Plob Fights Back

by Craig Zerf

  The two of them decided to have another look at the hairiest woman in the world again, even though it was patently a badly shaved bear, because it wasn’t something that you got to see every day.

  Plob heard him before he saw him. Shouting across the crowd with a voice like rolling thunder. ‘Who dat buckaballer dat I sees dere? Is dat my good friend Plob?’ And then he hove into view. Seven foot tall, over three hundred pounds of muscle, massive teeth protruding from an overshot jaw, shaggy brown fur and a grin that stretched so wide it looked like he was about to swallow his own ears.

  ‘Biggest.’

  Boy took an inadvertent step back. ‘Wassat?’

  ‘That’s Biggest. He’s a Trogre, a cross between a troll and an ogre. We’re old friends.’

  Biggest cut through the crowd like a runaway ocean liner, picked Plob up and spun him around. ‘Hey, Plob, how youse doing? I aint seended you since the donkey was young.’

  ‘I’m good, Big, I’m good. This is a friend, Boy.’

  Biggest engulfed Boy’s hand in his paw. ‘Right on, Boy. How doody?’

  ‘Chuffed tae meet wi` ye, Bigman.’

  ‘’Hey, youse is from those Bracolgoght peoples. Da ones dat wear skirts. What tribe?’

  ‘A’m fram the McGethastiched tribe. And they’re called kilts.’

  ‘So, Big. What you doing in this neck of the woods?’

  ‘I came to see Bravad and Dreenee and do some oohing and aahing over da baby.’

  ‘So what you been up to since we last were together?’

  ‘Started a business wid my brothers. We do’s security work. Based in da town of Widless. We does bounty huntin, debt collectin. If you pays us den we can track down da miscreants for youse and, for a little extra, we’s can bash dem inna noggin till blobby bits comes out dere ears. We call da business “Biggest and Bros for Bargain Basement Bonce Bashing” - It’s good work, we’s doing well and we enjoys it. Specially da bashing of da bonces.’

  ‘Have you seen Mater Smegly yet?’

  ‘Negative.’

  ‘Well follow me; let’s give him a shout. Come on, Boy, stick with us.’

  Wing Captain Count Wolfgang Peesundbakon felt his reticence drain from him like spit from a spastic. This new Fuhrer that had been foisted upon them by the triumvirate of leaders was actually turning out to be a bit of all right.

  A little odd looking, what with the scaly skin, the wings, claws and lizard-face. But at least he didn’t foam at the mouth like the last one. Also, he didn’t seem as obsessed with killing off all of the goblins in the motherland. Most importantly, he saw that the Vagoths were a warrior race and that they had run out of enemies to conquer on their world and so had come up with an entire new world to lay waste. And he had promised them a way to get there.

  The new Fuhrer had control over magiks hereto unseen by the Vagoths, and this magic allowed them to travel between their world and the next. The only downside was that the amount of people travelling at once was rather limited. Fifty or so being the said limit. He was, however, working on this.

  This very morning the count had been called to see the Fuhrer together with the dragon forces top four pilots; Hulbert Hanselunddgretal, Pieter Spittleundflem, Albret Pawksosaje, and Hienz Beenz. They were told that they had the honour of being the first flight of dragons into the new world. They were to do a little reconnaissance and, if possible, take out all and any enemies that dared to cross their path.

  Wolfgang was looking forward to chance to earn himself some more medals. Already he was the holder of the Iron Cross with Oak leaves, tinsel and silver baubles. He was keen to add the coveted small blue fuzzy thing to it and become the highest decorated flyer in the Vagoth’s military history.

  Typhon finished his speech. And a good one it was too. Full of Motherlands and Lebensraums and Death-Before-Dishonours. The crowd went wild with the two-handed salutes and the Hey-oops echoed around the plaza.

  The Vagoth flags rippled in the wind, the red mailed fist on black striking pride into his warrior’s heart. The Bumsenfaust logo was known and either feared or loved by all. Above their heads, in a show of aerial might, flew a wing of the Fokker-class fighter dragons together with a wing of the huge slow Belend-class two headed bomber dragons. The fighters whirled around the massive bombers like wasps around vultures.

