Aligvok’s face drained of any pretence of colour it might ever have had and his eyes shut.
“That will do, my cervid, 4 letters12” Ambler said, his voice as calm as if he were ordering an iced tea.
Negstimeaboi dropped Aligvok, who collapsed back, his breath rasping and his hands massaging his throat. “How is it even possible that she can hurt me?”
“Simple,” Ambler said, “magic requires at least a little portrait of a country, 11 letters…”
“Imagination,” croaked Aligvok.
Ambler nodded, “Indeed, and my friend has none. Which makes her the most powerful sounds like one with concerns, 7 letters, in, whatever this place is.”
Humunculus glanced across at Aligvok who was regaining some of the colour he didn’t have. “Warrior,” the wizard whispered.
“Magic only works on those with imagination?” Humunculus repeated, “Is that only true of this place we’re in now, this staff?”
Aligvok who had, by now, righted himself and brushed down his spectral robes, brought two more goblets into existence and floated them to Ambler and Negstimeaboi. “Yes because, you see, everything we see here is imagined, one way or another. Your warrior princess only sees anything at all because she borrows the imagination of her friend. I guess they stick pretty close.”
There was a growl from Negstimeaboi. “I see nothing without him,” she said. “For long time before he came, I was alone and in the dark. He is my guide, I his protector.”
“How long have you been in the staff?” asked Humunculus, his curiosity getting the better of him.
The huge warrior shrugged.
“Time has little meaning here, as I’m sure you’ve noticed and what year it is in the world outside, I have no idea,” said Aligvok.
The wizard scanned Negstimeaboi, “Judging from the bronze armour and weapon, I suspect our warrior here hails from the Baybi Steppes at around the time of the end of the republic.”
“What republic?” Humunculus asked, beginning to regret his complete disinterest in human affairs.
“The Varman Republic, some two centuries before I was taken by the staff and near to the time it was created,” Aligvok said, before turning to Ambler, “and you, in what year were you killed?”
Ambler looked up. “I fought against the empire in the great uprisings of 295AR and was killed by the staff, wielded by the great wizard below zero, 5 letters,” he sighed.
“Minus,” scowled Aligvok, “the great enemy and the maker of the staff. So, you arrived nearly 300 years after your warrior friend. I followed some time after, also a victim of the evil Minus.”
Aligvok turned again to Humunculus. “You are the most recent arrival, in what year were you taken?”
“I have no idea, years in the Brightworld mean nothing to me,” Humunculus said, pouting.
“It matters not,” Aligvok said, “I’m much more interested in knowing how it was that you came to be taken. Did a great warrior travel into the Otherworld and defeat you?”
Humunculus paused for a moment. “You seem to have more knowledge of this place than anyone I’ve met. Tell me everything you know about this magic staff and I will answer your question.”
Chapter 6
Life beneath the city of Varma was nasty, smelly and, often, short. Indeed, for most of the city’s inhabitants, civilisation had brought little more than disease, malnutrition and rampant crime. Oh, and the weekly wrestling shows that took place in the various arenas dotted around the city’s periphery. On balance, it seemed that inertia and a desire to see other people being hurt tipped the balance in favour of civilised life in the city.
So, Varma was lived on many levels. Right at the top, in the clear air and with views out to the idyllic (from a distance) countryside beyond, dwelt the patricians and the rich merchants. Their penthouses tended to be built above the more modest dwellings of the middle classes, content, it seemed, to live beneath their betters as long as they shared a street address.
At ground level lived the workers and the shopkeepers, the publicans and the brothel owners. Beneath them crept the undergrounders and in the midst of these lowest of the low, a small form scrambled quietly in the dark.
Rasha had come up with the idea when Bill had related his limited knowledge (all gained from Vokes) of the history of Varma. Neither Brianna nor Bill were happy with the idea of him following one of the rivers as it flowed under the city in the hope that he would find an unguarded maggot-hole he could squeeze through. Brianna had pointed out that the city would be defended from underground attack by grids, weirs and railings but Rasha had suggested that these had been designed to keep human-sized attackers out, not goblins the size of a small child. Bill had made matters worse by reminding Brianna that these defences had been built in the days of the city’s glory and were, in all likelihood, in poor repair.
They were all right as it turned out. There were thick iron railings at the point where each of the rivers entered the city and these proved the toughest challenge. Rasha had insisted on wading into the water and making his way, alone, to where the river disappeared below ground. The railings were old and too close together for him to squeeze through, and the little goblin almost despaired before noticing that the mortar in the brickwork surrounding the tunnel entrance was giving way. When he looked closer, he could see that it had been repaired, poorly, and, after half an hour’s scraping, he was able to claw the first brick out, making the others easy to remove. And so he was through.
It stank beneath the city but, as a goblin, Rasha was well used to the smells of below ground, although his people tended to make sure they didn’t shit in water they were subsequently going to drink. He made a mental note that, if he were to survive and reach the surface, he should avoid drinking until he was out of the city and could see where his water came from.
