Goblin Quest

by Philip Reeve

  “Then this must be a different Prawl,” said Prince Rhind coldly. “For my Prawl is a great and learned sorcerer, wise in the lore of the Westlands.”

  Faintly, above the chatter of the goblins and the tinkling of bluebells, the sound of a far-off horn came echoing over Clovenstone from the south.

  “Aha! I expect that will be them now!” said Rhind.

  “It sounds like they’re at Southerly Gate,” said Skarper.

  “Then let us go and meet them,” Henwyn declared. “We’ll soon find out if this wise and mighty Prawl is our Prawl or not!”

  It was almost five miles from the towers of the Inner Wall to the crumbling Outer Wall which ringed all Clovenstone, but quite a procession set off down the old straight road through the ruins to meet the new arrivals. Nothing much had happened since Ned’s funeral, and the goblins and their softling friends were all eager to see these travellers who came from a land so far away that few of them had even heard of it.

  “The land of Tyr Davas, also known as the Woolmark, lies east of Hindhaven and south of the Forest of Croke,” explained Dr Prong as they went tramping south through the ruins. “It is a wide and rolling land of green hills, and the folk who live there are famed for their skill with sheep. The Sheep Lords, men call them. Their king, Raun son of Efan, rules over flocks ten thousand strong from his golden hall at Dyn Gwlan.”

  Dr Prong was very keen on educating the goblins, but as usual none of them were listening. They hurried along with the cloud maidens’ cloud bobbing above them, and Henwyn went ahead with Prince Rhind because he felt that, now Ned was gone, he was sort of responsible for Clovenstone, and he wanted to stop the goblins from making too bad a first impression on these visitors if he could.

  Near the edge of the woods which filled the southern portion of Clovenstone they met with Zeewa, the girl from Musk who had come the summer before to cure herself of a curse and stayed on partly because it was too cold to travel home and partly because she had grown to like the old place and the people who lived there. She did not seem too pleased to see them now, however. The chatter and clatter of the approaching goblins had scared away the deer she had been stalking. She waited, leaning on her spear, at the place where the road plunged into the trees, and called out, “What’s happening? Are we under attack?”

  “Just welcoming some visitors,” said Henwyn. “Come with us!”

  So she did. She was as curious about the newcomers as any of the others, although she did not much like the look of Prince Rhind. Too proud and sure of himself, she thought. She had been like that once herself, for her father was Ushagi, King in the Tall Grass Country west of Leopard Mountain. Her curse, and the curing of it, had changed her, and she thought the change had been a good one. She hoped this snooty-looking young princeling would find something at Clovenstone that would change him, too.

  Down the long stair to the River Oeth they all went striding, tramping, scampering. Carefully, carefully they crossed the old stone bridge – but they need not have worried. The troll who lived beneath it was away upriver, hunting with his new friends, Torridge, Cribba and Ken. He had been showing those three urban trolls how proper trolls hunted in the wilderlands, and in return they had persuaded him to stop trying to eat anyone who set foot upon his bridge.

  Henwyn and Rhind had just reached the top of the long stairway on the far side of the river, and were waiting there for the others to catch up, when they heard a silvery horn-call. Henwyn saw the bright clothes of the travellers and the harnesses of their horses shining among the trees ahead. He had assumed that they would wait at Southerly Gate, but the goblins who had been on guard there must have fallen asleep or gone off hunting rabbits as usual. The Sheep Lords had ridden straight in, and were making their way up Clovenstone’s main road as bold as brass.

  When they saw the big crowd of goblins swarming towards them they grew a lot less bold. The two riders reined in their horses and drew swords, and a plump woman who had been strolling along beside a little brightly coloured wagon leaped up on to its seat and made ready to defend herself with an outsized frying pan. Henwyn hurried to meet them, shouting, “Don’t be afraid! Welcome to Clovenstone! There is nothing to fear!”

  And from amid the little bunch of worried riders a voice replied, “Henwyn! Henwyn! I say, it is me, Prawl!”