  Count Wolfgang Peesundbakon gave one last salute and then headed towards his quarters. It was almost time and he needed to change out of his dress uniform and into his combat gear in readiness for the flight.

  Chapter 7

  The forty-two Heinkle 111 bombers flew in steady at two hundred and fifty miles per hour. They had flown over the White Cliffs of Dover approximately seven minutes after first light. Some ten thousand feet above them flew a pack of over seventy Messerschmitt 109’s the ubiquitous German fighter planes.

  Smudger had taken his boys up to their ceiling of thirty thousand feet. Twelve spitfires. Belter saw them first and called out over the R/T. ‘Bandits at eight o’clock, skipper. Messerschmitt 109’s.’

  ‘How many, Belter?’

  ‘Umm…all of them, I think, skipper.’

  ‘Jolly good. Enough for all of us then. Well, chaps, you know our job. Go for the heavies and watch out for the snappers coming in from above. Tally Ho, break, break, break.’

  Instantly the sky broke into whirling confusion, headphones filled with shouts of command, warning, exultation…stark terror.

  ‘Flamer, watch it he’s going down.’

  ‘Look out Jonno…Jesus, that was close.’

  ‘He’s on you tail, Smudger…wait…I’m coming in…hold. He’s down. He’s gone. Another one, turn, turn, turn.’

  ‘More bombers, two o’clock. Tally ho.’

  ‘I’m burning…help…’

  ‘Potato and sputum. Mixed bag of nuts for the janitor,’ added Rufin, his eight machine guns blazing away.

  And then suddenly, in that miracle of aerial combat, the sky was empty. A few trails of black smoke marked the downed aircraft. In the distance a parachute blossomed briefly, taking its pilot safely to ground.

  ‘To me, gentlemen. Formation please. Let’s get back to base and re-arm,’ called Smudger.

  The remaining Spitfires gathered into tight formation. Smudger took a quick count. Ten. They had lost two.

  ‘Sound out, fellows. Who’s gone?’

  ‘That new chap with the blond hair,’ said Jonno.

  ‘And the short one. Big ears,’ said Belter.

  Smudger knew them but couldn’t remember their names. New boys both. A few hours of training and bags of enthusiasm. The new ones had an average life expectancy of one week. Seven days spent either sleeping, getting drunk or flying. And, of course - dying.

  Still, Smudger guessed that they had taken out at least twenty-two bombers and a dozen or so fighters so, on paper, it had been a good sortie. Of course Blondie and Big ears would disagree but that’s life (or death) isn’t it.

  It had been two days since they had lost Blondie and Big ears and Smudger’s boys had flown another four sorties. The last one had been bomber support, which, as always, was pretty hairy.

  Smudger lay in bed awake. He had awoken early. Before his usual four thirty wake up call from his batman, Corporal Bedford. The timepiece on his bedside table stood at four o’clock and Smudger’s head thumped in time with the ticking of its mechanisms. Slowly memories of yesterday swam to the fore. They had successfully completed their bombing mission on Hanover, leaving the railhead in smoking ruin and destroying the crossroads.

  On the way back they had run into a terrible storm. But that came with its own advantages. No enemy fighters dared to take off in such foul weather. They lost another two heavies on the way back. One spiralling out of the sky over France and the other plunging into the cold grey sea, taking its crew with it to a lonely grave.

  They had split from the heavies after flying over the chalk cliffs of Dover. The heavies flew on to their base at Horsham and the fighter boys touc
hed down at the Biggin Hill. As soon as Smudger had climbed down from his Spitfire the ground crew had started refuelling and arming.

  Smudger and the surviving members of B flight had been debriefed and then taken a quick shower before catching a lift to the local pub called ‘The Old Jail’ on one of the base’s trucks.

  Then they had drunk. As they did every night. And because a young man in his late teens or early twenties, at the peak of physical fitness, needs to drink an awful lot in order to forget - they drank an awful lot.

