#
Rasha crept through the apartments of the governor, scampering from shadow to shadow and wincing each time one of his less agile squad members banged into something or, as in one case, slipped and fell. He’d expected to be discovered at any moment but, apparently, the Varmans didn’t anticipate trouble at the heart of their empire; a stupid attitude since that was generally the best place for it.
Lumpy nudged him and pointed ahead. They were pressed up against the back of a sofa in what looked like some sort of lounge. Rasha could see bottles containing liquids of many colours on a little table nearby but Lumpy was pointing beyond it. The kobold then gestured at his large, flappy, ears. “Lumpy hears voices, boss.”
Rasha listened, peering out from behind the sofa and rotating his head back and forth to get the best reception. Yes, he could hear it now; the low drone of men talking. Only two or three, it seemed, but the sound was getting louder and he could now distinctly hear footsteps from behind the door in the room’s corner.
Rasha darted back behind the sofa as the door swung open. He caught a glimpse of maroon slippers and the voices suddenly became clear.
“And they’ve all been apprehended?”
Legs appeared beside the drinks table, and Rasha could see hands grasping a bottle and pouring a drink.
“Indeed, governor,” the figure by the table answered, his voice deep and confident, “the intelligence we were given was specific and accurate.”
The sofa groaned as someone sat on it. “Any damage to property?”
“Minor, and none of it state owned or, indeed, the property of anyone significant,” said the voice from across the room.
“Excellent,” the first voice said again, and then, almost as if it were an afterthought, “any casualties?”
“Some minor injuries but, again, no-one significant. A number of the insurgents were wounded and several killed; the others are being rounded up for containment.”
Rasha’s gut filled with ice and he felt Lumpy moving slightly away from him, as if readying himself to run for it.
“It seems congratulations are in order,” the first voice said.
“Thank you, lord governor,” said a third voice, “all has gone as predicted and now, I think, it is time to conclude matters. You may reveal yourself, Rasha.”
The goblin froze, his mind overwhelmed with confusion. Did he really just hear his name?
“Or perhaps it would be more apt for our agent to show himself first. Constable?” the third voice continued.
Rasha watched, paralysed with shock and fear, as Lumpy stood up and saluted. “Private Lumpy Lumpkin, if you please, sir!”
Lumpy looked down and Rasha saw that the old, nervous, kobold had gone. He’d been fooled all along. Lumpy grabbed Rasha by the shoulder and hoisted him to his feet.
“There you are,” said the owner of the third voice, a man of indeterminate age with dark brown skin and a large grin, “thank you for joining us. My name is Marco Marcello, welcome to Varma.”
#
Bently had approached the mountain ridge from the north, as instructed by his master, having left the Wong Way many days ago. In the distance, to his right, he could see a dust cloud that might have been entirely natural, or it might have been evidence of people on the move, a lot of people. In contrast, there was no sign of another living soul on the hardly visible goat herder’s track he was following. The path was mainly of sand but, along its centre, ran a series of stepping stones made of once flat slabs that had become curved through centuries of use. Bently doubted that the path had seen much traffic in recent years, though - there was no sign of the usual litter and other detritus he’d seen along the main road. According to his master, stone trolls lived in the mountains and that would be enough to put most goat-herders off.
Bently struggled on. His throat and mouth felt so dry and he could barely remember what it was like to drink anything. He’d picked up a couple of discarded bottles on his journey south and had used them to store his water supply but it had been days since he’d last been able to fill them and both now lay, cast off again, for some other traveller to find, one day.
The mountains seemed so far away, Bently hardly dared to believe he could reach them. A walking stick would be useful right about now, but the staff remained strapped across his back, out of harm’s way. If he touched it, his master would appear in his mind and Bently needed every ounce of his strength to plod slowly towards the hidden door in the hills ahead. The instructions had been very specific but Bently doubted whether he’d have the mental faculties to find it even if he arrived at the foot of the mountain range with the energy to climb.
