The Swivel-Eyed Ogre-Thing

by Barry Hutchison

  Wesley flipped to the next page, then flipped back. “No. Nothing. Sorry.”

  Ben smiled grimly. “Oh well. It was worth a try.” He turned to Paradise. “Can you find them?”

  She nodded. “I think so, yes.”

  “Then get to it,” said Ben. “We’re going after them.”

  “Oh goody,” said Wesley, trying his best to sound positive, but failing completely. “And then what?”

  Ben rolled up the sleeves of his tunic and squared his shoulders. “And then,” he said, “I’m going to get my glove back.”

  Ben and the others stood in the ruins of a village, gazing around at the rubble of houses and shops, and the burnt-out shell of an old wooden tavern. A stone well stood in the centre of the wreckage. It was the only thing that hadn’t been completely and utterly destroyed.

  “Dadsbutt must’ve done this,” Wesley said, but Ben and Paradise both shook their heads.

  “It was the Shark-Headed Bear-Thing,” Paradise said.

  Wesley jumped back in fright. “What, again?”

  “No, last time,” Ben said. “This is Paradise’s village. This is what was left of Loosh after the Bear-Thing smashed the place up.”

  He looked around at the devastation. “I thought it was being rebuilt. The Mayor had all those building supplies sent over.”

  “It is being rebuilt,” said Paradise, defensively. Ever since the Mayor had found her wandering the woods as a baby he had taken care of her. She trusted him with her life, and if he said he was rebuilding Loosh then he was. Admittedly, he seemed to be doing it much more slowly than she would have expected, but still. “These things take time, you know?”

  “So … why are we here, exactly?” Wesley asked. “I mean, not that I’m complaining, but I don’t see any massive robo-ogres round here.”

  “He’s close,” Paradise said. She turned and scanned the trees to the east of the village. The dense forest stretched up the first few hundred metres of Mount Nochance, before the terrain became too steep and the trees decided that enough was enough, thank you very much, and that they were all perfectly happy down on the flat bit anyway.

  “Up there,” Paradise said. “Dadsbutt and Scumbo, they’re both up there.”

  “Then what are we waiting around here for?” asked Ben.

  “When we should be running as fast as we can in the opposite direction!” added Wesley. He smiled hopefully at them. “No? Oh well. Worth a try.”

  Ben started towards the trees, but Paradise caught his arm. “Let’s be careful,” she said. “They’re not alone.”

  “The trolls are there?”

  “I think so,” said Paradise. “And … someone else. I don’t know who, but I can feel them up there.”

  “Dadsbutt’s master,” Ben guessed.

  “Whoever it is, I think he’s waiting for you, Ben. I think he knows we’re coming.”

  Ben nodded. “Good. Then I hope he has my glove ready.”

  “I doubt they’ll give it up without a fight,” said Wesley.

  “That suits me fine,” said Ben, heading up into the forest.

  They found Dadsbutt’s trail almost at once. A wide expanse of grass had been flattened, and dozens of branches lay broken and trampled on the forest floor. Several large trees had been pushed over, their thick trunks snapped in two, their roots ripped free of their soil beds. It was a path of destruction that led straight into the shadowy heart of the woods.

  “So … I’m guessing this way?” said Ben.

  Paradise nodded. Wesley groaned. Then all three of them followed in Dadsbutt’s footsteps.

  They stayed quiet, stayed alert, and stayed close together. The whole forest seemed to be holding its breath and watching them. Not a bird tweeted, not a leaf rustled as they crept on quietly through the woods.

  And then, all of a sudden, they spied something through a gap in the trees – a long and narrow wooden hut with no windows and a heavy-looking door. It stood in a clearing all on its own. Ten metres or so beyond it, the rocky face of Mount Nochance rose sharply towards the sky.

  Ben and the others ducked down low and scanned the area. Nobody moving. Nobody there.

  “I think it’s safe,” Ben said.

  “I highly doubt that,” whispered Wesley.

  “Is Scumbo in there?”

  Paradise nodded. “Him … and I think a few others.”

  “What about Dadsbutt?”

