Crabbit Faery Tales and Folk Tales of Forumshire

bite size bite size, its going to take me until next century to finish this lot.

This "episode" was like "'Allo,'Allo"- Azriel

{{I hadn't thought of that Azriel- but you are right! Replace the McBanks with incompetent Germans, the McTyrants as incompetent French resistance and the scuttle for the painting of the 'Madona with the Big Boobies' and you have an Allo, Allo farce! Which is what this episode is, I hope, classic farce!
Guess its true what trey say about there only being so many plots! }}}

bite size bite size- Figg


{{{If I made it bite sized it would take a month to post half a chapter! Its been over a year since I started this one- I don't want it to be another year to finish it! }}}

I love this place

Petty stared down at the heavy iron key to the Scuttle Chamber he held in his hand then with a determined thrust he shoved it back into sporran and leaping around the corner to the stairs let out a cry of “A'm comin' Gingerlocks!”

He leapt up the stairs two at a time and then looking ahead and up saw the back few rows of McBanks in pursuit of Figg break off and turn and come charging back down the stairs towards him.

He stopped his eyes widening he let out a squeal then turned and ran back the way he had come, “A'm still comin' Gingerlocks!” he cried as he retreated, the McBanks in closing pursuit and a crossbow bolt whistling by his left ear, “jist noo right noo!”

Norc and Ringo rounded the corner and Petty almost ran right into them. Norc grinned up at the McBanks who slowed uncertainly in their pursuit at the sight of the keen Viking as she eagerly leapt up the stairs towards them with a shout of, “Who fucking wants some then?”

Petty scrambled back to the corner and some safety and saw that though the majority of the McBanks had gone with Offo in pursuit of Figg there was a still a strong contingency in the main Hall keeping guard on the doors which had cracked under the ram on one side but were still resolutely standing closed behind the piled barricade. Seeing Norc and Ringo engage their clansmen this group began to ascend the lower staircase.

“Oh bugger,” Petty thought just as Lance and Amarie rounded the corner.

Lance glanced up, saw the stairs upwards were running red with McBanks blood and the cheerful swearing of Norc in her element, and then glanced downwards and the oncoming McBanks from below.

“Tally-ho!” Lance cried and reaching inside his tuxedo he pulled a very small crossbow, no bigger than three inches in length and fitted and equally tiny bolt to it. Amarie snorted involuntarily behind him, “Something amuses you Ambassador?”

“What's that?” Amarie pointed at the tiny crossbow.

“My weapon of choice,” Lance smiled back as the McBanks closed half the distance to them, “its a DFWT, a special, issued only to top agents in the field by Her Majesty herself.”

“Not exactly impressive for a secret agent,” Amarie noted wryly.

“I never leave home without it,” Lance said and took aim and squeezed the trigger.

The bolt shot through the air glowing yellow and leaving a golden trail behind it and smacked with force into the heart of the advancing McBanks mob and then prominently exploded in a rain of starlight and sparks that fell meandering down in the afterglow onto what remained of the McBanks. Beautiful birdsong could be heard ghost like in the air and then a gentle female elven voice with an element of cut glass to it that marked the true nobility said “Hole in one.”

Lance turned to Amarie and slipped the miniscule weapon back in to his tuxedo, “Size isn't' everything.”

Amarie nodded as the sparks continued to settle on the bits of McBanks still left and the birdsong faded, “What does DFWT stand for?” she asked slowly.

“'Don't Fuck With Tinuviel',” Lance replied with a slight involuntary grimace at the crudeness of the language before a lady and Ambassador, “I'm afraid Her Majesty is rather, direct, in her approach to the criminal elements. When she isn't using their heads for golf balls.”

“So I see,” Amarie nodded again taking in the bits of carnage on the stairs below, bits that were occasionally sliding in gloopy blobs down to the hall beneath with sad plopping and slapping noises, “can that thing blow those doors open?”

Lance glanced up at the heavy doors, booming under the reverberations of the ram.

“Oh yes, rather it could, easily I should imagine,” he said nodding but looking reflective, “if I had another bolt, which I'm rather afraid I don't. Bit rummy really but it's a one shot weapon, meant for last stand desperate emergency situations.”

“Well size might not matter, but firing your load to soon is still a man's problem I see,” Amarie said wryly, “well then, we will just have to do it the old fashioned way,” she nodded firmly and rolled up her dark sleeves.

Lance glanced up to where Norc and Ringo where putting a messy but conclusive end to the last of the McBanks on the middle staircase, “Sergeant! And um, Lady. Down here,” he called, “we have to get these bally doors open while we still have a chance.”

Lance followed the Ambassador down to where the furniture was piled heavily up against the door, Petty came running after them, “Whit ur yi daein'? We huv tae save Gingerlocks.”

Lance turned to him, “What your friend did was very brave, a brave young lady indeed, one who deserves honour, song and respect  by jingo, but if we do not get these doors open now we may not get another chance. Sorry. But there it is. Sacrifices must be made for the greater good. Queen and Country old chap. Your friend understood that.”

“Didnae dae that!” Petty exploded, “didnae talk aboot her like that, in the past tense, wi ur going efter Gingerlocks and wi ur goannie save her! Nooo!”

Amarie turned to him, “Lance is right, Gingerlocks did what she did to give us this chance, do you think she would thank us if we don't take it?”

“Di yi think shull thank us when Offo chops her intae bits an' puts the bits in jelly fur aw tae see? Bugger yi aw!” he cried angrily, “A'll save her maesel'” and he marched back up the stairs scowling at Norc and Ringo who were drenched in McBanks blood coming the other way.

He got to the middle staircase still raging and determined but then the fact he was about to go in pursuit of all the remaining McBanks armed with nothing more than indignation struck him. He needed help.

He looked back down where the others, all except Norc who as a Viking did massacres, plundering and the other but drew the line at manual labour, had already industriously begun pulling the furniture aside and then he pulled the scuttle chamber key from his pocket and clasped it firmly in his hand.



Figg leapt up the stairs not even daring to glance back over her shoulder at the horde she knew was in pursuit of her.

She reached the corner of the stairs where it intersected with the corridor to the Ambassadors quarters. No point going that way she knew, it was a dead end.

“Ah wull git yi!” Offo cried zealously behind her as she wavered over where to go and then in desperation and not knowing any other route she simply took to the the next flight of stairs and continued on upwards into the Keep, “An' when A dae, I'm goannie make it slow and painful!” Offo screamed hysterically behind her.

Her legs pounded the staircase, her bustle seeming heavy now and she could feel the kitten sliding about inside its compartment, occasionally mewing in uncertainty as she bounded ever upwards seeing no other clear path and always behind her in a horde of yells, insults and threats came the McBanks.

Finally she ran out of staircase and was confronted with a long corridor that lead to a huge set of barred double doors. In desperation she heaved at the heavy wooden bar and managed to lift it from its iron slots and opening it she slipped through.

Cold air hit her. The air of a late night, or an early morning, still dark but with a glowing golden gleam on the horizon that where it caught the sea made in sparkle in the darkness far below.

She was on the roof.  A flock of ravens who usually had the place to themselves and were not used to unexpected late night visitors took off in a flurry of dark feathers and reproachful complaining caws. Figg swung round pulling the door closed but there was no way to bar it on this side. Desperately she looked about her for somewhere to hide.

The roof was huge, covering most of the width and length of the Keep and mainly flat broken only by the occasional and oddly clumped extrusion of chimneys; tall ones, short ones, fat ones, capped ones, wide open ones with iron bars across the top, straight and crooked ones, groups in twos, threes, fours and more which seemed to have sprung up haphazardly clustered- as if they had simply grown that way like tress in a copse rather having been built, smokes and steams spiralled up from them and coiled into the sky. Some of them hissed against the salt tinged cold air.

Figg ran for the cover of one such clumping and darted behind it, then wanting further distance she darted again from one chimney to the next and continued doing this putting more distance between her and the door which finally burst open with a red faced Offo leaping through it.

“A huv yi noo Gingerlocks!” he taunted with a huge smile slowly upturning his downturned mouth, “naewhur tae run.”

Figg darted again between the smoking stacks, hidden by their shadows and distant enough from the emerging McBanks to be reasonably sure they would not spot her. She stopped again, pressing close and crouching next to the stone chimney stack which radiated a gentle warmth through its bricks. The kitten mewed again agitated in the bustle and Figg tried to 'shhh' it and made soft cooing sounds she thought must surely be drowned out anyway by the thumping of her heart. The McBanks were fanning out from the door they were still spewing out of in search of her.

She moved again, feeling fear and panic well up in her. She was nearing a wall with a rampart, much of it ageing and crumbling, the edge of the Keep on the side which overlooked the sea so distant below yet whose harsh pounding against the rocky shore below boomed up to her clear and ominous.

“Cum oot little Gingerlocks! A've summit fur yi lass!” Offo called from the centre of the roof, “its cawed Vengeance! An' its Raspberry flavoured the night!”

Figg edged up to the rampart and cautiously stood, keeping in the shadows as much as she could she peered between the ramparts then quickly crouched back down. It was as she had feared and expected, nothing but a drop to the shore below with its harbour and workshops, rocks and sea. There was no chance of escape that way.

“Yi cannie hide fur ever Gingerlocks,” Offo called, “an' whun we find yi wi ur gonna make an example o' yi that outlast ae the ither deeds o' this night in infamy.”

Figg peered fearfully between the stacks. The McBanks closest to her where no more than thirty feet away now and closing and she was running out of chimneys to run too where she would not soon be spotted.

“No way down, no way out,” she thought, “bloody typical!” she wondered where Petty was and if they had got the doors open yet. At least she hoped this might not at least be a completely pointless end.




Lance panted and heaved at one end of a massive trestle table whilst Ringo huffed and puffed at the other end. It was only one of three they had yet to move before they could get near the doors.

Lance paused to catch his breath, “Ambassador can't you, you know, do one of those Dark Planet things you do and just put a bally great hole in the door?”

Amarie who was industriously dragging a sizeable set of kitchen drawers out the way stopped and took a deep breath, her brow gleamed with effort and her hair was unusually tousled and straggly, “I am an Ambassador of the Dark Planet, I get given the best suites in any Keep or Palace, I go to the finest banquets and restaurants, I am invited to all the most important social events and I am a member, and most importantly of all, I am a representative of the Dark Council upon which I sit,” she paused to breath some more, “do you think therefore for one bloody second that if I could just put a hole in the damned door that I would be dragging furniture about a stinking Scotshobbit Keep?!” she roared then drew a long inhalation trying to clam and centre herself,  “I can make a portal, it doesn't go in anything, not walls, not doors, it just hangs in the air and bloody well links two places together. Understand?”

“Ah well, righto,” Lance said admonished, but after a moments consideration and risking further wrath asked, “but couldn't you then just make a portal and move all this stuff outside or something?”

“What would be the point?” Amarie responded snappily, “we would still have to move the furniture through the portal to wherever we were taking it, its the same amount of work all that changes is where it ends up. Besides we are forbidden from making public displays of our powers, the Dark Planet does not want it general knowledge what we may, or may not be able to accomplish. I could only do so in extreme circumstances.”

“What, this isn't fucking extreme enough?” Norc chipped in from the sidelines.

“By Dark Planet standards no, my life is under no immediate threat and I can leave at any time. Which I will be doing as soon as we get these doors open. I would rather not have to explain this night to the Chief of the McTyrants. So just move the damn furniture!”

“Of course,” Lance nodded and he and Ringo set about the next upended trestle table.

“Besides, “Amarie added to herself under her breath “there is someone I really want to go and see.”




Petty paused as he neared the Scuttle Chamber. He could not hear anyone so cautiously he peered round the corner and into the outer room.

There were no guards left. No point in guarding a locked door no one had the key too Petty thought and then with a grin pulled out the Chamber key, except him.

He hurried up to the door calling, “Paw! Paw Ur yi thur?”

There was the muffled sound of surprised sudden movement from within the Chamber then Paws gruff voice said, “Naw son A goat bored and went oan a holiday tae Italiashire. O' course wi're still fucking here yi idiot! Di yi huv the key son?”

“Huad on,” Petty cried and scrambled for the lock and fitting the key turned it with a heavy satisfying clunk. The Chamber door swung open and the occupants emerged gratefully.

“A huv tae say son, “Paw said proudly, “a didnae think yi hud it in yi.” He lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper,  Tell me, oany luck wi getting yon scuttles back?”

“Aye, A goat wan back,” Petty said puffing his meagre chest out.

Paw's eyes gleamed, “Aw widnae huv thought it possible son, maebies yi ur a man efter aw. Wi're half way their son, no gi tae me.”

“Um,” Petty hesitated, “Wull, A did huv it, but I might uv, sort aw, lost it.”

Paws face fell and he sighed a long disappointed sigh, “A shud huv known better than tae expect yi naw tae make a complete an utter ARSE O' IT!” he bellowed in Petty's face, “how in the name o' the wee man did yi lose the bloody thing? Whur?”

“Gingerlocks stole it aff me,” Petty squealed in admission and attempted blame shifting,”A cudnae stoap her, she wis tae fast fur me.”

“The Sassenach?! An wur is she noo?” Paw demanded.

“A didnae ken, she run up the stairs last a saw wi Offo an aw his men chasing her.”

Paw stared at him and shook his head, “Then whit are yi daeing here yi bloody idiot? A thought yi were keen oan the lassie? Sum man yi ur,” he added disappointedly and Petty hung his head in confused shame, “wi need tae go rescue her afore its tae late an' git baith aw they scuttles back afore the Chief finds thum. Oor family name, an' the Kingdoms future ur riding oan this Petty. Last chance son- didnae fuck it up fur us, gonnie noo?”






'BOOM!” the doors wavered under the blow of the ram and the wood splintered some more with a deafening crack.

Ringo and Lance leapt back from the last of the trestle tables they were trying to move as it was in turn knocked backwards end over end by the reverberations of the door.

They could clearly see that one of the two double doors had cracked down its length, all that was holding the doors shut now was the huge thick bar of iron across it, which even so was buckled and twisted.

'BOOM!' went the ram again.

As soon as the noise subsided Lance darted to the crack in the door, “I say!” he called out, “I say chaps, could you be so good as to kindly stop that for a moment? Hello? I say?”

There was the sound of nothing, but a particular nothing, it was the nothing of puzzled people thinking.

Eventually a huge rumbling voice, presumably one of the caber tossers who had been wielding the ram said, “Whit?”

“I said, would you be so good as to kindly stop using the ram so we can unbar the door.”

Again there was the silence caused by someone whose existence was largely focused around their muscles and now found their brain called into rare usage, “Yi want tae let us in?”

“Yes, rather. That is the general thrust of the idea.”

“Why wud McBanks want tae let us in?” the voice rumbled in befuddlement.

“Oh sorry, misunderstanding, my fault wasn't quite clear enough, we are not McBanks, I am, a friend of your Chiefs, we were playing dominoes tonight at the casino, and I have the Ambassador from the Dark Planet here with me too.”

Again thoughtful, slow silence, then, “So not McBanks?”

“No, not McBanks,” Lance replied becoming somewhat frustrated with the man's slow paced thought process, “so we are going to open the door now. OK?”

“Wi goat orders tae kill anywan whose noo a McTyrant,” the voice rumbled, “sae,” more thoughtful consideration, “that wid include yi tae.”

Lance sighed, 'Scotshobbits!' he thought lamentably, “Well that would rather put a blockage in the way of us being able to open the door and let you in, don't you think?” he said then considered that probably no, this oaf did not think, that was precisely the problem.

“Except the Ambassador,” the voice rumbled.

“What?”

