Sacred Wind: Book 2

  Chapter 19 – Do you think they’ll put out bunting?

  The sun was doing its utmost to break through the dense cloud that hung over Llangollen, but was meeting with little success. Aiden checked the time on the little alarm clock on his bedside table. It said 9:20 am. He went downstairs, ate a breakfast to rival the gastronomic delight of yesterday and then wandered into the bar, where Maurice and Oldfart were already deep in conversation.

  ‘Word has spread very quickly, you know,’ Oldfart said. ‘I think there’ll be quite a crowd when he arrives. Although saying that, there’s a lot of folk who’ve told me they’re going to shut all their doors and windows and stay inside.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be honest, he scares the living jibbery-pibberies out of me,’ Maurice said. ‘And I’ve heard he has bad wind. Some say his bottom-burps are so ghastly that they make hardened men weep and cry for their mothers.’

  ‘Where’s Vindy and Tikky, I thought they’d be down here already?’ Aiden said, joining them at the bar.

  ‘They are,’ Maurice said. ‘They’re over there in disguise.’

  Maurice had prepared a long table, adorned with a variety of foodstuffs, including fresh bread, fruit, a mixture of pastries and some cold meats. At the end of the table were two plates covered with tin foil. ‘Good morning, Aiden,’ said Tikky, rustling the tin foil slightly.

  ‘Yes, good morning my good fellow,’ Vindy said, mimicking his wife’s rustling. ‘Do you think these disguises will fool the Baron? I think Maurice has done a splendid job.’

  ‘Definitely,’ Aiden said, with a smile. ‘As long as the Baron doesn’t try and eat you.’

  ‘Oh, that would be horrid, Vindy. Can you imagine going through that awful man’s bowels?’

  ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about, my dear.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be keeping a close eye out,’ Maurice said. ‘If anyone is tempted to uncover your tin foil, they’ll have a plate of Blanche’s sausages pushed under their nose. That’ll certainly provide a distraction.’

  The large, black carriage moved purposely towards Llangollen centre. Both of its metal doors bore the Blacktie crest of a black crow on a red shield, circled by the Blacktie motto, ‘Arcum et cedat aut ventum liberari’ (Bow and yield or my wind will be freed). Flanking the carriage were two heavily-armed members of the Knights of Flatulence, while in front General Darkblast rode proudly, holding the banner of Blacktie aloft. At the rear were six more knights, swords unsheathed and shields held close to their chest.

  Despite the Baron’s authority and influence, he was very aware that certain factions may be audacious enough to attempt an assassination. You didn’t achieve the level of power and wealth he had without making lots of enemies, so he took no chances when he embarked on any journey outside of the city walls. The entourage surrounding his carriage was backed up by forward reconnaissance troops, crossbows at the ready, and a battalion of infantry brought up the rear.

  ‘Do you think they’ll put out bunting?’ the Baron said to Pimple, who was sat next to him inside the carriage.

  ‘I wouldn’t know, my Lord. Did you order them to?’

  ‘No. I suppose I should have really. I do like bunting.’

  ‘Grunt go get bunting for Baron,’ said Grunt, who was sat opposite them, his head pressed against the roof.

  ‘No, that won’t be necessary, Grunt,’ the Baron sighed. ‘And you did go to the toilet before we left, didn’t you?’

  ‘Grunt had big plop,’ said Grunt. ‘All plop gone.’

  ‘No need for details,’ said the Baron, with a grimace. ‘Just so long as there are no accidents on the way back.’

  ‘Grunt look for more plop in bum before go home,’ Grunt said, earnestly.

  As the carriage began its slow passage through Llangollen, people and sheep watched silently on the walkways, some averting their eyes as it passed by. Curtains in windows twitched every so often, the eyes of the occupants occasionally visible through the gaps.

  Cracky stood by the door of the Diner, with Theo, Captain Marmaduke and Half-blind Ron out of sight under a table, but able to observe through the side window. ‘Stop here for a second,’ the Baron shouted. The horses whinnied as the driver pulled harshly at the reins.

  ‘Well, well, Merlin Crackfoot. It’s been a long time, has it not?’ the Baron said, leaning out of the window.

  ‘Not long enough for me,’ Cracky replied.

  ‘Ah, so I see you’re still not willing to let bygones be bygones.’

  ‘You know I’ll never be able to do that, Baron.’

  The Baron shrugged and pulled the curtain back across the window. ‘Onwards,’ he commanded.

  ‘What was that all about, Cracky?’ Theo said, emerging from under the table.

  ‘It’s a long story, Your Highness. But it’s a story for another time.’

  The Blacktie entourage stopped outside the front entrance of the pub and General Darkblast swiftly dismounted. He opened the carriage door and the Baron stepped out onto the cobblestones, raising his arms and yawning.

  Inside the pub, Oldfart, Sacred Wind and Aiden were stood at the bar. Behind them Maurice was frantically cleaning glasses, trying to stop his hooves from clacking.

