Nat cringed. It was something of a liberty, no doubt about it. Still, they’d come this far for a reason. “With all due respect,” she told the king, “what choice do you have but to help us?”
“I could give this Drensila t’ Black wha’ she wants ‘n’ throw ye to ‘er wolves,” he replied.
“You could do that, but where would it get you? You think she’s going to stop at wiping out the elves? Like it or not, you have the same blood in your veins, and she won’t stop until she’s spilled every last drop of it.”
“Your majesty, t’ elves cannot be trusted,” Axe-beard implored.
“I’m begging you,” said Eathon, “our ancestors built these walls to keep your kind in, but they can serve another purpose today. They can push us together. They can make our race whole again.”
The elderly king chewed his whiskers. He pointed over his shoulder to his formicarium wall. “D’ ye know why ah ‘ave this window inta t’ earth?” he asked. Beyond the glass, various oversized invertebrates scurried and slithered. “It’s t’ remind me o’ wha’ we ar. Animals. Some o’ us might ‘ave fancy clothes ‘n’ big ideas but thar int one o’ us animals better than t’ other.” He smoothed his hands over his beard and sighed. “‘ow long until this army is upon us?” he asked.
“Given their foot speed across woodland terrain, I’d say they’ll be here in two days,” Eathon answered.
“An ‘ow menny do they number?”
“Several hundred at least.”
Axe-beard’s eyes widened like dinner plates. “We must bolt t’ gates, ma liege. We’ll nivva survive such an onslaught.”
“Wha’ good wood it do?” the king replied. “If we don’t face ahr enemy, they’ll onny smoke us oot.”
“But sir—” argued Axe-beard, his objection cut short by a wave of his ruler’s hand.
The king fetched something from beneath his great apron of a beard and laid it across his lap. It was a sword, holstered in its scabbard. Cleaver.
“Which o’ ye does this belong t’?” he asked.
Nat raised her hand.
“Did ye make it yerself?”
“No, I did,” said Eathon. “Its metal was forged from the heart of a meteor and cooled in the waters of the Magi River.”
“Tis a fine bit o’ craftsmanship, meck no mistake.”
Eathon smiled and offered the king a bow. Cleaver could only be held by the worthy, and here was this dwarf with it in his hand. The Chosen One had been right. They’d selected their allies wisely.
The king stood up from his throne. He approached Nat and returned the sword to her hand. “Teck it,” he said. “Ye’ll need it fer t’ fight thas t’ come.” He returned to his seat. “We’ll discuss strategies in t’ morn. In t’ meantime, ah offer ye all safe passage in ma kingdom.”
“Sir!” begged Axe-beard, his face beetroot red.
“Remove their shackles and set them free,” insisted the king. “Now.”
The dwarf did as he was told, reluctantly ordering his guards to release the prisoners.
Clive hardly noticed the cuffs slip from his ankles. He was too busy concentrating on an eerie presence in an upper corner of the room. Ever since they arrived, he’d had the sense that they were being watched, as though an unseen eye were hovering above them, spying invisibly on their little conclave. He poured all of his focus into the ghostly eye until a picture formed in his mind. On the other side of the eye were two women, one in her twenties, the other old enough to be her mother. He peered closer still. The younger of the two women was Drensila the Black, who he recognised from her visit to the elf village. He and his companions were being spied upon by the very person who’d sworn to destroy them! Inside his mind he reached out to the eye, grabbed a hold of each of its lids and snapped them shut like a pair of sliding doors. The eyeball vanished, along with the peeping toms. Clive smiled.
“Are you okay?” asked Terry, who’d been watching Clive stood there with his eyes glazed over for close to a minute.
“I’m good,” Clive replied, returning his attention to the material plane. “I’m very good.”
“WHAT WAS THAT?” shrieked Drensila, her voice pitched so high that it prompted a distant timber wolf to lift his snout and howl. “Did that leprous little scab just dispel my magic?”
“It would appear so,” said Carnella, doing her utmost to hide an impressed smile.
