by A. J. Ponder
They broke camp, bickering and grouching with unfriendly ease. The morning was fresh and grey at first, but the grey never seemed to lift, and although the horse began the journey in an overworked shuffle, it soon began to snort and shy off the road, nostrils flaring.
Arrant shook his head. The man had no technique. “Can’t you keep your horse under control?”
Dothie pulled at the horse’s bit.
The animal whinnied and shied, jolting the carriage as it twisted from one side to the other.
Arrant took a deep breath to further insult Dothie, but the dryness at the back of his throat alerted him something was wrong, and not just with the driver. He sniffed and looked to the horizon. “Smoke!”
“Where?” Dothie demanded.
“There,” Arrant pointed. “You stop the carriage and I’ll take a better look.”
“Don’t wet your breeches, boy,” Dothie said, making no move to stop the horse, not so much because he hadn’t seen the plume, but because he had.
Tentatively, Arrant climbed to the top of the carriage. At first, he couldn’t see anything much, but a distant scream encouraged him to persist.
“What can you see?” Dothie called up from below.
“Why don’t you come up here and find out?” Arrant asked.
Dothie peered out into the gloom, biting down on his impulse to turn Arrant into a fruit fly. The boy was useful, even if he was more infuriating than a kick in the teeth.
“Seven hells!” Arrant shouted. “This can’t be just a fire, or the villagers would be fighting it.”
“Shudup, Arrant, you oaf,” Dothie said as they crested a small rise. Smoke was billowing from several houses. Villagers milled around like confused ants without a trail to follow. “This is bad, the people who did this may be—” A scream cut off the rest of his words.
“Seven hells. A thurgle’s destroyed the entire village!” Arrant pointed to a giant of a figure brandishing a sword. “Stay here.” He jumped from the wagon, picked up an oversized rock, and slunk through what might indulgently be called trees.
“That’s a giant!” Dothie hissed.
Arrant knew it wasn’t. Well, he was pretty sure it wasn’t, even though it seemed absolutely huge. Obscured by the smoke, it was hard to tell, but he reckoned the figure stood an enormous eight feet tall. No. Only eight feet. Not nearly huge enough or terrible enough to be a giant—they usually stood over twelve feet high and had at least another foot in girth. That’s what his Ma had said, and she ought to know—her Da had been eaten by giants.
They snuck a little closer.
His near-bald pate glinted in the sun, and the skin was all blotchy brownish spots and leathery bumps. It was not a pretty sight. Arrant’s suspicion that this was one of those rarely seen, and very dangerous, thurgles was confirmed.
Dothie, half paralysed with fear, was regretting his sudden urge to find out what the boy was up to. Even so, he couldn’t help but watch the almost-certain tragedy play itself out.
Arrant crept through the trees until he was behind the thurgle. Finding a convenient patch of higher ground to stand on, he hefted a boulder intending to smash it onto his opponent’s skull.
The rock was heavy, and, as you might remember, Arrant was not particularly strong. He just managed to get the rock into position above his head, and staggered under its weight, scrabbling in a way that would have killed him if the thurgle hadn’t been preoccupied.
Then Arrant’s feet slipped from underneath him, sending him hurtling, stone first, ground-ward …
Fergus
NAME: Fergus of the Thurghue tribe Wullemsai
CLASS: Fighter.
SPECIALTY:Rescuing maidens. Unfortunately for Fergus most maidens he encounters do not wish to be rescued.
RÉSUMÉ:A deadly fighter. Will rescue any maiden for a small fee and his choice of companion for as long as he likes. A true hero. Verbal and social skills—none.
PASSED:Killing, Fighting, Hand-to-Hand Combat, Maiming and Torture with first class honours.
§
Fergus surveyed the destruction. The village was burnt to the ground. Some of those in the process of dying were making an awful lot of noise, and the others had either been eviscerated, cleaved in twain, cooked alive inside the burning buildings, or were watching in horror.
