Erhalten Sie Zugang zu diesem und mehr als 300000 Büchern ab EUR 5,99 monatlich.
- Herausgeber: Little Tiger Press
- Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
- Serie: Mort the Meek
- Sprache: Englisch
The first in a wickedly funny new series about an aspiring pacifist in a brutal kingdom!On Brutalia violence is a way of life. Ravenous ravens circle overhead, monstrous grot bears cause chaos and the streets are bulging with brawls. But Mort isn't like the other islanders – he's determined to live peacefully. His struggle is made even tougher when the cruel queen appoints Mort as Royal Executioner. No one has challenged the royals and lived to tell the tale. Can Mort keep his head and outwit the queen?Perfect for fans of the HOW TO TRAIN YOUR DRAGON series, FROSTHEART and THE NOTHING TO SEE HERE HOTEL.
Sie lesen das E-Book in den Legimi-Apps auf:
Seitenzahl: 137
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
Das E-Book (TTS) können Sie hören im Abo „Legimi Premium” in Legimi-Apps auf:
Ähnliche
ii
For Mum and Michael, who raised me with kindness. R. D.
Contents
v
Chapter 1
2Anyone who tells you that Brutalia was a peaceful and lovely place with delightful shores is either a pants‑on‑fire liar or a raven with a terrible sense of humour. Because the truth was this: surrounded by a dark grey sea that spat like a badly behaved child, Brutalia was an island of terrifying ugliness.
To make things worse, it was ruled by a Queen and King who were not only terrifyingly ugly, but also BRUTAL.
The Queen and King made laws against everything beautiful – like celebrating a birthday, or playing in the sun, or singing fa‑la‑la‑la‑laaaa for the fun of it. And there were always punishments for breaking these laws. Some punishments stung, like nose‑twisting and wasp baths. Other punishments – like being forced to wear spiky underwear – hurt a lot. Some of them were really painful (if you’ve ever had a toe or finger chopped off, you’ll know what I mean).
And then there was the ultimate punishment – death. That was the Queen’s favourite. She loved it so much, she decided to make it Brutalia’s motto:
LIVE OR DIE3
It wasn’t the most inspirational motto of all time. But if you ever said that aloud you’d be breaking the law and would probably DIE.
Most people tried not to DIE. And, so long as they didn’t get up the Queen and King’s noses, many of them actually managed to LIVE and carry on with thumping their neighbours for no good reason and eating worms for tea. Hunger was everywhere and violence was rife.
From the day they were born, the people of Brutalia knew only misery. There were regular beatings and measly food rations, making everyone extremely grouchy. And, while the Queen and King lived in a grand palace, everyone else struggled in total poverty in the shadow of the island’s two badly built towers, which stuck out of the Salty Sea like a giant danger sign in the mist. A bit like this:
4Visitors were NOT welcome. (It even said Not Welcome on its sign.)
Woe betide any passing sailor who ignored these words or succumbed to the friendly cheer of “Ahoy! Ahoy!” carried to them on the wind. Because an “Ahoy! Ahoy!” from that island was not friendly. Not one little bit.
It was the call of Brutalia’s ravens, who had cunningly adapted their cry to lure sailors into the craggy bays of Brutalia where they would meet their fate on the rocks. During the day, the ravens circled Brutalia, searching the ragged shoreline for distressed sailors. Or at least some body parts of distressed sailors. A plump eyeball was always nice.
Beware the ravens of Brutalia! said no one. Because no one ever survived to pass on the message.
On this particular day, the ravens were circling and dreaming of brains. Or, more specifically, parts of the brain that were especially flavoursome.5
“Oi,” said one raven. “Wouldn’t you just die for an amygdala?”
“I like the hippocampus,” said another.
“What about the thalamus?” said a third raven, flapping alongside. “Got a lovely nutty flavour.”
“Frontal lobe for me,” added another.
“Yeah, frontal lobe…” one said dreamily. “Yum.”
But it was wishful thinking. There were no brains or kidneys or livers for them today. Not even a whiff of sailor… In fact, there hadn’t been a whiff of anything meaty for weeks.
Once upon a time, gory bits would bob to the surface like ping-pong balls in a bathtub, but the supply had mysteriously stopped. The ravens were lucky to suck on a toenail clipping brought to them on the tide. It’s hard not to feel sorry for the hungry birds, but you mustn’t. If they spot weakness, they’ll descend on you like babies on a banana…
Desperate for food, the ravens had taken to hanging round Brutalia’s houses, hoping for scraps. But the people were also starving, so there were never any leftovers. And, even if there had been, throwing out 6 scraps was a crime punishable by death.
This sets the scene nicely, don’t you think?
The Queen and King were horrible.
The people were violent.
And the ravens were ravenous.
Chapter 2
8It was the trial of Weed Millet, the baker’s son, and the people of Brutalia were gathered in the square to witness it. When they were about to be horrible to someone, the Queen and King made everyone watch. It was to keep the people on their toes. (Those whose toes hadn’t been cut off, which was last month’s non‑death punishment of choice.)
