I muttered, and covered my embarrassment by taking a large drink from my own mug.

Ah, well then, two mugs. One for the story and one for your pain. Name’s Jessup, by the way. He reached a hand across the table and held it there, waiting for my own.

There was something about this guy. Here he sat, obviously out