He now sat in the comfortable darkness listening to the sounds of moving feet and dripping water echoing along the tunnels. Not all the feet were human but Rasha didn’t fear rats and mice, they were among the few animals to survive on his world and were regarded, in the main, as a welcome source of food.
Rasha had found a large crack in the crumbling masonry to hide in. It felt relatively dry and safe, considering that he was now on the first habitable levels. All that remained was to give his human friends time to make their own way into the city. They’d agreed to meet, after dark, outside the city’s great basilica since it should be easy to find. They’d then hole up somewhere while Bill and Brianna went to the great library - there was some doubt whether Brianna, as a woman, would be allowed in, but there was no doubt Rasha would be refused. And probably arrested.
Sitting there, pining for home, Rasha wondered whether, in truth, human promises held the same ferric weight as those between goblins. He hadn’t had the impression, after all, that Brianna had a specific plan to find a gate to send him back through. Rasha bit back a pang of doubt and then felt himself almost overwhelmed by a feeling of loneliness. He missed home so much. The closeness with others of his kind, the certainty of community; knowing who he was and understanding his place and purpose. And yet here he was, in a strange world he didn’t comprehend, relying entirely on two humans he barely knew - at least by the standards of his kind. Brianna had never touched his mind, and he wondered whether humans even experienced that sort of intimacy at all. He recognised that Bill and Brianna were mates, of some sort13, but, while they talked together a lot and occasionally had physical contact14, he’d never seen them commune as the mating pairs of his community did so publicly. Now he felt sad for his friends as well as himself. So he sat, in the dark, and tried not to think any more.
“What is your business in Varma?” the guard barked.
Bill and Brianna had agreed that he would do the talking as he didn’t regard being diplomatic as a sign of weakness.
“We wish to visit the great library,” Bill said.
The guard’s laughter echoed around the entrance archway of the city gate. Bill f
elt his hackles, and the heat, rising.
The first guard, a big man in leather armour and a red cloth cap, squinted myopically as he tried to bring Bill’s face into focus, whilst wiping away the tears. “Oh, the Great Library of Varma isn’t open to the likes of you!” he said.
The other guard, a slighter man with a deep brown face and a resigned manner, nudged his colleague away and regarded the two of them closely. “I apologise for our rudeness. My name is Simel and I am keeper of the gate. It is rare indeed for an outlander to request access to the sum of humanoid knowledge - what do you seek there?”
“We have research to conduct into magical affairs,” Bill said, using the form of words he’d agreed with Brianna who was now bristling at his elbow. He reached into his pack and pulled out what he hoped was his trump card.
The second guard took it and examined it closely, pushing the head of his short-sighted colleague out of the way so he could get a proper look. “Interesting. Now, I wonder what an outlander such as yourself would be doing with the Library Card of a wizard by the name of Nomenclature Vokes. I suspect that you are not he.”
“No, but I am his grandson and heir. I am here to fulfil the mission he set me on his deathbed,” Bill said, liberally embellishing the truth.
The big guard with the watery eyes squinted down at the card, then looked at Bill. “This ain’t no good. You could ‘ave killed this Vokes bloke and stolen ‘is card. And anyroadup, it’s only valid for magic users and you don’t look like no wizard to me. Now, be off with you, before I calls out the watch.”
“Ernest has a point,” said the other guard, who’d been watching Bill carefully during this exchange, “access to the magical research section of the library is restricted to wizards, sorcerers and such like. I’m afraid we can’t grant access to the city on that basis unless you do indeed possess some magical power, and can prove it.”
Bill shrugged. He’d known it would come to this. “Do you have anything you’d not be grieved to lose,” he asked Simel.
With the speed of a greased monkey in a banana tree, Simel’s arm lashed out and grabbed the woollen hat from his colleague’s oily head; handing it to Bill before Ernest could cry out.
“Be calm, corporal, if this young man has no magical talent as you believe, your beloved cap will be returned to you unharmed. If he attempts to make it disappear using sleight of hand, then I will be delighted to deprive him of at least one of those hands before we throw him into the river.”
Ernest stuck his chin out in a show of confidence that was almost compelling.
Without fuss, Bill held out the cap, brought the heat up from inside him and channelled it into his hands. The hat burst into flames, fed by the grease of years, and Bill opened his palms to allow the ashes to drop to the floor. “Sorry,” he said.
Ernest’s chin dropped and Simel’s eyes widened slightly before he regained his composure and bowed. “Welcome to the city, Master of Fire. I will be pleased to escort you to a lodging house of excellent quality unless, of course, you have already made plans.”
“No,” Bill replied, startled by the change in the attitude of the guard, “thank you, that would be very helpful.”
Simel waved them through and they into the city.
#
Aligvok sat back in his chair and drew a deep breath. “You have all guessed that we exist, in disembodied form, within the staff, have you not?”
Humunculus and Ambler nodded, Negstimeaboi shrugged disinterestedly.
“What you perhaps don’t know is that the staff was not merely an amplifier of magical talent, as most are, but it had a specific purpose. It is a reaper of souls, a weapon of death. To my certain knowledge, it has been directly responsible for the killing of over three hundred people during its time in existence.”