  So it is our Prawl, thought Henwyn, as the former sorcerer slithered down off his horse and came running over to hug him. He looked very different from the shabby conjurer who had arrived at Clovenstone two years before. He was splendidly dressed in robes of purple felt, with a travelling cloak to match, all embroidered with stars and moons in gold and silver thread. His greyish hair had been trimmed and curled and oiled by someone who knew a lot about trimming and curling and oiling. Henwyn might not have recognized him at all had it not been for his ears, which still stuck out like jug handles, and the pair of spectacles he wore, two little windows in a horn frame, which flashed cheerfully in the sunshine.

  “So it’s true!” said Henwyn. “You are working for the Sheep Lords now?”

  “Oh yes,” said Prawl, waving at Fentongoose and at those goblins whom he recognized. “I set off by sea for Barragan last spring but a storm drove my ship ashore near Molscombe, on the coast of Tyr Davas. When the good people there heard that I was a sorcerer they took me straight to their king at Dyn Gwlan. He was looking for a new wizard, you see. The previous one had accidentally blown himself up when one of his spells backfired. There was nothing left of him but two smoking boots and an unfortunate stain on the ceiling.”

  “But you’re not a wizard!” said Fentongoose, shaking his friend’s hand. “You’re no more magical than I am! Ow!” he added (for Doctor Prong had just kicked him on the shin). “What did you that for, Prong?”

  “All sorts of strange things have been happening in the world since that Slowsilver Star passed by,” Prong whispered. “It is quite possible that your friend with the ears has developed magical powers. And if he hasn’t, and he is just tricking these Sheep people into believing that he is a sorcerer, then I don’t suppose he wants you shouting about it all over Clovenstone.”

  “Oh!” said Fentongoose. “Fair point. Er, Prawl, allow me to present Doctor Quesney Prong, and Zeewa, from the Tall Grass Country, and … well, you already know Prince Rhind!”

  “Greetings, brother,” said the other rider, also dismounting. Pulling off her hat and shaking out her long, fair hair, she revealed herself to be a young woman – a rather hefty young woman, wearing the same sort of felt clothing as Prince Rhind. It was she who had been blowing the horn they had heard. It hung at her side on a crocheted baldric, the long, curling horn of a prize ram. A long bow was slung across her back, and a quiver of arrows with felt flights hung from the saddle of her horse.

  “That’s Rhind’s sister, Lady Breenge, shield maiden of Dyn Gwlan,” whispered Prawl. “She is not just a pretty face. She is a bold warrior, and her bow has slain many a sheep rustler on the borders of Tyr Davas. Don’t you think she’s the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen?”

  “Er…” said Henwyn, who hadn’t realized that Breenge was a girl at all, she was so big and tough looking. (The goblins, of course, could barely tell male softlings from female ones at the best of times.)

  “I am in love with her!” confessed Prawl, blushing. “I was going to turn down King Raun’s offer of a job until I set eyes on her, and then I just knew that she was the one for me.”

  “And does she return your feelings?” asked Fentongoose.

  But it didn’t look as if the shield maiden of Tyr Davas did, because she scowled at Prawl and said, “What are you whispering about, sorcerer?” Then, before he could answer, she spoke again to Rhind. “I am glad to find you here, brother. When those sky creatures made off with you, I feared it was all a trick, and that we might never see you again.”

  “We’re not creatures!” shouted the cloud maidens f
rom above. “He was far safer riding through the sky with us than plodding along behind you on that horse.”

  Lady Breenge glanced up at the cloud, which quickly rose a bit higher, in case she threw something at it. It seemed that she did not like the cloud maidens. (Not many people did.)

  Prince Rhind, who had not heard anything that Prawl had said, introduced his sister, who nodded briefly at Henwyn and the others. Then he quickly named the third of his companions. “This is Mistress Ninnis, my cook.”

  Ninnis was a jolly-looking person, as round as a robin and with the same bright eyes. She put down her frying pan and waved at the goblins. She bobbed a curtsey and beamed. She seemed delighted to meet them.

  “Now, Prawl,” said Rhind, “it seems we have a problem. When we set out on this noble quest of ours, you told me that we should seek the help of the Lady of Clovenstone and that she would give me … that which I need to complete the quest. But it turns out that she’s dead.”

