Marcello ignored their frozen faces and heaved himself to his feet. “Guards, I have learned enough for now, you may release me.”
Chapter 9
“Good grief, I didn’t know trolls were red,” Chortley said to his new fixer.
Whazimedies looked at the approaching delegation and chuckled nervously, “The trolls, they are not red, my lord, what you see is their sun protection. Trolls turn to stone in sunlight, as I’m sure you know.”
“I thought that was just a legend,” Chortley responded, amazed, “but then, what are they doing out here, in the sunniest place in the world?” He gestured around the barren, sand-swept landscape as if to prove his point. It wasn’t yet mid-morning and already he was sweating beneath the light shirt he now wore and he knew it would only get hotter.
Whazimedies shrugged. “They are not, how you say, the roundest ball in the sack. But though they are not clever, they are sly enough to make up for it,” he whispered, “be careful what you agree to.”
Chortley nodded. He didn’t take kindly to statements of the bleeding obvious but Whazimedies had been useful. He’d been discovered attempting to steal from their supply cart in Triungulates, or, at least, he’d been found fast asleep having gone burgling in a state of inebriation. Sergeant McGuff had been all for a good flogging or, at least, putting the miscreant on a fizzer (whatever one of those was) but Chortley had thought of a better punishment. He’d been planning to hire a local guide before they set off on the desert road and this reprobate had fallen into his lap.
It had turned out well enough, so far. Whazimedies was knowledgeable and his advice had, so far, proven accurate and wise. He had explained the etiquette for meeting with the local troll chieftain and there they were, half a dozen huge figures lumbering out of the desert towards Chortley and his interpreter.
The largest troll was obviously the leader, as he strode out in front of the others with the sort of arrogance that would make a fortune in the wrestling ring if it could be bottled. The troll looked around nine feet tall with huge arms and legs, no neck and a large head with tiny eyes that spoke of low intelligence and a short fuse. His ears were diamond shaped and they flapped as he loped towards Chortley, who sat on a rock trying to look confident. As the troll got close, Chortley could see that the exposed parts of his arms were covered in what looked like dried red mud that had, in places, fallen away to reveal pink skin beneath broken by what looked like tattoos.
The troll came to a halt in front of Chortley, its leather body armour creaking as it raised an arm to pound its chest in what appeared to be some form of salute.
Chortley stood, gave a small bow, and held out a hand. “I am Captain Chortley Fitzmichael of Fitzmichael County and I am honoured to meet you.”
He looked up into the unmoving face of the troll, who was now flanked by three others, each adopting the same, statue-like, pose.
“And I am Dunker, Chief of the Troll-folk of Deleria.” The voice came, initially, from behind the foremost troll but, as it spoke, a smaller figure emerged from the within the group. No bigger than a large man, the newcomer had a softer face, though the same large ears as his bodyguard, and Chortley recognised an unmistakable intelligence in him. He also had a long, furry, tail that wandered left and right in and out of view as he spoke.
“You’re the chief troll?”
Dunker smiled, revealing clean white teeth with long canines. “You’re the chief human?”
Chortley knew sarcasm when it had the cheek to appear. “As I said, I am Chortley Fitzmichael of Fitz…”
“I heard you, you heard me, we are both the big men here,” interrupted Dunker, “well, not as big as my brothers and sisters.” There was a rumbling sound from the other trolls which might have been laughter.
“A little troll joke,” explained Dunker, “you see, I am small but I am the big man.”
Chortley’s face barely moved. “Indeed, a little joke.”
After a moment’s pause in hostilities, Dunker sat down on the rock opposite Chortley.
“You wish for safe passage through the pass.”
“How did you know?” asked Chortley, taken off his guard.
Dunker gave a serpentine smile. “Because it is what everyone who seeks a meeting with the trolls wants. The pass is ours and, despite this, they wish to violate our lands. Some of them ask us first and those that do, those that listen, turn away and live. Those that do not ask and those that do not listen, die.”