  Rumour was that they would be getting a raft of new boys and kites in to strengthen the squadron over the next few days. The gods knew that they needed them. Smudger knew that none of his lads would ever admit it, but there was something very disheartening about always flying into combat against an enemy that outnumbered you at least eight or ten to one. Still, thinking about such things would only weaken one’s morale and that simply wouldn’t do.

  He heard corporal Bedford as he stopped outside his door to balance his tea tray whilst he pushed the door open. The batman walked in, laid the tray down next to Smudger’s cot and then drew the curtains back. It was still dark outside.

  ‘I’m sorry to say that the birds are walking outside, sir,’ he informed the squad leader as he sugared his tea. ‘Fog’s as thick as a pea soup. There’ll be no going up in this I’m sad to inform.’

  Smudger hid his rush of relief behind a mask of disappointment. ‘Damn it all, Bedford. That simply won’t do. There’s cabbage heads out there for the taking and we’ll be sitting on our thumbs because of a little fog. Damned shame.’

  Bedford nodded in agreement. ‘I told the lads. Mr Smith will be that upset, I told them. He needs his daily crack at the Vagoths like we all need food and water.’ The small man puffed his chest out proudly. ‘Yes, I told them, I did.’

  ‘Vagoths, Bedford?’

  The batman looked puzzled. ‘I’m sorry, mister Smith, sir. I meant the Jerry. Slip of the tongue, don’t even know what a Vagoth is.’

  Smudger’s stomach grumbled in distress as he ingested his hot tea and it took all of his strength to keep it down. But, after a few more sips he started to feel better. What he needed was a good breakfast. And then maybe he would be genuinely happy when the fog lifted. Perhaps.

  Then he grinned to himself. Vagoths, whatever next?

  Chapter 8

  Boy helped Plob tighten the saddle cinch up, kneeing Nim in the stomach and then pulling tight. The four other dragon riders were lined up next to him, also saddling up their mounts.

  Master Smegly had put together a fancy contraption that consisted of a powder and a liquid that he had decanted into two separate containers. These containers were then tied together and, via a rope and a couple of pulleys, the contents would be mixed when the rope was pulled. This resulted in a stream of red smoke that poured out of the containers for almost a minute. The master had strapped one of these devices to each dragon’s leg and the plan was to pull the ropes during the flypast and then do a few simple aerobatics and give the crowd a bit of a spectacle.

  Plob was head flyer and the others were to take their lead from him. He mounted Nim and gave the them all a thumbs up which was repeated by all. The dragons lumbered forward, in formation, and then took off, changing instantly from clumsy bumbling beasts into graceful ships of the air.

  Plob started by taking the wing up high, pulling the ropes so that the smoke streamed out behind them as they climbed into the clear blue skies. Then, at the top of the climb he instituted a gentle right hand turn and spiralled slowly down towards the ground. Behind the five dragons the sky filled with spirals of red smoke. The crowd cheered and clapped.

  Plob took the team low over everybody’s head, low enough for them to feel the downdraft from the massive beating wings. Then another climb, spiralling up in tight turns and painting the sky with more red spirals. Again, clapping and cheering.

  And then there was the sound of rolling thunder and the air seemed to shimmer with heat. The five Vagoth dragons appeared in the skies high above Plob and his team of amateur flyers. They hovered for a moment and then dove straight for the festival flyers.

  Plob saw the diving dragons with his peripheral vision. Mere flickers of green and black coming out of the sun and, as he turned to look, a ball of burning plasma seared past him and struck the dragon next to him.

  The dragon screeched in agony as the fire punched through its outstretched wing leaving a smoking hole. Immediately the rider lost control and the pair of them dropped out of the sky as the dragon spun to the ground.

  Plob’s brain shut down. The enormity of what was happening proved to be too much. Who were these people? Why were they attacking him? How was it possible for their dragons to spit fire like that? Everyone knew that dragons were only capable of emitting small, sooty flames that were barely able to toast bread let alone burn people to death.

  Two more balls of fire sizzled past Plob and struck another two dragons from the sky.

