The Borribles

by Michael de Larrabeiti

  ‘Rubbish,’ laughed the German. ‘Are you content to die with only one name?’

  Vulge wagged his head in that way of his. ‘Go on then, idiot. “It is madness to quarrel with a madman.”’

  Adolf ignored the proverb, hoisted his wounded comrade up and carried him towards the door. Knocker meanwhile ran back into the inner sanctum and lifted the box on to his shoulders with a supreme effort. With both of us laden like this, thought Knocker, there is very little chance of us getting out alive. Adolf is right, of course, but then I’m not wrong.

  The three Borribles made slow progress. They stopped frequently to rest and Vulge was in great pain, though he said nothing. The electrical system had obviously suffered serious damage, for the lights flickered and often went out. Bells and sirens clanged and wailed as the general alarm spread through the maze of corridors, and shouts and calls could be heard echoing from the tunnels. Something somewhere was burning and smoke was beginning to drift by, sucked along by the ventilation fans. Soup from the cauldrons left boiling in the kitchen lent an acrid smell to the atmosphere, and the temperature in the bunker was rising fast.

  The fugitives encountered several dazed and panic-stricken bands of Rumbles but they were not trained warriors and a show of belligerence was enough to make them sheer off. But every time they passed a branch corridor Rumbles issued from it noiselessly on their padded feet and followed at a safe distance, waiting for the right moment to pounce and bear down upon the Adventurers.

  ‘I must rest,’ said Knocker for the fifth time. ‘Money weighs you down.’

  ‘I too could rest,’ said Adolf, panting, and he lowered Vulge to the floor, asking him how he did.

  Vulge was near to fainting with pain but he said, ‘Mustn’t grumble. Got to keep going till you can’t go any more, ain’t it?’

  They had stopped by the entrance to a dark branch corridor and suddenly two figures leapt out with a cry, brandishing lances. Adolf and Knocker stepped back and reached for their weapons but then held their hands. Before them stood Bingo and Orococco, fresh and alert.

  ‘Well, hello sailor,’ said Orococco. ‘What’s a nice Borrible like you doing in a place like this?’

  Knocker smiled with relief. He gestured towards Vulge and the box. ‘We’re trying to get Vulge out. He’s done for the chief, but the bodyguard nearly did for him.’

  ‘He knocked them about beautifully,’ Adolf laughed. ‘He deserves twenty names.’

  ‘He doesn’t look too good,’ said Bingo, ‘that’s for sure.’

  ‘How did you get on?’ asked Knocker, sitting on the box of money.

  Bingo knelt by Vulge and felt his pulse. “Rococco got his, at the door. He came along to keep me company. I’ve been running all over the place but I’m damned if I can find mine anywhere. I hope someone else hasn’t done him. I’ll be stuck without a name if they have.’

  The lights in the corridor flickered off and the Borribles grasped their lances and stood back to back. They heard the shuffling sound of Rumbles moving nearer, but then the lights snapped on again and the Adventurers saw their foes scrambling to get beyond the range of the Borrible catapults.

  Knocker came to a decision. ‘You could come along with us … give me a hand with this box and help carry Vulge.’

  ‘I don’t mind that.’ agreed Bingo, ‘as long as I am free to take off after my bloke at any time. I gotta get him.’

  Bingo’s proposition was agreed and the five Borribles moved on, pausing at every intersection. They were followed and sniffed and snuffled at but not attacked. The hazards would increase when they reached the open space of the Central. There, hosts of angry Rumbles might trample them down, no matter how well they defended themselves.

  At length, Bingo, who was leading, stopped and held up a hand. ‘It’s the Central,’ he whispered.

  They gathered at the end of the corridor and looked out into the wide cavern from which radiated the main arteries of the bunker. A fearful sight met their eyes. Hundreds of Rumbles ran backwards and forwards across the immense hall. Blue lights flashed in the ceiling and alarm bells rang. The roadway leading to the Great Door was crammed with warrior Rumbles, struggling to enter the tunnel and do battle with whoever was at the other end. Thick smoke issued from a corridor above which was written ‘Kitchens’, and stretcher bearers were disappearing into a tunnel marked ‘Infirmary’ carrying their wounded comrades to safety.

  Bingo took stock of the scene and turned to the others.