“Wive noo tae kill her, she's goat,” there was a long pause as the caber tosser worked up to bigger words, “duplicate insurance,” the voice rumbled with considerable uncertainty.

“She's got what?”

“Duplicate insurance,” the voice repeated no more certain sounding, “means wi ain't supposed tae kill her.”

Lance sighed, “Diplomatic Immunity!” he cried exasperated.

“Aye,” the voice rumbled.

“Look is there someone else out there I could talk too, the Chief, a Viking, anyone frankly?”

“Sorry,” the voice rumbled, “orders is orders, if it's aw right wi yi, wull jist get back oan wi the rammin'”

“No it bally well is not all right with me!” Lance shouted but was drowned out by the ram hammering the door again right next to his ear.  He spun away his head ringing.

“So,” Norc said slowly pursing her lips, “if we open the door they will kill us, if we stay inside Offo and his men will probably kill us, and if we don't open the door Gingerlocks is definitely killed and for absolutely no reason, nice one! Can we just go die properly now killing some fucking McBanks and get this shit over with?”

“BOOM!” the doors splintered again and the iron bar buckled some more under the pressure and the brackets embedded into the stone wall that held it buckled too, cracking the stone work around it.

“Its going to give soon,” Lance observed.

“Then lets fucking go!” Norc cried.

Lance sighed, “What do you think Ambassador?” he said turning to Amarie, but she was already gone. Lance stared blankly at where she had been as a small black shape closed in on itself and vanished.

“Ho!” a voice called from the top of the stairs, “yi noo goat that open yet?” Petty cried hurrying down towards them with Paw following more cautiously behind, taking in the carnage and Norc's Viking appearance with a frown.

“Ha Petty!” Lance said, “and the Head Guard,” he added more worriedly.

“Thut's ma Paw,” Petty explained,” sae whits the problem?” he asked as the doors continued to resist the hammering of the ram.

“Well those chaps out there won't stop the ram long enough for us to open the bally doors,” Lance explained with a shrug.

“Why noo?”

“Because they are thick-headed, ig-ignorant, blind,” Lance began through gritted teeth then paused considering the present company and caught the growing anger in Paw's already red and angry eyes, “and very loyal to their duty, clan and Chief. Sturdy fine chaps. But they are under orders to kill all non-McTyrants, apparently that rather includes us.”

“Oh aye?” Paw grumbled and stalked up to the widening crack in the door and hammered on the wood.

“Hey! Dunderheids!” he called through the crack and the huge looming shadow of a caber tosser blocked out the gap.

“Whit noo?”

“Whit noo?” Paw replied with slow menace, “this is Chief o' the Scuttle Chamber talking here pal, sae here's whit noo- if yi dinnae cease yon ramming in the next twa seconds A will see that at next years Games yi are tied tae the ground, whi yer baws nailed tae a fully wound ballista. An' then A'm goinna fire yir red plums into the fucking sea whilst the rest o' yi stays behind.”

There was a pause while the slow brain envisioned this scenario, “Wull stoap the ramming then” it concluded in a wise act of self-preservation.

“Gud lad,” Paw patronised and then turning to the others shouted, “yi cun let um in noo.”

“Thun cun wi go get Gingerlocks?” Petty asked anxiously, “if thurs oanyting left o' her tae git,” he added morosely.



Figg was out of options. There was one clustering of twisted chimney stacks left she could dart too, after that she was out of roof again with nothing but a deathly drop to the shore below to look forward too.

On the other-hand if she stayed where she was she was going to be discovered in about three seconds time.

She moved. Darting as fast as possible across the space but the kitten, fully awake and disturbed with all the dashing to and for let up a loud and plaintive mewing.

A slew of tall McBanks heads turned towards her before she could reach the safety of the next set of smoking stacks.

“Ho-Ho!” Offo cried leading his men who were falling in a tall headed mob of wrathfulness in behind him, “betrayed by yir ain pussy!” he mocked.

Figg backed away, turning this way and that and seeing no way out. Her bustle bumped up against the outer rampart and the kitten cried again at it was tumbled in its secret compartment. There was nowhere left to go.

“Wir's yir tricks noo Gingerlocks?” Offo taunted, drawing a long cruel dagger from his belt, it had the look of ceremony about it and was carved with images of jelly making, with added people ingredients, “whit's huppened tae that smart mooth o' yi'res? Whir's yir clever wit noo?”

Figg had only been certain of one thing about her own death, and only one thing. That she would not go quietly.

She put her hands firmly on her hips, “My mouth is right here, but it doesn't have to be smart, though on it's own it's still smarter than you, because my brain is smarter!”

“A'm goan scoop yir brain oot and muke a trifle oot o' it!”

“You'll have to outwit it first Offo,” Figg retorted and pulled out the scuttle, she dangled it over the rampart and the first faint gleams of morning caught it making it shine dully orange, “one step closer and its bye bye scuttle. And even if you do by a miracle get out of here, it will all have been for nothing.”

“A huv the either wan,” Offo replied but stopped advancing.

“But you have no way of knowing if its the real one or not,” Figg replied dangling the scuttle still and waving it about tauntingly, “50/50 chance Offo, you willing to bet your future on those odds? If not, BACK OFF!” she tossed her ginger hair at him for added effect, then had to blow it back out the way with the corner of her mouth afterwards.

“Ooh this day is oer fir me Gingerlocks,” Offo said, “A'v bin betrayed by the Ambassador, A cun see thut noo, thurs no goona be a way oot. But A'm goona destroy these scuttles first an A'm gonna destroy yi afore A die- sae drop it, smash it tae bits oan the groon below, dae ma joab fir me Gingerlocks, yi've nuthin' left tae bargain wi. An' thut means yir mine.”

“I'm not bluffing,” Figg replied, “I will drop it.”

“Nor um A Gingerlocks, A really dinae care oany mair,” he spun round and cried, “bring me, the jelly!”

From the back of the ranks of McBanks Figg saw the tops of three huge chefs hats, hovering high above the heads of the others, which was pretty damn high considering the hats were tall and long and so were the heads they sat upon. They also bobbed and weaved somewhat uncertainly as they approached and the ranks parted in reverence for the jelly.

For it was jelly the four chefs carried between them in a massive vat. But it seemed that it had not yet fully set and as they manhandled it across the roof globby wobbly globules of it slopped over the sides and splattered red on the rooftop, indeed by the time they reached Offo they had left a considerable amount of their jelly behind them in a long red lumpy trail and the vat sat in a messy pool of it..

“Whit the buggery is this?” Offo demanded, sticking one hand into the vat and pulling out the runny jelly which dropped in blobs between his fingers to land wobbling on the ground.

“Sorry,” a chef offered, “thir jist wisnae the time fir it tae set!”

“Wan thing, wan thing I asked yi tae, as the last request o' yir Chief, just wan wee vat o' jelly,” he pointed an angry finger at Gingerlocks and yelled, “tae display her dismembered parts in! And yi cannae even gie me thut,” he turned back to Figg and in a low almost sad tone he said, “A'll jist huve tae kill her then.”

Figg stopped dangling the scuttle, it was clearly worth nothing as a bargaining chip, Offo was now intent on nothing more than depriving her off her life, which meant the only thing she had left to bargain with was denying him that.

In a moment of pure cold terror, so terrifying in fact she was utterly numb to everything, she found that she was climbing the rampart until she stood atop it. The kitten mewed worriedly in the bustle, she tried not to think about it. She tried not to think about what she was about to do. She tried not to think that the slight breeze she had felt on the rooftop now felt like a hurricane blowing strongly against her bustle and tipping her ever closer to  the fatal edge. And above all she tried not to look down the dizzying height to the docks, workshops and sea below.

“Whit ur yi daing?” Offo cried as he approached.

“Depriving you of the only thing left you want,” she said firmly, “here's one last trick for you Offo.”

“Naw, yi cannae!” Offo cried and actually leapt about on the spot in fury, “yi owe me yir life. An' A'm going to take it!”

“No,” Figg replied coldly and with a calm she neither felt nor intended, “I am.”

She lifted her right foot to step back just as the doors to the roof flew open and Petty, Paw, Norc, Ringo and Lance came flying through them. Norc slammed the doors shut again.

“We need those open for the McTyrants,” Lance cried as Norc tried to bar the doors with her hands.

“I fucking don't” she grunted, “my Dad's out there.”

“Yi think yi've goat it bad,” Petty muttered, “mines oot here.” But he had not muttered it quite low enough for Paw not to hear him and obligingly slap him round the back of the head for his cheek.

It was at this point they noticed the large gathering of McBanks all staring at them, many of them down the length of a crossbow.

“Oh bugger! Petty cried and grabbing the doors he threw them open just as the first ranks of McTyrants made the top of the stairs and exploded out. They had had to wait all night for a fight and they were eager to start.

The McBanks fired their crossbows and McTyrant's fell in numbers in the front ranks as they haphazardly charged, but fewer than could have been had the McTyrant's not all been drunk by this point in proceedings, and there was nothing harder to hit than a charging drunk who was weaving erratically in your direction.

“Norc!” a huge voice roared from the stairs within, “Where the fuck are you girl?”

“Aw fuck its my Dad!” Norc cried and grabbing Ringo's arm she dragged him towards the carnage, “hey what the fuck's Gingerlocks doing?” she cried pointing across the roof to where Figg was still poised on the parapet, though with the change in events instead of now being intent on jumping, she was intent on not letting Offo get near enough to her to push her off, which meant scurrying across the dangerous crumbling brickwork of the parapet.

“Figg!” Petty cried, “Figg! A'm comin'” and dove headlong into the chaos and blood.

“Norc! I have your soon to be husband with me, come and meet him for fuck sake.”

“I think Petty needs some fucking help,” Norc suggested to Ringo and hefting her axe she began to carve her way joyously towards Figg.

Figg crouched on the wall, every time she tried to get down Offo was there below her, reaching for her, every time she darted along the wall he followed, crying wild curses and clawing at his own face in futile exasperated anger as she evaded his lunges and attempts to throw her off balance.

Among the parting shifting bodies of the fight and above the cries of the battle and cries of death she suddenly saw Petty and heard him cry “Haud oan Figg A'm cummin'”

Despite herself, and her predicament she found her heart had suddenly soared, the butterflies were back in her stomach and they were seemingly having as rare old time in there by the feels of it. Petty was trying to rescue her.

The romanticism of this wore off somewhat when the logical part of her brain ran that sentence by once more with different emphasis, 'PETTY, was TRYING to rescue her.' She frowned.

Petty squirming between bloody bodies almost popped from the edge of the battle like a rugby ball from a scrummage and finding nothing but clear space between him and Offo and Figg he charged in a blind fury driven by his desire to save Figg from harm. But with the emphasis on blind.

At the same time Offo lunged again for Figg who half leapt to her right along the rampart and her foot found ancient unstable masonry.

She felt it tilt below her and only just managed to switch her weight back to her other foot as the part of the wall she had intended to end up on crumbled and broke away over the side in a shower of masonry. But her shift back at put her reach of Offo's trailing fingers and he grabbed the hem of her bustle.

“A'll save yi!” cried Petty his short stubby legs pumping under his kilt for all he was worth. Right onto a patch of fallen jelly, his heel skidded in the surface, he hit a second patch of jelly and pirouetted as he careered haphazardly towards Offo and Figg and then with a cry of “oh bugger it!” he collided at full speed and out of control with Offo, grabbed him round the waist and then they both went crashing through the fallen rampart and off the roof and into the empty air.

Offo's fingers, still holding Figg's bustle hem spun her on the wall after them and she scrambled as she fell downwards, then the weight was gone as Offo dragged down by Petty fell with a shriek.

Figg dangled over the side, her hands grasping desperately on what remained of the broken rampart.

She did not dare look down. All she could think of was Petty. Her heart plunged, the butterflies crash landed. And very soon she would follow them and Petty, she could feel her grip slipping, the masonry crumbling beneath her fingers.

In the depths of her bustle sensing her distress the kitten began a plaintive mournful mewing.

so much for bite size.

Ack, got partway through when I realized I seemed to be missing something, then went back and found a whole page with two 'bites' that I hadn't read yet! I thought we were near the end!

So far, my favorite part is

Lance glanced up, saw the stairs upwards were running red with McBanks blood and the cheerful swearing of Norc in her element, and then glanced downwards and the oncoming McBanks from below.

I thought we were near the end!- Halfy

{{We are- but take the size of the tale and normal average chapter page length for something like that would be 20-40 pages- the last three bits together are all the first 3/4 of the last chapter- just I had to break the story up for posting on here as Figg is already having kittens over length of installments! }}}

Do you mean the kittens in Figg's bustle? I thought there was just one! Not another plot twist, I hope, I have trouble catching up as it is!!!!

{{Hang on in there Orwell- nearly there!!!! Honest! }}

Id like a kitten

{{So much for substance! I knew I shouldnt have put a kitten in it }}

{{Just to let folks know the final part of this is still on the way! Just been tricky getting the time I needed to dedicate to it- but work continues- got 17 pages of it written so might have to split it in two again if I can find a break point in the final chapter. If not might end up close to 30 pages as it has an epilogue too. Hopefully have it ready in time for summer hols reading on the beach! It will also be available in a single file format when done for ease of reading. And because Orwell will ask me for it anyway }}}

{{Final chapter is way too long so having to break it up into digestible parts! }}


Figg did not dare open her eyes.

The kitten mewed loudly, it felt like its basket woven into her bustle had broken and the kitten was wandering unhappily among the complex structures of her undergarments. Which it was.

She concentrated on that problem. This might not seem on the surface the best thing to concentrate on at this precise moment and in her current predicament, but given the specifics of her current predicament were: hanging hundreds of feet up over certain death, the tenuous grip her fingers had on what remained of the rampart above, the fact she could feel said rampart's ancient stonework crumbling beneath her fingers, and high up near the apex of her things not to think about right now list, was Petty. Who was already undoubtedly no more than a large red splat below with a touch of tartan and a faint, fading reek of buckie and deep fried food.

At the very top of the list however was the fact that she would very soon be following him.

Given the available things to think about focusing on the rather trivial matter that the kitten had escaped to roam the mysterious workings of her bustle was an improvement and welcome distraction.

“Oi! Down here dearie!” a familiar distant voice called out from somewhere below Figg's dangling feet.

“Coeeee!”

Cautiously Figg forced open one eye and it swiveled somewhat unwillingly downwards towards a floating pointy black hat. Beneath which floated Azriel the witch on her broomstick. about three-quarters of the distance to the ground Figg estimated. The broomstick bristles sparkled with a rainbow of colours and then some, and slumped across the stick like a half empty sack of tartan was Petty, kilt flapping in the breeze.

“Hold on, I'm coming up!” Azriel cried, “just need to give her a bit more welly, must be all that porridge they eat!” she cried then cackling the broomsticks bristles exploded in a shower of bright magical sparks and the broomstick spun round and shot upwards.

There was a sudden loud cracking sound which echoed up the Keep wall so Figg could hear it clearly, even above the sounds of mayhem and death still ongoing on the roof above her.

“Bugger it!” Azriel cried with a yelp of pain letting go of the broomstick with one hand to reach round to her back. The broomstick twisted sickeningly round in a speedy descending arc, causing Petty to slide forwards, head first and even as Azriel tried to reach for him and yelped in agony from her locked back, he slipped from the stick and into the empty air again and tumbled downwards, his kilt billowing up around him.

Figg closed her eyes again and went back to worrying about the kitten in desperation.

But she couldn't sustain the distraction as a series of curses grew louder as Azriel ascended until her voice, hovering disconcertingly in the air beside her said clearly, sharply and insistently, “Well come on dearie, hurry up I'm in bleeding agony here, give us a good hard kick then!”