  And the young magician’s mind came back online. He squeezed tight with both knees and thumped his heels in. Nim bunched up as he increased his speed and pulled up, flying almost vertically. Plob kept him going as hard as he could, head swivelling around as he tried to get a fix on the enemy dragons. He was surprised to see that all of his festival dragons were down. Mere smoking piles of burnt flesh on the ground.

  Two of the enemy dragons were close on his tail as he continued climbing. The other three dragons were cruising over the fairground, spitting balls of fire into the crowd and wreaking untold damage to both property and life.

  Plob waited until the dragons were close enough to fire at him and then he stood up in his saddle, pulling both of Nim’s wings in. They went from a climb into a vertical dive. Plob kept standing until the last possible moment when he relaxed his right stirrup, unfolding Nim’s wing and pulling them into a screaming right hand turn some ten feet above ground level. Nim yelped in pain as the change of direction pulled at his tendons. Plob urged him on, heading for the nearby forest. Two balls of fire streaked past and exploded into the ground in front of him. He jinked left and right in a frantic attempt to throw his attackers off but they were good flyers. Much better than him.

  The forest loomed ahead. Massive Bluewood trees that stood one hundred foot tall. Plob drove Nim onwards, whipping through the trees at top speed as fireballs whistled past him, burning all in their paths. But he could feel Nim was tiring. No beast could take this speed for any protracted time period.

  And then they were gone. No dragons. No balls of fire. Only hundreds of smoking fires. Plob brought Nim up to a few hundred feet and guided him slowly back to the fairground. From the air the extent of damage was immediately apparent. Burning buildings and caravans. Four dead dragons. And human bodies. Scattered as if by a giant’s tantrum, twisted and broken. And burning.

  All around them people rushed to help with buckets of water and wet blankets. Even from the height he was, Plob could plainly hear the sobs and screams of agony.

  He guided Nim to the landing field and put down, climbing off as he hit the ground, running to help.

  Count Wolfgang Peesundbakon touched down on the landing strip and brought his dragon to a halt in two steps, a perfect landing. The other four veterans landed next to him with just as much efficiency of movement.

  The ground crews swarmed around the dragons, helping the flyers down, stripping the equipment off the dragons, rubbing oil into their scales and checking for any damage. The five flyers walked to the debriefing room together. They did not look happy.

  ‘That was ridiculous,’ said the count. ‘They didn’t even fight back. And they were rubbish flyers. Worse than amateurs.’

  ‘One was pretty good,’ said Heinz.

  There was general agreement.

  ‘Yes,’ said Hulbert. ‘That crash dive was quite brilliant. I doubt that I could have done better myself.’

  ‘But why didn’t they fire back?’ Asked Count Peesundbakon. />
  ‘They were too scared.’

  ‘No. That’s not it. Did you notice that they didn’t even have tongue depressors fitted to their dragons? It’s as if they didn’t even know how to make them fire.’

  The count was more than disappointed. There was no way that he was going to earn the small blue fuzzy thing to add to his iron cross if all that he did was kill amateurs and strafe women and children. This was not looking to be as much fun as he thought it would. What he really wished for was a proper war. A war that involved strife and hardship and lots of public recognition and medals.

  And, because when all things were carefully considered, count Wolfgang Peesundbakon was actually a bit of a dick, fate decided to grant him his wish.

  Spice patted the earth down with the back of her shovel and then stood back. It was a good job. The wooden marker at the top stood straight and the two pieces of willow that had been tied to it were the perfect length, showing that the two people in the grave had been married and died together in their twilight years.

  Spice had never known her real parents but Gun-gun and Papa had taken care of her since she could remember and, as such, she considered them to be her parents. They had both died of the fever within hours of each other and the teenage girl had buried them the next day.

  She walked back to the small log cabin that she had called home for her whole life and went inside. She stripped and, using a cloth and a bowl of water, washed the sweat and mud from her body. She was tall for a girl, perhaps five foot eleven, and her muscles stood out, taut through her pale skin.