Free The Curse of the Gloamglozer by Paul Stewart, Chris Riddell Page A

south corner, the current favourite, Magno the Claw. 3–1.’

    All round the fight-master, a sea of hands reached towards him, each one clutching pieces of gold. ‘Two on Bruto,’ shouted one. ‘Three on Magno!’ demanded another.
    Seftus Leprix smirked. If his insider information was to be trusted – and woe betide Jervis, his personal servant, if it was not – then the fromp to bet on was Wilbus the Sly in the north corner. Although untried and untested in Sanctaphrax, it had apparently won several vicious fromp-fights in the taverns of Undertown. And at 18–1, the odds were the best on offer.
    With a brief flutter of his hands, he checked that his silver nose-piece was on straight. The ancient ceremonial object with its ornate curlicues and fine filigree mesh had formerly been worn by academics who, for purification purposes, wished to cleanse the air they inhaled. These days it was worn by academics who, for whatever reason, wished to conceal their identity. Seftus Leprix certainly did not want anyone to recognize him. After all, a fromp-fight was not the place for the Sub-Dean of the School of Mist to be caught spending his time and money. But then, old habits die hard.
    He re-adjusted the silver nose, raised the hood of his gown and pushed his way through the crowd. ‘Twenty on north,’ he announced.

    The gnokgoblin turned and looked at him from under lowered lids. ‘Twenty, eh?’ he said. For a moment, he hesitated; he did not as a rule conduct business with those whose faces he could not see. But then again, gold was gold. His hand dartedforwards and seized the pouch of gold pieces being held out to him. He scribbled out a docket, returned it and turned back to the blackboard. The odds on the fromp in the north corner had shortened to 12–1.
    When the bell at the top of the Great Hall chimed six times, the gnokgoblin closed the betting. The crowd fell silent. Seftus Leprix, who had remained near the front of the crowd, watched thoughtfully as the four fromps were uncaged. Although Wilbus the Sly looked younger than the others, what it lacked in size it more than made up for in naked aggression as it leapt about at the end of its leash – spitting, screeching, frothing at the mouth, trying desperately to get at the others.
    ‘You do look fierce,’ Seftus murmured to himself happily. ‘And just as well, since it's too late to change my bet now.’
    All four fromps were put on tethers, long enough for each of them to reach the fight-ring in the centre – but not so long that the creatures could get tangled up with one another. On their ankles now were razor-sharp spurs; on their prehensile tails, vicious spikes. Hunger and cruelty had turned the normally affable creatures into vicious killers and the fight would last as long as it took for one of the fromps to triumph over the other three.
    ‘LET THE FIGHT COMMENCE!’ the gnokgoblin roared, and lowered his raised arm.
    Immediately, the air was filled with a cacophony of noise – wailing, screeching, howling. And that was just the spectators. Bruto the Brave from the east corner wasthe first to succumb as Magno the Claw's left spur sliced across its neck. The next moment, Magno's own neck was cut as Wilbus the Sly's tail-spike found its mark.
    ‘Come on, Wilbus,’ Seftus Leprix whispered as the vicious fromp turned its attentions on Smarg the Mighty from the west corner and the two of them flew at one another in a blur of bloodied fur and glinting blades.
    The gnokgoblin scowled as Wilbus the Sly got the upper hand and glanced round furtively, as if he was preparing to bolt.
    ‘Oh no you don't,’ said Leprix, seizing the gnokgoblin by the scruff of his neck. ‘You're not going anywhere.’
    The pair of them watched the conclusion of the fight. It didn't take long. Within seconds, there was a howl of pain from the vanquished and a triumphant squeal from the victor. Wilbus the Sly had done it. Leprix brought his leering face up close to the