Drensila swiped the scrying bowl from the nightstand and stamped her heels on the floor. “The dwarves were supposed to execute them,” she screeched. “Instead they offer them sanctuary? I cannot abide this. For all that is unholy, I’m heading for thirty. Grandfather had conquered the Northern hemisphere by the age of twenty-five.”
“Calm yourself, child,” soothed Carnella, running a spectral hand over her daughter’s jet-black hair. “The trolls march upon Bludoch Dungeon still, and they’ll not be stymied by the dwarves’ defences. Trolls are like cockroaches, they can thrive anywhere, from the alpine plains of Winterglass to the scorched deserts of the Saltash Sea. Rest easy, my dear. Soon this will all be over.”
Chapter Nineteen: Swift Action
THE TUNNELS OF Bludoch Dungeon kept Ashley’s six and a half foot frame continually hunched. His only way of manoeuvring about the place was to adopt a peculiar squat-walk, which left him looking like he’d hit crouch on a first-person shooter and broken the X button. Thighs aching, he went searching for somewhere he could stretch out fully, and in doing so found himself following the sound of chatter echoing down a nearby tunnel.
He arrived in a bustling underground market that offered a staggering two extra inches of headroom. Sadly, it still wasn’t enough to give him clearance, and the crowds only served to make him feel all the more cramped. All around him, dwarves scurried to and fro, shopping for produce and peddling their wares. Ashley was about to head back the way he came when he heard a voice call over his shoulder.
“Ribs o’ mole rat and many a pie,” sang the dwarf, whose thick beard had been cut expertly into a skillet shape.
It occurred to Ashley that the style of a dwarf’s beard seemed to indicate his profession. He looked about and saw other beards sculpted to look like the heads of shovels and pick axes, and one or two forked to look like sets of masonic compasses. A female dwarf—who Ashley wasn’t the least bit surprised to find wearing a beard—had styled hers into the shape of a giant quilting needle. A seamstress, he supposed.
Ashley waited for the skillet-bearded vendor to pass by, then snatched one of the dubious pies from his tray without him noticing. Filtering out the less appetising parts of the dwarf’s sales pitch (basically everything except for the word “pie”), he posted the pastry into his face whole. Rat meat or not, it tasted absolutely pucker.
Ashley gave the meal a moment to settle in his stomach then resumed his journey, snaking through the market crowd as best he could. Needless to say, the six-foot-six black man found himself the target of much attention. Eyes bored into him from every direction, peeking fearfully from behind stalls and peering out of the shadows. Feeling unwelcome, Ashley went to head for his bedchamber, but as he prepared to make haste he saw a familiar figure. It was Galanthre, out for an evening stroll. He almost didn’t recognise her at first, as to navigate the tunnels without craning her neck she’d had to take the spikes out of her hair. Instead of wearing a mohawk, her locks were smoothed so flat to her head that she looked like she wore the mane of a hobby horse. It had the effect of softening her flinty features immeasurably. The elf ducked inside an impressive looking building, which had been hollowed out of the very rock face itself. Ashley allowed a moment to pass then followed her inside.
He found himself inside an igloo-shaped chapel, tall enough that he could finally straighten his aching legs and work the crick from his neck. He walked the nave and found Galanthre alone in the chapel’s north aisle, hands clasped at the foot of a pew. He shuffled beside her and took to his knees also.
“You and the dwarves pray to the same god
then, yeah?” he asked.
Galanthre opened her eyes and sighed. “We don’t,” she replied. “But at this point I’ll take whatever help’s on offer.”
Ashley chuckled. “I feel you.”
“And what about you, human? What brings you to this place?”
“I came here for you.”
Galanthre’s brow knitted. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve taught me some skills, I thought maybe I could pay you back.”
“What could you possibly help me with?”
“I dunno. I bet you’ve got some issues.”
“I don’t have issues!” she scolded, so loudly that the other church-goers turned in their pews.
There was a long silence.
“I'm hearing a lot of rage,” Ashley quipped.
Galanthre laughed. Just a giggle at first, then a great, explosive guffaw that carried across the whole chapel. Ashley joined in. Parishioners shushed them, but that only made matters worse. The two carried on convulsing until they were finally able to bring their bodies under control, their howls reduced to stifled sniggers.