“Oh fuck! Gingerlocks!” Norc exclaimed as Figg disappeared over the rampart. Unfortunately, with the McBanks greatly diminished in number those who did remain were now being pressed back in a large group towards the rampart wall. And they were directly between Norc and the now disappeared Figg.

She whooped and ploughed into the McBanks in front swinging strongly with her axe and slicing a McBanks neatly in two. She ducked avoiding an ill timed McBanks sword swing and brought her axe up into its owners belly. She was just starting to enjoy herself again when she noticed that not far from her there was another woman on the battlefield. This in itself was not hugely uncommon in Scotshobbitlands but this one was wearing an expensive red evening dress, spiked stiletto heels and equally red and manicured nails and had perfect make-up, this was somewhat more unusual anywhere, even Scotshobbitland. As Norc watched the mystery woman raked her perfectly manicured nails down the entire length of a McBanks face leaving it in tatters.

Norc was just pondering this mysterious woman, and grudgingly admiring her homicidal fighting technique when a familiar and gruff voice behind her said, “Ah, at fucking last.”

Norc hacked aside an overly aggressive McBanks who mistook her for distracted and turned her head to the speaker, “Fuck,” she said, “Dad!”

“And here,” her father said indicating a tall, expensively dressed but skinny, pale faced Fjordian by his side, “is your fucking husband.”

Norc eyed up her axe.



Paw stared in horror as he watched his only son Petty make a complete arse of himself skidding on the jelly and felt a familiar pang of disappointed shame, this was quickly followed by a rare but huge surge in pride as Petty collided with Offo, sending the McBanks Chief screeching over the ramparts, the pride was immediately struck dead by the numb realisation Petty was going to follow him, followed by horror at Petty actually doing so.

He noted the sassenach went too but all his Scottish male emotional capabilities were already on overload. He had frozen and was finally saved by his own crabbit which took charge of his shocked brain and slapped all the other emotions down to never be thought on again and where they could fester in the dark, and taking control of Paw's mouth it concentrated on something about the situation to get him good and proper crabbit again, he said, “The Scuttle!”

Ahead of him was a wall of McTyrants all trying to either get to the front to claim a McBanks before there were none left, or fighting each other out of impatience or boredom at not getting to the front. Either which way Paw had to get through them all just to reach the McBanks pressed back against the very rampart he suddenly wanted to reach.

He was about to wade shoving, elbowing and proclaiming his status as Chief Scuttle Guard into the chaos when he heard a familiar gleeful cry, to high even for a McBanks. Pretty was here somewhere, of course she was, it was a fight after all.

“Pretty lass!” he bellowed over the tops of the crowd and waving implements. From beyond the ranks of McTyrants and in the front row of the retreating McBanks a stiletto heel swung up neatly taking the nose from a long face and then Pretty popped up, jumping up onto a nearby McBanks for height and raking his face with her nails on the way up, “Paw?” she called.

“Get oer here lass, nooo” Paw bellowed back.

Pretty nodded and stomped her heels down into the shoulders of the McBanks she was perched on and half crouching she grabbed one long McBanks cheek and embedded her nails into it drawing blood and whispered something in his ear. The long face, already showing signs of being in the throes of pure terror charged forward as pretty whooped atop him shouting, “Clear the fucking way!” and where necessary lashing out with a deft punch or nail scrapping to encourage folk to acquiesce to her demand.

Finally she exited from the crowd, who were by now climbing over each other to get out her way and leapt down from her impromptu McBanks steed, who stood swaying uncertainly on the spot after her dismount. She bent down and took both her shoes off, their heels red from having being embedded in the McBanks shoulders, “Ma bloody feet are killing me,” she said rubbing them with one hand.

Then suddenly and violently she swung round and with one stiletto repeatedly bludgeoned the McBank in the face and finally to the ground, where she bludgeoned him some more for good measure.

She spun back round, face splattered in blood and holding a stiletto that now included an added fashion accessory of brain, smiled sweetly at Paw and skipping forward on bare feet over the gore she gave him a loving peck on the cheek, “gud tae see yi Paw.”

“A'm afraid A huve sum bad news tae tell yi,” Paw said putting his hands gently and fatherly on her shoulders.

“Whit? Hus summit happened tae Maw?”

“Nae yir Maw lass, she's fine, “ Paw said, “It's yir brither, A'm afraid, whit A mean tae say is, he went o'eer the side, he's maist likely deid.”

Pretty stareded at him for a moment, “And the bad news?”

“Pretty! Its yir ain brither.”

“Seems aw its means tae me is a finally git tae knock yon wall doon between oor rooms and git ma walk-in wardrobe.”

Paw shook his head, “We'll talk aboot that later,” he said crossly.

“That's noo a noo,” Pretty grinned and flung his arms round him, “Cun A dae it? Yi ken A've aways dreamt o' a walk in wardrobe Paw. Say A cun' goa oan sae it!”

“Ach, a ne'er cud say naw tae yi lass,” Paw replied sheepishly, “bit right noo wi huv tae at least git Petty's body.”

“Whit fir?” Pretty asked letting Paw go and pouting at him.

“Because his wee sassenach pal went oo'er way him, and she hud the Scuttle.”

Pretty's eyes widened, “Shit!” she said then screamed at her top of her lungs, “Malky!!”

A moment later Wee Mad Mental Malky emerged from the crowd in a sort of parting of the seas re-enactment, if the sea had been made up of body parts and the surprised screams of people being unexpectedly attacked from below.

“Here A um darling,” Mad Malky said, “oooh look jelly,” added Wee Malky, noticing blobs of it still among the gore on the rooftops, “that's a lovely colour, ruby, fits in wi the décor too.”

“Malky,” Pretty said leaning down and kissing him passionately, “A huv a wee joab fir yi tae dae darlin'.”




“Come on then dearie!” Azriel shouted, wincing as she twirled the broomstick round so her back was to Figg, “one good kick should do it.”

“No!” Figg squeed clinging on desperately to the wall, “I'll fall!”

“Your going to fall anyway dearie, “ Azriel pointed out, “and if you do you'll be wanting help, say from someone nearby flying on a broomstick won't you?”

“Well, yes,” Figg said and then squealed again is one hand came lose, the rampart masonry crumbling beneath her fingers and she scrabbled for a new handhold. Lumps of masonry and dusty ancient mortar showered around her.

“Well I can hardly help you if me backs buggered now can I? So screw up your courage dearie and give me a damn good kick.”

“I can't!” Figg cried, knowing that swinging her foot backwards out for the wall would most likely shake her precarious hold on the wall or disturb the old stones enough to send her plummeting, “Besides, you dropped Petty.”

“Not on purpose!” Azriel protested, “and no good you joining him is there? So if you blame me for that then use some of that anger to give me a damn good kick, now get that leg swinging afore its too late.”

“Oh bugger it!” Figg cried and with a sudden effort and damn everything to hell attitude she back-kicked as hard as she could impacting hard on Azriel's back, sending her spinning forwards on her broomstick, there was a loud 'crack' and then cackling with relief Azriel swung round just as Figg's hands slipped on their hold as Figg rocked against the cliff and fell with a scream.

“Oh bugger!”Azriel cried and dove downwards and under Figg catching her as she fell neatly across the stick, winding her in the process.

“There we go now, all safe and well,” Azriel said with a nod as they circled slowly towards the ground. Figg had a rather sickening view of it as she had landed across the broomstick facing downwards and felt like a large sack draped over a wash-line.

“No, all is not well,” Figg complained.

“Well its about to get worse, I suggest you close your eyes about now dearie if you don't want to have to see something unpleasant and disturbing, I'm going to bring us round to your Scottish friend.”

Figg clamped her eyes shut in anticipation of Petty's remains upon the rocks as she felt the broomstick turn and fall, “Is it Petty? Is he, dead, and splattered all over the ground?”

“No, he's alive and on a ledge,” Azriel replied.

“Then why did you tell me to close my eyes?”

“'Cause he's used his kilt as a parachute and I can see his willy.”

Figg opened her mouth to reply then closed it again and considered prying open one eye as she felt the broomstick slow and then rise a little as Azriel dismounted.

“You can open them now,” she said.

Figg opened her eyes and pulled herself up from the broomstick and then dismounted in an unladylike manner her tutor at school would not have approved of. The kitten meowed in her bustle.

They were still about forty foot from the ground she noticed peering over the edge into the receding dark below. Here the base of the rampart ran into the natural cliff-side and bulged outward in shallow shelves then fell to where below them were the workshops and yards that lined the dock-front.

Azriel had flicked Petty's kilt back over him, covering whatever it was he had to cover. He was also unconscious with a large red swelling on the side of his head, larger even than the usual sort of red swellings his face commonly broke out in that was, and his right arm was broken and lay at a rather painful angle which made Figg wince. But he was breathing.

The butterflies began to flutter again in Figg's stomach but she quelled them on the basis she had did not have the time for them right now.

“Will he be ok?” Figg asked.

“No idea dearie,” Azriel said kneeling down beside him, “dare say that might be up to you now.”

“How?”

“We'll see shall we. Now I can do something with that arm though he ain't be going to use it anytime soon,” and with that she grabbed Petty's arm at the break and with a swift gesture and unpleasant sound of bone on bone snapped it back into place.

Petty sat up screaming, “Thur's been a murrrrder!” he cried.

“Shut up dearie, I'm fixing you,” Azriel admonished pushing him back down and then delving into her pitch black cloak she retrieved several lengths of thick cloth and began binding them tightly around the break.

Petty sat up again, his eyesight was bleary and everything he looked at seemed to waver and glow round the edges, he stared at Figg until eventually she snapped “What are you staring at you idiot?”

“A'm a deid?” he finally managed, “Um seeing glowy angels.”

Figg sighed putting her hands on her hips, “No, you are not dead,” she said firmly, “and I am definitely no angel,” she snorted derisory ignoring the fact that despite herself the butterflies were back out for a flap, “You fell off the roof you clumsy fool, then got caught half way down by a passing witch, who then dropped you thanks to a bad back and your kilt acted like a parachute and saved you,” she said then added with an evil smile, “and apparently you showed your willy to the world too while you were at it.”

Despite everything else a hot red flush went up Petty's face and he grasped at his kilt with both hands in horror then squealed at his broken arm and with a pained cry of “In the name o' the Wee Man!” he slumped over backwards unconscious again from the pain.

“Right then, that's me,” Azriel suddenly said briskly with a grin and clapping her hands together, “Simy will be wanting something to eat I except, better go get a McBanks whilst there is any left.”

“But you cant leave us here,” Figg protested.

“Yes I can dearie,” Azriel said patting her gently on the head on her way by to the broom, “I'm a witch, not a fairy godmother. Besides a witch is never late or early, an' she can bugger of when she chooses. I've got a pot o' tea on an' some newts and toads in the cauldron.”

“But we're halfway up the wall?” Figg pointed out somewhat inaccurately.

“No you're not, “Azriel retorted flatly without turning round and mounting her broomstick.

“How are we going to get down?”

Azriel looked back at her her eyes twinkling, “Climbing I'd say would be your best bet dearie.”

“He has a broken arm, and he's unconscious,” Figg yelled at her in exasperation.

“Then you're going to have to help him ain't you,” Azriel cackled, a shower of colourful hues sparkled from the bristles and the witch shot off into the air still cackling and disappeared around the corner of the Keep.

Figg turned to the still recumbent Petty then she peered down over the side of the cliff. Below her the cliff-face sloped gentle outward until it met the back wall of some sort of yard below in which various carts, wheels, barrels, boxes and things under tarpaulins stood. It looked a very long way down, she turned back to Petty and thought, “Bugger it!”

I hope the kitten will be ok ? I could do a "He-Man, Castle Greyskull "thingy on him maybe ?

Holy, crap, I forgot this thing wasn't finished yet!

{{{ Nearly there Halfy! The above is in fact the original final chapter- just it was running to about 30ish pages or more, not sure haven't counted lately- so seemed wise to break it up a bit for putting here }}

“Well, what do you fucking say?” Norc's father rumbled at her gesturing to the tall thin man standing by his side.

The tall man smiled weakly at her and extended a limp hand, “Most pleased to meet the famous warrior maiden of the North,” he said in soft rather flowery manner, for a Viking, “life on the farm, in the clean air of lands that are low and abundant shall mellow your temperament from thorn into a delicate blossoming flower of the fields.”

Norc stared at him, then turned to her father, “You have to be fucking kidding me?!” she cried absent-mindedly swinging at a McBanks sneaking up behind her.

“Well you know,  lavt kjedelig land med ingenting a drepe eller knulle, men rikelig med hvete a spise, no fucking proper snow or ice either, barely man-height at the worst! J'vla bonde, they are a bit less coarse, a bit more  fucking refined that's all. You'll get used to it.”

“I am sure,” her suitor intervened trying to hide his slight frown which had developed when the Chief had broken into local dialect unknown to him, and suspecting from the occasional signs of humour from Norc that he may be the subject of it, but smiling his weak smile again he said, “we can knock the rough edges off her and in no time find a diamond in the rough to light up the rainbow bridge itself.”

“Like fuck! My rough edges are my favourite fucking bits.”

“Now Norc! This is a good marriage,” her father snapped, he paused to allow his daughter to decapitate an encroaching McBanks as the milieu of battle continued behind them, “those lands are fucking profitable, more than plunder, more than pillage,” he coughed uncharacteristically and Norc scowled, she knew where this was going to go, “and you know the difficulty of female Vikings,” he coughed, “for fuck's sake girl, you know what I mean must I say it?” she stared silently at him her mouth a set firm line, “its hard for you to fulfil all the,” he paused again, not this time to allow for sudden violence, but rather embarrassment, “criteria.”

Norcs face flashed red but with anger not embarrassment, “Oh yes, fucking typical. I can pillage, I can plunder, but just because I can't do the other I'm not a proper fucking Viking!" she cried slamming a McBanks to the ground with a sharp swing of her axe, “It's always the same, a woman has to work twice as hard in the fucking workplace as a man just to stay fucking even,” she pointed her axe at her father, who was sweating, not from the threat but from the topic.

“Do you fucking know,” she went on, “how difficult it is to get a man to perform when you've just slaughtered his family, stole all his shit and set fire to his fucking house?! And they don't count it if you fucking strap-up and do it to him!”

Her father grimaced in parental anguish, “well all the more reason maybe to consider giving it up, moving on, settling the fuck down,” he added hopefully, "and never having to do that or talk about it ever, ever again."

Norc stared at him, “I am already married, more or less, to Ringo McRotten, and that is the way it will fucking stay.”

“Oh about him, he will not present a problem, not at least for much fucking longer,” her father said and nodded across the crowded and gory rooftop to where Ringo was fighting McBanks and three burly Vikings were approaching him from behind that he was oblivious too.

Norc opened her mouth to yell a warning but not before her fathers large hand had clamped over it and his other arm was round her in an iron grip.

Knowing from past experience she would not be able to break free she settled for trying to bite him instead.



Lance was feeling down. He was not in the mood for slaying McBanks, besides their were too many people getting in the way of each others weapons trying to do that already. There just wasn't much super agency to do. This was not his sort of mission, it hadn't even involved a single pina-colada on a yacht in a lagoon. No one had tried to drop him into a vat of acid, or feed him to sharks. And he would be leaving the McTyrant's Casino out of his memoirs, he wished he could keep out of his memory too.

He sighed and glanced up from his vantage point at the rear near the doors to take in the state of play. Most of the McBanks, what was left of them, had formed into a semicircular huddle with their backs to the rampart wall. Pressing them in were rows of McTyrants all trying to claim a long head before they ran out of supply.