  “No, not there. He’s…” She stopped.

  “He’s where?” whimpered Wesley. “And just so we’re clear – if you say ‘standing right behind you’ I will die.”

  “No,” said Paradise, shaking her head. “It’s like he’s inside the mountain itself.”

  Ben shrugged. “Good enough for me. I’m going to go rescue Scumbo.”

  “Are you absolutely sure that’s such a good idea?” Wesley asked. “He does eat people, remember?”

  “He only mostly eats them,” Ben corrected.

  “That might actually be worse.”

  “I promised him,” Ben said. “I promised him he’d be safe.”

  “Yes, well,” Wesley stumbled. “Maybe … he’s forgotten. Anyway, I’m sure we’re worrying about nothing. For all we know he’s having the time of his life in there!”

  From somewhere nearby there came a muffled scream of pain.

  “Although he probably isn’t,” Wesley admitted. He sighed. “Fine. Let’s go get it over with.”

  They kept low, scampering across the flattened grass until they reached the back of the hut. Ben listened for any sign that they had been spotted, then sidled around the building until he found the door.

  “Locked,” he said, trying the handle.

  “Oh well, we did our best,” Wesley offered. He patted Ben on the shoulder. “Can’t win them all, I suppose.”

  Stepping back, Ben brought his boot up and slammed it against the door. A jolt of pain shot along his leg and he went sprawling backwards on to the forest floor.

  The door, on the other hand, didn’t budge.

  “Ouch,” he muttered. He stood up and took aim again. He locked his sights on a spot right by the door handle. He practised his leg swing a couple of times. He took a deep breath.

  Before he could kick, Paradise caught him by the belt of his tunic and pulled him around the corner. “What are you—?” he began, but Wesley’s hand clamped over his mouth. With a tilt of his head, Wesley gestured in the direction of Mount Nochance. Ben nodded to say he understood, and Wesley pulled his hand away.

  Quietly, Ben leaned over to the corner and peeked out. There, stretching as he emerged from a dark cave in the mountainside, was Dadsbutt. The moonlight reflected off his scarred bald head.

  Ben ducked out of sight just as the ogre turned towards the shed. The ground began to shake, louder and louder, as Dadsbutt stomped closer and closer.

  The children pressed themselves tightly against the wooden wall. Dadsbutt loomed taller than the building, and for one horrible moment Ben thought the ogre would look down and spot them. Instead, Dadsbutt knelt down at the door. They heard him muttering to himself, then there was a jangling of keys followed by the clunk of a lock.

  Ben risked a glance around the corner. Dadsbutt was close enough to touch. The ogre had pushed the door open and had a hand shoved through the doorway all the way up to the elbow. The tip of his tongue stuck out through his metal teeth as he felt around inside the shed. From the other side of the wall came a series of panicky troll-like squeals.

  With a grunt of triumph, Dadsbutt yanked his arm back out again. He held three trolls trapped between his limb-like fingers. Ben caught a fleeting glimpse of Scumbo’s frightened-looking face poking out between the ogre’s thumb and forefinger, then Dadsbutt locked the door, stood up, and thundered back in the direction of the cave.

  “YOUR TURN LITTLE TROLLS,” the monster said, and there was an even nastier edge to his voice than normal. “MASTER IS READY FOR YOU NOW!”

  “What do we do?” asked Par
adise.

  “All in favour of running away?” said Wesley. He raised his hand into the air and glanced anxiously at the others.

  “We need to get Ben’s glove back.”

  “And save the trolls,” added Ben.

  Wesley thrust his hand higher. “Anyone?” he asked hopefully.

  Ben and Paradise both shook their heads. Wesley sighed and lowered his arm. “N-no, thought not,” he stammered, and he stuck close to Ben and Paradise as they hurried after Dadsbutt and in through the dark hole in the side of Mount Nochance.

  Beyond the cave entrance was a long tunnel, lit on both sides by hundreds of fiery torches. Water dripped from the moss-covered ceiling, forming shallow pools on the uneven floor.