  General Darkblast entered first, flanked by two Knights of Flatulence. Then the Baron strode in, with Pimple and Grunt in close attendance. ‘Olaf,’ Darkblast said to Olaf, nodding in recognition.

  ‘Darkblast,’ Olaf responded, also nodding his head, but demonstrating disdain as much as respect.

  ‘You two know each other?’ Smid whispered to Olaf.

  ‘We go back quite a long way, but let’s just say there’s no love lost between us.’

  The Baron sniffed the air in a haughty manner and walked over to the bar. ‘I’d very much like a glass of your finest port, that’s assuming you are actually civilised enough to stock it,’ he said to Maurice.

  ‘Coming right up, my Lord,’ a quivering Maurice said, grabbing a bottle from behind the bar and filling up a large wine glass.

  Maurice handed it to the Baron and he sniffed it gingerly. ‘Would you like me to taste it first, in case of poison, my Lord?’ General Darkblast said.

  ‘No need, General. I think Mr, er, Fluffywool,’ he said, reading the sign behind the bar, ‘wouldn’t attempt anything of that nature. Isn’t that right, Mr Fluffywool?’

  ‘Oh, absolutely, my Lord,’ Maurice said, nodding while his hooves clacked together.

  The Baron took a sip and raised his eyebrows in pleasant surprise. ‘This is actually rather good; not quite up the standard in the palace, but perfectly palatable.’

  ‘Thank you, my Lord,’ Maurice said, relaxing visibly.

  The Baron turned to face the pub, resting both his elbows on the bar behind him. ‘So, to business, then; which one of you is Oldfart Olafson?’

  ‘I am he,’ Oldfart said, stepping in front of the Baron.

  ‘Ah, delightful to meet you, Oldfart,’ the Baron said, extending his hand. ‘And I trust that these good folk are Sacred Wind?’

  ‘They are,’ Oldfart replied, slowly taking the Baron’s hand.

  At that moment Ophelia, Roisin and Mara rushed in, followed by two of the Baron’s guards. Darkblast and the guards inside the pub unsheathed their swords. ‘Keep your filthy hands off me and show some respect,’ Ophelia said, pushing away one of the guards who attempted to grab her arm.’

  ‘My apologies my Lord,’ the guard said, ‘we told them they could not enter but they refused to listen.’

  ‘My, my, and what have we here?’ the Baron said, admiring the three beauties. ‘I certainly wasn’t expecting to see such a pleasant sight on this visit, I can tell you.’

  ‘I am Queen Ophelia and these are my hand maidens,’ Ophelia said, running over to Olaf and linking his arm. Mara sidled over to Aiden and Roisin stood next to Agnar.

  ‘Ah, Queen Ophelia, I’ve heard so much about you,’ the Baron said. ‘And it would appear it’s all true. Your beauty is legendary, an
d I see not exaggerated.’

  Ophelia stared straight at him but said nothing. She tightened her link with Olaf’s arm. ‘In fact, you and your hand maidens should really pop along to the palace one day,’ the Baron continued. ‘I host some very extravagant parties and I’m sure you’d thoroughly enjoy yourselves.’

  ‘I’m not sure that the Baron would enjoy our company as much once my knee had connected with his groin,’ Ophelia said.

  ‘Ooh, you are a feisty one. I like that!’

  ‘And to be honest, Baron,’ she continued ‘I’d rather be locked in a dingy cell with rats and deprived of my comb for a week then attend one of your “parties”.’

  ‘Well that can easily be arranged,’ the Baron said, with a wicked smile that made Olaf reach for his sword.

  ‘Not now, Olaf,’ Grundi said, putting his hand on Olaf’s sword arm.

  ‘Anyway, enough of pleasurable activities, let us discuss the matters at hand,’ the Baron said. ‘I’m assuming that my secretary made you aware of the reason for this visit?’

  ‘I was only told you wished to speak me about the Cestrian Music Tournament and that you’d had a “change of heart”,’ Oldfart said.

  ‘Indeed,’ the Baron said, sighing. ‘Times are changing, ladies and gentlemen, and even I must acknowledge this, lest I lose touch with the common people.’

  Blacktie moved over to the table were the food was displayed and started to look from platter to platter. ‘If he even attempts to lift your foil he’s going to get an eyeful of chutney,’ Vindy whispered to Tikky.

  The Baron stopped short of the two disguised curries and picked up a sausage roll. ‘Mmm, this is very good too,’ he said between bites. ‘Anyway, as I was saying, for too long now I have allowed my own musical proclivities to both influence and control matters. It is now time to loosen up, so to speak, and relinquish some of that control. As much as I still cannot abide rock music in any of its deplorable forms, the people should be allowed to make their own minds up. Wouldn’t you agree, Oldfart?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Oldfart said.

  ‘To this end, then,’ the Baron continued, ‘I hereby invite Sacred Wind to take part in the Cestrian Music Tournament, to be held in two days’ time in the Grand Gateway Theatre, Chester.’

  Agnar punched the air, yelling loudly and Oldfart clapped his hands together. ‘Er, there is one proviso, though,’ the Baron said, with a cough. ‘I cannot be seen to allow this late change without receiving something in return from the entrants. I’m sure you understand; fair play and all that.’