As he watched he saw three massive Vikings emerge from the press. Well not so much emerge as explode from it showering bodies as they came and dragging with them and between them Ringo, who seemed only semi-conscious.

Lance stared on perplexed and then glancing further about the roof he caught sight of the golden head of the Viking Chief, and with him was Norc, she too it seemed was being held against her will.
He wondered what on forumshire was going on.

Instinctual spy muscles kicked in and Lance began moving along the length of the the roof, darting between chimney stacks and following the Vikings who had Ringo.

As the group approached the side rampart Lance realised  what they were going to do and even as he darted to the stack of twisted chimney pots closest to the roofs edge and peered over at the far water and rocks below the Vikings casually tossed Ringo over the side and then turned away.





Figg, with some reluctance, nudged the recumbent Petty with one foot and called out his name. There was no response. Maybe he was dead?

That thought made her feel terrible, in a punch in the gut terrible kind of way that the cool logical bit of her mind noted as suspiciously too strong for someone she had only recently met.  This led to another thought wondering why she would feel such loss, given what was spread out before her was after all Petty. Flies were gathering on him. Though this always happened whenever he stopped moving to sit or lie down for any time so it was no indication of anything.

She nudged him again and edged closer to him trying to see if his chest was rising and falling but it was covered with a thick folded layer of tartan where his kilt had unwound over him in the fall and she could not tell.

She noted, eventually, that as well as the broken right arm he had a large gash on his forehead and a large swelling, almost hidden among the other various swellings, boils, spots and mysterious rashes that tended to move about Petty's face on a daily basis. Puberty it seemed it had been neither kind to his complexion nor it seemed willing to give it up yet.

And yet. The butteries tentatively fluttered again, the stupid ridiculous stubborn idiot was in this broken state because he had been trying to save her. And here she was fine and well. He had in fact sort of saved her.

She thought back to the ridiculous books she used to read as she hid in the clock-tower of the school when she should have been attending classes. Whilst the Little Sisters hunted for her body, her mind would be transported. Princes would risk life and limb to rescue their Princess from evil monster and men alike, make heroic sacrifices to save the woman they loved.  Even sometimes at the cost of their own lives.

She looked down again at Petty, at his broken and bruised and bleeding body, at his sacrifice.
She stared at Petty's pock-marked and pitted face of many colours. He was not what she pictured as she had read, and yet he had been heroic, he had tried to save her. All right, he had completely botched it and instead fallen of a roof. But he had at least tried. And here she was after all. Alive.

She let that thought sink in. For some reason it really annoyed her.

“Right” she thought determinedly and placed her hands on her hips, “Bollocks to that! I'm not owing you anything! I'm damn well going to save you!”

Instead of nudging Petty tentatively with one foot she kicked him and he groaned proving at least he was still alive, but it did not awaken him.

She tried shaking him by the shoulders but whilst this would seemingly momentarily rouse him groaning and slurring he would almost instantly slump back into unconsciousness.

It occurred to Figg that what he might need was a quick shock of some sort like a bucket of water to throw over him. Sadly she did not have a bucket. Or any water. Which was definitely two strikes against the shock plan.

“You could try kissing him, that might be a shock to him,” a treacherous part of her brain that was the bit which had read to many tales of dashing Princes who awoke their loves with a kiss, suggested.

She wasn't sure if that would shock Petty. It certainly shocked her even though she had thought it. In fact more so because she had thought it.

“Quick,” she thought leaning in towards Petty, “short,” she added leaning closer to his head, “shock,” she added wrinkling her nose as her mouth hovered towards his- then at the last minute veering aside as she instead grabbed Petty by his broken arm and squeezed.

He shot bolt upright screaming in pain and then cried, “Witches! Evil witches!” and blinked several times whilst from somewhere distantly a slightly peeved voice called out on the breeze, “Oi! Watch it dearie! I bloody well heard that!”

Petty slowly turned his head taking in his surroundings, which were he concluded made up of several blurry shapes and his own body. Or what he presumed was it as it too was blurry and appeared on initial count to contain at least five legs. He tried to use them and stand up, lost count, realised he still in fact only had two legs far to late in the proceedings and would have fallen face first off the edge of the cliff, which he couldn't see, had Figg not grabbed him from behind by the hair.

He squealed as he leaned out over the fall and his eyes, slowly clearing into focus in a manner similar to looking through a window just as the window cleaner wipes all the soap off, saw what was before him. Or rather below him. It was the ground. At it seemed a long way away.

He squealed again only louder. Pain shot from his head but it was not enough to mask the far greater  pain which appeared to have replaced his right arm. It was his favourite arm too with which he did all his favourite things. Especially at night, after his parents had gone to bed and he was alone in the dark in his room and could sneak under his blankets and pull out his secret buckie bottle and guzzle it down. And that arm, that glorious buckie bottle holding arm, trained to work even when drunk, guiding the magic liquid to destination was the arm he used to do it with. He cried out in pain and at the unfairness of it.

“What is happening?” he demanded and yelped as Figg with a grunt of effort hauled him back to safety by his hair.

“Where am I?” Petty asked baffled.

“Isn't it obvious?” Figg replied waving her arms around them at the surroundings, “we're about three-quarters of the way down the Keep wall on a narrow ledge.”

“Offo!” Petty cried suddenly remembering, “whur is he?”

“At a shrewd guess splattered somewhere below us. A sight I'd rather not see thank-you very much, even though it is good riddance to him.”

“He hus the other scuttle,” Petty said, “We huv tae git it back fir ma Paw. Yi still goat the either wan?”

“Yes, in my bustle,” Figg replied, hoping it still was given the kitten had freed itself and was still wandering lost somewhere in the spacious interior.

“Richt,” Petty said and tried to clap his hands together and then yelped in pain as his arm felt like someone had set it on fire, he wanted to pull back the tartan and look at it but he was too afraid of what he might see, it felt bad enough.

Figg peered over the edge of the cliff to the yard below, “If you want the other scuttle we're going to have to climb down and get it,” she said.

“In case yi hadnae noticed I huv broken ma fucking arm and my heids dain mair swimmi' than a kelpie. U'm noo sure a cun climb doon wan huanded.”

He weaved slightly erratically towards the edge of the cliff and Figg worriedly steadied him at the edge of it, “Don't suppose yir keeping a huge coiled length o' rope unner yon dress?” he asked hopefully.

“As it turns out, no,” she replied, “I'll go first, you follow, don't want you looking upwards,” she said firmly.

“Naw.  A'll go first,” Petty argued, “an' afore yi worry aboot me peering up at her kecks, a cudnae see yir fanny richt noo if yi were waving it aboot in ma face, the whole worlds wan big fucking blur.”

Figg tried to protest this and especially the fact she would never wave anything of the sort anywhere near him, nor was she entirely sure why he would want her too. Or why the entire chain of thoughts seemed to send the butterflies into some sort of over excited frenzy in her stomach.

“Besides mair sense A go first, then if A dae fall A didnae knock yi aff the wall and taik yi way me oan the way doon.”

With some assistance from Figg Petty knelt by the cliffs edge and feeling the edge got a solid grip with his good hand and swung his legs down, scrabbling for footholds. Fortunately from this point downwards the cliff sloped slightly outwards in a bulge of rock and its worn and weathered surface was filled with nooks and crannies crammed with sturdy sea grasses and mosses warming to the early dawning light.

“Here's gaes nuttin',” Petty said and with his head swirling round and round from the inside and his arm a searing torrent of sharp pains and the gash of his head making his eyes half close in wincing agony he began to descend.

Figg followed him worriedly.




Lance reached with his right hand into left breast pocket and pulled out the small crossbow and line and simultaneously reached his left hand into his right breast pocket, and solely on touch selected a small pointed  spear shaped object with a spring loaded barb and fitted it smoothly and all in one action to the end of the crossbow bolt. Lined a shot up and fired.

As it sped through the air Lance was already screwing a large metal disk into the back of the crossbow just as the bolt struck the falling Ringo and passed straight through his left thigh, the hooked barb popped out as the line went taught.

At the other end Lance let the crossbow go, the disk on the back sprang open into a three-pronged grapple as the crossbow slithered across the rooftop, dragging the grapple with it until it met the rampart wall and with the a clang and shower of sparks as metal met stone stuck.

Far below with a yelp of pain and a lot cursing Ringo swung and slammed into the keep wall like a fish on the line.




Figg peered downwards. They had stopped again having only gone about ten feet so far. Petty was faltering.

Below her he clung on desperately to the wall with his good hand whilst he fought for some focus from his eyes. Sweat had mingled with blood and his eye was red and nipped furiously, the gash above it throbbed and stung where the salty sea air hit it. He wished desperately he could wipe it clear, but one arm was useless and the other was all that was keeping him alive.

“Ok,” he called up to Figg after several deep breaths, “Lets go.”

He started the descent again and the movement seemed to help somewhat, not the pain but at least his eyes cleared a little so that he could actually make out the cliff-face before him in a little more detail. He was just slightly cheered by this when rain put a literal dampener on it.

At least at first he thought so as it pattered down on his head as he steadily descended. But as he went it occurred to him that this rain was both rather targeted, mainly on his head and shoulders it seemed, and that it smelt somewhat unpleasant, acerbic, and it was unseasonably warm. In fact unseasonably warm for any season known in Scotshobbitland, which only had two season anyway; Winter and Not Quite As Bad As Winter.

He was however at last making good progress, the cliff here was cracked and riven with crevices, it was more difficult avoiding getting a face full of green grass than it was finding somewhere easy to put his weight. They were more than half way down, but at least it seemed to have stopped raining.

But it was only a momentary reprieve, as yet another shower of warm rain fell on his head. He tried to squint upwards and it spattered over him, it trickled down his face like a ball in a pinball machine bumping of the obstacles of boils and bulges on the way downwards towards the mouth, it passed the nose and Petty got a strong whiff of ammonia, then finally, a small drop of it trickled into Petty's mouth and onto his tongue and met his taste buds.

He thought he had recognised the smell in his woozyness, now he knew. He stopped climbing and exploded.

“That is fucking disgusting!” he shouted up at Figg as more piss rained down on him from underneath her bustle.

Figg stopped wondering what on earth was wrong, had Petty gone delirious from his head wound?

“What?” she called onwards.

“You are minging yi sassenach!” Petty yelled.

“Oi watch it!” she threatened.

“Or whit?” Petty shouted back angrily, “ yi'll piss on me?” he cried incredulously in disgust and then choked in even more disgust as a fresh shower struck him square on. “Urrrgh! Stop that yi dirty minger!”

“I have absolutely no idea what you are blathering about,” she retorted haughtily and peered downwards to try to see what Petty was making a fuss off.  “or what a minger is!”

“Yi ur!”

Then she saw what it was as a few golden droplets of kitten pee caught in the rays of the rising sun pattered onto Petty.

“Oh bugger!” she said, “sorry!” Despite herself she suddenly burst into a uproarious laugh and had to cling onto the cliff-face as it racked her body.

“Sorry!” Petty spluttered in disbelief over her laughter, “sorry?! Yir pissing on me and yir sorry un laughing aboot it?”

“No I am not doing anything on you so I have nothing be sorry for!” Figg replied indignantly, getting control over herself.

“Well you fucking should be!” Petty shouted back furiously, “huv yi nae shame lass!”

“Its coming from my kitten,” she explained.

“A didnae care whit yi caw yir privates jist stoap it!”

Figg gritted her teeth in annoyance, “No, an actual kitten you idiot, hidden in my bustle, its got lose from its basket.”

“A kitten?” Petty shouted in disbelief, “Where did yi git a kitten frae?”

She hesitated, “It's the one you left on the bridge,” she said finally.

Petty boiled at this, for some reason the fact she knew, she of all people knew and had known all this time that he could not go through it with it, that he was not yet man enough, it suddenly burned at him, “ma kitten?” he yelled, “That wis private! Yi hud nae business thur!” he cried, really cried with tears of anger and humiliation that surprised him, “thut wis private thut wisnae fur yi. Yi dinae unnerston, aw this time yi ken, so awricht, am no a man!”

“I never said..” Figg tried but he interrupted her in rage.

But he was thinking of her, it was the fact that she of all people knew he could not go through with it burned him with an unexpected fire. And he did not know why, he was not thinking about it he was flowing with anger at what felt somehow like a betrayal.

She had been mocking him all this time, knowing all this time as he tried to be a man, tried to fight McBanks off, save her from Offo, whilst the whole time she knew, she had always known he  couldn't do what needed to be done when it needed to be done. He was a failure at the simplest task a man could have, just to be a man.

“Yi didnae unnerstund!” he yelled, “yi cannae, yir a lassie un a sassenach, yi dinnie ken whit it means. Um no a man, un, un,” tears seemed to flow uncontrollably from him now making his already limited vision all but useless, “an yi, yi huv kent it aw a lang.”

“But I never thought killing cats made you a man! It's bloody stupid and cruel,” Figg protested in confusing not understanding at all where this had suddenly come from and stunned at Petty's raw emotion on the subject.

But Petty had either not heard her words consumed in his rage or choose not to respond to them.

He was so angry he wanted instinctively to gesticulate rudely at her as he responded.

He instinctively gesticulated at her as he responded.

Which gave the non instinctive bit left of his brain just enough time to go “Oh fuck yi dozy idiot!” to itself at the realisation he had just waved angrily at Figg with is only working arm by letting go of the cliff-face.

He swung backwards like an old door falling in a haunted house and with a similar shriek only louder as he plummeted yet again through the empty morning air.

Figg stared in horror as he went, arms flailing as if trying to gain purchase by grabbing at the air itself, downwards. He bounced off an out-jut of cliff, taking a lump of the cliff-face with him in a rocky shower and then plunged through the roof of a large shed in the yard below and disappeared into darkness and sudden silence.

Figg shook herself out of the frozen horrified stare she had fixed into as a light came on in a building below and with as much rapidity as she could dare she followed downwards to see if Petty had survived yet another fall and still puzzling over the block-headed Scotshobbit notions of manhood and what she could do about it.

Bugger it all. I'll have to finish it tomorrow.

It is kinda engrossing

I was afraid by the time I finished this one I'd find another one at the end, but am now caught up!

My favorite bit:

“we can knock the rough edges off her and in no time find a diamond in the rough to light up the rainbow bridge itself.”

“Like fuck! My rough edges are my favourite fucking bits.”

I hope Norc gets around to reading it.

With a whir and some help from Lance the recoil on the crossbow finally completed dragging the constantly cursing Ringo up the wall until finally Lance could help him over the top of the rampart.

“Sorry old chap” Lance said indicting the bolt through Ringo's thigh as Ringo lay panting on the ground and holding his leg with both hands, “had to be somewhere would hold your weight and not easily rip through, somewhere fleshy, still better than a swan-dive into the ground what?” he knelt down by Ringo's side, “don't worry, the barbs retractable, if you know the trick,” he pressed something on the edge of the barbs clamped into Ringo's thigh and with a soft hiss the barbs retracted , “brace yourself, think of Queen and country,” Lance said grabbing the other end of the bolt.

“Ma Queen is ooer there wi some fucking farmer,” Ringo grunted angrily hoping to distract himself as Lance suddenly slid the bolt out. He threw back his head gritting his teeth as Lance tied a length of cloth around Ringo's thigh and then produced a bandage from somewhere within  his immaculate tuxedo and bound the wound, “pip, pip, fine and dandy, for now,” Lance said cheerily.

“Gud, thurs sumwan Ah need tae deal wi,” Ringo said with a steely look in his eyes as he pulled himself up the wall and to his feet.