Humunculus thought for a moment, “If that’s the case, where are they? I have met no more than a dozen souls since I arrived.”
Aligvok smiled. “Those fools in the Cognitive Club are right. Unless specifically exercised, the energies that bind our spirits together will dissipate and the soul will become nothing more than a power source for the staff. The vast majority of all its victims either never learned this or felt that disincorporation was a preferable fate to an eternity spent solving sudokus and cryptic crossword puzzles.”
“How have you remained golfing target, 4 letters?” asked Ambler.
“Whole? Well, I am somewhat unusual as I was a magic user myself before I was betrayed by the wizard, Minus. I therefore arrived with the mental faculties to remain combobulated.”
Humunculus’s patience finally snapped. “Well I’m sure this is fascinating but can we please get to the point? Is there any way to escape the staff and re-enter the world?”
For an instant, Aligvok’s face tightened and betrayed a hint of colour. The wizard recovered almost quickly enough to be undetectable but Humunculus saw it. Interesting.
“As it happens,” Aligvok said, sulkily, “there is.”
This surprised Humunculus. “How?”
“The staff must be returned to the place of its making, the hidden laboratory of Minus,” said the wizard, now warming to his task, “where there are devices designed to extract souls and unite them with new bodies. I know these devices and how to use them.”
Humunculus frowned. “If that’s the case, why haven’t you escaped before now?”
“For two reasons. Firstly, the staff itself has usually been in the hands of a wizard or else locked out of harm’s way so there’s been no way to bring it to Minus’s lab.”
“Oh, I think I can help you there,” Humunculus said, smiling broadly, “my servant guards the staff and he will do exactly as I say.”
Aligvok’s face lit with delight. “Splendid! And your very presence is the key to our success.”
“I don’t follow.”
The wizard leaned forward to lend dramatic flourish to what he was about to say. “You see, the laboratory is guarded by charms and spells to keep out the unwelcome. Only one such as yourself can defeat those spells and, in that way, grant the staff and its bearer access to the inner sanctum. Because, you see, Minus was not just a great wizard but also the first King of the Faeries.”
“What?” Now it was Humunculus’s turn to be amazed. “How could a mere man become king of my most magnificent race?”
“Because he created it. I don’t know exactly how, but it certainly involved his soul swapping experiments and his desire to control the Darkworld. He failed, however,” Aligvok said, with a savage smile. “It seems your ancestors weren’t quite as easy for him to control as he’d hoped. Oh, they were very good at taking over rule of the Darkworld - after all, goblins were the only sentient native beings and they were easy to amaze and overcome. But Minus hoped, through his faerie emissaries, to rule the Darkworld and exploit its mineral wealth, but he found them, how shall I put it, capricious.”
“Capricious?” Humunculus laughed. “Delicious!”
It turned out that the lodging house belonged to Simel’s sister and the nightly rate was a rip-off. Bill didn’t care, as he didn’t really regard his inheritance as his own in any case, but Brianna was fuming.
“I’m not sure we’ve been so much escorted as extorted,” muttered Brianna as they followed the landlady up the stairs to their room. Simel had introduced them warmly enough but had suggested a room at the top of the building and a little extra on the tariff as “insurance” against any fire related accidents while they stayed. Now Natana stood at the top of the stairs and gestured into the room.
“Wow,” said Bill, his eyes drawn immediately to the main window which looked down on the streets, “I’ve never been this high; at least not in a bedroom, anyway.”
Brianna stood next to him, her eyes scanning the thoroughfare below. The room stood slightly higher than most of those across the road, so she could see a couple of streets across before the view was lost in the city mist.
“At least the air’s cleaner up here,” she
said. The stink of thousands of human beings living in proximity to each other and thousands more animals (many of which were really quite nervous) had seared instantly into the back of their throats as soon as they’d stepped through the gate. Bill had never been tempted to drink a pint of farmyard slurry, but if he had, he imagined his mouth would have tasted much as it did now.
“Thank you, we’ll take it,” Bill said, turning away from the window to where Natana stood waiting. She was tall and had deep brown skin, like her brother. She had the graceful features and bountiful hair of a pure-blood Varman and wore a light dress of lavender cotton that hugged her figure delightfully.
Natana nodded. “My rules are simple,” she said, “there is no admittance to this house between the eighth bell in the evening and the sixth in the morning. This is a respectable house, usually frequented by hereditary officers, such as my brother, and I will not tolerate behaviour that might endanger its reputation.”
“Understood,” Bill said before Brianna could frame a retort.
“Since you are outlanders, there may be certain customs and etiquettes practised in the city that are unfamiliar to you. Please feel free to consult me on such issues if you are in any doubt.”
Without waiting for an answer, Natana turned and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
“Who does she think she is?” snapped Brianna, who’d bagged the bed by the window.
Bill was still looking at the door as if he could follow the slim woman as she descended the stairs. “I think it’s nice of her to offer to help us make sense of the big city. She seems pretty refined.”
“Oh, she’s refined is she?”
The self-preservation circuit in Bill’s mind rescued him just in time. “I just meant it’s useful to have a knowledgeable friend in the city.”
Trolls and Tribulations Page 5