by Ronan Frost
Chapter Two
Thrum surfaced from the mists of sleep cold and damp. Momentarily disorientated he looked about. He found himself lying on thick grass, the sun shinning down upon his form. He sniffed and was surprised how clean the air smelt (for he had not been outside the city walls in a very long time.) It took a few seconds, but then with rapidity the memories of yesterday came flooding back; the scroll, his house, the attacking wizard. Thrum groaned and slumped onto his back.
Archendorf looked up from his task. “How do you feel?”
“Like I’ve been mugged,” replied Thrum without humour. He resignedly sat up and ran a hand through his wily hair, eyes squinted again the morning rays. “Where are we?”
“A few leagues out of Hamontoast.”
Thrum's mind reeled. Archendorf must have run non-stop throughout the night.
“I got you some breakfast,” said Archendorf, offering a plate of vegetables.
“No meat?” inquired Thrum.
Archendorf looked taken aback. “I'm a vegetarian. I don’t see why we have the right to eat animals, when we can survive just as well without taking their lives.”
Thrum took a bite out of a bulbous herb. “If you ask me a slab of steak sure beats chewing on a bit of grass like a rabbit.”
Archendorf shrugged and didn’t reply.
There was a silence.
“I want to thank you for all you’ve done,” said Thrum suddenly. “You saved my life.”
Archendorf frowned, the memory of Bronty surfacing again. A lump swelled in his throat and he felt himself start to weaken before taking determined hold on his emotions and rousing himself enough to answer Thrum. “He threatened us both.”
Again, there was a pause. This time Thrum found it hard to find words to break the silence.
“Look, Arc. If you don’t want to get involved with all this wizard stuff, don’t stick around. It’s bad enough I’ve been pulled into it. Oh, and of course, I forgot - your friend is probably still waiting for you back in Hamontoast.”
“If you were right, and I really am three months late, he’s probably long gone. Besides, he won’t miss me. No, I want in with you, not only for Bronty’s sake. When that wizard first caught me in my room I felt… well, I felt something I’ve never felt before.”
Thrum creased his brow. “What do you mean?”
“I… well, before I thought all this scroll business nothing but small fry, you know, not much in it. But I have something to confide in you.” Archendorf looked left and right and lowered his voice, despite the fact that they sat alone in a field. “I think I felt fear.”
Thrum burst into sudden laughter, but seeing Archendorf bristle he hurriedly placated, “Welcome to my world. If you want to know fear, I’m sure I can tell you a thing or two.”
“The thing is,” Archendorf said, “is that in all my adventures and conquests, I’ve never felt that same feeling. I want to feel it more, and confront it. I think my best bet is to keep with you. Friend.”
Thrum grinned a grin so large it almost split his head in two.
“By the way,” asked Archendorf, “what are you going to do?”
Thrum was stuck dumb for a moment, realising Archendorf was right. What was he going to do? Then a thought occurred, and he pulled the scroll from his pocket.
Archendorf looked interested. “Of course, check the magic scroll!”
The air crackled with tension as they leant eagerly forwards and Archendorf cried out aloud as he saw writing upon the scroll.
“I can see it!”
Heart thumping wildly, Thrum planted his eyes down onto the scroll, hardly daring to believe that at last someone else could see what was so obvious to him.
Corn Meatballs: mix two eggs and flour, mixing well and adding a pinch of salt.
Thrum stopped, let down from his giddy height. He had pulled an old recipe scroll from his pocket by mistake. Explaining this to Archendorf, Thrum replaced it and pulled out the real scroll from the other pocket.
“Now I see nothing there,” said Archendorf.
Thrum saw otherwise; the writing from the previous night was gone, to be replaced with something different.
Scroll-bearer,
I am sorry it has come about so rapidly, as the task is indeed dangerous. The rewards are great, however, both for yourself and for the land. I cannot call upon any other for aid, only you are able to read my words. You have begun the quest, and that first step is usually the hardest. I thank you. There is no time for idle chatter, time is of the essence. I sense the magician sent to capture me is dead. That cannot be helped. You must head directly west, and keep going until you reach the Cragtop Mountains. There the secret castle of Crylock lies, and you must take me inside. Deep within their dungeons and underground labyrinths is a vault, and it is there my body rests. Ladanum, the Lord of the Crylock, knows he cannot destroy my body, for it is protected by powerful magic, so instead he makes sure nobody can get to it. Take me there, reunite me with my body and I will be alive again. I will do the rest.
Thrum stopped and looked up at Archendorf. “Do you think we should call the King for aid?”
“Would they believe you, reading from a scroll that nobody else can see?”
Thrum shook his head. After a moment, he asked a question he had been afraid to ask. “Do you believe me?”
Archendorf chewed on this. “Yes, I do – you could not possibly be making this up. But something is bothering me… how did you get hold of this scroll if it is as important as you say?”
“I found it in the dump…” Thrum’s voice trailed off as his ears caught up with what his mouth was saying. “You’re right. If the scroll was so important, why was it there?”
“See what old paperface has to say.”
Thrum unrolled the scroll again, not surprised to see the writing had changed once more. He read aloud for Archendorf’s benefit.
You are right to query how you obtained me, and you deserve an explanation.
When my spirit was imprisoned I was placed in a dwarf mine, and there I remained for more than twenty years, well aware of the passing time and not able to exert any force whatsoever. I stretched my mind, trying to reach another, and after some considerable time I was successful. An adventurer struck by an urge to explore the abandoned mines soon stumbled upon what had been my tomb for many years. The evil spells cast by the Crylock magicians faded and weak and he was able to collect his treasure, a scroll that sat rolled upon a pedestal in the centre of the room. It had been a constant feeling of something forgotten in the back of his mind for weeks; when he emerged with the scroll into the world that itch finally scratched. The poor fool knew nothing about me, and of course could not read anything on the scroll, for the spell that bound me cursed me to silence (to all but you.)
I was quite desperate to be heard and be returned to my body, I’m sorry to say, and the effect of being in such close proximity to me quite overcame the poor man. He became insane, and the scroll was once again lost. It was thrown, with the rest of the garbage, down at the dump where you found it.
“You mean it was pure chance that the only person in the world who could read you found you just like that?”
“Fate,” shrugged Archendorf.
“But the chances -”
There was a scream of punctured air as two wizards on a broomstick rocketed above, screaming shrilly.
“Stop! Make it stop!” shouted Gehmat above the rush of wind, his yellow robe cracking and whipping as they hurtled through the air.
“I can’t,” bellowed Valgus, desperately trying to get a hold of the squirming broomstick.
Suddenly it bucked and dived, racing headlong towards the ground. Valgus heaved with all his might, forcing the nose up. The magician and the conjurer skimmed the treetops at breakneck speed.
“Look out!” shrieked Gehmat, covering his eyes.
Valgus pulled left, narrowly avoiding the rock outcrop that had leapt before them. The tan
dem broomstick flashed upwards, Valgus trying desperately to get some height.