“I am not sure you are up to taking on all those Vikings if that is your plan my dear chap,” Lance commented.

“A reckon I dinnae huv tae,” Ringo relied turning to Lance, “If A'm right yon Ambassador set yi up tae pull this aff. She used yi, and at a cost.”

“And you would know that how?”

“A'm a detective mind. An' because I ken the look o' a man who has been left in nothing but his pants, metaphorically speakin', by a lass makin' an arse oot o' him.”

“Oh and what look might that be pray?”

“The wan yi've been wearing oan yir coupon since the shit hit the fan,” Ringo replied with a smile, “so way A see it, yi twa culd noo huve coordinated everything unless yi hud a line o' communication.”

Lance shrugged and pulled his mini-palantir out of his pocket, “ I fail to see how this helps matters.”

“Its obvious she didnae want yi deid or she wud huv killed yi herself afore she left, oor arranged fir it efterwards, which means she knows yor sumwan jist that bit tae important tae bump aff withoot causing problems fir herself diplomatically,” Ringo explained.

“So?”

“So she also kens yir important enough, an' in the line o' work yir in, wir playing yi fir a sap noo might cum back tae bite her later. So A want yi tae gie her a wee call and gie her a chance to wipe the slate clean, way A see it she owes yi a favour an' she willnae like that. So wi are going tae ask her fur wan back.”

“And let's say I do use up my favour with the Ambassador for you, what do I get out of this deal?”

“Peace o' mind,” Ringo smiled and Lance raised a quizzical manicured eyebrow at him.




“You bastard!” Norc cried as soon as her father released her, “you utter, utter, complete, and fucking utter bastard!”

“Yes, yes,” her Dad said, “but now you are free to fucking marry.”

“What is fucking wrong with you? I am not marrying that ku jaevla sorlige fitte.”

“He's a farmer, they all do that!” her father replied with a shrug, “but you will have fucking prestige, a good family name, lands, titles, wealth for fucks sake. What the fuck more do you want out of a husband?”

“Love,” a voice said and they turned to see Ringo limping towards them, “love,” he repeated and then winked at Norc, “and ridiculously good, if sometimes worryingly kinky, sex.”

Norc gasped then beamed a massive shining grin and her father growled, “you are rather fucking resilient for being just a copper,” he said.

“Oh,  A'm no jist a copper,” Ringo said calmly, “A um wan o' Glesgies finest. An' whit huv we here?” he hobbled closer to his rival.

“Well, it seems the finest round here has a different meaning than where I come from,” the Viking farmer replied haughtily, “but at the least you present  my men with a second opportunity to prove their worth to me,” he gestured to the three burly Vikings who had thrown Ringo over the rampart and who now lumbered forward.

“10” Ringo said.

“What?”

“Its how many seconds you have left to live,” he stepped back and turned his head to Norc, “ready?”

“I thought you'd never fucking ask”

She grasped her axe from where it fallen when her father had seized her and as she rose she swung upwards slicing one of the three encroaching Vikings from belly to jaw. She whooped.

“Norc!” her father yelled sternly as Ringo deflected a blow from a Viking sword wincing in pain at the pressure put on his leg but still managed to drive home with his own sword.

“5” he called out, counting as the third Viking hesitated between Norc and Ringo.

“I am fucking warning you Norc, this has gone far enough,” her father admonished.

The Viking made a decision and swung for Ringo, he parried the blow but staggered backwards as Norc finished the job from the rear, “3” Ringo muttered, “2” he said approaching the suitor Norc falling into step beside him grinning evilly, “1”, he turned to Norc, “shull wi dae this together?”

Norc grinned as a huge black tear opened up in space and with a sudden lunge and push from both Norc and Ringo they sent her suitor plummeting into the black void. He disappeared with a scream and the tear snapped shut with a crackling hiss.

There was a second crackling hiss but more distant and  behind them, spinning round they were just in time to see a second black tear open high in the air above the sea and  a body tumble out of it before it too snapped closed.

“Throw a Glesgae copper off a fucking roof!” Ringo said satisfied.

“Looks like you'd best call that wedding the fuck off Dad,” Norc grinned at her father.



Figg scrambled down the cliff as quickly as she dared. Whilst the sun was rising steadily over the distant sea it had not yet risen high enough to peer in over the walls of the yard below. All was dark still down there, but the commotion caused by Petty's crash landing had attracted attention.

The door of a hut at one end of the yard had been thrown open letting out a long streak of yellow lamp light that cast over the cobbled courtyard and the lumpy shapes covered in tarpaulins threw hard and sharp shadows everywhere

A huge burly figure in a swaying kilt emerged and strode angrily towards the shed whose roof Petty had so rudely penetrated.

Figg redoubled her efforts, the figure below her had not thought to glance upwards and her descent went unmarked until finally the cliff joined a brick wall and she perched atop it.

The burly man was fumbling with a set of keys too small for his hands and as she lowered herself gingerly by her hands from walls top the man finally got the door open and strode within.

Figg landed heavily and the kitten mewed agitated in her bustle, it had had a rough night. She followed the wall.

“A'm deid!” she heard a familiar voice cry, it was Petty, he was still alive, somehow despite his own claims to the contrary.

“Yi wull be in a meenite, thats ma buckie yer in!” the man roared.

“A've goon tae buckie heaven!” Petty's drunken and delighted voice cried.

“Noo yit yi've noo!” the burly man replied, “But A'll soon sort that oot fir yi.”

This was followed by a splashing and a lot of yelping from Petty.

“Whit in the name o' the Wee Man is goon oan oot there?” a second thin dry voice called from out of the lamplight.

Figg squinted into the light as a second smaller man emerged, he was peering over a pair of thin spectacles and wore a long white coat, his hair was grey and stuck out dramatically either side but was entirely bald on top.

“Whit is it Angus?” the man called to the burly man, who was presumably named Angus,” Yi ken A huv work tae dae oan the contraption. A cunnae be daing wi o' this noise!”

“Nowt fi yi tae worry aboot Professor,” Angus replied, “jist sum wi ned intae ma buckie, A'll soon huv him sorted.”

Figg watched as the Professor entered the shed, “Put him back doon Angus, he's injured, look at his trajectory, why, let me see now,” there was a silence punctuated by some mutterings and Figg edged from the wall to beside the door and peered in.

Petty was floating in a vat of buckie whilst the Professor was using a tape of some sort to measure distances between the roof and the large vat of buckie into which Petty had luckily fallen.

“Ma word!” the Professor exclaimed, peering up at the smashed roof again, “he must huv fallen aff the cliff face at a height of at least thirty metres,” he whistled, “A wunnr who he is.”

“His name is Petty McTyrant,” Figg said stepping into the doorway as they turned to her, “And my names Gingerlocks.”

“Figg!” Petty cried cheerfully contradicting her, “Huv a drink, cum oan in, the buckie's luvely” he burbled drunkenly.

“Can we get him out of there before he is completely incapacitated?” Figg demanded pointing at Petty who was slurping at the buckie and splashing happily with his remaining working hand.

“May I ask whit yi are doing in ma yard young lassie?” the Professor asked Figg politely but firmly.

“Long story,” Figg replied as Angus, against the cries of protest of Petty and a valiant attempt to cling to the rim of the bukie barrel with is one good hand, dragged him from the vat and lay him down on the ground, where he threw up.

Figg grimaced.

“A um afraid A um going tae need mair thun that,” the Professor smiled peering at her over his glasses.

Figg sighed and pulled the scuttle from her bustle, “Recognise this?”

There was a gasp from the Professor and Angus stepped forward fist raised, “Wait Angus! I am sure this sassenach hus  a very gud explanation, she is goinna need wan an' A fir wan am very interested in hearing it.”

“We are on a mission for the Head of the Scuttle Guards Paw McTyrant, “ Figg said, only sort of lying, she pointed at Petty who was still vomiting on the floor in the corner, “and he is Paw McTyrants son, believe it or not, and we have to get back to the Keep, now. Can you help us?”

There was a long silence, “Well, wi cun certainly try young lassie, and escort yi there,” the Professor nodded, “whit dae yi need?”

“Do you have a cart? Or a wagon we can put Petty on, even without the buckie I don't think he is going to be walking very far anytime soon. He needs to see a healer, he is pretty badly injured I think.”

The Professor strolled out into the yard, Angus and Figg followed, Petty crawled groaning behind.

“Mmm,” the Professor mused looking round the yard at the various bits of machinery, carts and wagons, none of them in one piece, “I think wi took everything apart tae construct the contraptions.”

“The contraptions?” Figg queried, “that tar machine thing ? I saw it on the road earlier.”

“Aye, aye, a tragic accident, the flanger pressuring flapper gave way tae the walloping screw nut an' bang!”

“Yes, but it had wheels,” Figg pointed out, “it moved.”

“The locomotion wis tied tae the firebox, miraculous conservation of energy, but by pulling the cart yi fire up the box.”

“So what's the problem, get it harnessed up and lets go,” Figg said.

“That's not the problem.”

“Then what is?”

“It blew up mind?”

“Ah yes,” Figg conceded, “there is that,” she looked up at the large tarpaulin covered shape in the centre of the yard, “what's under there?”

“Oh that's the prototype,” the Professor replied walking over and taking the tarpaulin by one corner he pulled it off the contraption, revealing the cart with its tall chimney like structure atop.

“So why don't we use that?”

“Oh we cannnae use that,” the Professor said shaking his head, “it wus never fitted wi' a regulation slapper, if wi were tae pull it the wheels turnin' wid spark the fire box an' in nae time at aw it wud go boom, like the first wan.”

“Can you fix it?” Figg asked innocently.

“Come an' look here young lass,” the Professor said crouching down beside the contraption and indicating Figg to do the same.

She peered underneath at a mass of levers, cogs, wheels, belts, string, teeth and an assortment of nails, screws, nuts and bolts. It was a complete and utter jumble.

“Heat warms the water till it gits spitting mad, thun it flows doon the gathering tubes in tae the ooch-resorvior here, and thun that turns the main sprocket provider, see?”

Figg nodded seeing nothing of the sort.

“And thun,” the Professor continued warming to his theme, “Wheels turn, they turn yon shift fitted nipple nut here, see? Noo, yon shaft goes oantae the parkyshift an' turns the flanger-grinder onto the sloppy spindle, see? And then thut turns the frugle shaft here an' sae works the Wee Capacitor, see it richt there?”

Figg nodded again, no idea what the Professor was now talking about or what he was pointing too, but she felt she aught to commit something to the conversation, “funny name, wee capacitor,” she commented weakly.

The Professor beamed at her and roared with laughter Figg squinted her brow puzzled, ““Ah! Aye, we cawed it that cause it looks almost exactly like the Bee Capacitor, evne though it disnae dae oanthing like the same joab. A ken yi kent yir stuff lassie, oanly a pro wid a spotted that wee joke. A hud nae idea they taught crabbit engineering in sassanech lands.” He turned back to the contraption, “so yi see oor problem then um sure?”

“Oh, yes, “ Figg nodded, not seeing, “pity you couldn't just fit a lever on the side to let the angry air out that would normally go into the tar stack,” she said.

“Pardon?” the Professor said staring at her then back at the contraption.

“I just mean that it would be very useful , because then you could run the wheels without heating the tar as much.”

“Di yi mean if we connected a six lever tae the underhanging bulbous flange we could compensate for the vent orifice screw nut via the parallel wibbly-wobbly bars?”

“Maybe?” Figg hazarded.

“That's..that's genius! Angus!” the Professor cried, “bring me my tool kit!”


Whilst the Professor busied himself Figg went to check on Petty who had managed to crawl from the shed and was slumped against its outside wall.

His arm was a screaming blaze of pain as was his right leg now and several of his ribs.
Fortunately however all of this was greatly dulled by the quantity of buckie he had managed to consume whilst in the vat.

“Figg!” he cried and tried to reach out his arms to her wincing in pain at the effort and succeeded only in slumping over onto one side, “bugger,” he grumbled into the ground.

Figg pulled him back up. The kitten mewed lost in her bustle and she hunted it out.

“Yi've still goat it?”

“Yes, and I am keeping it, so don't even think of killing it to prove something stupid!”

“A wisnae,” Petty slurred at her, “its tae late yi ken ma shame, everywan kens it. A'm noo a man.”

“Well your an idiot and I am pretty sure that's a large part of the qualifying criteria, if that helps any,” Figg said petting the kitten between the ears and making it both purr and squirm, “and even if people do know you let one kitten go, so what? Its a stupid way to decide who is a man anyway.”

“It's oor ways!” Petty replied sourly and morosely.

“Well its not mine, that's not what makes anyone,” Figg protested stubbornly.

“So whit does then?”

“Well someone who notices others, and cares about them, who tries to be with you, and share things with you,” she glanced down at Petty he was looking right at her, “someone who would do their best to help you and always be there for you, the person who when you turn round you always find them there waiting, someone who would risk their life for yours.”

Petty smiled drunkenly at her, “un fall in a vat o' buckie fir yi?”

“No! Definitely not!” Figg replied slapping him gently across the shoulder and then smiling despite herself whilst the butterflies went on parade in her stomach.

“Yi ken,” Petty said turning his eyes away for her, “thurs a saying here aboot the buckie, 'truths tae be spoken are found at bottle's bottom, wither good nor bad, better spoken or left silent, aw are truths tae be spoken.'”

“And what does that particular piece of drunken rambling mean?” Figg asked as hammering came from behind her from the contraption.

“It means than when yir drunk yi wull speak yir mind, as yi mean it, fur better o' worse, an A'm aboot tae speak mine.”

“Is that wise?”

“Probably noo, the saying disnae mention wisdom,” Petty burped, “Figg, since a met yi, a huvnae liked yi,” Figg snorted indignantly and was about to interrupt but Petty waved his good hand drunkenly at he and continued, “which is odd as A cannae stoap thinking aboot yi, or falling aff a roofs fir yi...”

“Petty you are drunk,” Figg pointed out, “I really don't think you want to say what I think you are about to say, I think you might regret it when you are sober, and I might regret it now,” she added, but despite that the butterflies were hovering, their wings quivering in anticipation of what his next words might be.

“...I huv tae sae it, Figg, A huv tae speak honestly whits in ma heart, an' heid, A think, A think,” he said is voice growing quieter, whilst a tiny, tiny part of his brain that was till sober and Scottish enough to be panicking about this conversation awoke, embarrassed and uptight enough even now, even this drunk and injured, it was determined to derail this drunken confession of feelings, “Figg,” he said, “I think,” he paused and she leaned in closer to him holding her breath and not just because of odour de Tyrant, “Figg,” there was a flash of internal struggle on his face then he concluded with, “A think unner yer bustle yi probably huv a cracking arse!” he burst into crude drunken laughter.

“You are a pig!” Figg cried standing up and kicking him hard in the shins and making him yelp.

Inside Petty's buckie fuelled head the tiny sober part thought 'phew that wis close, wi nearly confessed oor actual feelings, oot loud!' And the drunken part thought, “you bastard” and claimed the sober part to a fight.

He glanced up at the still fuming Figg and noticed hanging at her side the scuttle.

“The Scuttle!” he cried memory flooding back, “Paw!” he cried adding fear for personal being to the memory, “ wi huv tae find Offo.”

“Well I don't think he landed in this yard,” Figg said looking round, still annoyed at Petty, “I don't see any sign of what's left of him if he did, he must be outside somewhere, come on we have to get you out of here and get you to a healer, and a bath,” she added wrinkling her nose as she tried to help him to his unsteady feet. But it was no use. Petty yelled in pain as soon as he tried to stand and Figg had to let him partially go as he slumped sideways, his weight nearly pulling her over with him.

