a-humorous-fantasy-book-series-skullenia

A Humorous Fantasy Novel Series

Skullenia by Tony Lewis

Series Excerpt

“Can’t I wait here?”

“Why?”

Stitches gave Ollie his best ‘do I have to state the bleeding obvious’ look and sighed sarcastically.

“Oh, don’t worry about it. Here, take these.” Ollie reached into a pocket and pulled out a brightly coloured cardboard tube which he handed to Stitches.

“Jelly Bodybits!” said the indignant zombie.

“Egon loves them. Just slip him one every few minutes and he’ll be putty in your hands. The red ones are his favourite.”

“It’s not him being putty in my hands that’s the concern; it’s me being dismembered, squidgy chunks in his that’s ever such a tiny niggle. And if I start giving him sweeties he’ll just think I really like him. And to be perfectly frank, I'm not really comfortable with the idea of slipping him anything so please don't ever say that again.”

“But it’ll distract him I'm telling you. Trust me.”

“Well, if you say so.”

“I do.”

“But if I end up on all fours in the downstairs cloakroom as an umbrella stand, I’ll tell His Lordship that you like watching moths fly round the garden of an evening with a mug of Ovaltine and a big stack of Bob’s Nobs.” (Obviously it was Ollie who had the Ovaltine and the dunkable snacks not the moths for that would be ever so slightly silly. As everyone knows moths prefer hot chocolate and a ginger biccie).

Ollie did a reasonably good impression of a goldfish. “Well that’s just childish.”

“I thought so, but I'll still do it.”

Ollie reached up and grabbed the enormous door knocker in both hands and gave it a mighty swing. It boomed against the massive oak door like a thunderclap and made the ground tremble beneath their feet. It echoed around the valley like a volley of cannon fire.

“Bit over the top,” murmured Stitches.

From the other side of the six inch thick door they could hear bolts being thrown, keys being turned and chains being released.

“He’s rather security conscious for a vampire, isn’t he?” observed Stitches. “You'd have to be the most desperate burglar in the world to try and break into here.”

Ollie just stood patiently with his hands clasped firmly behind his back. He was as nervous as a postman at Crufts, but he didn’t show it.

“He's just a bit funny about some of his possessions that's all,” said Ollie. “The last time I was here he asked me to find out if there’s a local Crime-stoppers Group.”

“What on earth for?” said Stitches. “Don’t the children of the night and his retinue of imps, thralls and flunkies look after him?”

“Well, yes,” replied Ollie. “But they don’t work weekends.”

“Oh, right. Well, I suppose you can’t be too careful. Fangs ain’t what they used to be.”

“Keep that up and I’ll let Egon have his way with you. I'll even give him the umbrella.”

The iron handle turned and the door began to open slowly and painfully, groaning like an arthritic hip and creaking like an MFI wardrobe. A small hand crept around the edge about two feet off the ground and gripped the wood. Then they heard puffs and pants as the, whatever it was, and it could be literally anything, strained to let them in. Moaning and complaining emanated from within as the gap widened.

“Bloody stupid thing…far too heavy…ruining my hands…get a nice UPVC double glazed one…but oh no…tight as a virgin’s… Ah. Welcome, Sir, and welcome to you, Mr. Stitches. What a delight it is to see you both again.”

I wish I could say the same, thought Stitches as he gazed at the abstract creature standing before him.

Egon was four feet tall, bow legged, had splayed feet, arms that hung down to his knees, skin that an elderly pachyderm would have considered moisturising, an interesting aroma that defied description and the traditional hump, the prerequisite appendage for any servant of the dark arts and their weird ways. Uniquely, and somewhat disturbingly, however, the hump wasn’t in the traditional place. It was on a lead by his feet and it followed him everywhere. Facially, he looked like he’d been set on fire and put out with a speeding train, and had a comb over that beggared belief. It could easily have covered two bald heads. Interesting was the kindest way to describe Egon’s appearance. Melted was more appropriate. He resembled a candle that had been left too close to an open fire.

“Come in come in,” said the diminutive servant, ushering the two visitors into the dimly lit innards of the castle. “The Master is already aware of your arrival and awaits you in The Sketching Room.”

“The Sketching Room?” enquired Stitches.

“It’s similar to a drawing room, just a tad smaller,” said Egon.

“I had to ask.”

“Indeed. If you'll allow me, gentlemen,” said Egon, indicating a long corridor leading off the hall they were standing in. “Walk this way.”

“Don’t you dare,” warned Ollie, pointing a prohibitive finger at his colleague.

“No. Wasn’t going to.”

Above them was a magnificent vaulted ceiling that was at least thirty feet high. Dark wooden beams criss-crossed the stonework, meeting in the middle, where ornately carved centre pieces supported grand candelabras every few yards. There were so many candles burning that the heat they gave off could be felt at floor level. It must have been a hell of a job lighting them all. The walls of the corridor were adorned with fine old paintings and tapestries depicting wars, sieges, skirmishes and just about every other form of conflict you could think of. Suits of armour that no human form could ever have fit into stood sentinel at regular intervals along the passageway. Two headed, multi limbed, no limbed, web footed, they were all there.