Then, on the horizon, Hamontoast came into view and they headed towards it. At last, after one pant-filling hour, they had reached their destination.
They barrelled along, Valgus having no idea of how to slow.
Gehmat, behind him, clung for dear life, struggling to keep upright on the narrow stick.
At last, Valgus started to bring it in for landing in a field by the city. Shooting along horizontally they gradually approached the ground. It seemed, Valgus allowed with a smug grin, everything was under control.
Gehmat’s foot caught on a ridge of grass and the broomstick jack-knifed, its riders torpedoing into the earth, ending their meteoric flight with a crash.
Stunned silence settled, the men of magic taking a moment to rest before regaining their feet.
“So far so good” said Valgus. “Now, the disguises.”
Valgus reached within his silver cloak and withdrew a dirty brown shawl and beggars clothing and slipped it over the top of his silver cloak. To top it off he fitted a pair of black-rimmed glasses connected to a huge pink false nose. He pulled the hood of the shawl over his head and tucked the magic broomstick under one arm.
Gehmat, however, was not so organized. A last minute rush had meant he hadn’t been able to get a decent outfit. In desperation, he rolled in the mud and splashed about until he was satisfied nobody would recognize his yellow conjurer’s cloak through the ooze. He tucked his pointy hat into a mud-filled pocket. His long white conjurer’s hair had been neglected of late, and let down out of its ponytail he could easily pass as some forsaken old hag.
“Ready?” asked the beggar that was Valgus.
“Ready,” replied the hag, previously Gehmat the conjurer.
They swivelled upon their heels and tromped off through the fields. They halted as a call rang out.
“You there! Get off my crop, you vandals!”
The magic users turned to face the farmer rapidly approaching and waving the customary pitchfork. “What the hell do you think your doing on my land? You’ll pay for this, you old cows!”
Growling, Valgus raised a hand, fingers rigid. Gehmat pulled the magician’s arm down.
“No magic,” he whispered urgently. “Remember?”
Valgus slowly lowered his hand.
“Very well, no magic.”
The farmer placed a heavy hand on Valgus’s shoulder. It was a mistake. Valgus launched his knee up, planting it solidly between the farmer’s legs. The farmer made a noise in the back of his throat before falling face first into the mud.
“Let’s go,” said Valgus, resuming his course towards Hamontoast. Scratching his beard thoughtfully, Gehmat followed.
They trudged through the muddy fields until eventually came before the open city gates. It was market day and merchants streamed in and out, some with carts overladen with fruit and vegetables, others small wooden-railed prisons carrying bleating livestock, and others dangling all manner of trinkets and charms; all rattling past with a cacophonous clatter. Gehmat and Valgus cautiously edged their way into the disorder of heavy traffic and into the city. Above the general chaos of the market exploded calls of “Fresh oranges!” and “Get your melons here!” and the like that rung in the newcomers’ ears.
Valgus stopped the first person that caught his eye with a firm hand about the upper arm. “Have you seen anything suspicious recently? A magician with a scroll. Answer me!”
A look of scorn darkened the man’s face and he laughed. “Or what, you’ll give me warts?” With a twist he freed himself of Valgus’s grip and walked off into the crowd.
Gehmat tried stopped a fat rounded woman. She ignored him, brushing off his ineffectual grasp with a huff.
“We aren’t having much luck,” said Valgus after trying unsuccessfully a few more times. “Let’s go get a drink - we may be more successful there.”
Gehmat heartily agreed. Before joining the Crylock he had acquired a taste for ale, but unfortunately Ladanum did not permit such spirits in his castle. Now out of his master’s reach he found himself yearning for a good swig.
It is said that at the heart of every city is a pub, and if you travel along the busier streets, turning only when a busier street intersects it, you will be sure to reach it. Applying this theory, and after a long battle against the swarming crowds, they finally reached the Wobbly Weasel. The muddy hag and the beggar stumbled into the interior and up to the bar, ignoring the raucous calls of “Did you get lost, Grandma?”
They ordered two beers, paid with a handful of coppers, and took note of their surroundings.
It looked as if the tavern were under renovation after a severe gutting. Four men were mending an entire wall, the floor strewn with sawdust and off-cuts of wood.
“What happened here?” Gehmat asked the bartender.
The bartender seemed engrossed in polishing glasses with a dirty rag and spoke without looking up. “Some buggers started a brawl the other night. From what the gossips say, they were fighting over a magic scroll.”
Valgus’s ears prickled. “Which way did they go?” he asked eagerly.
The bartender waved the rag dismissively. “I heard the huge muscled guy made his way out of town by the west gate last night – no mistaking his form, even in the dark. Good riddance, I say.”
The bartender looked up to face the inquiring customer, but he encountered a vacated patch of air and two empty rocking seats, slowly coming to rest.
Valgus knew he had to find the scroll-bearer’s trail quickly. If he’d known they’d left town earlier he would have been hastier; from years of experience he knew it was easy to track someone down in the city with seeking spells, and almost impossible once they’d left.
They ran to the western gate and burst out into the open fields, hurrying away from prying eyes and waiting until nobody was close before casting a search spell. Valgus restricted his motions from any casual observer.
There it was! A faint trail leading east. He turned to Gehmat.
“Do you see it?”
Gehmat nodded. The trail, made visible by the seeking spell, was a few faded specks of pale blue, already almost gone.
“We had better hurry.”
“Yes,” replied Gehmat noncommittally.
“Do you want to ride the broom?”
Gehmat glared at his companion. The answer was obvious. They set off after the scroll-bearer, feet upon solid ground and broomstick tucked firmly under Valgus’s arm.
With a full belly Thrum felt as if he were as ready as he’d ever be. While Arc stamped out the fire he stook stock of their situation.
His attire was at odds with his surroundings; he wore a thick and now faded grey nightdress from yesterday morning, his shoes, the fluffy rabbits, could hardly be described as walking boots. His pockets contained only a layer of fluff and the rolled scroll. His hair and ragged beard was corkscrewed and his eyes bleary. All set for a journey into the unknown.
Archendorf, however, seemed a little more prepared. He wore a leather jerkin, a woollen undershirt, a thick hardwearing pair of pants and heavy brown boots that looked good for stomping about in lava pits. At his belt were a number of pouches containing, no doubt, something useful for every situation.
Thrum was broken from his reverie as Archendorf spoke.
“What did you say?”
“I said, which way do you plan to go?” Archendorf repeated.
“Well, we could head west along the trade route, from there, well, through The Pass I guess.”
Archendorf nodded. The Cragtop Mountains were far off to the west, on the very edge of the civilized kingdom.
“We need a horse,” Archendorf’s voice almost didn’t break at the recurring memory of Bronty, but he covered it nobly with a clearing of his throat. “And provisions. I suggest we head towards Bullspit, I may be able to hock some of my gear to satisfy our needs.”
Thrum nodd
ed.
Archendorf arched and knuckled his lower back. “Well, we’d best get moving then.”