“Help the lass oot Angus,” the Professor ordered from under the contraption and Angus lumbered over to scoop Petty up in his enormous arms, “put him oan the side o' the cart, next ta the new lever,” the Professor instructed emerging from beneath, “and then go fetch Flooer.”

Angus placed Petty on the cart and lumbered off, throwing open the wide double gates of the yard and letting in the early morning sun and welcome fresh salt tinged breeze.

Flooer it turned out was actually Flower, the Professors draught horse which Angus quickly and professionally hitched to the cart in short order, then with Figg perched beside the recumbent Petty and the Professor and Angus up front they rattled slowly out of the yard.

Below their seat the firebox caught the sparks and roared into life and the lever next to Petty began to quiver as the steam was vented out the back of the cart away from the explosive chimney stack and its tarry contents.

“Mind we huv tae find Offo,” Petty groaned to Figg as the cart rolled out onto the harbour front with many a bump and jostle.

“I don't think that is going to be a problem,” Figg replied nudging him to sit up, “there is a bit of a mess on the harbour ahead.”

The cart slowed to a halt as it approached the squished remains of Offo, his head was longer than usual, even for him, about fifteen feet longer in fact and several wider. He appeared to have landed on it.

Figg grimaced as she approached, both trying not to look at the messy bloody body whilst at the same time trying to spot among the purple wobbly bits any sign of the scuttle.

A small shadow detached itself from the darker shadows still gathered among the walls and gates of the work yards and sheds. It held the scuttle in one hand.

"Lookin' fir this?"

“Hey!” Petty cried, “Gie that back!”

Figg stared at the diminutive figure, it was Wee, Mad Mental Malky.

“A'll huv yi ken,” Mad Malky said, “yer sister Pretty sent me tae find this, but A'm thinking tae maself, Malky, ur yie mad enough noo yive goat it tae betray her and steal the maist valuable thing in McTyrant lands?”

“Whit?!” Petty exclaimed struggling to swing his legs off the side of the cart and sit upright.

“An ' A thunk A um mad enough tae,” Mad Malky went on, “an' um certainly mental enough tae,” added Mental Malky, “and A like the colour o' the handle,” Wee Malky chipped in, “so the oanly thing left thun fur the perfect crime seeing as we aw agree,” Wee, Mad, Malky grinned, “is tae git rid o' the witnesses.”

From the cart Petty suddenly broke into a roaring laughter though Figg could not see what there was to laugh about as Malky drew a short cruel blade from his side and grinned a wee, mad mental grin at her.

Ca'mon Figgy !

Authors note- excuse the length of this, it is the final chapter plus the epilogue. I did not want to make them two separate posts in case anyone did not realise there were two new posts and only read the second by accident. But feel free to treat it as two posts if you like and read it in two parts.




Petty was laughing so hard now he fell off the side of the cart and hit the ground with a hard thump and a yelp before roaring with laughter again.

“He's startin' tae git ma goat,” Malky said pointing his sword at him, “whit's so funny?”

“Yi,” Petty managed between uncontrolled bouts of laughter, “oh thats sair tae laugh!” he complained trying to get control of himself.

“Tell me whits sae funny,” Malky threatened.

“She used tae dae this tae me tae,” Petty replied still grinning like a lunatic.

“Who?” Dae whit?” Malky demanded.

“Ma sister, Pretty. She'd send me aff tae get her stuff fur her, bit really she wis jist seeing if A wid dae it or try tae nick it aff her.”

“Wull she's noo here.”

“Thut's the thing, “ Petty said laughing again, “she's wis aways there. Every time. Is that noo right sis?”

There was the cold hard click of heels on road as Pretty detached herself from the shadows a little further up the wall.

“Aye, those wir the days,” Pretty smiled a red glossy smile as she stepped into the light.

“Pretty! Ma wee darlin'” Malky said spinning away from Figg who darted back to the safety of the cart. Malky, sweating, said, “A fund yir sciuttle fir yi.”

Petty who was still laughing to himself spurted, “A used tae try lying tae!”

“What's so funny?” Figg hissed at Petty as she helped him back to the cart.

“A ken whit cums next,” Petty smirked, “an fir once A'm no on the receiving end.”

“Here yi ur lass,” Malky said offering up the scuttle to her with both hands, “jist as yi asked.”

Pretty smiled sweetly at him, took the scuttle and then tossed it towards Petty, “Catch!” she shouted and Figg managed to reach out her hands and half catch, half scoop it from the air. Then Pretty booted Malky hard and squarely between the legs.

“Michty me!” Malky wheezed and fell over backwards.

“Oh noo yi dinnae,” Pretty snarled and dragged him back up by his air, his face was red and puffing like a bellows, “A want a divorce.”

She kicked Malky again in the same manner as before and he made a sound like a fat cat deflating and slumped sideways to the ground whilst Pretty quite casually detached her large purse from her side and opened it. She retrieved a surprisingly sturdy pair of handcuffs from within its depths and proceeded to handcuff Malky before dragging him, once more by the hair, towards to the cart.

“Why does she have handcuffs?” Figg asked Petty, “she isn't in law enforcement.”

“Yi didnae want tae know,” Petty replied morosely.

“Yes, I do actually or I would not have asked the bloody question,” Figg replied annoyed.

“Well yi ken,” Petty shrugged.

Figg frowned at him, “No I don't ken, if this about the thing no one will talk about, because if it is then neither probably do you,” she replied, hand on hips. “Well? Is it?”

“Wull, aye,” Petty replied uncertainly, “probably, A think sae.”

He was going red Figg thought. Just talking about something connected to the thing no one would talk about, even though he doesn't know how its connected, is still enough to make him go red and blush. Even injured, and drunk!

And even worse it had for some unfathomable reason made the butterflies in her stomach excited too. But handcuffs on top of everything else that had been hinted at?  What were people doing? It was a mystery. The more hints she got the more confusing it was.

Pretty had reached the cart but the Professor was not keen on extra passengers, “There's nae mair room on the cart,” he protested,”that equipment is very sensitive.”

“He's oanly a little un,” Pretty said smiling her sweetest smile and hauling Malky up by the hair so that he hung from her hand like a gasping fish on the line. To which he currently bore more than a passing resemblance as his cheeks puffed like bellows whilst he tried to get his breath back.

“Thur's is nae room,” Angus growled, “Did yi no here the Professor?”

“Keep yir boffin oan!” Pretty replied, “goat any rope?”

“Why is she bringing him along if she is divorcing him?” Figg asked Petty as she made herself conformable on the side of the cart next to him and with her back against the stack.

“Divorce has to be done in public so as everyone can see,” Petty explained slumping back against the cart and groaning.

“Are you ok?” Figg enquired somewhat concerned.

“Noo, I'm bloody not!” Petty replied closing his eyes, “ma arms buggered, wan leg tae by the feels o' hit and ma heids louping,” he complained crabbitly.

“Well that last one is probably your own fault,” Figg admonished as behind them Pretty tied Malky by the handcuffs to the rear of the cart on a short length of rope.

“Thuts us,” Pretty called cheerfully from the rear of the cart, “yi can get oan up tae the keep noo.”

The Professor flicked the reigns and Flower took up the strain and resumed her journey, carefully stepping over the remains of Offo so as not to dirty her hooves. The cart however cheerfully rolled over the top as Figg closed her eyes.

When they had bumped off his remains she opened them again, “Here,” she said to Petty, “you better take this one too,” she handed him the second scuttle Pretty had tossed to her, ”why are there two?”

Petty slipped the scuttle under his plaid with the other one, “A didnae ken, but A'm sure the Chief an' Paw will ken whit its aboot.”

“Well then,” Figg said, “lets go find your Paw and the Chief.”  She leaned back against the stack for comfort, it was nice and warm. She closed her eyes. Nice and warm she thought again feeling the heat radiating out.

“Um Professor?” she called sitting up and opening her eyes, “Professor!” she called louder.

“Yes lass?” he replied half turning his head from the road to look at her.

“This stack is warm, is that a problem?”

“Noo, I shudnae think so, its bound tae heat a bit, noo aw the angry water and air ur getting oot, but sae lang as yir lever holds wi've nuthin' tae worry aboot lass.”

Reassured Figg took advantage of the warmth there was as the morning air, and sea breeze were chill and fetching the kitten out of her bustle she sat it on her lap and snuggled it close as they rocked along up the slope and out of the docks towards the keep.


Eventually the cart rose with the sun and found itself before the steps leading to the courtyard before the keep. The rest they would have to do on foot, but even as Figg was hopping down from the cart she was suddenly aware of a commotion of people above them.

Figures were beginning to pile down the stairs from the Keep above.

At their head was the fat shape of the Chief, and beside him was Paw. As they got closer she could see that Paw wore the worried expression of someone trying to explain to the boss that really they had not screwed up and in fact everything was going to work out fine in the end. And crossing both their fingers behind their back as they say it. This Figg reckoned was fair enough given Paw's hopes were riding on Petty, who was still slumped on the side of the cart.

By the time the crowd was half way down the broad stairs she had also spotted Norc, who was head to toe covered in other peoples gore and was beaming a huge grin from beneath it all, and Ringo by her side, rather sweetly holding her by one red and bloody hand.

Beside him Lance strode, managing to stand out among the bloody and the wounded, the armoured and the armed by being immaculate in his tuxedo and bowtie.

Behind them came a row of Vikings who looked like they had lost a bet. And after that a general rabble of the populace many carrying various bits of McBanks home to show the kids as mementos of the nights work. There was much backslapping and already the telling of tall stories going on as the crowd arrived at the foot of the stairs and began to disperse.

Paw seeing the cart and both his children hurried ahead of the Chief down the last steps towards them.

He went immediately to Petty who was lying unmoving with eyes shut on the side of the cart.

Paw looked worriedly to Figg, “Is he?” he hesitated, “is he..”

“Whit, sair and pissed aff?” Petty asked opening one eye, “well noo yi ask, aye!”

Paw slapped him, though not too hard, across the forehead for his cheek, “huv yi goat them baith? A'm near feert tae ask.”

Petty triumphantly pulled the two scuttles from under his plaid just as the Chief and his men arrived beside the cart.

Paw snatched the scuttles from Petty who protested, “Hey! A wunted tae ken why thur's tw...”
He never finished the question as Paw again slapped him across the forehead, harder this time knocking back down in a prone position.

“Wheest Petty son,” Paw admonished and turned to the Chief.

“Wull?” the Chief demanded sceptically.

Paw with a flourish held out one of the scuttles. Figg raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“Returned as promised,” he said bowing as the Chief gratefully took the scuttle with due reverence, “by ma ain flesh and blood,” he indicated Petty who tried to sit up and wave weakly with his one good hand, smiled and collapsed back with  a thud of his hard head against the cart.

“It is said he threw Offo over the rampart and called upon a spirit of the air to carry him safely down in pursuit,” the Chief remarked, showing just how fast a story can be embroidered if people really put their minds to it.

“Safely down!” Petty protested and collapsed again, “like buggery!”

“Yi huv dun yir clan and aw McTyrant's everywhere a grut service young Petty McTyrant,” the Chief said taking Petty by the hand, unfortunately of his broken arm, and shaking it vigorously said, “yi are truly a fine example of a McTyrant man.”

Through the pain from his arm those words penetrated and a huge crazy grin began to spread on Petty's face, “Um a man?” he said dreamily.

“An a fine wan at that,” the Chief confirmed finely letting go off Petty throbbing arm, “and A hereby appoint yi tae the task fir which yi huv proved unswerving courage and dedication, protection o' the scuttle. Junior Scuttle Guard first rank Petty McTyrant.

Petty forced himself despite the pain to sit upright on the cart, dazed stunned and feeling like he was in a dream all he could manage was , “I cunnae believe it.”

“Me neither,” Figg grunted next to him.

“Yi'll be working fir me,” Paw put in.

“Bugger” Petty mumbled under his breath not having thought of that in his dazed state.

“An' whit aboot me Paw,!” Pretty demanded striding forward led by the hips from where she had been skulking with Malky, ensuring whenever the cart vented its angry air she could push Malky in the way of it, so now he looked like he had been left out in the sun for a week too.

“Ma wee lassie,” Paw said embracing her, “A noo yi've bin helping yir wee brother oot.”

“Like buggery,” Petty muttered.

“Wull,” the Chief said turning to her, “whit are her skills?”

“Extreme violence and sexual intimidation?” Petty suggested and his sister turned her head and hissed at him like a cobra.

“Well, um yes, “ the Chief stammered, “I suppose I could make you a lady of the court.”

“Yi cun also sanction ma divorce while yire at it,” Pretty said cheerfully and went behind the cart and returned with a dazed Malky, dazed because she had just kicked him again.

“I, Pretty McTyrant being of fabulous body, and violent mind, do formally declare a divorce from one Wee, Mad, Mental Malky, on the grounds of him being a lying wee bastard.”

The Chief looked to Paw, who nodded, “I declare you have the right to divorce under the law,” the Chief intoned solemnly.

“Gud,” said Pretty and grabbing Malky with both hands she picked him up till they were both eye level, “Yir divorced yi wee shite,” she said and then headbutted him full on sending him skidding along the ground where he ended up stunned and bleeding at the feet of Lance, Ringo and Norc who were watching proceedings with interest.

“Well I say,” Lance said kneeling down and hauling Malky up, “if it's not my old friend Malky, you owe me a rather large sum of money old chap.”

Malky tried to mutter something but only bits of broken teeth spluttered out.

“What's that old chap?” Lance said, “you don't think you can pay it back? Well that's ok because I formally arrest you on behalf of her Majesty Queen Tinuviel, and isn't that just topping, you are already handcuffed.”

Lance turned to Ringo, “There you go, as agreed.”

Ringo nodded, “Wee, Mad Mental Malky, you are wanted for sixteen cases of burglary, twelve of petty theft, three murders and and twenty seven serious assaults in the constituency of Glesgie, I hereby arrest you on behalf of the people of that fair city, do you have anything to say?”

Malky muttered something, but only got 'mmurmph,' out, he tried again, “A'm noo,” he wheezed, “in Glesgie's,” he wheezed some more, “jurisdiction.”

“Noo, yir right, yir noo,” Ringo said nodding in agreement, then he grinned, “but richt noo yi ur in mine. So yi're still  nicked sunshine.”

He turned to Lance, “thank yi citizen,” he said, “I think yi wull find thur are several substantial rewards fir this wan, enough tae compensate yi fir oany losses A'm sure yi'll find.”

“Its been a pleasure helping the police with their enquiries,” Lance replied smiling for the first time in days.

“So Petty gets made a man and a guard, not sure which is more unlikely, and Pretty is now a Lady of the Court” Figg said, stepping up to the Chief, “so do I get anything out of this? Even a thank you for your help?” Figg asked in a bit of a huff at being left out given all she had done.

“As a sassanech yi get free passage oot o' the country,” the Chief said bluntly, “withoot dying first.”

“Well if that's not an absolute cheek!” Figg began putting her hands to her hips, “let me tell you..”

“Never mind thut!” Petty interrupted, “thurs wan thing A still wunt tae ken. Why were thur twa...”

But he never finished his sentence either “Yi need yir rest son, yir hurt,” Paw said and slapped him hard back down on the cart. Petty good arm flailed out, instinctively sought something to grab onto, grabbed the lever and fell backwards pulling it back and down with him. There was a loud ominous hiss and a bubbling sound.

“Whit wis that yir boy wis sayin', twa whit?” the Chief enquired as Figg looked at the stack which was beginning to rock.

“Under the cart!” She shouted grabbing Petty by his bad arm and hauling him off the cart unceremoniously, he yelped in pain and protest, “Under the cart!”