“Looks like we’ve wandered onto the set of Star Wars,” observed Stitches as they passed a suit of armour that looked like a four car pile-up.

“Very droll, Mr. Stitches,” said Egon without turning or stopping. “Obviously you’ve noticed the eclectic nature of the displays.”

Stitches was rather taken aback at being overheard. He thought he’d spoken quietly enough to get away with the quip. “Well, um, yes. I was wondering what sort of creatures would have fit into them.”

“None, actually. His Lordship created them. Well, he conceived them. I built them. The Master fancies himself as a bit of an interior designer you see.”

“You don’t say. So how did that come about then?” asked Ollie, who after a couple of visits to the castle realised that he actually knew very little about Jocular.

Egon stopped and turned to face them. His face paled, if that were possible, and his gaze dropped to the floor, a sad look on his face.

“It happened over the course of one terrible weekend. His Lordship became sick. Blood poisoning. Or poisoned blood to be more accurate. He was vomiting everywhere and believe me, you haven’t smelt anything until you’ve had a whiff of several pints of partially digested blood.”

“Oh, I don’t know, “interjected Stitches. “When Flug’s had a few bags of Rotten Fingers, the stench of his po…”

“Thank you, Stitches, we get the picture,” Ollie interrupted. “Do go on, Egon.”

“Thank you, Sir. Well, as I said, the Master was confined to his room and of course even vampires get bored if they can’t get out, so he asked me to install satellite television for him.”

“Oh dear,” said Stitches.

“Quite. Unfortunately all he could tune into was UK Unliving and he spent the entire two days watching back to back episodes of that awful make over show.” Egon waved his hands in an effort to get his memory to function. “Oh, you know the one I mean. It's got that interfering Scottish witch and her foppish posse in it. They visit the homes of the undead and completely ruin them.”

“Ah, Changing Tombs,” said Ollie.

“Ouch, that is bad,” added Stitches. “I mean, who’s ever heard of a ghoul having satin throw pillows and a pink coffee table made of driftwood?”

Egon raised an eyebrow, which was a weird sight because it was on his cheek. “Well, exactly,” he said. “Unfortunately the Master loved it, and ever since he’s been fiddling with the place like there’s no tomorrow. Some parts of the castle look like they belong in a fairground now.” The little chap edged closer to the two visitors, looked around surreptitiously and lowered his voice, putting it level with the top of Ollie's socks. “So a word of warning. You'll notice strange things dotted around the place, even stranger than you've already seen, so if you’re with His Lordship, either say something complimentary or wait for him to point it out to you and then say something complimentary.”

Stitches scratched an ear and inadvertently moved it an inch lower down his head. “I imagine it wouldn’t be wise to constructively criticise anything then.”

“Best not. One of his thralls did last week, and found himself walled up in a dungeon for all eternity. There’s a beautiful pair of silk curtains covering the brick work though so it's not all bad.”

“Right, well we’d better extol the virtues of everything we clap our eyes on then. Thanks for the tip, Egon. Shall we continue?” suggested Ollie.

“Indeed we shall. This way.”

Twenty feet into the next lengthy corridor, Ollie stopped in front of something. It left him staring wide eyed, mouth agape, shaking his head and muttering to himself in disbelief, amazed and very confused about the thing before him. “What,” asked the incredulous half vampire, “the hell is that?”

Stitches put a hand over his mouth and closed his eyes. If he'd had any moisture in his system, you would have heard a loud gulp.

“Ah, one of the Master’s more conceptual works. Rather original, don’t you think?” said Egon.

“That’s not quite the word I’d use,” said Stitches, remembering Egon's warning.

In front of them was a large arched window ten feet tall and five feet wide. What they could see of it was made up of the most beautiful stained glass. The remainder was hidden by the obviously dead figure of a man who was nailed to an ebony frame, which was itself attached to the window surround. Two puncture wounds on his neck indicated the nature of his demise, but it was the other aspects of the display that puzzled Ollie.

“Um, why is he wearing dark glasses and holding a white stick, Egon?” he asked.

“How very astute of you to notice, Sir,” said Egon fawningly. He could grovel with the best of them and then tell the best of them how good they were at grovelling. “You’ve observed the most important parts of the piece. The deceased gentleman was a gondolier in his former life, so his Lordship thought it would be pleasant to have him permanently on show up here at the window.”

“But what is it supposed to be?” said Ollie.

Egon cracked a grin that would have put the willies up Broadmoor’s most deserving guest. “A Venetian Blind.”

Ollie suppressed a shudder that was almost violent enough to qualify as a fit, and indicated that they should proceed. “Good grief, can you believe that?” he asked Stitches, very quietly.

“I know. I think we should find out what Jocular wants and get out of here before we end up as soft furnishings.”

Four turns, five hallways and various cringe-inducing decorative disasters later they arrived at the sketching room. Egon was about to knock on the door when a voice from inside said, “Enter.” Egon opened it up, entered and stood to attention to announce the visitors. “Mr. Ollie Splint and Mr. Stitches to see you, my lord.”