They left their campsite, not even having a pack to settle into place or a sword hilt to finger. Thrum’s rabbit slippers scuffed the dirt as he walked along the side of the well-travelled road, his head bowed as he placed one foot before the other.
Unknown to the pair, barely one hundred paces behind, Gehmat the hag and Valgus the beggar were fast closing. They ran as fast as their flapping skirts would allow. Within a few minutes, the scroll bearer would be in range of the seizing spell, a spell that no mortal man could break. A cart bounced past them and slackened its pace to match that of the fast hobbling pair.
“In a hurry, ladies?” enquired the cart driver. “Need a lift?”
Valgus’s mind was so intent upon the scroll bearer ahead he didn’t spare a glance. Gehmat shook a mud-encrusted fist at the cart and bared his teeth.
The cart driver huffed and flicked the reins, accelerating his pair of horses once again into a trot. Valgus only became aware of the cart as it drew away from them and approached the scroll bearer, slowing for them.
“Son of a-”
Thrum startled at a voice from above and behind.
“How about you guys, need a lift?”
Thrum and Archendorf looked up to see a man upon an empty cart. Archendorf got closer.
“If you don’t mind, good sir, it would be much appreciated.”
“Hop aboard then!”
They did so, hoisting their buttocks onto the lowered rear gate. The driver whistled his horses into motion again and the cart jolted into motion.
Gehmat swore viciously as he saw the cart pick up the scroll bearer and company. He was breathing too heavily and could only watch as Valgus gave a half-hearted attempt at pursuit. He eventually tired and waited for Gehmat to catch up.
“Blow this for a joke.” Valgus pulled the broom from under his arm. “It’s out only chance of catching them now,” he said as he swung his legs over the pole.
Gehmat only had time to position himself behind Valgus before the stick roared into life.
“Valgus, pleeeeee-”
His cry pushed back into his throat as they accelerated, the road flashing by underneath and the trees lining the road taking on a blur and making a whoosh-whoosh-whoosh sound. The scroll bearer’s cart, previously in the distance, grew larger as they approached.
Suddenly it flashed below them.
“Turn back,” Gehmat roared into Valgus’s ear. “We missed them!”
But Valgus was already doing his best to halt the broom. It stubbornly refused his pleas. “Good boy,” Valgus coaxed in a wavering voice, stroking the wooden handle as they sped along the road. “Good boy, stop now. Stop! Stop right now you bastard!”
Thrum, Archendorf and the cart driver looked up sharply as something shot overhead like an arrow, spooking the horses. Leaves fluttered in the wave of the missile as it veered off from the road and out over the trees.
“What in the blazes was that?” asked the cart driver, who had introduced himself as Ed.
Already it had disappeared into the distance. Ed soothed his horses into calm.
Archendorf shook his head. “Sure get some strange wildlife in these parts.”
Ed shrugged and goaded his horses back into motion.
They travelled until the sun angled low in the sky, forcing their eyes to be squinted against the glare. It had been a cool day typical of early winter, softened by the warmth of the sun from a cloudless sky. Now shadows were lengthening and deepening it began to chill rapidly. Lining the road to their left was Mosswood forest, the great woodlands in which the elves inhabited. To their right, just over some rolling hills and sometimes coming into view, the coastline of Deepwater Bay and the vast expanse of the Endless Sea beyond.
Thrum cast nervous glances towards the dense and crowded trees of Mosswood forest as they bumped along. Gnarled with age the trees pushed up against the road like a rebellious crowd against a barricade, exuding an aura of menace and foreboding. Thrum thought of the elves that dwelt within; a mysterious folk, poets and bards of ages past had given the impression they were a fair and beautiful people, oft bursting into lilting song about golden boughs and still waters.
They lied.
Elves of the real world lived among the trees with their homes high up in the branches. Their arms were long and thin, so long that if they were to walk upon the ground their knuckles would drag. These arms coupled with long toes suited for gripping branches enabled them to swing from tree to tree with apelike ease. Their heads were flat oblong shapes topped with a layer of short bristling hair, eyes as wide as spoons, with torsos tampered off from broad shoulders to a tiny waist.
Thrum had never actually seen an elf but had heard and read of them. The trade route they now travelled skirted Mosswood forest as no traveller in his right mind would dare risk trespass elvish territory, even if it did mean adding a few days to the journey.
Thrum woke from his slumber as the cart jerked to a halt and Ed the driver twisted around to face his hitchhikers. “We’re at the fork, which way you guys planning to go?”
Thrum and Archendorf exchanged glances.
“West,” Arc said with deliberation. “Up through the Pass and into the Northern Territories.”
“Well, that’s a bit of bad luck,” said Ed. “I’m off east to Deepwater.”
“Then we shall part here,” Archendorf said. “Thank you very much, friend. Can we give you some coin?”
“Don’t be daft, the company was a pleasure. You boys have a good trip.”
They jumped from the empty cart and with this Ed stirred the horses and the cart clattered once again to motion. They waved as he and his cart retreated into the distance.
The silence seemed suddenly heavy and Thrum’s eyes flickered uncertainly. The forest seemed to loom and breathe down the nape of his neck. The crossroads at which they stood was at the top of a hill, the grass waving in ripples over the plains, the road continuing its progress west. Their shadows were long and drawn.
“Shall we camp now?” Thrum asked.
“No, let’s get away from this crossroads and that damnable forest. How about we head for that clump of trees,” he indicated to an island of foliage in the sea of grass. “We should find some shelter there, and will also be hidden if your wizard friends should come looking for us.”
Agreeing, Thrum joined Archendorf as he ploughed off through waist high grass. Shortly they came to the trees, and they found a small round door embedded into the hill. It reached up to Thrum’s waist and was made of seasoned oak.
“Hobbit burrow?” asked Thrum.
Archendorf nodded. “It’s our lucky day. Let’s go.”
With this, he pulled the door from its bed, revealing a dark tunnel leading down into the earth. He lowered himself to his knees and squeezed himself in. Thrum followed, interested, knowing from his readings that it was not uncommon for a hobbit to share his home with visitors.
A few moments later, a small round form flew from the hole like a cork from a bottle, skidding to a halt after brief flight. Disgruntled, the hobbit picked himself up and dusted his clothes, hunting around until his found his pipe. With this in hand, he settled down for a cold night under the stars, waiting patiently for the humans to leave so he could go back to bed.
Valgus leaned into the icy wind and brought the broomstick around in a wide arc. The rolling grassy hills flashed below them in the darkening night. One hand holding the broomstick Valgus ripped off his disguise and cast it to the wind. Gehmat, seeing how easily Valgus appeared to have done it, tried it himself. With his beard flattened against his chest in the whipping wind he reached up to tie his pony-tail back up. Suddenly the broomstick disappeared from beneath him.
“?” he said, the instant before gravity caught hold.
He plummeted through the air, his stomach leaping all the way up his throat, arms and legs flailing useless
ly.
Valgus sensed the companion’s prompt departure with a sudden lightening of the broom. He whipped the broom into an about-face.
