Free Shadewell Shenanigans by David Lee Stone Page B

to get in their way. The host, meanwhile, was left in a dream state, entirely zombified until such times as the spirit’s thirst for anger had been satiated, or until it had been slain. The best way to defeat a twinling, it was rumored, was to douse its demonic form in salt and promptly set fire to it, or else deliver a fatal blow to its sensitive spinal column. However, Gordo Goldeaxe didn’t know this, so he dealt with it the same way he dealt with all hostile creatures; he ran at it with a bloody great axe and hoped for the best. Unfortunately, he chose the wrong twin.
    The zombie half of Loogie Lambontroff staggered mindlessly toward Gordo, hardly batting an eyelash when the dwarf took its left arm off with one swift arc of the blade. Instead, it flailed madly with its right.
    Gordo dived under the appendage, managed three somersaults without injuring himself—quite a feat for a dwarf with a two-foot axe—and swung around for another strike. He didn’t make it.
    The gangster’s evil twinling, who’d been watching the proceedings with careful amusement, suddenly pounced, securing Gordo in a viselike headlock. The dwarf dropped his axe.
    “Ah, look here, the little fellow doesn’t like pain, does he, Loogie?”
    Gordo scrambled to free himself from the hold, but the twinling had its fingers firmly locked.
    “Struggle if you will, little fellow. I can feel the breath leaving your body.”
    Gordo tried to swivel himself around so that he could roll his way out of the headlock, but the twinling predicted his movement and promptly stamped on his shin.
    “Ahhhh! You’ll die for that,” the dwarf managed, digging his fingernails into the twinling’s hairy arm. “Groan! Gape! Grrrrrraahhhh!”
    “Loogie,” commanded the twin. “Get over here and fetch me this axe. We’re going to slice up the little fellow with his own weapon. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”
    The original half of Loogie Lambontroff was staggering around the road in a daze. Almost unconscious through blood loss, he’d managed to pick up his severed limb and was trying (with little success) to fit it back into its socket.
    “Loogie,” the twinling persisted, tightening its grip on Gordo’s neck. “Are you listening to m—”
    The sentence was abruptly cut off, along with the creature’s head, which thumped onto the ground and rolled a few feet away.
    Groan Teethgrit wiped the blood off his sword, and sighed. “I’ve los’ the ’orse.”
    “Never mind,” said Gordo, massaging his throat. “I think we’ve got more important things to worry about.”
    He indicated the felled twinling, which suddenly burst into flames and vanished. Curiously, its grinning head remained.
    “Will you look at that,” muttered Gordo. “Thank the gods on high.”
    “Fank me,” Groan reminded him. He turned to Loogie the First, who was lying facedown on the floor, completely motionless. “I reckon he’s dead.”
    “Doubt it.”
    “You fink we should check?”
    Gordo rolled his eyes. “Be my guest,” he said. “But I wouldn’t go near him in a month of Sundays.”
    “I’ll do it now,” bellowed Groan, stamping over to the body. “We ain’t got that kind o’ time to waste.”
    “I was being metaphorical.”
    “Yeah, my auntie ’ad that. She used to talk out of her arse an’ all. He’s still breathin’. Reckon we should leave ’im ’ere?”
    Gordo shook his head. “No, we’ll dress his wound and take him with us.”
    “Why?” Groan asked, brows mating.
    The dwarf knelt down, produced a bandage from his belt pouch, and began to tie a tourniquet around the gangster’s stumpy arm.
    “It’s something the innkeeper told me,” he muttered. “I’ve a feeling our friend here might be of some use to us in Wemeru. Besides, if he’s with us then—er—we can kill him when he wakes up.”
    Groan scratched his head. “Why don’t we just kill ’im now?”
    “You can’t kill a man when he’s asleep! It’s immoral.”
    “Wass that