‘What?’ growled Moss, holding back. ‘Completely what?’
‘Fine,’ said Roger. ‘Completely fine.’ He gulped. ‘Sorry about that, swallowed a fly.’
Moss grunted again, then started to walk.
‘What are those gorefiend things that attacked you?’ asked Roger, following closely.
Moss did not answer but limped on until he reached a stone wall separating two fields. He stopped and muttered something as he began to climb over the wall.
‘Sorry,’ said Roger, reaching out a hand to help the dwarf. ‘I didn’t catch what you said.’
Moss clambered down into the other field and turned to look at Roger as he jumped down beside him. ‘Grave wax,’ he thundered, looking furious.
‘What?’ said Roger, flinching and taking a step back.
‘Grave wax, from humans buried in ground. It’s what drips out of their coffin boxes. Leatherhead Barnstorm makes gorefiends out of the dead, to serve him. That’s what we are up against, boy. Living dead things.’
Suddenly Roger felt cold.
CHAPTER
Eleven
‘Sorry, boy,’ said Moss, after a few moments’ silence. ‘Should not break my temper at you. You’re not to blame for wanting to understand. But they are evil things. I do not like them.’ He looked up at Roger. ‘They are made from grave wax, and their spears are tipped with nails from their coffin-box lids. I really do not like them.’
‘It’s all right, Moss,’ said Roger and, before he could stop himself, he patted the little man on his head and ruffled his beard. ‘I understand. You can’t help being a grumpy old dwarf.’
Moss made a choking noise; his eyes bulged, his face grew red and his hands hovered dangerously close to his weapons. He spluttered for a while and then, eventually, began to laugh.
‘You’re a good companion,’ chortled Moss, slapping Roger on the back and knocking him forward several paces. ‘For such a chitty-faced specimen of the ugly race. Come, let’s save you from destruction.’
Roger and Moss continued their journey in the sunshine. Their progress was slow as they tramped through fields and negotiated fences and hedges; for a time they lay hidden as a tractor ploughed a furrow near them. Moss cursed and shook his fists as the machine drove off.
‘Why are you on your own?’ asked Roger, trying to keep the little man calm as they started walking again. ‘Why aren’t there more of you?’
‘I’ve told you,’ said Moss. ‘Pay more attention to what I say. Dwarves cannot resist the Doomstone Sword spell.’
‘But you’re here,’ said Roger. ‘Even if you can’t go against the sword, you’re still here, on your own.’
Moss puffed out his chest. ‘Because of who I am, I have been in training to fight against the power of the Doomstone Sword.’
‘How?’ asked Roger.
‘By holding my breath until some of my warts burst and I fall down unconscious,’ said Moss proudly.
Roger scratched at the top of his head. ‘Does it work?’
Moss shrugged his shoulders and grunted. ‘I am unsure. It certainly helps to combat a snottering buttocks spell, so it could be of benefit.’ He nodded and continued. ‘I should not be here. We are not meant to walk the Outerland. That’s why we have Watchers – they communicate and pass on to us news about the progress of humanity.’ He patted his satchel. ‘And we only have one invisibility cloak left and it often has a mishap. It would take years to collect enough spiderwebs to make another.’ Moss puffed out his chest. ‘Anywise, I am the greatest warrior, and I know more about human ways than anyone else in the Innerland. I have familiarised myself with all of your habits and patterns of speech-talking.’
Roger smiled and looked up at the blue sky. He was thinking that if Moss was the best at patterns of speech-talking, the others must be pretty awful.
By late morning they found themselves standing on a slip road beside a sign pointing to Auchterbolton.
‘What now?’ asked Roger, looking down the road.
‘Lady Goodroom dwells in Auchterbolton Castle,’ said Moss, flexing his wounded leg on the hard surface. ‘Location should not be difficult.’
‘Is that it?’ asked Roger, pointing. ‘There.’
In the distance, sticking above some trees, was the top of a small turret. The sound of bagpipes drifted faintly in the air.
‘I cannot see it,’ said Moss, trying to stand on tiptoes and failing. ‘But I hear the blow-bag noise. We go there.’
Roger and Moss walked towards the sound of bagpipes until they reached two iron gates lying open against a crumbling wall.