“Help is on the way!” he cried, being one who enjoys acting the hero.
The chances that a broomstick spearing through the air could catch a man in free fall are extremely small. With an eye-watering crunch the broomstick landed between Gehmat’s spread legs.
Breathless, Gehmat clung for dear life, this time however he sat at Valgus’s front with his back to the direction of travel.
“You all right?”
“Gnnnn…”
Valgus took it as an affirmative. Again he swung the broom around, the bristles at the rear giving a high frequency whirr above the roaring wind. Gehmat, facing backwards, had no idea of their direction.
“Where… we… going?”
Valgus replied, but his words were torn away in the wind, and all Gehmat received was a fine stinging spray of saliva. But Valgus knew what he was doing; he’d seen the crossroads flash by and he was doubling back to it, and by his estimates the horse-drawn wagon should just about be at that location. The only trick now was to wash off some speed…
Valgus leant forward delicately, pushing downwards on the stick as it buckled nervously with restrained energy. Edging lower and lower tree tops started to brush by underneath, and then suddenly a large oak, hidden in the dusky gloom, loomed in their path and snatched them from the air. With a shower of leaves and branches they shot straight through the boughs. Their trajectory corkscrewed and they bounced into the canopy. Valgus held his breath, hands held up over his head, feeling strangely calm in the long moments of chaos. He knew he could do nothing to alter the sequence of events taking place according to the immutable laws of physics.
Gradually the human missiles lost speed and incredibly came to a complete halt. There was a short silence, the men of magic taking some time to reassure themselves they had actually stopped and waiting for any flashes of pain from broken limbs to come into the brain. Gehmat coughed and shook his head, assuming the worst was over. He struggled to his feet.
It was a mistake, for it had slipped his mind that they were on a roof of trees, the compacted cushion of branches giving way. He disappeared through the greenery.
Valgus, sitting nearby, blinked at his companion’s sudden departure. He peered down through the layers, spying Gehmat had tunnelled head first into the humus, legs curled backwards over his head. Bringing the broom with him, Valgus scrambled down through the lowermost branches and into a deep cushiony carpet.
“Stop fooling around,” he said, untangling his companion’s limbs. “This is Mosswood forest. We’d better get out of here.”
Gehmat nodded groggily and with Valgus’s help managed to stagger to his feet. They emerged from the dark forest and onto the road. Valgus saw the crossroads nearby.
“How’s that for navigation,” he muttered with a tinge of pride.
“Wha’ that?”
“Never mind. Come on, get up here.” Valgus flicked back his sleeves and cleared his throat as he cast the search spell. A ghostly glimmer appeared to one side. With his heart pounding, he cast a sight spell, and the trunk of a nearby tree rippled backwards to reveal an image of Ed’s cart trundling down the road.
“We got ‘em.”
Gehmat stirred. “They went that way? Shouldn’t they be heading to the Crylock?”
Valgus didn’t answer. He pulled the broom from under his arm. At the sight of it, Gehmat collapsed. “Nonono.”
“Come on! We have them now!” Valgus swung his leg over. Gehmat managed to get a hold of the magician’s cloak and in an instant they launched into the air, snapping like washing pegged to a line.
Opening his eyes from the depths of peaceful slumber, Thrum became momentarily disorientated, noting he slept in a bed half his size in a room of carefully varnished wood. Then he remembered the hobbit, and with this, the memory returned of the meal the hobbit had kindly supplied for them the previous evening.
Thrum swung his feet over the edge of the tiny bed and saw Archendorf already preparing breakfast. In the low kitchen the huge man was on his knees with head bowed over almost to his chest.
“Good morning!” Arc cried with bubbling cheerfulness.
Thrum groaned in reply, rubbing the crusted sleep from his eyes.
A few minutes later they ate a breakfast consisting of hot coffee, toast, porridge and bacon. With the dirty dishes piled up in the sink Archendorf absently picked up a hobbit-sized pipe lying by the stove. It was already packed and he lit it. With smoke puffing from his lips, he lazed back in the tiny seat. Suddenly there was a crunch and the seat gave way with the weight. Archendorf untangled himself from the wreckage and took another. This one creaked, but remained intact.
Archendorf sipped thoughtfully at his coffee. “Sure miss a bit of female company, if you take my meaning. Thanks to you, I missed out my chance in looking for some action.”
“It’s not my fault, I-”
“Hey, easy on there! I’m not serious! But maybe when we get back you could show me some highlights of the big city, eh?” Arc grinned and poked his elbow.
“I… wouldn’t know… I’m a magician you know. There are certain rules… certain,” He cleared his throat. “Ahem…vows.”
“So you’ve never...?” pursued Archendorf.
Thrum shook his head.
“In your entire life?”
“There’s no hurry.”
Archendorf pressed his lips together and tilted his head to one side as if having just eaten something somewhat unusual and unexpected. He studied his friend as if through new eyes. Sure, Thrum was a little on the bony side, his posture a little stooped, his lips perhaps a little thin, but underneath that scraggly beard he was a handsome enough fellow. “You know,” he drawled, “some choose a life of celibacy, and others have it thrust upon them.”
“Look, I’d rather not talk about it. One day the right girl will come along.”
Archendorf spread his hands and a wry grin split his face. “Fair call. Sorry for prying.”
“So what’s your story?” Thrum said to change the subject. “Where did you grow up, where are your parents?”
Archendorf’s eyes defocused as he sank into warm recollection. “Ahh, I come from a village in the mountains, ma’ and pa’ are true hills folk. Life is tough out there and we work hard, but the people are good to each other. I’ve been on the road seeking adventure for, let’s see now, it’d be getting on to four years.”
“I never knew my real parents,” Thrum said, his voice a little melancholy. “I was taken in by my foster parents - they worked in a circus - and I travelled with them. They were kind enough to me, but there was no real love, if you know what I mean. They wanted me to be part of their act, but as soon as I was old enough to enter magic university I ran away.”
“Ahh, university!”
“That didn’t last long, I got thrown out, but I still studied as if my life depended upon it. Never cast a spell, but not for lack of trying.”
“You’ll get there,” encouraged Archendorf. “You’ve the look of a mage about you.”
“Thanks. But I’m beginning to think that it’s just not me.”
“There’s nothing else you can do?”
“Oh, I’m sure I could get a job as a scribe or something, it just means giving up my dream.”
“You may never have to work again, if we can pull this stunt with Taukin off.”
Thrum grunted and allowed himself to dream of what may be. He sat back in his miniature chair and there followed a minute of companionable silence.
Archendorf distractedly wiped the mud from his boots into the carpet.
“It’s about time we got moving, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” sighed Thrum.
After a few minutes of organising and raiding the last of the food from the pantry, they clambered up the tunnel, emerging into brisk morning air. They stretched
, yawned cavernously, and set off across the grass to find the road that led west.