He was checking on the last of the shackles and enjoying the satisfaction of seeing his new slaves ready for market when one of them screamed. Fergus liked the twitch of her lips as she thought better of screaming again. There was something in her eye beyond mere panic. A sharpness Fergus hadn’t seen before. Not fear. Not respect. Not hope. Fergus was so perplexed that he heard the scrabbling noise too late.
He turned the moment Arrant and his rock began to tumble …
§
THURGHUE: THE RULES
An edited summary as compiled by the scholar Erasmus Stylo.
1) A thurgle captured in battle is Beholden to their captor.
2) A thurgle is no longer Beholden if the captor dies. (Killing one’s own captor doesn’t count, refer to rule 6.)
3) A thurgle is no longer Beholden once dismissed by their captor.
4) A thurgle is no longer Beholden when abandoned in battle.
5) A Beholden thurgle must follow all instructions given by their captor unless they are dead.
6) Killing one’s own captor doesn’t count. (refer to rule No. 2)[11]
§
You may wonder why the action stopped at a precipitous moment, but not everybody is aware of The Rules as they pertain to Thurghue. This is important, given that the last we saw of Arrant he was hurtling stone-first ground-ward in a way that should have left him at the thurgle’s mercy. A tragic end for any young man.
Except Arrant, more from good luck than good management, had been lucky enough to land a solid blow with the boulder behind Fergus’ left ear. It was just heavy enough to send Fergus toppling, face forward, into the mud.
The villagers cheered and clamoured for release. Mostly.
Seeing nothing to inspire confidence in this newcomer, a couple of youths managed to slip out of their chains before he could do anything about it.
“You idiot, you let them get away,” Dothie accused.
“Yes, well, I’m pleased you appreciate the way I saved your life from a rampaging thurgle—and obtained a train of slaves into the bargain,” Arrant quipped.
“Granted, the man is enormous, but I could’ve turned him into a fly!”
“Could you really?” Arrant asked. The wizard might not be so useless after all, even if he was monumentally stupid. “Thurgle folk are immune to magic.”
“Ah. Let’s go, then,” Dothie’s voice almost squeaked. He coughed, stifling his terror. “No, what if that thing wakes?” He pulled out a knife.
The thurgle snored.
Dothie jumped half a mile, and Arrant fell to the ground, doubled up with the pain of unaccustomed laughter. “You can’t …” he started, before bursting into another fit of giggles.
Dothie looked about nervously and took a few steps back.
Fighting to control himself, Arrant wiped away tears of laughter. He got up and smiled insouciantly, before attempting to pose in what he believed to be a heroic manner. It certainly looked carefree, almost as carefree as his ridiculous smile.
Dothie grimaced, then turned back to watch the thurgle as if hypnotised by the twitching mountain of flesh.
Suddenly, the few wisps of brown hair on its nearly bald pate that had fallen over its eyes flicked back fast as lightning. The great mound of flesh stood so quickly even Arrant flinched—surprised to see that the tales he’d heard about Thurghue had not been exaggerated at all.
Dothie blinked. The adrenaline rushing through his body had reached a crisis point and had called a meeting to which his brain had not been invited. His mouth hung open as the enormous creature bowed fluidly. “Master,” the thurgle said in a voice that lacked intonation, but not volume. “I am yours to command.”
/>
Jumping up and down, Arrant grabbed Dothie, beaming. “Look at that! The thurgle’s mine!”
Pushing the boy away, Dothie tried to alleviate a severe case of adrenaline withdrawal by breathing deeply. Meanwhile, his brain continued to discover justifiable doubts about the whole episode. Yes, everything seemed to be going well, but he didn’t trust this giant-thing or the little pip-squeak the creature was bowing to.
What if Arrant decided to ask the giant to kill him? What if the giant turned on them both? What if?
All sorts of scenarios wandered around Dothie’s skull. And then he thought, maybe I can be the master? After all, how can the enormous thurgle possibly be sure that a pipsqueak like Arrant had bested him? Surely, it would be more believable if someone bigger and stronger, and more like myself, claimed to have knocked him out? That way I can better gain control of my own destiny.