  Ben waited until Dadsbutt was just the right distance along the passageway before following. Too close and one clumsy splash would be enough to give them away. Too far and the ogre might lose them in the next tunnel. They crept along in the middle of the path, where the torchlight was at its weakest.

  Dadsbutt whistled tunelessly as he stomped along. The sound of the ogre’s robotic leg reminded Ben of Uncle Tavish’s arm. Ben knew the blacksmith would be worried sick by now, but there was no way he was letting Scumbo down, and no way he was going anywhere without his gauntlet.

  It wasn’t just that the glove was powerful, it was that it had once belonged to his parents, and that made it his most precious possession in all the world.

  “What’s that smell?” gasped Paradise, then she froze as her voice echoed all the way along the tunnel, amplifying as it bounced from wall to wall.

  The children ducked down in the shadows, but Dadsbutt kept walking, the thundering echo of his own footsteps drowning out all other sound.

  Ben sniffed the air and immediately wished he hadn’t. A truly foul stench snagged at the back of his throat and made his eyes water.

  “Scumbo,” Wesley wheezed. “Got to be.”

  “It’s worse,” said Paradise. “Although I didn’t believe that was even possible.”

  Burying their noses in the crooks of their elbows, they pressed on, picking up their pace as they tried to close the gap between them and Dadsbutt. With a final few long strides, the ogre turned a corner at the end of the passageway and vanished out of sight. Ben broke into a run. He sprinted on as fast as he could, splashing through puddles and leaping lumps of rock. With every step the smell grew stronger, until the air was thick and choking with it.

  Ben peered around the corner and the stench became almost too much to bear. The tunnel turned off into a wide cavern that was lit with an eerie green glow. Along the walls hung hundreds of glass jars, each one filled with a squirming bright green mass.

  “Glowslugs,” whispered Wesley, peeking into the cavern. “But I’ve never seen so many in one place.”

  Ben had barely noticed the glowslugs, though. His attention was instead focused on a metal construction that stood in the centre of the cave. It looked like a long narrow building, with round windows along each side. It was at least as long as Lump’s main street, and stood three or more storeys high. It was impossible to say exactly how many floors it had, because the top of the building stretched out of sight through a hole in the cave ceiling.

  The narrow end of the lowest floor was hinged at the bottom. It stood open, the wall forming a ramp up which Dadsbutt walked. Beyond the ogre, Ben could see four or five trolls. They sat on what looked like large metal buckets, straps and chains holding them in place. Brass pipes ran from the back of each bucket, before vanishing up through holes in the ceiling above them.

  “What’s happening to them?” Paradise asked. At first Ben didn’t recognise her voice, then he realised she had shoved a small rock up each nostril in an attempt to block out the smell.

  From inside the building there came a chorus of parps and phuts and impressively loud farts. They echoed around inside the buckets, then rattled noisily up the pipes.

  “They’re being harvested,” Wesley realised. “They’re being harvested for their gas!”

  “So … what?” frowned Ben. “Someone’s collecting troll farts?”

  “That’s why they’re using glowslugs to light the cave,” Wesley realised. “One naked flame in here and the whole place would be wiped off the face of the map.”

  “Right, but why would anyone want to collect troll farts?” Ben asked.

  Wesley shrugged. “To make the world’s biggest stink bomb?”

  Paradise spoke, but another round of thunderous parping drowned her out.

  “As I was saying,” she said, when the din had died away, “what do we do now?”

  “You two free any trolls you can find. If you see Dadsbutt, hide or run away.”

  Wesley gave a nod. “I am all about the hiding and the running away.”

  “What about you?” Paradise asked.

  “I’m going after Scumbo,” Ben told her. “Then I’m going to find my glove.”

  “You think it’s in there somewhere?” asked Wesley.

  “Fourth floor,” said Paradise. “Left at the top of the stairs.”

  Ben flashed her a grateful smile. “Thanks,” he said. “Any questions?”

  Wesley raised a hand. “Could this all be just a terrible dream?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Ben.

  Wesley lowered his hand again. “That’s a pity.”