The hobbit, sitting with his stubby arms wrapped about his knees in the biting chill of morning watched as his guests emerged. When he was sure they were a safe distance away he scrambled down his hole to clean up the mess, muttering and tut-tutting under his breath.
Valgus was not in the best of moods. They had caught Ed’s cart, practically ploughing into the side of it, only to find the scroll no longer on board. With lips trembling in rage Valgus interrogated the driver, finding where he had last seen the scroll bearer. Information obtained, Valgus unleashed a storm of magic at Ed. The hapless man cowered back but there was no escape from the force of the changing spell. He turned instantly into a rat, and Valgus stepped forward and crushed the animal under his boot. Thick blood oozed from the mammalian mush.
Gehmat swallowed nervously. “We can catch them,” he offered as he struggled to keep pace with Valgus.
“They’ve wasted enough of my time already. They will die.”
Gehmat nodded quickly.
Valgus stopped and produced the broomstick before standing astride it. He beckoned Gehmat to do the same. Gehmat cowered before the magician’s withering gaze and did not argue.
Valgus prepared his mind and said the spell to launch the broomstick. It required some concentration and –
Gehmat let out a snivelling whimper. Valgus became distracted as the broom exploded into life, felt his fingers lose their grip on the handle and it slipped between his hands, skyrocketing into the air. It quickly disappeared into the night, leaving the two astride thin air.
They walked back to crossroads.
The night passed - the moon rising, ponderously swinging overhead. They stopped often to rest before taking up their exhausted foot-dragging march. Eventually the sun poked a tip over the horizon, banishing the cold night. At last, they had reached the crossroads, about the time Thrum and Archendorf had left their overnight dwelling. If the magic men had looked a little closer, they would have seen the two wading through the grass.
“I need a rest,” gasped Gehmat, so exhausted he ran blindly into a tree, rebounding awkwardly.
“Okay,” replied Valgus, tired himself. “You see that clump of trees, head for that.”
They did so, and within a minute, reached their destination.
“What luck, a hobbit hole!” burbled Gehmat, already scrambling down into the depths.
Moments later the hobbit shot from the hole and into the long grass. He picked himself up, red in the face. That does it, he thought, collecting his possessions that had scattered from his pockets. With this he set off on a journey to find a new hole that was, hopefully, a little quieter.
Thrum and Archendorf stepped out of the long grass and onto the road. The dew had soaked their pants and shoes and it was a relief to get into the sunshine.
“Mid afternoon, keeping a good pace, we should make Bullspit,” encouraged Archendorf.
In high spirits, with good meals in their stomachs and refreshed from a comfortable night’s sleep, they set off down the road. There was no traffic at this time of the morning so they walked in the middle of the two-cart wide road. The rising sun in a cloudless sky dried their pants and shoes and gradually warmed the chill air. Birds flew overhead, small animals darting into the grass at their approach, and they tried their best to ignore the blood chilling howls that sometimes emerged from Mosswood forest.
Gradually Thrum’s hunger grew and by mid-morning his stomach was grumbling uneasily. They stopped for a brief snack of muffins and pickled eggs from Archendorf’s pack. Drinking deeply from their newly obtained water gourd they again felt refreshed, and began walking again.
Meanwhile, in the hobbit hole, Gehmat and Valgus were emerging after a brief rest and breakfast. They set off on the road west, on the trail of Thrum and Archendorf that was not three hours old.
As Thrum walked, he found his thoughts wandering freely. He gazed up at the sun, thinking of Isla the sun-god who controlled the rise and fall of the sun via an intricate system of thin wires and pulleys. There were many gods for every little thing on the face of the earth, he reflected. The goddess of the night, whose cloak would cover the world every night, speckled with tiny holes that let through pinpricks of light, creating the belief that the sun-god retrieved the sun from whence it had set, repositioning it back in the east like the movements of stage pieces behind a dropped curtain.
Magicians had in years past tried to investigate this huge astronomical cloak. The Ivory Tower of the King’s Four Archmages had once set up a sophisticated experiment involving six hundred ladders lashed together end to end, stabilised with magic, so a man could climb to the roof of the world. In their ambition, they kept adding ladders, until the whole structure became unstable and the laddernaut toppled to the ground.
The Tower of Archmages gave up the experiment and didn’t like to talk about it. The Ivory Tower was located just north of Deepwater Bay, and was responsible for governing the Kingdom. It was a difficult job to keep the peace, and it seemed every week war loomed on the horizon between neighbouring factions. For years, tension had been developing between the races of humans, elves, dwarfs and goblins, yet so far, the Tower had managed to play a consolatory role, sometimes intervening with magical force, and peace reigned.
The vast land that was the Kingdom was bordered on the east and south by the sea, the north by the desert, and on the west by the Cragtop Mountains. The Tower controlled all of this land, magic being the most powerful force in the world.
The land beyond the Cragtop Mountains was unknown, the range being impassable until recently. Some frontier camps had set up on the far side of the mountains and the new land was being explored. Thinking of the Cragtop’s, Thrum recalled that this was their destination. He had never travelled so far, and in a curious way he was rather looking forward to the journey.
“…ello? Anybody there?”
Thrum shook himself from his reverie. He saw Archendorf had broken a piece of hobbit’s bread and passed it to Thrum, who took it. Together they munched on the deliciously soft fresh bread as they walked.
If they had looked over their shoulder, they would have seen a magician and a conjurer topping a distant rise.
Archendorf’s spirits rose as they passed a signpost proclaiming Bullspit one league away. Looking closely at the horizon he saw wisps of smoke rising from distant houses. He roused his comrade and pointed out the town.
Thrum squinted but could not see anything.
Without warning, something burst from the foliage of Mosswood forest and onto the road, a small blue scaled thing like a flat lizard. It had barely made it halfway across the road when a larger shape pursuing it flew in a great hopping motion on top of its prey. It was larger lizard, bright yellow, the size of a chicken, with powerful rear legs and a thin tail. Its sharp beak stabbed the other lizard, lifting into the air, and as quickly as it had appeared both disappeared back into forest.
“Yes,” Thrum said in a voice very determined not to lose control. “We’ll just, umm, keep moving shall we?”
Archendorf nodded. The inhabitants of Mosswood were strange indeed.
Behind them, two hills away, Valgus sweated freely in his mercury-lined cloak. As they staggered Gehmat removed his hat to wipe the lather of perspiration from the lining. Ten minutes later, they passed a sign informing them Bullspit one league away.
At last, the sprawling city came into view as they topped a hill. Thrum took a moment to look about from the vantage before they descended the gentle slope.
“Have you figured out what we are going to do in Bullspit?” he asked.
“Aye, I have. We need a pack horse, and add a little more to our stock of provisions.” Archendorf patted his pack containing the hobbit food.
“Do you have enough money for a room?”
“No, we have to be careful with our money. Somewhere out of the wind and rain will be adequate for our overnight lodgings. First
things first, though, we need to find some weapons. My dagger is still in the heart of that wizard in Hamontoast, and I’m feeling half naked without it.”
“Do you know this town? Anywhere we can buy such things?”