  “Dead?” Prawl looked shocked. “Princess Dead, Ned? I mean, Princess Ned—”

  “As a doornail,” said Rhind, who cared far more about the inconvenience to his quest than about some dead princess he’d never even met. “Stone dead. Popped her clogs, turned up her toes, pushing up the daisies. Well, bluebells. The point is, can we trust these friends of hers? Goblins, strange old men, a Muskish wench and, er…”

  “He’s a cheesewright!” called the cloud maidens helpfully, seeing him pause and look at Henwyn.

  “Trust them?” Prawl had still not come to terms with the sad news about Ned. His ears flushed pink with emotion. “Of course we can trust them!”

  Henwyn decided that enough was enough. He didn’t like this Rhind, and he wished that he and his sister and his cook would just hurry up and go off on this quest he kept banging on about. But he didn’t want them telling everyone they met along the way that they had received no help or welcome from the goblins of Clovenstone.

  “Why don’t we all go back to the Inner Wall?” he said. “You can rest your horses, and we’ll have a feast, and you can tell us what it is that you are questing for.”

  “Oh, how … quaint!” said Breenge, when they showed her into the big hall at the foot of Blackspike Tower where the goblins held their rowdy council meetings and entertained visitors. Its walls were bedecked with skulls and shields and ancient, rusty weapons, the furniture was a ramshackle mishmash of stuff from every corner of Clovenstone, and the flagstones of the floor were cracked and grimy. Bits of old meals lay mouldering in the gaps between them, and other bits were stuck to the walls. (Goblins are messy eaters, and they hate doing housework. They had met and entertained in the hall at the foot of Redcap Tower before, but it was pretty much full of dirty plates and old fish heads now, so they had switched to this one rather than tidy it.)

  But Henwyn and Skarper were determined that Clovenstone should show proper hospitality to these wanderers from afar. They let Rhind’s company graze their horses on the sward outside the main gate, and had some of the goblins bring the best chairs and arrange them around a table large enough for all the humans and a lot of the goblins to sit around. Skarper’s batch-brother Gutgust and a few of the cleaner goblins went bustling off to the kitchens to see about some food.

  “Now,” said Henwyn, looking at Prince Rhind. He did not think he liked the young Sheep Lord any more than Skarper did, but he knew that first impressions could sometimes be wrong – he had not liked Skarper when he first met him, but they had soon become the best of friends. “Why are you here?” he asked. “What do you seek? And how was Princess Ned supposed to help you?”

  “Very well.” Rhind looked about him at the ugly faces of the goblins, and then behind him at his sister and Ninnis. He lowered his voice and said dramatically, “We seek the Elvenhorn.”

  “The what?” said Henwyn.

  “What’s that?” asked Skarper.

  All the goblins looked at each other and shrugged. What was an Elvenhorn when it was at home?

  Prawl broke in. “The Elvenhorn,” he said, “is one of the treasures of Clovenstone. It was stolen by the Lych Lord himself from Elvensea, the ancient kingdom of the elves, which lies drowned now beneath the waters of the Western Ocean.”

  “And how do you know it wasn’t squashed when the Keep collapsed?” asked Skarper.

  “I doubt the Elvenhorn can be destroyed,” said Prawl. “I am sure it must be here. And I knew that when Princess Ned heard of our need for it, she would be keen to help us find it.”

  “But there’s no such thing as elves!” Skarper pointed out. “Everyone knows they’re just made up.”

  “There are some who say the same about goblins,” said Breenge.

  “But elves?” said Henwyn. “I mean … really?”

  Prince Rhind stood up. The sunbeams shafting through the chamber windows lit his golden hair and shone in his blue eyes as he spoke. “You are right, goblin. There are no elves. There have been no elves for a thousand years. Once they walked upon the hills of the Westlands, and wandered singing in the woods. All we know of them is a few fragments of old tales. They were beauteous, immortal, and very wise. When men arrived, the elves departed, and lived upon their island of Elvensea, out in the Western Ocean. But the Lych Lord – the same Lych Lord who raised this foul old castle of yours – hated and feared the elves. He knew that he could not grow strong in any world that held such wisdom and such beauty. So he tricked and defeated them, slew them all, and hid their land of Elvensea beneath the waves. Only the Elvenhorn can raise it again.”