Beside the gates was a hand-painted notice on a pole:
Auchterbolton Highland Games – this Saturday
Adults £5.00 – Small People and Mature Individuals £1.50
‘What are... mature individuals?’ asked Moss, glowering at the noticeboard.
‘Pensioners,’ said Roger. ‘Old age pensioners. You know, people who are very, very old – about forty.’
‘That’s not old,’ said Moss. ‘That’s hardly any years.’
‘Well, it is to us.’ Roger fumbled through his pockets. ‘Have you got any money on you?’
Moss continued to stare at the board while rubbing his hands over his weapons. ‘Small people,’ he said at last. ‘You dislike small and old people? Why not let them pay same?’
‘It doesn’t mean what you think,’ said Roger, still rummaging in his pockets.
Muttering to himself, Moss turned to Roger. ‘I do not use money – I pay in gold.’
‘You can’t,’ said Roger, grinning. ‘And we don’t want to attract attention. I’ve got three pounds and seven pence.’
‘Means nothing to me,’ said Moss. ‘Why is your face smiling?’
‘Because I’ve got an idea,’ said Roger. ‘Give me that blanket and take off your satchel.’
Moss took the tartan blanket from around his neck and passed it to Roger.
Roger opened the blanket and flapped it a couple of times. Then, holding it straight out in both hands, he looked at the dwarf. ‘You’re going to the Highland Games with your grandson.’
‘What did you say?’ Moss growled.
‘This is how we are going to get in. Come here.’
Grumbling and muttering, Moss walked forward.
‘Lift up your arms,’ said Roger. He wound the blanket around Moss’s body and tucked it under his armpits. ‘There,’ he said, trying not to laugh. ‘You really look good in a kilt. Now for your trousers.’
He knelt and pulled up the trousers on Moss’s uninjured leg. He stared at the knobbly limb sticking out of the boot. The leg had what looked like patches of thick fur sprouting randomly over its surface. The few bare areas were dotted with warts.
‘On second thoughts,’ said Roger, pulling the trouser leg back down, ‘we’d be better off leaving your legs covered.’
‘Why?’ asked Moss. ‘I have very fine leg limbs.’
‘Um, yes,’ said Roger, standing again. ‘So you have... but... your wound. People might see your wounded leg and become curious. So best leave them both covered. Have you got a hat?’
Moss thought for a moment, nodded, bent down and opened his satchel. He pulled out a red bobble hat.
Roger made a face. ‘Is that all you’ve got?’
‘What’s wrong with the hat?’ Moss asked.
‘Nothing, nothing,’ said Roger quickly. ‘It’s a fine hat. Put it on and pull it down as far as you can. Tuck your hair in. And don’t you say a word to anyone. Let me do all the talking.’
‘Very well,’ said Moss, glowering as he pulled the hat over his head, almost covering his eyes. ‘I’ll not speak.’ He picked up the satchel and slung it over his shoulder.
Roger and Moss walked into the castle grounds. Tucked in on the left, just beyond the gates, was a table. Standing beside it was an extremely large man. He had a round head with thinning hair, no neck, massive shoul
ders and a huge chest and stomach. Roger slowed down as he approached the intimidating figure. He had almost stopped walking when Moss gripped his arm and propelled him forward.
‘Good morning,’ said the large man in an extremely polite voice. He bowed slightly. ‘How are you gentlemen this fine day?’
Roger and Moss stood in front of the table looking up at the man. He was immaculately dressed in a white shirt, dark tie and dark suit. His shoes gleamed.
‘Hello,’ said Roger, nervously placing three pounds on the table. ‘Me and my grand... my grandfather have come for the Games. He’s from the, um, Highlands.’
The large man beamed. ‘Then there is no admission fee, young sir. Any visitors from the Highlands, or grandfathers and their grandsons, are allowed in for absolutely no charge. Please, take your money back.’
Roger quickly picked up his money. He could hardly believe his luck. They were getting away with it. ‘Thank you. Thank you very much. Um, you wouldn’t happen to know where we could find Lady Goodroom, would you?’
