Marigold watched her great-aunt go. What’s the matter with her? she wondered. Old people are so strange. And fancy suggesting I go to see the dwarves! She shook her head. How would I ever find the way? Although . . . Her thoughts went back to Hortense’s other suggestion. Although perhaps I could go to the border and wait for Marcus to come back. Marigold began to suck her finger, a sure sign that she was planning something of advantage to herself. If I borrowed Fedora’s dear little pony and cart, it wouldn’t take me very long. Her pony goes ever so quickly. I won’t bother to ask her because she’s busy having her singing lesson, and I’m sure Mother would tell me not to interrupt. Besides, Fedora might say no. She’s SO selfish. A self-pitying sigh. Much better not to say anything. And once I reach the edge of the Five Kingdoms, I can sit under the trees by the edge of the path and pick some flowers and make a wreath for my hair. That’ll look ever so pretty. I bet horrid Gracie Gillypot wouldn’t think of something as clever as that. Marigold smiled smugly. And when Prince Marcus comes riding by he’ll see me, and he’ll think, “There’s Princess Marigold, and she’s having an adventure too!” He’ll be SO surprised. And then I’ll scream, and he’ll save me, and I’ll ride back home with him . . . The smile spread. And we’ll live happily ever after!
Mullius Gowk was in a bad mood. If he’d had more than one tooth to grind, he would have ground them. His master, King Thab, lord of all trolls, was quite unaware of his glowering and muttering. This was not surprising, as Mullius in a bad mood was not very different from Mullius in his normal state of mind. He always stamped, he always growled, and he always took every possible opportunity to block the path of anyone wishing to get past his substantial bulk. If he could cause grievous bodily harm by crushing the passerby against a jagged rock or two, then so much the better. Mullius was an Old Troll, and he remembered the days when even the most wicked of witches trembled when a troll came by. Old Trolls had status then. And power. The High King of the Old Trolls had never known the meaning of the word mercy. He had lived for hundreds of years and had never once done a good deed. Some said his heart was made of stone, others that it was lead. After his death there had been stories told at many a troll fireside, stories of his unrelenting cruelty and unceasing quest for domination.
Mullius flexed his enormous muscles, and his muttering turned to a low-level snarl. He was the last of the Old Trolls; the new trolls (a mere two or three hundred years old) were a very different lot. They had gone against all Old Troll traditions and signed contracts and treaties with the rulers of the Five Kingdoms, and now there were laws about Keeping to Your Designated Caverns. There were even notices pinned up in King Thab’s apartments that suggested “A smile a day keeps the blues away.” Mullius had never smiled. Not even when he was a young troll, allowed to bludgeon dwarves and goblins and gnomes into a pulp whenever he felt like it. Those had been fine times, but they were long gone, along with the High King.
Mullius alone was left. It was his size and strength that had saved him; King Thab, despite having signed a contract promising to banish all Old Trolls to the depths of the Invincible Caverns, was vain enough to think that a towering mass of matted black hair and muscle would impress visitors. Mullius was his official guard and also the keeper of the iron box — King Thab’s most precious possession. Only Mullius and the king knew what the box contained; when King Thab’s wife, Queen Thulka, had tried to bribe Mullius into lifting the lid, he, with the king’s reluctant agreement, had carried her back to her mother while she wept all the way. The king had been glumly grateful ever since; Mullius remained impassive, and the iron box never left his side. If he had any hopes — other than the opportunity to indulge in some serious bludgeoning resulting in a great deal of bloody carnage — he kept them to himself. In the meantime he was forced to watch King Thab and his companions being polite — insofar as a troll was ever polite — to creatures that Mullius regarded as little more than pie filling.
Mullius’s scowl grew deeper. “Grind. Crush. Slay,” he muttered. “Blood. Guts. Kill.” He gave King Thab an evil glare. “Dwarves! No dwarves. Dwarves in dwarf place. Not here!”