Cut to the Chase
Fergus sighed deeply. How had this happened? Instead of waking up amongst the spoils of his victory—the cold hard light of morning had found him lying on the cold hard dirt. The sigh exacerbated the ache in his head, an unpleasant reminder that the events of yesterday were not just a bad dream. Not that he could complain—his tribe had warned, pleaded, cajoled, and even begged him to stay away from the human infestation. So now, here he was, the worst realised, and he was Beholden. How could he have allowed himself to be so easily overpowered? The boy looked too dull to tie his own shoelaces. And the man seemed to rely on the boy! He shook his head in disbelief, but along with the rainbow of mortification, there was a rosy tinge of hope. Sooner or later, he’d escape. In the meantime, there were advantages to travelling in a group, especially one with access to a well-built wagon.
Well after first light had dawned, Fergus was still debating whether he should kill them or not. The problem was, he had to find a way to do it that didn’t obviously bend The Rules. The Rules were the rules for a reason, and foremost among them in Fergus’ head was: Don’t get caught. Better to trick these idiots into letting him go. It shouldn’t be too hard.
Dothie yawned and stretched excessively. (He’d slept like a stone for the entire night and was making hard work of his transition to wakefulness and the aching reality of having slept on the ground.) His flailing hand hit Arrant in the face.
Arrant retaliated with a carefully directed elbow, and the two exchanged a string of curses.
“Be there soon,” Fergus offered by way of conversation, seeing they were finally awake. Neither Arrant nor Dothie cared to lower their pride enough to ask exactly where there was, so Fergus continued. “We ought to tidy up the merchandise a bit. Go let the slaves wash in the river yonder.”
“What—?” Dothie bit off his own question, helped by a not-so-gentle thud from Arrant. “Good idea, Fergus. That shouldn’t be too hard for you to supervise.”
“May I go now?” Fergus asked.
“Yes, of course! Go!” Dothie snapped, irritated by the stupid question.
“I am your master,” cut in Arrant, before the giant could lope off with his prizes. “It was I who subdued you. Your orders come only from me. Do you understand? Do your task and return!” Arrant glared at Dothie. The man’s gross stupidity was beginning to irritate him—it was almost as if he’d never heard of a thurgle before, let alone seen one! [12]
It took some time, but finally they were off, the horses clopping briskly in front of the wagon, and the slaves wearily trudging along behind, dragging their shackles. Fortunately for the three villains, Avondale was less than a mile away from their camping spot. Arrant and Dothie pretended not to be surprised when they turned the corner and there it was …
“Here we are,” Fergus announced after the moment of realisation had sunk in. Avondale, the city of sites[13]. It was an expansive introduction to his favourite city, but neither Arrant nor Dothie looked as impressed as he’d hoped.
Dothie didn’t feel this village deserved the title of city—he’d seen real ones. Or more accurately one real one—his home city. Arrant, on the other hand, didn’t want to look the country bumpkin and was using his best poker face while soaking it all in.
Dothie grouched, “It’s a hole, but if the slave pens are profitable, what do I care?”
And the slave market in Avondale did prove invaluable. Not just as a source of direct income, but also as a catchment for rumours. Today the news was nothing less than the disappearance of the king’s only child, Princess Sylvalla. Good news, excellent news. All three rubbing their hands with joy, each of them as they came to the conclusion that between them it shouldn’t be so hard to bag a princess. “Then,” they told each other, “once she’s in our grasp, we can return her to her parents and become very wealthy men.”
In truth, all three said the word “we”, but in their heads they preferred to use the word “I”. Moreover, the two humans in the party fancied themselves princes. Who wouldn’t?
Riches, slaves, servants, more riches … Of course, they weren’t the only ones with that outlandish daydream. In fact, that was half of the reason their slaves had fetched such high prices. The ne’er-do-wells that usually supplied such merchandise were already on the road searching for the princess. Hundreds of people had started off down the road before the market opened, including some of the most notorious slavers—who had set off as soon as they heard the news, with the intention of selling their stock at the next village when the markets opened.
Feeling very much richer than before, Fergus, Arrant and Dothie went to the local stables to buy the finest horses, and to sell the wagon with its inferior dray[14]. Where they were going, the garish contraption would slow them down and attract unnecessary attention.
