Mother Hemlock nodded. “And that’s what you’re askin’ them to do, ain’t it?”
“Yes,” Chortley said, his shoulders sagging, “but I have no idea how to get through the pass. I was hoping you ladies might be able to aid us.”
“Oh we’ll help, alright,” Mother Hemlock replied, a wicked grin spreading across her face. “Now, go hand out some bananas.”
#
Bill had spent most of the first day following their escape from Varma looking over his shoulder expecting, at any moment, to see, or hear, signs of pursuit. They’d found and taken the two horses left by Simel but, given that Bill was a useless rider (at least, that was his excuse), they were sharing one, with the other trotting behind, led by the piece of rope it had been tied up with.
To begin with, they’d galloped down the Via Minisculis as if the very Hounds of Halitosis were breathing down their necks but, after a while, they’d decided they were more conspicuous that way and were now content with a leisurely canter with regular stops to swap horses.
By noon, they were confident enough to stop for something to eat.
“Not bad, we’ve covered 50 miles,” Bill said, pointing to the milestone. He dismounted using his habitual “falling off in a more or less controlled fashion” method and pulled the pack from the horse’s saddle as Brianna landed like a particularly nimble feline beside him.
Bill rummaged around and emerged with a banana and strip of turkey jerky for each of them, then sat with his back to the milestone and looked around, unfolding the map on his knees. They’d been heading directly east from the city and had passed the junction that led back to Fitzmichael County, so this countryside was new to him. Mind you, he didn’t need the map to tell him that they were riding through the region known as the Empire’s Granary. Here, the Via Fundum McDonaldus Anus26 ran between field after field of cultivated land although, at this time of the year, most fields were barren with just the odd crop of brassicas growing in defiance of the elements and consumer preference.
There was little to hear but the steady trickling of a stream at the bottom of the embankment which seemed to be following the line of the road at this point.
“So, that’s fifty miles done but we can’t travel at that pace forever, the horses are knackered already,” he said, trying to sound like the seasoned and knowledgeable adventurer he was not.
Brianna finished chewing on her turkey jerky. “I’d agree with you,” she said, against all previous evidence, “if it weren’t for the fact that we’re in a race with the hobgoblin. We need to get to the laboratory before he does.”
“The servant might not know about the laboratory.”
“True, but Marcello was worried enough to stage our escape at great risk to himself,” Brianna responded, “and, in general, it’s best to assume the worst. That way you can be pleasantly surprised every once in a while.”
Bill chewed on his gristle and looked down at the map. “Well, it looks like Cake Pass is 150 miles or so from here, although I’m not sure how we’ll find the laboratory when we get there.”
“We’ll worry about that when we arrive,” Brianna said, “if the past is any guide, we won’t need to go looking for trouble, it’ll find us.”
Finishing his jerky, Bill wiped crumbs and bits of preserved poultry from his front and relaxed against the milestone. It was hard to feel panicked sitting here, on a mild winter’s day in the bountiful heart of the empire. It wasn’t hard to feel sore, however, as his arse hadn’t yet developed the leathery consistency needed for comfortable long distance riding. He wondered what sort of state Brianna’s was in, and then quickly changed his train of thought.
Getting up carefully, he rolled the map up and packed it back into the bag. He took the canteens and refilled them at the stream before attaching them to the saddle. Bill then watched Brianna do it properly before, in one motion, she mounted the horse and held a hand down to him.
Bill transferred the tether from the horse they’d been riding before to the other beast and handed it up. He then followed Brianna with considerably less aplomb before wrapping his arms around her waist and smiling as she loosened up ever so slightly. There were some perks to this adventure after all.
Night had fallen on Varma as the drains emptied humanoid shapes onto the streets. Rasha’s head appeared at cobble-level as he scanned the square in front of the basilica. He hoped, that, across the city, the other groups were, even now, carrying out their instructions.