This wasn’t going as Chortley had anticipated. He’d expected the trolls to demand a toll from him, as was standard practice and, indeed, where they’d got their name. He’d been prepared for them to ask for far too much and had considered various negotiating tactics. He was, after all, a Fitzmichael and it surely made sense for a deal to be done. Didn’t it?
“We have an errand in the labyrinth and need to pass the pass,” Chortley said, “I am prepared to pay a reasonable toll.” He directed these final words to the waiting bodyguard but there was not even a hint of a reaction.
“Your crude stereotyping is not helping. We are not all obsessed with extracting payment for crossing bridges. My ancestors migrated south, with all the dangers and inconveniences for our people in a hot climate, to escape such prejudices. Now, I believe our meeting is concluded, you may go.”
Chortley waved the troll back onto his rock. “But there is no other way to the labyrinth, it lies at the end of the pass on the shore of the Dead Lake. We must get there to fulfil our mission.”
“You wish to access the portal,” Dunker said, smiling as Chortley’s jaw fell open, “yes, of course we know of it, that is the other reason we are here. We guard the entrance to the labyrinth in perpetuity and, in that way, we protect the portal.”
“But why? The portal in my land was unguarded.”
Dunker’s smile now became savage. “And, from what I hear, it was through your portal that the faerie army came. Because you and your ancestors failed in their duty to guard it.”
“What duty?” Chortley demanded, beginning to feel he was losing his grip on the conversation.
“Your family are the lords of the land, are they not? Set there by the Varmans?”
Chortley nodded.
“Then they were given this honour on condition that they guard the portal to prevent any incursions from the Darkworld, or beyond” Dunker said, in a voice that reminded Chortley of a tutor he’d had as a child21, “indeed, it is a sign of the weakness of the current regime that your family still has that honour. I wouldn’t take it for granted if I were you.”
This was incredibly puzzling. Chortley had never heard of this obligation and yet Crapplecreek had been built and fortified in a location that only made military sense if the nearby stones did, indeed, present a danger. At some point, it seemed, the obligation had been forgotten, just like the last Faerie War which was remembered by next to no-one. Perhaps there was a connection.
“Thank you,” Chortley said, attempting to make the best of a bad situation, “I will attend to the matter on my return.”
“And the sooner you return, the better.” Dunker sat with his arms crossed and his tail, which seemed to be independently minded, swaying in the hot cross-breeze.
“I will return as soon as my mission is completed; which would be a lot sooner if you’d allow us access to the pass.”
Dunker shook his head. “No, that is not possible. But tell me,” he said, leaning forward in an apparent attempt to converse without the other trolls hearing, “why are you so desperate to reach the portal at the centre of the labyrinth?”
“Because I have a couple of dozen goblins and one of their captains that I want to send back to where they came from.”
“What? Are you insane?” Dunker jumped up from his stone and crossed to where an astonished Chortley sat. “You cannot bring those scum through the pass, I will not allow them to sully the great puzzle. This meeting is at an end. Do not approach our land or you will be destroyed, every last one.”
With a final flourish, Dunker disappeared behind his bodyguards. The largest of them approached the rock Dunker had sat on and, with a single blow from his hand, smashed it into powder. The troll held Chortley’s gaze for a moment before stomping off with the others.
Mother Hemlock was waiting for Chortley when he returned to camp, sweltering on his tired horse. She stepped from the shade of her tent and looked up at him.
“I told you you’d get nothing from the trolls, they’re known for being rock headed,” she said.
Chortley gave a tired wave as if to dismiss the whole episode. “I felt I had to try,” he said, “matters would, after all, be much more straightforward if they’d only let us pass.”
“At least you’ve now met them and you knows what we’re dealin’ with,” Mother Hemlock said, “and, as a whole, I prefer interestin’ to straightforward. Just as well you brought us along, ain’t it?”
“That remains to be seen,” Chortley said before nudging his horse into a slow walk. He wanted nothing more, right now, than to plunge his face into cold water and sleep for an hour or two.