‘I certainly would, young man. I have the pleasure to be her ladyship’s butler. My name is Tobias Undercut. Her ladyship is currently up near the castle. I’ll phone ahead and announce your imminent arrival. You may even be expected.’ He pulled a mobile phone out of his pocket. ‘Your name, sir?’
‘Eh, Roger. Roger Paxton, and... Moss Paxton, Captain Moss Paxton.’
‘Thank you, Master Paxton. It is a pleasure to welcome you to Auchterbolton Castle, and of course your grandfather, the captain. It’s always nice to meet someone from the Services. Straight up the driveway, right to the top, you can’t miss it.’
‘How will I recognise her ladyship?’ asked Roger.
‘Don’t worry, young man,’ said the butler. ‘I think that she will recognise you. Your grandfather is not difficult to notice.’ He pointed at Moss.
Roger turned to look at Moss. He saw a ridiculous-looking leather-faced dwarf in a red bobble hat, wrapped in a tartan blanket up to his armpits, gazing back at him.
‘Right,’ said Roger, nodding. ‘Right. Um... I suppose he doesn’t look terribly like my...’
‘Not really,’ said Tobias Undercut, pursing his lips and giving the slightest headshake. ‘But off you toddle, I’ll let her ladyship know you are coming. I think that she’ll be delighted to meet your grandfather.’
Roger and Moss left the polite butler and continued along the driveway until they reached an open area where large men in kilts were tossing huge tree trunks in the air. They passed a platform where girls and boys, also in kilts, were dancing with their hands held above their heads while pipers, standing on either side of the platform, puffed their faces out like balloons as their fingers darted up and down chanters and their elbows squeezed bagpipes.
Moss stuck fingers in his ears as he walked past the bagpipe players, and muttered to himself.
Roger pulled at the dwarf’s arm. ‘Don’t do that,’ he said, looking around. ‘You’ll draw attention to us. Why’re you doing that?’
‘Their playing is a maw-wallop,’ said Moss, taking his fingers away. ‘They are faffling and kee-kawing when they should be hudder-muddering. They’re screeching like a bare-bottomed babe sitting on a hedgehog. I could play them out of vision.’
Roger just looked at Moss. He couldn’t think of anything to say.
They walked past stalls selling things, and stalls where people were trying to win things. Horses with riders were jumping over fences, and cattle were being paraded in front of judges. A row of gleaming tractors was almost too much for Moss. He was feeling for his club, muttering and cursing, as Roger dragged him away.
‘Earth diggers!’ Moss shouted over his shoulder. Roger did his best to smother the outburst by laughing loudly and throwing his arms round the dwarf’s shoulders. Several people turned to look.
‘Ahaha-ahaha-ahaha,’ Roger laughed, trying to sound convincing but failing miserably. ‘That’s a good one, a really good joke.’
Roger and Moss continued past vans selling candyfloss, ice cream and hot dogs. They reached a crowded beer tent.
‘Would you look at that,’ said a loud voice. ‘Someone’s let a wee tartan gorilla outa the zoo.’
Roger and Moss turned. A stocky man was standing at the entrance to the beer tent. He was waving a tumbler of beer in one hand and had a cigarette in the other. He turned to some men standing nearby and laughed.
‘What’s your tartan, wee man?’ asked the man, looking back at Moss. He took a large swig of beer. ‘Is it the MacMonkey?’
Moss started walking towards the man.
‘Moss...’ Roger tried to catch his arm. ‘Don’t, he’s just—’
‘Do not be worrying,’ said Moss, shrugging off Roger. ‘I’ll not kill him, just give him some knowledge.’
‘It’s a talking monkey,’ screeched the man, bending down into Moss’s face. ‘Here, wee MacMonkey man, would you like a drink of—?’
Moss hit the man with an uppercut to the chin. The man’s head jolted upright and he staggered backwards into the tent. There was the sound of breaking glass and then raised voices followed by loud thumps. Moss growled at the other men.
Two more men rolled out of the tent. They were holding each other by their shirts and were banging their heads together; they both let go at the same time and lay on the ground groaning. The noise in the tent grew louder as the fighting spread.
‘What had that to do with knowledge?’ Roger shouted, taking Moss by the arm and pulling him away.
‘He’ll know not to be rude,’ said Moss, a touch smugly. ‘A good lesson, knowledge never to be forgotten for an addlepated nincompoop.’