  “Clovenstone isn’t a foul old castle,” said Zeewa in the silence which followed this speech. “It’s a bit smelly, maybe, but…”

  “Elvenhorn, Elvenhorn,” Fentongoose was muttering. “No, I can’t place it.” He had carefully catalogued all the magical treasures which had been salvaged from the rubble after the Keep fell. “I don’t remember any Elvenhorns,” he said.

  “Perhaps it’s one of the items which our friend Carnglaze has carted back to Coriander to sell in his antiques shop?” asked Prong.

  “Statues for rich softlings’ gardens is more in Carnglaze’s line,” said Skarper. “He doesn’t really do enchanted musical instruments. I s’pose it is a musical instrument, this Elvenhorn thing?”

  “I have a picture,” said Prawl, rummaging in his bag. “I found it in one of the ancient scrolls in the library at Dyn Gwlan. King Raun has an excellent library, but it is not much used. Apart from a few works on sheep breeding, I don’t believe anyone has read any of the books and scrolls for a hundred years.”

  “Reading is boring,” said Breenge. “Who but a halfwit would want to sit in a dingy old library, straining their eyes to read words some other halfwit scribbled down? Give me a good horse under me, and the sun on my face, and the wind in my hair, and a bow in my hand!”

  “Oh yes!” agreed Prawl. “That is much more healthy! The outdoor life, fresh air and exercise and so forth. I completely agree!”

  “You do?” Fentongoose looked startled. “When we lived in Coriander it was all Carnglaze and I could do to get you out of the reading room. You always had your nose in a book! You said you couldn’t stand fresh air or exercise! You— Ow!” (It was Prawl who had kicked him this time, quite painfully, under the table.)

  “Nevertheless,” said Prawl, pulling a scroll from his bag and unrolling it to reveal a lot of writing in some ancient language. “I did nose about the library at Dyn Gwlan a bit, on rainy days, and it was there that I found this. It is a description of the Elvenhorn, written by a sage of old, and it has a picture. Look.”

  Everyone looked. A lot of the goblins didn’t really understand the idea of pictures, but they looked anyway, not wanting to appear stupid in front of their visitors. There on the scroll was a drawing of the Elvenhorn, just as Prawl had promised. But it wasn’t the beautiful object that Henwyn and Skarper had been expecting. Henwyn had been
imagining a golden trumpet. Skarper had been picturing an ivory horn, perhaps off a unicorn, bound round with bands of slowsilver. Instead, the picture showed something that looked like the houses which caddis fly larvae build for themselves in the mud at the bottom of ponds. A roughly shaped cone of stones and grit, studded with barnacles and bits of rusty metal.

  “Oh,” said Henwyn.

  “That’s nice,” said Skarper, sounding as unconvinced as Breenge had when she called the dining hall quaint.

  Prince Rhind said loudly, “According to legend, the first elves used this magical horn to raise Elvensea from the depths, and then cast it into the depths of the sea to stop anyone using it against them. But the Lych Lord bribed the people of the sea to swim down and find it for him, and once he had defeated the elves he hid it away in Clovenstone. I mean to take it and ride north. A fast ship waits for me at Floonhaven on the Nibbled Coast. I shall sail in it beyond the Autumn Isles to where drowned Elvensea lies. There I shall sound the horn. Elvensea will rise again, and we shall learn the lost secrets of the elves.”

  Everyone was still staring at the picture. Fentongoose was shaking his head sadly, because he knew that he would have to disappoint Prawl and his friends: he was quite certain that he had never come across anything like that among Clovenstone’s treasures. But before he could speak, a goblin named Grumpling butted in.

  “’Ere,” he said, pointing at the picture with a grubby claw. “That’s my scratchbackler!”

  “Your what?” asked Prince Rhind.

  “My scratchbackler!” Grumpling was a large and lumpy goblin, and quite startlingly stupid. His ugly face twisted into a confused but angry frown as he glared at the scroll in Prawl’s hands. “I gets an itchy back,” he explained, “so I scratches it wiv that there scratchbackler.”