Still grinning, Ashley leaned over to Galanthre, and as he did so his shoulder brushed against hers. “You know what?” he whispered. “You’re alright.”
Galanthre’s whole body clenched and the temperature of room seemed to drop fifty degrees. “Don’t get any ideas” she chastened. “I’m not some bordello whore about to stick her ankles behind her ears.”
Ashley straightened right up. “Whoa, easy. I was just chirpsing.”
“You were what?”
“You know, flirting.”
“Well, whatever it is you’re doing, do it elsewhere,” Galanthre advised.
“Sorry,” said Ashley, and shuffled along the aisle to give her some space. A moment passed before he found himself compelled to ask a question. “For real though, why you hating? I ain’t so bad. Is it the black ting?”
The elf stared at him mirthlessly. “Did you ever think maybe it was the human thing?”
Ashley went quiet. Not much he could say to that. He looked at the ground and pretended to pray.
Nat had a headache that banged around her skull like a Stomp show, only even more irritating.
The pressures of leadership weighed heavy, leaving her muscles drawstring-tight and her nerves a mess of frayed ends. She wanted so badly to put an end to the drama—to grab a megaphone and yell “That’s a wrap!” on the rolling picture show she’d found herself trapped in—but for now she’d settle for a couple of hours of shut-eye.
She was walking along a rough-hewn corridor on her way to her bedchamber when Clive sprang from the gloom and accosted her. Barring her way with his arm, he brought his face so close hers that she could make out the whites of his acne.
“Listen to me,” he demanded, spraying her with spittle. “We’re living in a burning house here. You think these little men are going to help us stand up against those monsters? The trolls are going to burn this place down just like they did the elf village. You have to give up on this crusade and get us out of here.”
Nat pushed against his arm, but he stood firm. “Get out of my way, Clive,” she demanded. Still he blocked her, so she half-drew her sword to show him she wasn’t messing around.
“I reckon you wanna wind your neck in, son,” warned Cleaver.
Thinking better of it, Clive reluctantly moved his arm. Nat sheathed the sword and shoved by, bouncing him off the wall of the corridor. Ignoring his furious stare, she slid through the door of her sleeping quarters and shot the bolts.
“Finally, some alone time,” she thought, then realised how correct she wasn’t.
The chamber was already occupied. In the centre of the cavernous bedroom—literally a cavern, with pick axe marks on the walls—sat Terry, perched sullenly on the edge of a double bed. It was the only bed in the chamber, and apparently the two of them had been roomed together. A few days ago that wouldn’t have been a problem, but since their argument in the woods she and Terry had barely talked, let alone shared a bunk.
“Hey,” said Nat, feeling her body flush with awkwardness.
“Hey,” came Terry’s non-committal reply.
Neither knew what else to say. The silence dragged on in the stone chamber for what felt like a stone age.
“Soooo,” said Nat, “you and me, sharing a room, eh?”
“It gets worse,” replied Terry. He peeled back the corner of the bedsheet to reveal a cold hunk of rock like a mortuary slab.
“Great,” she sighed. She hung Cleaver up in his scabbard and parked her behind on the so-called mattress. “Terry?” she said.
“What?”
Tears sprang up in her eyes. “I could really use a friend right now.”
Terry let out a long exhale. “What’s the matter?” he asked. It was warm and it was genuine.
Nat shuffled closer to him. “I’m all messed up, Tel. A couple of days ago I didn’t even know you could get dice with more than six sides and now I’m leading the fight against an evil sorceress and her monster patrol. What the hell am I doing?”
“You’re doing what you were made to do. You’re the Chosen One, remember?”
Nat chewed her lip. “I lied, Tel. About the portal being closed. We could have gone home but I decided we had to stay and fix my mistake. What kind of a Chosen One does that?” She stole a glance at Terry, certain he was about to blow up on her. Instead, he smiled.
“Yeah, I know,” he said. “You’re a crappy liar, Lawler. Especially when it comes to Pictionary.”
He placed a hand on her knee and Nat laughed. It wasn’t that she was bad at lying, Terry just knew her too well. All this time he’d understood the truth and played along regardless.