‘Come on,’ said Roger, pulling harder. ‘I thought that you were all for peace and living together? I thought humans were the bad ones?’
‘They are! We only fight if a provocation is thrust upon us.’
‘You could’ve ignored him! We are not meant to be noticed! We are trying to blend in, not stick out like... like...’
‘I am the Queen’s champion!’ Moss stuck his chest out. ‘No one thrusts a provocation on me!’
‘You’re just bad-tempered.’ Roger shook his head. ‘Let’s try and get to the castle without starting any more trouble.’
A policeman came running past, heading for the beer tent. Roger and Moss held their hands up to their faces and looked down at the ground.
As they neared the castle Roger could see a crowd of people gathered around two groups of men who were standing holding a thick rope. A tall man with spiky hair was holding a megaphone and bellowing at a crowd of spectators. Next to him was a girl with short dark hair, who was about Roger’s age.
‘Come on, then,’ shouted the tall man in an English accent. ‘There must be one of you who will help the teachers, just one more person is needed; the sides must be even before we can start. The farmers have eight men. One more for the teachers!’
Moss grunted happily, handed his satchel to Roger and began pushing his way through the spectators.
‘Don’t,’ yelled Roger.
‘Here we go,’ said the man with the megaphone. ‘We have a volunteer. We have a... small gentleman wearing a tartan something or other. And there appears to be an incident taking place over at the beer tent.’
Roger ran forward, but it was too late: Moss had already lifted the end of the rope and wound it over his shoulder and around his waist. Some of the spectators started laughing. On one side were eight hefty men all grinning and chatting happily. On the other side were seven rather weedy, grim-faced men and a tartan-wrapped dwarf. In the middle was a huge pile of steaming, slimy, brownish, yellowish goo.
‘Take the strain,’ yelled the man with the megaphone.
The rope was pulled tight. The teachers staggered forward.
‘Steady. Steady. Back a little, farmers. That’s it, now on the count of three. One... two... three!’
Both sides dug their heels in, and pulled. The far
mers, laughing and chatting, began to walk backwards. The teachers slid towards the goo.
The girl with the short dark hair ran to the teachers and tried to encourage them.
‘Pull, Moss,’ yelled Roger. ‘Pull, Moss!’
The people next to Roger started cheering, and then began to chant: ‘Pull, Moss. Pull, Moss. Pull-moss. Pull-moss.’ The entire crowd joined in. ‘Pull-moss. Pull-moss.’
The teacher at the front was almost in the goo when Moss turned slightly to his left and began to pull. The slide of the teachers stopped. Moss grunted and jerked on the rope. The farmers slipped forward. Moss grunted again and the farmers inched further forward. They had stopped laughing.
The dark-haired girl jumped up and down and waved her hands in the air.
‘We’ve got them, men!’ shouted the teacher at the front. ‘Keep pulling!’
The farmers lost the ground they had gained. Moss heaved harder. The crowd had stopped chanting and were cheering and clapping as they watched the farmers move nearer to the middle. Then suddenly it was all over. The farmers collapsed on the grass and were pulled through the gunge. The crowd roared. The teachers threw down their rope and hugged each other. Moss bowed, rubbed his wounded leg and walked off to great applause.
Roger saw the dark-haired girl turn to the man with the megaphone. She was pointing at Moss.
‘I’ve told you, we are not meant to be noticed,’ hissed Roger as he pulled the dwarf away from the crowd. ‘Stop drawing attention to us! What was that all about?’
‘I likes a good tug o’ war,’ said the dwarf happily. ‘Could not withstand joining. And you heard the man with the voice. They’re farmers.’ Moss spat on the ground.
‘You’re disgusting,’ said Roger as he hurried Moss along to the castle ahead of them.
‘Here, gies us a shot,’ said a familiar voice. ‘Here’s your money, mister. Now watch this, weans. Yer dad’s gonny ring the bell for you and win a prize.’
Roger and Moss turned to see Wullie from their van journey beside a small woman and two little girls. They were in front of a Strong Man game tower. Wullie was holding a large mallet in his hands.
Mossbelly MacFearsome and the Dwarves of Doom Page 5