“Nope, but let’s have a wander, we’re bound to find something.”
By this time they had reached the town wall, a primitive affair made of wood sharpened to spikes. The gates were open and unguarded and they entered.
The town was quiet. Thrum breathed deeply, savouring the smell of rot, sewage and sweat that made it seem he was almost at home. They stood there for a moment as a few people bustled past on errands. A few wagons had just arrived and the stock unloaded at a market stall, a small crowd gathering to get the prime produce.
They made their way through the markets and wandered through some of the smaller alleys of the town. After a few minutes Archendorf said,
“Ah-ha!”
Thrum looked up, and sure enough, they stood before a shop accordioned between two larger ones. The sign on it read
Ye Olde Weapone Shoppe
“Well, I suppose we need some if we are to fight off the hideous forces of evil,” commented Thrum, shrugging.
Arc pushed open the door and it caused a bell to tinkle. They entered the cool, damp interior.
After their eyes had become accustomed to the gloom they made out a dwarf sitting behind a counter of a shop cluttered with dust collecting arsenal. Shelves literally overflowed with ancient weapons and cabinets displaying an assortment of battle dress were stacked layer upon layer. Here were broadswords, knives, sabres, battleaxes and tower shields all tucked into dark recesses. The roof above had makeshift mezzanine stuffed with indistinguishable objects bathed in shadow. The aisles were so narrow Archendorf had to shuffle sideways to get through.
They made their way to the counter, and the dwarf sitting at it put down the magazine he was reading. He was a typical representation of his race; heavy clothing faded and abraded with age, a thick white beard sprouting from his face, sparkling eyes sunken deep into sockets, a white bridge of continuous eyebrow overshadowing them. The top of his head was thinning and bald, perhaps from years of wearing a battle helm. Although Archendorf couldn’t see behind the counter he was sure the dwarf was wearing a pair of heavy mining boots reaching his knees.
“Afternoon,” the dwarf said in a rough gravelling voice. “What can I do for you?”
“Um,” stuttered Thrum. “Well, we were thinking of buying some weapons.”
“You came to the right spot,” the dwarf stated flatly.
Nothing happened for a good half a minute. When Thrum was sure the dwarf was not going to say any more, he continued.
“What would you, ahem, recommend?”
The dwarf shrugged, but did not have time to complete the gesture as he was interrupted by the front door crashing open, the little bell on it giving an abortive chime. The three looked up as one to see a tall magician outlined in a dramatic pose in the doorway.
Thrum sank back into the shadows of the counter and tried to melt into the floor. Archendorf prudently followed suit, slipping quietly between some nearby shelves. Thrum desperately tried to make himself as small as possible as the magician strode to the counter. It seemed they were successful, for the magician did not see either of them.
“Where are they?” hissed the intruder, speaking to the dwarf.
The dwarf shrugged. “Who?”
The magician drew himself up and glared the dwarf in the eye. The dwarf remained impassive. Seconds passed with agonising slowness.
“Two men passed through here,” the magician whispered in the tone of one about to lose his temper. “Have you seen them?”
Thrum was so close that if he had have reached out he could have tugged on the magician’s cloak. He swallowed a lump that had built in his throat.
“Noooo,” the dwarf said very slowly. “I can’t say that I have.”
Something behind the magician’s expression snapped. With a violent start, he flung out a hand and cast a savage spell with curling lips. The air around his fingers concussed and the dwarf lifted from his stool with the rush of air and launched across the room, crashing into the back wall, pinned.
“I’ll say it one more time,” he warned coolly. “Where are they?”
“Here!”
Thrum’s heart froze painfully and he could not breathe for sheer terror as Archendorf stepped from the shadows and huffed his chest at the magician. “Release that dwarf!”
Slowly, very slowly, Valgus turned, a grin cracking across his leathered face. From the corner of his eye Thrum saw the dwarf slide lifelessly to the floor.
“Well well, we meet at last.” Valgus sized up Archendorf with a piercing gaze.
Before he had quite realized what he was doing Thrum found himself rising to his feet and a spell on his lips. He was still hidden from the magician behind Archendorf’s broad back, but still a large part of his mind rebelled at his sudden act of inspired bravery.
“Er, urgi beao narcari,” he incanted.
The magician heard the words and cocked an ear. He leant to one side until Thrum emerged from the Archendorf’s penumbra.
“Deorn cratso, er,” Thrum faltered.
The magician’s cruel face twisted into a parody of a grin. Sadistically amused he stood back with folded arms.
“Munho nominik!” Thrum finished the spell with a flourish and to his utter astonishment, it seemed, for the first time in his life, a spell had worked. There was a puff of smoke between his outstretched hands and the snap of a small firecracker. The smile on Valgus’s face faded.
The smoke cleared, revealing what Thrum held between his hands; a bunch of drooping flowers that looked well past their use by date. A few faded red petals drifted lazily to the floor.
Thrum looked at them stupidly for what seemed an eternity.
The grin on the magician’s face reappeared, his lips pulled back to reveal an incomplete row of yellow teeth (oral hygiene being unheard of in the Crylock.)
“Look out!” Archendorf cried in warning as Valgus raised his spell-casting hand. Archendorf leapt back to tackle Thrum to the floor to save him, but his feet tangled. With a startled cry the big man pin-wheeled madly as he snatched for an anchor. His hands came into contact with a beam supporting the roof. He grabbed it and pivoted about, arresting his fall. Just as his massive bulk was swinging to a stop, the wooden pillar he held shifted, dislodging dust from overhead. An instant later the entire beam snapped away, causing Archendorf to fall again.
It was revealed that the beam was all that was holding the upper floor together. An almighty crash and snapping from above heralded a plummeting avalanche of junk. Bewildered, the magician looked up in time to see a cascade of pointy weapons hail down.
For long terrifying moments Thrum watched, frozen to the spot and unable to move, as weapons rained down, forming a massive cone of debris that buried the magician with a deep roar. Clouds of choking dust flowed down and out.
Eventually the noise abated and Thrum felt his heart once again begin to beat. He saw Archendorf lying to one side, his mouth agape. As all is bound to do, everything found equilibrium and soon the only sound was the occasional tinkling of a dagger or greave falling onto the slowly settling stack.
The magician’s arm stuck out at an odd angle. Gehmat, who had been hiding at the rear of the shop, dashed out the open doorway, his yellow robe fluttering behind.
Thrum surveyed the damage and saw the second storey had only collapsed where the magician had stood. It seemed too lucky to be true. He tossed the wilting flowers aside and made his way to Archendorf.
“Wow.” Arc’s glazed eyes snapped into focus, looking at something over Thrum’s shoulder.
“What is it?” Thrum asked, turned to see what had upset his friend.
Thrum froze.
The magician’s hand, the only thing protruding from the pile, moved! It patted left and right, looking like some sort of puppet
snake as it tried to uncover the mountain of weapons, but was unable. Suddenly it tensed and waved in a dance, forming a spell.