King Thab remained oblivious. He was sitting on his rocky throne in the semidarkness of the royal apartments, and he was thinking. On a stone slab in front of him was a sheet of yellow parchment covered in dwarvish writing, and beside him a small goblin clutching a large pencil was poised over a slate. Behind the stone slab stood a stocky white-bearded dwarf, who was doing his best to ignore Mullius and his mutterings. “We wouldn’t normally bother you, sir,” the dwarf said, “and I’m sorry to call on you so early in the day. But things are getting a bit out of hand. We’ve been digging nonstop for three weeks now, and — like it says in the letter — Master Amplethumb doesn’t think we’re going to be on time. We hoped —” He coughed and gave King Thab an encouraging smile. “We hoped we might be able to interest you in some sort of exchange.”
“Eh?” King Thab looked blank.
“Some sort of exchange,” the dwarf repeated. “You know . . . You help us out by sending a troll or two to do a bit of digging, and we’ll help you in return.”
“Return?” The king’s expression of total incomprehension remained unchanged.
“Payment, sir.” The dwarf was doing his best to stay calm. Master Amplethumb had told him that King Thab was sometimes a little slow to understand letters and messages. “Be patient, Bestius,” he had warned. “Remember, he’s a troll. Their brains are, shall we say, differently wired?”
Bestius took a deep breath and went back to his explanation. “Like I said. A payment. A reward for helping us. We’d like to give you something in return for your help.”
“I get troll back. Dwarves return troll.” The king looked pleased with himself.
“Well. Yes, we’ll certainly undertake to do that.” The dwarf decided to try a different approach and dug in his pockets. “Here,” he said, and held out a chain made of the finest gold. “Master Amplethumb asked me to give you this as an example of what we could offer you. Perhaps your lady would like it?”
There was a warning rumble from Mullius, and the goblin’s pencil snapped between his fingers. King Thab sprang from his seat with a furious snarl . . . but as Bestius took an alarmed step backward, the king sank down again, groaned, and put his heavy head on the stone slab. The goblin caught the dwarf’s eye and mouthed, “Best not to mention ladies. Sore point. Could cause trouble.” He hesitated, then added, “I could look after it for you, if you like.”
Bestius hastily slid the necklace back into his pocket. “Sorry if I’ve caused any offense,” he said. “Maybe we could offer something else instead?”
There was no response from the troll king.
“Time to go,” the goblin whispered. “Not the right moment just now. Come again later.” He crept closer. “You could bring more gold . . .”
The dwarf bowed politely but did not move. His orders had been clear. “Erm . . . very sorry and all that, but I have to report back to Master Amplethumb. It’s a matter of some urgency, you see. We must have help. Don’t want to let the Royal Family down. There’s kings and queens and princes and rows and rows of pretty princesses all waiting for brand-new crowns, and if we don’t deliver on time — why, we dwarves’ll never be asked to work again.”
For a moment there was complete silence. Then King Thab slowly lifted his head. “Pretty princesses?”
“That’s right.” The dwarf nodded. “It’s an order for a wedding, see? Prince Tertius and Princess Fedora are getting hitched. Loads of pretty princesses, and princes and —”
“STOP!” King Thab’s huge fist crashed down on the letter in front of him — but there was something like a smile on his toothless face. He turned to the goblin. “Write, Spittle,” he ordered. “Write, ‘Agree. Trolls will dig. Agree.’”
Spittle’s mouth opened wide in astonishment, and Mullius growled.
“Silence!” King Thab waved an imperious arm. “Write, Spittle.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. Of course, Your Majesty.” The goblin’s pencil squeaked furiously on the slate. “Erm . . . how about, ‘Thab, King of All Trolls, presents his compliments to Master Amplethumb, and is delighted and ekstatik’”— Spittle paused and crossed the last word out —“‘is delighted and happy to agree to his request for assistance in the matter of extracting gold from the valleys of Flailing. Thab, King of All Trolls, is willing to offer . . .’” Spittle paused again and put down his pencil. “Excuse me, Your Majesty, but how many trolls will you be sending?”
Thab turned to the dwarf. “How many? He ask.”
“One or two would be sufficient, sir,” the dwarf told him, “trolls being that much bigger than us dwarves. And stronger,” he added with a sideways glance at Mullius.
“That’s right. That was in Master Amplethumb’s letter, Your Majesty.” The goblin picked up the parchment. “Erm . . . here we are. ‘The pressures upon us are immense owing to the forthcoming wedding in the Kingdom of Dreghorn. All our able-bodied dwarves are already actively employed in the extraction of gold, but I fear the order will not be ready in time unless you are able to assist us. One, or at most two, of your strongest trolls would be invaluable.’”