The sun had climbed to a January noon when he finally reached the outlying rocks although he’d never seen a winter like this. Bently struggled on until the rocks gave way to the foot of the mountains and the terrain began to gently rise. He had nothing left and collapsed silently into the shade between two boulders. He lay there, on his front, and, with the last of his energy, reached up and gripped the staff.
Humunculus was becoming rather tired of being followed around. He preferred his followers to be subservient and afraid of him but his present company was made up of Negstimeaboi, Ambler and, most annoyingly, Aligvok the wizard.
It felt as though years had passed in the limbo within the staff and yet, at the same time, it seemed like just moments since he’d arrived. As time had dragged on, or not, Humunculus had grown bored with wandering around Aligvok’s ever changing castle, palace, laboratory or country home and had announced he intended to leave and find somewhere to live while he waited for Bently to get back in touch. But the blighters had come with him and there was no way in this unreality to shake them off. Humunculus believed that Ambler and the she-warrior probably had nothing better to do and considered him the best entertainment they’d had in centuries, or minutes, but Aligvok’s motives were rather more bothersome. It was obvious to Humunculus, that the wizard wanted to be sure he’d be there when Bently next grasped the staff. Humunculus felt as though he was being supervised like a crown prince whose value was in his position, but who couldn’t be allowed to act on his own initiative. Used as he was to complete command and the total obedience of all those around him, this sat poorly with Humunculus and so he sulked.
He’d created a passable facsimile of his palace chambers although it was a little rough here and there. In the real world, evolution had seen to it that his servants were those whose attention to detail made up for his lack of interest in such matters. Here in the staff, however, this meant that whole swathes of the palace couldn’t be recreated - essentially anything below knee level didn’t exist in his memory and so he was forced to use his imagination.
Humunculus lay on a long mattress made of what appeared to be an inflatable bear skin and hummed a bored tune. The mattress was the only comfortable piece of furniture in the room, the other pieces having been deliberately imagined so that they would discourage his companions from spending time in them. Sadly, Ambler seemed happy enough to sit cross-legged with his back against a wall and, therefore, Negstimeaboi was currently leaning hairy-legged against the same wall, mumbling what must have been a favourite tune in her childhood.
Nine months of waiting, hoping it’s a lad
Out pops a daughter, made us very sad
Strong arms to pull the plough that would be a joy
Now we pray to the eagle gods, next time a boy
Now that he came to think about it, Humunculus wondered whether perhaps this song wasn’t exactly a favourite for the she-warrior. Luckily, he didn’t have a heart, so it concerned him for less than a moment before he fell back to singing a repetitive song whose only aim was to empty the room.
And then he felt the connection. “Bently?” he said, sitting up and almost falling off the inflatable bed. There was no response except the rushing of feet from the hallway and Aligvok’s customary cough as he hovered over Humunculus’s shoulder.
“Bently?” he said a
gain, “Bently!”
Humunculus picked himself up off the floor and paced up and down. “I don’t understand. He must have hold of the staff, why doesn’t he answer me?”
“I suspect he is unconscious. The journey is difficult and has many perils,” Aligvok said, “not the least of which is the heat and lack of water.”
“What do I do?”
Aligvok smiled. “You may not be able to communicate with his waking mind, but you can haunt his dreams.”
Chapter 14
Chortley led his men and women into the pass. The prisoners made up the middle portion sandwiched between the main body of the Crapplecreekers at the front, and a smaller group of guards, including the members of the Cracked Squad, who made up the rear. Chortley had told them to keep away from the action as much as possible since they’d be pretty useless anyway (except for Thun) and because he felt they stood little enough chance in the labyrinth with six, still less if they lost any. That was assuming they’d make it to the maze, and he had no idea how that could happen.