  ‘I’ve got an idea,’ he said. ‘There’s a tunnel over there with no one in it, or so it seems, the one that says “Library”. I’ll run across the hall, throw a few spears, and it’s more’n likely that a good few of those warriors will chase after me. You’ll have to fight the rest, but then you would anyway. Not much of an idea but it’s Hobson’s, isn’t it?’

  It was the only way. Bingo took extra stickers from his companions and with no goodbyes he ran light-footed into the hall. So sudden was his appearance that he got three quarters of the way across before he was noticed; then there were shouts from the non-combatant Rumbles, and the warriors who were crowded round the Great Door tunnel looked up and shouted in their turn.

  Bingo planted his feet firmly on the floor and threw sticker after sticker at the enemy. He threw well and he threw hard. Each of his lances struck a mark and half a dozen Rumbles fell dead or sorely wounded. The others fell back and hesitated, so Bingo drew his catapult and two more Rumbles fell stunned before he took to his heels and, with a remarkable burst of speed, vanished into the library tunnel yelling defiantly, ‘I’m a Borrible, I’m a Borrible.’ Scores of warrior Rumbles raced after Bingo, shaking their lances above their heads, and in a few seconds the entrance to the Great Door corridor was left deserted.

  ‘Vulge,’ said Knocker, kneeling, ‘Can you make it across the Central? We’ll need all hands to fight our way over.’

  ‘Get me to my feet,’ said Vulge, sitting up, ‘and give me a sticker to lean on. I’ll waltz it over there.’

  His companions pulled him upright and thrust a lance into his hand. He tucked the butt of it under his good armpit and used it like a crutch. ‘There you go,’ he wheezed. ‘Nice as ninepence.’

  ‘Go for it, then,’ said Knocker, heaving the treasure box on to his back once more, and Orococco and Adolf formed up on either side of him. They had only a few Rumble-sticks left but here in the Central there would be room for catapult work.

  ‘You lead the way, Vulge,’ said Knocker. ‘We’ll take you pace.’

  Because of the confusion that had followed Bingo’s exit the Borribles managed to advance well into the Central before being seen, and when they were the Rumbles were at a loss, for they had no troops of their own on hand to deal with the situation. They knew that Borribles were loose in the tunnels, but they had no idea how large the invading force was. Above all they had not expected a band of Borrible fighters to appear without warning in their midst.

  They shouted and squealed and their stomachs turned to water. They ran in every direction, except towards their enemies; they knocked each other down and exchanged blows, anything to get away from the deadly stones that flew so rapidly from the Borrible catapults. They called for their warriors, but they were deep in the tunnels chasing phantoms or other Rumbles in the belief that they were the enemy. Smoke made pursuit and identification difficult and a great turmoil was spreading into the very outposts of the Rumble bunker.

  Slowly the Borribles moved over the open area. Vulge hobbled and stumbled manfully, gritting his teeth to keep back the pain, willing himself not to fall and ruin the escape. As for the Rumbles they kept their distance, making no attempt to attack, but all that changed in a second when a party of their warriors burst from a tunnel on the Borrible flank.

  ‘We’ve been rumbled,’ said Orococco.

  ‘This is no time for bad jokes,’ panted Knocker, sweating under the weight of his box and wishing he had his hands free.

  ‘The proverb says,�
� hissed Orococco as he fired and reloaded his catapult, ‘“Bad times need jokes though never so bad.”’

  A flight of lances whistled over from the Rumbles, but the catapult fire, rapid and sustained, detracted from their aim and the stickers missed their targets and fell harmlessly to the floor; all save one, which struck the box that Knocker carried and pierced the lid and stayed there quivering. The force of the blow staggered Knocker and he went down on one knee. Adolf helped him back to his feet.

  The Rumbles searched round for more lances but the flying Borrible stones still hampered them and one by one they were hit and retreated to the safety of the tunnels. But there was one Rumble, braver and quicker than the rest, who exhorted his comrades to come out again and began to organize the non-combatants into a compact mass, ready to charge the tiny band of Borribles. If he could get his men to act together, all would be over with the retreating Adventurers, but Orococco had other ideas.

  Snatching a lance from the floor, he ran forward, one Borrible charging a hundred of his foes. About twenty yards from the brave but offending Rumble, Orococco threw his lance like a javelin. It left his hand with the power of a bullet and the four-inch nail buried itself deep in the warrior’s thick fur. A groan went up from the enemy ranks and scores of stickers clattered about the head of Orococco, but he bobbed and ducked and returned to his friends unscathed, and together they gained the temporary safety of the Great Door tunnel.