The king nodded. “Yes. Write, ‘Agree. One troll. One troll to dig.’”
Spittle’s pencil began to squeak again. “‘. . . is willing to offer one troll, with his warmest wishes for your success in this venture.’”
He put down his pencil, but the king snatched it up and thrust it back into his hand. “Write more, Spittle. Exchange! Payment! Write, ‘Troll dig for dwarves. Exchange pretty princess.’ Pretty for me — for King Thab!” Exhausted by this effort, the king lay back in his throne and closed his eyes, thus missing the expression of total horror on the dwarf’s face.
Spittle gave a sly chuckle and went on: “‘In exchange for this act of generosity, King Thab will expect delivery of a princess —’”
“Pretty!” interrupted the king without opening his eyes.
“So sorry, Your Majesty. I was about to add that requirement. ‘One PRETTY princess, to keep His Most Royal Majesty company.’”
Bestius stood first on one foot, then on the other, as Spittle went on writing. He was one of the older dwarves and a leading member of the Underworld Council, but he was, for once, at a loss. How could he promise a princess in return for a troll? The dwarves had as little contact as possible with the aboveground inhabitants of the Five Kingdoms; long experience had taught them that humans became unreliable, if not downright untrustworthy, when large quantities of gold were involved. “Your Majesty,” he began, “there . . . there might be a bit of a problem.”
The king of the trolls frowned. “No problem. No. No pretty, no troll.”
“Ah.” Bestius pulled at his beard. Judging by King Thab’s expression, the matter was best left alone for the moment. He made a decision. Master Amplethumb had asked for a troll; Master Amplethumb could solve any ensuing difficulties. Bowing, he said, “Agreed.”
The king grunted. Mullius rumbled. Spittle finished writing with a flourish and handed the slate to his master. “If you could just sign here, Your Majesty, our friend can take it to Master Amplethumb. I presume you’ll be sending the troll today? It’s early enough for him to do a full day’s work, and I’ve indicated as much in the letter.”
King Thab laboriously inscribed a cross at the bottom of the slate, then turned back to the goblin. “Clod,” he ordered. “Fetch Clod.”
“Certainly, Your Majesty,” said Spittle. Springing to his feet, he handed the slate to the dwarf. “Here. You’d better wait.” And then he was gone.
Bestius waited, very aware of Mullius’s looming and unfriendly bulk. King Thab took no notice of either of them; he was gazing into space, a faint smile on his face.
Time ticked on, until at last there was the sound of heavy footsteps echoing from the other side of the cavernous apartment. Bestius glanced up and blinked. Clod, following obediently behind the goblin, was easily as large as Mullius but had four arms. In each hand, he clutched a heavy iron spade, and he was encrusted with mud.
Spittle tittered as he saw the expression of astonishment on the dwarf’s face. “He’s a digging machine,” he explained. “Solve all your problems in a couple of hours, I’d say. Good luck, and don’t forget to bring him back when you’ve finished with him.” He gave Bestius a sideways look. “And remember to bring the pretty princess back with you. Not a good idea to mess with trolls, you know. But you’d better get going!” He slapped the monster’s leg and pointed at Bestius. “Follow him, Clod. Follow . . . and do as you’re told.”
“Yug,” Clod said.
“Oh. Well. Thank you very much.” Bestius was still in a state of shock. “It — I mean, he — will be perfect. We’ll see you again soon. Very soon.” He bowed, then turned and marched out of the room toward the wide, stone-floored tunnel that led away from the royal palace, Clod stomping meekly after him.
Gubble was carefully measuring out the ingredients for the chocolate cake when Marlon came flitting through the open window.
Elsie, otherwise known as the Oldest Crone, looked up in surprise. “I thought you were showing Gracie and Marcus the way to the Unreliable Forest,” she said.
Marlon swung himself onto the curtain rail and hung upside down while he got his breath back. “Bit of a snag,” he reported.
“Really?” Elsie’s eyebrows rose. “Nothing serious, I hope?”
“Nope. Maybe. Yes.” Marlon shuffled along the rail. “It’s Gracie.”