Since he’d seen Bill and Brianna, his heart hadn’t really been in his mission in the same way it had before. It had all seemed so simple when he’d signed up to be an undergrounder, back when he’d hardly been out of the egg. They’d said that his people were starving, which was true, that the Brightworld held all the riches needed to feed his people, also true, and that the Brightworlders were warmongering beasts who sought to conquer and enslave. In many ways, his time in the Varman underground had confirmed this last claim: certainly the people down here were, in a way, enslaved by their environment. But there were humans among them, and dwarfs and other little races, as well as the goblin folk he was sent to set free - the ones that called themselves kobolds.
His mission, long planned but vague, was to cause as much chaos as possible so that the armies of the Brightworld couldn’t unite while the Faerie King was consolidating power in the north. But the Darkworlders knew little about the politics or, even, the geography of the Brightworld so their agents were sent with a clear objective but no direct orders. And so it was that Rasha, who had expected to spend his time stirring up trouble in the dwarf mines of the Butterlins had, in fact, seized the opportunity that presented itself when Brianna captured him to, ultimately, find himself at the heart of the greatest northern empire.
But he’d changed on the journey. Bill and Brianna, despite both being suspicious of him at first, had proven to be good friends. Rasha had felt deep shame when he’d looked up at the balcony to see her standing there, a look of disbelief on her face. He was glad he’d saved them, glad they’d not heard the detail of his plans; he only hoped they had escaped from the city before tonight.
Rasha jumped onto the cobbles and signalled to the next conspirator to emerge. His squad were all kobolds, more to make communication easier than anything else. It was true that the goblin-folk had proven the easiest to persuade, but he’d quickly found allies amongst the gnomes, knockers and even, in the end, he’d recruited many humans to the cause. The races didn’t much like each other but they were united, as undergrounders, in their hatred of those who lived on the surface, most of whom, they imagined, never gave a thought to what was happening beneath their feet.
And so here he was, in the basilica square, at the head of a squad of kobolds that, if not exactly a trained band of assassins, was, at least, a bunch of little folk with big grudges and sharp knives.
“Quickly,” he hissed in gobby27, “we has little time.”
The other dozen or so small, dark shapes hauled themselves, grumbling, to the surface and gathered around Rasha, glancing nervously at the wide open space of the square.
“I does not like this, I does not like this at all,” said a particularly glum looking specimen.
Rasha gripped the arm of the nervous kobold. “You will get used to it, Lumpy,” he said, “look at me, I growed up in the deepest caverns and I walked all the way to Varma, on the open roads.”
The kobold named Lumpy continued to look around, as if seeking the reassurance of walls and ceilings. “Well, you is from up north. It’s grim up there, or so they say, and perhaps you can handle the big spaces but Lumpy cannot. I is goin’ back.”
Tightening his grip on Lumpy, Rasha hissed in his ear so that the others couldn’t hear. “No, you is not. We has a mission and we will see it through. Preferably without nasty accidents.”
The nervous kobold looked into Rasha’s eyes, shivered, and nodded. “Lumpy will try.”
“Good, follow me!”
Rasha squeezed h
imself against the base of the lion in the corner where he’d last seen Bill and Brianna, before they’d found out what he was. He choked his shame down and scampered, claws almost scraping the ground, along the steps that led up to the basilica then, when he’d reached the far corner, he began climbing. Flitting from colonnade to colonnade, Rasha and his squad made their way up the steps to the top.
Yes, they’d come the right way. Here was the door Rasha had spied, the door that led to the temple and, from there, to the governor’s apartments above the square. The emperor was out of reach, relaxing in his play gardens on the outskirts of Varma, but the head of the city council lived right here and the last thing he’d be expecting was a midnight attack by a group of desperate downbelowers.
Rasha breathed deeply, grabbed the door, and pulled it open.
Chapter 13
Skiver ran into the Mayor’s ornate lounge. “They are coming, we are trapped!”