  Vulge fell to the floor in a dead faint. Knocker flung down his box, tugged the lance free of the lid and threw the weapon back into the hall.

  Adolf knelt to inspect Vulge’s injury, lifting the jacket aside to reveal the blood-soaked bandage.

  ‘Our Vulge has lost lots of his strength,’ he said, ‘but the wound has stopped bleeding. He may be all right, if he can rest.’ He refolded the cloth and replaced it.

  Orococco, watching from the mouth of the corridor, called a warning: ‘There’s a lot of those warrior boys out there, and all coming our way.’

  Knocker looked at the others and said, ‘Rest, just a minute or two. We’re not finished yet. I can hear fighting up ahead; we ain’t out of this holiday camp yet.’

  ‘It’s a lovely place,’ said Vulge, who was becoming delirious. ‘Lots and lots of Rumbles in it.’

  9

  Bingo ran like the wind along the corridor. As far as he could see it was empty of Rumbles ahead, but from behind came the noise of shouting as the warriors from the Central gave chase.

  Bingo ran easily, keeping plenty of strength in reserve. Wherever the library was it seemed a long way. He ran on, outdistancing his pursuers until at length he could hear them no more. He slowed his pace to a jog, a sticker swinging loosely in his right hand, his catapult in his belt. He was in the furthest reaches of the bunker here; it was strangely quiet and the air was free of smoke and acrid steam.

  After what seemed miles, Bingo came to a green baize-covered door hanging crazily on one hinge. Several stickers stood embedded in it and two Rumble warriors, with their throats slit, lay dead across the threshold.

  ‘Wendle work,’ said Bingo, and he went past the bodies and slipped into the room that lay beyond. It was indeed the library but it had been badly mauled. It was a long high chamber, with massively tall bookcases soaring up to an embossed ceiling that had been painted in bright colours with the coats of arms of the richest and most ancient Rumble families. Diminutive wooden balconies ran round the walls and cunningly carved spiral staircases led up to them.

  Quiet alcoves with comfortable desks were situated between the bookshelves, and green-shaded lamps gave a friendly and academic glow. It was a place for rest and study, richly decorated, and it had obviously cost a great deal of money and labour to establish and build up over long years. Here was assembled all the knowledge, wisdom and power that the Rumbles had amassed over many centuries, and now it was being dismantled by a very busy Borrible. Napoleon Boot was hard at work with the cool ferocity of a Wendle with a grudge.

  Bingo glanced round the room to check that there was no enemy, and there wasn’t, alive. The bodies of a dozen or so vanquished Rumble warriors littered the dark green carpet, all but covered in mounds of heavy books. Napoleon carried on with his work, unperturbed by Bingo’s arrival, which he acknowledged with a curt nod.

  The Wendle had already pushed or levered over two or three of the huge bookcases, and spilled their contents out across the floor. At the far end of the room one of the long library ladders was propped up to a grating of the ventilation system. Napoleon had prepared his retreat, but was not going to leave before he had caused the maximum amount of damage. The Wendle was nobody’s fool.

  Bingo watched as Napoleon pushed over a few more bookcases and the volumes cascaded down, covering more of the Rumble dead. He advanced, climbing across the treacherous surface of jumbled books.

  ‘How are you getting on?’ he asked.

  ‘Nicely, thanks,’ said the Wendle, preoccupied, ‘and you?’

  ‘I can’t find mine anywhere. Where’s yours?’

  ‘Under that pile of encyclopaedias. Polite little fellow, didn’t cause any trouble.’

  ‘How?’ asked Bingo, adopting the same terse speech as the Wendle.