Weed was on his knees at the feet of the royal couple. He was only twelve but his hard life made him look thirteen and a half.
As he was still a child, and therefore not old enough to be given a death sentence, Weed was hoping his punishment would be no harsher than a spell of poo‑collecting. At worst it would be the removal of his earlobes (this month’s non‑death punishment of choice and not so bad, unless you liked wearing earrings).
Weed widened his beautiful chocolatey eyes at the royals, hoping they would see his innocence and think twice about doing something nasty. But the Queen’s face was pinched, and the King’s potato face gave nothing away – probably because it was bloated from a life of fatty foods and sluggishness. Too lazy to talk, he hardly ever said a word. The Queen, however, was very vocal. And she was also in a terrible mood (the King had spent the morning trying to kiss her – utterly revolting).9
“If you were a child,” she said, “I might consider making my punishment not death.”
“I am a child,” Weed said. “I’m only twelve. You can ask the scribe.”
Unfortunately, at that very moment, Scribe Pockle (Keeper of Birth Certificates and Legal Documents) was in prison (and missing one finger) for spilling ink on the Queen’s carpet.
“Poppycock! I don’t need Scribe Pockle to tell me. You look thirteen and a half, and not a day younger. Under Brutalia’s laws, that makes you a grown man. That is my final word.” (It clearly wasn’t going to be her final word – she never stopped talking.)
Weed opened his mouth to protest.
“Someone stop this fool from whimpering!” the Queen snapped. “NOW!”
A guard stepped forward and growled menacingly at Weed, the baker’s son, making him whimper.
“He’s still making noises!”
“Sorry, Your Majesty,” the guard said, bowing frantically to show how sorry she was. But the Queen was not amused.
“Someone take this guard to the tower,” she ordered, clicking her fingers.
“Why am I being sent to the tower?”10
“Because you’re annoying.”
“Is it a crime to be annoying?” the guard asked carefully, hoping the answer would be no.
“No.”
Phew.
“But it is a crime to ask if it’s a crime to be annoying,” the Queen said. “I just made that up. Rather good, isn’t it?” She clicked her fingers again and the guard was gone, taken to the tower to await her fate.
The Queen cast an eye over the crowd gathered in the square to see if there were any whispers of give her a break, bad show and that’s not very fair. But the crowd wanted to LIVE, so not one of them said or did anything.
11The Queen, satisfied, turned back to the whimpering boy.
“Explain yourself,” she said, stretching out her leg and kicking him on the nose. “Why did you trap one of Brutalia’s Royal Ravens?”
Let’s get one thing clear: before this point they were simply ravens. Had they been Royal Ravens, the Queen might have fed them or popped little crowns on their heads. But they were scruffy and no one cared for them at all, which is why they had become so hungry they’d attacked Weed’s fruit garden. One of the ravens (the one who fancied the nutty thalamus) had got tangled in the bird-proof netting. The flurry and panic that followed had alerted a guard, who had then alerted the Queen, who had decided there and then that the ravens were royal property and that the boy was in deep, deep trouble. Weed just hoped the Queen didn’t punish him for growing his own fruit, which was also a crime.
“You’ve been growing your own fruit!” she squealed.
“We’re so hungry,” the boy said. “Do you know what it’s like to have a hunger that gnaws at your insides? Do you know what it’s like to hear your little sister crying herself to sleep at night?”
“No.” (Everyone knew the Queen didn’t have a soft 12side, but anything was worth a shot.) “So you were growing fruit, hoping to lure my Royal Ravens so that you could make raven pie?”
“I just wanted the fruit actually,” Weed said. “I never meant to catch a raven.”
The Queen threw her head back and gave a strange fake laugh, making her shoulders jig up and down to show that, finally, she was amused.
“Why wouldn’t you want a raven for a pie? Don’t you like pie?”
(The way she said pie – drawn out and tempting, like a sigh: piiiiiigh – made the hungry boy’s mouth water.)
“A raven in a pie. A raven pie. Are you telling me you wouldn’t want pie…?”
“Well—”
“Pie,” she said again for no reason.
“I would, but—”
“Pie.”
“Yes, but—”
“Pie.”
He could take it no more. “Of course I’d love raven pie!”
And the Queen shouted: “PUNISHABLE BY DEATH!”
The crowd wanted to gasp but couldn’t, for obvious 13reasons. And the King, who had said nothing because he never did, belched as he changed position in his chair. For any ordinary citizen of Brutalia, belching in public could get you killed.
Brutalia is not a fair place.
That was the sad thought of a boy called Mort as he left the square that afternoon. All night he tossed and turned, haunted by the cruelty of the fate of his friend, Weed Millet. Nightmares washed over him in giant waves and he hardly slept a wink.
But at least you finally got to meet the main character.