“Stop him!” Thrum shrieked.
Archendorf was already moving. In one swift motion, he had snatched a sword from the pile, grasping it neatly by the hilt. The steel blade swished through the air, neatly chopping the arm at the base of the pile.
Thrum felt his stomach churn at the sickening crunch. He averted his eyes too late, and saw the severed magician’s arm topple ignominiously end over end to the ground, blood spurting from the stump.
“Urrgh, that’s gross.” He risked a peek at the bare skinned arm lying on the ground, fingers twitching spasmodically.
Archendorf brushed the dust from his legs, tossing the sword back onto the pile.
“Is he dead?” Thrum asked.
Archendorf studied the unmoving pile. “Yep.”
“We killed him.” Thrum’s breath came out shaky. He was not sure what he should be feeling, so many emotions were roiling inside it made him feel sick.
Archendorf took a few steps bent to retrieve the bunch of wilted flowers Thrum had conjured. He threw a wry grin at Thrum.
“Nice work there. Although, I take it not the effect you were hoping?”
Thrum looked down at the floor, refusing to meet Archendorf's eyes.
“Cheer up, it was a fantastic effort, Thrum my friend. Magic is magic! I can't believe you stood up to that guy like that, that was some brave move!”
“Fat lot of good it did.”
“Hey, I thought you said you couldn’t do magic.”
“It's my first spell.”
“Congratulations!”
“Congratulations? For this?” Thrum ripped the flowers from Archendorf's paws and threw them back to the floor. His small heart was fluttering wildly in his chest, the adrenalin of their near encounter with death sending his fingers trembling. “Well, how about you think next time before you stick both our hides on the goddamn line.”
“Hey there buddy, easy.”
“Fine for you to say, but I value my life. We could have gotten away there!”
“Now hang on, that may be your way, but I'm not going to run away and let someone else take a beating in my place.” Archendorf's voice firmed. “Never have, never will.”
“Yeah, well, my scrawny butt is on the line too when you open your big mouth.”
A consolatory grin twitched across Archendorf's visage and his eyes softened their defensive hardness. “I'm proud of you Thrum. I may be a mindless oaf, but I know for a fact that you were with me all the way. You stood out of those shadows with me, and for that I’m grateful.”
Thrum shook his head, still refusing to meet his friend’s gaze.
“Well, next time, think before you do something stupid like that again.”
Archendorf nodded soberly. “Say, let’s check on our little friend.”
The dwarf in question had uncurled from the foetal position on the floor and stood, coughing and ruefully twisting his neck back and forth.
“Thanks for saving me,” he said. “That bastard had me beat.”
“No, thank you,” said Archendorf. “By the way, why did you get involved? You didn’t have to.”
The dwarf shrugged. “I’ll be damned if I’ll side by any wizard. I hate their sort of magic, blustering around, thinking they own the place. Really gets my back up.” The dwarf glanced uneasily at the pile. “Is he really dead?”
Thrum nodded.
“Chalk two on the tally, eh Thrum?” Archendorf grinned.
“Two?” the dwarf asked.
“Yep, we've dispatched two evil wizards in the space of as many days. I have to say, I’m starting to get a feel for it.”
The dwarf brightened and snapped his fingers as if an idea had just come to him. “You deserve a reward! Come on!”
The dwarf paddled along on his thick stumpy legs, walking with practiced gait that avoided tripping on his beard dragging along the ground before him. As he walked Archendorf noted with some satisfaction that the dwarf did in fact wear heavy mining boots like in the old story books.
The dwarf kicked back a carpet that raised a cloud of dust, revealing the aged flagstones of the building floor. He inserted a key into a slot in the floor and something clicked, a handle appearing. The dwarf heaved the trapdoor up and said, his voice straining, “I keep all the valuables down here.”
With a thump, the door opened fully and the dwarf disappeared down below. Exchanging glances, Thrum and Archendorf followed, discovering steep stone stairs leading down into the darkness.
The coolness enveloped them the deeper they went. The dwarf sprang up a few steps and called back at them.
“Oh, stop right there! Sorry, I forgot to mention, don’t step on there – it’s booby trapped.”
Thrum froze and slowly withdrew his boot. “What does it do?”
“You don’t want to know, believe me.”
Thrum released his breath and took a large stride over the step in question. At last, they reached the bottom and stood before a solid wooden door reinforced with bands of iron. The dwarf slipped a key into the door and the tumblers clunked solidly. He heaved the door open and scuttled inside.
They were in total darkness for a minute until the dwarf lit various torches along the walls, revealing by stages they stood in a large stone room. The flames cast flickering shadows that danced upon the objects in the room and made them seem oddly alive. Thrum’s jaw fell open.
It was filled, corner to corner, with gleaming weapons on display. There were swords beset with jewels, placed on red velvet behind glass doors of tall cabinets. There was a whole row of daggers of various shapes and sizes, edges gleaming wickedly in the light. Huge shields hung from the walls, polished and painted with blazing emblems. Curved swords arranged in cyclic patterns on the walls, gleaming helmets and suits of armour standing mute guard to the hoard.
The dwarf spoke.
“You saved my shop. The magician was about the fry the place, with me in it. I owe you my thanks. Take anything you wish.” The dwarf’s eyes gleamed in the torchlight as he stroked his white beard against his rounded chest.
Archendorf blinked.
“You mean it?”
The dwarf nodded.
As if in a dream, Archendorf explored the shelves. He passed rows of ornate armour and lances, whole shelves of war hammers, battle axes, finely crafted bows, maces, and morning stars.
Thrum, meanwhile, seemed more subdued, perhaps still in shock at their near encounter with the wizard. He wandered to the nearest chest and flicked it open. His hand stopped mid-air as a golden cruciform caught his eye lying within. Slowly he lifted it from its bed of red velvet, feeling its weight. Inset about its four points were magnificent jewels.
“Ah,” said the dwarf, approaching Thrum. “I see you’ve found Gourn’s Cross. It is beautiful, don’t you think? It once belonged to a powerful sorcerer, and holds many secrets. Watch this.”
The dwarf carefully took the cruciform from Thrum’s hands and into his own. He stood back, giving himself some room before tossing it up into the air. It spun in flight, gossamer strands of gold peeling from its arc. On its descent, the blurring solidified and the dwarf caught it. Thrum saw it had become a fantastic broadsword. The dwarf twisted it so its silver face caught the torchlight.
“It turned into that?” His voice was incredulous.
Nodding, the dwarf offered the broadsword to Thrum, who took it cautiously by the leather-bound hilt. It was surprisingly light. Thrum gave it a few experimental swings. It made an eerie whistling noise through the air.
“Careful there,” the dwarf said. “The edge is sharp, to say the least. Here, to return it to its original form, give it a flick.”
Under the dwarf’s tutelage, Thrum twisted his hand in a certain pattern and it shrunk and once again Thrum held the cruciform.
“I like it,” he said, his voice filled with wonder.
Archendorf had
been watching the proceedings. He grinned and winked at Thrum.