He’d seen what these women were capable of and it was impressive enough, but he couldn’t imagine how they could possibly defeat an army of stone trolls. The older woman with the sharp face who’d been so patronising to him when he’d asked her advice - he’d seen her cause a river to rise up and sweep dozens away at a time. And when that river was the Crapple, you were getting an extra payload of filth that only added potency to the weapon. As for her gorgeous sister-witch, she could trap wind and let it go to create powerful mini-tornados that would cause havoc amongst tightly grouped soldiers. But here, in the dry, breathless, desert there was neither water nor wind. To make matters worse, they were up against stone trolls, one of whom would be enough to occupy a platoon of humanoid soldiers and, here, they had a whole tribe to deal with.
We’re going to die, thought Chortley, after all the toil and suffering we’ve endured to get here, we’re going to die. But we’ll do it as heroes: even if there’s no-one left to write the tale, the universe would know that he had not died a coward.
On the other hand. Chortley’s eyes focused on the pass ahead and he stifled a scream as he realised that the row of boulders blocking the way ahead weren’t boulders at all.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” Dunker shouted from a rock overlooking the valley floor.
The boulders unfolded smoothly, arms appearing with stone weapons in their hands. As one, they stood on elephantine legs and roared. Chortley felt like a young child pointlessly venting its fury to its utter humiliation. This wasn’t a contest, it was a troll buffet, and he was the hors d’oeuvre.
Someone tugged at his leg and he looked down to see Mother Hemlock’s sweat-drenched face. “Get off your horse, lad, we needs to talk.”
“There’s not much to talk about,” Chortley said as he practically fell off his horse and slumped beside Mother Hemlock.
“Oh, stop you’re sulkin’, there’s work to be done ‘ere and little enough time,” the witch said, before gesturing back the way they’d come, “they’ve sealed up the pass so I reckon just about the whole of the clan is out here.”
Chortley nodded, “I expected as much, but then it was your idea to simply plunge into the pass and wait for them to surround us.” If sarcasm were a weapon, Chortley was ready to go thermonuclear right about now.
“It was. Now, in the interests of good form, you needs to give them one final chance to clear out of the way before it’s too late.”
“Are you insane?” Chortley asked, caught between fury and hysteria. “You seriously expect me to threaten a hundred tons of walking rock?”
“Not threaten, warn. And you’ve only got a few minutes, so you needs to get on with it.”
Chortley spread his arms in disbelief. “You really are mad! Well, I’m not being your puppet any longer, I’ve followed you because you said you could get us through the pass but perhaps the implication that we should be in one piece when we arrived at the labyrinth wasn’t quite communicated. I mean, what sort of idiot follows an old woman into the desert then, despite all the warnings and every military instinct he possesses, leads his men into an obvious trap? And then, AND THEN, actually warns the trolls that unless they’re good geological beings29 and retreat despite their overwhelming tactical advantage, they’ll regret it. What sort of idiot? Oh, this sort of idiot! I mean what the blood…”
“Calm down, lad, the last thing your soldiers need to see is their leader losin’ his facilities.”
“No!” Chortley screamed, his face red as the trolls’ sun cream. “The last thing they need to see is their way blocked by a hundred bloody hulking huge great stone trolls. Oh and guess what? That’s EXACTLY what’s happened!”
“There now, Lord Fitzmichael.”
Chortley felt an arm around his shoulders and drew in a breathful of spring that cut through the incandescent haze of his fury. He turned to see Velicity smiling at him.
“You wait here with me, my lord,” she said, as his anger drained away, “and Mother Hemlock can go threaten the trolls. She got us into this, um, situation and, after all, abusing people is a speciality of hers.”
Velicity withstood a glare from Jessie Hemlock that would have knocked an eagle out of the sky and nodded towards the rocks where the trolls were slowly roasting.
“Right, you lot,” Mother Hemlock shouted, “you has one final chance to get out of our way. Move aside or face the consequences.”
From up to her right, the voice of Dunker echoed into the pass. “Consequences? Oh, are you going to wait for the wind to erode us? Or, perhaps, you’ll chip away at us with your feeble weapons in the hope we’ll crack. Now, if you surrender, I might accept terms.”