Mother Hemlock watched him go. “Oh, you’ll see my lad. You’ll see.”
#
The Dwarf city of Tinceltown was not entirely what Gramma had expected from its name. She’d never visited an underground city before and, had she thought about it, she’d probably have imagined a dark, claustrophobic, world full of winding corridors and guttering torches. As it happened, however, Gramma didn’t possess an imagination and she’d expected a city called Tinceltown to have, at the very least, silvery garlands hanging from the lamp-posts but, as Skiver patiently explained, the tin in the name related to the metal, on which the city’s fortunes had been built, not some vapid celebration of a religious feast. That would be silly.
Tinceltown, then, was neither a rabbit warren nor a sparkling fairytale city. It was, in fact, a completely ordinary walled town that sat in a huge cavern. It was a true wonder, and Gramma listened almost intently as Skiver described the gargantuan task his ancestors had undertaken to carve out the hollow space before building the town. Although, under the old woman’s insistent and insightful questioning, Skiver admitted that most of the actual work had been done by the little folk with the dwarfs providing the direction. It did occur to Gramma that their solution to the problem of creating a city underground was not necessarily the most efficient but, since they didn’t have to do the work themselves, it hardly mattered. To them, at least.
“We are here,” Skiver said, grandly, as they stopped in front of a grand building in the town centre. “This is the mayor’s office, where you will be staying. You, and your dog.”
Badger looked up at Skiver, and the dwarf scowled back. Skiver knew there was something odd about Gramma’s dog and Badger knew he was correct but wasn’t about to make the pompous oaf’s life any easier by providing clues or, indeed, painting a picture. Which would, in itself, be a clue.
“Well, it looks alright,” Gramma said. She made a point of not being impressed when she knew she was expected to be. It was good for a show-off’s character, if not for their blood pressure. As it happened, the building was well made and designed to exude an air of wealth and technical skill. She wondered if any dwarf had actually had a hand in building it.
Skiver started climbing the steps. “We call it the Big House,” he said, “it was built by the first mayor, shortly after the city was founded.” The dwarf pointed to a brass plate on which were engraved the words:
This residence was designed by Construction Management Solutions in the first year of the city to the glory of our first mayor, Indolence the Great.
Another line had been added beneath, in much smaller letters:
And built by the labour of the Free Folk.
Gramma squinted at the bottom line and looked up at the dwarf.
“Bloody political correctness,” he muttered, “that line was added by our current mayor who is, as you will discover, unconventional. And much good it has done us.”
At the top of the steps, Skiver pulled on the chain and the great oak door swung open.
“I shall leave you here,” he said, beckoning Gramma and, by implication, Badger, to enter, “your audience is a private one.”
Gramma smiled. “Thanks, cock,” she said, and stepped inside, turning back to wave at the annoyed dwarf as he huffed and flounced out of view.
A voice echoed from inside. “You must be Mistress Tickle, I’ve heard so much about you from Skiver, though I don’t believe a word of it! Ha ha.”
Gramma pulled her face into what she hoped was a polite smile. “The only people who call me Mistress are those who’ve crossed me, and they don’t do it for long,” she said, “so, unless you’re one of them, I’m Gramma and I’m pleased to meet you. Oh, and did I ‘ear the whistle of a keckle, madam mayor?”
“Oh, call me Libby,” said the mayor, her multicoloured chain of office tinkling as she gestured into the room.
Gramma followed, Badger at her heels. The room was the very embodiment of the word comfort. Heavily cushioned sofas lined every oak-panelled wall and, on a small table in front of a sofa, illuminated by gas lamps set into the wall, was an ornate tea pot, two cups, a plate of what looked like biscuits, and a bowl of sugar cubes.
The old woman took a seat and a long sniff of the air. “Ee, that brew smells lovely,” she said, “but Libby’s an odd name for a dwarf, if you don’t mind me saying.”
The mayor smiled. “Oh, it isn’t the name my parents gave me, that’s for sure,” she said, “but I don’t believe in the old tradition of living down to your name. I wanted something different, so I changed mine to Liberty.”
