by Peter Plasse
“Get up, slime,” he said. “We need to speak about the interrogation of the prisoner.”
There was a cry from outside the room. “Let me in. His Excellency will want to know of this at once!”
“He is not to be disturbed, fool. Now step back or I will run you though.”
“I say again, let me in. The Emperor must know of this right away!”
“One more step and I will run you through … ”
“What is the meaning of this outrage?” Malance bellowed. It was practically loud enough for the prisoners in the dungeons below to quake.
He moved through the doorway with an alacrity that belied his enormous bulk, only to discover an official messenger, in proper uniform and displaying his rank and seniority status, on the end of one of his guard’s swords. Neither was going to back down, that much was obvious. “Jump in any time you feel it might be useful, Uncutus,” he snapped, motioning dramatically.
Uncutus Twit sprang to his feet.
“You there, stay that sword. You there, spit it out, and this had better be important, or you will wish it had been.”
“My message is for the Emperor’s ears only,” he mumbled, keeping his head down.
Despite the superior rank of this senior Troll, it looked like it was probably the first time he had ever delivered a ‘for the Emperor’s ears only’ message. Well, if he were anxious now, he would be more so while Malance decided if the message needed to be truth-told. Such an experience was the mother of all interrogations, performed by an entire team of experienced questioners who, after a few hours, could pretty much get the messenger to admit that he had cooked and eaten the Emperor’s two nieces. Such as it was, and despite the fact that it was well known to be pretty much useless for getting at the actual truth, Malance was as likely to order it as not, depending on the content of the message.
“Search him!” screeched Malance. He rubbed his head as though rubbing at a headache.
The search process was no fun, causing the messenger to cry out more than once. “He is clean, Your Grace.”
“Leave us, then.”
The attendants and Uncutus Twit slinked out through the doorway, closing it behind them. Malance turned to the messenger who was lashed securely to a pole.
“Out with it,” he snapped.
“Closer, My Lord. Truth-tell me if you have the slightest doubt as to what I am about to reveal to you, but it is imperative that not another soul hear these words. Your life depends on it.”
Venomisis, unwilling to comply straight off with the Troll’s request, toyed with the idea of just having him killed and hauled away. If the message were that important, whoever had sent it would, without a doubt, send it again. “Who sends this message?” he asked, breaking his own rule that all such messages be recited, from start to finish, before any questions were asked.
The messenger held to his conviction. He spoke not a word. He knew that the Emperor had no choice but to come closer and meet his request, or order a truth-telling. He had worked in his majesty’s service for way too long to not know, by heart, the rules of engagement for delivering a message ‘for the Emperor’s ears only’.
Malance knew what he had to do. He had to get in this messenger’s face and learn the truth of it. He had no choice.
He leaned in, loathing every second of the ordeal. When their faces were merely inches apart, he felt he would come out of his skin. He could see the obvious fear in the other’s eyes. But there was something else. Something he didn’t actually see, but knew he should be seeing.
Norma Webb put the newborn Prince of Vultura to her breast and let out a slight gasp as he took the nipple hungrily in his tiny mouth. Nobody had told her that breastfeeding would be this painful. Cassandrea Jebwickett had mysteriously disappeared, and Norma had been assigned the role of wet nurse to the Prince. “Easy there,” she said with a little laugh. “There’s plenty enough. That’s it, my sweet boy.” She stiffened a bit, holding her breath, as he latched on harder. Her nipples had not hardened yet, and his feeding stung something fierce.
There was a loud crash as four Trolls barged through the doors to the nursery. She gasped as they appeared directly in front of her. The nearest one raised a huge hand, looking like he was going to strike her down. She wrapped her arms protectively around the infant and prepared to absorb the force of the blow.
“No,” said another. “You remember what Loquitar said. There is to be no injury to him. Not yet … ”
“Yes, but he didn’t say anything about his wet nurse … ”
He laughed a depraved laugh.
“Madam, you will pack your things straight away and report to the study of your former Emperor. Suitable quarters are being arranged for you outside of the castle. You have thirty minutes. If you fail to appear in that time, you will be found and killed.”
With that, the four Trolls lifted one of the massive tables and carried it out as though it weighed no more than a small toy.
Norma packed quickly and in about twenty minutes found herself waiting outside of the study of Hanz Oratorius Night. Now was not the time to lose self-control. Now was the time to keep a clear head and do what was necessary to protect the life of the newborn she cradled in her arms. The same four Trolls appeared.
“Change of plans,” said one. “Come with us.”
Terror stole its way into her heart as she stood to obey. Something was amiss. Where was Hanz Night? What had happened to him? She looked around in a panic. They were taking the young Prince somewhere to eliminate him. That had to be it, and while she did not know it, she knew she felt it. They had conferred with their superiors and the plan had changed, all right. It had changed to murdering the heir to the throne of Vultura. It only made sense. Were he allowed to grow up, he might someday pose a threat. Out of the way. That’s where they wanted him.