Libby looked up at him, cup of tea poised between saucer and lip. Gramma, sitting opposite her, simply necked her brew and settled back to watch the show.
“I presume General Tardiness has ordered the guard to secure the entrances to the city?” Libby said, calmly.
Skiver nodded. “He has, madam mayor, but, but…”
“Spit it out lad,” Gramma interrupted.
“...there have been many desertions and there are reports that at least half of the guard have escaped to the surface and others have joined the rebellion.”
Libby turned to Gramma. “What do you suggest I do?”
“Well, I’d start by lettin’ that lad out what you’ve got in the cells.”
“WHAT?” Skiver bellowed. “The city is about to fall; we’re likely to be chucked down the nearest chasm and all you can think about is the welfare of one prisoner.”
Gramma smiled dangerously. “There’s never a chasm to hand when you really need one, is there cock?” she said. “Now, it seems to me this whole trouble is because of you lot treatin’ others badly. And that includes the lad in the cells - you know and I know he’s been wronged. We can start sortin’ this bloody mess out by dealing with one small injustice before we handle the huge one.”
Skiver looked from Gramma to Libby and back again before stomping off with a cry of “ridiculous” once he was certain he was out of range.
“Right,” Gramma said, “you’d better explain what’s goin’ on, and make it quick - we ‘ave a mob to deal with.”
Libby was a perfect picture of confusion. “I don’t know what you mean, Gramma.”
Gramma scowled as the temperature in the room dropped several degrees. “I’m no fool and neither are you. You’ve got me down ‘ere for something other than having a brew and a biscuit together. Now, come clean or there’ll be ‘ells’ bells to pay.”
“You’re right,” Libby sighed, putting down her cup and looking at Gramma nervously, “I couldn’t see any other way, I needed back-up, you see, to make the necessary changes.”
“Get to the point, we’ve very lickle time.”
“It’s the dwarf council - when all these problems with the little folk started, I told the council we should negotiate; try to find some compromise that would avoid the need for violence. Of course, they accused me of… what was it now?” she said, pausing to think, “oh yes, progressing my pacifist, liberal, agenda of equality for all. They almost accused me of being in league with the revolters but couldn’t quite bring themselves to suggest I was both a pacifist and an insurgent in the same breath.”
Gramma took another slurp of tea, in the hope of injecting a little more caffeine into the proceedings. “Right, I thought it were summat like that. So you brought me in to shake things up?”
Libby nodded. “Yes, I thought you’d be angry about the treatment of poor Lackadaisical, something I couldn’t stop as it was a ‘military matter’, you see. I thought you’d get angry and bash a few heads together in the city council, get them to agree to talks with the revolters.”
“Well, you’re a nice lass, but you’ve got about as much talent for political argy-bargy as my dog there,” she said, pointing at Badger who had lain, unseen, on a cushion in the corner of the room for the best part of two days.
The dog raised his head sleepily, thought about being offended by Gramma’s remark, and then found himself overwhelmed by the feeling that, unless he made his way outside very quickly, the mayor’s nice carpet would soon be a little wetter, and smellier, than it was right now.
Badger leapt leakily off his cushion and half ran, half skidded, to the door where he sat, desperately scratching.
“That’s right, lad,” said Gramma, “it’s time for action. Let’s go and see what these revolting little people ‘ave to say for themselves.”
#
Chortley watched from horseback as the soldiers of Crapplecreek trudged towards the ever closer mountains. The march wasn’t a long one, but the heat had the effect of multiplying its difficulty by around gas mark ten, particularly since most of the soldiers had boots that were disassociating themselves rapidly as the stony miles passed.
They’d set off in the late afternoon of the previous day, sticking to the modest shade of the Billbertom Ridge that led, more or less, in the direction of Cake Pass and its army of stone trolls. Chortley’s plan had been to get the bulk of the journey behind them during the evening and night before a short nap in the early hours and off again before sunrise. He aimed to be at the pass for noon; not because he thought that fighting in the hottest part of the day was a good idea but rather because the old witch had been quite particular about it.