“Very well,” said the dwarf. “You have made your selection.”
“No,” said Thrum. “No, I cannot take this. It is too valuable. Please, let me chose something plainer-”
“You’ve chosen. Take good care of it,” said the dwarf. “Now out you go, the pair of you, I’ve got a business to run.”
The dwarf would hear no more. They were herded up the stairs while the dwarf extinguished the torches behind them. Thrum tucked the cruciform into the same pocket containing Taukin’s scroll, patting it to make sure both were secure.
They made it out into the half-light of the shop (carefully avoiding the booby trapped stair) to find the dust had settled and for a second Thrum thought the whole episode with the magician had been a dream until he saw of the mound of debris and destruction. Thrum grimaced as he thought what a horrible death it must have been, even for a magician.
Archendorf was speaking to the dwarf as he secured the stone trapdoor shut.
“You have our sincere thanks for such a kingly gift.”
“Hurry up and get out of here, before I change my mind,” the dwarf said, tears glistening in his eyes. “It’s like losing one of the family.”
They skirted the pile of debris and made their way to the door. The bell tinkled as the door opened. As they went out onto the street, Archendorf turned and waved back.
“Thank you!”
But the dwarf didn’t hear. He was busy cleaning up the mess.
“I’m dying for a drink,” said Archendorf. “Come on, I’ll buy us dinner.”
“Sure.”
They started towards the pub for refreshments. They crossed the road, skirting the larger potholes and insane wagon drivers. The town’s activity had increased markedly with the sinking sun. Thrum ducked, narrowly avoiding a shower as someone emptied a chamber pot out of the window. Shaking a fist at the offender Thrum continued after Archendorf, who was oblivious to his surroundings. Thrum weaved through scores of people, trying to stay in Archendorf’s wake.
“Ah!” Archendorf stopped abruptly. “That looks ideal.”
The pub was called the Stumbling Steed, standing head and shoulders above the other buildings of the town. It looked as if it had once been three storeys but over the years had compressed under its own weight to be more like two. They climbed the steps and entered.
A loud hubbub of chatter met their ears as they saw most of the tables occupied with merchants and farmers. The flooring was old and splintered, wallpaper hanging in strips from the walls. Breathing deeply Thrum smelt roasting meat and he began to salivate. He trailed behind as Archendorf made his way to the bar took a seat on a stool.
The bartender approached, wiping his hands on a filthy apron that hung from his waist.
“What’ll it be?”
Settling himself Thrum looked at the menu chalked on the wall.
“I’ll have the meat pie.”
The bartender turned to Archendorf. “You?” he grunted.
“Potatoes and salad thanks mate, and a couple of beers.”
The bartender filled a two of glasses and plonked them on the table. Wiping his hands on his apron he went back into the kitchen through the swinging doors, followed shortly by a wet slapping noise as if a bullfrog had been grabbed by the back legs and its head smashed a few times into the floor. Frying sounds followed.
Archendorf took a generous swig from his beer. “That was some day, eh?”
Thrum didn’t reply. He looked distracted. Ever since they had emerged from the weapon shop he had avoided Archendorf’s eye.
“You still sore at me for getting us into that mess?” Archendorf asked, wiping the froth from his lips.
Thrum shook his head. “No, no, it’s nothing. I’m fine.” The treble in his voice threatened to betray him so he took a sip from his beer and coughed.
A long uncomfortable silence between the pair fell. Both drank slowly, allowing the noise and commotion of the pub wash about their senses. Soon the bartender appeared once again and delivered two plates. Archendorf took his plate of vegetables with thanks. Thrum pulled his pie closer and, when the bartender had turned his back, cautiously lifted the soggy pastry lid.
“Urgh!”
The bartender turned and Thrum dropped the lid guiltily.
“You got something to say?” he said gruffly.
Thrum shook his head. “No, it’s fine.”
The bartender grunted and turned to another customer. Thrum leaned over and whispered to Arcendorf. “I can’t eat thi-” Owing to his vulture-like posture upon the barstool and his awkward sideways lean, the cruciform in Thrum’s pocket slid out. The golden cross clattered to the floor.
Absolute silence fell as the jewel-encrusted object lay glinting at the base of Thrum’s stool. Well aware of the greedy stares Thrum bent and picked up the cruciform. He placed it back in his pocket and turned back to face the bar. The silence remained as the men goggled at the wealth that had spilt. One individual separated himself from the group and stepped forward.
“That’s a pretty piece o’ treasure you got there. Mind handing it over, I’d like a look.”
From the glint in the man’s eyes Thrum knew he had no choice.
Archendorf stepped in.
“Get back to your stew, lumphead.”
The man flinched as if struck, then straightened. Half turning as if returning to his seat he suddenly turned back with fist raised swinging a lazy haymaker. Archendorf ducked the blow and returned with a solid uppercut to the jaw, knocking the man off his feet and across the room then across a table that collapsed in a shower of splinters.
A wild angry roar filled the pub; an unruly pair of drunken farmhands leapt to their feet, snatching glass bottles by the neck to use as makeshift weapons. On instinct Thrum dropped to the ground and squeezed between the four legs of his stool. In his haste, he found he had placed himself upside-down, his head jammed into the floorboards.
Archendorf seized the remains of the frog pie and flung it at the advancing pair, catching one of the farmhands across the face leaving a smear of slime. Several other patrons saw their opportunity, and suddenly it seemed the whole room was advancing towards them. Archendorf grabbed his stool and swung it wide. The crowd fell back, clutching various injuries, but circle did not break.
Archendorf hurled the stool with all his might at the snarling men. It punctured the ranks and left a trail of devastation in its wake. Archendorf reached for another stool and threw that one too.
Thrum startled as his shelter tore away. Looking up, he saw it was currently streaking through the air. He stood and, trembling, pulled the golden cruciform from his pocket. He tossed it in a small arc, but it was not enough for the transformation, and it clattered to the ground in the same shape. As he bent shakily to retrieve it, he reflected that he probably could not bring himself to bear such a deadly weapon against what were, essentially, innocent men.
Arc leapt over the counter, leaving Thrum no choice but to follow.
“We’d better make our exit,” he said.
The crowd still fought on, the flying debris and shouts creating enough disturbance and they didn’t notice Arc and Thrum’s disappearance; they were so caught up in the brawl they simply bashed any nearest head with mindless enthusiasm.
Archendorf knew that they would soon catch on and wonder who exactly they were supposed to be fighting. Thrum had made his escape into the kitchen, doubled over and furtive, dashing this way and that until he found the back door and burst into the street. Archendorf followed, pausing to pick delicately at the leftover bits of something in a discarded frypan. Seeing Thrum gesturing in desperate ‘hurry up’ motions he left the kitchen and followed his friend out onto the street.
The noise emerging from the pub reduced to a muted yelling and hollow thumps; it seemed the fight had not slackened in the slightest. Thrum and Archendorf strode away and disappeared down a side street, heading for the town gate
s.