“Well, it’s certainly an improvement on some I’ve heard recently. Last week, I had a Skiver, a Shirker and a Lopher in my ‘ouse and that’s not ‘appened since I ‘ad that extension built out the back. Mind you, them builders came from some other country so I gave them a bit more leeway than I would a local lad what thought he could take the roger with me.”
“Oh, how much leeway did you give them?”
“About five minutes,” Gramma said, her eyes gleaming, “but they did a good enough job once I’d set them right, and in decent time too. I reckon it was the best day’s work they’d ever done, and the most honest.”
If, by honest, you mean whilst being watched by a very animate, but impatient, oak tree, thought Badger.
“I wish I had that much power to change things,” the mayor said, sadly, “but I sometimes think the other alderdwarfs voted me into this office to keep an eye on me and prevent me from actually achieving anything.”
Libby poured them both a drink and then offered Gramma a biscuit. “They’re called Hobnails,” she said, “and they’re pretty hard, I’m afraid. We have to stick to some traditions in the mayoral office.”
Gramma felt no give when she bit down on the biscuit so she popped her teeth onto her lap, dunked the hobnail into her tea and sucked.
“Sho, your job ish jusht shambolic,” she said between sucks.
“Symbolic, I think you mean.”
The old woman shrugged, “Shute yourshelf.”
Mercifully, it took only a few more seconds of professional level slurping to reduce the biscuit to a sliver which Gramma tossed to Badger. The dog gave the morsel the disdain it deserved and then, giving in to his essential nature, ate it anyway.
Libby sat back and gestured around the room. “Well, you’re probably right. I have this lovely house to live in, and I meet with visiting dignitaries and the heads of the various guilds but I’m not allowed to exercise any real power. In fact, I think some of the city councillors blame me for the current situation with the little folk.”
“Why’s that? Skiver said you were good to ‘em, had them added to the brass plate outside.”
“Oh that was only a token gesture, I’m afraid, but my political opponents think it’s given some of the little folk ideas,” Libby said, sadly.
“What, like
expecting to be treated with a lickle respect and apprecuation?”
Libby gave a grim smile. “Something like that. My enemies believe it’s made them get too big for their newts. But that’s a load of old boulders, if you’ll excuse my language, because the real trouble only started in the past couple of months.”
“What sort of trouble were it?” asked Gramma as she slurped down the last of her tea and put her cup on its saucer where it sat expectantly.
“Well, there was an attack on a group of dwarfs who want to go back to the old ways.”
Gramma’s forehead creased as she thought. “Pale-faces?”
“Paleos,” Libby corrected, “they were attacked by a band of kobolds and two were killed. The others escaped and since then there have been many more incidents: the mines are now closed to us. The only way into the city is the main tunnel you came down. If they take that, we’ll be cut off.”
“Nice of you to invite me, then,” Gramma said, “I shan’t be amused if I end up stuck down here with you lot. But I don’t understand what they want, these kobolds and the others.”
Libby poured another richly brown cup of tea. “We have a few gnome families working with us but kobolds make up most of the work force and all the trouble,” she said, “but as for what they want, frankly we’re not entirely sure although I suspect they want everything we’ve got. Mind you, you could ask them yourself.”
“What?” Gramma said, nearly choking on her tea.
“Oh, didn’t Skiver tell you?” Libby said, innocently, “we’ve got a suspect here in our lock-up. He’s been unwilling to cooperate, and we rather hoped you’d be able to, ah, persuade him.”
Chapter 10
“You utter bastard,” snarled Brianna as they were bundled out of the cell by two guards carrying daggers.
Marcello was, by now, walking briskly down the corridor towards the winding staircase that ran down the centre of the tower. “I am sorry, my dear,” he said, without turning round, “but it was necessary for me to discover how much you knew about these matters and pretending to be a prisoner was the simplest way to achieve this.”
Trolls and Tribulations Page 8