Chortley wasn’t happy though. Even in winter, this part of the world remained hot and arid, the sun rising to be almost directly above them so that they sought shelter under tents, in caves or, when desperate, in holes. Not even the locals ventured out around noon and Whazimedies, his local fixer and wide-boy, had argued strongly that they should ignore the ‘daft old woman’s’ advice and attack in the late afternoon. Chortley had thought the expression “tearing a new arse hole” was a figure of speech but Whazimedies seemed extremely uncomfortable riding his camel at the head of the column.
Sweat rolled down his filthy, stinky, shirt as they neared the gap in the mountains. On either side, the peaks rolled away almost to the horizon and Chortley knew that, even if they went around them, they’d end up on the shores of The Dead Lake, an inland sea so rich in salt that it was rumoured you could walk on the water surface. In truth, he knew (being a collector of gruesome facts), that this was nonsense and those that had tried had found themselves sucked beneath the surface by a caustic glue that was more like wallpaper paste than water.
No, this was the only way, and that meant going through the stone trolls, somehow. And to make his day perfect, he spotted a large figure lumbering towards them, with the smaller form of Dunker trotting along beside. Chortley nudged his horse into an exhausted canter and brought it to a halt far enough from the front of the column that he’d be able to talk with the trolls without being overheard.
Chortley dismounted and stood in the shade of his horse as Dunker approached. The troll seemed different, somehow, and it took Chortley some moments to work out that he was wearing a new coat of paint, the crumbly red of the other day replaced with a slick scarlet that looked as though it had barely had time to dry.
“Are you some sort of idiot?” Dunker screamed as he achieved escape velocity from his escort and stomped to a position in front of Chortley.
“Aren’t we a sour troll,” Chortley responded. The heat and his exhaustion had made him extremely cranky - his restraint, subservient at the best of times, currently crawling across the mental dunes following the mirage of his sanity.
Dunker opened his mouth to reply, but then turned to look up at his bodyguard who seemed to shimmer in the heat. Chortley could have sworn he saw a glacial shake of the head and, when Dunker turned back, he was wearing a smile that would have shamed a carnival showman.
“Why are you here
?” he asked, the red coating around his mouth starting to crack under the strain.
“As I told you, we must go through the pass to complete our mission.”
Dunker looked him up and down as if trying to work out whether this idiot from the north had lost his mind. He certainly looked like a candidate for the troll cub treatment28 - torn clothes, a pale demeanour hidden beneath ugly red burns and an apparent desire to commit mass suicide.
“I have told you, that is impossible,” Dunker said, his armour creaking as he crossed his arms.
Chortley sighed, as if in regret. “It is my duty to inform you that I have two witches in my company who are pretty confident they can clear a path for us through the pass. I tell you this,” he continued, “so you may retreat with dignity before we advance.”
Again, there was a moment’s silence from Dunker as he digested this. Then he laughed so loud that Chortley could see his men reacting to it.
“So come,” shouted Dunker, “come and attempt to pass the pass. Bring your witches; we like a little tougher meat for a change. Bring your men and women, I look forward to getting to know them intimately.”
The little troll swung round, leaving a tiny cloud of dust as his armour chafed the paint from the back of his neck, and he joined his hulking bodyguard. He turned back to Chortley and flashed a grin as he strolled away.
Chortley hauled himself onto his horse and headed back to the nervous lines of the Crapplecreekers. He looked towards the back and saw Velicity looking dustily beautiful. Next to her stood Mother Hemlock, her face wearing a look of utter confidence. Just for a moment, Chortley wondered what that expression hid inside. Was she really so very certain she could pull off whatever her plan was? And if it was so cunning why not confide in him?
It was no good. The time for doubt was long past. The Crapplecreekers would make the attempt, come what may. And perhaps it would be worth a song if any one of them made it through alive to tell the tale.
Trolls and Tribulations Page 11