“Not interested. You’ve had your final warning so no-one can accuse me of being unfair or failing to give people a chance to do the right thing.”
Velicity snorted and was subjected to another glare which she simply ignored as she continued to comfort a quickly rallying Chortley.
As Mother Hemlock turned back to Velicity, the valley filled with a deep rumbling which might have been the troll equivalent of laughter. The troll army stepped forward to a sound that was like a hundred rock-falls, raising their weapons.
The men and women of Crapplecreek stepped back with only the hardy few having the courage to hold up their spears in response. From behind, where the trolls were blocking the valley entrance, came a roar followed by the panicked shouts of a rearguard about to break and run. Chortley broke from Velicity’s fragrant embrace, his mind razor sharp again, his sword flashing in the noontime sun.
“To me, Crapplecreekers!” he roared. “To me!”, and he ran at the nearest troll who was bearing down on one of the few in the front rank to hold his ground.
Chortley swung at the troll’s arm. His sword caught it a glancing blow, and the vibration was so painful he nearly dropped it. But the troll reeled back, blue blood running down its arm, before gathering itself and, screaming with anger, swinging its club at Chortley’s head.
“Right,” Mother Hemlock said, having taken up a position in the centre of the valley on a small rise that gave her a view of the rout, “I reckon around five minutes if your magic is as powerful as your mother’s was.”
Velicity, balancing gracefully next to her scowled. “We’ll see, and then we’d better hope your magic is up to snuff.”
Mother Hemlock looked over Velicity’s shoulder and smiled. “Well, we’re about to find out, looks like we’re ahead of schedule” she said as, in a matter of moments, the sky darkened and huge, dusty, raindrops began to fall.
#
Bently was having a bad dream. As with all his nightmares, it featured his master, only this time, rather than some disjointed amalgam of all the misdemeanours Bently imagined he made, Humunculus seemed to be quite clearly telling him to do something.
Wake up Bently.
Yes, that was it. But it was so comfortable here, so warm. All he wanted to do was to lie here until…until what? U
ntil forever? That wouldn’t be so bad if it was more of this. Lying here warm. Comfortable.
Wake up Bently!
No, it was his dream, and he was the master here. Oh, but who was he kidding? He tried to close his internal ears to the voice that was echoing around his mind. He just wanted to lie here, warm and comfortable. Never to have to toil again, never to have to fear his master’s wrath. Never to…
BENTLY! WAKE UP YOU IDIOT!!!
Bently woke up. He was blind! No, his eyes were glued shut, so he forced them open. He was still blind! No, he was lying, face down, in the dark shade between two rocks where he’d fallen. He turned over and saw the sky.
“I cannot,” he said.
“You’re awake!” echoed his master’s thought. “Oh best and most faithful of servants, you’re awake!”
“I cannot go further.”
“What?”
Bently’s arms fell onto his chest, so comfortable. And his eyes began to close again.
“I am too tire…”
“WAKE UP BENTLY OR I WILL HAUNT YOUR DREAMS FOR EVER!”
It was too much to bear. He felt as though he’d swallowed a shovelful of sand and it was now weighing him down. He couldn’t have spoken if he’d wanted to. He barely had the energy to think.
“Master, I am finished, I have nothing left. I am dying.”
“But, my dear servant, you are so near to your goal. You can rest when you get there. Just a few paces more,” thought Humunculus, panic setting in, “come now, one last effort.”
There was no response as Bently lay there beneath the sky his breath shallow and his eyes closed.
“Bently!” Humunculus cried. He turned to Aligvok, who was looking even more pale than usual, “I cannot wake him, I cannot wake him! We are trapped in this damn place forever, no-one will ever find the staff here.”
Aligvok shook his head. “I can’t believe it. I thought your arrival was destiny speaking, but I have been a fool. There is no such thing as fate, I’ve always known this. But when you appeared, it seemed the key to my escape had finally arrived.”
Trolls and Tribulations Page 12