Grumble and Gasp: Of Rabbits and Regicide - Chapter 1, Part 2

Of Rabbits and Regicide Chapter 1: The Duchess and the Dire Snail.

By Brude Bowyer

The trapdoor beneath the stage of the Danse Macabre ballet creaked on ancient hinges as Gasp slipped through, descending into the damp underbelly of the assassins' guild. Each rung of the ladder sent fresh waves of agony through his mangled body. He bit his tongue until blood welled, preferring that small, controlled pain to the indignity of whimpering. Failed assassins didn't whimper. Failed assassins didn't return at all.

The anteroom reeked of mildew and old blood, familiar as a childhood blanket. Torchlight flickered across stone walls slick with perpetual condensation, casting his shadow in grotesque proportions. Like a broken-winged demon, hunched and misshapen. Blood and slime matted what remained of his once-glossy coat.

Worst of all was the empty sheath at his belt. A badge of shame more damning than any wound. A guild assassin returned with his weapon, or not at all. A lost weapon was worse than evidence. It was unprofessional. That was the first lesson, beaten into fledglings until it became reflex. A blade was worth more than your life.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in, chewed up, and spat back out," came a familiar cackling voice, identical to his own in timbre but worlds apart in confidence.

Zaghnal lounged on a throne of bone, usually reserved for masters greeting returning assassins, one leg propped casually over the other, his beloved crow's-bill axe resting across his knees. The weapon gleamed in the torchlight, its split curved blade immaculate, not a drop of blood marring its wicked edge. Just like its owner.

Where Gasp was ragged, his twin brother was pristine. The same black feathers, but perfectly groomed. The same lean frame, but carried with easy grace rather than nervous energy. The same beak, but Zaghnal's wasn't constantly picking at loose feathers in anxiety. They were mirror images filtered through opposite fortunes. One blessed by the Mad Monk, one cursed.

"Did the Duchess come at you with a chicken plucker?" Zaghnal asked, head tilted in that infuriating way of his, not quite mockery, not quite sympathy.

Gasp straightened as much as his injuries allowed, forcing a cocky grin that felt like cracked porcelain on his face. "I left some feathers behind, like a calling card. That’s my new thing now."

"All of your feathers?" Zaghnal's beak clicked with amusement. "You look like you came through the back exit of a butcher shop."

"You should see the other guy," Gasp countered, limping forward with affected nonchalance.

Zaghnal rose in one fluid motion, the axe twirling in his feathered grip before settling comfortably against his shoulder. He circled Gasp, professionally assessing the damage with the detached interest of a craftsman examining flawed material.

"Her guards got creative with you, did they?" He reached out, plucking a thorn still embedded in Gasp's shoulder. "Where are your clothes?"

Gasp hissed through clenched beak. "She keeps a dire-snail. A dire-snail! As a pet! What kind of demented noble—"

"A dire-snail?" Zaghnal's eyes widened, genuine surprise cracking his carefully maintained façade. "And you're still breathing? That's almost impressive."

"Almost?" Gasp bristled, then winced as the movement sent fire through his tattered wing.

Zaghnal's expression softened, just slightly. He placed a wing on Gasp's uninjured shoulder. "You got out alive. That counts for something. More than many can say about their first time."

For a moment, Gasp allowed himself to lean into the touch, to accept the scrap of comfort. Then pride reasserted itself, and he shrugged away, ignoring the fresh bolt of pain.

"The contract?" Zaghnal asked, his voice now carefully neutral.

Gasp's eyes slid away, focusing on a particularly interesting crack in the stone floor. "Completed. Obviously." he said in the voice of Madame Marrow.

"Obviously," Zaghnal repeated, his tone flat without Gasp’s gift for mimicry. "And your blade?"

"The damn snail consumed it!" At least that part was not technically a lie. Just an omission of the failure, the absolute humiliation of it all.

Zaghnal's gaze lingered on the empty sheath, then on the patches of missing feathers where acid had stripped Gasp to the skin. His beak opened, then closed. For once, his quick wit seemed to fail him.

The silence stretched between them, filled with all the things brothers couldn't say. That success and failure were the only currencies that mattered in the guild. That Magnus would make a brutal example of Gasp. That Madame Marrow's disappointment cut deeper than any knife.

"Come on," Zaghnal finally said, slinging his axe across his back. "Let's get you cleaned up before the masters see you. Then we can steal Harlow’s sword. That ferret-kin owes me money; he could use a good beating."

Gasp snorted, a sound halfway between exhaustion and genuine amusement.

They moved toward the inner chambers in step, mirror images in motion despite Gasp's limp. Zaghnal slowed his usual prowling gait to match his brother's shuffling pace. It was a small mercy Gasp pretended not to notice, just as Zaghnal pretended not to see the shameful tears of frustration building in the corners of Gasp's eyes.

"You should have seen my target," Zaghnal said, breaking the silence. "Duke's nephew. Soft as butter, snoring with his mouth open. I was in and out before he even twitched."

"Showoff," Gasp grumbled, grateful for the distraction.

"It's not showing off when you're just that good," Zaghnal preened, ruffling his immaculate feathers. "Besides, some of us have an image to maintain. Can't all drag ourselves home looking like something the dog regurgitated."

"Says the bird who got stuck in the chimney last winter."

"That was for science," Zaghnal protested. "I was testing the flue's diameter for future escapes."

Gasp's laughter escaped before he could stop it, a raw, genuine sound that echoed off the stone walls. For a moment, they were just brothers again, not guild rivals, not assassins-in-training, just two fledglings swapping barbs and jokes.

The moment shattered as a door ahead of them creaked open, spilling harsh yellow light across the corridor. Both brothers stiffened, Zaghnal's wing instinctively unfurling to block Gasp from immediate view.

"Tomorrow," they heard two other apprentices whisper, so low that Gasp could barely hear. "at the initiation. I heard the Masters want to watch our second kill with their own eyes. My cousin said they bring in prisoners sentenced to execution."

Gasp's momentary levity evaporated like morning dew. The initiation. One last test before full guild membership.

"I've got your back," Zaghnal murmured, eyes fixed ahead as they passed their whispering peers. "Like always."

Gasp nodded, swallowing the bitter knowledge that tomorrow they'd each face the initiation alone, and all the brotherly love in the world couldn't save him if he froze again.

He straightened his spine and raised his beak, forcing confidence into his posture. The lie of bravado had gotten him this far. Perhaps it would carry him through one more day.

Thanks for reading. The story is a work in progress, and I welcome all comments and constructive criticism. This is book 0 in the Grumble and Gasp quadology. If you find yourself liking the story and wanting more, the full first novel is available on Kindle and Amazon.

Book 1 Available Here!

Want to know if I killed off your favorite character? I probably didn’t, but how can you be sure? Stay tuned to find out. New chapter’s release every Monday!

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