Arrant chose a frisky young gelding, black and sleek and beautiful on the eye. Dothie simply asked for the fastest horse, and got it. It was heavier than Arrant’s, thickset around the neck and shoulders, and not at all pretty, but as Dothie pointed out, looks aren’t everything. Fergus was given little choice; the manager came out with a horse for him. It was enormous. Big enough to carry three ordinary men without breaking stride.
“You’ll not go wrong with this one,” the man prattled. “Strong as an ox. No, stronger! This is the horse you want in a good fight, sir. Warhorse bred with Clydesdale. Best in the country. He’s beautiful, he is.”
Dothie snorted in contempt. He wouldn’t want to ride the beast. Not only was it heavy set, but it had an evil glint in its eye. “Have you got anything else?” he asked.
“No. That’s it. Nothin’ that’ll carry him.” The man jerked a thumb at Fergus. That horse is the best there is. For miles. Good animal. Jus’ look at those muscles.”
“All right. We’ll take all of ’em,” Arrant said, keen to be off.
The manager tried to hide a smile by rubbing his chin. “Three o’ my best horses an’ all the gear to go with ’em. That ain’t goin’ t’ be cheap. Mmmm. Guess I could just throw in three saddlebags with sleeping rolls an’ a bit o’ food for the nice round figure of six hundred gold pieces.”
Dothie and Arrant gawped at the man.
“They be good horses, worth two hundred each. I’m throwin’ in the rest out of the goodness of my heart, you bein’ such good customers.”
Arrant did the maths in his head. It was pure extortion. By his estimates, the horses were worth seventy-five gold pieces each. That would make two hundred and twenty-five. Perhaps, with all the extras, you could round that up to three hundred, but not four, and certainly not six.
Dothie didn’t bother with the maths. “Look, I’ve got this horse, placid thing, good worker, and a cart filled to the brim with good stuff. We’ve no time to sell it ourselves, see? We have a princess to rescue. So, if you’d be so kind—”
Dothie directed the man over to the wagon and opened the doors. The man shook his head, eyes wide with disbelief. “Tell you what. Two hundred gold, and this, and—”
“It’s a—” Dothie said.
“No,” Arrant said. “You think about it.”
>
The manager did. He thought while searching the slightly pre-plundered wagon. The deeper in he went, the more he realised he’d stumbled on a fortune. “I’ll, um, get my boy to look into it.” He carefully ushered away the men, in case a secret compartment stuffed with treasure accidentally got sprung while they were inside their obviously stolen wagon.
After a few moments, the boy, his son, rushed inside after them, panting. “There’s—um—We’ve had—” He looked over at the three men. “There’s been an—an accident. Dad, come quick.”
The accident, the manager was soon informed, was the accidental find of an awful lot of contraband. The wagon was practically bursting with gold and jewels. And yes, some of it was going to be exceedingly difficult to get rid of, but it was definitely going to be worth his while.
Minutes later, he hurriedly ushered the trio out of the gates with a handful of gold pieces for their troubles. While, back at the stables, the wagon was being dismantled one splinter at a time.
Buoyed with their recent success and the happy sound of money jingling in his pockets, Arrant laughed as they left the gates. “Fame and fortune, here we come!”
Dothie spat onto the dusty road. “Forget the fame, boy, it’s fortune we’re after.”
The thurgle rumbled. It sounded like rocks sliding down a mountainside, but it might have been laughter.
An hour later, the pleasantries had dwindled, and instead of money the hottest topic of conversation was who had the worst saddle sores. The thurgle didn’t join in, and Dothie kept glancing back nervously as Fergus dropped further and further behind.
Either the thurgle was up to something, or—
“By the great mother hen and her abundance of eggs!” Dothie swore under his breath, realising, now that it was far too late, that however spectacular this horse was supposed to be, it had little endurance. “That horse is slowing us down. I knew it was rubbish.”
“He probably needs two. But don’t worry, we can get them at the next village.” Arrant replied, blissfully unaware that any beast bigger than a Dalmatian had already been swapped for about twenty slaves at the next village.