The Nth Horseman: A Fantasy Parody: The Slightly Unfeasible Tales of Landos, #3

By Chris Whyatt

Enjoy satire? I guess you do, otherwise you wouldn't have landed here...

A freak magical event throws two unsuspecting creatures together, giving them a strange new perspective.
The City of Landos is under attack once more, this time from a long-forgotten airborne predator. The inhabitants and hierarchy of the city soon learn that this particular winged beast is not your usual bad guy - unprecedented in the entire history of dragon lore! (Not to mention mathematics!)
How do you stop an enormous winged reptile with a strange disposition?
Don't throw sharp objects at it.
Don't pay a dragonslayer to throw sharp objects at it.
Don't give any citizen of Landos money for anything! (Especially if they claim to be a dragonslayer)
Keep Sgt Dirk Tombs locked up. Blunt instruments are worse.
And don't call it names - it has feelings too, you know.
Do insist on the help of a ginger-haired inventor with magical(ish) friends of the pointy-hat variety...
stand back...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Whyatt
• Release date: Jun 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227089168

Book preview

THE NTH

HORSEMAN

Chris Whyatt

Copyright © 2023 Chris Whyatt

All Rights Reserved

Chris Whyatt has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. But he can quickly un-assert that right if chased by an angry pitchfork-wielding mob. And if they happened to be a time-travelling, pitchfork-wielding mob from the sixteenth century or something, then they probably know not what they do, and he won’t have the right to assert anything. He is human though, apparently, and no forms of Artificial Intelligence were used to create the ideas, locations or characters in his works. Nor will they ever be in future publications.

This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental. If your name is Ferret, it is obviously for a good reason, therefore, it isn’t coincidental and I’m not apologising.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the author/publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchase.

Or... just do what you like.

"Always remember our motto, Simson.

Ignoreth it, and verily it shalt goeth away."

Fezlet Tantrum

Contents

Awakenings

Blank Glass - Empty Canvas

Number Two

The After-Math

Zero and Kurako

See-V-ing is Believing

Zero Tolerance

Sonny Spell

Deaths’ Doors

About the author

Awakenings

––––––––

The blackness crept towards grey as the first light of morning inched around in a rather lazy attempt at illuminating Anglost. Sensing the approaching change, the beautiful lawns fronting the magnificent castle reached out greedily for their share.

A dragonfly darted from here to there, flying in a typically erratic manner, when a glint of light on the lawn caught his attention and beckoned him to investigate. He landed directly behind the source, which turned out to be two thick circles of glass joined together with robust metal framing. A strange coloured aura appeared around the edges of the object. It was almost glowing. To the dragonfly, it was as hypnotic and mesmerising as a pocket watch swinging gently to and fro on a chain. That was why he didn’t notice the lizard creeping up behind him. She just needed to edge a little closer before the dragonfly became breakfast. At that precise moment, just as the dragonfly was in range, the first corona appeared on the horizon, and the full strength of sunlight hit the object, projecting a magical prism onto the small area behind, encompassing the unsuspecting creatures.

A startling fusion and metamorphosis took place...

Blank Glass - Empty Canvas

––––––––

Albert Sonny stared at Svelt’s drawing on the parchment again and compared it to the object he had started building in replication. It certainly looked the same, but according to the vague and brief instructions he had to work with, it lacked some form of power or energy source to breathe life into it.

To make it work? What does that actually mean?

He was sure its purpose was to display images, and that was, ultimately, what he intended it to do. There was a mention of strings or wires that somehow transferred energy from a smaller box. And a crackling sound. It was also missing the two metal spikes on top of the glass-fronted wooden box, resembling antlers or rabbit ears, but he could see no use, or purpose, for any of these items.

He looked around the busy little workshop.

Albert considered himself at the forefront of invention—a pioneer! But none of the materials in his den of possibilities even remotely resembled the items on the drawing. This project had hit a large block wall. He glanced up to the seeing scope sitting on a shelf gathering dust. His famous invention made it possible to discover some amazing things beyond the world, in outer space, but he didn’t want to observe other planets or stars anymore. Others had made progress in that particular field using the equipment, but his true purpose was to invent.

Albert picked up a small wooden box encasing a single piece of square glass and ventured outside into the busy street.

Closing one eye, he looked into the small viewing port on the back, scanning the scene and finally settling on a small dog curled up in front of a stall. The image was magnified slightly for clarity while remaining within the borders of the viewing frame. The idea was to create a living picture, captured and framed in the box for as long as the subject matter was still. The dog sat bolt upright suddenly, ears peaked, before tearing off down the street. The image was lost forever.

That’s the problem, he said out loud, how can I capture the image and keep it?

He knew he had reached the stage where help was needed. Nobody could possibly aid him in a scientific or technological sense, but maybe there was another option.

−∆=X/Y

––––––––

Look, it’s quite simple, Fred. I want you to go and watch over the match-up today.

The footsy?

Yes.

But I don’t know anyfing about sports, sir.

Chief Alfonso Lopez looked up from his desk. You don’t need to. It’s all about maintaining a presence.

Officers ’ave never attended before, sir. Can get a bit nasty from wot I’ve ’eard.

That’s the point. The game’s getting popular, and today is the local derby between Maulwell and Hacknee.

Derby?

Yes, the Landos derby.

But there ain’t any other teams anyway—they play each other every month.

Casualties permitting... yes. It’s a bit of a grudge match today. Even more so than usual, I mean.

Oh? Whyzat?

"Well, according to The Footsy Index—back page of The Landos Lyes—last time out, Maulwell resorted to clinical tactics, and Hacknee went down to twenty players."

"Ooh, that’s a bit— ’ere, ’ang on. Wot are clinical tactics?"

Apparently, when the gouging, biting, elbowing, and kneeing didn’t have the desired effect, they started using weapons.

Blimey. So, I assume you want us to monitor the crowd?

Crowd? If you mean the ‘players’, then yes. The first sign of a weapon, and I want you to arrest the culprit—s.

"Surely, you mean us, sir."

"You, Fred. We don’t have enough men to cover all that goes on in this fairytale-like little town of ours, but we do have to set a precedent. If that means some collateral damage, initially, then..."

Collateral? Wassat s’posed to mean?

Er... you, namely.

Come on, sir, I’ve got no chance on me own! How about Dirk?

Dirk’s needed elsew— bloody everywhere! Look, take Doeball with you. I’ll pull him off his usual round.

Actually, I’ll go on me own.

Alright, alright. Take Bert. I’ll get Doeball to man the desk.

Fair enough. Wot about Barny?

No, I need him to at least pretend to patrol The Squares... until something kicks off. Then, he’ll be conveniently answering a desperate call for help elsewhere, which will, unfortunately, turn out to be a false alarm.

Really, sir? ’e’s a little scoundrel, ain’t ’e!

You should know, Fred. He learnt from the best, after all. Good luck then.

Yes, sir. Fank you, sir.

You appear to still be here.

I woz jus’ wonderin’... ’ow do you actually play footsy?

Ye gods, man! Have you never been to a match?

Er... no, sir.

There’s nothing to it, really. The overseer places the ball in the middle, then retreats to his platform to keep score and watch out for any cheating.

Cheating? ’ow much worse could it be?

In the old days, teams would sneak wizards into play, known today as ‘ringers’. Got very messy—balls appearing out of nowhere, extra arms and legs, that kind of thing.

I see.

"Anyway, once the overseer is safe, he blows the whistle and both teams race to the centre to try and get first possession. The successful team then becomes the defence because they protect the man with the ball