Chapter 3
15The following day, Mort walked miserably to the square and stood alongside his one-armed mother in the front row of the viewing area. He hated violence – hated it with his very soul – but Weed wanted him there as a friendly face to gaze at as he met his fate. Mort forced back the tears as his best friend was pulled on to the platform in front of him and gasped.
Weed’s face was dark and slimy from sleeping on the mouldy prison floor, and there were cockroaches in his hair. He would have looked a hundred per cent swamp monster if it wasn’t for his big chocolatey eyes, which he locked with Mort’s average-sized green ones. Lumps formed in both their throats. Neither of them was certain how much longer Weed’s throat would be in one piece.
The method of execution was decided by the Royal Executioner who, after the Queen and King, was the next most important person in Brutalia. He was not only chief murderer but also the Champion of Brutalia. It was his duty to make sure Brutalia didn’t turn soft like the rest of the Salty Sea Islands, where people were happy, did yoga and didn’t get their heads chopped off.
The current Royal Executioner was known as the 16Brute. (Although all the executioners were given the same title, so he wasn’t that special.) The Brute usually waited until everyone else was seated and the square was tense with anticipation before making an appearance. It was an attention‑seeking thing.
Mort rolled his eyes – not because he wanted the Brute to hurry up and kill his friend. He was just bored with the Brute’s BIG DRAMATIC ENTRANCE. He did it all the time, even at family dinners. The Brute, whose real name was Bob, was
Mort’s uncle. And Mort thought he was a bit of a twit. Mort’s eye‑roll was interrupted by the sudden and undignified parp of one hundred horns. The Queen and King were brought in on sofas mounted on poles, carried by women and children whose knees buckled under the weight, although not one of them dared to complain…
Mort should have been watching the royal arrival, as every obedient citizen must, but he couldn’t tear himself from Weed’s eyes. They were pleading for help, but help wasn’t something Mort was in a position to offer. What could he do?
BANG! BANG! BANG!17
The crowd hushed at the familiar noise of the Royal Executioner’s knuckle stick pounding the stage.
The knuckle stick was a knobbly cane, riddled with bumps that looked like knuckles. Mort gulped. Surely the Brute wasn’t going to knuckle his best friend to death? That would be so barbaric, so evil, so brutal. So yeah, he probably was.
The Brute stood in the centre of the stage and held out his arms for adoring applause. The crowd 18reluctantly cheered as the guards held up CLAP NOW signs. Long after the noise had died down, the Brute remained still, eyes closed, arms wide open, soaking up (what he believed to be) the love of the people.
“Get on with it!” shouted the Queen.
The Brute bowed in her direction. “Your Royal Highnesses,” he said, “today we are gathered to witness the punishment by death handed down to Weed Millet, the baker’s boy, for his heinous crime –” (the guards held up BOO NOW signs) – “of ensnaring a Royal Raven –” (BOO NOW) – “for the purpose of placing it in a pie!” (BOO NOW, BOO NOW.) “And so, in considering a suitable death for this evil boy—”
“Adult,” the Queen corrected quickly. “He’s thirteen and a half.”
“—a suitable death for this adult, most certainly aged thirteen and a half, I pondered long and hard. With both the criminal and the crime in mind, I searched my encyclopaedia of executions to find the perfect form of—”19
“Get on with it or I’ll send you to the tower!”
The Brute looked at the Queen and saw from the expression on her face that she meant it, so he coughed loudly and prepared to deliver his decision.
“I declare that you, Weed Millet, shall be put to death by…”
ARGGGHHHHH
(???)
ARGGGHHHHHH
(Was it a raven?)
ARGGGHHHHHHH
(Was it Weed whimpering in fear?)
ARGGGHHHHHHHH
(What was it?)
ARGGGHHHHHHHHH
(Seriously, what was it?)
Mort looked at Weed but Weed was still very much alive, so it wasn’t a terrible gargling death rattle…
No, Mort realized. It was coming from the Brute!
ARGGGHHHHHHHHHH
(Actually it was getting a bit boring now.)
The Brute stumbled forward. The knuckle stick 20fell from his hands and the monstrous man clutched at his chest as he repeated the awful sound over and over, eyes boggling like ping-pong balls in a bathtub, which the ravens appreciated.
ARGGGHHHHHHHHHHH…
BONK.
The Royal Executioner lay flat on his face on the stage and the crowd cheered, finally giving him the adoring chant he’d always longed for. The official Body Carrier, who had been waiting in the wings to dispose of Weed, dragged the Royal Executioner off the stage.
“Oh, for Brutalia’s sake,” the Queen said, rising from her sofa and standing on the heads of two small children. “Who’s next in line for Royal Executioner? Does the Brute have a child?”
There was no answer. As far as anyone knew, the Brute lived alone with a cat called Flossy, but cats don’t have thumbs, and can’t hold knuckle sticks, and therefore make pathetic executioners.
“A sibling then?” the Queen snapped, exasperated. “Does he have a brother or a sister?”
Mort looked up at his mum.21
“I’m the sister of Bob the Brute,” she said.