“Whit is that mad sassenach lass oan aboot?” the Chief demanded.

Norc with Ringo and Lance stared in wonder at Figg, she spotted them in turn, “Get under here now!” she cried waving frantically at them.

Norc heard the seriousness in her voice and grabbing Ringo she pulled him toward the cart. Lance whose instincts knew when it was time to run, even when you didn't know what you were running from followed.

He dove under the cart joining the huddle in the dark beneath whilst everyone else stared gawking in puzzlement.

“Um, I hate to ask chaps,” Lance said after clearing his throat, “but what exactly are we doing under here?”

And then the stack above them explode.

When they emerged it was to find that the street, the lower half of the steps and everything between it and the cart and to a similar radius all round was black with hot and hardening tar. Including all the people.

Petty crawled from below the cart and with Figg's help staggered partly to his feet, leaning on what remained of the smouldering cart and took in the frozen tarred figures before him. Two in particular drew his eye, one was fat and the other was glowering at him out of a mask of black in a way that made Petty's bowels feel lose.

“Oops!” he said to the eyes apologetically, “But A um still a man, richt?” and then he fell over in a faint finally overcome by his injuries and everything mercifully went dark.






Two days later Figg was placing a wicker basket containing the kitten into the back of a cart. Lance was up front tending the horse and Gwen the Eel-wrangler sat upfront awaiting him, the other wranglers were staying on at the McTyrant court for the celebration of the safe return of the scuttle.

Whilst Lance was returning south across the border and Gwen was going with him as far as the port.

Norc and Ringo were also joining them in another cart with her father. They too were going south across the border, this time to get married properly in Greetin' Blue. Not that her father had seemed very pleased at the prospect of having a Scottish copper in the family.

Figg was musing on a big decision too. In the aftermath of everything her part in events may have gone unnoticed by the Chief of the McTyrants and by Paw, but they had not gone unnoticed by all and not by Gwen it seemed.

Figg glanced over the top of the kitten basket to where Gwen was perched, and perched was the word for it, at the front of the cart, her hair shone in the wind and even blew a little in the breeze. Figg's hair blew in the breeze too, in many different directions at once and as often as not hit her in the eye. Gwen's didn't. It moved gracefully, as if the wind was just doing its part in a deal to make her look amazing. And Figg was well aware that all that poise, all that grace could just as easily be turned into a killing grace. The Eel-wranglers were not women to be underestimated or taken lightly.

And then there was the other thing. It was impossible not to notice how an eel-wrangler seemed to have some magical numbing power over men's minds, enthralling them and enticing them. Eel-wranglers in short she was pretty sure knew all about the thing that no-one would mention, and she suspected they got up to rather a lot of it.

And Gwen had offered her an apprenticeship. To go with Gwen on her next placement, amid the art and splendour of the courts of Italiashire.

It was that or back to school.

Or there was one other option, one she had been trying not think about for two days yet which would not go away no matter how hard she tried to make it and to which the butterflies flapped their wings.


She turned to Lance who was feeding the horse, “Before we go, I want to see Petty one last time. I have to tell him something.”

Lance frowned slightly then nodded and Figg boarded the cart.





A short time later their carts were drawing up outside the McTyrant barrel.

Petty and Paw were sitting outside on the worn weather beaten couch drinking a buckie.
Well Petty was trying to drink a buckie as one arm was in a cast as was one leg. Two crutches were propped up against the couch.

Paw had a large cap on his head with a feather in it, covering up his now lack of hair following the tar incident, and like everyone else involved he was temporarily short of eyebrows. As the carts rolled up Petty painfully got to his feet and taking the crutches hobbled  a few steps forward to greet Figg as she leapt down from the cart.


“Hi,” she said uncertainly, not sure exactly what she wanted to say, but the butterflies were back out in force, “how are you?”

“Wull A've bin better,” Petty replied ruefully, “A've,” he hesitated, “A've bin thinking aboot yi.”

“Oh?” Figg replied, “I've been thinking about you too..”

“Whit were yi thinking?”

“You first.”

Petty glanced sideways at Paw who showed little interest in their conversation and a lot more in his buckie.

“A've been windering, di yi need tae go hame?”

“That's what I've been wondering too,” Figg said with a nod and the butterflies did cartwheels, “We've been through a lot together, you and I,” she added.

“Aye,” Petty grinned, “though A seem tae huv cum oot it the worst. Bit cum oan Figg, stay here wi me, didnae go hame.”

“You are asking me to stay here?” she indicated the family barrel.

“Wull jist tae start wi,” Petty, replied “A'm a man noo, wi a joab Wi cud get wir oan place in time, oor ain wee barrel.”

“I've been offered a job too,” Figg confessed, “with Gwen and the eel-wranglers,” she said as Petty raised an eyebrow, everyone knew the reputation of the wranglers and what they wrangled so well.

“Ur yi taking it?”

“I don't know,” Figg replied honestly, “its a good offer, better than going back to school. But I wanted to come here see you again and then decide. Now I have an even bigger decision to make it seems, take up their offer, or yours.”

“A cannae say whit sort o' a life yi'd have wi yon Wranglers, bit yi cun huv a gud wan here looking efter oor barrel.”

“Pardon?” Figg said, “looking after our barrel?”

“Aye, cleaning, cooking, that sort o' thing.”

“You expect me to stay at home and look after you?” Figg said anger flaring and putting the butterflies to roost.

“A cun see yi're noo soo keen,” Petty conceded at the look on her face, “Wull it probably widnae huv worked oot.”

“Worked out?” Figg replied her anger rising and her hands moving automatically to her hips.

“Aye, A mean yi cannae make porridge, an' frankly when Maw haud yi cleaning the lavvy it wisnae a great joab, no like when Maws scrubbed it.”

Figg stared at him in disbelief, “That what you think I'd be doing if I had decided to stay with you? Making your porridge and scrubbing your barrel?”

“And fetching ma buckie aye, if yi wur tae be ma burd.”

Figg's face went scarlet in indignant fury, “Your 'burd'!?” she roared,” why you ignorant, smelly, conceited, self centered Scotshobbit! I am glad I am not staying. I've decided I am going to take the eel wranglers up on their offer. I am going to Italiashre. As far away from you as is humanly possible.”

“Wull gud riddance!” Petty snorted in reply.

Figg stormed back to the cart, not only raging at Petty but full of disbelief at herself that she even entertained for a second staying with that stubborn, backwards Neanderthal of a Scotshobbit.

She reached the cart and was about to pull herself up onto it when she glanced back, Petty looked miserable. Maybe it was the sadness of him standing there on his crutches, or the look in his eyes but whatever it was instinctively she reached up for the wicker basket containing the kitten and turning round went back to Petty.

“I want you to have her,” Figg said handing the basket to Petty.

Petty took it puzzled and peered inside, “Yir kitten?”

“Yes, the kitten, your kitten now,” Figg said, “I think you should have a reminder of what does and does not make a man. In case you ever get so drunk you forget.”

Petty opened the gate on the basket and pulled the kitten out, it snuggled immediately into his plaid which was full of new interesting smells to explore.

“She likes you.”

“Glad sumwan does,” Petty said reproachfully.

“I like you,” Figg said softly and leaning forward she kissed him gently on the cheek, “when your not being annoying, stubborn, rude, drunk or obnoxious.”

“But that's maist o' the time!” Petty protested.

“I know, and that's why its best I think that I leave. Do you understand?”

“Noo,” Petty snorted petting the cat.

She smiled at him, “We had some adventurers though didn't we?”

“Aye,” Petty said grinning at her, “wi did thut.”

“Look after her,” Figg said indicating the kitten, “and yirself yi daft drunken Scotshobbit.”

“Yi twa Figg, cum back oan see me wan day.”

“Maybe I will do just that,” Figg replied and with that she went back to the cart mounted up, waved him a cheery last farewell and the carts rolled off.

Petty watched them go towards the river and the bridge and eventually to the road out of Scotshobbitland.

“Um goona miss her,” Petty said quietly and wiped a tear from the corner of his eye.

“Buckie son?” Paw offered from the couch, “droon yir sorrows lad, dae it properly. Oanly cure fir wimmin the buckie.”

Petty hobbled on his crutches to the couch, sat down, cracked open a fresh bottle of buckie and took a long drink and scratched the kititen behind one ear, “whit wis that lassies name again?” he said turning to Paw.

“Thuts mair like it son,” Paw grinned back.




The journey back towards the border and towards Greetin' Blue where Norc and Ringo were to be married was largely uneventful, apart from the occasional blast of freezing rain, two random haggis attacks and three occasion of scaring bagpipe herds off the road. And an encounter with a man in full armour.

The latter of those came about shortly after one of the bagpipe incidents. Lance and Ringo having got down from the carts to chase them off into the thick undergrowth, as the road had a mile or so back entered the dark pine forest near the border.

Having seen off the herd they were just clambering back into their carts when the figure emerged from the undergrowth brandishing a sword.

It was wearing ancient rusted plate armour and as the beaver of the helmet was down his face was invisible. He was also holding a sword at them in a hand which trembled slightly, making the armour rattle.

Then the figure seemed to catch sight of Figg.

“You! Gingerlocks!” the figure cried, muffled and made echoey by the helmet. He strode angry forward and Ringo jumped down from his cart and Norc grinned as she flicked up a throwing axe from under her seat.

The figure pulled off his helmet as Figg stared in disbelief.

“Where's my bloody cart?” the figure demanded.

“Forest?” Figg exclaimed, “what are you doing here? I thought you were going to meet up with your friends?”

“I was, until you stole my cart.”

“You stole his cart?” Ringo asked reaching automatically top his top pocket, which he currently didn't have but where normally when on duty he kept his notepad.

“Well not exactly steal,” Figg protested, “it was complicated!”

“I'll say it was,” Forest said, “I've been wandering for days and days. Have you ever tried to catch a haggis let alone eat one?”

“But I thought you were going to play some game, or other, where you all pretend to be warriors or wizards or something?” Figg said.

“Well I set off to, and got lost. I had to fight trolls off at night, I've been pecked by herds of bagpipes and I found out what makes Scotshobbits so crabbit.”

“Oh what?” Figg asked genuinely interested for an answer.

“Midges,” Forest replied emphatically,”and my legs are scratched to bits, right through my good English trousers too,” he indicated his lower legs, the trousers were near shredded, the legs below a mixture of bleeding scratches and red rashes with small white lumps in them, “even the plant life is out to get you- hidden stinging nettles, briars of nettles with huge barbs, and have you tried walking through a field of thistles?”

“But what about the armour and stuff?” Figg enquired waving at the sword.

“Well I was running away from a particularly rampaging cloud of midges when I feel down a hole into  a cave, and once I'd fended the bats off and got a fire going, which woke the wolf, then I saw a gleam and it was this sword. Lucky really, wolf threw itself right on it.”

“So,” Figg said slowly, “you've spent your time exploring the land fighting trolls and whatnots and in gloomy caves with wolves and ancient armour to find, and haggis and herds of bagpipes have attacked you...”

“And midges,” Forest reminded her, Figg went on, “...in order to go play a game where you pretend you are a warrior, exploring, fighting monsters in gloomy caves and such?”

“Yes,” Forest nodded.

Figg stared at him and decided it was a matter best left alone, “Want a lift? Least we can do.”

“Yes, yes I do,” Forest replied with a strong nodding of his head, “though it wasn't all bad, if you look over there I did eventually just build myself a small hut to stay in. I will miss it a bit, I had got quiet used to living in rustic accommodation.”

Figg strained her neck, but a tall pine was in her way, she hopped down from the cart and curious went and peered between the trees.

She blinked. She stepped a little further into the wood. She blinked again, she kept blinking, but no matter how many times she blinked she still saw the same thing.

Forests 'hut' was on two levels, with a patio, and on the upper level the huge thick branch of a tree passed through it and out the roof, where a set of elegant stairs had been carved into it leading to a rather splendid veranda which almost certainly captured stunning views and sunsets. A small fountain went off in a neatly tended vegetable patch.

She wandered back stunned to the cart and turned to Forest, “Umm,” she was lost for adequate words, “nice,” she nodded eventually, “roomy, very roomy.”

“It wasn't bad for a weekends work,” Forest replied plainly without a single trace of pride or boasting.

“No, um, not bad at all,” Figg agreed faintly as they moved on again.



It was mid afternoon when they pulled into the cart park next to the bustling market of Greetin' Blue.

Any damage that had occurred from Figg's prior visit seemed to have been repaired. Even the chapel had new doors she noted as they went up the steps in accompaniment of Norc and Ringo.

As they reached the top of the stairs Norc turned to Figg, “How would you and Gwen like to be my fucking bridesmaids?” she asked.”

“I'd be honoured,” Figg replied with a grin and a hope she might finally find out what it was no one would tell her about that adults did when married.

“I will not bless this,” Norc's father suddenly grumbled, standing firmly in the doorway and going no further, “no fucking chance.”

“Oh for fucks sake Dad!” Norc lamented as the two Priests, who were from a different clan now the McBanks had been disgraced, watched on from the altar at the far end with worried frowns.

“NO!” He is a lawman, and I will not have one of those in my fucking family, and he killed the man you should have fucking married.”

“No he did fucking not!” Norc replied grabbing Ringo and pulling him close and lovingly slipping her arm round his waist, “We fucking killed him, together.”

“Look, yi dinae huv tae worry aboot this,” Ringo said.

“We had a talk, and I've decided to give up been a fucking Viking.”

“You have? Fucking hell!”

“You were right Dad, its not fucking easy, you know when it comes to doing the other.”

Her father looked embarrassed and just nodded quickly as if to get her to move on, she took the hint this time and let Ringo speak instead.

“And Wi're goanna go back to Glesgie frae here an' A'm hauding in ma badge. A'll nae longer be a copper.”

“Then what the fuck will you do, how will you support my fucking daughter?”

“Norc and me, wi're joining yi're Border Patrol, fighting yon big snow trolls yise huv o'er there.”

“So you have fucking nothing left to complain about,” Norc said to her father sternly, “ so bless my fucking marriage.”

Her father hesitated, took in the look in her eye, the determination, and also the fact, father or not, she did have one hand round Ringo, and the other resting on her axe shaft, “Fuck it, fine,” he conceded.


The ceremony ended for Figg and the others when Norc and Ringo were declared husband and wife and began kissing. A lot of kissing. At least Figg assumed it was kissing though it was not exactly like the descriptions of it from her books, there hadn't be so many tongues or saliva involved in those, or grabbing.

In fact as the bed swung down from the wall for the consummation accompanied by celebratory wedding music they were quickly ushered from the Chapel.

Figg's only clue as to what came next was from Lance who in response to her grumbling, “I'm never going to find out what it is no one will tell me about or what it involves.” He had responded with a cryptic sounding laugh, and the even more cryptic to Figg's ears “Whatever it is, knowing those chaps it will probably require several buckets of pigs grease.”

Figg had frowned at this on the way back to the cart and added it to the long list of odd things she had learned so far, trying to combine everything from eels to pigs grease into what two adults could possibly being doing together, and which Norc and Ringo were in fact doing right now, boggled her mind.



And now there was only Lance, Gwen and Figg left as they pulled out of Greetin' Blue and made for the road south across the border.


There next stop was not far once the border had been reached for Figg was heading back to school.

It was evening by the time their cart made its way up the hedged lane which led at its end to her school. She could see its pointy roofs darkly peering over the hedgerows at them, growing ever larger and more ominous as they did so.

Figg entered by her customary after-hours means, she went up over the wall at a spot where long ago she had loosened a few bricks which could be pulled out making the wall a ladder, and then up the drain pipe next to the privvies and through the boiler room window, which for the sake of venting unpleasant fumes, was always left unlocked and open.