They marched out of the nursery. No more words were spoken. They turned right, down a corridor. The walls were now bare stone, the last remains of the torn murals having been removed. They passed several more doorways. Suddenly she knew where they were going or, rather, her intuition told her. At the last doorway before the entrance to the reception hall, she begged for permission to please retrieve one last article of clothing before they went on their way. A favorite shawl she had left in her quarters. She would need it in the coming winter months, she pleaded.
The one in charge granted her request, demanding only that she leave the door open so they could watch her every move. When another of them mumbled something about her not needing anything where she was going, she knew she had been right. Slipping inside, she set the Prince down on a changing table and slammed the door shut, latching it securely with stout iron latches. Outside, she heard the mayhem begin, and the hammering of the axes commence on the doorway. She moved quickly, tearing clothing and assorted bric-a-brac out of the closet at the end of the room. She fumbled for the latches on the far wall inside the closet. They were jammed! With all her strength, she tore at them, and they gave. She turned the entire wall in on itself and exposed a small ladder that descended into the dark. She heard Loquitar Coral screaming orders at the Trolls that were pounding on the closed door, which was starting to splinter. Even the thick oak would not stand up much longer to the furious assault being brought to bear by the monstrous Troll battle-axes. She picked up the Prince and stuffed him like a rag into her blouse. Down the ladder she scurried. She heard Hanz scream, “Run Norma! Run … ” then the dreadful crunch as one of the axes ended his life.
Reaching the bottom of the ladder, she gave it a hard upward shove and the solid stone false-wall of the closet above rotated back around. She heard the distinct click of the locks seal it in place mere seconds before the Trolls managed to hack their way into the small room.
Not waiting a second, she raced away in the darkness, silently thanking her Emperor for having had the wherewithal to make her practice this escape at least a dozen times since she had worked for him. In exactly fourteen paces she gave
a mighty leap over a large hole in the floor, hidden in the shadows beneath her feet, at the bottom of which projected large iron spikes, placed there to impale any would-be pursuers. In ten more she groped for and released a raised metal latch on the sidewall of the tunnel. Another secret panel opened before her and closed behind her after she had passed through. Down a second ladder she scrambled. The young Prince threatened to spill right out of her blouse, and she roughly shoved him back in. Across a landing she raced and scuttled down a third ladder, disguised by five others, all of which lead to blind ends. Again she forcefully shoved upwards on the end of it, tripping the latches, which converted her escape route into yet another blind end. She ducked through the sliding stone just before it sealed shut behind her and paused to catch her breath. She could see a light now, and knew if she held up she had a very good chance of escaping. Off she ran. In a matter of minutes she had cleared the castle walls on a dead run. She knew she would be frozen to death if she did not seek shelter soon from the night drop in temperature, so she never broke stride for her entire sprint through the tunnel. Halfway to the end she found the ladder she was looking for and up she went. She waited for several minutes at the top of it, listening for any sounds that might tell her that there were Trolls above her. Hearing none, and badly in danger of succumbing to unconsciousness due to the biting cold, she finally gave the secret knock. She held her breath. The trap door above her slid silently open. Climbing out, she fell into the arms of her mother, who flashed her the all-clear sign. She had made it. The Prince was saved, for now at least. Her mother led her to a small bed across the room, where she mercifully collapsed from sheer exhaustion and slept for the better part of an hour. The Prince had never awakened through the entire escape.
After her short nap, her mother forcibly shook her awake. “Norma,” she said, “Norma Webb. You wake up this instant. There is no time for dillydallying. Up now!”
Slowly, she awoke. Still partially numbed from the cold that had worked its way deep into her bones, she rubbed at her arms. She could hear her mother pleading with her, but her voice sounded very far away. “The Prince!” she thought, forcing herself out of the fog. “Where is the Prince?” she called out.
“He is safe. He is with your sister next door. You will leave for Queen’s Port tonight. Now. I have packed you what you need. The Trolls have come and gone, but they will be back.”
“The Trolls came while I was here?”
“No. They came before you got here. I convinced them that I had not seen you. Their methods were … persuasive … ”
“Oh Mama,” she said. “Did they hurt you badly?”
“Nothing I won’t recover from,” she replied. “Thankfully, I was telling the truth, but the next time won’t be as easy.”
“Queen’s Port,” muttered Norma. “We’ll never make it. We’ll freeze to death. It’s an impossible journey.”
“There’s no arguing the risk,” said Mama Webb, “but the alternative is sure death to all of us. Off you go. Get your things. They are by the door. Go to your sister’s without delay.”
“But Mama,” she cried, “What will happen to you?”
“Don’t you worry about me,” said Mama Webb. “When those brutes return to have their fun with me, they will be interrogating an empty house. This is our land. There are places I could hide undiscovered for an entire lifetime. But if you don’t know where I am, you can’t tell anybody who might want to know. Go now, girl.”
They hugged for a brief moment, Mama Webb pushing her towards the door even as they embraced.
Out the door she flew, wearing a strange coat, the like of which she had never seen. It had huge pockets on the outside and equally huge inner pockets that were lined with a substance that felt like braided hair of some sort.
Already bitter cold from the frigid night air, she tapped three times on the door, then a fourth. A large Gnome she had never met opened it. He wore the uniform of the Palace Elite Guard. She glanced him up and down warily. “Where is the Prince?” she demanded, then, “Who are you?”