  ‘Here we go,’ Grundi said, looking at Smid.

  ‘So,’ the Baron continued, ‘you will be obliged to pay a bond, which you will get back if you win the competition.’

  ‘What kind of bond?’ Oldfart said.

  ‘A bond to the value of £10,000,’ the Baron replied.

  ‘£10,000!’ Olaf exclaimed. ‘We haven’t got that kind of money. I knew there’d be a catch.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be money, Gentlemen. It could be a property, say a house or an old cheese mine or something?’

  ‘I’ve got a cheese mine,’ Agnar shouted, putting up his hand as if he’d been asked a question at school.

  ‘Oh, have you now? That is fortuitous,’ the Baron said, feigning surprise. ‘Which cheese mine is this then?’

  ‘It’s the one that used to be owned by Hairy Growler, near the Circle of Wind. The cheese is nearly all gone, and it was bloody rubbish anyway, but it’s still a cheese mine.’

  ‘Hmm, you’re not doing a very good job of selling this to me, you know,’ the Baron said.

  ‘But it does have potential,’ Agnar added, thinking quickly. ‘You could use it as a tourist attraction for, oh, I don’t know, under-privileged Trolls who could wallow in its murkiness, licking the dank water off its walls while singing songs about how wonderful it is to be a troll.’

  Grunt smiled and looked at the baron appealingly. ‘Grunt like sound of that.’

  The Baron shook his head and started to walk towards the door. Then he stopped dead in his tracks, turned around and put his hands out. ‘Well, okay. Call me an old softy but it’s a deal,’ he said. ‘Pimple, pass me the contract.’

  Pimple produced a sealed scroll from his inside pocket and handed it to the Baron, who unfurled it and placed it on the bar. ‘Just sign here,’ he said, handing a pen to Agnar.

  ‘Now, wait a second, Agnar,’ Smid said. ‘Angus will use your innards as cake decorations if you lose that mine. Think about this for a second.’

  ‘I agree,’ Aiden said. ‘There’s more to this than meets the eye, Agnar.’

  The Baron seemed to notice Aiden for the first time, and looked him up and down warily. ‘And who, pray, might you be?’

  ‘This is Aiden Peersey, he’s our sound engineer,’ Oldfart said, before Aiden could answer.

  ‘I see,’ the Baron said. ‘Well I would advise the scruffy-haired fellow that this deal is straight up. If Sacred Wind win the competition, they keep the mine.’

  ‘Pardon me for speaking, my Lord,’ Aiden said. ‘But this deal appears to be heavily weighted in your favour. Could you not see fit to also grant another concession if the band win?’

  ‘Like what?’ the Baron replied, his curiosity piqued.

  ‘Well, like extending the flatulence license so that people can fart freely,’ Aiden said, with no idea why that had come into his mind.

  The Baron looked Aiden up and down once more and pursed his lips. ‘Very well, I agree,’ he said. ‘If Sacred Wind are successful I hereby declare that The Sheep’s Stirrup will be a “no limit fart zone.” Now, if you’ll just sign here and then we can all be off.’

  Agnar scrawled his signature on the parchment, which was then hastily retrieved by the Baron and handed back to Pimple. ‘A wise move, my good man,’ the Baron said, turning towards the door. ‘So, I bid you all farewell and look forward to our next meeting at the tournament on Wednesday.’

  Outside, General Darkblast felt it necessary to voice his concern. ‘Do you not think you are taking a risk here, my Lord,’ he said, as the Baron was about to step back into the carriage. ‘What if this band were to actually win the tournament?’

  ‘Well, you have to be in it to win it,’ the Baron said. ‘And that means they’ll have to successfully navigate their way to Chester. That trail can be fraught with danger, General. Who knows what terrors they may encounter.’

  The General smiled.

  ‘Now, as soon as we return, get hold of Taffy Tuffy from the Tan-Y-Lan Tuffies,’ the Baron continued. ‘I wish to speak to him as a matter of urgency.’

  The General looked shocked. ‘My Lord, I would advise you not to deal with those pirates. Do you know anything of their nature?’

  ‘I have heard they roam the seas fuelled by super-strength ale and surrounded by prodigious body odour, and that they mercilessly assail their victims with unrelenting violence and inverse aromatherapy,’ the Baron replied.

  ‘Yes, er, that would be accurate,’ said the General.

  ‘In which case, they sound ideal. Get word to Taffy that he and his hordes should set sail for Chester immediately. I will make it well worth his while. Tell him he needs to be in the palace by tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Yes, my Lord.’

  ‘Oh, General, one last thing before we depart,’ the Baron said, as he stepped onto the carriage steps. ‘Have Hob and Nob been successful in their infiltration?’

  ‘I believe so, my Lord. I am told that they will be able to obtain the sample of cheese you require by tomorrow.’

  ‘Good. However, send word to them that there is a slight change of plan. I will be in contact with the details later.’

  ‘As you command, my Lord.’