  Ben gave his friend an encouraging clap on the shoulder. “Everything’s going to be OK,” he said. “You two hang back until I signal everything’s clear.”

  “Good luck,” Paradise told him. “Don’t make me have to save your life again.”

  “Same to you,” said Ben, then he turned and ran, crouched over, to the bottom of the ramp. The smell was definitely worse there, but he was getting used to it. His eyes had stopped watering, and his nostrils no longer felt like they were on fire. He stood at the bottom of the metal ramp and waited.

  A moment later there came a deafening drum solo of bum eruptions. The noise covered the sounds of his footsteps as he hurried up the ramp and into the ground floor of the tower. The trolls grunted and muttered when they saw him, and at first he thought they had been gagged. Then he saw the mechanical arms lowering one by one from the ceiling. Each arm had a fork attached, and each fork had something small, green and terrible speared on its prongs.

  “Sprouts.” Ben grimaced as he watched a forkful being crammed into the mouth of a trapped and helpless troll. A metal band around the troll’s head and jaw tightened, forcing it to chew and swallow. There were twelve trolls seated on buckets here, and every single one of them had a mouthful of sprouts.

  A shudder travelled the length of Ben’s spine as he realised he was witnessing pure evil in action. Sprouts! What kind of monster was he dealing with?

  “Don’t worry, my friends are going to come and rescue you,” Ben whispered. He beckoned over to Paradise and Wesley. There was a wide staircase at the back of the room. Ben was about to head for it when a thought struck him. “You won’t eat them, will you?”

  The trolls shook their heads as best they could.

  “Right,” said Ben. He made for the steps, then stopped again. “Like, any of them, I mean? No chewing arms off or any of that. Deal?”

  As one, every troll in the room broke wind in perfect harmony. The sound that emerged was strangely haunting, like a solemn melody on an old church organ. It was also – in every sense of the word – breathtaking.

  Ben blinked in the sudden heat of the waft. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he coughed, making for the stairs. They were ogre-sized and made of iron, and he had to scramble up them on hands and knees.

  It was the same story on the floor above – twelve more trolls on twelve more buckets, with twelve more hydraulic arms pumping them full of greens.

  “Rescue’s coming,” Ben promised, then he raced by them, their wind at his back, their furious chuffing egging him on as he made for another set of steps.

  There were no trolls on the third floor, just a wide spa
ce packed with pot plants and flower petals. The smell was almost as overwhelming as the floors below, but in a very different way. By the time Ben was halfway to the stairs the whiff of troll gas was a fading memory, and he realised this whole floor was a smell cushion between the prisoners below and whatever lurked above.

  Ben slowed when he reached the steps. He still hadn’t come across Dadsbutt or Scumbo, and he suspected the building was about to run out of floors. They were in there somewhere, and so was Ben’s glove. If Ben could find the gauntlet he might have a chance against Dadsbutt and his mysterious master. Without it, this would probably be the shortest rescue attempt in history.

  Slowly, step by step, Ben began to climb the stairs.

  The room above was much larger than those below. It stretched out on all sides of the staircase. The walls curved upwards from the floor until they met a ceiling made of what looked liked stretched pigskin. All around the room, brass pipes fed up through the floor and vanished into the mass of material overhead. Banks of levers and switches and big brass dials were mounted on a raised platform just ahead of the stairs, and right beside them was an old ship’s steering wheel. There were three large open windows on the wall ahead of the wheel, and directly beyond them lay the rocky cavern wall.

  Ben looked to his left, to where Paradise had said the gauntlet would be. As usual, she was right. The glove was there, just a few metres away from him. That was where the good news ended.

  “Benjamin Blank. I have been expecting you,” intoned a figure in a dark hooded robe. The man raised his right hand and clenched the fingers of Ben’s gauntlet into a fist. “Let me guess. You’re looking for this.”

  There was something disturbing about the hooded man’s voice. It was only when he spoke again that Ben realised what it was. It sounded as if two people were speaking the same words at exactly the same time. One voice was deep and almost pleasant-sounding. The other was a whispery hiss that wormed inside Ben’s head and made him think of nightmares long forgotten.