“Next room,” he answered. “They are waiting for you. My name is Turman Pandieth. I was the head of the Palace Elite. That was then. Now,” he smiled a grim smile, “I am dead, at least as far as those murderous dogs are concerned. We’ll see how well they get along with my ghost. But that is for later. For now, we journey to Queen’s Port.”
They moved to the next room where the Prince remained asleep in the arms of her sister, Turni.
They embraced quickly while Turman Pandieth prepared them for the trip.
“Remove your coat,” he said. From the way he said it, it was obvious that he was a Gnome that was used to giving orders. He filled the oversized inner, then outer, pockets with a wood-like substance, then extracted some coals from the fire, placing a few in each inner pocket.
“This will keep us warm, well, not warm really, but warm enough. The stuff in the pockets is a mixture made from Burnfast. It won’t go out as long as you remember to feed the inner pockets with the stuff in the outer pockets. There is enough to last for the first leg of the journey. Preparations are underway to place more at points along the way. Now, we go.”
“How do we know when it’s time to add more?” asked Norma.
He smiled the same grim smile. “When our teeth begin to chatter. Don’t forget this. Once your teeth begin to chatter, you are minutes away from losing consciousness. Add a small handful to each inner pocket, and you’ll be okay.”
Out the back they slipped. As soon as they were outside, they were joined by three other Gnomes who led the way. Turman Pandieth stayed behind to cover their tracks. He could no longer save his lifelong friend, and Emperor, Hanz Night, but as sure as the Old One made the crops grow, he would safely spirit his son away. Or die trying. His only concern was the time it would take. Because when the trip was over, he had his friend’s death to avenge.
Chapter 18
Suddenly, he recognized him. It had nothing to do with the nature of his gaze, nor the presence or absence of fear in his eyes. He knew this Troll. He had met him before. He couldn’t remember when, or where, but he knew him. There was no doubt. He suddenly wished that he wasn’t as intoxicated, that his head was clearer and would quit pounding.
“I know you,” he found himself saying. “We have met before. Now what is this message that is going to save my life, and it had better be something I need to hear, or you will rue this day.”
“Oh, it is,” said Forrester. He kept his voice steady, his delivery unrushed. “My name is Forrester Wiley Ragamund. Remember it.
“The message is simple. I am going to let you live today. I can’t promise that this will be the case the next time we meet, but for today your life is spared.”
Malance was so surprised that his jaw went slack for a second, after which he bellowed for the guards who jumped up to respond. Wearing a smug look, the Emperor turned back towards Forrester, who plainly and simply vanished.
Saviar Murlis walked home from the castle in Vultura feeling that, most likely, he would never arrive there. They had killed the Emperor right in front of him. Certain that he would be next, he left the fortress via tunnels the Trolls probably hadn’t discovered yet. He was resigned to the fact that he would certainly die before sunup the next morning, so he wanted to spend his last evening in the company of his wife and children. There was much he wanted to say to them.
Besides, with Hanz Night gone, organizing and effecting a revolution would now prove next to impossible. For Saviar Murlis, despite being a creative genius, as well as having outstanding organizational skills, had none of his former Emperor’s charisma. And charisma, not ideas, was what moved the masses. You could have the best ideas imaginable, but if you didn’t have the magnetism to rally the forces behind you, those ideas were dead before they were ever born.
Like, for instance, the Gnome children’s learning/recreation center. In order to fund the expenses necessary to staff it such that the working folks could
have their youngsters cared for until they picked them up after work, Hanz Night had convinced one of the wealthy wheat growers to voluntarily up his annual tax from two to three percent. And the fellow had been happy to do it. The idea had been Saviar’s, but the task of convincing the wheat farmer had befallen Hanz, who practically had to talk the farmer out of an increase of four percent. That was charisma.
He awoke from his walking reverie to the sound of dogs growling viciously nearby. He saw with revulsion that they were fighting over the rights to gnaw on the corpse of a dead Gnome sprawled facedown on the street. “Go on!” he hollered. He picked up a rock and hurled it at them, striking the nearest one squarely in the flank. With a brief howl, it slinked off. The others followed.
He looked around at what had been his lovely capital city. Days before, it had been clean and orderly. Rows of well-maintained houses, with manicured lawns and trimmed hedges, lined the cobblestone streets that were swept clean on a daily basis. Now it was a city torn apart. Everywhere he looked, houses had been ransacked. Doors hung ajar. Windows were broken. Furniture and assorted household items, smashed beyond recognition, lay strewn on the once proud lawns. Garbage, once picked up twice a week, was now tossed all about. The smell was one of putrefaction and decay.
He hurried along now, more anxious than ever to be with his family. It was a short walk, and still only early afternoon, but he was chilled to the core when he pushed open his front door. He was immediately besieged by his three children with cries of, “Daddy’s home! Daddy’s home!” He hugged them all fiercely, and under their attack they all ended up falling to the floor in a jumble of knees and elbows. Kerlix entered from the kitchen, holding a large spoon. “Hey, hey,” she said, “Let your father at least get in the door.”