Gubble gave an anxious grunt, and Elsie went pale. “Gracie? What’s happened? Surely the dwarves wouldn’t hurt a Trueheart!”
“Not the dwarves,” Marlon told her. “A tree. Gracie leaned against it.” He waved a wing. “Next minute — gone!”
“Oh, dear.” Elsie put her hand to her face. “I think we’d better tell the Ancient One.”
Gubble frowned. “Find Gracie,” he said. “NOW.” And he headed toward the back door, which immediately slipped to one side and pretended to be a window.
The Oldest rushed after him and towed him back. “Let’s hear what Edna has to say first, shall we?” she suggested, and led the way into the corridor. Room seventeen, the most important room in the House of the Ancient Crones, was, for once, immediately opposite, and Elsie sighed with relief as she and Gubble hurried in.
The two looms were click-click-clacking as usual; an extremely pretty young woman was angrily throwing the shuttle to and fro on the smaller loom, while the Ancient One was steadily weaving the iridescent silver of the web of power. Val, the Youngest Crone, was muttering to herself as she tried to sort out a tangle of thread on the floor.
“Edna,” said Elsie, “could you spare a minute? Marlon’s just arrived with some rather alarming news.”
The Ancient One glanced around, her one blue eye gleaming. “Can’t be too alarming. The web’s clear. Look!”
All three crones stared at the loom, and indeed the gleaming silver cloth flowed smooth and stain-free.
The pretty girl sneered. “What’s the matter? Has my nasty little stepsister gotten herself lost? Serves her right. Perhaps she’s been eaten by a bear. Crunch, crunch — Gracie for lunch!”
“Be silent, Foyce,” Edna said. “Remarks like that will most certainly prolong your stay here. We can release only those who are purged of wickedness and evil.” Her voice was quiet, but the girl flinched and bent low over her work. The Ancient One turned to Val. “Val, dear, could you take over for five minutes? I’ll have a word with Marlon, and then I’ll be straight back.”
The Youngest nodded and took Edna’s place in front of the web. As she did so, a faint shadow rippled across the shimmering sheet of silver, and both old women caught their breath, but a second later it was gone.
“Hmm.” The Ancient One sounded thoughtful. “Keep a close eye on it, dear. It looks as if something might be stirring after all. I’ll go and see what Marlon has to say.”
&
nbsp; Marlon was fretting. Only his deep respect and admiration for the Ancient Crones stopped him from flying into room seventeen and asking them to hurry things along. When Gubble came stomping back into the kitchen, Marlon flew down to perch on a chair back and asked, “Well? Action stations or what?”
“Unk,” Gubble said as he marched across the room, a determined expression on his flat green face. “Get Gracie. Gubble go.”
“Yay!” Marlon said approvingly. “What did the crones say?”
Gubble ignored him. Reaching the back door — which was where it belonged but upside down — he grunted loudly. The door shot up to the ceiling, and Gubble folded his arms and grunted again. When there was no response, he walked through the wall, leaving a troll-shaped space behind him, together with a great deal of fresh air.
Marlon began to laugh but stopped as Edna and Elsie came in from the corridor. He waved a wing at the gaping hole. “Gubble’s gone.”
“We can see that for ourselves,” the Ancient One said crisply. “Now, please tell us exactly what happened.”
Marlon stood at attention and gave a short but accurate account of the early morning’s events.
When he had finished, Edna nodded. “Very sensible to mark the tree. Well done.” Marlon glowed — but he looked increasingly uneasy as she went on. “It sounds like a dwarf-trap, but I can’t be sure. I thought they’d all been sealed up long ago, but it’s possible one or two of them were forgotten about. Nasty things, dwarf-traps.”
Elsie frowned. “What were the dwarves hoping to catch?”
“Oh, it wasn’t the dwarves who set them.” Edna sounded surprised by Elsie’s ignorance. “They’d never do anything like that. It was the trolls. They used to catch dwarves, because . . .” She hesitated, then went on. “Because in those days the trolls liked nothing more than a dwarf for dinner.” She saw the Oldest’s horrified expression and added, “I’m talking about a very long time ago, Elsie dear.”
The Heart of Glass Page 2