Flames Over Frosthelm by Dave Dobson

Author:Dave Dobson [Dobson, Dave]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy Mystery Humor Adventure
Publisher: Plankton Games LLC
Published: 2019-06-10T22:00:00+00:00

32

Middlemarsh

No kill! No kill! I signed furiously at Boog, who stood behind the Inspector, his staff raised with both huge arms. Boog looked at me, confused, some of his confusion no doubt related to my painful grimace and flushed face, and the fact that the near-to-being-brained Inspector was bent over, dabbing feebly at my trousers with a wrinkled handkerchief. Some of it also likely derived from my recent blood-chilling shriek, let out moments ago when the Inspector who now inspected my lap had dumped a steaming hot bowl of leek-laden broth squarely onto my privates.

“Dear me, dear me, so sorry,” said Inspector Edmund in a quavery voice. “My balance isn’t what it was, you know. Well, you certainly know now.” He looked up at me, and noticed my raised hand, my fingers stopped in mid-sign. He squinted. “Did I get some on your arm?” Boog, still unnoticed by Edmund, lowered the staff, took a quiet step back, and frowned.

“No,” I replied lamely, shaking my hand. “Just, er, hot on my fingers.” Edmund stuffed his kerchief back into a pocket in his vest and turned slowly to the right. If Boog stayed where he was, he’d surely be seen. Boog’s eyes widened in alarm, and he swung back around toward me, keeping behind Edmund. "Did I leave the door open?” Edmund asked, puzzled. “Thought I closed it.” He had, in fact, closed it, but Boog had burst through moments before to save me. Though Boog thought he was saving me from mortal peril rather than hot leek soup.

Edmund hobbled over to the door, shoved it closed, and this time slid the latch bar into its socket. Boog glared at me, then rotated back around, staying to the rear of Edmund as the old man swung back toward me.

The meeting wasn’t going well, as must be obvious by now. Nothing had gone well in Middlemarsh so far, at least for me. After bidding farewell to the sheepcart, I’d been hiding and sleeping for nearly a week in a thicket in the woods, while Boog had found warm, soft lodging at a farmstead just outside Middlemarsh. He’d embarked on a new, and I hoped quite temporary, career as a hired farm hand. Boog had been able to bring me some food and news of the town most nights, but we’d agreed that I should stay out of sight at first, and that he stood better chance of finding some kind of unobtrusive employment. The dried mutton given me by the drover was nearly gone, and what was left was so gamey that I didn’t feel like risking my guts with any more. My nights in the woods had left me increasingly cold, sore, hungry, bored, and maudlin. I was a city lad through and through, and where some hardier souls than I might have been able to live off the land, I could barely even sleep upon it.

Thus, this plan, which had so far left me with well-boiled thighs and little else. It

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