All was dark inside her dormitory when she crept in and full of the sounds of sleeping girls, snoring girls, gently sobbing girls, and pretending to be asleep girls. In fact the usual sort of thing for such a dormitory.

Figg sighed, “Well,” she said, “I'm back. Buggered if I'm staying though.”

Figg's reappearance of course did not go unnoticed and even as she tried to gather the few clothes and belongings she wished to take into a large suitcase as quietly as possible an exited gaggle of school mates were forming around her and candles were being lit.

Figg tried to explain to a hundred excited questions that she had been in Scotshobbitland, but mainly she wanted them to shut up and go back to bed so she could sneak out before the Head Sister found her.

Sadly she was too late for that as the sharp harsh white light of a lamp was uncovered in the doorway.

Like chickens scattered by a fox the girls fled for their beds in a flutter of nighties as the light entered in the hands of the Head Sister. In her other hands was a length of birch.

“Gingerlocks!” she declared angrily, “I might have known. Where have you been girl?”

That was too big a question for a short answer. Besides for some reason the Head Sister no longer scared her in the way she once had and she felt, she felt not that she was at the end, but only the beginning, “Where I have been is not so important as where I am going,” she said defiantly, “I am leaving this school.”

“You were sent here by the Authorities young girl, and here will will stay until you are old enough to leave. And where would you go, what would a penniless orphan girl have to offer the world?”

“I am going to Italiashire,” and she paused relishing this, “I have been offered a position as an Apprentice Eel-Wrangler.”

The Head Sisters face went rigid, then white, paper white in shock and horror. Then she gained control of herself and the white changed to a fierce red, “Ignore everything Gingerlocks says girls, cover your ears at once! There is no such thing, just bawdy, tawdry harlots which no young lady of any worth,” she said fixing her cold steel eyes on Figg, “would have anything to do with.”

An icy silence filled the dormitory as a whole room full of girls held their breath and peered over their bedsheets.

The moment was broken by a cough and all eyes turned to the doorway.

Gwen was there. No that did not do her justice. Gwen was present there. Very present. She was wearing a dress. Yes, it was a dress Figg eventually decided. It was at the same time both the most slutty thing Figg had ever seen on a human body and the most classy. A difficult trick to pull off but Gwen did. It revealed nothing whilst hinting at everything, and where it did reveal it exposed nothing but led the eye, by cunning cut and embroidered design to contemplate what was concealed, and the promise therein.

“Girls shut your eyes at once!” The Head sister screeched.

“I just popped by,” Gwen said undulating into the room without seeming to move her feet and giving the impression she was effortlessly floating. She arrived to the accompaniment of exotic perfume that filled the dormitory, which by now was erupting in excited giggles and whispers.


“You will not see this!” the Head Sister ordered to the dormitory but it was in vain.

“I just wanted to see who was making my apprentice late,” Gwen  said softly and gently as she put her face close to the the Head Sisters pallid one.

“I will not have, have...”

“Wantons? Harlots?” Gwen enquired innocently.

“It, its not proper or respectable,” the Head Sister blurted out, “Eru would be offended.”

Gwen smiled and flicked a long sharp nail up under the Head Sisters pointy chin and drew her head up till she met her gaze, “Do you know what is not proper or respectable? Shutting girls away from the outside world in cold and draughty dormitories, squashing their imaginations, their dreams and indoctrinating them into a life already laid out for them devoid of choice. Taking away hope and destroying potential. And having the cheek to do so in the name of education and Eru. That's what's improper,” the she smiled again, “but I'm the forgiving type,” and she grabbed the Head Sister by the back of her hair and in a sudden movement kissed her full and long on the lips in much the same way Figg observed Norc had Ringo.

Figg's mouth fell open in astonishment to the accompaniment of every other mouth in the dorm.

There was a sound like a soft smack and a popping combined as Gwen released her lip lock on the Head Sister and smiled.

In response the Head Sister stared blankly for a moment, wavered in shock then collapsed backwards in a faint to the floor.

The dormitory erupted in cheers.

“Time to go,” Gwen said to Figg who turned to her bed where she had put her suitcase, jammed it shut and fastened the clasp and headed after Gwen.


Outside Gwen slipped into one of the privvies and emerged in her, still elegant but far less daring, travelling clothes. And this time leaving by the main gates they returned to their cart.

Figg threw her suitcase into the back of the cart and turned and stared up at the school silhouetted against the now starry sky, the constellation of Gandalf's Beard was hanging in the sky above the turrets and buttresses, “Good riddance!” she shouted at the building.

She clambered up into the cart as Lance guided the horse round and took them back down the road they had come.

“You know,” Figg said, “there is only two things that still bother me about this whole escapade?”

“Oh?” Lance said arching an eyebrow at her, “what would they be then?”

“Why were there two scuttles? And which one was the real one?”

“I have no idea I am afraid, “ Lance sighed, “some things must it seems remain forever a mystery. I did check before we left, in the Scuttle Museum, there is only one on display, no one acknowledges any such thing as a second scuttle ever existed or ever has.”

“So which one was on display?” Figg asked, “the real one? Or the fake one?”

“There is no way to tell now, they were identical to the eye.”

Figg humphed to herself, she did not like not knowing. She liked spoilers.

She glanced out of the back of the cart as the school disappeared from view behind the hedges, “What now I wonder?” she said aloud to herself.

“Whatever you want to make of it,” Gwen replied cheerily.

Figg smiled a huge smile and settled back in the cart and watched the stars pass by overhead.









In another part of Forumshire all together. In a comfortable yet darkened room sat a figure with a very long face, in the literal sense, not in the sense of mood, of which his was rather buoyant and anticipatory.

He was expecting three visitors this day, and he knew exactly who each would be and what each had come for, the only thing he did not know for certain was what order they would arrive in.

Irritatingly the sun had move somewhat and it now fell through the thin chink in the heavy velvet curtains at such an angle as to catch, just slightly the corners of  the lenses of a pair of spectacles perched on the long face, it made them shine.

The tall headed man got up from his place at his desk and went over to the curtains and adjusted them suitably, so that what little light there was once more fell solely on the space immediately before the desk.

But before he turned back round he said softly, “Ah, I see you are here already.”

He turned round. There caught in the shaft of sunlight was Azriel, pointy hat perched atop her head, broom in one hand.

“I was wondering when you'd notice,” she cackled merrily at him, “well, I've not got time to waste, done enough of that already running silly bugger errands for you, Simy needs feeding and I'm behind on my cursing on account of being away, again, for you. Just to drive the point home. So hand them over.”

The figure at the desk opened a drawer in his desk and there was a clinking sound as he retrieved from within it a set of keys and held them out into the light.

She took them from him, “Rushock Bog?” she asked with a hint of suspicion in her voice.

“Upper,” the figure said.

“Damp but not leaky? I likes a bit of moss, good for the witching and the look of the place, but I ain't wanting a damn flood,” she demanded, “I want a proper hole mind, not some fix me upper,not with my bloody back. A nice hole I can settle right into and start up cursing right away.”

“Indeed, everything a witch could ask for.”

“With a view of the swamp?”

“You can smell the reek of it from your front garden,” the man reassured her with all the oil greasing of a life long seller of less than up to speck goods.

“Righty-ho then,” Azriel said and taking the keys turned to leave, she half turned back to the face the desk saying, “but I'll be back if it not as promised. No one likes  a witch with a wet hole, bad for business.” She turned to go, too quickly and there was a loud crack, “Bugger it!” she said, “be a luv dearie and give us a good kick will you.”




It was later in the room. Time had passed though there was not much to mark it save the slow passage of the sun.

It had now become impossible to angle the curtains so the light fell on the desired spot and so the man, after some deliberation had opted to use a well placed lamp and a mirror.

It was perhaps not quite up to his perfectionist standards, he sat behind his desk to get the full effect from his seated position, but never got to make further adjustments as a gentle, yet authoritative knock came at his door. It would have to do.

“Enter, Ambassador,” he said.

The door opened and Ambassador Amarie entered, carefully closing the door behind her.

“I was expecting you.”

“I bet you were,” she replied her voice tinged with annoyance, and some anger, “you set me up.”

“Yes I did.”

She hesitated, she had expected him to at least deny it a bit, dissemble a little. She needed a new line of enquiry for outright honesty, and settled for “Why?”

“That is a better question than stating the obvious,” he replied from the shadows, “and you already know the answer of course.”

“Because I would not have done it had I known what it was I was doing at the start.”

“Not just that, you would not have been able to do it as well. Your ignorance was necessary to increase your chances of success. Even if I had no other motive for keeping you in the dark than fear you would refuse, I would have done so anyway for the good of the mission.”

She considered this and though she did not like it because she was the one being used she could see the sense in it, and the possibilities for use of it herself in the future.

“So you got the Chief of the McBanks and all his staunchest supporters in every branch of the clan wiped out, why?”

“So they can choose a better leader, one with a plan fore the future, a real plan this time.”

“You?”

“I would not presume to say so.”

“You do mean you,” Amarie replied knowing a politician answer when she heard one, “why would they turn to an unknown like you?” she mused on that a second when he failed to reply, “unless you have some means to impress them.”

“I trust you will find your fees are compensation for any bruised ego?” he said indicating an end was coming to this conversation in short order.

“I cannot go back to Scotshobbitland any time soon, I rather think I would get a cool reception. That is more than bruised ego, that is professional damage.”

“On the contrary, I hear that the Chief of the McTyrants is putting it about that it was a cunning scheme of his which lured Offo into the Keep in the false belief he could steal their magic scuttle,” the man paused to adjust his spectacle in the shadows, “I rather think that upon your return you will find the Chief will be delighted to accommodate you with whatever you want, so long as you support his version of events publicly.”

Amarie considered this too, “and a useful bartering chip, should I ever need it.”

“Ah well, I just helped deal you the cards Ambassador, I have no intention of telling you when or how to play them. Now I believe our business is concluded, give my regards to the Dark Planet.”






Now the room was dark not because the curtains remained firmly shut but because morning had long past and afternoon had drawn into evening and so now into night.

And still the man sat at his desk and waited.  And now he too sat in the dark, the lamp was on the desk before him but it was not lit. Not yet. Patiently he awaited his final visitor of the day.

It was soon heralded not by a knock at the door so much as a hand thudding against it. Solidly and repeatedly in military rhythm.

“Come in Chief Guard of the Scuttle Chamber, Paw McTyrant.”

The door opened and Paw entered in full McTyrant regalia, and complete with his hat of office under one arm, which upon entering he put upon his head.

“Always a stickler for the traditions Paw, much like my good self.”

“You are only a stickler for whit is best fir yerself, Odo McBanks,” Paw replied.

“Well at least on this occasion, “ Odo said rising up from his desk and lightning the lamp, “I can be both.” He turned and stood to face Paw his tall head with its glasses perched on an almost invisibly small nose, and the two tufts of air which stood out of his otherwise almost completely bald head were framed by the flickering light. It made him look like an ominous clown in silhouette. He also had what was possibly the worlds longest comb over, even if it was a mere few strands.

“This is a solemn matter,” Paw snapped.

“You are right, respectability in these matters is so important, what our two ancestors began, we shall finish. It has always amused me that people see you in the Scuttle Museum every day, and yet none have marked your close resemblance to the McTyrant hanging above their heads in their precious tapestry. I am not sure I am such a good likeness, my ancestor, whilst I am sure a fine noble McBanks, just did not have my heroic profile. I assume that is why you have come, you have brought me the scuttle as agreed?”

Paw took with reverence a satin bag from within the recesses of his tartan shoulder covering and slipped the scuttle from it.

“The greatest betrayal of the McTyrants in their history I believe,” Odo said taking the scuttle carefully from Paw.

Paw flinched slightly at Odo's words, “If it is they willnae discover it fir moany years, if ever. And by the time they dae oor parts in it will be lang forgotten.”

“Indeed, perhaps generations to come will debate the great scuttle mystery, and squabble over its authenticity, who has it, or if it were real at all.”

“Now fir yir part, if A jist betrayed ma ain then yi've dun the same. Offo an' aw his backers deid, the ways clear fir sumwan who can show the other factions o' McBanks that wee trinket. I reckon, wi' nutin left tae lose, thud follow such a wan noo.”

“I certainly hope so. I thought Odo McBanks the First, but then that would not be keeping entirely to my part, now would it Paw? Just a change of leader?”

“Naw, it wid not,” Paw agreed,”so, will yi?”

“The preparations are already made, the remains of the  McBanks clan shall flee Scotshobbitland forever. I have a cousin in Ozhobbitstan, he is in the mining business. Has a colossal black hole. And I have been thinking Odo McBanks is not quite right. Not quite the ring of respectability it once had.”

“Yi'll git nae arguments frae me aboot that.”

“I was thinking Odo Banks the First, what do you think?”

“I didnae care whit yi caw yirselves as long as yi dae it far frae here and ne'er come back. And yon scuttle..”

“Will be destroyed when we get there, don't you trust me Paw? After all it uses to me is in gaining power, a coal scuttle is of no use to me after that in a land where the noon sun can not just melt your lolly but set fire to the stick too.”

“Yi ken if yi dae use it, such a thing, word wi get oot, and when it did oor wi scheme tae end aw this feuding will be fir nought.”

“You have my word Paw, the word of Odo Banks.”

Paw nodded, solemnly removed his hat and left the room, closing the door solidly behind him.

Odo went back to sit behind his desk and unravelled a map of Forumshire. It was very complicated, but on the other-side of the map there was only one large landmass. Ozhobbitstan, over most of which the words 'Terror incognito' had been written.

Well that was OK Odo thought, it was terror out in the open and trying to bite your face off that bothered him.

Yes, with his jelly enterprises, years of sound business acquirements and underpaying workers and what looked like a very lucrative mining potential ahead the future was looking bright for the McBanks he thought, no for the Banks clan. Especially as they literally had nothing left to lose here.

He eyed up the scuttle. By tomorrow night he would be Chief of his clan.
He could not think of a better person for the job.






Figg was nodding into sleep, encouraged by the gentle rocking of  ship as it drew away from the dock amid clamoured orders, bells and whistles.
She squirmed a little in her hammock uncomfortably, something was digging into her behind, something in her bustle. Something that felt oddly familiar, something round.

Her eyes snapped open. The sea air struck her awake, outside sea roared, wood creaked and the masts swayed with billowing sails on course for Italiashire, but she didn't care, she knew what was in her bustle.

Excitedly she hunted under her hem and pulled various levers in the underpinning until she manoeuvred the object and it fell out into her awaiting hand.

“I knew it!” she thought excitedly, it was the palantir, the palantir Norc had stolen from the Chapel. She must have slipped it back in there at the wedding. A parting gift.

Figg could hardly believe it, finally, at last she was going to see what it was people did but would never talk about. Finally answers.

Her hands trembling and curling up with the ball secretly in her hammock she stared into it, slowly, within its depths as she held her breath, small red letters were forming, they said; “Child Lock.” followed underneath by four dashes '_ _ _ _'.

“Oh you have to be bloody kidding me” Figg cried knowing somewhere, far away, in-between whatever they used the pig grease for a sweary ex-Viking was pissing herself laughing.











Authors note- to anyone who has made it all the way to the end, all 32 chapters plus Epilogue, approx 276 pages and 127741 words and over a years worth of time to get here, a huge thank you, its appreciated more than you can know.
This has turned into the first ever, albeit accidental, Forumshire novel! And I hope you have enjoyed the journey as much as I have enjoyed taking you on it. Thank you all once again for reading my silly tale of Forumshire.

Petty Tyrant