“I’m so sorry, Terry. About everything.”
“I know. I’m sorry too. It’s just… I wish I had a sense of purpose here. Ever since we arrived I’ve felt like… like a supporting character.” He could have said worse. A liability. A damsel in distress. A baby sat in a restaurant high chair scribbling on his placemat.
“You’re doing great,” Nat assured him. “Really great.”
“No offence, hon, but that’s what you tell the special ed kid on sports day before you give him the Endeavour Award.”
“Terry—”
“—Seriously. You got a magic sword, Ashley’s kicking arse, Clive saved my life already and Nev’s gone full-blown MacGyver. When’s my time in the sun?”
“Don’t you get it, Tel? I couldn’t have done any of this without you. Everything I’ve done since we got here is so me and you can go home and get back to our life.”
“Do you mean that? You’re sure you don’t want to stay here and live in a tree with Muscles McGee?”
Nat put her hand on Terry’s leg. “All I want is to get out of this stupid costume, take a long shower and put my feet on your lap while we watch Netflix.”
Terry beamed. “We’ve still got the whole of Stranger Things to watch.”
They bumped fists and shared a good laugh.
Clive wasn’t laughing. Clive was sat expressionless in his own bedchamber, a little way down the hall from Nat and Terry’s room. He hadn’t gone there right away. His first instinct, after Nat had slammed her door in his face, was to eavesdrop on the conversation inside. It hadn’t worked; the thick metal of the chamber door had proven sound proof. Still, Clive didn’t let that stop him. By closing his eyes and concentrating hard enough he’d managed to project his senses beyond the limits of his physical body, departing his vessel of meat and bone and projecting himself invisibly into the locked chamber. His astral form had been there to witness Nat’s confession, stood by her shoulder as she admitted to her deception. Admitted that they hadn’t been marooned in this world at all. That they could have gone home days ago if only her vanity hadn’t sentenced them to this doomed crusade.
No, Clive wasn’t laughing.
Clive wasn’t laughing at all.
To enable Neville to navigate the ca
tacombs by himself, his hosts had equipped him with a makeshift trolley made from the spare parts of a mining cart. It was a far cry from his custom wheelchair, but it made a refreshing change from having to cling to Galanthre like Yoda on Luke. In any case, Neville was certain that if he had access to the proper equipment he could trick that trolley out right. Having made noises to this effect, the dwarves directed him to their engineering department, where he found himself among a veritable scrapheap of parts and junk. Mechanical odds and ends were laid upon vast metal racks, which ran the length of a huge underground grotto. Just looking at all that salvage got Nev’s brain popping like a little kid on too many E numbers.
As Neville rolled alongside one of the endless racks, scanning its shelves for parts, he found a small face peering from between a pair of enormous cogwheels. For a moment he thought he was looking at a chipped Toby jug, then the face frowned at him. “What the hell?” Nev shrieked.
The tiny face withdrew, then the man it belonged to found a gap between the racks and joined Neville on his side. “What‘re ye doin’ in ‘ere?” he asked.
Two things struck Nev immediately about the man. Firstly, unlike the rest of the underground denizens he’d met, this fellow didn’t have a beard. The second was that he was exceedingly small, so small that Neville wondered if he even qualified as a dwarf. Perhaps he was a gnome or a halfling Neville speculated, and his inquisitive nature compelled him to address the matter. “Not being funny, but are you a dwarf?” he asked.
This only served to make the tiny man glower at him with a face that somehow made Neville feel even smaller than he.
“Tha’s rude even fer an overlander,” the stranger spat.
Neville scrambled to make amends. “I’m sorry,” he said, “do you prefer Little Person?”
“Ahm a dwarf fer pity’s sake.”
“Got it. Can I just ask though, why don’t you have a beard?”
“Fer t’ same reason I were born a runt. Ahm diff’rent is all.” The dwarf ran his eyes over Neville’s makeshift conveyance and noted his missing legs. “Same as ye, by t’ looks o’ it.”
Trolled: The Complete Saga (The Trolled Saga) Page 16