  ‘He was at the top of a long ladder,’ explained Napoleon, pleased to tell the story of his name for the very first time. ‘I came to the bottom of it and said, well-mannered like, “Excuse me, are you Napoleon Boot Rumble?” and he said, “Yes, I am.” So I says, “Could you come down please, I have a word to say to you.” Bloke didn’t even look at me, toffee-nosed little twit. “Oh, no,” he said, “I’m too busy. You’ll have to wait. I’m looking for a book on Bowwible fighting methods for the High Command, of which I am a member, I’ll have you know. So be off.” So I says, “You’re coming down one way or the other, mate. Gravity is stronger than you are.” That was a remark that caught his fancy, must have, ‘cos he looked at me then. “Aaaaaagh,” he says, like they do, and drops his book, nearly hit me on the head, bloody dangerous, and he grabs hold of the top of the bookcase. At the same time I kicked the ladder away, so he’s got nothing to stand on, has he? Well, the sudden increase of weight at the top of the bookcase made it wobble violently, so that gave me an idea. I runs round the back, up another ladder on the next bookcase and pushes with me sticker, and over went the whole lot, bookcase, books, Rumble and all. Goodnight, Napoleon Rumble. Splat!’

  Bingo shook his head. ‘What a way to go.’

  ‘Overcome by the weight of his studies, you might say,’ said Napoleon, and he smirked like a cold draught. ‘Got any matches on you?’ he asked suddenly.

  ‘What for?’ asked Bingo.

  ‘Don’t be slow,’ said Napoleon, sighing. ‘Start a fire, of course, bit of mayhem, cover our retreat. Seen the others?’

  Bingo told him what he knew.

  ‘Ah,’ crowed the Wendle, nodding his head. ‘I knew Knocker was up to something, and that Spiff as well, he’s as crooked as a mangle handle. Got a box, eh? That’s treasure, that is. Well, we’ll have to see about that, won’t we?’

  ‘We haven’t got away yet,’ pointed out Bingo reasonably.

  ‘I’m getting out, mate,’ said Napoleon, indicating the ladder. ‘I’m getting into that ventilation shaft and no Rumble in the world is going to stop me leaving for home. Only two Rumbles can get at you at once up there, one in front, one behind, and any Borrible is a match for a score of Rumbles … and a Wendle can deal with twice that number.’

  ‘You do for these?’ asked Bingo, indicating the prone Rumble warriors.

  ‘Well, they didn’t commit suicide,’ said Napoleon. ‘Mind you, they only came into the place in fives and sixes. It was easy really, like falling off a … bookcase.’

  Bingo took a box of matches from his pocket and handed them to Napoleon. ‘It’s a shame about the books. Are there any good adventure stories there?’

  Napoleon gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘I haven’t had a lot of time for reading in the last
half-hour,’ he said, and he went over to a pile of dusty tomes, put a match to them and stood back as they burst into flames on the instant.

  ‘What I mean,’ persisted Bingo, ‘is that it’s a shame; they’re good things, books.’

  ‘Good things! You sound like a bloody Rumble. Can’t have no half measures in an attack like this, Bingo. Got to go the whole hog or it don’t work. What would happen if we left these books up here untouched? I’ll tell you what, there’d be another Rumble High Command on the go in five minutes. This is what it’s all about, Sonny—books is power! The whole world knows that.’ And Napoleon threw another volume into the blaze.

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ said Bingo. ‘I never thought of it like that.’

  ‘Course I’m right,’ said Napoleon. ‘Now then, it’s time for me to go home. Can’t stand fires, water’s my element. Are you coming?’

  ‘Can’t,’ said Bingo miserably. ‘I told you, I haven’t found my bloke.’

  ‘Tough, but I’m off. I want to see that Knocker; that treasure’s got to be looked into.’ Napoleon winked mysteriously, made his way from the fire, which was now burning well, and began to climb his ladder. ‘You could come with me, Bingo, and drop down through the ventilation system somewhere else. It’s going to get very hot in this library very shortly.’

  ‘It’s going to be hotter than you think,’ said Bingo. ‘There were two million Rumble warriors chasing me down the corridor out there. They don’t run very fast. but they ought to be here at any moments.’

  Napoleon stopped dead on about the eighth rung and looked down. ‘How many? You can’t have that lot to yourself, that’s greedy.’ He dropped back to the floor and threw more books on the fire.

  They waited and the flames crept along the mounds of books and began to rise towards the high ceiling. Soon there was a noise of shouting from the tunnel beyond the green baize door and Bingo and Napoleon placed themselves within sticker-throwing range of the entrance.

  ‘We’ll let the first ones have it with these stickers,’ said Napoleon, ‘then we’ll get behind that pile of books, there beyond the fire, and let them have it with the catapults as they try to get in. When we’re out of ammo, we’ll scarper up the ladder, okay?’